Page 83 of The Wayward Duke
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Cold. Twisted metal biting into her back and sides. The tang of rust flooded her nostrils. Caroline surfaced from the drugged void, senses returning in hazy increments. Frigid dampness kissed her cheeks, drops pattering faintly against her skin. Low thunder seemed to rumble in the distance.
Caroline’s lashes fluttered open. Weak light filtered down from above, barely sufficient to make out her surroundings. She lay on her back, the rough metal cage on all sides pressing in close. Iron bars arched above her like the ribs of some ancient leviathan, chains suspending her prison from a high ceiling she could not glimpse.
Like a spider’s victim, trussed and waiting.
Panic seized her then, visceral and choking. She tried to sit up, but her wrists were bound in front of her, rope biting into her tender flesh. She thrashed against the restraints until her cries dissolved into ragged pants, her chest heaving.
When the wild panic had reduced to a simmer in her veins, Caroline forced her mind to focus.
The box suspending her was perhaps ten feet long, the rusted iron reeking of the river. She craned her neck, eyes watering against the gloom. Just visible overhead, a hatch lay closed tight – the only means of escape.
Secured with a lock.
She studied it – an intricate mechanism, almost like a puzzle. With etchings like Kellerman’s coded notes to release the bolt. Made to taunt.
Because Kellerman, like many men, thought she was just a useless duchess – a trinket to be displayed on Julian’s arm. The gossip sheets, after all, had played their part in that. She was the wife who fainted in her husband’s arms. Not the one snapping orders.
Not the one who helped solve his codes.
Caroline almost let out a dry laugh. “Idiot,” she muttered.
Grunting with effort, she braced her feet flat against the metal floor. The new leverage allowed her to shift into almost a seated position.
The rope binding her strained with her movements. The bindings had inflamed her wrists, abrading the tender skin. But Caroline hardly noticed. All her focus was bent towards the crude mechanism overhead.
“Think,” she urged herself through chattering teeth.
The temperature inside the iron coffin was frigid, sapping her warmth. Already, her fingertips had numbed. She curled them into her palms, trying to force blood back into the frozen digits. Her greatest asset in this moment was her intellect.
Caroline squinted upward once more at the lock. Five small, numbered dials protruded from the metal. Each dial possessed numeric symbols from zero to nine that could be rotated to form the proper sequence.
A distant rumble penetrated the walls. A sudden splash echoed very near her head. Icy water sloshed down through the opened hatch, splattering her upturned face. The frigid shock stole her breath even as understanding crashed over her.
The Thames was rising – submerging the hatch by increments.
And her time was running out.
35
The townhouse was too damned quiet without her.
Julian prowled from room to empty room like a spectre, his footfalls muted on the plush carpets underfoot. He lingered in the doorway of Caroline’s art studio, gaze tracing over the half-finished canvases and abandoned brushes precisely as she had left them. As if she might reappear any moment to resume work.
Julian forced himself to turn away. Down the hall, his study beckoned, the chaotic mess of Kellerman’s cryptic letters and ledgers still awaited deciphering – an endless pile of frustration. Setting his jaw, Julian settled himself in the leather chair and tried again to wrest some semblance of meaning from the seemingly random figures and symbols.
Outside, the sunlight swept over the trees as Julian worked. He transcribed letter frequencies, scribbled calculations, searched for the patterns that came so easily to Caroline’s clever mind.
He tossed the pen down with a curse and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until bursts of light painted the insides of his lids. Bloody hell, he was exhausted. His mind was too wrung out for further progress deciphering Kellerman’s infuriating codes. The numbers and letters were beginning to swim.
The mantelpiece’s clock’s distant chime tore Julian from his spiralling thoughts.Half past noon already?He grimaced, rolling his stiff shoulders to work out the kinks.
“Your Grace?”
Julian glanced up. Percy hovered in the doorway, knuckles white around a silver tray. “A letter arrived, Your Grace. The lad ran off before I could ask who it was from.”
Dread trailed icy fingertips down Julian’s spine. Wordlessly, he accepted the folded foolscap. Percy slid back out and shut the study door with a hollow thud that echoed through the room like a gunshot.
