“I will ask James to carry the message himself.” Stella’s grip tightened. “Look at me, Catherine.” Her gaze was steady and resolute. “You are stronger than you think. You can bear this.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall, heavy from the weight of clogs. Stella rose, tightening the knot on her wrapper. “I will do my best,” she whispered rapidly, “to keep Denbury distracted, tomorrow. The electrotherapy cannot be undertaken without his—”
The door flew open. “Lady Boland!” The nurse in her white smock looked shocked. “You can’t be mixing with these likes. This one’s dangerous!”
“She seems very composed to me,” Stella said. “I believe you might skip her medicine tonight.”
“Mr. Denbury’s orders, m’lady. I can’t cross him. You know how he’s gotten.”
Stella cast her an apologetic glance before brushing past the nurse.
Catherine rose. “Lady Boland is correct,” she told the woman. “I don’t require—”
But the nurse’s deference had disappeared with Stella’s departure. “Your choice,” she said with a sour twitch of her mouth. “You take it, or I call the men to hold you down while I pour it into your gullet.” She lifted her brows. “And it gets hard to measure that way, mind you.”
Catherine’s glance fell to the bottle in the woman’s hand. Laudanum, perhaps. Or chloral. Too much could kill a person.
She tried twice before managing the words. “I will take it,” she said numbly. “No need to call anyone.”
* * *
The gates had posed no challenge. Spike-topped wrought iron, they were for show. The doors, too, yielded after a round of brute force from Johnson’s crowbar.
But now that they were inside, finding her would be the trick. For this was no ordinary madhouse, but a granite palace, three stories high, sixty rooms across. Nick had counted the windows earlier as they had tied up the horses and planned their attack. As he prowled down the dark hall, Johnson at his heels, the tick of a nearby grandfather clock seemed to amplify his urgency. The moon had already set. Three hours till dawn—less than that, before the servants stirred.
It had taken too long to get here. Johnson had staggered into Diamonds with a nasty gash on his head, and no memory of how he’d acquired it. Amy, the domestic Nick had been bribing to keep an eye on Everleigh’s ever since Lilah had gone to work there, had married last month and was no longer in his employ. His only clue had come from the red-haired lass who’d burst into Diamonds in a panic, babbling of brutes and a kidnapping. “Kenhurst,” she’d said. “I heard them mention a place called Kenhurst.”
He wasn’t a man given to nerves. At knifepoint and gunpoint, he’d never felt his heart skip a beat. But as that girl had spoken, his vision had grayed, a buzzing filling his ears as the world tilted underfoot.
He’d reached out to the wall to catch his balance. So this is terror, he’d thought.
His fear didn’t matter. Only her safety. That single moment of weakness was all he’d allowed himself before launching into action.
Kenhurst. Nick had never heard mention of such a place. The name didn’t appear in any of the railway schedules. Nobody at Neddie’s knew of it. And so he’d convened a meeting in Malloy’s flat to plan a kidnapping of his own. Ambush Everleigh and make him talk, before Nick ensured he’d never talk again.
Everleigh would be prepared for such an attack. Had he any interest in survival, he would not return home. He’d be far from London right now, hiding like a rat.
But the land auction was slated in two days’ time. And Nick had seen enough in that board meeting he’d interrupted—had seen Everleigh pale as the members voted to endorse the auction. Had seen him scurry over to Pilcher, whispering frantically before excusing himself. He was a man beholden. He dared not skip that auction, for fear of displeasing his master. Pilcher would expect his support.
Everleigh would return to town, all right. And Nick would be waiting, armed to the teeth.
They had been planning their respective roles when Peggy Malloy had passed through the kitchen. Catching wind of their conversation, she’d stopped dead. “Kenhurst, did you say?” Peggy had always been an avid one for tales of murder, particularly when a woman was the villain. Kenhurst, it transpired, was home to the most famous murderess of the decade. “Locked her up in Kenhurst, they did. Madhouse up Kedston way. Four hours in the saddle—no farther.”
It had taken three. Nobody was stirring. The hallways were empty. Once, distant footsteps called them to a halt where two corridors crossed; Johnson drew his knife, and Nick tightened his grip on his garrote.
But the footsteps faded, mounting the stairs.
And so they continued their prowl. Place tried to look fancy, with tapestries on the walls and a thick carpet underfoot. But each door bore a padlock and an inset panel, which could be unlatched to spy on the inmate within. At odd moments, curious moans floated through the walls, causing Johnson to flinch, and Nick to walk faster, teeth gritted.
The first corridor held only men, slumbering in nightcaps on their cots. But the next hall proved more promising. Women. Nick opened shutters in rapid succession—then startled backward after he pulled one open to discover a woman peering back at him.
He wheeled toward Johnson to warn him—but it proved unnecessary. The door began to open.
Damn it. He’d missed a detail: this door had no padlock on it. These quarters didn’t belong to a patient.
He caught Johnson’s eye, laid a finger to his lips, and stepped aside.
The woman leaned out into the hall. He hooked his arm around her throat, pulled her back against his body, and muffled her gasp with his palm.
“Stay quiet,” he said, “and you won’t be hurt.”
“All right.” Her voice, muffled by his hand, sounded surprisingly steady. “I’ve no interest in troubling you.”
He caught Johnson’s wide-eyed look. The woman’s composure seemed odd, given the circumstances. Perhaps working here had prepared her for this kind of surprise.
He didn’t trust her promise, though. He kept her locked in his grip as he said, “I’m looking for someone. Catherine—” Catherine O’Shea. That was her name, by all rights. He silently cursed this bloody charade they’d undertaken. “Catherine Everleigh.”
“Oh.” He felt her relax, and realized she’d not felt as calm as she’d appeared after all. “Are you Nicholas O’Shea?”
He exchanged a frown with Johnson. If Peter Everleigh was trying to blot out this marriage, he was going about it the wrong way, bandying Nick’s name about. “Doesn’t matter,” he said flatly. “You’re going to show me where she is. Nod if you understand.”
She nodded readily. “Around the corner,” she said. “In the . . . receiving wing, they call it. It’s not quite as nice as the ladies’ department, I’ll warn you.”
He nudged her forward, into a shuffling half step as he held her tight against him. But at the corner, she suddenly balked, twisting in his arms and dragging at his hand. “Stop it. Stop it!”
Her sudden panic baffled him. He tightened his grip, heedless now of whether or not he hurt her. “Be—”
“I won’t be manhandled!”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Johnson raise his knife, a silent offer to do the dirty work. But after a moment, he shook his head. Instinct, maybe, nudging him.
“Make a shout,” he said into her ear, “and you’ll regret it.” Slowly he released her.
She took a long, shaking breath before facing him. Tall and pale, with hair a shade darker than Catherine’s. Didn’t look like a prisoner, in her fine lace nightgown. Nor did she look like some humbly paid nurse.
“You are Mr. O’Shea, I think. Catherine was trying to get word to you. I promised to help her.”
“Did you, now?” He had no interest in whether it was true or not. All he cared for was finding her. “Then I’ll spare you that effort. Show me where she is.”
“She won’t be awake. They drugged her again.”
He gritted his teeth against a red haze of rage. He could not afford to indulge it. He blinked until he got a clear view of her again. She mattered not a whit. Nurse, madwoman, innocent, she mattered nothing. He’d never hurt a woman, but in the place where his scruples should be, he felt nothing at all. “Show me,” he said, very low, and saw her realize that he was done with talking.
Her gaze dropped to the wire wrapped around his knuckles. “All right,” she whispered, and lifted the hem of her robe to walk quickly down the hall.
Around the corner, flagstones changed to creaking wooden boards; handsomely carpeted walls gave way to rough plaster. She drew up beside the third door, grasping the padlock for a moment before turning to him, an apologetic twist to her mouth. “I can’t open this. The nurse took away my skeleton key, after she caught me visiting.”
He opened the shutter, peered in. Impossible to tell if that huddled figure was Catherine. The woman looked too small, curled up like a child on her side . . .
His breath caught. He glimpsed her braid, peeking out beneath the blanket.
He snapped at Johnson, who stepped up, slamming the crowbar down on the padlock with a smashing bang.
The woman jumped. “Quiet! If they hear you—”
“Give me that.” Nick seized the iron bar, fitted it into the door, and threw his weight into it. Wood began to splinter. He eased off, breathing raggedly for a moment, before throwing himself against it again.
The door groaned, but wouldn’t budge.
“Don’t,” the woman said, as he raised the crowbar over his head. “I’m telling you—the guards are armed.”
“So are we,” Johnson told her, and lifted his pistol.
Nick brought the bar down—once, and then again, allowing himself to imagine, for a sweet black moment, that the lock was Peter Everleigh’s skull.
* * *
They were coming for her. Coming to shock her, to wipe her mind clean, to destroy her. She pushed them away, but her hands flopped, lax as damp rags. “No,” she managed. “No—”
“Catherine. Shh. It’s me.”
She was dreaming. That was O’Shea’s voice. Maybe she had dreamed the whole thing, and she was safe in his bed at the House of Diamonds—
She managed to open her eyes. Saw the loathsome bare wall, the chair bolted to the floor.
She’d dreamed him.
Her eyes fell shut. Tears came too easily. She felt . . . exhausted, hollowed out, heavy and . . . so dizzy. The world was falling away—
She was being lifted. She summoned her will, all the power that remained to her, and managed to hook her nails into skin, this time. To claw.
“Bloody— Kitty!” His voice came at her ear now, urgent. “I am taking you out of here. Keep quiet.”
Features swam before her. Eyes rippling, crossing, a nose swimming by a mouth . . . She took a shallow breath and blinked, and the features reassembled.
His face.
He was here.
“You came,” she whispered.
He gathered her tighter, his hand cradling her skull, pushing her face into his shoulder. Wool, soft and fine. He smelled like horses. Like smoke and a cold night.
“Quiet,” he said, but she felt his hand stroke over her hair once and a great wave of relief moved through her, and she sobbed into his shoulder.
She was dizzy because he was carrying her. He was carrying her out of this prison, to safety.
She lost consciousness for a moment—or a minute, or several. When she regained awareness, he had ceased to walk; he grasped her tightly as he spoke in low tones to somebody else.
“All right,” he said, “there’s a man in the entry hall. Do you know another way out?”
“Through the back,” came a cool feminine voice. Stella’s. “But it leads past the guardroom. The front is our best chance.”
“Our best chance?”
“Yes, I’m coming with you. This place once seemed safer than the world outside. But clearly that has changed.”
O’Shea swore softly. “Lady, you’ve got me confused with someone else. I’ve got no time for—”
“Wait.” The words were so hard to shape. She was drooling, and could not care. “Let . . . her.”
Catherine felt him tense, the minute adjustments of his posture as he leaned to look into her face. She could not manage to keep her eyes open to meet his, but she managed to speak again. “Let her . . . come.” Stella had been kind. She was owed this.
She felt his hand frame her cheek, a brief firm pressure. Then he said, “Fine. Quietly. Johnson, you’ll—”
“Got it. One clean shot.”
“Don’t kill him,” Stella said. “Let me speak with him first.”
“Bloody—” O’Shea was squeezing her very tightly. She was coming fully awake, now, alert enough to register that his grip was iron hard. “Like hell I will.”
“You want his blood on your hands?” Stella asked. “Have you ever killed someone, sir?”
“I have,” he said flatly. “And I’ll not hesitate to put a bullet through you, if you betray us.”
Catherine’s eyes came open. Stella was staring at O’Shea, the wall sconce behind her shining through her dark blond hair, creating a frowsy halo around her pale, resolute face. “I invite you to shoot me,” she said. “I’m sure I wouldn’t mind. But then you would have to deal with my brother, who would.” She turned on her heel and walked into the entry hall.
“Wait,” O’Shea snapped—not at Stella. Catherine caught sight of Johnson lowering his pistol, his mouth pressed into a furious line.
“She’ll . . . keep her word,” Catherine whispered.
He glanced down at her. His expression briefly eased, the faintest smile ghosting over his mouth. “Hey.” He rubbed his thumb over her cheek and gently said, “Shut your eyes again, Kitty.” And then he looked back toward the entry hall. On a deep breath, he shifted her weight in his arms. She felt his hand make a fist at her back.
He was carrying a weapon. He intended now to use it.
A strange feeling swept through her. She closed her eyes, surrendering to this queer, curious peace. This sudden, intense certainty that all would be well.
His heart drummed beneath her ear. A solid, pounding beat. She felt enfolded. She felt . . . protected.
For the first time in her life, here, in this awful place, she felt safe.
“All right.” Stella sounded breathless. “He’s gone to the water closet. We’ve got five minutes, no more. Hurry, now.”
Catherine tightened her arms around O’Shea. Her husband. Who carried her now in long strides, one hand on his weapon, the other holding her to him. They crossed the entry hall and exited into the cool night air.
She heard the whicker of horses, and smiled into his shoulder.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Some noise woke Catherine from slumber. She opened her eyes. O’Shea sat on a chair drawn up beside her bed, his face grave, shadows beneath his beautiful eyes. He was watching her, and the moment she smiled at him, he leaned over to cup her face.
“How are you?” he asked.
She put her fists over her head in a long stretch, then yawned. “Much better. My head feels clearer now.” She glanced toward the drawn curtains. “What time is it?”
“Seven thirty, eight o’clock.”
“In the evening?” When he nodded, she pushed herself upright. They had arrived back at Diamonds after sunrise. It was very odd to have slept the entire day away. “Where is Stella?”
“Her brother came to fetch her.”
Concern pricked her. “He won’t send her back, will he?”
O’Shea laughed. “From what he said? I’d wager he’d sooner blow that asylum to kingdom come. Didn’t seem half bad, for a toff.”
“Oh.” As she relaxed again, his hand smoothed down her braid, tracing the path of her spine. She had a vague recollection of his hands at her nape, fumbling . . . She reached behind her for her plait, and laughed at the straggling mes
s she uncovered. “You’re better at shuffling cards.”
“Hair’s a sight trickier than cards.” He was smiling, too. “You seemed quite fed up with me, this morning. I thought you were going to give me a proper smack.”
She pulled an apologetic face. “I was so tired. I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t—”
“Catherine.” He nudged her face toward his, meeting her eyes. “Stop.” He drew a hard breath. “It’s I who must apologize. I should have foreseen that Everleigh would—”
“Don’t.” She caught his hand, holding it hard against her cheek. Then, with a daring that she hadn’t known she possessed, she kissed his fingers. “You came for me. Thank you.”
He sat back slowly, withdrawing his hand. A flicker of hurt moved through her. She frowned down at the counterpane, stroking the silk, feeling suddenly, oddly shy. That moment, in the asylum . . . the absolute certainty she had felt, the sense of elated conviction . . . She couldn’t quite recall the nature of it. But it had centered on him. She was certain of it.
“There’s a doctor outside,” he said quietly. “He said . . .” He paused, cleared his throat. “He said if you woke, you’d be in the clear. But just in case, I think he’ll have a look at you. All right?”
She nodded, then watched him rise and cross to the door. He looked . . . travel worn. Dust on the cuffs of his trousers.
Why, he hadn’t changed his clothing since their mad dash from Kenhurst. Had he sat by her bed the entire time?
The doctor entered. A slight, rabbit-faced man with a courtly manner and a faint stammer, he listened to her lungs, then looked into her eyes and asked her to follow his finger as he moved it around her field of vision. He tested her reflexes, and judged them satisfactory. Did her head hurt? No, but she was profoundly thirsty.
Luck Be a Lady Page 25
