Julia Quinn - What Happens in London

She shook her head, and then, apparently spotting someone she deemed of greater importance, said, “Do let her know I’m looking for her when you find her.” With a little wave, she headed back into the crowd.

That was singularly unhelpful, Harry decided, as he moved toward the doors to the garden. He didn’t think Olivia would have gone outside, but the ballroom was sunken, and one had to ascend three steps to reach the doors. He’d be much more likely to be able to see her from there.

But when he reached his vantage point, he was once again stymied. Everyone else he knew seemed to be in attendance, but Olivia was nowhere to be found. There was Sebastian, still charming the ladies with his made-up tales of derring-do. Edward was at his elbow, trying to appear older than he really was. Olivia’s friend (whose name he still could not recall) was sipping a glass of lemonade, pretending she was listening to the elderly gentleman who was shouting something at her. And there was Olivia’s twin brother, leaning against the back wall, his expression bored.

Even Vladimir was there, walking across the ballroom with great purpose, not bothering to excuse himself as he shoved aside various lords and ladies. He did look rather serious, Harry thought, and he was wondering if he ought to investigate when he realized the giant Russian was heading for him.

“You come with me,” he said to Harry.

Harry started. “You speak English?”

“Nyeh tak khorosho, kak tiy govorish po-russki .”

Not as well as you speak Russian .

“What is going on?” Harry asked. In English, just to be careful.

Vladimir’s eyes met his with steely purpose. “I know Winthrop,” he said.

It was almost enough to convince Harry to trust him.

And then Vladimir said, “Lady Olivia has disappeared.”

Suddenly it didn’t matter if he trusted him or not.

Olivia had no idea where she was.

Or how she’d got there.

Or why her hands were tied behind her back, and her feet were bound together, and a gag had been wrapped around her mouth.

Or, she thought, blinking frantically to adjust to the dim light, why she hadn’t been blindfolded.

She was lying on her side, on a bed, staring at a wall. Maybe whoever had done this to her had figured that if she couldn’t move or make a noise, it wouldn’t matter what she saw.

But who? Why? What had happened to her?

She tried to think, tried to calm her racing mind. She’d been in the washroom. Mary Cadogan had been there, and then she’d left, and Olivia had been alone for how long? At least a few minutes. Maybe as many as five.

She’d finally summoned the nerve to go back to the party, but the door had opened and then…

What happened? What happened?

Think, Olivia, think .

Why couldn’t she remember? It was as if a big gray smudge had been wiped across her memory.

She started to breathe more heavily. Quick and deep. Panicked. She couldn’t think straight.

She started to struggle, even though she knew it was fruitless. She managed to flip over, away from the wall. She couldn’t seem to calm down, to focus, to-

“You’re awake.”

She froze. In an instant she went still, her only movement the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

She did not recognize the voice. And when its owner came closer, she did not recognize the man, either.

Who are you?

But of course she couldn’t speak. He saw the question, however; saw it in her panicked eyes.

“It does not matter who I am,” he said, his voice carrying some sort of accent. But she couldn’t tell where he was from. Just as she’d always been terrible with languages, she never could place accents, either.

The man drew closer, then sat in a chair near her. He was older than she was, although not as old as her parents, and his graying hair was clipped close to his head. His eyes-she couldn’t tell what color they were in the darkness. Not brown. Something lighter.

“Prince Alexei has taken quite a fancy to you,” he said.

Her eyes widened. Prince Alexei had done this to her?

Her captor chuckled. “You do not hide your emotions well, Lady Olivia. It was not the prince who brought you here. But it will be the prince”-he leaned closer, menacingly, until she could smell his breath-“who will pay to bring you back.”

She shook her head, grunting, trying to tell him that the prince had not taken a fancy to her, or that if he had, he didn’t any longer.

“If you’re smart, you won’t struggle,” the man said. “You won’t free yourself, so why waste your strength?”

And yet she couldn’t seem to stop struggling. Absolute terror was building up within her, and she didn’t know how to keep it still.

The gray-haired man stood, gazing down at her with a tiny curve of his lips. “I will bring you food and drink later.” He left the room, and Olivia thought her throat would close in panic as she heard the click of the door shutting, followed by the turns of two locks.

She wasn’t going to be able to get out of here. Not by herself.

But did anyone even know she was gone?

W here is she? ”

That was all Harry managed to get out before he launched himself at the prince. He had followed Vladimir to a room at the back of the house, his panic rising with each step. He knew he was being foolish; this could be a trap. Someone obviously knew he worked for the War Office; how else would Vladimir have known he spoke Russian?

He could be walking toward his own execution.

But it was a chance he had to take.

Still, when he saw the prince standing there, illuminated by a single candle on a bare table, Harry snapped. His fear made him even stronger, and when they both hit the floor, it was with stunning force.

“Where is she?” Harry yelled again. “What have you done with her?”

“Stop!” Vladimir wedged himself between the two men, pulling them apart. It was only when Harry was standing again, held an arm’s length from the prince, that he realized Alexei had not fought back.

The terror in the pit of his stomach grew. The prince looked pale, grim. Frightened.

“What is going on?” Harry whispered.

Alexei handed him a piece of paper. Harry took it over to the candle and looked down. It was written in Cyrillic; Harry didn’t protest. This was not the time to pretend he could not read it.

The lady will live if you cooperate. She will be expensive. Tell no one.

Harry looked up. “How do we know it’s her? They don’t mention her by name.”

Wordlessly, Alexei held out his hand. Harry looked down. It was a lock of hair. Harry wanted to say that it might not be hers, that there could be another woman with hair that color, that unbelievable shade of sun and butter, with the same amount of curl, not a ringlet but more than a wave.

But he knew.

“Who wrote this?” he asked. In Russian.

Vladimir spoke first. “We think-”

“You think ?” Harry roared. “You think ? You had better start knowing, and damned soon. If anything happens to her…”

“If anything happens to her,” the prince cut in with icy precision, “I will cut out their throats myself. There will be justice.”

Harry turned to him slowly, trying to hold back the roiling acid in his belly. “I don’t want justice,” he said, his voice low and flat with rage. “I want her .”

“And we will get her,” Vladimir said quickly. He shot the prince a look of warning. “She will not come to harm.”

“Who are you?” Harry demanded.

“It does not matter.”

“I think it does.”