She quickened her steps as the darkness enveloped them and foot traffic along the lane thinned out until they were the only two people in sight. Her fingers tightened on the butt of her weapon, her pulse racing as she prepared to attack. Gritting her teeth, she lunged for him, brandishing the pistol from the confines of her cloak.
Before she made contact, a hand hooked into her cloak from behind and impeding her progress. She struggled to stay on her feet as her body collided with a solid, male form, one hand clapping over her mouth. She grunted and screamed, the sounds of her outrage stifled by the palm making it difficult for her to draw breath.
“Well, well, well,” purred a deep voice in her ear. “Looks like I’ve caught myself a menace.”
She kicked and flailed, but fell still when something hard and blunt slammed into the side of her head. Her vision blurred and her limbs went weak, and she heard the distinct clatter of her pistol falling to the ground. Another blow, and Downing’s face appeared before her as her vision began to fade and consciousness slipped from her grasp.
CASSANDRA AWAKENED to darkness and a cloying humidity. As she slowly came to, she blinked and shook her head, wincing from the throbbing pain in her temple. She could remember nothing that had happened after a stunning blow to the head made the entire world fade away. As awareness returned to her, a twinging pain in her shoulders and neck exacerbated the pounding in her head. Trying to move her arms, she found she couldn’t. They’d been bound together and pulled taut above her head. With only the dim light of a single lamp to see by, she realized she had been tethered to the rafters of an underground cellar. Her arms had gone numb from being this way for what might be hours, and her knees had been folded beneath her, the pressure of her weight making her legs throb as if pricked with dozens of needles.
She’d been stripped of all her clothes, dust and a sheen of sweat the only thing covering her skin. A cursory glance revealed that she was alone at the moment, with nothing occupying the space but a rough, wooden chair and a lamp resting on a matching table.
Hanging her head, she cursed herself for a fool. Downing had left his home alone each night, so she hadn’t been on guard for another potential attacker. The man who had grabbed her from behind had obviously been watching his friend’s back, sneaking up on her before she could overtake the murdering fiend.
She needed to know who the accomplice was and where they’d taken her. The dire nature of her situation did not throw her into a panic. Instead, it only steeled her resolve. She needed to get free and end this, and she couldn’t do that until one of her abductors showed his face.
Struggling to her feet, she groaned at the discomfort of the blood rushing back into her legs. Rolling her head in a circle, she tried to ease some of the stiffness in her neck. She needed to be alert and ready for when one of the men returned.
As if her thoughts had set things in motion, the door swung open to reveal two masculine silhouettes beyond. The light of the lamp shining in her face kept her from discerning their features, but the cloying odor of opium told her one of them must be Downing.
“You’re awake,” one of them said, coming toward her while his companion sank into the chair. “Good.”
She squinted against the light of the lamp and made out Sir Downing’s square jaw and the sweep of dark hair over his brow. She stiffened when he drew near, but held her ground, determined not to show him fear. He’d only feed off it, use it against her. The best thing she could do was keep a level head and wait for an opening.
The ropes around her wrists gave a swift jerk, and she noticed Downing controlling the tether attached to them. With a yank, he propelled her high, until only the tips of her toes touched the floor and her arms were forced to bear the pull of all her weight. She took a deep breath and kept her focus on Downing.
The man came to stand in front of her, his teeth flashing white in the darkness as he grinned, the motion hard and feral. “I knew the Menace was a woman, but I’d never have guessed it was you. A dowdy, freckle-faced spinster who couldn’t turn a man’s head without stooping to dirty tricks.”
The other man gave a sarcastic snort. “Then ruins his life when he gives her the cock she was chasing all along. Venomous bitch.”
Her heart plummeted into her gut as she finally recognized the voice of the other man. He had been the first victim of the Masked Menace … the first man to ever cower away from her blade as she punished him for his crimes.
The Earl of Stratford, who was responsible for the murder of Randall’s wife.
The panic she’d been trying to avoid now rose up in her, making her throat constrict and her chest ache as she realized she’d been kidnapped by two cold-blooded murderers. That she still lived could only mean they would draw it out and make her suffer first.
She flinched when Downing touched her leg, but forced herself to show no other reaction, hanging limp from her ropes as he trailed his fingers up the inside of her thigh.
“It all makes sense, really,” he crooned, pausing at her groin before stroking his way back down her opposite thigh. “A conniving whore who hates men … the only motive you needed to hunt us down and maim us.”
Unable to keep silent any longer, she sneered down at him. “Not all men … just spineless, impotent little shits who make sport of abusing the defenseless.”
With a snarl, he swung his fist, his knuckles crashing against her jaw. Her body swung from the rope as pain exploded from the point of contact, flaring in her entire face as well as her mouth. Blood welled in her mouth, her bottom lip already beginning to swell.
She raised her head to glare at him again, her teeth grinding as she imagined using her dagger to cut out his foul tongue.
“You’ll mind your mouth unless you want me to shove my cock into it,” he snarled.
Head rearing back, she gathered every drop of blood and saliva filling her mouth and spat it at him. Satisfaction flooded her when he reared away with an outraged roar, using his sleeve to wipe the mix of her blood and spittle from his face.
“If you put that foul thing anywhere near my mouth, I will bit it off, chew it to bits and swallow it,” she warned.
He straightened and approached again, this time wrapping a hand around her throat. She made no attempt to move away from him, even as his fingers pressed hard enough to leave fingerprints and make it difficult to breathe. She heard the scrape of Stratford’s chair, and within seconds he was beside Downing, his upper lip curled into a snarl. He brandished something that glinted in the lamplight, making her mouth go dry. It was her dagger. He must have found it in her boot after knocking her unconscious. Had he been the one to remove her clothing? Had he done so without molesting her?
She shuddered at the thought, and Stratford grinned, pressing the knife against her belly. Holding her breath, she kept still as he trailed the knife downward, holding her gaze once the tip sifted through the curls over her mons, a silent threat emanating from his dark eyes.
“You don’t have any teeth here,” he murmured. “There’ll be no biting when I’m in your cunt. I’ll knock every tooth out of your head if I have to.”
Annoyance welled up in her, making her forget her vulnerable position and the power of two men who were stronger than her. She laughed, the sound harsh and deranged coming through her constricted throat. Her body shook, swinging from the rope as she became hysterical, eyes watering, lips stretched wide. Stratford faltered, his hand falling to his side with the knife. Downing loosened his grip on her throat.
“She’s mad,” Stratford muttered. “Touched in the head.”
That only made her laugh all the harder, because neither of them understood. After all she’d endured, did they really think the threat of rape was the best they could do?
“You idiots,” she managed between snorts and giggles. “You’ve got the Masked Menace in your clutches … the woman who bested, embarrassed, and disfigured you … and the best form of revenge you can think of is to rape me?”
She threw
her head back and laughed some more, her throaty cackles filling the dark space as the two men looked at her as if both intrigued and afraid. Suddenly serious, she stared down at them with a disdainful snort.
“As if that would be enough to break me. How very unoriginal.”
Downing delivered another stinging blow to her face, this time with an open palm. Stratford took hold of her thigh, stopping her swinging body with a painful clench sure to leave fingerprints. She bit back a cry and glared at him, her eye watering from Downing’s slap.
“That will be the least of your worries by the time we’re done with you,” Stratford rasped before pressed the dagger against the inside of her thigh.
The sharp prick of the blade preceded a searing burn as he dragged the dagger over her flesh, opening her skin and producing a font of her blood. Her chest and throat began to burn until she could bear it no longer and screamed, the sound ripping from deep within her to echo off the walls of the underground room.
ROBERT NARROWED his eyes at the house in Berkeley Square from where he hid in the gap between two townhouses. He’d kept watch from his hiding place for the almost two days. He had not seen Cassandra enter or leave the house all this time, yet knew she was inside.
It had taken him almost an hour to work his way free of the bed curtain ropes, contorting his body and working at the knots with his teeth. Once free, he’d wasted no time pulling on his clothes and going after Cassandra. After wandering Grosvenor Square and the surrounding area for another hour, he’d kept an eye out for a tall, slender figure in a black cloak. He found none, his worry mounting with every second that passed without any sign of her. Returning to her hotel suite, he had waited until the sun began to rise. She’d been gone the entire night and had not returned for her things, which were still strewn about the room.
That could mean only one thing. Something terrible had happened to Cassandra at the hands of Downing. There was no time to waste. If she hadn’t been killed, she would be soon. The time for waiting and worrying was over. He had to act.
Resolved, he’d left The Pulteney Hotel after sending a messenger to Felix and his driver to remain at the inn he’d put them up in, and await further instruction.
He’d first paid a visit to Millicent, who he hoped would have information on where Sir Downing lived. Worried for her friend and desperate to help, she’d given him the address and offered to send Peter along for help.
Robert had declined, informing her that he did not plan to confront the man yet. He needed to watch his movements and determine whether anything happened that might offer a clue to Cassandra’s whereabouts.
During the night the house remained quiet, and Robert had to fight against the urge to collapse onto the ground and fall asleep. At sunrise, he’d been joined by Peter, who had offered him a hunk of bread and a bit of cheese to help him keep his strength up.
“Anything?” the footman had asked, inclining his head toward the townhome.
“Nothing yet,” Robert had said with a sigh.
Just then, the front door had opened and a man who was not Downing emerged. Robert had perked up, mouth falling open as the man trotted down the front steps and set off for some destination or other.
“Is that him?” Peter had asked.
“No,” he’d replied. “That is the Earl of Stratford.”
What he been doing in Sir Downing’s home all night? As far as Robert knew the two men weren’t the best of friends, and for him to remain for an extended visit while Downing was supposed to be in mourning …
Then, he remembered Cassandra’s story about how she’d become the Masked Menace. One of the men who’d raped and murdered Randall’s wife had been an earl.
“I think he’s Downing’s accomplice.”
“I’ll follow him,” Peter said, turning to give chase without waiting for Robert to respond.
With the footman tracking Stratford’s movements, Robert remained at his post, nibbling his bread and cheese and watching the front door as well as the path leading from the mews behind Downing’s home. No one else came or went from the house for the rest of the day. By the time Peter returned with another bite to eat, the sun had set once more.
“Where did Stratford go?” he asked between bites of a meat pie that was still warm.
The twisting of his stomach eased only a bit. It would never be completely calm until Cassandra was safe again. She was inside that house … he knew it.
“To his own home across the city. I went around to the servant’s entrance and flirted with a scullion, and she agreed to gather information for me.”
“Right. So, what did you learn?”
“Servants say the man ordered his things readied for an extended stay in Devon. He’s to leave tomorrow night.”
“Devon? Sir Downing has a country residence there.”
Peter nodded, his expression grave. “They’re leaving the city and taking her with them … where no one will ever know what’s been done to her. With Downing supposedly grieving, the timing will not seem suspicious.”
“We cannot allow them to take her anywhere,” he declared, his appetite gone. “If they take her out of Town, she’s dead.”
“Well, what will we do? We could break in and attempt to rescue her tonight, but—”
“We risk walking into a trap,” he finished for the footman. “Besides, Downing has loyal servants who would probably harm us to protect him. If we are injured or dead we can be of no help to her. It is too great a risk.”
“Then what else can we do? Whatever you need, I’m your man. My lady told me to see this through to the end, so I don’t rest until she’s safe.”
A plan had sprung to his mind then, as if planted there by a divine source. Without question, he knew exactly what needed to be done.
“I have an idea,” he said. “I’ll need you to retrieve my carriage, driver, and valet from an inn and bring them here.”
Peter had leaped into action without hesitation, leaving him to continue watching the house.
Now, as night began to fall on the second day, he became antsy to be off. Peter had returned, and now sat in his carriage farther down the street, waiting for him. Before Downing’s townhouse, Stratford’s equipage had just pulled to a stop and the man himself descended and approached the house.
Robert sprang into action, moving at a sedate pace to keep from drawing too much attention to himself. There were enough people in the square to keep him from seeming out of place as he crossed the square.
Ducking on the front steps of a neighboring townhouse, he peered up over the stone railing and watched as servants came and went, carrying various trunks and loading them onto the back of the vehicle. Robert clenched his jaw and forced himself to remain in his place and watch. He could not act … not yet.
He needed Downing and Stratford to leave the city, giving him a better chance at subduing them. Out on the open road, there was no place they could hide.
His spine tingled as he spotted Downing, leading the way to the carriage with a hat under one arm. Robert remained as still as he could, held his breath, and waited for any sign of Cassandra. If he was going to follow them out of London, he needed to know for certain they had her in their clutches.
His stomach churned when Stratford appeared, carrying what looked like nothing more than a bundle of sheets. But Robert couldn’t take his eyes off that bundle as he watched for any sign of movement, anything that would confirm his suspicions that the sheets cloaked the body of a woman held in the earl’s grasp.
When the man came off the bottom step, the bundle shifted slightly, and something came falling out from its confines. A woman’s arm hung limp, swinging with every one of the earl’s steps. Long and slender, it seemed caked with dirt and something else. Blood?
Rage rushed through him, but determination helped him keep a cool head. He did not know what they'd done to her, but these men would atone for it. Whether the arm he’d seen was attached to a living Cassandra or her corpse, he would make
sure they paid for what they’d done.
Satisfied that his plan would work, he turned and dashed down the lane, spotting his carriage idling on the side of the road and making a beeline toward it.
“Follow them,” he instructed his driver before joining Peter and Felix inside.
His valet and the footman gave him questioning glances, which he answered with an abrupt nod.
“They have her. We’ll follow them out of London and strike when the moment is right.”
Peter opened the wooden chest resting on the seat beside him, giving Robert a glimpse of the twin revolvers resting inside on a bed of velvet.
“We are ready and will have your back until the end.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, he retrieved the black mask Cassandra had left behind in the hotel room. He’d sent Felix for it, along with a few other items he would need.
“I hope you know what you are doing, sir,” Felix said, seeming more on edge than Peter.
The man was accustomed to mending clothes and polishing boots, not involving himself in dangerous intrigues. Well, it would seem they must all step into roles they’d never expected to play. Robert had never thought he’d be willing to go so far for love. But then, maybe he’d never truly loved at all. Not like this … not until Cassandra.
“I do,” he assured the valet. “It will work, you’ll see.”
Chapter 12
The carriage rocked and swayed as it rumbled down the road, London falling farther behind them with each passing moment. Cassandra closed her eyes and clutched the bedsheet tighter around her nude body. She ached from head to toe, and had long grown used to the steady pounding in her head. Two days spent in the clutches of Sir Downing and the Earl of Stratford, and they had yet to kill her. She wished they would get on with it. At least, if she was dead she’d be free from the pain and degradation they’d subjected her to.
The Damsel: A Villain Duology Sequel Page 25
