Chapter 29 #2
He looped his arm through mine and guided me into a recessed alcove beside the staircase, a pocket of shadow mercifully free of revelers.
I did not greet him. I waited.
“I searched the first floor,” he said quietly. “All of which is freely accessible. But when I attempted the second, I was stopped. There’s a man guarding the stairs. The upper floor is off limits.”
My pulse sharpened. “That’s where they must be.”
He inclined his head. “I don’t know if he’ll let you pass. He is armed.”
“If he doesn’t,” I said, “I’ll find another way. A house this size will have service stairs.”
Nicky glanced around, ensuring we were still alone. “When you’re finished, come back. I’ll be here waiting for you. We’ll leave together.”
The promise carried more weight than reassurance.
I inclined my head. No more was required.
The staircase rose before me, broad and well lit, its banister worn smooth by generations of hands. I mounted it steadily, neither rushing nor lingering, forcing my breathing into an even rhythm. With each step, the noise below thinned, dissolving into a distant hum.
On the first floor, I made a show of drifting in and out of rooms, lingering just long enough to appear aimless. Only then did I continue upward to the second floor, which opened onto a wide landing devoid of laughter, voices, or music.
The guard stood precisely where Nicky had said he would. Tall, gruff, and unshaven, his broad-shouldered build ensured no one would get past him. “Guests are not permitted on this floor.”
“Oh, please, sir,” I said, pitching my voice into mild distress. “I’m in desperate need of the facilities. The lower floors are quite occupied, and I fear that if I don’t—”
His gaze swept over me with unconcealed disdain. “Females.”
I shifted from foot to foot. “Please. Take pity on me.”
He hesitated only a moment before jerking his chin toward the right, where a narrow door stood at the far end of the corridor.
“There,” he said. “Do not go farther. And do not take all night.”
“Thank you,” I replied, already moving, and hurried toward the door he had indicated.
The lavatory was small and plainly appointed, clearly meant for servants rather than guests. A single window stood above the basin, cracked open for air. I crossed to it and lifted it fully.
The river lay some distance away, the barges we had arrived in barely discernible even beneath the full moon. Steele would be approaching from that direction. The plan he and Finch had devised the day before placed me in the least danger.
I was to find an open window and signal with my scarlet cape. Once done, I would descend to the ground floor and, together with Nicky, leave the house. One of Finch’s associates would be watching for us and take us to their rendezvous point.
I followed the plan to the letter. After retrieving Cosmos’s pistol from the cape’s hidden pocket, I drew the fabric free and waved it out the window. Once. Twice. Three times. Our agreed upon signal.
Satisfied, I restored everything to rights and opened the door.
A man stood there. Half masked. In costume. Close enough that escape was impossible.
He regarded me for a moment longer than courtesy required, his head tilting slightly, as though adjusting his view.
“Lady Rosalynd,” he said at last. His voice was smooth, cultured. Amused. “What a surprise.” But then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate. “And yet,” he added, “it should not have been.”
My pulse skidded. There was something unsettlingly familiar in the cut of his features, in the intelligent coolness of his gaze—an echo I could not quite place.
“Are we acquainted, sir?”
“We have never met,” he said lightly. “But I know you.” His gaze lingered now, openly assessing, as though the mask granted him license. “Your reputation precedes you. You have a remarkable talent for inserting yourself into…unfortunate affairs.”
The smile returned, sharper this time. Interested. Far too intent.
“I had plans for you, Lady Rosalynd.” He reached out, and before I could step back, his fingers caught a loose curl, winding it around his finger with infuriating familiarity.
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “How very inconvenient,” he murmured, “to find myself fascinated by you.”
A man appeared by his side, as if materialized out of thin air. He was built like the guard—hard-eyed, watchful, dressed for purpose rather than display.
“The carriage is at the ready, Master,” he said. “The horses are at their traces.”
The man before me did not immediately respond. His gaze lingered on my face too long. “We have a complication, Jenkins.”
The newcomer’s eyes slid to me, measuring, unblinking. “Want me to deal with her?”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Still holding my curl, the masked man said, “Yes. But not in the usual manner. She must be treated…with care.”
Something cold and dreadful settled in my chest.
“And what does the usual manner mean?” I demanded. “Choking the life out of young women and tossing their bodies into the Thames?”
“One does what one must,” the man in the half mask replied mildly.
Knowing I would more than likely suffer the same fate, I reached for the pistol hidden in my cape pocket.
But he was faster.
His hand shot out and closed around my wrist, his grip iron. He twisted hard enough to wrench a cry from my throat. Pain flared up my arm, hot and immediate, and my knees nearly buckled. I bit it back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of more.
Calmly—almost absently—he relieved me of the pistol, as though disarming women were an everyday inconvenience for him.
“No, my dear,” he said gently. “That will not do.”
My pulse hammered at my throat. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to fight, to scratch his eyes out. But the space behind me was too small. The corridor was too narrow. And he—never mind his henchman—was standing in my way.
I forced myself still, though my breath came quick beneath the mask. “You’re the devil.”
His gaze softened, almost indulgent, as if I’d paid him a compliment.
“Such fire,” he murmured. “No wonder Steele is so enthralled with you.” His gloved finger brushed down my cheek, slow as a caress.
Revulsion turned my stomach. I held his eyes, even as every part of me recoiled.
“I will enjoy taming you.”
The words were quiet, spoken as certainty. As entitlement.
“I’d rather be dead.”
For the first time, something sharp flickered in his expression—interest, perhaps. Then he tilted his head.
“You should take care with your words, Lady Rosalynd. That can easily be arranged.”
His henchman’s voice broke in, urgent. “Master, you must go before . . .”
“The main festivities begin. Yes, I know.”
Suddenly, everything became crystal clear. “You are responsible for all of this. The debauchery. The assault on young innocent women.”
“Some are not so innocent.”
“You force them against their will. Commit unspeakable acts against them.”
“It is not I who’s forcing them.”
“The law will not make a distinction.”
“The law will never act.”
“Master,” Jenkins hissed again. ‘You must go. Now.”
“Yes, I hear you,” the masked man said impatiently before returning his attention to me.
“I have enjoyed our conversation, my dear.” The gentleness in his tone made my skin crawl. Then he addressed his henchman. “See that she does not become a nuisance.”
My blood went cold.
After one last look at me—measured, possessive, assured—he walked away.
Jenkins’s mouth curled into a lascivious smile, his intent unmistakable on his face.