“You don’t want to miss the best part, mon ange.” He nipped her neck hard enough to make her flinch. “Do you not wish to see your friends?”
She tried to look at his expression, to check his sincerity, but she could no longer see his face. Was he speaking of Ethan and Grace? Or had he imprisoned Dinks and the others, too?
Oh, God. Nausea roiled deep in her stomach.
“What have you done, Valère?”
One side of his mouth curled into a cruel smile. “Come with me, and you will find out.”
She shook her head, fear consuming her mind.
He regarded her for a moment. “Because you are my favorite pet, I shall be generous and tell you this. If you refuse to follow me below, I will reenact on your friends some of the more interesting aspects of your previous stay in my dungeon.” He glanced at the drawing-room door. “All of them.”
Cora drew in a ragged breath and closed her eyes. The thought of walking into the cellar, into the darkness, and into all the evil that awaited her there, made her stomach heave.
How would she find the strength? For her friends and brother? For Guy? Their lives depended upon her cooperation with this monster, unless she killed him first. Could she set aside weeks of remembered torture and isolation to save them?
A shudder of terror turned her bones to jelly, and she sagged against Valère. God forgive her, she was not strong enough. She did not have the courage to face her greatest fear. Not even for those she loved.
“Go to hell, Valère.”
Rage burned across his features, contorting his once-handsome face into a thing of ugliness and evil.
“You shall regret your decision.” He raised his hand.
Noise from down the hall caught their attention. The drawing-room door muffled what sounded like a drunken brawl. Then a loud pop resounded through the house, followed quickly by an awful silence.
Cora had heard that sound once before, many years ago, when an unknown gunman murdered her parents.
“No!” she cried at the same time Valère muttered a foul French curse.
She heaved against his iron grip, ignoring the excruciating pain of ripping hair and bending ribs. She had to help Guy. He would not have had enough time to cut his bindings.
“Let go of me, you bastard.”
“You will forget him soon enough.” Valère picked her up and carried her toward the cellar. “I vow it.”
She kicked at his knees again and head-butted his nose.
“Ahhh,” he growled, his grip loosening. But he regained his bearings and, after a hard shake that rattled her teeth, he threw her over his shoulder.
The paperweight shifted, and she made to catch it, giving up her ability to brace herself against the shock of his shoulder punching into her ribs. Unlike last time, she managed to stay conscious and save her weapon. But not without consequences.
Darkness dimmed her vision, and her head swirled until the pain of impact receded. When Cora’s wits returned, she pounded his back with all her strength. “Let me go, let me go!”
In answer, he whipped around, the movement throwing her off-balance and into the kitchen’s door frame. Her head cracked against the solid wood, and her vision dimmed once again. By the time she could regain her equilibrium, Valère was descending into the cellar.
She daren’t put up a struggle now for fear of Valère’s missing a step and breaking both their necks. She stared up at the door’s rectangle of light while pitch black enfolded her, pulling her farther into its inky depths. She imagined Guy lying on the floor, with a gaping hole in his chest, his eyes staring sightlessly toward the door, toward her retreating back.
She shook her head. No! He was alive, and he needed her. Over the years, she had made a point to learn all she could about gunshot wounds and their care. But all her knowledge was for naught if she could not see the patient and assess the damage.
Valère reached the bottom of the staircase and rounded the corner, snuffing out the light, the window to her sanity.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought to hold on. She had to work through her fear, hold on until an opportunity of escape presented itself. She would not desert Guy as she had her parents. She. Would. Not.
“Guard,” Valère called.
“Here, sir,” With a lantern held aloft, the thin guard scurried out of a room.
“Is all in readiness?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cora glanced around, looking for Dinks and the others. The mixture of rotting food and cold, damp air made her skin crawl. The absence of her friends sent terror ripping through her. “Where are my friends?”
“Patience,” Valère said. “After your poor behavior, I should not allow you to see them. But I am feeling magnanimous at present and will honor my promise.”
Taking the lantern from the guard, Valère made his way across the cellar, weaving around casks, bins, and sacks of God-knows-what, until he drew even with a walled cell. It looked to be an exact replica of the cell she had inhabited in France, except it lacked Boucher’s blood-soaked table and lethal devices.
Cora, hanging from his shoulder, had to swallow hard to keep the bile down. As she had done with the giant who had kidnapped her from the Rothams’ ball, Cora arched her back and put the full force of her weight behind her elbow.
Anticipating her move, Valère dropped his shoulder and released her legs. She tumbled to the hard-packed dirt floor. The force knocked the air from her lungs, and bright spots whirled before her eyes. She was starting to question her ability to survive. One more knock to the head, and it was certain to explode.
“I am through being a gentleman.” He grabbed a handful of hair and dragged her backward into the cell.
She clawed at his hand, and her feet fought for purchase, trying to mitigate the excruciating pain driving into her scalp.
He flung her against the rough stone wall, her back smacked the surface with a dull thud, and she slid to the reeking floor like a ball of mud sliding down a fence post. She barely had time to get her bearings when his hand clamped around her throat and drew her battered body up, inch by slow inch. Her head scraped against the uneven surface until they stood eye to eye.
Her neck stretched tight, and her slippered toes ached from the weight of her body. Her hold on the heavy paperweight tightened. She must not drop it—no matter what. Given the grim condition of the cell, the paperweight would likely be her only salvation.
A glowing lantern hanging from a wrought-iron hook cast wavering light over Valère’s face. His chiseled features were cold, his eyes hollow with vengeance.
“Do not be frightened, ma petite. Your friends will soon be here to keep you company.” He released her. “In the meantime, turn around.”
Cora’s breath hitched at his quiet command. She had sworn to remain vigilant around him after her lack of focus at Herrington Park. Presenting her back to him was out of the question. In a pathetic attempt to shield herself with something—anything—she scanned the room once more and found it still devoid of furnishings. No bed, no cot, no mound of straw. Not even a bedpan.
His eyes narrowed when she did not immediately comply. “You think to challenge me? Shall I bring your pitiful friends in here and kill them one at a time? Perhaps the sight of your brother would provide more incentive?”
A well of grief opened up inside her. The French had stolen so much from her. Monsters like Valère, who believed they could determine another’s destiny with a single word. Her hand inched toward her only weapon. She would not lose any more of her loved ones to the French, especially not this fiend.
The skinny guard stepped into the room. “Where would you like the sack, my lord?”
Cora’s hand returned to her side.
“Anywhere.” Valère’s jaw clenched at the interruption. “Except by the door. Did you get the bucket?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Place it near the sack, and get out.”
Cora angled her head to see past Valère’s broad s
houlders, but he moved to block her view. With unexpected swiftness, he twirled her around and ripped open the back of her borrowed nightdress. She stared at the stone wall as the rose-colored silk sagged around her shoulders. If not for her sling, she would be standing in nothing but a thin shift, for she wore no corset.
The cool air penetrated the fine material, and her body began to quiver inside. That small movement pierced the fog of her shock, and her muscles coiled for action.
Sensing her intention, he forced her against the wall, pressing his forearm against her neck, the rough stone cutting into her cheek.
Cora gulped for air. There was none to be had.
“Do not test my patience. When I remove my arm, you will get rid of that damn sling and drop your garment. Understood?”
Unable to speak, she nodded.
He stepped away, and Cora’s reeling mind searched for a means of escape. She needed the Raven’s keen wit, and she needed it now.
When the Raven refused to surface, Cora pulled in a shuddering breath and drew the sling from around her neck. She crouched low, stripping the garment from her shoulders and piling everything, including the paperweight, in a crumpled heap at her feet.
She turned to face her captor.
A deluge of vile-smelling liquid hit her in the chest, splashing her face and stinging her eyes. Her breath lodged in her throat. Cold, fat clumps ran down her body, coating her from head to toe. The filth dripped like fat raindrops from her fingertips.
She blinked several times to clear her vision. Valère stood across the room, a calculating expression on his face. He tossed the empty slop bucket into the corridor, where it splintered against a far wall.
And that was when she heard the squealing.
Her gaze shot to the large burlap sack lying at Valère’s feet. The top was tied with a narrow rope. The sack writhed with the activity of several bulbous bodies.
Cora’s heart nearly exploded with terror. She glanced down at her fetid, wet body, and then to the sack of squirming rats, and finally, to Valère’s triumphant, evil mien.
He produced a knife; the blade sparkled in the lantern’s light. “Your friends have arrived, mon coeur.”
Thirty-Nine
Guy clenched and unclenched his fingers to restore feeling to his bound hands. After Valère hauled Cora from the room, the guard smirked at Guy’s awkward position and left him to rot on the floor. But that did not stop the guard from taunting him about what “his master” was doing with “his lordship’s woman.”
While furtively searching for the penknife with his gaze, he noticed a forgotten letter on the floor beneath Latymer’s desk. The sight reminded him of his unfinished cipher. He had run out of time, yet his instincts continued to assert the message was somehow vitally important. He had only a few more letters to go. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on what he had deciphered thus far.
T 32 E 26 27 O 15 E R T O 23
His mind ticked off each letter, one by one, over and over and over. Various combinations slid into place, and when they did not suit, Guy quickly banished them, making room for others.
T_EZ _O_ERTO_
And then, like a painter transferring a landscape onto canvas with a single stroke of his brush, the blanks filled in almost simultaneously.
TUEZ SOMERTON
Sweet God, no.
Why the combination became so clear to him now, while he was fighting for his life and Cora’s, he would never know. Perhaps he needed the swell of immediate danger to help his mind focus with a diamond-point accuracy.
In the end, it did not matter, for he had deciphered the message too late. Too damnably late.
“Dites-moi, anglais.” Furious with Guy’s lack of response, the guard kicked at Guy’s knee and missed. But his boot connected with the chair, and both Guy and the chair tilted onto their side.
The new position allowed him to search the floor for the missing penknife while keeping an eye on the circling guard. After what seemed like hours but was only a matter of seconds, his fingertip caught on cool metal.
With a terrified single-mindedness, he attacked his restraints, sawing through rope and sometimes flesh.
Becoming suspicious of his movements, the guard pulled a pistol from the depths of his coat. “What are you doing behind your back?”
Guy ignored the guard, feeling the rope growing weaker with each slice. So close. Just a little—the binding gave way, and Guy pushed off the floor in one smooth motion.
The guard’s momentary disbelief gave way to ferocity. He lifted his weapon and aimed it at Guy’s chest.
Time slowed.
With uncanny clarity, Guy watched the guard’s finger curl around the trigger and squeeze.
Guy dove to the side; the whiz of the bullet sliced through the air near his ear. His shoulder slammed against the hard floor, jarring his body. The penknife flew from his hand.
Throwing the spent gun away, the guard jumped on top of Guy like a feral cat pouncing on a field mouse. They were well matched in size, but Guy’s strength was potent, sharper, and far more desperate.
With two well-connected jabs to the guard’s jaw, Guy reversed their positions. Incredible power surged into his muscles, and Guy attacked the guard like a man possessed. Even consumed by bloodlust, he made sure each blow served to incapacitate his enemy.
His mission remained clear—save Cora.
With that in mind, he smacked both hands against the guard’s protruding ears, eliciting a roar of pain. The guard crumpled, hitting the Aubusson rug hard and holding his ears.
Guy scrambled to his feet and grabbed the nearest weapon he could find. He smashed the gilded clock over the guard’s big head.
The guard sprawled across Latymer’s expensive carpet, unmoving. Guy used his shirtsleeve to swipe away a stream of blood oozing from a scalp wound before it reached his eye. Satisfied the priceless clock had done its job, Guy retrieved Cora’s knife and sprinted from the drawing room. He turned the corner and collided with Jack.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Guy said in a harsh whisper. “I ordered you to keep an eye out for Somerton.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Jack bent over his knees to catch his breath, pointing toward the entrance door. “Coming up the drive.”
No! “Keep him away from here,” Guy demanded.
“Pardon, sir?”
“Get Lord Somerton to safety. Use any means necessary to get him off this estate. Is that understood?”
Jack nodded. “Yes, m’lord.”
“Excellent, Jack. Hand me your pistol. Did Somerton bring any men?”
The footman handed over his weapon. “Yes, sir.”
“Send someone to secure the guard in the drawing room.”
Guy checked to make sure the pistol was loaded, and made for the staircase.
Dinks skidded to a halt in front of him. “My lord,” she panted, “did you find our little mite?”
Brimming with impatience, Guy said, his words clipped, “No. I can’t seem to get out of the damned entrance hall without bumping into someone.” He turned to the footman, hardening his gaze. “Jack, go! Do not let Somerton in this house.”
Jack rushed out the door, and Guy turned once again toward the staircase. Dinks huffed along by his side. He stopped. “No, Dinks.”
“I can lead you to Latymer’s bedchamber, my lord, a lot faster than you can find it on your own,” Dinks insisted. “Spent enough time there that I could locate it with my eyes closed.”
“That may be, Dinks. But I don’t know what we are going to find up there, and I would as soon not to have to worry about Cora and you.” At the bottom of the staircase, he paused. “Tell me, Dinks. Tell me where to find her.”
The maid was not happy with being left behind, but he did not have time to reason with her. “Second floor,” she relented, “turn to the left and follow the corridor until it ends. The master’s suite is the last door on the right.”
He kissed her cheek and then took the stairs two a
t a time.
When Guy was about fifteen feet from the master suite’s bedchamber door, a woman in servant’s garb exited the room. Given the number of keys jangling from her waist, he guessed this was Latymer’s housekeeper.
She glanced at his bloody wrists with solemn eyes. “You won’t find her up here, sir.”
He stepped forward, his finger sliding over the trigger. This was Valère’s household at the moment. Guy knew better than to blindly trust anyone here.
“If not here, where?” he asked, moving closer.
Her lips thinned. “The cellar.”
Guy’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach, recalling the awful image of Cora’s frail body shackled to a bloody table in Valère’s dungeon. Throwing caution to the wind, he stormed past her to see for himself that Cora was not within. In one wide sweep, his gaze took in the massive bed, the high windows, and the masculine accessories strewn about. To the right of the bed, he noticed a door standing ajar.
Conscious of time sifting away, he hurried to the door and pushed it wide. A blast of incense struck his nose a second before nausea engulfed his stomach. He took in the opulent room designed for all manner of sophisticated, and not-so-sophisticated pleasures, and felt his knees weaken.
“She has not been here since the first night, sir,” the housekeeper said quietly.
“You are sure?” he asked, unable to wrench his astonished gaze away from the high-mounted swing.
“Yes, my lord,” she said. “I moved her myself.”
He whirled around to face the housekeeper. “The cellar?”
“Back the same way you came, my lord. Turn left at the bottom of the staircase. The cellar is off the kitchen.”
He wasted no more time. Turning on his heel, he ran.
When he stormed into the kitchen, he found Dinks standing next to the table, wielding a wrought-iron pan, with tears bubbling in her eyes. “I didn’t know, my lord,” she whispered. “I sent you up there… wasted time. I didn’t realize—” Her words choked off.
He squeezed her shoulder. “You could not have known, Dinks.”
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