Page 23 of You Only Love Twice
He died in Saint Petersburg. Dmitri died.
One of Malloryn's own spies had confirmed it, saying he'd seen the assassin enter a building just before it exploded.
She'd never dared believe otherwise.
Gemma pressed a hand to her chest, where the scar between her breasts remained.He shot you. He's not the man you thought he was.So don't think this means anything other than danger for you.
But why the hell had he locked her away in here?
Why hadn't he just killed her?
One wall of the room was crafted of steel bars, with an elegant scrolled effect to the iron. Gemma peered through the bars and then rattled them. Solid. Where the hell was she? An orangery? An observatory?
Her skirts scuttled over something dry and rasping on the slate floors. Gemma knelt, the objects crackling into dust in her palms. Leaves. Long-dead leaves. She patted her way up the building, following the trail of dry leaves and finding a gnarled vine that clung to the walls. Rough stone met her palms and the room held the dry, still air of a mausoleum. Her heart started ticking a little faster. What if he'd put her in a crypt?
Wherever they were, she didn't think it was very well-populated. She should have been able to hear something; even in the dead of night London was full of life and sound.
A brief tour of the room revealed it was round and scattered with pots of dead plants. The windows were covered with slim panels of some sort of metal, crafted so expertly there wasn't even a hint of a crack between them through which she could slip her fingernails. The roof soared far above her; though she suspected she might be able to climb the gnarled old vine attached to the wall, her head turned unerringly toward the scrolled iron of the bars caging her in.
When it came to escaping, she'd been in tighter scrapes than this.
And Gemma's rule was simple: take the easy option first.
A good thing she came prepared.
There was no sign of her weapons, lock-pick set, or any of the various other sundry items she carried about her person. He must have patted her down. Even the pins in her hair had vanished, leaving her hair tumbling precariously down her back.
Clever man.
He clearly knew what she was capable of.
Or thought he did.
Reaching down her dress, she tugged the bodice away from her breasts, revealing her corset. A thin slit gaped in between the under layer of the corset and the smooth silk of the exterior, through which she wriggled her finger. Something hard and thin met her touch. There. Got it. Gemma began to tug, drawing the wire out of the seam.
Thin enough to use as a deadly garrote, when she bent it into shape and manipulated it, she found herself with a makeshift lock pick.
Not a sound whispered in the darkness of the hallway beyond.
Gemma knelt and inserted the wire in the lock. She couldn't see a damned thing, but that didn't matter.
Who would have ever guessed her blindfolded lessons as a child would ever come in handy?
"Thank you, Lord Balfour," she whispered into the night as the lock gave a satisfying click. It was the first time she'd ever been grateful for what he'd done to her as a child.
Victory. Gemma's lips curved dangerously.
She stilled, listening for any sound of alarm, but nothing moved in the darkness.
Had he left her here?
Time to find out.
* * *
It was not a crypt.
Gemma crept down a winding staircase, catching the odd glimpse of twinkling lights in the distance through the narrow gaps between the boarded-up windows. Close to London then. An enormous empty manor full of dust and dry leaves, and the smell of charred timber. She could barely breathe for the thrill of rushing blood through her veins.
