His Mask of Retribution. Margaret McPhee
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brandy sitting on the scrubbed oak of the kitchen table between them and poured some into each of the two glasses.
Knight gave a nod. They both knew the arrangements if something went wrong. ‘How is she?’
‘She’s resting.’
‘You got to her in time?’ Knight gave another nod. ‘Just.’ Marianne Winslow’s virtue had hung by a thread within that rookery. He wondered what he would have done had he not arrived in time. Killed the blackguard in the room with her. Blamed himself for all eternity.
‘Thank God for that.’ Callerton downed his brandy in one. ‘You’ve got to give her back.’
He knew that. He also knew that he had come too far and could not give up Misbourne’s daughter just yet. ‘That’s what Misbourne’s banking on. We keep her…for now.’ In his mind he could still see those dark eyes of hers, holding his with such brutal honesty, and the look in them that would not leave him.
Callerton rubbed at his forehead. His face was creased with concern. ‘The letter he sent is from the right date. And it’s definitely something that Misbourne would not want towncried. You’re sure it’s not the right one?’
‘Positive.’ He did not let himself think of the woman. This was about Misbourne. It had always been about Misbourne.
Callerton grimaced and shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why give us something we could use against him if it’s the wrong document?’
‘Maybe he’s testing us to see if we know the right document.’
‘And once he knows there’s no hoodwinking us he’ll give us the genuine article.’
‘There’s only one way to find out.’
‘How do we send him the message?’
‘Remember the night before Viemero?’
Callerton raised his brows. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘Never more so.’
‘It’s too risky!’
‘It will show him that we mean business.’
‘Aye, it’ll do that, all right.’ Callerton played with his empty glass. ‘But I wouldn’t want to be in your boots tonight.’
Knight grinned. ‘Liar.’
Callerton laughed.
Within the darkened bedchamber that was her prison Marianne stood by the mantelpiece and stared into the flame of her single candle. The shutters were secured across the windows and despite the chill of the early evening, no fire had been lit upon the hearth.
The thoughts were running through her head, constant and whirring. Of the highwayman in the rookery. Of their journey back to the shuttered room. It seemed like a daze, like something she had dreamt. She knew only that the highwayman’s arm had been strong and protective around her and that the villains lurking in the shadows of the narrow streets had watched him with wary eyes and had not approached. No one had moved except to scuttle out of their way. Her family and her servants had always provided a barrier between her and anyone who did not move in her own small, vetted circle, but this was different. This was like nothing she had ever experienced. Men looked at the highwayman with a curious mix of hostility and deference, women with a specific interest they made no effort to hide. He had intruded into their world, snatched her right from their grasp. They had not liked it, but not one of them had moved to stop him.
He had kept her moving at a steady pace, twisting and turning through the dark maze of narrow lanes until, eventually, the lanes had widened to streets and light had started to penetrate the gloom. The streets had grown busier, but no one had entered the space around Marianne and the highwayman; everywhere they went a path had opened up through the crowd before them. Even in her dazed state she had known the reason: they were afraid of him, every last one of them.
And by his side, Marianne Winslow, who for the past three years had been scared of her own shadow, Marianne Winslow, who had more reason than any to be afraid, had walked through the most dangerous rookery in London, past villains and thieves, unscathed and unafraid. She was still reeling from it, still seeing the different way they looked at her because she was with him. And that sense of freedom, of power almost, obliterated the terror of the rookery.
She should have been shaking. She should have been sobbing and weeping with fear and with shock. She stared at the candle flame without even seeing it, knowing that the calm she felt was natural and not the result of counting her breaths and slowing them, or drinking a preparation of valerian. He was a man more dangerous than any other, yet with him she had felt safe. It made no sense.
The flame began to flicker wildly. Her attention shifted to the tiny stub of candle that remained and she knew it would not last much longer.
She lifted the candlestick and, holding it high, glanced around the bedchamber. It was a woman’s room, but one that was not used, if the quiet, sad atmosphere was anything to judge by. The walls appeared a yellow colour and were hung with a few small paintings. A large still life, depicting an arrangement of exotic flowers, was positioned on the wall above the mantelpiece. She crossed the floor to search the dressing table. There was a vanity set, bottles of perfume, jars of cream and cosmetics, a box of hairpins, a casket of jewellery and two candelabra, both of which were empty. None of the drawers held any candles. She glanced towards the bed—large and four-postered, its covers and pillows a faded pale chintz, the colour of which was indefinable in the candlelight. At one side was a small chest of drawers and on the other a table. Neither held any candles. Nor did the small bookcase. There was nothing behind the gold-chinoiserie dressing screen in the corner. The candle stub guttered, making the flame dance all the wilder and the wick burn all the faster and the first snake of fear slithered into her blood.
Her fingers scrabbled at the shutters closed across the window and found the catch, but no amount of prising would release it. It took her a few minutes to realise that they had been secured with nails.
There were two doors within the bedchamber: one in the wall against which the head of the bed rested, and the other to the left, opposite the window. She hurried to each one in turn, trying the locks, twisting and pulling at the handles. But both were locked, confirming what she feared—that she was trapped in here, with nothing to do save wait for the candle to extinguish. The knowledge made her stomach knot.
She had been safe in the rookery with him, but this was different. Now she was his prisoner. Alone in a bedchamber. And she knew how dangerous he was and how very angry he was with her father for not delivering the mysterious document. But her mind flickered back to what would happen when the candle burned out. He had said she had nothing to fear from him. She glanced again at the candle. It should have been the highwayman that terrified her, but it wasn’t. She closed her eyes and counted her breaths, slowing them as she ever did when she was afraid, making them deeper to allay the mounting panic. And when she had calmed herself, she knew what she was going to have to do.
‘All done.’ Callerton finished brushing the last speck of dust from the shoulder of Knight’s midnight-blue tailcoat.
‘The boy should have delivered the note to Misbourne by now. We’ll—’ The banging started before Knight could finish the words. He raised an eyebrow. ‘What the hell…?’
‘It sounds like she’s using a battering ram against the door,’ said Callerton. ‘Do you want me to tie her up?’
Knight shook his head. ‘I’ll deal with Lady Marianne.’
‘You’re due at Devlin’s for dinner in five minutes.’
‘Then I’ll be late; Devlin will expect nothing else. It pays to cultivate a habit of unreliability. Besides, I’ve no stomach for the after-dinner entertainment.’
‘More lightskirts?’
‘He’s hired Mrs Silver’s girls for the night.’
‘Again?’
‘Again,’