A metallic click caused him to turn around abruptly.
“Actually, your guests will not be leaving quite so soon after all,” said John softly. “You see, your friend Lumley and his cohorts have abducted my son. And I happen to know they have him captive in one of your rooms upstairs.”
Olivia watched as he raised his pistol and let it hover a hair’s breadth from the man’s forehead. His voice, however, remained a mild murmur. “I repeat, they have my son. So naturally if anyone attempts to interfere in my rescue of the lad, I will not hesitate for an instant to squash him like a bug.”
The innkeeper wet his lips. “N-naturally, milord.”
“Then I am sure you are going to tell me exactly in which room he is being held, as well as every tiny detail of the upper floor’s layout and where the other men are lodged.”
The information spilled out in a babbled rush. “I assure you, sir,” added the innkeeper, after blotting the beads of sweat from his upper lip, “I had no idea there was foul play involved—”
“Save your breath for praying that my son is unharmed,” snapped John as he drew a second pistol from his coat and checked the priming. “Else you will join your friends in hanging from the gibbet.”
The man choked back a groan.
John looked at Olivia, his eyes glinting gunmetal gray in the low light. “Stay here and keep an eye on him.” He pushed a heavy stoneware crock across the table. “If he so much as moves a muscle, break this over his head.” With that, he slipped soundlessly from the parlor.
“I—I swear, I did not…” began the innkeeper.
“Quiet,” ordered Olivia, listening for any sign of movement in the corridor.
The man cringed, fear pinching his mouth shut.
Deciding that he was too concerned with self-preservation to pose a threat, she moved to the door and cracked it open. There was, she recalled vaguely, a basic military adage about the importance of having a comrade watch one’s back. The crock, however, would be of little use…
&n
bsp; A weapon—I need a weapon.
Olivia darted a look around the room, quickly dismissing the candlestick and the pewter tankards aligned on the mantel. The poker, though lethally heavy, was too unwieldy.
“Damnation,” she whispered, clenching at her cloak in frustration. “Damn, damn, damn.” Her fingers opened and then closed over something more solid than wool as they moved over the folds. Up on the knoll, John had handed her the telescope’s felt bag to hold and she had shoved it in her pocket for safekeeping. It was only now that she realized it wasn’t quite empty.
Davenport’s ingenious little sling was still inside.
Giving silent thanks to the Devil for showing her how to work it, she pulled it free from the felt. With a twist and a snick, the metal parts unfolded and locked into place.
“Damn,” she repeated, suddenly realizing she had nothing to serve as ammunition…
Well, not quite nothing.
At the very bottom of her pocket were two polished pieces of carnelian. She and John had played a cursory game of chess several nights ago with his new traveling set, and somehow she had overlooked returning a pair of captured pawns to the box.
In that instant, the words of her late father echoed in her ears. Chess is war, poppet. And the art of war requires a soldier to improvise.
Slotting one of the pawns into the sling’s leather patch, Olivia ventured a step into the darkened corridor. The stairs leading up to the bedchambers were off to the right. Only the newel post was visible from her angle of view through the archway.
Pressing her back to the dark wood wainscoting, she inched forward.
Silence, save for the thumping of her heart.
How long had John been gone? It felt like an eternity.
Unsure how to proceed, Olivia hesitated, fearful a blunder on her part might put Prescott at risk.
Another step, just enough to allow a clear view of the stairs. Watching, waiting, she held herself very still.
The sound, when it came, was so furtive that she would have missed it had she not been listening very carefully. A faint scuff of leather on wood. Only someone up to no good would seek such stealth.