Paulette held her breath, and waited for the blow. Filomena was goading him into adding more lashes to those he’d already delivered. Her face was bruised, her lips cut and bleeding, yet she still played the jaunty street urchin.
“It was you, then, wasn’t it, Fil?”
“What could you possibly mean?”
“The blackmail. The bleeding. I’ll have that item now, and you can return me my money.”
What item? What money?
“I have neither, though I commend the industry of the blackmailer, and pray that the money has gone to encourage Ferdinand to restore the people’s constitution.”
In three strides he was on her, with a knife at the older woman’s throat. “You will tell me the name of the one bleeding me. I know that you know it.”
“Pah. Would a respectable blackmailer pick a lordling as impoverished as you?”
He pressed the knife tighter. “We know there is nothing respectable about you, whore.”
His sort of man thinks every woman is a whore.
Paulette tugged at her bindings. “Do not call her that.”
He turned his eyes on her and her heart shriveled a bit. “But she is, little Paulette. She was your father’s whore.”
No. Her heart pushed into her throat and no sound would come out.
“Your father’s, and every French general’s from Rouen to Lisbon. Isn’t that true, Fil?”
Her vision went fuzzy. Her lungs would not fill. She barely remembered her father, but she knew he loved her mother. She just knew it.
Filomena’s voice came to her out of a cloud. “If you say I am such a whore, your Lordship, then there can be no question of a lie. You must of course be in the right about everything.”
He drew the knife back and his lips turned up in a smile that pressed a shivery ice block to the space between Paulette’s shoulders.
“I will have you again before I kill you. But this one,” the full force of that serpentine face turned on her, “this one I will keep longer and enjoy. Twice we have been interrupted, little Paulette. Now there is no one to trouble us. A pity you are no longer a virgin. Or are you still? Was that great bull of Shaldon’s unwilling to do his duty to you? Or perhaps unable?”
He reached for her cheek and she leaned away, fighting the urge to heave. Her eye ached, and she tasted the blood from a split lip.
He gripped her jaw hard and wrestled her upright studying her. “No,” he mused. “You’re not devious enough to bleed me, little Paulette. But you’ll restore me the fortune your father stole from me. What did you get from the solicitor, eh? Was there a letter from your dear papa? You’ll turn it over now.”
“She said she did not receive it from the solicitor,” her cousin said. “And this one has no skills at lying. Her heart erupts from her eyes.”
“We shall see.” He released her, sheathed his knife, and struck Filomena.
Paulette’s heart stopped. The woman had seen the blow coming and ducked, sparing herself the full force. He began to hit her again and again. Her hands were tied in back, her feet bound. She must be gripping the chair, somehow, because she held on, dodged, ducked, swung out her legs, and still she did not topple.
One final blow knocked her to the floor and Agruen kicked.
“Wait,” Paulette shouted. “Stop.”
He kept on. “Stop,” she screamed again, with all the force she could muster, praying they could hear her as far as Mayfair.
That swung his attention back to her, sending her nerves shrieking.
Thoughts tumbled, pictures. Her mother denying her answers, her mother and Mr. Tellingford, her mother dying. Finding the letter among her mother’s things—and the ring. She took small, shallow breaths and fought for control.
Jock’s voice whispered in her memory—one must reach deep inside to survive the pain. Her pain was as yet small. Her cousin’s, was not. Filomena wheezed and struggled for breath, sending her own heart pounding and squeezing so that her own breaths came just as hard.
Filomena had pointed a gun at her—she was not a friend. Yet she must keep her alive, somehow. Alive, Filomena might help solve the mystery, at least until she acquired what she herself wanted.
She mustered a breath. “There is a letter.”
Chapter 25
The woman lifted her head, her whole body jerking with great gasps from her place on the floor, but her eyes riveted on Paulette, like twin bolts under a smith’s hammer.
The fear flooding Paulette’s veins all but paralyzed her. There were no allies here, only predators.
Bink, where are you? Why did you let them take me?
In the stories Jock told her, her mother always escaped. She was always strong and convincing and unafraid.
But the stories had been false. Her gentle mother could never have lived through this.
Yet she must live. She must survive until Bink came for her. He would come, she had no doubt. He would find her. She must find a way to help him find her.
The letter must serve as her lifeline. “There is a letter. The solicitor wasn’t holding it. My mother had it hidden away.”
She eased in another breath. Like Paulette with Bink, her mother had not shared all with her lover, Tellingford.
“I discovered the letter after her death. It was just meaningless news, a husband’s prettied up report of his business, not even true, I’d imagine. I was glad she’d kept it.” She let her real tears brim. “Because it was all I had of him. And then, I was angry. There must have been more, letters she’d destroyed. I had nothing. Nothing of him.”
She squeezed her eyes tight and shook her head. She must play this right. She took a deep breath. “I think, well, if it is the letter you’re searching for, it must be in a code. I can’t imagine how or what.”
“Where is the letter now?” Agruen brushed a spot of blood on his sleeve. He sounded almost bored. “We know it wasn’t among the things Cummings took from you. Did you stash it back at Hackwell’s country estate, hmm? Or did you have it in your reticule?”
“N-no.” She shivered, hoping it would be helpful.
Another chill went through her, a real one. He knew about Cummings, which meant the vile worm was in league with the serpent. And so he’d found his way to Greencastle because she was with Bink, and that’s where Bink was likely to be. And so he’d searched her room at Greencastle, or planned to. Or perhaps his valet had been planning to search there after he’d ravished Jenny.
Agruen drew closer. She lifted her chin. “My husband has it.”
He touched a finger to her cheek. “How sweet. Your husband. Shall we believe her, Fil?” His attention went back to the woman on the floor, and Paulette’s breath caught, dreading the next blow.
But he was done kicking for now. He snapped his fingers, and his weaseley assistant came from somewhere behind Paulette and righted her cousin’s chair with her in it, gasping.
More blood trickled from a cut on Filomena’s head, and she wheezed with a grimace that meant something inside her was broken. “Have Paulette write out a note to that great bull who beat Paul to death,” she said.
Paulette winced and caught the baiting glint in the other woman’s eye, and her blood rose.
That Bink had beat her father almost to death—if he hadn’t admitted it, she wouldn’t have believed it. Never would he have put a hand on an innocent man. She’d seen the misery in his eyes when he’d learned the truth of the man’s identity, and even then denied killing him.
She wouldn’t die without telling him it didn’t matter. It truly was Agruen who had killed her father.
She bit back the accusation.
“So Fil,” Agruen said, “we’ll have her write a note asking for the letter and he’ll just hand it over.”
“If you release me, yes,” Paulette said. “The letter…” What had she said? It was all she had of her father? She mustered some tears. “You may have it. I do not care. The man who wrote it abandoned my mother and me.”
Filo
mena’s eyes narrowed and she pressed her lips together, but she didn’t speak.
Perhaps she still had a tendre for Papa.
Agruen’s beady eyes took it all in, and he smiled like a Rom reading minds. Or he was enjoying the bloody display of his handiwork.
Heat rose in her. If she could but break these bonds, she would kill him.
“Oh but, Paulette, I don’t want to release you. Such a tender young thing you were in the garden at Cransdall.”
His leer enflamed her more. “After you stole my mother’s ring.”
That news sparked a flash in Filomena’s eyes.
Paulette’s blood raced. I got my part of this puzzle from another whore. Filomena De Silva was the other so-called whore.
“Let us start with the letter and we will puzzle this out. You.” He snapped his fingers again at his assistant. “Bring paper and ink, and then untie her. And dear Paulette, if you try anything, your cousin here will suffer.”
He knew Filomena was her cousin?
They were all spies together, hunting, beating, or blackmailing each other. But he was English, so if he was being blackmailed, that meant he must have betrayed his country, and perhaps her father had evidence of it. Perhaps there was no treasure after all, but only a blackmailer’s tool. She would gladly exchange it for her life. England had done nothing for her, after all, except to steal her father’s life and leave her husband with a legacy of guilt.
She looked briefly at the sharpened point of the quill. Agruen saw and smiled evilly. She shrugged and paused over the inkpot.
My love, I am safe for now, being held in a foul garret I’m guessing to be in the East End since I saw more sailors on the streets and I did not pass that way in the morning. Fil has been beaten savagely but still smirks and snarls. You must bring the letter and then you must kill him because he threatens to rape and kill me anyway.
“Get on with it,” Agruen growled.
She could not write that of course. “I am framing my words.”
Dear Mr. Gibson
No. She set her pen to the paper.
Dear Mr Gibson Husband,
I live. Agruen wants my father’s letter to my mother.
“What instructions do you wish me to add?”
“Write ‘The person delivering this missive will provide instructions.’”
The pen scratched as she wrote.
Agruen went on, “‘If he does not return within one hour alone with the letter…’” her hand trembled during the pause. The script would be hard to read. “‘Lord Agruen will personally deliver one of the fingers I used to hold the quill for this letter.’”
She swallowed hard and the tip of the pen broke on the evil man’s name.
“Drat.” She dipped the spoiled tip and scrawled
threatens more evil.
love, P
Agruen took the paper. “You do not follow orders well.”
She gripped the pen tightly, her rage building within her and warring with her fear. Take her finger would he? “It will suffice.” When she spoke, her voice grated like she’d swallowed sharp stones. “I should like my mother’s ring back. It is of no use to you.”
He smiled. Laughed. “She makes demands, Fil. She is so like you.” He gripped Paulette’s chin. “Do not think to use that flimsy quill. My knife will be quicker, and then I’ll send Shaldon’s by-blow a hand instead of merely a finger.” He slammed her ear to the table, and the shock clattered through her. “Bind her again, and then come with me.”
Bink gripped the edge of the table he sat upon, taking each sharp stab of the surgeon’s needle without whimper. If his pain could spare hers, please God let it be done.
“Hurry up, man,” he said through clenched teeth. She’d been gone for more than an hour. It had taken mere minutes for the surgeon to arrive at this so called solicitor’s office, another few minutes to strip him and probe, and another hour to pull all the pieces of linen and wool from what was merely a long, wicked flesh wound.
Bakeley sat in a chair watching the surgeon’s work. His guard, he was, but as soon as the leech was done Bink would be out the door. His brother was welcome to come. He did, after all, have their brother Charley to play the next Lord Shaldon.
“Sit still, brother. That wound is deep.”
“I’ve had worse from French sabres.”
His Lordship stood and started pacing.
The surgeon knotted his thread and reached for the bandage. “I suppose I could not ask you to rest for a few days until I can take these stitches out.”
He was a lanky fellow of indeterminate age and matter-of-fact manner.
“No,” Bink said.
The surgeon grunted. “That’s how it is with your kind.”
“My kind?”
“You’ve fallen in with Shaldon, Kincaid and Tellingford. There now.” He tied off the bandage. “Where is that fresh shirt?” he shouted.
The same clerk who’d greeted them at the door that morning entered. His eyes took in the bloody pile of cloth with interest, and he handed Bink a shirt and a neck cloth.
When Bink held it up, his skin pained him sharply where the surgeon had sewn the raw pieces of flesh together.
“Biggest one I could find. It should fit,” the clerk said.
He tried to poke an arm into the sleeve and winced.
“Here.” Bakeley grabbed the shirt. “Let me valet you before you pass out.”
“Has anyone reported in,” Bink asked the clerk who stood about watching the show, an earl dressing his bastard brother. Bakeley helped him into his torn, bloody coats.
Voices sounded in the corridor. “I’ll go and check,” the clerk said.
The door flew open as soon as he reached it. Kincaid’s eyes swept the room and landed on the surgeon who was slipping his coat on, preparing to leave. “Well?”
“A deep flesh wound. He’s survived worse.”
Bink jumped up from the table. “Where is she?”
Kincaid looked at the clerk. “Get out.”
When the door closed, Kincaid surveyed Bink. “You’ll do.”
“Bloody hell, Kincaid, where is Paulette?”
“We haven’t found her yet.”
He gripped the older man’s shoulders.
“Stop,” Kincaid said. “We’ve traced her to Spitalfields. We’re working our sources now.”
“Let’s go then.”
“There’s been a ransom demand.”
His empty stomach flipped. “How much?” Bakeley would damn well front him the money. This bloody mess was all Shaldon’s doing.
“Not money. A letter. You were holding it for Paulette.”
He reached into his pocket.
Blood had soaked the paper in places. Kincaid eyed the letter, his eyes gleaming.
“Good. You’ll leave this. I have a man penning a decoy right now.”
“No. You’ll not risk Paulette’s life for more of your games.”
Kincaid swiped a hand across his cheek in a gesture that told more about the depth of his worry than Bink could ever imagine.
“Fair enough. Conceal that somewhere. We must hurry. The scurvy boy says there’s a deadline.” He handed Bink a pistol. It was Bink’s own, loaded and primed. “You still have a blade?”
Bink stowed the letter and the pistol. “Yes.”
“Good.” They started down the corridor. “The boy will take you to Agruen’s man. He will demand to return alone with the letter. Tell him you must see her. He will protest. He’ll want to carry the letter. If he will not give way, kill him. We’ll have the boy, and we’ll get the location out of him, or be damn close.” He stopped at the outer door. “Agruen will try to kill you. We would like him alive.”
“If he hurts Paulette in any way, he’s a dead man.”
“She’s a brave girl. And Filomena, when it comes to the point, will fight for her.”
He doubted that. The bitch had pointed a gun at Paulette.
Paulette struggled to work the bonds at
her back. From the movements of the other woman’s shoulders, she was doing the same.
“Can we untie each other?” Paulette whispered.
“You do not need to whisper. We are quite alone, and that door is locked.” Her voice was strong. The beating had not affected her as badly as Agruen must have hoped.
Paulette eyed the door. “We can pick that. We just need to get loose.”
Her cousin laughed. “Just like that? Sela taught you something more useful than how to darn stockings. Perhaps you are right.” She scanned the room. “Perhaps there is something here we can use to pick locks.”
Perhaps I have a set of lockpicks in my boot along with a sgian dubh.
She kept her mouth firmly closed and stood. Fil was only a few feet away. A few hops, given the way her feet were bound. “Can you stand?”
“Yes.” Her cousin got awkwardly to her feet and leaned her waist on the table.
She looked small, frail.
It was an illusion. She also probably had a weapon hidden somewhere, in spite of the search by Agruen’s man.
Paulette must be the first one untied.
She backed up to the woman and felt for her hands. “When we are untied, will you kill me, Filomena?”
After a moment of silence, the woman chuckled. “You are giving Agruen the letter and he already has the ring. I think it is him I must kill.”
She hadn’t answered the question. “Was it your ring he took also?” Paulette had worked her way to the end of the rope.
“Why would you ask that?”
“He told me he took a ring just like my mother’s from another woman.” The other woman’s knots were loosening. “I cannot feel your hands working. I shall go and sit down directly if you do not help out.”
“You do not trust me.”
“Why should I? You were going to shoot me.”
“Ah that, corazón. I ran out of powder days ago.”
The tension on her wrists loosened. She wrestled free, and turned, untying the other woman’s bonds.
Filomena plopped down on her chair and started working the bonds on her legs. “Keep the rope handy at your wrist.”
The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) Page 25
