Chapter Twenty-Seven
As the wagon pulled onto the road, Diana tested the ropes binding her wrists together.
They were snug. The enforcer had never worked lines on a ship, or she would have known that tying a knot that tight ultimately weakens the rope.
It only took some friction with the jagged boards of the cart at the pressure point of the loop to loosen the knot.
When Birdie forced the horses into a canter, the wagon swerved. Diana used the motion to cover her movements as she tucked her legs up to her chin, pulled her feet into her stomach, and wiggled her bound hands to the front.
If her sore shoulder hadn’t been screaming so loudly, the smack on her thigh would have made her yelp.
“Settle down or next time, I’ll use my knife,” the enforcer threatened.
“Widow said no rough handling,” Birdie countered in a bored tone. “We can subdue her, but only if she comes at us, and you won’t do that, pet, will you?”
Her captors settled back into their seats.
They didn’t talk, which Diana resented, both for the lack of information she could have overheard and the fact that conversation would distract them from her subtle movements beneath the blanket to remove the gag and blindfold, and finally, the ropes.
The mounting pain in her arm was making it increasingly difficult to focus.
When a crack of thunder sounded in the distance, the horses whinnied and jostled. Birdie and the enforcer argued with each other about how to keep the beasts under control.
Two louder rumbles heralded the approach of the storm.
On the third roll of thunder, the horses reared.
Diana prayed Ian would keep his vow to find her, and she leaped from the wagon.
As a torrent of rain belted against the tiled roof of the Lucca pensione, Ian recited every obscenity he knew.
“Your education at the docks has given you a spectacular vocabulary, Holt,” Sunderland drawled. “And don’t stare at me like you’ll rip my throat out. My favors don’t extend to staving off rainstorms. Consider it a sign from the divine that you need to get at least a few hours of sleep.”
They’d spent the day tearing apart the town and the surrounding villages but found no trace of Diana. Ian’s mood darkened with every dead end.
“I want to go back to the vineyard,” he insisted.
“Not at this hour, in this weather,” the duke replied.
“That farm is on the only road in and out of town. Someone knows something.”
“If they do, they’ve been incentivized to keep it quiet.”
And Ian had no funds to coax the return of their memories.
“Bribery can be ineffective for soliciting reliable information,” Sunderland added. “People will invent anything to make a bob.”
“Then perhaps we can consider other tactics.”
The duke gave an audible exhale. “I’m not known for my kindness, Holt. So I have no qualms in telling you that you’re an absolute disaster. Your hair and that scowl are wild enough—not sure we can do anything about that in the short term. But for God’s sake, those whiskers need a trim.”
A knock sounded at the door, before a maid brought in cans of hot water and towels.
Ian crossed his arms and stared accusingly at Sunderland.
The duke remained unruffled. “You might be able to survive on consuming nothing but whisky, coffee, and the fear of innocent townspeople. But I’m a man who requires proper feeding, which I shall partake of downstairs.
If you want to regain the strength to find your lady love and terrify more pastoral Italians, I suggest you join me.
But do not dream of sitting at a table with me until you attend to”—Sunderland flapped a hand from Ian’s head to his shoes—“this catastrophe.”
He punctuated his statement with a slam of the door.
Ian eyed the cans of hot water suspiciously.
The minute he bathed and shaved, he’d feel marginally better than his current state. He couldn’t bear the idea of any sort of comfort while Diana was missing. The possibility that she’d suffered hurt or pain in captivity kept his anger on a constant simmer.
But the thing that stole his appetite was the unrelenting anxiety that he’d never find her again. That Widow and the Stags would convince her to stay hidden from him.
A strangled laugh escaped his throat at the possibility that any of them believed they could keep her from him.
And since he was a man who brokered compromises, he agreed to one himself by waiting for the water to cool before he bathed. He couldn’t summon the strength to shave, but he trimmed back his beard to a less bedraggled state.
It preserved some of his piratical air and he enjoyed how much it piqued Sunderland when he strolled into the dining room.
He barely tasted the wine, or the antipasti of dressed bitter greens and pickled vegetables, but he forced himself to partake of everything.
“We need to clear out tonight,” Sunderland said. “There’s no trail left to pick up here, so we’re down to deductive reasoning. The Stags operate better in city settings; they can hide more easily under the cover of local gangs, and they have better escape routes by the river and ports.”
“Which they know we know,” Ian argued. “Birdie was adept at moving us by rail. The question is, what direction?”
“There’s another complication we haven’t addressed. Diana could have escaped.”
Ian allowed himself the indulgence of contemplating it. “If so, she’d try for the coast, where she can get on a ship.”
“There’s something that’s been bothering me about all of this,” the duke said between bites of porchetta dressed in mushrooms, fennel, and potatoes.
“Only one thing?”
“Diana’s extraction from Il Gioco and the gunpowder theft that was easily reported. It’s too messy for the Stags.”
“Widow wants the emeralds,” Ian said. “She’s fixated on them in a way that’s—”
“Obsessive?”
“Unhinged.”
“She took an enormous risk that didn’t pay off.
Now everything she built is unraveling. Maybe she’s looking for something to cling to,” Sunderland mused.
“Once we find Diana, we will have to resume Il Gioco. I convinced the players to agree to a brief respite given the scrutiny of the authorities, but they will want to settle the game.”
“Every member of every famiglia can come at me full throttle. Nothing happens until we find Diana.”
When the duke gave him a mock salute, Ian was so wired and so weary he laughed. It drew a rare, genuine smile from Sunderland.
He was beginning to not hate the bastard. “What is your true interest in all of this, Your Grace? And don’t prattle off something trite about queen and country.”
“Perhaps I was promised a reward that would rebuild my coffers.”
“Even the queen couldn’t afford that.”
“True,” the duke agreed. “I have a personal interest in securing the ruination of particular members within Il Corno. There is one among their ranks who owes me more than a favor. They owe me a life. And I’m willing to trade more than favors to secure my retribution.”
“It would be gargantuanly stupid to make a direct move against them.”
“Indeed. A blatant attack is not my style, as you know. But mark me, if it takes the rest of my life, I will take them apart, brick by brick. Until they weep with despair and pain over their ruination.”
Sunderland’s voice was coldly calculating in a way that would terrify most sensible people. But the duke’s vow moved Ian. A man only made a declaration like that when spurred on by deeper, unnamed emotions. “When we find Diana and settle Il Gioco, I’ll do whatever is in my power to help you.”
“And I’ll collect on that favor.”
A harried-looking waiter rushed over and handed the duke a telegram.
Sunderland read it in silence, while Ian gripped his table knife forcefully as he visualized impaling it in the flesh of Diana’s captors.
When the duke finally looked up from the note, his eyes flicked to the knife.
“What are you planning with that little needle, Holt?”
“If I wanted to damage you, I wouldn’t need a knife. What do your spies say about Diana?”
“Nothing.” The duke folded the note into his pocket. “I’m a voyeur by profession, as you know, and one thing I keep a keen eye on is Amelia Hunter.”
“Sunderland, I really don’t like any part of that sentence. Whatever it is you’re plotting, Amelia Hunter can’t be a part of it. Diana will have my bollocks for breakfast.”
“I assure you, I mean her no harm.”
“Did something happen with the Ever Hart on the way back to London?”
“No idea. Miss Hunter never boarded it. She stayed behind in La Rochelle but is now traveling to her palazzo in Rome. And before you ask, I can verify it’s true.” He gave a sardonic grin. “I used to own it.”
Ian stared at him. “She’s taken everything you owned, hasn’t she? Cleaned you out completely. What the hell did you do to her?”
The duke rose from the table. “If Miss Hunter is on the move, she’s following a protocol she set with Diana. She’ll know where the Stags might take her.”
“We should take the train.” Ian jumped to his feet. “There may be a sleeper from Florence—”
“No need,” Sunderland interrupted. “Amelia stopped at a villa on the coast. If we leave now, we can get there by first light.”
Diana tore into the cover of the trees bordering the road and cursed her aching arm for slowing her pace. When heavy raindrops fell, and the sky grew dark, her breathing eased fractionally. The path would be muddy for her, but it would also slow the wagon.
If she could make it back to the vineyard they’d passed on the way, she could slip into one of the vineyard’s storage cantinas and wait out the storm.
Despite the chilly rain soaking through her sopping dress, her skin was on fire.
Her legs quivered, and she tried valiantly to lock down all of her muscles.
This was not a moment she could afford to be weak.
In all of their scheming over Il Gioco, she’d never discussed meeting Ian outside of Florence.
It was more than an oversight; some part of her had wanted it to be unnecessary because it meant resorting to her fail-safe plan to meet Amelia, which they’d only established in the event of an extreme emergency.
She abhorred the idea of admitting such a defeat.
She fought her hold on consciousness with the fierceness of a cavalry commander. The rain slowed to a faint drizzle, but that positive development evaporated at the sound of a carriage barreling down the road.
It was too dark to distinguish fine details, but Diana saw it was a handsome black landau pulled by a team of four horses. Far too similar to Widow’s coach.
The sky flashed above her, and she froze as the carriage sped toward her. When lightning crashed again, and the coach drew closer, panic flooded through her.
Out of habit, she reached for her blades and remembered too late that she’d lost them. Ian had promised he’d have a new set made for her.
She refused to let anything separate them again. Not Birdie. Or her mother. Or the agony in her arm.
As the carriage approached, she fled from the road into the vines.
“Stop the coach!” Ian rapped on the roof of the carriage so fiercely, he knew he was endangering its integrity.
“Keep calm, Holt, it’s only a bit of lightning—”
“Now!” He pounded again, cursing the driver and the horses and all of their future offspring for taking so long to bring them to a halt.
The thing was still moving when he sprang out. He only made it a few steps before Sunderland arrested his sprint with a powerful pull on his arm.
“I saw Diana.” Ian peered at the surrounding vineyard. “On the road, in the lightning. She’s still in the dress. The red one.”
Sunderland turned his head to the fields, then back to Ian. He didn’t ask him if he was sure. He didn’t call Ian a madman either.
Instead, he bellowed for the coachman’s lamp. “Which way did she go?”
Ian spun around in circles. His eyes strained to find anything in the murky night.
He paused, gathered his breath, and sent every atom of energy in his body to his voice so it would rise above the rain and the wind.
“Diana! I’m here!” He searched for some sign that the figure he’d seen on the road hadn’t been a dream, or a nightmare. “If you can hear my voice, make a noise!”
Sunderland swiveled. He held the lamp aloft as they both examined the black shadows of the night.
“Please, Diana,” Ian begged. His throat was raw from shouting. “I never should have insisted we separate. You should have been by my side the entire time. I can’t do any of this without you. Tell me where you are, tesora!”
From the eastern field, a faint screech of a barn owl sounded.
Ian seized the lamp and tore off, shouting Diana’s name and alternating with the whistle cry of the Stags. “Where are you, love? I’m coming for you.”
The whistle sounded again, fainter, but Ian followed it through the tangle of vines.
And finally found Diana lying on the ground.
He fell to his knees. His fingers caressed her jaw, detected her pulse and found it weak, but steadily beating. “Diana, we’re here now. Open your eyes for me, tesora, please. Say something so I know how you are.”
Sunderland brought the lamp closer so Ian could examine her. Blood caked around her left arm, and when he tried to roll up the sleeve, the matted fabric caught.
She uttered a small moan.
Ian wanted to worship the sound. And murder it.
Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. “Ian? I was coming to find you.”
“Good, because I was lost without you,” he murmured.
“Birdie and Widow are close,” she rasped. “Can’t risk a doctor.”
“I know.” He’d argue with her after she was safe inside the coach.
“San Genaro,” she murmured as he gathered her into his arms. “Take me to San Genaro. Doctor there. Safe.”
Sunderland guided their way back to the road and helped Ian hand her into the carriage. “We should listen to her.”
“I always listen to her,” Ian snapped.
The duke shook his head as he sat back across from him in the carriage. “San Genaro. That’s where we were heading. The name of the villa where Miss Hunter is staying is San Genaro.”