It was killing him. The fear. The helplessness. “Someone has to have seen something,” he said.

“I am going to investigate,” Vladimir said.

Harry immediately made for the door. “I am going with you.”

“No,” Vladimir said, putting up a hand to stop him. “You have too much emotion. You will not make good decisions.”

“I can’t do nothing,” Harry said. He felt small again, young and powerless, staring down a problem only to find there were no good solutions.

“You won’t,” Vladimir assured him. “You will do much. But later.”

Harry watched as Vladimir went to the door, but before he could leave, he shouted, “Wait!”

Vladimir turned around.

“She went to the washroom,” Harry said. “She went to the washroom after…” He cleared his throat. “I know that she went to the washroom.”

Vladimir gave a slow nod. “This is good to know.” He slipped out the door and was gone.

Harry looked at Alexei.

“You speak Russian,” Alexei said.

“My grandmother,” Harry said. “She refused to speak English to us.”

Alexei nodded. “My grandmother, she was from Finland. She was the same.”

Harry gave him a long look, then sank into a chair, his head in his hands.

“It is good that you speak our language,” Alexei said. “Very few of your countrymen do.”

Harry tried to ignore him. He had to think. He didn’t know where to start, what he might possibly know that could help to determine Olivia’s whereabouts, but he knew that he had to scour his brain.

But Alexei would not stop talking. “I am always surprised when-”

“Shut up!” Harry burst out. “Just shut up. Don’t speak. Do not say a single bloody word unless it is about finding Olivia. Do you understand me?”

Alexei was very still for a moment. Then, silently, he crossed the room to a bookcase and pulled down a bottle and two glasses. He poured a liquid-vodka, probably-into both glasses. Without speaking, he set one of the glasses down in front of Harry.

“I don’t drink,” Harry said, not bothering to look up.

“It will help you.”

“No.”

“You say you are Russian? You don’t drink vodka?”

“I don’t drink anything,” Harry said curtly.

Alexei regarded him with some curiosity, then took a seat on the far side of the room.

The glass sat untouched for nearly an hour, until Alexei, finally accepting that Harry spoke the truth, picked it up and drank it himself.

After about ten minutes, Olivia finally managed to calm her body down enough to allow her mind to work properly. She had absolutely no idea what she could possibly do to aid in her rescue, but it seemed prudent to gather whatever information she could.

It was impossible to figure out where she was being held. Or was it? She scooched herself up into a sitting position and examined the room as best she could. It was almost impossible to see anything in the dim light. There had been a candle but the man had taken it with him.

The room was small, and the furnishings were sparse, but it was not shabby. Olivia nudged herself closer to the wall and squinted at the plaster. Then she rubbed her cheek against it. Neat and tidy, with no chips or peeling paint. Looking up, she saw a crown molding where the walls met the ceiling. And the door-it was difficult to tell from where she sat on the bed, but the knob looked to be of high quality.

Was she still in the ambassador’s residence? It seemed possible. She bent over, placing her cheek against the bare skin of her arms. Her skin was warm. Wouldn’t she feel chilled if she’d been taken outside? Of course, she did not know how long she had been unconscious. It was possible she’d been here for hours. Still, she didn’t feel as if she’d been outside.

A panicked bubble of laughter threatened to burst from her throat. What was she thinking? She didn’t feel as if she’d been outside? What did that mean? Was she going to start making decisions based on gut feelings on what may or may not have happened when she was unconscious?

She forced herself to pause. She needed to calm down. She wasn’t going to be able to accomplish anything if she succumbed to hysterics every five minutes. She was smarter than that. She could keep a calm head.

She had to keep a calm head.

What did she know about the ambassador’s residence? She had been there twice, first during the day, when she was presented to Prince Alexei, and then at night, for the ball.

It was a huge building, a veritable mansion right in the middle of London. Surely there were myriad rooms where a person could be hidden. Perhaps she was in the servants’ quarters. She frowned, trying to remember the servants’ rooms at Rudland House. Did they have crown moldings, too? Were the doorknobs of as high a quality as the rest of the house?

She had no idea.

Damn it. Why didn’t she know that? Shouldn’t she know that?

She turned to the far wall. There was one window, but it was obscured by heavy velvet curtains. Dark red, maybe? Dark blue? It was impossible to tell. The night was sucking all of the color out of her surroundings. The only light coming in was from the moon, filtering through the semicircular window above the curtained rectangle.

She paused, thinking. Something was tapping at her memory.

She wondered if she might be able to see out the window, if she were able to maneuver herself off the bed. It would be difficult. Her ankles had been tied so tightly together there was little hope of making even baby steps. And she hadn’t realized how off balance she would feel with her hands bound behind her back.

Not to mention that she had to do everything in total silence. It would be a disaster if her captor came back and found her anywhere but on the bed, right where he’d left her. Very carefully, and very slowly, she swung her legs off the bed, inching her way toward the edge until her feet touched the floor. Keeping her movements similarly controlled, she was able to maneuver herself to a standing position, and then, by leaning on various pieces of furniture, she made her way toward the window.

The window. Why did the window seem so familiar?

Probably because it was a window, she told herself impatiently. They weren’t exactly replete with unique architectural detail.

When she reached her destination, she leaned carefully forward, trying to push the curtains aside with her face. She started with her cheek, then, once she had them pushed a bit to the side, she rolled her face forward, trying to hook the edge of the curtains with her nose. It took her four tries, but eventually she managed it, even jabbing her shoulder forward to block the curtains from falling back into place.

Resting her head against the glass, she saw…nothing. Just the fog from her breath. She moved her head to the side again, using her cheek to rub the mist away. When she faced front again, she held her breath.

Still, she couldn’t see much. The only thing she could determine for sure was that she was fairly high up, perhaps on a fifth or sixth floor. She could see the roofs of other buildings and not much else.

The moon. She could see the moon.

She had seen the moon in the other room, the one where she’d made love with Harry. She’d seen it through the fanlight window.

The fanlight window!

She edged back, very carefully so as not to lose her balance. This window also had a fanlight at the top. Which didn’t mean much, except there was a pattern to it, mullions spreading out from the center point on the bottom, making it look rather like a handheld fan.

Exactly like the one downstairs.

She was still in the ambassador’s residence. It was possible that she’d been brought to another building with the exact same window pattern, but that was unlikely, wasn’t it? And the ambassador’s residence was huge. Practically a palace. It was not in central London but rather out past Kensington, where there was quite a bit more room for such grand buildings.

She moved back toward the window, hooking her head around the edge of the curtains again, this time succeeding on the first try. She placed her ear against the glass, listening for…anything. Music? People? Shouldn’t there be some indication that there was a massive party going on in the same building?

Maybe she wasn’t in the ambassador’s residence. No, no, it was a huge building. She could easily be far enough away not to hear anything.

But she could hear footsteps. Her heart slammed in her chest, and she half shuffled, half jumped her way to the bed, managing to flop herself down just as she heard the two locks clicking undone.

As the door opened she began to struggle. It was the only thing she could think of that might explain why she was out of breath.

“I told you not to do that,” her captor scolded. He was carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups. Olivia could smell the tea steeping from across the room. The scent was heavenly.

“I am very civilized, yes?” he asked, lifting the tray slightly before setting it down on a table. “I have worn such a gag before.” He motioned to the one wrapped around her head. “It does make the mouth very dry.”

Olivia just stared at him. She wasn’t sure how she was meant to respond. Literally, how. Surely he knew she could not speak.

“I will remove that so you may have some tea,” he said to her, “but you must remain quiet. If you make a noise, anything louder than a whispered thank you, I will have to make you again unconscious.”

Her eyes widened.

He shrugged. “It is easy enough to do. I did it once, and quite well I must say. You do not even have a headache, I am guessing.”

Olivia blinked. She didn’t have a headache. What had he done to her?