Chapter 23
I clasped a hand to my mouth to keep from screaming.
A figure unfolded from the darkness—a man, large and thick shouldered. He was perhaps twenty feet away, but I already knew he was too tall to be Stroud or any of the footmen. He wore all black, his boots wrapped in cloth to muffle his steps, and in his hand—
The faintest gleam of metal in the bare light. A knife.
I pulled away from the gap in the door, my pulse thundering in my ears. Could he hear it? Could he hear me breathing? I kept my hand pressed tightly over my mouth to hide any sounds I might make, not just a scream.
A hand grabbed my arm, and I nearly screamed anyway. It was Mrs. Rawlings, her face pale. She could not see what I saw, but she’d seen how I’d reacted. I pointed one trembling finger at the door, and she leaned forward.
Then she went rigid. Her eyes flew back to mine, and her hand clutched me tighter.
We watched as the man made his way closer, step by step, making not a sound. I could feel Mrs. Rawlings’s cold hands around my arm, hear the ragged draw of her breathing.
The man stopped outside my bedroom door, just down the corridor. He paused, leaning one ear toward the door. When he was apparently satisfied, he slowly—slowly—opened the door. The flickering light from the candle I’d left burning in my room danced across his face, and I knew in an instant.
It was him. The man from Vauxhall. The man I’d seen with Clarissa. His features registered in my mind like lightning strikes—dark eyes, brown hair heavy with rain, thin lips curled into a snarl. His knife flashed once more as he stepped inside and vanished from sight.
“What do we do?” Mrs. Rawlings’s words were barely audible, breathed into my ear.
“I—I don’t know.” Panic was setting in, bright lights painted across my vision, heat surging in my chest. “He’ll see I’m not inside. He’ll come looking for me.”
How had he tracked me here from London? How had he known which room was mine? Had someone in the house betrayed us, or had he been watching? A memory from the day before darted through my mind—the figure I’d imagined out the window. Or the one I’d thought I’d imagined. He was all too real now.
“We can hide.” Mrs. Rawlings was trembling, but her words were quick, determined. “Under my bed.”
Something told me that would not be enough. This man had come with a knife. He had come to kill. If he wanted me, he would find me.
“Or I’ll ring for a servant,” she said next.
I shook my head fiercely. “Then they will be in danger.”
There was really only one thing to do, and we both knew it. There was only one way to safety.
“We go past him,” I whispered. “Now. Sneak belowstairs while he’s distracted.” We could raise the alarm down there, find some way to defend ourselves.
Mrs. Rawlings hesitated for only a second, then nodded.
I opened the door a few inches more, the hinges thankfully silent. We slipped into the corridor. Mrs. Rawlings held my arm like a vise, and we nearly tripped over each other. This was pure foolishness, plain idiocy. How could we think to escape this man, outrun him? He would hear us in a second.
We approached my bedroom door, open only a few inches. My candle on the desk still burned but left most of the room in shadow. When would he discover that I was not in bed?
A low curse came from inside the room.
“Hurry,” I mouthed at Mrs. Rawlings. We quickened our steps, moving past my room and farther down the corridor.
Then Mrs. Rawlings’s foot caught on the rug. She stumbled and caught herself on the wall with a dull thud. We both froze, staring at each other.
Footsteps pounded inside my room.
“Go!” I hissed at Mrs. Rawlings and shoved her ahead of me. We made it to the end of the corridor before the man burst out of my room behind us.
We clattered down the stairs. I could hear him behind us, those heavy, fast footfalls that matched the frantic pace of my heart. What could we do? Where could we run to escape him?
A bolt of an idea shot through me.
“Go to the servants,” I gasped at Mrs. Rawlings as we neared the bottom of the stairs. “They’ll help you.”
“But you—”
“I’ll draw him away.” Our feet hit the marble floor of the entry. I flung a haphazard glance over my shoulder. The man was starting down the stairs, taking them three at a time. “Go!”
I pushed her away again, then ran for the front door. Follow me, I begged. Follow me. I had to keep him from Mrs. Rawlings and the servants. It was me he was after. I couldn’t put anyone else in danger.
The door was unlocked. Had he picked the lock? I threw open the door just as the man reached the ground level, the impact shuddering through me. He did not hesitate. He charged after me.
Rain pelted my skin like lashes of ice as I fled. I wore no shoes, and the gravel bit into the soft flesh of my feet. My stockings were shredded in seconds.
I barely registered it. All I felt was the heat in my veins, the fear that climbed my throat like thorns. I did not have a plan; I did not know where to go. My only thought was to run.
I rounded the corner of the house, and there! The towering trees surrounding the water garden, with its many grottoes and recesses. I could hide. Hide until help came.
The ground turned to grass beneath my feet, muddy and slippery. I dared not look behind me. I knew the man was there, though the rain masked the sounds of his footsteps. My only chance was to lose him in the shadows.
Suddenly, I felt grasping fingers at my back, yanking at the fabric of my dressing gown. My body jolted, gown straining against me. I screamed.
The man swore, his footsteps stumbling behind me.
Then the pressure was gone, and I dashed away.
I chanced a glance back to see him sprawled on the grass.
He’d tried to catch me, but I’d slipped through his fingers.
He rolled and came to his feet, his eyes like lightning in the blackness of the storm.
I faced forward, heart exploding from my chest, and I ran. I had a head start now. I could do this, hide from him in the gardens. I knew them better than he did.
The few seconds it took for me to reach the first trees felt like hours.
I was exposed to the wind and the rain and his eyes.
Finally, I crashed into the brush and shadow, flung myself into their safety.
The darkness enveloped me. As soon as I was hidden from his view, I sharply changed direction, going toward the lake. I slowed my pace, trying to stay quiet.
My breaths came too quickly. I was just the barest step from collapsing into a panic. Every one of my senses was alight.
I picked my way through the garden, moving as quickly as I dared.
Indecision racked my brain. Should I hide, find a shadowed nook and keep my head down?
Or would that spell certain death? If I kept moving, he would be more likely to hear me, see me.
But so could anyone who came to help me.
Assuming Mrs. Rawlings sent anyone after me.
And did I want Stroud or any of the poor footmen to face this monster with his knife?
A sob hitched in my throat, and I forced it back, releasing only a crying gasp. Why wasn’t Alexander here when I needed him the most? He’d sworn to protect me, but he’d left. He’d gone, and I was alone yet again, desperate and vulnerable.
There was a boat.
I remembered in a flash. There was a small rowboat on the shore of the lake. I’d seen it that day Alexander had told me of his past. I could manage rowing, I was certain. I’d done it often enough at home. And if I could find it, I could get away. I could keep everyone from danger.
Decision made, I crept through the deepest shadows. My entire body trembled, awareness raising the hair on my neck and arms. I looked every which way, alert for any sign of the man. But he’d lost me, just as I’d lost him.
A break in the brush revealed the house, a hulking blackness against the roiling rainclouds. No lights glowed in any of the windows. Had Mrs. Rawlings reached the servants? My stomach wrenched. What if this man had an accomplice who had followed her? What if help wasn’t coming?
I forced air into my lungs. I needed to keep breathing—now was not the time to faint.
I moved swiftly, quietly, making my way through the gardens. I had a sole purpose now. Find the boat. Escape.
The darkness ahead peeled away. I’d reached the main section of the water garden—the canal that ran perpendicular to the shore of the lake.
There was no shelter ahead, nothing to hide me.
I crouched in the protection of a large tree trunk and peered around me but saw no sign of my pursuer.
I had to cross. There was no way around it.
I started forward, my bare feet slipping on the stones of the walkway. A balustraded bridge crossed the canal a few feet away. I made for it.
A shadow rushed me from the side, and a shriek escaped my lips before he slammed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. His hand clamped over my mouth, an iron arm grasping around my waist.
“There you are,” he rasped. “Slippery one.”
I struggled, throwing an elbow into his side. He grunted. One arm released me. But a moment later, the knife flashed, the edge stopping against the skin of my throat. I froze.
“You’ve been a great deal of trouble.” His words were tight in my ear, angry and harsh. “Taking up with the Runners, fighting me in London, fleeing to the country. But I like a challenge.”
My hands, trembling and useless, clutched at his arm.
“Clarissa insisted you wouldn’t report us.” His hot breath curled against my neck. “But I have less faith in you, Miss Lacey. I think you told your noble Bow Street man everything.”
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t escape. He would cut my throat and fade into the night.
All hope fled.
“I’ll take care of him soon enough,” he said. “For now, I’ll enjoy ending this game between us. Finally.”
One blazing thought flashed through the terror, in the fragment of a second after he finished speaking.
Alexander.