He wanted to tuck her away safely somewhere, but didn’t dare leave her alone. Grimly, he said, “Stay close behind me.” He felt somewhat reassured when, as he approached the door, she did just that, resting a hand on the back of his coat.
He paused on the stoop and, with one gloved hand, gently eased the door farther open and saw light spilling from a lamp deeper inside. He stepped into the front room—a small reception room with a desk and chairs. The room had been thoroughly ransacked. Two upholstered chairs had been ripped apart, their stuffing spilling onto the floor. The rug had been flung against the wall, and the desk had been tipped on one side, the drawers hauled out and emptied on the bare boards.
From behind the upended desk, a short corridor led deeper into the house, past two open doors, one on either side, before opening into a larger room at the rear.
“My God!” Diana had crowded in behind him.
He glanced at her and saw her shocked face, her wide eyes taking in the carnage.
He listened intently, but heard nothing. He raised a finger and briefly placed it across her lips, warning her to keep silent. Then, with catlike steps and one hand closed about the head of his cane, in actuality a sword stick, he moved soundlessly past the desk and into the corridor.
The lamp whose light beckoned had been left burning in the large rear room. He paused at the open doors, each of which led to a doctor’s consulting room. The room on the left had been thoroughly searched, with files strewn everywhere, while the room opposite was tellingly untouched.
Dipping his head close to Diana’s, he whispered, “Is your father’s room the one destroyed?”
Eyes fixed on the detritus, she nodded.
Noiselessly, he glided forward, relieved when she moved with him, staying close.
They emerged into the large room, a comfortable living-cum-dining room, now wrecked. There was no one there, but more light spilled down the stairs that led upward from the near right corner.
They paused, then the sound of furniture scraping on the floor came from above their heads.
Beneath the stairs lay a nook, presently shrouded in shadow. Toby turned, grasped Diana’s shoulders, carefully drew her around, and pressed her into the space. Leaning close, he breathed, “Stay there.”
He released her and looked up the stairs—two flights with no one on the landing and no way of knowing whether anyone stood at the head.
His cane in his hand, one finger on the sword’s release, he glided silently up the first flight and paused on the last step.
There was no one visible above. No sound, either.
He rounded the corner and started up the second flight.
Halfway up, he realized Diana had disobeyed his order and was all but on his heels. He swallowed a curse, then abruptly halted and stepped back, forcing her to retreat. The instant she reacted, he went upward in a rush.
Directly opposite the head of the stairs, the door to a room hung open. From the corner of his eye, through the gallery balustrade to his right, he glimpsed a man’s trousered legs.
Toby dropped into a crouch as he took the last stairs and felt his hat swept from his head; the man had swung a wooden pole at where his head should have been.
His momentum carried him toward the open door.
“Herr Herschel!”
Diana had recovered far too quickly.
Toby caught his balance, straightened, and whirled.
Just in time to see the man—Herschel—seize Diana by the upper arms, haul her up the last steps, and fling her bodily at him.
Toby caught her, but couldn’t counter her weight; they went down in a tangle of arms and legs.
Trapped beneath her, his legs tangled in her full skirts, he swore.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs.
Atop him, Diana squirmed, trying to find purchase and rise.
He gritted his teeth, let go of the cane, and closed both hands about her waist. He lifted her and set her beside him, then scrambled to his feet.
