The path down the cliffside took too long and proved a more treacherous endeavor than Frederick imagined. Rocks jutted into the path, causing Frederick to edge around them with extra care so as not to fall down the cliffside to the sea.
As he neared the bottom and the rocks grew increasingly more hazardous from the ocean mist, he listened for any sound of voices, but the crashing waves drowned out other sounds. The path ended at the entrance of a crevice in the cliff wall. Frederick withdrew his pistol and stepped through the space. A few man-made steps moved down between the rocks, and then he stepped out into a large cavern with rock walls rising on almost every side. Various cave entrances embedded the walls, most of the lower entrances partially underwater. He stepped forward, keeping his body in the shadows as daylight spilled from above, glistening off the pool in the center of the caves. More water rushed in from the wall open to the sea, filling the area with each passing second.
A shot rang out from Frederick’s right, followed by a woman’s cry. Frederick dashed toward the sounds coming from one of the caves with a strange rock outcropping in the center. As he grew closer, the rock formation took the shape of a bird.
A burst of air released from him.
Sparrow.
Beneath the left wing of the rock sparrow.
If the bird was facing him, the wing would be on the right. And there, partially hidden near one of the rocks, was a small motorboat. Possibly the same one he’d seen leaving the ferry.
Which meant the people he was likely looking for were still here.
And in that cave.
With careful movements, he waded into the cool water, nearly waist deep. Dipping his head so that the water swelled to chest level, he entered the cave. The ground inclined, bringing the water to a few inches at his feet, but the waves promised more.
A water-covered path moved between various-sized rocks in the cave, leading the way toward raised voices. A woman’s? Frederick slid as silently forward as possible, edging behind a boulder at the curve of the path.
When he peered around the rock, he froze. Jack lay on the ground, blood stains on his shirt, his body partially covered in water. Thankfully, he lay on somewhat elevated ground, or he’d likely be submerged. Miss Whitby sat at his side, attempting to block Jack’s chest with her hand.
A man stood between Frederick and Jack, facing away and pointing a gun in Jack’s direction.
“Victor,” cried a woman from just beyond Jack. “Behind you.”
The man turned, revealing the face of Mr. Finch. He fired a shot. Frederick dove behind the rock, the bullet ricocheting off the stones near Frederick’s head.
“We have to get out of here,” Mrs. Reynolds called in French. “We have no time for these distractions.”
“I cannot understand your French, Beatrice,” Finch barked back. “You know that. Ten years together and I still can’t understand.”
“We must get out of here,” she repeated, enunciating each word in English. “The water is rising, and we haven’t much time.”
Good. Mr. Finch was distracted.
Frederick peered around the rock and fired. Mr. Finch cried out as the bullet struck his leg, and the man fired another shot back in Frederick’s direction.
Suddenly, a woman’s cry burst into the silence.
“Lord Astley,” came Mrs. Reynolds’ calm, cool voice, her French accent curling around his name.
A chill traveled up Frederick’s spine as he peered back around the rock. Mrs. Reynolds stood in the path, her gaze fixed on him, a terrible smile on her face. In her arms, she held a bleeding Lydia Whitby with a revolver pressed to Lydia’s temple.
“There is only one way out of this cave, and you are blocking our exit. We did not go through the last two years of planning to fail now.” She tightened her hold, and Lydia winced.
Blood stained Lydia’s right shoulder and one side of her head, but she continued to struggle.
“If your plans hadn’t been so ruthless, Mrs. Reynolds, we may not be in this predicament. You left quite the trail of bodies.”
“My name is Beatrice Russo, Lord Astley.” Her smile lit, wicked. “We did what was necessary to obtain what we deserve.” She raised a brow to him, pressing the gun more tightly against Lydia’s head, causing her to cease her struggle. “And you are going to move away from the exit to allow us to pass, or I will dispatch your friend here, and Victor will finish with Detective Miracle.”
Frederick glanced to the right, where Mr. Finch had raised Jack to a sitting position, gun pressed to the back of his head.
What else could he do?
He held Jack’s gaze and lowered his pistol to his side.
“I thought you seemed the reasonable sort,” Mrs. Reynolds—Russo—said. “In all honesty, Lord Astley, I’ve tired of this game and am quite ready for Victor and I to live the rest of our married lives somewhere far away from here.” She kept her hold on Lydia and moved down the path. “Lucia, bring the brouette.”
The girl attempted to move the wheelbarrow, but whatever weighed it down refused to budge.
Mrs. Russo groaned. “Victor.”
Before Frederick could do anything, Victor hit Jack across the head with the pistol, sending his friend sprawling on the ground, face first in the water. Frederick rushed forward, but Mrs. Russo cocked the hammer of the pistol in her hand.
“Not so fast, my lord.” She gestured with her chin to Victor. “One more step and poor Miss Whitby will take the same journey as Mr. Reynolds, or should I say Mr. Parker.”
She gestured with her chin toward the lifeless body nearby, knife jutting from his chest.
Frederick slid to a stop as Victor took the wheelbarrow from the younger woman, who Frederick assumed was Lucia Bartoli. The young woman followed behind Victor, her head down like a lamb led by her captors. Mrs. Reynolds passed Frederick, dragging a wounded Lydia with her.
Lydia held Frederick’s gaze, and then, just as Mrs. Reynolds made it past Frederick, Lydia brought her heel down on the other woman’s foot.
The woman released her hold, and Lydia dove forward, shoving Frederick behind a boulder as a shot rang out.
They both landed with a splash into the rising water behind the rock.
“We’ve got to get to Jack,” Lydia shouted, pushing up from Frederick’s body.
Another shot ricocheted off the rock, and Lydia dropped back to the ground.
“We won’t do any good for him by getting shot in the process.” Frederick looked around the rock, noting Mrs. Russo’s lowered position by the cave entrance, which was now very close to being fully blocked with water.
Mr. Russo and Miss Bartoli must have created a type of assembly line to remove the bags from the wheelbarrow to the boat, because all Frederick could see through the remaining cave entrance was Mr. Russo, chest deep in water, handing one bag after another up to Martina—Lucia—in the motorboat.
Mrs. Russo fired another shot, causing Frederick to draw his head back behind the rock. Her shots were biding time for them to load the gold, but each second proved detrimental to Jack.
“We have to do something,” Lydia demanded.
Frederick scanned the area. A rock, large enough behind which to hide, stood to one side of Jack. If he could just make it there, perhaps he could pull Jack behind the rock with him. How many shots had Mrs. Russo fired already? Four?
“Do you know how to use a pistol?”
Lydia’s gaze sharpened, and she looked down at the gun in Frederick’s hand. “I … I have before.”
“Mrs. Russo has two more shots left from her revolver before she will need to reload.”
Lydia looked from Frederick to Jack, her expression coming alive. “I can run to Jack in the interval.”
“I’d prefer you remain here, but keep Mrs. Russo distracted with your shots.”
“I’m not certain about my aim.”
“Your aim isn’t what’s important.” He pushed the gun in her hand. “Your goal is to keep Mrs. Russo distracted while I run toward Jack.”
“Well, if I hit her, it will just make me feel better,” Lydia murmured, taking the gun.
For some reason, Frederick had a quick sense of gratitude that Lydia and Grace hadn’t become friends just yet.
“Ready?”
She gave a curt nod and positioned the pistol, rising enough to begin firing. At Mrs. Russo’s ready return, Frederick counted. One. Two.
Click.
Frederick took one look in Mrs. Russo’s direction and ran toward Jack, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him behind the boulder with only a few seconds to spare before another shot fired toward him.
Frederick turned Jack on his side. He coughed but seemed no worse for the wear—as far as Frederick could tell. His chest pumped up and down in a reassuring way, but he didn’t envy the headache Jack would have when he awakened.
Frederick pulled Jack up against the nearby boulder and out of the swelling water, attempting to keep them both upright.
Silence stilled the moment. Nothing except the sound of water coming into the cave.
Frederick leaned forward to look around the boulder only to find the entrance void of Mrs. Russo but filled with a rush of water coming into the cave. How much more water, Frederick had no idea. Enough to fill the cave?
Lydia stood from her spot, looking from the entrance to Frederick and then down at the water now rushing over her knees.
She pushed through the water toward him. “We have to get out of here.”
Frederick glanced back toward the other end of the cave, but the cave ended in a large rock wall about fifty feet back. There were no openings above that he could see.
He sighed and gestured with his chin toward the closing cave entrance. “The only way out is through the mouth of the cave.”
Lydia followed his attention and then looked back at him. Her eyes widened, and for the first time, a flash of fear quivered over her face. “Lord Astley.” She drew in a breath. “I can’t swim.”
Secret doors were the most delightful discoveries.
Evidently, Signore Accardi had liked them too.
Grace pushed back a rather prickly bush at the base of the gods’ statue, following the indentation she’d noticed just below Jupiter’s feet. The first direction led to nothing of consequence. As Grace followed the second, it led behind a pair of prickly bushes, and hidden behind them stood a small wooden door barely four feet high.
Perhaps the experience was a little like she imagined Mary Lennox might have felt when she first discovered the door to the secret garden. Grace glanced around her, the ocean breeze wonderfully cool and the sun shining down on myriad plants and Roman-style decor. Well, the atmosphere was likely different.
Oh, Grace hoped she didn’t have to locate a lost key too. Time was of the essence. If the villains found their treasure, they’d likely dispatch any loose ends. She took the ring handle and gave the door a budge. At first it didn’t move, but with a little harder push, the door scratched against the stone floor and opened into … complete blackness. Apart from the frame on which the door set, Grace didn’t even see a floor but a gaping emptiness downward.
Well, this wouldn’t work at all.
With a little tilt, she peered down into the blackness. Was it some sort of trap? She pulled back. Had Jack been dropped into this pit?
That didn’t make any sense at all!
She scanned the space around the outside of the door, and her attention caught on a little tuft of rope nestled behind one of the prickly bushes. After a few scratches and one or two unladylike comments about the bush, Grace drew out the item and realized it was a rope ladder. Upon further inspection, she discovered two impressive hooks at the base of the doorframe, from which the ladder must hang.
She looked back down into the darkness, the memory of falling into an undiscovered tomb rushing to mind. With a quick check to her satchel, confirming a candle and matches, and a prayer for strength and that the ladder actually reached the bottom of something less sinister than she imagined, she tossed the ladder down into the abyss.
Now, what to do with the parasol? If she hooked it over her arm, it would get caught in the ladder. On the strap of her satchel would prove the same trouble. Finally, she ended up hooking it on the back neck of her dress. Even if it bounced against her backside on the way down the ladder, at least she’d have it for any possible fights.
With a wobbly step and a firm grip on the hooks, she began her descent.
Rope ladders weren’t her favorite.
Of course, she’d been on ladders before. Her grandfather allowed her to climb, swing, swim, build, and indulge in all sorts of other very “unladylike” things, but this gangly experience of a rope ladder was a first. She actually appreciated the dark for a whole new set of reasons. If Jack lay at the bottom of this pit, he’d appreciate not getting a view of her wrestling on the rope. Unladylike would be one of the nicer words he’d probably choose to describe the scene.
And it’s a good thing Frederick wasn’t here. He’d been a victim of her rope swinging once before, and she felt certain he’d rather not repeat the experience.
The worst part proved that only after two rungs and a wild twist, her precious parasol plummeted into the darkness and created a rather noisy clatter below.
Her shoulders drooped. Well, at least the hole had a bottom. And since she didn’t hear anyone groan from impact, she hadn’t impaled poor Jack.
The small light from above still hovered in the distance like a rectangular moon when her feet finally felt something solid. She steadied herself, keeping hold of the ladder with one hand until she felt sure the ground wouldn’t give way, and she reached into her satchel and withdrew a candle and matches.
Light flickered and then steadied, small within the vast dark space, but enough for Grace to make out the surroundings. Apparently, she’d come down into a tall room hidden inside the cliff. Two chairs stood in the center of the room, back to back, with ropes of various lengths scattered on the floor. She leaned down and took up a piece of the rope.
Cut?
Had someone been held here? Jack?
She looked back up the way she’d come. But there was no way for him to escape through the little door unless the ladder had been lowered, which seemed unlikely since she’d found it stowed at the top. She retrieved her parasol and stood, taking closer inventory of the room. The candlelight flickered against the stone walls, highlighting a curve in one end of the space.
Why she chose to approach quietly didn’t make any sense, because anyone hiding in the darkness would have been alerted to her descent by the noise of the parasol, but she still felt the urge to toe-step toward the curve.
A stone stairway led downward, deeper into the cliff. She sighed. Well, the only way to find out if Jack escaped in this direction was to follow the steps. She looked back at the rope ladder. She’d much prefer steps to rope ladders. Speaking of ropes … Her attention fell on the tangle of ropes on the floor, with another ream lying at the back corner of the room.
It would be hard to keep hold of her parasol and the rope, but having a rope seemed like an excellent idea, especially after her previous experiences with villainesses and tombs.
The stairs led through a stone passage and finally spilled out into a cavernous place, with sunlight blinking down from an open space in the cliff-framed cove. A roaring sound pulled her attention to the right, where a motorboat waited with Martina, rather Lucia, inside. Mr. Finch was placing a bag in the boat, his body nearly neck deep in the water in front of a sliver of a cave opening. Gunfire erupted from nearby, and Grace slipped behind the nearest rock, peering around, but neither Lucia nor Mr. Finch appeared concerned. He handed her another bag, which seemed rather heavy, and she put it in the boat.
Suddenly, out of the cave opening, bobbing in the water, emerged Mrs. Reynolds—or as Grace now knew her, Beatrice Russo.
“One is wounded and unconscious. He won’t be easy to move,” she called over the motor as Mr. Finch assisted her into the motorboat. “We’ll be long gone before they escape to follow us.”
“If they are even able to get out before the tide fills the cave,” came Mr. Finch’s response.
Grace’s attention flew to the cave entrance from which Mrs. Russo had just come. Water nearly covered the entrance.
Lucia asked a question in Italian, which Grace didn’t fully comprehend, but she heard the name Nico.
“We will bring the boat around to the back of the villa,” Mrs. Russo replied in English, evidently for Mr. Finch’s benefit. “He knows to meet us there if anything goes amiss.”
“Do not worry. Your brother knows what to do.”
Grace breathed out a sigh. At least Grace knew something ahead of the villains. Nico Bartoli would not be meeting them. Her shoulders slumped. Well, she hoped not. Not unless he knew how to pick locks very quickly or Mr. Hopewell failed to fulfill his end of the plan.
The motorboat puttered away, barely staying above the waterline as it moved slowly out of the cavern into open water. Almost any water vehicle could catch their motorboat at that speed. Something weighed it down besides the people.
Had there truly been a treasure?
As the boat disappeared around the edge of the cliff, Grace ran forward, surveying the situation. Someone was wounded inside the cave, and she had a sneaking suspicion Jack was one of the people inside.
A Jules Verne Nautilus or diving suit would have come in handy. How thick was the cave wall? If she had to hold her breath to get underneath it, would she be able to make it to the other side?
Surely! She’d always been a good swimmer, and her grandfather had often told her she must have excellent lung capacity for the amount of time she could talk about books without stopping.
She lowered the rope to the ground and reluctantly released her parasol. She should also leave the satchel behind because swimming would prove difficult enough in her day dress. Wait. She paused in her movements to relinquish the rope. What if she created a connection between the outside of the cave and the inside? Then, if they had a wounded person, it would make getting out easier, wouldn’t it? Sort of a guide to get from one side to the other while pulling an unconscious or wounded person?
She looked near the entrance, where a tooth-shaped stone jutted up from the rocky ground. With quick hands, she tied one end of the rope around the stone, securing it in such a way her grandfather would have been proud. Then, with a longing look to her parasol, she stepped down into the water.
Her shoes weren’t meant for slippery rocks, because she immediately spilled down the slope and went fully under. The cool water rushed over her, snatching her breath, but she also caught sight of something underwater in her periphery. She resurfaced, took a breath, and went back under. The clearness of the water allowed for longer views than back home in America. Wreckage from boats of the past littered the bottom, with wooden slabs or small masts jutting up like knives and shards from the darkness below.
The scene held a fascinating mix of frightening and fascinating. Hadn’t someone mentioned this area being a place for pirates? Were those wrecks from boats long ago?
She shook off her distraction and resurfaced. Taking a tighter hold on the rope, she swam toward the cave entrance.
Even now, only a few inches of unsubmerged opening showed at the cave’s arch. Well, at least she could take one last breath before swimming forward in blind faith. It was a good thing God knew what was ahead, because she clearly didn’t.
With a deep breath, she ducked below the small space of cave not yet covered. Below the surface and rocky cave ceiling, she swam, one arm pulling her through, the other holding to the rope. The latter trailed behind her, slowing her progress as she attempted to keep it from dropping low enough to become entangled with the wreckage below her feet.
The thinness of her tea dress likely kept from slowing her down even more, but trousers would have proved more suitable for swimming. She refused to take another look below her feet at the wreckage because for some reason it made her think of vengeful mermaids and sea ghosts. Instead, she focused ahead.
A soft glow rose above her—some sort of light source. She had to be getting close to the opening. The sound of voices blended through the water, and then she had the unnerving realization that she wasn’t 100 percent certain who waited on the other side of the cave.
She faltered. Another detriment of her impulsiveness. But surely, if anyone was shooting at Mrs. Russo, it had to be someone who at least knew about her subterfuge. Besides, she didn’t have enough air to turn around now.
The cave ceiling opened, and with a little trepidation, she surfaced far enough that only her head broke the water.
“The water is continuing to rise,” came a woman’s voice. American accent. Was that Lydia Whitby? “Do you think it fills this cave in full tide?”
Grace couldn’t see over the lip of the rock in front of her, but she knew the man who gave a response.
“I’m not certain, but I fear we shouldn’t wait to find out. The deeper we have to dive to fit beneath the cave entrance, the longer we must hold our breath.”
Frederick.
“But I already told you,” came the woman’s reply, a hint of tension in her words, “I can’t swim.”
Grace grabbed the rock ledge with her swimming hand and pulled herself up enough to see over.
“Frederick,” Grace called, attempting to get her elbow up on the ledge without slipping and losing her hold on the rope.
“Grace?” came his familiar voice.
Oh, how she loved her name on his lips, even if it had that sort of bewildered tone to it.
“I’m here.” She slipped from her precarious perch back into the water.
When she resurfaced, Frederick stood staring down at her, his expression as bewildered as his voice. “Darling, what? How?” Evidently, he couldn’t quite finish his sentences.
Grace wanted to think it was because she looked so fetching coming from the water like a beautiful mermaid. Or that he found her creative abilities rather breathtaking, brave, and appealing.
But in reality, she likely looked a fright, wearing a soaking tea dress and holding a rope, with her hair in wild red curls all around her pale face. Dear me, I sounded like a sea ghost!
“Would you take this, please?” She offered him the rope.
He tilted his head in a curious manner and took the rope in one hand and in the other took her hand. With a strong tug, he pulled her up and into his hold, his clothes much warmer and drier than hers. She nestled close to appreciate his warmth for a little longer. He didn’t seem to mind for he tightened his hold.
“Lady Astley?” Lydia stumbled forward, her eyes wide. “You … you swam here?”
Grace pulled back, offering her darling husband a smile before turning to Lydia. “I saw Mrs. Russo, Mr. Finch, and Lucia leave in the boat. They talked about someone being wounded.” Her gaze skimmed over the path to land on the very still face of Mr. Reynolds, a knife protruding from his chest. His body began to float a little from the influx of water.
Oh, poor Mr. Reynolds.
“Jack.” Frederick nudged her forward and readied to lay down the rope.
“No, wait.” She took the rope back in hand. “Don’t let go of it. We need to tie it somewhere.”
“What?” He searched her face, then looked down at the rope, a sudden light dawning in his eyes. “As a guide under the cave?” His grin split wide, and he leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth. “You’re brilliant.”
Well, perhaps brilliance overshadowed a sea ghost.
He took the rope back in hand and proceeded to tie it around another boulder nearby. “Miss Whitby can’t swim, so this will certainly assist her as well as give us a bit of bearing while getting Jack across.”
“Can’t we just wait it out and see if the water stops?” Lydia looked from Grace to Frederick and back.
“I heard Mr. Finch mention that the cave fills with water.” Grace looked over to see poor Jack propped against a rock, his head dipped to the right and blood on his forehead and shirt. “I don’t know if we can trust what he says, but it would be worse to gamble with the fact and be wrong.”
“We need to get Jack through as soon as we can because there’s still a little patch of air at the cave arch, but it won’t last long.” Frederick moved toward Jack with Grace beside him. “Jack won’t waken, so he can’t hold his breath.”
“It’s closing quickly though, Frederick.” She reached on one side of Jack as Frederick went to the other, both raising him up beneath his arms and moving to the water’s edge. “He may still breathe in water.”
“We’ll have to take that chance.” He looked at the ground, water now to midcalf. “Because if Mr. Finch is right, then this is likely only to get worse and take even longer to swim out.”
Lydia rushed to help them with Jack and carefully, with Frederick getting into the water, they lowered Jack onto his back.
“I’ll try to keep us near the roof of the cave as long as possible.” His gaze met hers. “And pray we get through quickly enough.”
“Be careful.” Grace relinquished her hold on Jack, and the unconscious man floated on his back with his head resting on Frederick’s shoulder. “There are heaps of wreckage just below the surface. Broken boats. A sharp mast for a small boat.”
He studied her face and gave a nod, then looked back to Lydia. “Grace will get you through, Miss Whitby.” His gaze found Grace’s. “Take care, darling.”
Something in his look, his unvoiced words, spilled added strength through her. She nodded to him as he pushed off, skimming the rope with his body to keep his direction straight as he swam backward.
Lydia’s face was pale, her breathing shallow, but she raised her chin and focused her full attention on Grace. “What do I do?”
Yes, she like Lydia Whitby even more.
“We’ll swim above water as long as we can, but there will be a point where you’ll have to go under.” Grace moved with her to the edge where the ground began a descent deeper into the water. “Keep hold of the rope all the way through, and it will get us both to the other side.” She turned to Lydia. “The wall thickness isn’t as bad as it could have been, so you shouldn’t have any trouble holding your breath.”
“I’m not worried about holding my breath.” Lydia nodded, looking down at the water as if preparing for battle. “My stepfather had gotten me up to six minutes underwater when trying to unfasten myself from chains. Unfortunately, he never taught me to swim.”
Grace started to ask about Lydia’s fascinating experience but decided the conversation should likely wait until a more convenient time. “You go on ahead of me, and I’ll follow behind you to help if you need it.”
Lydia started forward, her left hand holding to the rope and her right moving through the water.
“And if you push your free hand like this”—Grace threaded her hand through the water—“it will help you move a bit faster.”
Lydia imitated her form, giving a little boost to her pace.
Grace looked up to find Jack and Frederick had vanished, the last bit of space beneath the opening gone. Her heart pulsed faster, a prayer repeating through her head. Be with them, Lord.
She focused her attention on the back of Lydia’s golden head. “And help us too.”
Grace gave space as Lydia moved forward, deeper until her feet no longer felt rock and she raised into swimming position.
“Okay, time to go under,” Grace called ahead of her, and with that, Lydia disappeared beneath the water, her hair flaring about her as she did.
A moment later, Grace took a deep breath and followed.
Unlike an experienced swimmer, Lydia attempted to keep her body straight, her feet slicing back and forth as if walking. The frantic movements of her right hand caused bubbles to obscure Grace’s view, or she might have caught the problem before it happened.
Lydia jerked to a stop. The bubbles cleared, and Grace met Lydia’s wide-eyed look. Lydia shook her head and looked down. The spear-like mast jutting upward, with chains twisted around it, had somehow caught the bottom of Lydia’s gown. Lydia gave her skirt a strong tug.
In response, the chains began unbraiding from their hold on the wood, slowly dropping deeper into the water. Lydia began sinking. The chains unwound further, pulling Lydia down even more.
Lydia’s wide eyes found Grace’s.
A sudden fear erupted in Grace’s stomach—the same feeling she remembered from the sand crashing in on her. The same inner mantra shouting to her, “Don’t breathe or you’ll die.”
She couldn’t panic. She needed a clear head. With the same reminder as she’d told herself when locked in the chest, she began attempting to catch the wild thoughts, taming them with words of truth. Focusing on the matter at hand.
If she didn’t do something, they both were going to die.
She turned and pressed her feet against the cave wall to propel herself downward.
The chains released another link. Lydia sank even more. Bubbles swelled from the moving chains, making it difficult for Grace to find exactly where Lydia’s skirt stuck to the chains.
But she needed to find it soon.
Because neither one of them could hold their breath forever.