Chapter 34

34

The grey light of dawn slanted through the carriage windows as Caroline left Stafford House. Julian stood on the steps, sharp lines etched deep with worry. This parting felt different from all the others. A note of grim finality hung in the air as the coachman shook the reins and cracked the whip.

She kept her gaze fixed on the familiar London streets rolling past. Looking back would destroy what fragile composure she still possessed.

Allowing her eyes to drift shut, Caroline focused on memories of nights curled in Julian’s arms, his warm breath feathering across her hair as he whispered secrets. She clung to the fragile remnants of those faded moments – the small measure of comfort.

All too soon, the creak and rattle of the carriage wheels changed cadence as it rolled to an abrupt halt.

Caroline’s eyes flew open. Unease skittered down her spine, raising the fine hairs at her nape. Her gaze darted to the window, taking in the cramped, shadowed side street. Why had they stopped here? This was not their intended route.

Heart pounding, she leaned towards the window, straining to spot the coachman. Before she could call out to him, the carriage door was wrenched open, and a hulking figure clambered inside.

Kellerman.

Caroline’s voice froze in her throat, but before she could gather her wits, a damp rag was clamped over her mouth and nose, cutting off all sound.

Chloroform.

The sickly sweet scent overwhelmed her senses. Caroline thrashed, drawing in panicked breaths through the rag as she fought the pull of the drug. But the fumes dragged her down into darkness.

Her frantic breaths grew thinner and weaker, grey edging into her vision. Kellerman’s grip on her wrists was an anchor weighting her into the void.

Then, nothing.

*

Cold. Twisted metal biting into her back and sides. The tang of rust flooded her nostrils. Caroline surfaced from the drugged void, senses returning in hazy increments. Frigid dampness kissed her cheeks, drops pattering faintly against her skin. Low thunder seemed to rumble in the distance.

Caroline’s lashes fluttered open. Weak light filtered down from above, barely sufficient to make out her surroundings. She lay on her back, the rough metal cage on all sides pressing in close. Iron bars arched above her like the ribs of some ancient leviathan, chains suspending her prison from a high ceiling she could not glimpse.

Like a spider’s victim, trussed and waiting.

Panic seized her then, visceral and choking. She tried to sit up, but her wrists were bound in front of her, rope biting into her tender flesh. She thrashed against the restraints until her cries dissolved into ragged pants, her chest heaving.

When the wild panic had reduced to a simmer in her veins, Caroline forced her mind to focus.

The box suspending her was perhaps ten feet long, the rusted iron reeking of the river. She craned her neck, eyes watering against the gloom. Just visible overhead, a hatch lay closed tight – the only means of escape.

Secured with a lock.

She studied it – an intricate mechanism, almost like a puzzle. With etchings like Kellerman’s coded notes to release the bolt. Made to taunt.

Because Kellerman, like many men, thought she was just a useless duchess – a trinket to be displayed on Julian’s arm. The gossip sheets, after all, had played their part in that. She was the wife who fainted in her husband’s arms. Not the one snapping orders.

Not the one who helped solve his codes.

Caroline almost let out a dry laugh. “Idiot,” she muttered.

Grunting with effort, she braced her feet flat against the metal floor. The new leverage allowed her to shift into almost a seated position.

The rope binding her strained with her movements. The bindings had inflamed her wrists, abrading the tender skin. But Caroline hardly noticed. All her focus was bent towards the crude mechanism overhead.

“Think,” she urged herself through chattering teeth.

The temperature inside the iron coffin was frigid, sapping her warmth. Already, her fingertips had numbed. She curled them into her palms, trying to force blood back into the frozen digits. Her greatest asset in this moment was her intellect.

Caroline squinted upward once more at the lock. Five small, numbered dials protruded from the metal. Each dial possessed numeric symbols from zero to nine that could be rotated to form the proper sequence.

A distant rumble penetrated the walls. A sudden splash echoed very near her head. Icy water sloshed down through the opened hatch, splattering her upturned face. The frigid shock stole her breath even as understanding crashed over her.

The Thames was rising – submerging the hatch by increments.

And her time was running out.