Page 4

Louise moved past him and yanked the bell cord. The metallic ring sliced through the backstage murmur, and her pulse leaped. For one sickening second nothing happened. Then footsteps pounded along the corridor, and the stagehand appeared in the doorway, cap askew and breath quick.

"Mademoiselle?"

Louise pointed at the colonel's chest before Arlesford could speak. "This man has tried to attack me!"

Arlesford's hands lifted at once, palms open, and the stagehand stepped between them. Louise slipped past before either man could speak.

Gathering her skirts, she ran for the service exit, cutting between hanging ropes, painted flats, and startled dressers. Behind her came a shout, followed by the pound of Arlesford's boots. He had got around the stagehand.

The service door lay only a few yards ahead—then another uniformed officer stepped into the opening.

She checked so sharply that her slipper skidded across the boards. She stood trapped between the officer ahead and Arlesford closing behind her. Her breath came too fast to fill her lungs.

The orchestra began the second act's overture.

She wheeled and ran toward the nearest stage opening just as the curtain began to rise. Light struck her full in the face when she stepped through. A ripple of confusion moved across the first rows, and the murmurs thinned.

Two thousand faces turned toward her.

Louise's mouth went dry. Her heart battered her ribs, and her mind went blank.

"It's Miss Bonnechoix—"

"The Salamander—"

She glanced over her shoulder. Arlesford had reached stage right, his uniform unmistakable beneath the glare. There was nowhere left to run.

Louise faced the house again and planted her feet where years of dancing had taught her the light would find her.

"Have you not heard?" she called, pitching her voice high. "A French fleet has been sighted at the mouth of the river. Napoleon is coming."

A lady's fan fell from her hand. Doors to the boxes flew open as patrons leaned out, shouting to servants who darted toward the exits. The orchestra faltered, then collapsed into discord as musicians abandoned their chairs.

Arlesford stepped forward, mouth opening to counter the claim, but the tide of bodies cut across him. Civilians pressed toward the aisles, some toward the doors, others toward the stage. His uniform disappeared behind a wall of coats and startled faces.

Louise inclined her head in a brief bow, then exited stage left. Her slippers made no noise when she hurried down the side stair and emerged into the maintenance passage that ran beneath the auditorium. The hurried feet of the patrons above her shook dust loose from the old planks, stinging her eyes. The meager lamplight turned milky and dirty. But she was free.

She slipped a hand into her pocket. The folded note was still there. Warmth spread through her chest. Her father had escaped Elba. She had evaded a colonel. It was hardly the same, but one worked with the obstacles as they came.

She hoped the stranger who sent messages by cat appreciated the family resemblance. Not that she intended to remain and collect his opinion.

Steps creaked behind her. She was about to turn when an arm closed around her from behind, locking her elbows before she could reach her garter. White flashed at the edge of her vision as a gloved hand sealed over her mouth.

She gasped, and a chemical scent invaded her nose. Her pulse lurched, and she twisted, but the hold did not give an inch.

"Impressive, princess. Daddy would be proud. But next time," the stranger murmured in her ear, "try not to start a war when you only need an exit."

Napoleon Bonaparte's daughter weighed less than Rodrick had expected and caused considerably more trouble. Now she lay unconscious beneath enough theatrical linen to persuade any curious servant that the laundry cart's contents were both unpleasant and beneath investigation. Rodrick pushed it along the service passage beneath Covent Garden while pandemonium continued overhead.

The iron-rimmed wheels rattled across the uneven floor, a domestic irony he found deeply satisfying. Europe had spent twenty years attempting to contain the Bonaparte problem with armies, coalitions, treaties, blockades, and one remarkably inadequate island. Rodrick had apparently solved it with a laundry cart.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Rodrick identified James by cadence before his valet appeared around the bend. A Horse Guard would have struck harder through the heel. James merely looked as though he had been obliged to hurry, an indignity he had spent years perfecting the art of resenting.

He fell into step beside the cart. "Allow me, my lord."

Rodrick tightened his grip. "The last time I asked you to drive—Vienna, if memory serves—you overturned the phaeton."

James's mouth acquired the severe line with which he usually greeted criticism of his professional abilities. "We were being chased by the Kaiser's hussars, my lord. I apologize if my driving suffers under heavy fire."