“Guild liaison, Trune,” she said, demoting him on purpose. “Enjoying your stay in my home?”
He snorted a laugh, but she saw how his eyes narrowed at her hit. He gave a look around at his cronies as if to mark her utter ridiculousness.
“Perhaps you’d like to visit and see what I’ve done with the place. Oh wait. You’ve already done so.”
“Fascinating, Mr Trune, do tell.” She was gambling – perhaps foolishly – on residual sympathy from the merchant houses. Trune would have to produce eyewitnesses and evidence that she had been the mysterious housemaid. Even the Guild would have to rule that his household staff would be considered prejudiced witnesses for the accuser, and anyway, she no longer had the dress.
He looked surprised. “Really, Miss Mederos? My staff was furious at your deception, you know.” He leaned over to her and whispered in her ear, while she stared straight ahead, trying not to reveal her disgust at his damp breath so near to her. “You have no idea of the stakes in this game you are playing.”
Neither do you.
Someone tugged Trune’s jacket and he let himself be pulled away, gathered up amongst his cronies. She kept still until she judged him gone, and then with a silent exhale, continued to pull her winnings toward her.
“I apologize for the interruption,” she said in her best Alinesse tone. “I think it’s best I take my leave.” No one spoke. Terk just watched her with his keen eyes, the wrinkles around them reminding her of a sailor’s, though he clearly was no sea gentleman.
She had brought a purse with her. It bulged. No one spoke as she walked out of the smoking room and into the main hall. The fascinating woman watched her go with a keen and attentive eye. An attendant was waiting with her wrap, so the Scarlantis had already made plans to rid themselves of their troublesome guest.
She made her curtsey to Mrs and Mr Scarlanti, and the wide doors were opened for her. Tesara walked out into the chill night, the wrap billowing around her. It was past one in the morning, and she knew she would have a hard time catching one of the many horse-drawn cabs at this hour, even though she had plenty of money to pay for one. She would have to walk home.
This would be the time she would run into the Gentleman Bandit, she thought. But he had better watch out. Her fingers were tingling with energy. He might find out that he had bitten off more than he could chew.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Yvienne threw the heavy satchel over the wall, the strap catching on the wrought-iron arrow tips.
She scrambled up after, scraping her knees and tearing her coat on the rough stone, the decorative wrought iron cutting into her hands. She kicked and pulled herself up and over, hearing the fabric rip more as she left a strip of old wool behind. Then she grabbed the satchel and jumped–
And landed hard on the gravel drive, scraping her hands and knees. The drop was longer on the other side than it was from inside the Kerrills’ garden. Cursing their landscape designer, she got to her feet and ran, the sounds of pursuit close behind. Hunting dogs bayed and men shouted.
She knew this part of Port Saint Frey well because she had grown up here and because she had been reading city maps and scouting routes for days. She junked left down an alley, knowing it wouldn’t fool the dogs. It was a shortcut, and it would take her to the sea, to her sea cave. The high tide worked to her benefit, though it would mean getting the pistols wet. They would be a devil to clean afterwards.
The baying sounded louder. Yvienne put on more speed, head back, elbows bent, hands slightly curved. The satchel strap crossed her front and the heavy satchel thudded against her back. She had to make a split-second decision; turn left ahead again, calculating that she could get over the wall at the back of the old mews across from the Crescent, or turn right, so she could lose herself in the crowds in the lower part of the city.
She turned left. Twenty paces away, the wall loomed. Five… four… three… she hit the spot and jumped.
“Down here, boys!”
Frey’s robe, they were close. The dogs howled and bayed in indiscriminate fury. Yvienne scrabbled for handholds and footholds, scaling the twelve-foot wall, her muscles in her arms burning. Her fingers were raw now, and desperation moved her upward.
“There he is! Stop, thief! Shoot! Shoot!”
She flung her leg up and, for one heart-stopping moment, was unable to get her boot over. It hung on the lip of the wall, and then she yanked it over and fell, rather than jumped, just as a single shot discharged.
Stunned, she landed on her side, struggling to move. Had she been shot? She got to her feet, took a second to register lack of blood or pain other than a twisted ankle, throbbing knee, and a bruised rib, and then got herself moving, limping. Move, move, move, she chanted, getting back into a rhythm. She knew from the commotion behind her that a few men would be trying to get over the wall and the rest would backtrack and take the dogs around.
Everything that hurt still hurt, but she got back into a jog. In a moment she heard two shouts, a couple of thuds, and some groans. She grinned and moved faster.
Two more minutes, with the sounds of pursuit fading, she found the sea trail. It was steep here, but she knew it intimately. Half-skidding, she made her way down the trail. Now the sound of the sea was louder than anything, the waves a soothing rhythm that helped slow her racing heart. The whitecaps glowed a little in the clear night.
Yvienne stood on the edge of rocks and looked back up the steep
