Page 36 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Hardwicke moved cautiously along the narrow, cold stone passage, his fingers trailing along the damp walls. Without a candle or tinderbox, the sconces mounted along the walls were useless. The darkness pressing in on him felt almost suffocating.

He didn’t know this passage well. The few times he had used it before were years ago, slipping from his chamber into Lady Thornbury’s.

That memory felt distant and hazy, and now he couldn’t rely on it.

The only thing he could do was feel his way around.

He had to find the ballroom. He had to find Fiona.

A sense of helplessness clawed at him. How would he locate the ballroom? What would he do once he arrived? He didn’t know.

He paused, pressing his palm against his wet hair, feeling the water run down his temple. “Lord, keep Fiona safe until I reach her,” he whispered, his teeth clenched.

He tried to map the house in his mind: the great hall, the staircase leading to the first floor, his room in the west wing…

The ballroom was on the second floor, with Paula’s bedchamber above it on the third.

This meant he must have traversed the stairs of the secret corridor before.

If only he could remember how to find them.

After what felt like hours—though likely only minutes—he found the stairs. Relief washed over him, only to be replaced by irritation. They led downward, and aside from following the stairs, retracing his steps was the only alternative.

His pulse quickened, frustration mingling with resolve. He needed to find his wife. There was no other option.

He followed the steps slowly, one at a time, his hand brushing against the cold railing.

Finally, he came to a slight widening in the corridor, a small square opening reminiscent of the one outside his own chamber’s secret door. Voices carried faintly, accompanied by the clinking of ale mugs and the scrape of utensils on wooden plates.

The kitchen.

There must be another secret door here. He lowered himself to the floor and peered through a narrow crack.

Hardwicke’s stomach tightened. The servants—over a dozen of them—were pressed against the far wall, their faces pale, hands clenched tight. Four bandits lounged casually, pistols in hand, laughing and eating, entirely unbothered by the chaos they had wrought.

He squinted, trying to pick out every detail.

Argyll was not among the captured servants. Relief flared, quickly followed by guilt. First, he was the reason Argyll had to brave the storm and miss the holiday with his family, and now he was trapped here, in mortal danger.

Hardwicke wished he could burst into the kitchen and free the servants, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know if that would provoke a reaction from the other bandits. Besides, he was alone, and there were four bandits with weapons drawn just a few feet away.

They could shoot him down with their pistols before he even crossed the threshold.

His hand brushed against the hilt of the dagger behind his back while his other hand gripped the pistol he held, and he drew a shaky breath.

He pressed his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. He could do nothing here—not yet. But he would find a way. He had to.

He pressed on through the labyrinthine passages, his breath shallow. The cold stone walls pressed in on him, and the damp smell of the house clung to his clothes. Faint drafts whispered through the cracks, carrying muffled sounds—voices, shuffles, the occasional clink of metal.

The voices grew louder with every step until they were just on the other side of the wall.

He froze, noticing faint light streaming through two tiny holes.

Peepholes! Of course. Someone, at some long-forgotten moment, had installed small spy holes in the corridor doors. Excellent.

He pressed his eye to the nearest one. Beyond the tiny opening, a study emerged from the shadows, dimly lit by a single candle flickering on the desk and a fire blazing in the hearth.

One man strained at the iron safe bolted to the wall, fumbling at the lock, picks in hand, sweat running down his brow despite the chill.

The other man paced back and forth, hurling curse words at the stubborn lock.

Thornbury sat slumped in a high-backed chair, arms and legs bound, his face pale and drawn.

The poor bastard hadn’t given them a key to the safe. Fool! Had he done so, the bandits might have vanished by now, but no—his precious jewels were clearly worth more than anyone’s life.

“No good, this,” the safecracker muttered. “’Eard o’ this un, I ’ave. Can’t be picked, they say.”

Thornbury’s voice cracked in panic. “Gentlemen, I beg you, I don’t know where the key is! I’ve lost it, I did. O-or… my wife. She must have hidden it. Please… You can rob all my guests, take their carriages if you like, just spare me!”

The thief working on the lock glanced at his companion, who stepped forward with a cruel grin. A handkerchief appeared from his pocket, and he stuffed it firmly into Thornbury’s mouth. Hardwicke’s lip curled. Finally, someone had the sense to shut the idiot up.

“Take this useless sack o’ potatoes back to the ballroom,” one of the bandits said, his voice low and dangerous. “Give ’is missus a proper fright ‘til ’e spills the key.”

Hardwicke froze, every nerve screaming. These men would torture Paula for Thornbury’s jewels, and he still refused to part with them.

“Mm don’ ‘ave ah kee,” he managed to scream around the rag.

The bandit tipped his head to the side. “I can’t abide ’is voice. Git ’im outta ’ere.”

These men were dangerous.

He needed to get to Fiona. Now!

He turned on silent feet, moving down the dark corridor.

Finally, after fumbling around in the dark, he found a staircase leading up.

He made his way carefully, his knees protesting, his breath growing heavy.

He had made it his mission to exercise daily since leaving the army.

He rode horses every morning, boxed twice a week, and swam in the summers.

He made it his mission to remain active, yet he was not in his peak physical health anymore, and it showed.

Still, he pressed on. His wife needed him.

He made it to the second floor, running a hand along the cold stone wall to ensure he hadn’t missed another secret exit.

A draft beneath his feet caught his attention. He crouched low, pressing a palm to the door, letting his ear brush against the wooden panel. Faint sounds drifted up—muffled and indecipherable. They weren’t coming from the room next door; they were farther away.

Good. If so, perhaps he could slip out from behind the walls.

Slowly, cautiously, he lowered himself to the floor and peered through the narrow crack. The small chamber on the other side of the door appeared empty. Finally, a shred of luck.

He exhaled softly, trying not to disturb the silence.

One hand on the latch, he clicked the secret panel, its hinges whining softly in protest. With silent steps, he emerged into the dim, small room beyond.

The air was cool and still, heavy with the faint scent of old wood and candle smoke.

He paused, ears straining for any hint of movement, any sound of pursuit.

Where the devil am I?

Hardwicke stood silent for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to the new environment.

The darkness seemed too dark to make out anything at first. But gradually, shapes began to emerge from the gloom—the curved outline of a harp in one corner, the angular silhouette of a pianoforte against the far wall, music stands scattered about the room.

This was the music room, he realized with relief.

Which meant that the ballroom was right behind those two single doors directly ahead of him.

He crept his way toward the doors, arms outstretched, each step placed with infinite care.

The floorboards beneath his bare feet felt solid, mercifully free of creaks.

He navigated around what felt like a cello case, then a small side table, making sure not to bump into anything that might betray his presence.

At the door, he pressed his eye to the keyhole. Through the narrow aperture, he could make out two bandits standing by the main double doors that led to the corridor. The balcony doors were shut tight, the open curtains letting in the moonlight.

But he couldn't see any hostages from this angle.

Then he heard a woman's muffled voice, thick with tears and terror.

"Please," the voice sobbed. "I have children—"

“Dinna fash yersel, Lady Pelham,” came another voice, and Hardwicke's heart nearly stopped. That voice—melodious even in distress, with a beautiful, soft Scottish brogue, warm with compassion despite the circumstances—he knew that voice. “We shall be out o’ here as soon as thae men have gotten what they want.”

Fiona. My Fiona.

His brave little wife.