“So I have heard,” she replied. “Do not worry, Randall. I will return before you know it. Keep a sharp eye on your surroundings and remember the plan. Should you find yourself set upon, you are not to wait for me. Do what you must to return home safely. I will meet you there.”
She blew out the lamp and set it aside, while Randall went down on one knee, combining both hands into a cradle for her foot.
“I’ve told you time and again, my lady … I will not abandon you.”
Bracing one hand upon his shoulder, she placed her foot into his hands and vaulted up onto the horse’s back. Riding without a saddle had taken some getting used to, but she’d come to enjoy the freedom of it. Now that she lived alone in the country, she would enjoy riding this way more often, with no one about to tell her it was not proper.
“If we are fortunate, you will not have to,” Cassandra declared.
Before Randall could reply, she was off like a shot, the long-legged Arabian galloping toward the road with one press of her heels. She bent her head to avoid the snare of tree branches, taking care to scan her surroundings. Her mask and hat obscured her vision a bit, but a high, full moon offered enough light for her to do what needed to be done.
Her domino flew out behind her with the whipping of the wind, stray tendrils of her hair caressing her face and neck. There were no vehicles just ahead of her, but Downing had to be out here. He’d expressed his plan to leave for Devon straightaway, and his bold claim that he did not fear the Masked Menace told her he would not do the prudent thing and travel from London along some other route. No, he would want to prove to himself, and everyone else, that he was no coward. Cassandra intended to prove otherwise.
She drove the Arabian at breakneck speed, watching for any sign of the carriage, listening for any approach that might be determined as threatening. She had no desire to harm a Bow Street Runner, but did not intend to let herself be put in irons either. She would do whatever was necessary to save herself should it become necessary.
At last, she caught the glimmer of light ahead—the yellow glow of a carriage lamp. She spurred her mount along faster, steadily gaining on the vehicle moving at a steady clip. Keeping hold of the reins with one hand, she palmed the butt of her pistol, but kept it shoved into her waistband. She wouldn’t draw it until she was certain she’d overtaken the right carriage.
As she pulled alongside it, the moon illuminated the carriage’s side, giving her a glimpse at Downing’s distinct crest. She jerked her weapon free, pulse racing as the thrill of a hunt nearing its conclusion rushed through her. She would make Downing regret ever laying a hand upon his wife, make him pay for every bruise, every bloodied lip, every harsh word.
The driver spotted her and gave the ribbons a snap, calling out for her to cease, to turn back. She would do no such thing. He tried to outrun her, but her single mount was not encumbered by the weight of a carriage loaded down with trunks, so she gained on them with ease. The driver seemed in a panic now, hurling epithets while doing his best to outpace her.
Within seconds, she had pulled ahead of the carriage. She yanked her reins left, turning her horse directly into the path of the carriage.
Lifting her pistol into the air, she fired it twice, the thunderous crack of the shots throwing Downing’s horses into a frenzy.
Her own mount reared up on its hind legs, but she gripped him tight with her thighs, hands clutching the reins in a white-knuckle grip. He calmed in an instant, falling back onto his front hooves and prancing in a swift circle as she murmured a few soothing words before returning her attention to the carriage. The driver shouted at the horses, while Downing’s muffled bellows emanated from within. The beasts reared and whinnied their outrage, jerking against their harnesses.
Leaping down off her horse, Cassandra took off toward the carriage at a run. She’d practiced this with Randall many times, perfecting it before putting her skills to use for the first time. Having done this enough times now to do it with little thought, she moved without hesitation. The driver clambered down to meet her in an ill-fated attempt at protecting his master. Cassandra delivered a swift kick to the center of his chest, sending him against the side of the carriage. He fell against it with a gasp, the wind knocked from him as the vehicle rocked from the force of his weight. She moved fast, not wanting to give him the chance to strike back. Raising her pistol, she brought it down upon his head with all her might. He cried out, then crumpled at her feet in a heap, blood trickling from a wound on his temple. She gave him a little kick to ensure he was out, before stepping over his prone form and approaching the carriage.
She hesitated a moment when reaching for the door, realizing that Downing had gone silent. Recalling his bold claims at the ball, she decided it was better to be safe than sorry. Opening the door with a swift yank, she used it as a shield, darting behind it just before the blast of Downing’s blunderbuss thundered out into the night.
“Show yourself, you son of a bitch!” he bellowed, the carriage rocking as if he made to exit.
Cassandra pushed the door with all her strength, grinning when it bashed against Downing’s body and sent him reeling back inside. She heard the heavy thunk of the blunderbuss falling to the ground, and crouched to pick it up before entering the carriage. She hurled it as far away as possible, not bothering to see where it fell along the dark road before turning back to the man splayed on the floor of the vehicle.
He held his nose, which had been bloodied by the door, rolling about while he let loose a string of curses. She bounded inside and knelt over him, withdrawing her dagger from its place in her boot.
Pressing the tip against the base of his jaw, she grinned. “Oh dear … I’m afraid you have quite ruined the theater of my persona. I am supposed to say ‘Stand and deliver!’ … but, well, you can’t exactly stand just now, can you?”
To his credit, Downing did not flinch away from her knife. Instead, he sneered at her, his lips drawing back to showcase bloodstained teeth.
“Well … I’ll be damned. The Masked Menace … a woman?”
She shrugged one shoulder, keeping the knife pressed against his throat. “Funny how that bit of information is conveniently left out of the rumors that get spread about me.”
Downing spat at her, his blood splattering her domino and a few flecks of it finding its way onto her cheek. Then, he growled and lashed out at her, attempting to wrap a hand around her throat. She reacted with lightning speed, bringing her knife up and slashing, halting the momentum of his hand as the blade found his wrist. He screamed as blood spurted from the wound, wetting his face and staining his cravat. Taking hold of the injured wrist, she squeezed, drawing a tortured cry from him and another gush of warm blood.
“There, now you’ve attempted to overpower me and learned a very valuable lesson. If you strike out at me, I strike back—and I can assure you, I will be far more ruthless about it than you.”
“You bitch,” he rasped between swift breaths. “You fucking bitch … I’ll kill you!”
Cassandra snorted. “And how do you propose to do that when you can barely land a blow before I’ve cut you to ribbons?”
His other hand came up toward her, but she swung her dagger once more, this time landing it in the center of his palm. A highpitched scream emanated from him as the blade stabbed clear through one side of his hand and protruded through the other. Clapping her palm over his mouth, she loomed over him, leaning down so close she could feel his harsh breaths against her cheek.
“Trying to strike me again? What ungentlemanly conduct. But then, I should expect nothing less from a man who beats his wife black and blue.”
The whites of his eyes flared wide in the dark.
“Yes, I know all about how you keep Lady Downing in her place,” she said with a sneer, removing her hand from his mouth.
“What has my wife to do with any of this?” he sputtered as she began loosening the knot of his cravat. “You are a highwayman! My valuables should be of far more intere
st to you than her. The watch in my fob pocket is worth—”
“I care not for your baubles, though I will help myself to them when I am done on principle alone. I am a highwayman as you said, so to leave without your jewels would be unseemly. However, you and I are going to have a bit of a talk first … about what I’m going to do to you for raising a hand to Lady Downing, and what will happen should I ever come to find you’ve done it again.”
He attempted to fight her off as she used his cravat to bind his wrists together, but the dagger stuck through one hand made it a clumsy effort. Eventually, she had him subdued again—his wrists bound, and the handkerchief she found in his coat pocket stuffed into his mouth. He screamed around the fabric when she pulled the knife free of his hand, then went limp on the carriage floor.
Cassandra made quick work of opening his waistcoat, cutting away each ornate button with a flick of her dagger. Then, she cut his shirt down the front, exposing his torso. His chest heaved as he stared up at her, shaking his head as if to silently implore her.
“How many times did Lady Downing beg you?” she asked, tracing the tip of her knife across his chest in a threat of things to come. “How many times did she plead for mercy only for you to ignore her and take your impotence out on her?”
He strained upward, his face darkening in the moonlight as a vein in his forehead began to pulse and throb. He growled through the handkerchief, but she merely pressed a hand against his forehead and forced him back down.
“I can assure you, Sir Downing, no matter how much you beg, or plead, I will not stop until I’m good and damn well ready to. Shall we begin?”
Pressing the tip of the dagger against her starting point, she dug in and dragged it over his flesh. His visceral screams echoed out into the night as she worked, his blood welling in each cut and trickling back into his clothes. With a humorless smile, Cassandra cut and cut until he passed out from the pain, head lolling on his shoulders.
When she was finished, the word she’d chosen for him stood out in stark, crimson relief against his pale skin.
ABUSER.
While he lay unconscious, she quickly relieved him of his ring, tie pin, snuffbox, and pocket watch. She discovered a purse within his coat that contained several Sovereigns, and a few folded bank notes. She pilfered it as well, tucking all his belongings into her own breast pockets before leaping down from the carriage.
Her Arabian waited nearby, nickering and pawing the ground with growing impatience. Downing’s driver remained unconscious, so there was no one to impede her as she threw herself up onto the horse’s back and sped off into the night, disappearing under the cover of darkness with her domino fluttering behind her like a dark banner of death.
Chapter 7
Robert leaned back in the chair he occupied, one leg propped up on a footstool and an ironed copy of the The Examiner spread over this thighs. His father sat upright in bed, eyes glittering with excitement as he listened to the latest news and gossip straight out of London. The papers were days old by the time they reached Suffolk, but the baron enjoyed the news anyway—particularly the bits of scandal and gossip he no longer heard firsthand. Being trapped in a sickbed meant he must live vicariously through Robert, and the stories his son carried back to him whenever he could.
“After several weeks without a sighting, it would seem the Masked Menace has reappeared,” he told the baron. “An anonymous man has reported being waylaid by the criminal some three nights before the publication of this column. He reports that the Menace knocked his driver unconscious, then bloodied his nose and injured his hand before making off with a pocket watch, a ring, a ruby tie pin, and a silver snuffbox.”
“Good Heavens,” his father murmured, running a gnarled hand over his balding pate. “It seems this Menace becomes more violent with each new report. I suspect it will not be long before he’s killed someone.”
Robert shrugged, glancing at a caricature of the Masked Menace. In it, he wore an ill-fitting opera mask over a contorted face drawn in the likeness of a demon. A pair of massive horns curled up from under the brim of a hat, while a long, forked tongue slithered from a mouth sporting spiked, jagged teeth. He held a gun in one hand and a dagger in the other, long talons clenched around both weapons.
He tilted the page to show the baron, who chuckled at the drawing.
“The stories about him are overblown and exaggerated,” Robert murmured. “The violence increases with each telling because it sells papers.”
“He is still a dangerous criminal,” the baron replied. “I will be glad when the Runners have brought him to heel. The roads and its travelers will be safer for it.”
“I could not agree more, William,” said his mother as she bustled through the open door.
She carried a tray holding the baron’s lunch, as well as a pot of tea and a few cups resting on saucers. Pausing to kiss Robert’s brow, she then turned to deposit it on the bed beside his father.
“I cannot stress how happy I am that you have not seen fit to return to London,” she declared as she went about pouring tea. “The road is no place for decent people during times like these. I shudder to think the danger you were in coming back from London all those months ago.”
Robert wanted to point out that the highway robberies hadn’t begun until after he’d returned from London, but held his tongue. She’d only maintain that he had been in danger somehow. There could be no arguing with her when it came to the matter of his health or safety.
“Here you are, dear.”
He glanced up to find her holding a cup and saucer under his nose, the earthy scent of tea wafting up his nostrils. His stomach turned and he cringed when she forced it into his hands—even though she knew he detested tea.
“Drink up,” she insisted, turning back to lace the baron’s cup with lots of milk the way he liked. “It’s been cold today and you need to keep warm. Besides, tea is good for the constitution.”
He stared into his cup with a sigh, knowing this was a battle he’d rather not wage with her. “Yes, Mother. Thank you.”
Taking a careful sip, he grimaced at the taste of it. He’d been told it was tantamount to blasphemy for an Englishman to dislike tea, but had never been able to pretend he liked the stuff. He could never understand the fascination of the British with tea when coffee tasted so much better.
“Here you are, William. Mind you don’t make a mess of your nightdress.”
“Of course, Rosie,” his father replied, accepting the tray into his lap.
His mother took up her own cup and saucer, remaining perched on the edge of the bed while his father began tucking a linen napkin under his chin
“I’ve just met with Cook to discuss the menu for your birthday dinner, William. She’s going to prepare all your favorites, as well as some new French recipes she’s been working on. Our guests are sure to be quite pleased with the fare.”
While at first, she had insisted that her husband was too weak to leave his bed for such an affair, the baron had argued that what might be his last birthday would be worth the effort.
“It does not require much strength to sit and converse while enjoying a meal, Rosie,” he’d argued. “I may not see another year, and I want for this one to be special.”
So, the baroness had thrown herself into planning the affair as she did this year, ensuring that her husband’s seventy-seventh birthday would be the best yet. Invitations had already gone out to several of their neighbors, though Robert could guess that at least one person had been left off the guest list.
“Who have you invited?” he asked.
“Oh, absolutely everyone,” his mother declared. “The Fletchers, of course. I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity for you to spend more time with Miss Fletcher again. I think she is quite enamored with you.”
Meanwhile, he could not be more disinterested in her if he tried.
But, as usual, he kept his thoughts to himself.
“Of course. Who else?”
“Oh,
the Rodinghams—their son was always a great friend of your brother, you know. Viscount and Lady Loring, the Fareweathers, Lady Walter … the poor dove hasn’t gotten many invitations since coming out of mourning. Let’s see … I invited the vicar, Mr. Clarke. Such a dear man, coming to visit with your father so often and inquire about his wellbeing.”
“Anyone else?”
His mother frowned, setting her cup in its saucer and furrowing her brow. “Who else is there?”
Sitting up straight, he let his leg fall off the footstool and leaned forward, ignoring the cup resting in his hands. “Oh, I don’t know … perhaps our new neighbor? You know, the one everyone in the county has shunned and ignored since her arrival? Lady Cassandra?”
The baroness sniffed and raised her chin. “With good reason. She is a fallen woman.”
“She has done nothing wrong, and does not deserve such treatment.”
“Hear, hear,” his father mumbled around bites of bread and cheese. “The way the ton has carried on so, you’d think she was the one who debauched half of London’s debutantes.”
His mother issued a dramatic gasp, one hand coming up over her bosom. “Honestly, William! To say such a thing.”
“He is right,” Robert said, taking another sip from his cup.
If he was going to war with her over Cassandra, then he’d have to drink the bloody tea.
“She is our neighbor and should be treated as such. I’ve had a few occasions to speak with her and I find her to be a charming and lovely sort of person. I know you would too, if you'd try to get to know her.”
The baroness shook her head, giving him a look of disapproval. “I wish you wouldn’t associate with her, Robert. Her reputation would cast you in a bad light. You’d do better in the company of a woman like Miss Fletcher.”
The urge to throw his teacup against the wall came over him, but he pushed it down. He took a deep breath and fought to remain calm. His mother wasn’t completely unreasonable; he just had to think of a way to twist her thinking to fit his own agenda. He wanted Cassandra near whenever possible, and he wanted their neighbors to stop treating her like a leper.
The Damsel: A Villain Duology Sequel Page 15
