It would have been quite romantic had she not been running for her life, thought Arianna as she made a flying leap and caught hold of a sturdy vine. Like bird dogs driving a hapless grouse toward the waiting guns, her pursuers had spread out and forced her up against the rear of the imperial gardens. There was nowhere else to flee—save to scramble straight up and then down.
Her boots hit the damp grass with a muted thud.
Now what?
Taking cover under a low-hanging holly bush, she pulled the downy pillow from inside her shirt and shoved it deep within the prickly branches. A change in profile might help throw them off the scent. She wished that she could peel off the false hair and whiskers—sweat was making them itch like the very devil, but she dared not divest herself of her male camouflage just yet.
Cocking an ear for any sound of the hellhounds, Arianna crawled out of her hiding place and after a brief hitch of hesitation started to weave her way in and out of the foliage, heading for the glittering lights.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
It was too dangerous to go back. Retreat would leave her far too exposed and vulnerable in the midst of hostile territory. If she could somehow sneak inside the palace, there was a good chance that she could take shelter within one of the countless rooms and then drift out with the crowd when the dancing ended near dawn.
Rochemont and his cohorts would likely not want to make too much of a fuss over a simple robbery—assuming her ruse had worked. Even if they suspected a more sinister motive, they would not want to draw attention to their own malevolent plans. No, the dancing—a private ball given by the Tsar of Russia in honor of his sister’s arrival in town—would not be disturbed. The Frenchmen would bring in reinforcements and prowl the perimeter, waiting to pounce.
Well, it would not be the first time that her persona of slippery chef had to escape capture by a superior force. Her lips quirked. What with his previous appearance in London, the elusive Monsieur Alphonse-Richard-Chocolat was fast becoming one of the most wanted criminals in all of Europe.
Digging a hand into her pocket, Arianna cast the purloined fobs and rings into the bushes. Better not to have incriminating evidence on her person, in case she was stopped by a guard. With luck, she could brazen her way past any trouble.
Distraction, dissimulation . . .
Lost in thought, Arianna was careless enough to stray through a thin blade of light. It was only for an instant, but a hand shot out and caught her arm.
Swearing, she tried to twist free, jerking up her knee to strike her assailant between the legs.
A hand clapped roughly over her mouth.
“Stop thrashing,” hissed her husband, just barely dodging the well-aimed blow. “And stop trying to make me sing like a puling soprano.”
The fight drained out of her. “Sandro! How did—”
“Never mind that now. Stay silent and follow me. When we get close to the palace, do exactly as I say.”
Arianna pressed close to his side, grateful for the sudden warmth radiating through his overcoat. She fled wearing naught but her dark kitchen smock over her work clothes, and it was only now that she realized the night had turned chilly with the first hint of frost.
“There is a door set on the outside of the left archway—do you see it?” whispered Saybrook as they cut behind a line of rhododendrons to shield their movements from the formal terrace overlooking the gardens.
She squinted into the swaying light of the torches and nodded.
“There are two uniformed soldiers standing guard there. I am going to distract them, but we can’t count on having more than a few seconds. When I say ‘God save the King,’ shoot for the door. It’s unlocked and Baz is just inside. I’ll join you shortly.”
Baz? Arianna knew better than to ask—about that or any of the other questions that were jostling inside her head.
“Stay behind the marble urn up ahead. From there you have a straight line to the doorway. Remember, on my signal, run like the devil.”
She squeezed his arm to indicate her understanding and then dropped to a crouch, her cheek pressing up against the cold stone.
Her body reacted to the loss of his touch by sending a shiver coursing down her spine.
Saybrook mounted the shallow steps a trifle unsteady on his feet. “Lovely night for a dance, what ho,” he announced in a slurred voice.
The two soldiers, a sergeant and a corporal in uniforms of the Austrian Imperial Guards, moved out from their station by the main set of glass-paned doors.
Saybrook gave a drunken wave. “No, no, not looking to partner you fine fellows.” A stumble. “Ladies. I’m looking for the ladies.”
The guards exchanged amused looks. “Sir, you will have to go around to the front entrance,” said the sergeant. “We are under orders not to admit anyone through these doors. The Tsar is very particular about keeping out uninvited guests.”
“Quite right, quite right. No riffraff.” The earl sketched a clumsy bow that nearly landed him on his arse.
Arianna hadn’t realized that her husband possessed such finely honed thespian skills.
“Sir.” The sergeant caught hold of Saybrook’s elbow and pulled him upright. “You must circle back to the front of this wing. Just follow the gravel path.”
“Eh?”
“Drunk as a lord,” said the corporal. “What a pity he didn’t bring us a bottle.”
Saybrook made a slight retching noise in his throat.
“Bloody hell, if he’s going to puke, let’s have him do it off the terrace,” grumbled the sergeant. “Else we’ll probably be ordered to mop up the mess.”
“Jez . . . jez show me the way, and I’ll be right as rain,” said the earl with a fuzzy grin.
The sergeant darted a look through the doors, before nodding at his comrade. “Take his other arm, and let’s be quick about it.”
“God save the King,” warbled Saybrook as he lurched into his escorts.
Arianna took off like a shot and sprinted over the short stretch of tiles as fast as she could.
The door cracked open, and closed just as swiftly.
“Quickly!” Henning hustled her down a side corridor and through the first door set in the dark mahogany paneling.
The cramped windowless space smelled of beeswax, lamp oil and tallow tapers. A closet for the lighting supplies, decided Arianna after another sniff. The faintly sulfurous odor had to be lucifer matches.
“No offense, but Monsieur Richard is not nearly as attractive a character as your urchin boy,” whispered Henning.
“Perhaps with a hair trim and a shave?” she quipped, brushing the lank wisps of scratchy hair from her cheek.
“And a bath.” The surgeon stifled a chuckle. “Your clothing reeks of burned bacon and garlic, to put it mildly.”
“Yes, well, a less than fastidious concern with my garments discouraged my fellow workers from seeking a closer acquaintance.”
“I don’t blame them.” He shifted slightly. “We shouldn’t have to be in here too long. Sandro seems to know his way around the place. He brought me here through the side saloons without a hitch, so I daresay he’ll make his way back here in a trice. This part of the Amalienburg is not being used tonight.”
“A stroke of luck,” said Arianna. “Speaking of which—”
“Auch, let’s leave the questions until later, lassie. There’s much to discuss, I grant you, but for now, let’s devote our attention to getting you out of this coil.” He inhaled through his mouth. “Not to speak of that disgusting disguise.”
“Have you any idea what Sandro has in mind?”
“Nay, but I’m sure he is putting together a plan as we speak,” replied the surgeon. “The laddie’s brain box seems to function even more efficiently during the heat of battle.”