Chapter 44
ODD, MUTED COLORS flashed under the night’s murky shadows. Foreign accents that Ella had never heard met her ears. Agonizing pain radiated from where Mr. Clancy gripped her wrist as he pulled her past the strangers in the tavern.
Did those people not see what was happening—what this man was doing to her? She struggled to keep her feet beneath her as Mr. Clancy hastened his pace down one of The Lark & the Gull’s low-ceilinged corridors.
Ella strained to organize her thoughts and formulate a plan.
She had but one goal: to free herself from Mr. Clancy.
As he pulled her farther back into the public house, past the carousing men and rough women, and into the darker, smaller, less populated passageways, her options for freedom were dwindling.
He forced her around a corner and up a narrow staircase. The sharp tavern sounds were fading to a muted hum. The light dimmed. She tried to keep track of their path so she could get out when she finally freed herself, but the twists and turns disoriented her.
Her shoulders bumped along the corridor’s rough walls until Mr. Clancy stopped abruptly and she collided with his back. He opened a wooden door and shoved her inside.
Once he finally released her, Ella blinked to adjust her eyes to the light. A fire burned in the grate to her left. A bed was to her right. A small table with a chair was under the two windows straight before her. She was in one of the inn rooms.
Then she noticed the man in the corner.
Timothy Grenshaw locked eyes on her. He stood from the chair and swore. “What is she doing here?”
Mr. Clancy snatched the wooden chair from next to the table and pushed her down by the shoulder, forcing her to sit. Before she could process the movement around her, he was wrapping a rope around her arms, securing her to the back of the chair.
“This young lady could not mind her own business.” Mr. Clancy grunted. After securing the rope he stepped to face her and ducked, resting his hands on his knees and looking her directly in the eyes. “I did attempt to warn you, my dear.”
She winced.
“Have you gone mad?” Mr. Grenshaw hissed, his black Hessian boots heavy against the wooden floor as he approached. “Someone will miss her. The last thing we need are people poking around.”
Mr. Clancy chortled and straightened. “She’ll not be our concern for long.”
“But, Rowe,” protested Mr. Grenshaw, his tone gritty. “He’ll come for her. Gutt said—”
“No he won’t.”
The men continued bickering, and the reality of the situation struck her. She’d assumed Mr. Clancy had been on her side and the side of justice, but somehow he was as much a part of this heist as Mr. Grenshaw.
“We must make haste if everything’s to be arranged by morning,” instructed Mr. Clancy. “Get Elizabeth to watch her.”
The scene quickly shifted. The men exited, but sounds of shuffling and footsteps from outside the closed door ensued.
Refusing to devolve to helplessness, Ella took quick stock of her surroundings, searching for something—anything—that might facilitate an escape.
Besides the door, the window was the only other way out.
She had to be at least one story up, but a cloth covered the window, obscuring any other clue as to exactly where she was.
She swung her attention toward the fireplace, where she noticed a utensil hook. The poker and the brush were on the floor.
Ella strained against the ropes, attempting to dislodge them, but they were too tight. Her fingers and hands were free behind her, but her arms were restricted in a way that rendered her hands useless.
Muddled voices came from outside the door, and she froze. The voices intensified—a male voice and a female voice. Mr. and Miss Grenshaw.
Ella held her breath to hear over the blood pounding through her.
“She’s in there.” Mr. Grenshaw’s voice came first.
“This has gone too far, Timothy. You know it.”
“There’s naught to be done for it.”
“This is kidnapping. And possibly murder! What were you thinking? We did not agree to this. I did not agree to this.”
“I know. I know!” spat Grenshaw. “Just do as we’re told. It will be over soon.”
“I refuse to participate in this, Timothy. No.”
“He’ll kill you if you don’t. He’ll kill both of us.”
Bile rose in Ella’s throat. Her head throbbed. All this time she had assumed Mr. Grenshaw was the driving force behind the entire plot. But was it . . . Mr. Clancy?
His words about her mother and retribution smacked. This was never about phrenology. This was never about anything other than making her family pay for a crime that was never actually committed—and Ella feared she might pay the ultimate price.
Searing pain radiated from the back of Gabriel’s head. His head lolled forward. The sharp ache intensified, and he shuddered. He’d been clubbed with something. It was the only explanation.
With eyes still closed, he attempted to lift his hand to touch his head. But his hand would not move.
Gabriel opened his eyes and blinked, furrowing his brow as his eyes adjusted to the weak glow of a lantern hanging overhead.
Where was he?
He looked down. Ropes bound his forearms to the arms of a wooden chair. His ankles were secured to the chair legs. He tugged against the ropes, but they did not budge. Gabriel searched his memory, desperate to remember what happened and where he was.
He hurriedly assessed his surroundings. Two barrels were to his right, and a side of salted ham hung to his left. Bottles were stacked along the far wall, and various other crates and boxes filled the empty spaces.
In a sudden flash, his memory roared back to life.
He’d just finished talking with Prior. He’d seen Gutt and Grenshaw.
Ella is gone.
Fresh motivation fired through him, and he reevaluated the ropes binding him.
Satisfaction flickered. Whoever had tied these erred.
He should have been secured at his wrist—the narrowest part of his arm.
But the rope crossed the muscular part of his forearm over his coat sleeve.
If he could slide his arm backward so the rope was over his wrist, he’d be able to work his hand through and free it.
He repeatedly jerked his arm backward, attempting to move the rope.
The last thing he remembered was the street outside The Lark & the Gull, and judging by the dissonant music and muted voices, he was likely inside that same public house.
If his captor had taken him here, then Ella was probably here too.
The thought of Ella here, in this dangerous establishment, spurred him to quicken his pace. He did not have a lot of space to work with between his elbow and the back of the chair, but with each sharp, angled jerk of his arm backward, he felt slight movement of the sleeve fabric against his arm.
Encouraged, he inhaled a deep breath and wrenched his arm back with all his might.
The rope gave and slid down to his wrist. Perspiration gathered on his brow.
He folded his thumb toward the other edge of his palm, making the broadest part of his hand as narrow as possible.
The rope scraped and tore against the skin on his hand as he jostled it free.
He was almost there . . . he just had one more arm to free. He only hoped he would not be too late.