The Daredevil Snared. Stephanie Laurens

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      Subsequently, when Dixon had succeeded in finding the second pipe and they’d all heaved a sigh of relief, Hillsythe had again seen opportunity and had suggested that Dixon—with the full knowledge of all the captives—become increasingly spontaneously “helpful” to Dubois in matters relating to the mine. Hillsythe had explained that a man of Dixon’s background—an engineer with a true passion for his work—might believably have his initial loyalties eroded by his excitement over exploiting a second and even more fabulous diamond pipe.

      Dixon had been reluctant, but they’d all seen the potential benefit and had urged him to try it.

      With Hillsythe’s guidance, Dixon had tried being “helpful” over issues that didn’t really matter to the captives.

      The result was that, having now accepted Dixon’s “conversion,” increasingly, Dubois trusted what Dixon told him about the mine. That had helped enormously in dragging out the opening of the second tunnel. At this point, Dixon couldn’t tell how extensive the second deposit was, so they’d decided to stretch out the mining of the first pipe for as long as possible—as long as a supply of diamonds adequate to appease Dubois’s masters was coming out of it—before opening the second pipe for mining.

      Dixon had bought them the time by claiming a need for more careful and extensive testing around the second pipe so that when they hacked into the hillside, they didn’t unnecessarily risk either damaging the pipe itself or bringing down the hillside on top of it and them. Dubois had accepted the rationale and allowed the delay.

      But now that the first deposit was almost mined out, they would have to start on the second. Dubois and his masters wouldn’t countenance the output of diamonds falling too low, and no one wanted to risk Dubois receiving an order to cull their company on the grounds that such a number was no longer required.

      That was the sort of horrific act of which they all knew Dubois was fully capable.

      Strangely enough, while everyone else had given up any hope of rescue, Hillsythe still entertained the expectation that someone would, at some point, come for them—that relief in some guise would eventually arrive. He didn’t make any point of it and nowadays rarely spoke of it, yet Katherine sensed that his quiet, unstated confidence still survived.

      Which left her wondering about something Hillsythe had never explained—namely, who had sent him after Fanshawe.

      As Hillsythe vanished into the mine, a pattering of feet drew her attention to a young boy who came pelting toward her from the direction of the kitchen. She turned with a welcoming smile. “Diccon.” As he skidded to a halt before her, she reached out and finger-combed his pale golden hair back from his forehead. “Are you off, then?”

      “Aye.” Diccon held up the basket he carried. “And I’ll be sure to be back before the sun starts down.”

      She kept her smile in place, but saw the shadow that passed through Diccon’s pale blue eyes. “I know you will. Off you go, then.”

      She and Harriet stood and watched as, with a last fleeting grin, Diccon raced off toward the compound gate. Although tall for his age, he was only seven. Long and lanky, thin and bony, he’d been delivered to Dubois with a group of other children snatched from the Freetown slums. But Diccon hadn’t been able to bear the dust in the mine; he’d coughed himself into fits, and his health had quickly deteriorated.

      When Dubois had contemplated killing the boy, deeming him a useless burden, Katherine had argued that Diccon wasn’t useless—he just couldn’t go into the mine. Instead, she’d pointed out that if Dubois wanted his captives to perform at their best and not fall ill unnecessarily, then all the children, and the adults, too, could do with more fruit—and there was plenty of fruit in the surrounding jungle. Fruit Diccon could fetch. Dubois had considered, then he’d agreed to let Diccon ramble for fruit every day, as long as he returned each afternoon before dusk.

      Dubois had looked Diccon in the eye and had stated that if Diccon failed to return, Dubois would kill two children—Diccon’s closest friends.

      That was the cause of the shadows in Diccon’s eyes. He enjoyed rambling in the jungle and had grown adept at finding fruit, berries, and nuts, but he worried all the time that something might happen to keep him from returning, and the deaths of his friends would be on his head.

      It was just like Dubois to unnecessarily place such a Damocles’ sword over an impressionable boy’s head. No one in their right mind would imagine Diccon—who was by no means unintelligent—would attempt to run away. Where to? He would die in the jungle if he didn’t come back.

      Her gaze on Diccon’s departing figure, Harriet sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to spend a day now and then out in the jungle.”

      Katherine thought, then arched her brows. “Why don’t I ask his highness?”

      Harriet glanced at her. “Do you think there’s any chance he’ll agree?”

      “He might if I phrase the request correctly.” She paused, then added, “I’ve noticed he’s particularly fond of those large nuts Diccon brings in. Dubois keeps them all for himself.”

      With Harriet, she turned, and they continued to the cleaning shed. It was time to return to their day’s labors. As they reached the steps that led up to the door, she made up her mind. “I can’t see any reason not to ask. I’ll suggest that one of us can accompany Diccon out each day, and that we’ll work an extra half hour each day—all of us—to make up for it.”

      Harriet’s face lit. “That sounds perfect. And Lord knows, Dubois knows that none of us are fool enough to try to run away.”

      Katherine pulled a face. “We don’t even know in which direction to run.”

      She opened the door and went in. Harriet followed, and they resumed their places on stools about the long raised table that ran down the middle of the shed.

      Mary Wilson looked up from the rock from which she was carefully chipping away aggregated ore. She flashed a smile at Katherine and Harriet, then looked back at her work. There were six women in total, all presently in the shed, and they’d banded together into a tight-knit, supportive group. They’d had to. While Katherine was the most confident and assured in dealing with Dubois, the others had backed her up on more than one occasion. Despite their disparate backgrounds—Katherine a governess, Harriet a young woman of good family searching for a position after coming out to Freetown following Dixon, Mary a shop assistant and part owner of a shop, Ellen Mackenzie another young woman who had arrived in the settlement looking for honest work, and Annie Mellows and Gemma Halliday, expert needlewomen who hailed from the slums—they’d all grown comfortable in the others’ company.

      They’d come to trust each other.

      A guard had come in fifteen minutes before Katherine and Harriet had left for their walk; the other women had gone for their walks, two by two, earlier. The guard was still there, leaning against one wall, bored and idly watching them.

      Ten entirely uneventful minutes later, he stirred. A large male of indeterminate origin, he drawled, “Later, ladies.” Then he moved to the door and left, letting the panel slam shut behind him.

      All six women looked up. Mary met Katherine’s eyes.

      After a moment of straining her ears, Katherine nodded. Mary slipped from her stool, went to the door, and carefully eased it open enough to СКАЧАТЬ