A chill settled in the pit of her belly.
She knew that look. Oh God, no, just no.
He caressed her arms again. “You are a comely little creature. I see completely why Ruel kept you for so many years. It is a pity that I don’t have time to explore that issue a little more in depth.”
He gently shifted her up into his arms and then carried her down into the cellar. Her body bumped along as he walked down the stairs, slowly, carefully in the dim light.
He deposited her on the floor but did not untie her hands.
“Oh please, please, you don’t need to do this.”
“I am afraid that I do. You should have cooperated with Maria. But I see now that you will need much persuasion.”
“You want me to lie and say that the Earl of Ruel engaged in sodomy.”
“Hmm, yes, among other things, my dear.”
“I won’t do it. I’ll never do it.”
“It is difficult to turn on someone who has been good to you, eh? Don’t worry, my dear, I have sent for an expert in persuasion and he shall be here shortly.”
* * * *
Her throat was raw from screaming, demanding, pleading not to be left here. She had cried for help until her voice had cracked and become useless.
Alone in the dark of the cellar, with her arms bound, Rebecca had fumbled around blindly until the combination of the drug and the disorientation caused her vomit.
Now her stomach growled and cramped with emptiness. Her thin shift had grown damp and sticky in the humidity of the cellar and she was shivering violently.
She had spent much of the time leaning against what seemed to be a chair, slipping in and out of consciousness. How much time had passed?
She didn’t know.
Had she heard the rats, scratching, squeaking? Or had it been her imagination?
Fear consumed her. She lay shuddering. No, she must think of other, more pleasant things. Uncle Frederick’s cellar. It had always been such a welcoming place. The fat, sleek cats had kept the rats away.
Then she recalled why she’d enjoyed the cellar so much.
All those times, visiting there with Father for his leisure time by the sea, away from the shop. Those days she had spent every moment in Father’s company, obedient to his demand that she sit at his side and butter his toast at breakfast and go walking along the shoreline afterwards, then sail in the boat with him all afternoon. Demands that despite her heavy eyelids, she must read to him for hours after supper from the Bible and stay up past midnight playing cards with him. Then she must sit and sing softly to him until he could fall asleep.
Every moment with Father. No time to herself. No time even to hear her own thoughts.
Engrossed by the intensity of her memory, she felt as though hands were squeezing about her neck and she swallowed convulsively.
She had often hidden herself away in the shadows down in Uncle Frederick’s cellar, playing with her dolls or simply daydreaming about girlish things.
She recalled those safe, solitary moments and contentment settled on her, warm as a blanket.
Comforting safety, not smothering demands.
She let her mind drift over other cherished memories.
She remembered discovering how pleasurable it was to allow delivery boys to steal kisses. How fun and free it had felt to be wicked. Her own little secret.
Something separate from Father and his demands.
She remembered the thrilling rush of eloping with Donald and the awkward, painful experience of truly losing her innocence with him.
She remembered Stephen by the campfire, all those years ago in the Dragoons. His youthful face, the bones too large for his flesh but oh, heavens, how dear his visage had been to her.
How her heart had quickened at the sight of him. At his scent…no, no—Yes, admit it. You longed for him. Longed for him.
She saw his dark blue eyes glistening in the firelight. He leant in close, she felt his breath on her face.
No! No, don’t do that, Stephen, you’ll ruin everything!
Ice spread through her, freezing her blood, cooling her ardour.
She startled, aware suddenly of being alone in the damp, dark strange cellar.
That night he’d actually tried to kiss her.
And she had been a married woman, trying so hard to remain faithful.
Was it any mystery why her love for Stephen had frightened her so, all those years ago?
But the temptation of being unfaithful hadn’t been the only reason she’d feared him. The deeper reason had been because of Father and his unceasing demands.
At the thought, she sat up with a soft cry.
God, yes, she’d been so afraid of Stephen. Needing him, fearing him.
To her, love hadn’t ever meant anything but having the life smothered out of her. Yes, she liked to serve others, but surely there were limits?
What if Stephen had loved her? What if he had demanded so much from her that he smothered the very life out of her?
Donald hadn’t wanted her.
Jon had wanted very limited amounts of her time.
But Stephen had wanted—and wanted still—all of her.
She cried out again and put a hand to her mouth.
She’d pushed him out of her life. She’d been cruel to him.
Anger rushed into her like flames devouring a thatched roof. Anger at Father. Anger at herself.
She’d been a coward, running from love.
She was still running.
Restless, she moved about and bumped into what felt like a bolt of cloth. Then recoiled from the dirt. A huge puff of dust engulfed her. A sticky, dampish sort of dust that carried the odour of rot. It stuck to her face and permeated her nostrils and triggered an itch in her nose. The itch became a burning sort of pain and she took small, short breaths, snorting, sneezing, trying to expel the acrid scented dust.
She bumped into something more solid.
There was a shattering sound. Then twinkling music began to play, jarringly off-key.
She knelt down and felt around awkwardly behind herself with her bound hands.
Something sharp, jagged cut into her questing hand. “Ow!”
She tried to ignore the damp and cold of the floor and listened very carefully for the sound of rats.
No, think of something else. Something pleasant…
Sir Percival and the Fisher King.
Yes, during their time in the Dragoons, Stephen would tell her stories. He had told her many, many stories he’d gleaned as an intellectually curious boy growing up in a printer’s shop. Idealistic stories of heroes who’d faced and fought unimaginable evil.
As a young woman, she had taken comfort in Stephen’s absolute stance on such matters. She had drawn strength from his determined, highly organized mind.
To discover his chosen line of work as a fully-grown man shouldn’t have surprised her so much.
It had simply been the shock. She swallowed against her raw, dry throat. She felt like she would sell her soul for a sip of tea. Hot, warm, soothing tea.
How long did it take a person to die of thirst?
I don’t want to die! Not now, I want to be able to tell Stephen, just once that he was right, I did love him.
I do love him.
Yes, she loved him, no matter that he was a spy, an assassin.
But what if he’d been on the side of the French?
She shivered. Oh God, she would love him no matter…
It would have torn her apart. But she couldn’t help but love him.
With that rather uneasy notion settling into her awareness, she became aware of the chamber becoming colder. How long would she have to wait for someone to come?
The intense scent of damp and mould was beginning to make her feel light-headed. Ill to the very marrow. It no longer smelt of adventure and excitement, such as the faint scent of mildew at a less than luxurious coaching inn.
It smelt like decay. Death.
This cellar wou
ld be her crypt.
She shuddered all over.
No, she had to survive. She had to see Stephen again. There must be something she could do…
She reached out, more carefully this time, and explored the jagged edge of the broken music box. It felt like thick glass. Could it possibly cut through rope? She set about trying to angle her wrists. The sharp glass cut her here and there. She bit her lip and kept on, working hard, her hands slipping and slipping as she tried to saw through the rope binding her wrists.
She howled with frustration. It’s no good. It’s no good!
She took a deep breath. Several of them. Steadiness returned.
No, keep on trying. Barnet’s expert is on his way.
* * * *
“How dare you keep me waiting like this!” As Maria Seymour stood on the stoop of the elegant little house on the street in Marylebone, an icy wind blew the flaps on the collar of her silvery grey pelisse about and sent shivers down her back. She glowered down at the housekeeper, a thin woman with a pallid blonde complexion. “You will stand aside and allow me to enter. Immediately!”
The impertinence this woman to deny her.
The woman squared her shoulders and seemed to stand a little taller. “Pardon me, madam, did you just say what I think you did?”
“You heard me. Leave. Now.”
“I have no intention of leaving this house.”
“Do you know who I am?”
The old biddy raised her pale brows. “Should I?”
“You’d do well to obey me. Now.”
“I repeat, I have no intention of leaving this house. Not until Mrs Howland returns.”
Irritation bristled through Maria and she turned back towards the street. “Gerard!”
The tall blond, massively built footman hastened to her side.
“Remove this woman from the house.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
Maria watched as the housekeeper cried out and fought and clawed, even clinging to the doorframe. Maria pursed her lips. All that fuss and to no avail.
As the footman carried her past Maria, the woman looked up with stricken eyes.
Maria looked down, dispassionately. “You should have listened to me.”
Three old women were approaching, their ragged black cloaks flapping in the breeze and making them look like a trio of crows.
“I was waiting and waiting for you,” Maria snapped.
“So sorry, your Grace. We were held up by the ice this morning,” one of them said, her breath blowing white vapour in the frigid air.
Maria walked into the house. She looked around at the tasteful muted shades of green and rose with dark wood accents and some Asiatic wallpaper with birds and vines. So this was the house Jon had provided his long-term mistress. She listened to the women’s shuffling footsteps as they followed her inside.
“Nice and cosy in here,” another of them said.
Their cackling laughter made Maria draw her shoulders up.
Oh, to be so old and ugly!
Maria shuddered. “Just get to work,” she said.
One of the trio drew her thin grey brows together. “What exactly are we to do, my lady?”
“Look for any diaries or letters or personal papers. Anything of that nature you will put in this satchel.” She handed the bag to the woman. “And while I would stress the need to be thorough, please do hurry. I’d like to be gone from here with all due haste.”
“Very good, my lady. We’ll get right to it.”
Watching the three women shuffle away with various degrees of stiffness in their movements, Maria pursed her lips then went into the parlour. A crystal decanter sat on a polished walnut sideboard. She picked it up, opened it and sniffed. Scotch whisky. She grimaced and bent to open the doors below and found no claret, only some port. She hated port almost as much as she loathed Scotch whisky. But she needed something to settle her nerves. Being this close to achieving her objective had her heart pounding with exhilaration.
Jonathon Lloyd was going to pay.
She allowed the horrid memory of all those whispers, those disapproving frowns, Society staring down its hypocritical nose at her, to enter her mind. The shame of being forced to flee all those speculative stares and keep herself hidden in the backward plantation her uncle owned in Jamaica, that had been too much to bear.
Ruel was going to hang for what he had done to her!
And Rebecca Howland’s sentimental bent was going to provide her with the means.
A book lay on the dark blue velvet chaise. Maria sat there and leafed through it. Herbs. Medicine. Good God.
She sighed and glanced up at the ceiling. She could hear those old crones banging and knocking about. How long would it take them to go through this house?
“My lady!”
Maria frowned and put the book down. She arose and walked to the vestibule. “What is it?” she demanded.
“You better come here and see this for yourself.”
Well, that was peculiar. What could they possibly have found?
Her heart did a little leap of excitement despite herself and she hurried up the stairs with no thought as to her dignity.
“Where are you?” she called.
“In here, my lady.”
She entered the open doorway. It was the bedchamber, all draped in depressing tones of blue and grey. As drab and mouse-like as Rebecca Howland herself.
The three stood by the hearth, the glow from the fire illuminating every craggy line in their faces. Their noses looked long, hooked. Sunken cheeks. Glittering eyes.
A little tingle of dread chased down Maria’s spine. She shook herself.
“What is it?” she asked impatiently.
“You better come closer.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Maria marched towards them.
Gnarled hands grasped her.
“What the devil!” Maria fought them wildly.
But their grip proved too powerful. Startlingly powerful. The women clawed at her.
Such vicious harpies!
How dared they treat her like this!
They tossed her between themselves and turned her this way and that. The chamber whirled by in a rush that made her stomach churn. She lost track of what was happening and sheer panic pounded through her.
She found herself on her knees before the hearth, with her hands tied behind her back. The rope was rough-hewn and it cut into her flesh for they had stripped off her silk gloves.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, though her voice shook this time.
One of the women rushed over and Maria just made the arc of her hand.
A sharp sting laced across her left check.
“What! You dare slap me! Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Aye, dearie.” The woman reached down and pulled up her black skirt and revealed her—oh God, what a filthy petticoat! She tore a strip and rolled it into a ball. “You’re the Duchess of Saxby.”
“You know this?” Maria couldn’t believe her ears.
“Aye.” The woman approached her and gripped her jaw. Maria tried to jerk her head out of the odious woman’s grasp but the woman forced her mouth open and shoved the ball of disgusting fabric into Maria’s mouth.
Maria gagged.
“No, no, he wants her to talk.”
He?
Who is he?
“I am weary of her flapping mouth. Gag her until he arrives.”
Another strip of cloth, just as dirty, was wrapped about her head to secure the gag in her mouth.
Maria knelt there, shuddering and trying not to retch.
“We didn’t have proper introductions, your Grace.” The women cackled over this latest statement.
One of them went to the hearth and placed the poker into the flames.
The woman who had made the gag smiled. Oh God, she didn’t appear to have a tooth in her head!
“My name is Sally.” She motioned to the woman at her side. “This is my sister, He
len. And over by the fire, that’s Gisella. She lived through the terrors in Paris.”
Maria stared at the leathery skin. The hard, cold eyes.
She swallowed tightly.
The front door closed, the sound echoed distantly.
Helen smiled a gap-toothed smile and clapped. “He’s here!”
Sally ran a caressing hand over Maria’s hair. Maria flinched away.
The women laughed. “He’ll be here soon, dearie.”
Sally tore the gag from Maria’s mouth. Maria gulped for air but could say nothing. Her throat seemed to close up. What the devil was happening?
The sound of footfalls in the hall made Maria’s stomach go sick. Beads of sweat rolled down her face.
* * * *
Stephen walked into the bedchamber and immediately noted the woman who knelt with her arms and ankles bound. Firelight played upon her lush, shoulder-length chestnut-red hair.
“Stephen!”
Maria Seymour’s voice was high-pitched with her surprise. Her face relaxed and her pale grey eyes lit with relief that was almost as bright as joy.
That was understandable, given the circumstances.
He saw her incredible beauty and yet, it left him cold. He didn’t lust for her, he didn’t dwell fondly on the times when he had bedded her.
He didn’t even hate her for all the pain and anxiety she had put Rebecca through.
His mind was on the job to be done.
He took a wooden chair and brought it to her side. Then he sat. “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” he said.
“Oh Stephen! Thank God.” She did a stellar job of making her contralto voice sound girlish, vulnerable. Innocent. “Please, please untie me and send these crones away.”
He studied her, wondering when the giddy relief would pass and she would ask herself how he happened to be here. Just about now…
“Stephen?” She glanced uneasily at the other women. “Do you know these women?”
“They work for me.”
“They work for you?”
He nodded.
“Well, then for God’s sake! Tell them to leave and untie me.” She compressed her lips and blinked hard several times. “Please, darling, what can you possibly—”
Perilous Risk Page 25
