The project was thrilling, captivating, but after four . . . five? . . . days of nearly nonstop work, he was too drained to continue without a decent night’s sleep and a large, uninterrupted meal.
He wondered, as he stepped from the lift, whether Charlotte would be in the suite, and whether she would be glad to see him so early in the evening.
Relatively early, he amended. It was almost nine o’clock, but perhaps they might still have time to share dessert. Dexter tried not to think beyond that but he was tired, not dead. He hadn’t really intended to neglect her entirely these past few days, but his work at the station simply hadn’t allowed him the time to see Charlotte or talk with her, much less attempt anything more intimate. When their paths did cross for a few minutes they were increasingly polite with one another, and he could feel the wedge slipping between them as though it were a physical object.
He had made such a mess of things with Charlotte, but they would be returning to the Dominions soon. Her work for Murcheson seemed to have concluded. The danger was over. Perhaps it was time to broach a discussion of the future, even if she had rebuffed his previous attempts? Even if it wasn’t time for that, he still wanted her. That much hadn’t changed, and he wasn’t above attempting to take advantage of the situation during their last few days in France.
Dexter had to laugh at his own presumption as he fumbled for his key. He was so sleepy already he could barely keep his eyes open to find his way to the room; he’d probably be lucky to make it through dinner, never mind an attempt at seduction.
The maid’s cart squeaked behind Dexter and he sped up his search so he could clear the corridor and let her by. He patted his pockets one at a time until he finally located the key. As he lifted it from his pocket in triumph something pricked the back of his neck, making him flinch and slap at the sting.
His last thought as he crumpled over, falling into the cart that seemed to have positioned itself to catch him, was to wonder why he hadn’t just knocked on the door so Charlotte could let him in.
THE CLOCK ON the sitting room mantel stood at two minutes to nine. Charlotte sighed in irritation at the noise in the hallway, the squeaking of the cart and the clumsy thumping as the housekeeper fussed with her equipment. After a moment the wheels squeaked away, however, presumably making toward the end of the hall where a corner and an alcove hid the entrance to the service lift.
Nine o’clock.
Charlotte tried to focus on the horrid novel she was reading while she waited for Dexter’s return, but something bothered her into looking at the clock once more.
It’s nine o’clock.
The maids don’t service the rooms at nine o’cl—
She ran to the door, yanking it open to an empty hallway. A few steps away and around the corner, she saw the service lift was already in use. No maid or cart was visible anywhere in the corridor.
Charlotte dashed back to the suite, missing the hint of brass on the colorful oriental runner. Her bare toe struck something, however, and she looked down as the object skittered into the baseboard with a tiny metallic chink.
A key. Their room key. Dexter’s room key.
“Dexter!”
She ran for the window to signal Murcheson’s men, blood rushing in her ears even louder than the ocean.
MARTIN CRANKED THE window down, his need for fresh air trumping his fear of a passerby overhearing a sound from his unwilling passenger.
“I knew you would tax my supply of tranquilizers,” he said hoarsely.
Dexter grunted through the gag, and Martin felt the steam car jolt as the large American tried to kick his way out of his bonds.
“I’m very good at knots, my friend. Try all you like. Brute force is not going to help you here.”
Another series of grunts. It sounded as though the rat was attempting to scold him around the gag.
Martin chuckled, feeling better than he had in days. He felt purposeful, in control, even hopeful.
Febrile euphoria.
Whatever the reason, he appreciated the respite from heat and pain and despair. He had fully convinced himself, in the days since Dubois’s death, that he was not in fact ready to die. Feeling so close to death was unsettling.
Martin’s imagination ran over the events of Dubois’s last moments, lingering on the way the man’s stubby fingers had pushed the button on his triggering device over and over. Nothing happened.
The blare of a horn made him jerk his head up, and he yanked the wheel to correct the steam car’s course across the narrow bridge. He had been inches from sliding into oncoming traffic.
A whimper from behind him assured him that his passenger had noticed the lapse in attention as well.
“Sorry, my friend. I am not as well as I might be. But you can help me with that, and soon I will be better than ever.”
“CAN’T YOU MAKE this thing go any faster?”
Charlotte clutched the seat in front of her, urging the driver to push his own limits as well as those of the steam car. Bad enough they were not following Dexter and his abductor, they didn’t need to drag their feet not doing it.
“You’ll report here,” Murcheson had ordered when Charlotte and the two agents outside the hotel notified him. He’d stated in no uncertain terms that only one of the agents was to follow Coeur de Fer, while the other was to bring Charlotte directly to Atlantis Station for further instructions.
Charlotte knew a team was already being assembled, and that the trailing agent would radio Murcheson with whatever information he could. She still would have rather gone after Dexter herself, instead of arriving in the second wave.
The agent watching the front entrance of the hotel had seen Charlotte’s frantic signal with a hand torch at the window, and met her in the lobby as she reached the bottom of the stairs, practically flying down the last flight. They joined the agent in the rear of the building just in time to see Coeur de Fer drive away, traveling around the corner from a side street in a steam car.
The second agent hadn’t paid attention to the unattractive maid with the laundry cart, naturally. He hadn’t seen Coeur de Fer put Dexter into the steam car, but the key and the abandoned cart suggested an abduction. The radio was fired up and Murcheson contacted as the first agent lit out in pursuit of Jacques Martin.
Charlotte had thrown off her dressing gown and pulled on the most practical garments she could find in a hurry, a pair of the new breeches in a soft fawn, some short walking boots, a simple linen shirt cut like a man’s and the white leather jacket she’d once worn to pilot the Gossamer Wing. She’d neglected a hat, and her hair was still in the long braid she wore it in for sleeping.
“You look like a rebellious young girl,” Murcheson said in surprised disapproval when he saw her attire. Perhaps, Charlotte later reflected, that sentiment was behind his ordering her to proceed to the station instead of joining the agents who were already mustering near the factory.
“I can take the Gossamer Wing to those coordinates and be there before—”
“And be seen by every security guard or late-working longshoreman from here to the estuary? You’ll stay at the station, where I can at least ensure you’ll be safe, and you won’t present Coeur de Fer with an additional target.”