With the poker at the ready, I made my way to the main hall and the stairs leading to the upper story. As I ascended, I thought not of what lay ahead, but of poor Emily. What had she done to warrant such attentions? Surely it would have been no matter to let her believe the house as yet uninhabited, and make the long walk back home. Had she seen something, discovered something, that threatened Sir Edward’s designs? Why else would he risk harming her, with himself nearby and thus a suspect?
At the top of the stairs, I paused again, listening. Here, too, the rooms were deathly quiet. Was I alone, or were there villains behind every door? Were they stupefied by drink, or were they listening to me, as I was listening for them?
Behind the first door there were no villains, but, again, there was ample evidence of their numbers. Beside the disheveled bed were two other pallets, plus an astonishing amount of wadded-up linen, an overflowing chamberpot, and of course the ever-present drink bottles. As I moved from room to room, peeking into each one, I found myself disgusted not only by the repeated tableaux of debauchery, but by the violence being wrought on the house itself. To see it treated like a sty felt a personal insult. I groaned inwardly at the bath, whose floors were swelling from repeated overflow; I flinched at the sumptuous damask drapes used to smother a fire. Women, it seemed, were not the only victims of Sir Edward’s schemes.
I passed the stairs to complete my search only to halt suddenly, as alert as a startled deer. For there had been a faint creak, discrete and pointed—precisely the sound of a body stepping on a loose floorboard.
Silently, I pressed myself into the shadows against the wall. The creak came again: definitely from a room at the far end of the hall. I swung the poker a few times, testing the weight and heft of it, and began inching my way towards the sound.
Beneath the edge of the farthest door, a shadow flickered, and I instinctively raised the poker as I advanced. As I took step after step, I imagined some fearful brigand on the other side—but was he readying himself as well, straining to hear my advance, or was he merely stumbling about, drunk?
Oh, poor Emily! Oh, my poor father and his hopes! All was about to be decided, in no doubt the most terrible terms.
At the door, I took a last deep breath, then flung it open—
—and rushed into a dim, seemingly empty room. For a moment I stood bewildered, trying to make out the details of the orderly bedroom I stood in.
Strong arms seized me from behind, wrapping around me and swinging me wildly towards the bed. I swung the poker back and low and struck a leg, causing my assailant to cry out and release me. I tumbled headlong onto the bed and rolled in a tangle of skirts and poker all over the side, striking my head hard on the unyielding parquet. The world spun, lights flashed before my eyes, and all went briefly dark. When I opened my eyes again, it was to the glow of a lit candle. Quickly I righted myself, holding the poker out before me.
Only to find myself gaping at a disheveled Miss Chase, clutching her shin with one hand and a candlestick with the other, looking equally astonished.
“You!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
“Where is Sir Edward?” I demanded at the same time. “What in God’s name is happening in this house?”
Miss Chase seemed not to hear me; she kept gaping at me in bewilderment. “Why did you come here?” she asked, her voice nearly a wail. “I told you what kind of man he was, I told you what would happen!”
“You sent me three clippings with no particulars and did not even sign your name,” I retorted. I could feel my face growing hot. “Did you honestly think I would believe you?”
As soon as I spoke I regretted my words. Miss Chase recoiled as if I had struck her, and then her expression darkened. “Of course, I forgot. You judge character by clothing.” She took a deep breath. “And it does not matter. We must get you safely away.”
“I am not leaving until you tell me what’s become of Emily.” I swung the poker in a wide arc, nearly striking the bedpost. “And what is the meaning of all of this.”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s become of Emily?’”
“For God’s sake, enough pretense!” I cried. “I know she is locked below. Tell me what he’s done to her!”
For a moment, Miss Chase stared at me, her mouth open, and then she looked around the bedroom. “We have to find his keys,” she gasped. “Or perhaps I can work the lock...”
She went at once to the desk in the corner, its surface strewn with papers, and without preamble began throwing them aside and opening the drawers. “How long has she been missing for?” she asked without looking at me.
I realized I was just standing there with the poker held out before me. “Two days now. We only got word last night.”
“Damn! I think he has the bloody things with him.” She stood up, frowning. “Let’s check his coats, just to be sure. Though, two days...” she shook her head and my heart sank.
“But why her?” I tucked the poker under my arm and seized the nearest coat, hanging neatly on a chair, rifling through the pockets. Miss Chase had gone to the wardrobe and was feeling each garment in turn. “She hasn’t a penny to her name.”
Miss Chase paused, looking at me. “Why would that matter? He’s not interested in money.” She waved a hand at the bedroom. “He has more than enough sources of income.”
I stopped in my search. “But then why does he kill them?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” She shook her head. “He wants them, Miss Daniels. He wants their blood, he wants their bodies. Theirs and yours. Which is why you should leave here at once. I’ll find Emily, though I doubt there’s much left to find—good God, are you hurt?”
Her gaze had at last alighted on my filthy skirts and I found myself blushing. “I am perfectly all right,” I snapped. “What do you mean, he wants their blood?”
“Did you walk here?” Her eyes went wide, as if some enormous discovery had just struck her.
“I hardly think the manner of my transit is the most pressing concern,” I said, exasperated now.
“It may turn out to be, if you become his next victim solely for lack of a horse,” she snapped.
“Tell me why he wants their blood!”
She looked darkly at the wardrobe, then kicked the door in visible frustration. “You would not believe me—”
“Tell me,” I cut in.
Glowering, she took a breath. “He believes there is a... a creature, that inhabits the waters between us and Europe. It protects us from invasion and in turn he feeds it... people. Preferably women, preferably Englishwomen.” She ran a hand through her hair, loosening the queue. “And yes, I know, it’s absurd. But he believes it and he is not the only one. His brother certainly believes it. And there are others.”
“You must be joking,” I blurted out. Though even as I spoke, I remembered the eye, and that vast form beneath the waves...
“I said you would not believe me.”
I pressed on, ignoring the bitterness in her voice. “Who are these others, then? Bear in mind I have seen evidence of the kind of company you keep.”
She smiled tightly. “His servants will do anything for drink and gambling money. I am speaking of other gentlemen, perhaps even a minister. Someone is funding Edward Masterson, perhaps many someones. There are large deposits at regular intervals, there are new identities, introductions, everything he needs to present himself anew in different social circles...” she trailed off.
“Theodore Masters,” I said.
She was silent for a moment. “You, what? Wrote to the family?”
I nodded.
“And still, you came?”
“I could not let Emily suffer such a fate.”
Again she fell silent, gazing at me, then shook herself. “Well. I think it’s time for you to depart, and I am going to try to break that door—” but she silenced abruptly, her whole body trembling and alert as a pointer. “They’re coming,” she whispered.
“Who is coming?” I asked in alarm.
“Masterson and the others. We must hide you. Quickly,” she added as I stood there, suddenly nerveless with fear. For I, too, heard it: just the faintest rumble of a vehicle on the road.
“Surely I can just...” I looked around, trying to find a hiding place in the sparsely decorated room. The wardrobe was stuffed to capacity, and there seemed to be no other egress.
“Not here,” Miss Chase said. She seized my arm and dragged me to the door, pausing as she cautiously peered into the hallway. Now the sound was more pronounced: the thunder of many horses flying down the road, mingled with a carriage’s rattle and decidedly male voices shouting and singing.
Suddenly, she pulled me across the hall and around a corner to where a small door was tucked into an alcove. Miss Chase opened it to reveal a narrow, dark staircase—a servant’s stairs. As she made to lead me up, however, I balked. Who was to say she wasn’t part of this conspiracy?
As if she could hear my thoughts, she turned around and held out her hand. “I am not party to his madness, Miss Daniels,” she said in a low voice. “I cannot prove this to you. I can only give you my word. But consider that to try and sneak past his dozen followers is tantamount to suicide, while in the attic you would only have myself to contend with.”
Still I hesitated, but the noise was upon us. Before I could think further, I hurried up the gloomy stairs, pushing past Miss Chase’s outstretched hand. Behind me, I heard the door shut and bolt. When I reached the next floor, I stopped, letting her slide past me once more—and even though I was trembling with fear and anticipation, the momentary pressure of her body against mine seemed to agitate me in a new manner...
Behind me, Miss Chase lit two lamps. The room slowly revealed itself to be a large section of the attic, running in all directions into an echoing darkness. One lamp, she set upon a crude desk, the other, on the floor beside a narrow pallet. A change of clothes hung over a chair. There was little more, save furniture covered in canvas, several old chests, and a small, newer-looking trunk that I took to contain Miss Chase’s personal effects.
“I know it’s not much,” Miss Chase said. “But you should be safe here. They never come up, save if they are in their cups and mistake my door for another.”
A shout came from somewhere outside. Swiftly, she went to one of the low dormer windows ringing the space, careful to keep from standing directly before it. I came up behind her and peeked over her shoulder. The window afforded a partial view of the main drive before the house. I could see half a dozen men stumbling about, trying to maneuver horses and torches without relinquishing the bottles they clutched. Two were shoving each other; one finally tried to throw a punch, only to fall to his knees.
“Who are they?” I whispered.
“Brigands, for the most part,” she replied in an equally low voice. “A few are well-born sons fallen from grace. They play the public roles. Two such would have greeted you upon your arrival as footmen, another as a butler.” She laughed, soft. “And myself as secretary, of course.”
“Is that how you serve him, then?” I asked in a low voice. “As a fallen son?”
She looked at me, then angled her head. “We need to get you out of those clothes.”
“Pardon?” I felt my whole body flare with heat, as if every inch of my skin was blushing.
“You’re the only person in this house in a dress, Miss Daniels.” She pushed past me and opened her little chest, rifling through the clothes and flinging piece after piece at me. “They’re so drunk they probably won’t realize you’re not one of them—if you look the part. But those skirts will be a flag before a bull.” She glanced up at me, her expression bemused. “I promise I won’t look.”
As much as I hated to admit it, her suggestion made perfect sense. With as much dignity as I could muster, I tucked my poker securely under my arm, then gathered up the breeches and waistcoat from the floor. “I will keep my own shift and stockings, thank you,” I said firmly.
“Suit yourself.” She went and dropped down on the pallet, her back to me. I looked around, then scurried behind what seemed to be a large wardrobe covered in canvas and began unpinning my dress.
“My father was Matthew Chase. You would know him if you resided in London. He was a prominent attorney.” Her voice was low, but it carried. “He excelled at law, but he was terrible at managing his finances. When he passed away, I went to his creditors, presenting myself as his long-lost son, and was able to negotiate us out of debt. I even managed to parlay his firm into profit again—until Edward Masterson set his sights on my sister.”
I shucked out of my dress and petticoat, then carefully stuck one leg into the breeches, followed by the other, trying not to squeal at the strange sensation of wool between my legs. “Go on,” I said.
“At first we thought him merely a libertine. Once his seduction was complete, he demanded the usual vast monies to marry her—and to keep my sex a secret, for my foolish sister had told him everything.” She took a deep breath. “My mother was terrified of the scandal and dispatched me to make arrangements. On my way to our rendezvous, I was seized by agents of the Crown, who placed before me the whole of his history, and the far darker fate that awaited my sister. They were eager to discover whose money was financing his schemes, and asked me to help them, in exchange for sending my sister and mother abroad. Spying seemed a small price to pay to ensure their safety.”
“And it was so easy, to secure his employment?” I was buttoning up the waistcoat, but never had I felt so exposed. I lingered in the shadows, taking a few experimental steps—and in truth, I was also holding my breath, waiting for her response.
“He knew I had managed to clear my father’s slate, and he believed I alone had managed my sister’s flight,” she said. There was a hint of anger in her voice. “I did not have to buy my post with my charms, if that’s what you mean. I had already proven myself a dab hand at juggling numbers and bending laws. And, of course, it is a known fact that a woman like me lacks all scruples,” she added dryly.
Now I, too, was irritated, both at myself and her. “A dab hand at bending the law, and committing violence as well?” I asked, ignoring her last remark.
She did not reply. I was still wriggling in my new clothes, trying to keep the waistcoat from twisting uncomfortably, when suddenly she was before me. She roughly pushed my hands down and took a step back. “That will do,” she said. “Leave the bottom button undone if it starts riding up around your waist.” She looked me over again, then suddenly grinned. “You left your stays on?”
“I certainly did,” I replied hotly.
“Then you’re a better woman than I. I cannot stand the damn things.” She went to her chest and began rummaging again.
I frowned at that. “But you wore them at our house.” At her confused look, I tugged on my own, mimicking her gesture from that day, and her confusion became a delighted grin.
“Is that what gave me away?” She gave a bark of laughter. “I was wondering. I happen to be wearing jumps, seeing as you’re curious. Which, on the day in question, were full of fleas, thanks to that inn.” She stood up, a pistol in one hand and a bag of shot in the other. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” I asked, still loathe to leave the shadows.
“To find Emily, of course—”
But she was interrupted by a braying voice echoed up the narrow stairs. “Chase! Chase, come here at once! Damn it all, where are you?”
“Of all the cursed luck,” she whispered. Quickly she pressed both pistol and shot into my hands. “Load this,” she ordered. “And do not leave until I return. I will be back as quick as I can—and perhaps I can get the keys as well. Do not leave until I return,” she repeated, giving me a little shake. “You will be seized within moments without me to guide you, and these are not men to be trifled with.”
I swallowed hard. The pistol in my hand was surprisingly heavy. “I understand,” I managed.
She looked at me keenly, but Sir Edward’s voice
came again—for it was him, bellowing and cursing. His real voice, I realized, not the polished, dreamlike intonation he had used in my company.
Miss Chase started to speak, but stopped and instead bowed deeply before me. And with a last searching look she was gone, hurrying down the stairs, the key scraping in the lock and the door shutting once more.
CHAPTER XIII
The Door Unlocked
THERE WAS A time, I think, when the Caroline Daniels I had been would have done as she was told, even by a strange woman wearing breeches, even though she was wearing breeches herself.
But then again, that Caroline had also insisted on being taught to shoot, to load a gun and clean it, to handle both Mr. Simmons’ ancient army pistol and my father’s two hunting rifles. I busied myself now with loading Miss Chase’s gun, a weighty thing with a long muzzle that was painfully clean and polished. Had she sat in this dim, lonely space night after night, cleaning her weapon and plotting her next steps? Or had she kept her pistol ready to defend her employer—defend, and perhaps even kill for him?
Oh, but her story had rung true to me. Yet, did I dare trust my instincts? What did I know of true deceit, of murderers and thieves?
Still, if I could not trust in myself, I should never have come at all.
The pistol loaded to my satisfaction, I quickly knotted my hair, then seized an old coat Miss Chase had left on the chair. A further search turned up her tricorn, which I fitted to my own head. Thus fully disguised, I started for the door—only to pause as I passed her open trunk. I could say that I was searching for more weapons with which to protect myself, but in truth, I desperately wanted some kind of proof of her story.
It took but a few minutes to search her effects, for she had nearly none: a few pieces of clothing, a small volume of history, and a handful of notes in a pocketbook completed her possessions. There were no letters or trinkets, hardly even a tailor’s mark in the garments. I could see the sense in ridding yourself of everything personal before entering the service of a madman. But with the intent to undo him, or aid him?
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