Julia Quinn - What Happens in London

She forced herself to pause. She needed to calm down. She wasn’t going to be able to accomplish anything if she succumbed to hysterics every five minutes. She was smarter than that. She could keep a calm head.

She had to keep a calm head.

What did she know about the ambassador’s residence? She had been there twice, first during the day, when she was presented to Prince Alexei, and then at night, for the ball.

It was a huge building, a veritable mansion right in the middle of London. Surely there were myriad rooms where a person could be hidden. Perhaps she was in the servants’ quarters. She frowned, trying to remember the servants’ rooms at Rudland House. Did they have crown moldings, too? Were the doorknobs of as high a quality as the rest of the house?

She had no idea.

Damn it. Why didn’t she know that? Shouldn’t she know that?

She turned to the far wall. There was one window, but it was obscured by heavy velvet curtains. Dark red, maybe? Dark blue? It was impossible to tell. The night was sucking all of the color out of her surroundings. The only light coming in was from the moon, filtering through the semicircular window above the curtained rectangle.

She paused, thinking. Something was tapping at her memory.

She wondered if she might be able to see out the window, if she were able to maneuver herself off the bed. It would be difficult. Her ankles had been tied so tightly together there was little hope of making even baby steps. And she hadn’t realized how off balance she would feel with her hands bound behind her back.

Not to mention that she had to do everything in total silence. It would be a disaster if her captor came back and found her anywhere but on the bed, right where he’d left her. Very carefully, and very slowly, she swung her legs off the bed, inching her way toward the edge until her feet touched the floor. Keeping her movements similarly controlled, she was able to maneuver herself to a standing position, and then, by leaning on various pieces of furniture, she made her way toward the window.

The window. Why did the window seem so familiar?

Probably because it was a window , she told herself impatiently. They weren’t exactly replete with unique architectural detail.

When she reached her destination, she leaned carefully forward, trying to push the curtains aside with her face. She started with her cheek, then, once she had them pushed a bit to the side, she rolled her face forward, trying to hook the edge of the curtains with her nose. It took her four tries, but eventually she managed it, even jabbing her shoulder forward to block the curtains from falling back into place.

Resting her head against the glass, she saw…nothing. Just the fog from her breath. She moved her head to the side again, using her cheek to rub the mist away. When she faced front again, she held her breath.

Still, she couldn’t see much. The only thing she could determine for sure was that she was fairly high up, perhaps on a fifth or sixth floor. She could see the roofs of other buildings and not much else.

The moon. She could see the moon.

She had seen the moon in the other room, the one where she’d made love with Harry. She’d seen it through the fanlight window.

The fanlight window!

She edged back, very carefully so as not to lose her balance. This window also had a fanlight at the top. Which didn’t mean much , except there was a pattern to it, mullions spreading out from the center point on the bottom, making it look rather like a handheld fan.

Exactly like the one downstairs.

She was still in the ambassador’s residence. It was possible that she’d been brought to another building with the exact same window pattern, but that was unlikely, wasn’t it? And the ambassador’s residence was huge. Practically a palace. It was not in central London but rather out past Kensington, where there was quite a bit more room for such grand buildings.

She moved back toward the window, hooking her head around the edge of the curtains again, this time succeeding on the first try. She placed her ear against the glass, listening for…anything. Music? People? Shouldn’t there be some indication that there was a massive party going on in the same building?

Maybe she wasn’t in the ambassador’s residence. No, no, it was a huge building. She could easily be far enough away not to hear anything.

But she could hear footsteps. Her heart slammed in her chest, and she half shuffled, half jumped her way to the bed, managing to flop herself down just as she heard the two locks clicking undone.

As the door opened she began to struggle. It was the only thing she could think of that might explain why she was out of breath.

“I told you not to do that,” her captor scolded. He was carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups. Olivia could smell the tea steeping from across the room. The scent was heavenly.

“I am very civilized, yes?” he asked, lifting the tray slightly before setting it down on a table. “I have worn such a gag before.” He motioned to the one wrapped around her head. “It does make the mouth very dry.”

Olivia just stared at him. She wasn’t sure how she was meant to respond. Literally, how . Surely he knew she could not speak.

“I will remove that so you may have some tea,” he said to her, “but you must remain quiet. If you make a noise, anything louder than a whispered thank you, I will have to make you again unconscious.”

Her eyes widened.

He shrugged. “It is easy enough to do. I did it once, and quite well I must say. You do not even have a headache, I am guessing.”

Olivia blinked. She didn’t have a headache. What had he done to her?

“You will be quiet?”

She nodded. She needed him to remove the gag. Maybe if she could speak with him, she could convince him that this was all a mistake.

“Do not try anything heroic,” he warned her, although his eyes were somewhat amused, as if he could not imagine her startling him in any way.

She shook her head, trying to keep her eyes earnest. They were her only means of communication until he removed the gag.

He leaned forward, reaching out his arms, then he stopped, drawing back. “I think the tea is done,” he said. “We wouldn’t want it to over…how do you say it?”

He was Russian. With that one phrase- How do you say it? -Olivia was finally able to recognize his accent and determine his nationality. He sounded exactly like Prince Alexei.

“Silly me,” the man said, pouring out two cups of tea. “You cannot say anything.” Finally, he moved to her side and removed the gag.

Olivia coughed, and it took her several moments before her mouth was moistened enough to speak, but when she did, she looked directly at her captor and said, “Oversteep.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The tea. You didn’t want it to oversteep.”

“Oversteep.” He repeated the word, appearing to test it out on his tongue and in his mind. He made an expression of approval, then handed her a cup.

She grimaced and gave a little shrug. How did he think she would hold it? Her hands were still tied behind her back.

He smiled, but it wasn’t a cruel smile. It wasn’t even condescending. It was almost…rueful.

Which gave Olivia hope. Not much, but some.

“I’m afraid I don’t trust you enough to untie your hands,” he said.

“I promise I won’t-”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Lady Olivia.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “Oh, I do not think you realize you make false promises, but you will see something you think is an opportunity, and you will be unable to pass it by, and then you will do something foolish, and I will have to hurt you.”