Chapter 30
Chapter
Thirty
Into the Viper’s Nest
We docked well east of where the barge carrying the men had stopped, where the river bent inward, and the bank fell away into shadow.
Finch chose the spot deliberately—far enough removed that no lantern light from the house could reach us, yet close enough that we could move swiftly once we had our bearings.
The barge nudged softly against the mud, and one by one, Finch’s associates and the newspaper men disembarked, boots sinking soundlessly into the damp earth.
Music drifted faintly toward us on the night air. Somewhere upstream, men toasted spring, indulgence, and pleasure, utterly blind to what lay just beyond their line of sight.
We moved quickly as we didn’t have the luxury of time. When we drew close enough to the house, I signaled the men to crouch. It was a prearranged maneuver—one last pause to observe before we committed ourselves.
From the rear, the house was an unremarkable structure—broad, square, and built for function rather than beauty. Light spilled generously from the lower windows, illuminating the grass and the worn stone terrace.
Above, the upper floors lay mostly dark, save for a single faint glow that wavered and steadied again.
My pulse quickened.
“One floor up,” Finch murmured beside me. “That should be it. They wouldn’t keep them in the dark.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“We should move now, Your Grace.”
“Not yet,” I replied quietly.
Everyone stilled at once, every gaze fixed on the house. No one shifted. No one spoke. We had agreed on this moment in advance. We would not move until we were certain. Guesswork would cost lives.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Just as doubt began to creep in, a light appeared on the second floor. Moments later, flashes of red waved from a window.
Rosalynd’s red cape.
The breath left me in a sharp exhale I could not stop.
Relief and fury collided in my chest, fierce enough to curl my hands into fists.
She had done exactly as planned—exactly.
And yet the sight of her there, so exposed and perilously close to discovery, sent a surge of helpless anger through me that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with fear.
“There,” Finch said softly. “Rear corner. Second floor.”
“I see it,” I replied. “That’s where they’re being kept.”
We moved at once, keeping low as we approached the rear of the house beneath the cover of trees. The sounds from the front grew louder with every step—the thrum of music, the roar of voices swollen with drink, the occasional shriek of laughter that set my teeth on edge.
They celebrated while women waited in terror above their heads.
The kitchen entrance lay recessed at the back of the house, its door scarred and poorly lit. Strangely enough, no one was guarding it.
Finch tested the handle. Locked—but barely. A sharp crack of metal, a muffled splintering sound, and the door gave way beneath his shoulder.
Heat and noise rushed out to meet us.
The kitchen was chaos—pots rattling, knives clattering against boards, servants darting back and forth with trays of food and wine. The air was thick with grease, spice, and sweat. No one noticed us at first. They were too busy feeding the revelry.
Then a young footman turned.
His eyes widened. His mouth opened.
Finch was on him in an instant, one hand clamped firmly over his mouth, the other driving him back against the wall.
“Quiet,” Finch said softly. “Unless you wish your next breath to be your last.”
The man nodded frantically, terror loosening his knees.
Before the rest of the kitchen staff could react, Finch’s associates surged in, weapons drawn but held low, unmistakable.
I stepped forward. “No one screams. No one leaves. Do you understand?”
Seemingly, they did as they froze where they stood.
I turned back to the footman. “Young ladies are being kept in this house against their will. Are they on the second floor?” We had to be absolutely sure. If we chose wrongly, it would be a fatal mistake.
“I wouldn’t know, Sir,” he whispered, once Finch eased his grip.
If we were to get any answers, I needed another approach. “Is there a guard at one of the doors?”
This time, he nodded. “Yes, Sir. On the second floor, just as you said.”
“Which stairs will draw the least notice?”
“The back ones.”
I turned back to the kitchen staff. “You will remain here. If you do exactly as you are told, no one will be harmed. Do you understand?”
Most nodded at once. One man—a cook, by the look of him—cleared his throat.
“That won’t do, my lord,” he said quietly. “They’ll be expecting food and drink. If it stops, they’ll come looking. Your men can take our places. There are jackets on the hooks there.” He pointed to a spot on the wall where spare livery hung.
I turned to the men behind me and selected the two least likely to draw notice among a room full of drunk revelers. “You two. Jackets. Keep the food and drink moving. If the music falters or the service stops, we lose our advantage.”
They shrugged into the jackets, smoothing them into place with ease.
“What about us?” The reporter from the Pall Mall Gazette asked.
I gestured toward the livery jackets. “Put those on as well, grab trays of food and drink, and follow the other men.”
“Right-O,” the one from the Illustrated London News said. They moved in tandem toward the livery.
“You two,” I said, pointing to the other Finch associates. “Stay here. No one leaves this room.”
They moved into position without hesitation.
I turned back to the footman. “Where are the back stairs?”
“This way.” He led us to a narrow doorway.
“Return to the kitchen,” I ordered. “And stay there.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said, voice thick.
“Who owns this house?” I asked. “Who’s in charge?”
His eyes widened. “I—I don’t know, my lord. We’re only hired for the day and night.”
Finch and I exchanged a glance.
Then we climbed the back stairs.
The stairwell was narrow and unlit, the air close and sour, as though it had not been disturbed in years. Each step creaked softly beneath our weight, and with every footfall, the noise from below diminished, replaced by something far worse.
Silence.
After we passed what must have been the first floor, we reached the top of the stairs. So far, things had gone according to plan. But we had yet to reach the critical point. I eased the door open a fraction. A single corridor stretched before us, dimly lit. In front of one door, a guard stood.
One man against eight. Ordinarily, it would have been child’s play—were it not for the pistol resting easy in his hand.
I drew back and turned to Finch’s associates. “One guard,” I said quietly. “Armed.”
“We’ll need a diversion,” Finch murmured.
“Suggestions?” I asked.
“Shoot him in the leg,” one of his men offered.
I gave him a look. “Any other ideas?”
Before anyone else could speak, Finch’s sole female associate stepped forward. “Food and drink,” she said. “I’ll take them to him.”
“And where would you—” I began.
She reached into her pocket and produced a sausage roll wrapped neatly in a napkin, followed by a bottle of wine. “I thought ahead.”
Finch let out a quiet laugh. “I did say she was intelligent.”
But his amusement faded as a sound reached us from the stairwell below.
Footsteps. Fast. Uneven.
I turned just as a breathless figure appeared, his composure gone.
“Nicky,” I said sharply. “What in God’s name—”
“Lady Rosalynd didn’t come back down,” he said, cutting me off. “I waited. She was meant to come straight back.”
Cold spread through me, swift and absolute.
“What the hell happened?” I demanded.
“She went up the main stairs,” he said, dragging in air. “If anybody challenged her, she would say she was looking for the lavatory. I stayed where we agreed. I counted the minutes.” His gaze met mine, raw now. “When she didn’t come back down, I went looking for her.”
My chest tightened.
“And?” I said.
“I couldn’t find her.”
The words struck like a blow. The noise of the house seemed to fall away, replaced by the rush of blood in my ears.
“She was meant to signal you,” Nicky said, his voice tight with dread. “That’s all. That was all she was meant to do.”
Fury and fear collided hard enough to steal my breath. “She did,” I said. “And now she’s paying the price.”
I looked at Finch and his associates. “We give no quarter. Whatever it takes, we get those women out.”
“No quarter will be given,” Finch said. “You have my word on that.”
“Let’s move.” If any man had laid hands upon her, he’d better pray for God’s mercy. He would receive none from me.