Chapter Twenty-Six
The polizia held Ian for two days before Sunderland’s bribe secured his release.
At the gates of the prison, a messenger met him with a telegram and an envelope containing the local currency equivalent of fifty pounds Hepburn had wired. It was the remainder of Ian’s cash savings. He’d have to make it last until he found Diana.
It was easier to circumnavigate the Ponte Vecchio by foot. In less than an hour, he slipped the famiglie tails and eventually found his way to a dingy pensione in Gavinana.
The proprietor’s eyes lingered on his bruised cheek and cut lip for a moment before he confirmed they had a room for him. A maid delivered cans of hot water and a paper-wrapped parcel and fled quickly.
When he’d locked the door and placed a chair beneath the knob for good measure, he exhaled.
Pain laced through his ribs. Over the course of his stay in jail, the other inmates had attempted to teach him the pecking order through a series of introductory assaults to his person.
He finally tore his shirt off and exposed the ink on his chest, and they retreated quickly; no one had touched him afterward.
His relief at finding shelter was short-lived. The note Sunderland left with the parcel informed him the duke was still searching for Diana.
The only thing that lessened Ian’s panic was focusing on the incremental tasks that would lead him to her. He forced himself to bathe, change clothes, and appease his howling stomach by swallowing a bowl of osso bucco before he ventured out to San Niccolo.
In the dim alley across from the tailor shop where they’d met Sunderland days before, Ian watched the tailor close up for the evening. Before the man had finished drawing the picture window blinds, he darted across the street and slipped inside the shop.
When the tailor turned, he acknowledged Ian’s presence with a small shriek.
He was graciously accommodating with information, thanks to Ian’s loaded pistol, and quickly confirmed the address of where he’d delivered the dresses designed to match Diana’s scarlet gown.
Ian left him tressed and tied for Sunderland to handle while he headed back across the river.
Typically, he would have waited until full dark to scout the crumbling building tucked among the rising iron and glass of San Lorenzo’s Mercato Centrale. But his patience had long abandoned him. And without knowing where Diana was, every step he took made him feel rudderless.
He ventured into the tavern across the small lane and ordered antipasti and a bottle of chianti. He drank half a glass of it and sent the rest with his compliments to the barmaid who paid particular attention to his movements.
When the market had shuttered and the streets emptied, he returned to the address the tailor had provided and broke into the warehouse.
He managed enough restraint to leave the door on its hinges and stalked the perimeter of the empty room.
In the fading daylight, he tried to quiet his pounding heart by reminding himself that he’d known he’d find the place deserted, and he couldn’t behave like this at every turn, hoping Diana was there.
If he did, he’d destroy himself before he found her.
The Stags had performed an exemplary job clearing the site. They’d left nothing behind. No stray biscuit tin or candle stub.
Ian propped himself against the exposed brick wall, sat down on the wooden floor, and unfolded the map Sunderland had sent. When it grew dark, he withdrew a candle and the tin of matchsticks he’d lifted from the tavern and continued studying the map until he heard the scuffle he’d been waiting for.
The door rattled open, and footsteps approached.
He kept his eyes on the map and only lifted his head at the cock of a trigger.
“You don’t need that,” he told his would-be assailant. “I won’t hurt you.”
The barmaid from the tavern scoffed. “Don’t believe you. You’re a desperate man. Desperate men do desperate things.”
Ian didn’t contradict her. He had a knife in his boot and another inside his pocket. And he could easily overwhelm her if he needed to. “Where is Diana?”
The woman shook her head dismissively. “You need to leave Florence.”
“And you’re going to let me?” He stood slowly, using the wall for support, as he eyed the gun in the woman’s hand. “You broke White Stag protocol coming here.”
“You know nothing about us.”
“I know that a well-trained operative would never approach an opponent alone.” He took a step forward. “Where’s your second?”
Ian whistled the low cry of a barn owl, and when there was no corresponding reply, the barmaid clenched and unclenched her jaw.
“Widow sent you out here alone because you’re dispensable.” He inched closer. “She doesn’t care if you return.”
The woman wrapped a second hand around her gun. “That’s what I signed on for.”
“No, it isn’t. You committed to a mission to help the helpless. You didn’t agree to this.”
“I—”
Her voice cut out as she swayed, then sank to her knees. She futilely tried to maintain a hold on the gun, but it skittered across the floor, where Ian picked it up.
“I’d have thought that all those Stag spies would have discovered the British navy’s experiments with nerve tonic,” he said. “It’s undetectable when mixed with a fine chianti.”
The Stag sputtered an inaudible gasp.
“In three minutes, you won’t be able to sense anything below your neck,” Ian continued. “In four minutes, you’ll stop breathing altogether. Don’t worry, it will be peaceful.”
“You bastard,” she spat out.
“Technically, yes. I am. But I prefer to be called a devil.” With a flash of his teeth, he added, “In two minutes, an associate of mine will arrive with the antidote. If you value your life, you’ll tell me where Diana is.”
“I don’t know.” The woman wheezed. “They keep our crews separate for a reason.”
“Where did they take her after Il Gioco?”
“Here.”
“How would they travel to meet Widow?”
“It’s different each time. But they’re sticking to land this time.”
“Why?”
“More options.” Her words slurred. “Easier to divert or stop.”
Ian crouched down. “And why would they need to do that?”
“In case anyone was hurt.”
“Was anyone hurt?” he asked with a calmness that belied the rage stewing inside him.
“Don’t know. Diana went with the first team out. Second team was on cleanup.”
“And they left you here for me. Alone.”
“It was fifty-fifty you’d make it out of the prison alive.” She coughed, and her eyes bulged. “Please, you said—”
“I made no promises,” he whispered. “And you’ve given me nothing.”
He was acting with intentional malice; he held no remorse about what he would do to protect Diana.
The Stag’s eyes squeezed shut. “They won’t go far. They won’t risk the trains or ships until they know what’s happened to you, and they won’t know until I miss my signal drop.”
“Where?” Ian growled.
“Lucca,” she choked out before her eyes rolled back and consciousness left her.
Ian’s relief was so acute he hardly registered the approach of clipped footsteps across the floorboards.
His eyes flicked to the shadow who’d joined him. “You took long enough.”
“I’m bang on time.” Sunderland squinted at the woman. “Is she dead?”
“Unconscious from a tincture of cannabis and valerian root. In ten minutes, she'll come around without so much as a headache. ” Ian brushed his hands as he rose. "She said the rendezvous point was Lucca.”
“I have a carriage waiting at the mews. On loan, of course. We’ll be in Tuscany in a few hours. Did she say anything about the gunpowder?”
Ian shook his head as he herded Sunderland out the door. He didn’t care what weaponry the Stags possessed.
He’d battle an armada to find Diana.