If this had been a normal convention, she could have found plenty of convivial companionship in the Sword Room, but the murder had stilled the thirst of every sorcerer in the hotel. She went through the open door of the little office. “Anything new, Sergeant Peter?”
“Not a thing, Your Grace,” said the Sergeant-at-Arms, rising to his feet. “Lord Bontriomphe’s not back yet and neither is Lord Darcy.”
“You look as though you’re as bored as I am, Sergeant Do you mind if I sit down?”
“It would be an honor, Your Grace. Here, take this chair. Not too comfortable, I’m afraid. They didn’t exactly give their night manager their best furniture.”
They were interrupted by another Sergeant-at-Arms who walked in the door. He gave the Duchess a quick nod, said, “Evening, mum,” and then addressed Sergeant Peter. “Are you in charge here, Sergeant?”
“Until Lord Bontriomphe or Lord Darcy gets back, I am. Sergeant Peter O Sechnaill.”
“Sergeant Michael Coeur-Terre, River Detail. Lord Darcy might not be back. Girl named Tia Einzig got pushed off Somerset Bridge, and Lord Darcy jumped off the bridge after her. They’re putting out patrol boats and search parties on both sides of the river from Somerset Bridge to Chelsea, but personally I don’t think there’s much chance. A Commander Lord Ashley asked us to report to you. He said Lord Bontriomphe would want the information.”
Sergeant Peter nodded. “Right,” he said briskly. “I’ll tell his lordship as soon as he comes in. Anything else?”
“Yes. Do you know where an Admiralty coach is parked around here with a Petty Officer Hosquins in charge of it? Commander Lord Ashley says he wants it at Thames Street and Somerset Bridge immediately. He wants transportation for Lord Darcy when they find him, though it’s my opinion that his lordship is done for.”
Mary de Cumberland had already risen to her feet. Now she said, in a very quiet voice, “He is not dead. I should know it if he were dead.”
“I beg your pardon, mum?” said Sergeant Michael.
“Nothing, Sergeant,” she said calmly. “At Thames Street and Somerset Bridge, you said? I know where the Admiralty coach is. I shall tell Petty Officer Hosquins.”
Sergeant Michael noticed, for the first time, the Cumberland arms on Mary’s dress. Simultaneously, Sergeant Peter said, “Her Grace is working with us on this case.”
“That’s… that’s very good of Your Grace, I’m sure,” said Sergeant Michael.
“Not at all, Sergeant.” She swept out of the room, walked rapidly down the hall, across the lobby, and out the front door of the Royal Steward. She hadn’t the dimmest notion of where the Admiralty coach might be parked, but this was no time to quibble over details.
It didn’t take her long to find it. It was waiting half a block away, toward St. Swithin’s Street. There was no mistaking the Admiralty arms emblazoned on its door. The coachman and the footman were sitting up in the driver’s seat, their greatcoats wrapped around them and a blanket over their legs, quietly smoking their pipes and talking.
“Petty Officer Hosquins?” Mary said authoritatively. “I’m the Duchess of Cumberland. Lord Ashley has sent word that the coach is wanted immediately at Thames Street and Somerset Bridge. I’m going with you.” Before the footman had even had a chance to climb down she had opened the door and was inside the coach. Petty Officer Hosquins opened the trap door in the roof and looked down at her.
“But Your Grace,” he began.
“Lord Ashley,” the Duchess cut in coldly, “said ‘immediately.’ This is an emergency. Now, dammit, get a move on, man.”
Petty Officer Hosquins blinked. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said. He closed the trap. The coach moved on.
CHAPTER 17
There was a chilling shock as Lord Darcy’s body cut into the inky waters of the Thames. For long seconds it seemed as if he would keep on going down until he buried himself in the mud and muck at the bottom; then he was fighting his way up again, tearing off his jacket. His head broke the surface, he took one deep breath, and then doubled over to pull off his boots.
And all the while Lord Darcy was telling himself that he was a fool — a bloody, stupid, harebrained fool. The girl had allowed herself to be pushed in without a struggle, and she had fallen without a sound. What chance was there of finding her in a world of darkness and watery death, better than a hundred yards from the nearest bank? A heaviness at his hip reminded him of something else. He could have drawn his pistol, but he would never have shot a man armed only with a sword, and the time it would have taken to force the man to drop his weapon and then turn him over to Ashley would have been precious seconds wasted. His chances of finding the girl were small now; they would have been infinitesimal if there had been any delay.
At least, he told himself, he could have drawn his gun and dropped it on the bridge as he had his cloak. Its added weight now was only a hindrance. Regretfully he drew it from its holster and consigned it forever to the muddy depths of the mighty river. He surfaced again and looked around. It was not as dark as he had thought. Dimly, he could still see the lights on the bridge.
“Tia!” he shouted. “Tia Einzig! Where are you? Can you hear me?”
She should have been borne downstream, beneath Somerset Bridge, but how far beneath the surface? Had she already taken her last gasp and filled her lungs with water?
And then he heard a noise.
There was a soft, spluttering, sobbing sound and a faint splash.
“Tia Einzig!” he shouted again. “Say something! Where are you?”
There was no answer except that faint sound again, coming from upstream, between himself and the bridge. His sprint across the bridge and his long dive had put him downstream from her, as he had hoped.
Lord Darcy swam toward the sound, his powerful arms fighting against the current of the Thames. The sound came closer, a sort of mewing sob that hardly sounded human.
And then he touched her.
She was struggling, but not much. just enough, apparently, to keep her head above water. He put his left arm around her, holding them both up with powerful strokes of his right, and her struggles stopped. Her cloak, he noticed, was gone — probably torn off when she struck the water. The whimpering sounds had ceased, and her body was completely relaxed but she was still breathing. He kept her face above water and began swimming toward the right bank, towing her through the chilling water. Thank God she was small and light, he thought. She didn’t weigh more than seven stone, sopping wet.
The joke struck him as funny but he couldn’t waste his breath now in laughing. It would be like laughing at my own funeral, he thought, and this second joke was grim enough to preclude any desire to laugh.
Where was the damned bank, anyway? How long does it take to cover a hundred-odd yards of water? He felt as though he had been swimming for hours, and the muscles of his right shoulder were beginning to feel the strain. Treading water, carefully holding the girl’s head above the surface, he changed about, letting his right arm keep her up, and swimming with his left.
Hours more seemed to pass, and now there was nothing but blackness around him. The lights of the bridge had long since faded away, and the lights on the river bank — if there was any river bank! — were not yet visible.
Had he lost his bearings? Was he swimming downstream instead of across it? There was no way of knowing; his body was moving with the water and there was nothing visible to judge by.
Then, as he reached out for another in a seemingly endless series of strokes, his fingers slammed into something hard and sent a stinging pain into his hand and wrist. He reached out again, more carefully this time.