Chapter Eleven
When Georgie opened her eyes, she was disturbed to find that she was being cradled. The thread count of the cotton against her cheek left no doubt as to who was doing the cradling, despite the currently fuzzy state of her mind.
“Ugh,” she said, shutting her eyes firmly in the hopes that this would prove to be some sort of bad dream.
“I’m going to choose not to take that personally,” came Sebastian’s voice from above her, sounding amused.
“I would also like to note that this is becoming a bit of a habit. Have you a particular penchant for slumping dramatically to the ground, Georgie? Do you find it adds a bit of titillation to a courtship?”
This was sufficient to wake Georgie up in a hurry, though it was only much later that it would occur to her that this had perhaps been precisely his aim. She pushed at him until he helped her to an upright seated position.
“There is no courtship,” she reminded him icily, once she had blown a curl out of her face. She could only imagine what state her hair was in just now, but it likely didn’t matter—wherever they were was so dimly lit that Sebastian appeared merely a shadowy outline before her.
“So you like to remind me,” he agreed mournfully, and Georgie shook her head, feeling the strangest desire to smile. She glanced around, trying to make out their surroundings in the darkness. After a moment, she realized…
“Are we in a cellar?” she asked, frowning.
“It does appear so,” he confirmed. “Beyond that, I know no more than you do—I only came to about ten minutes before you did. I don’t mind telling you that you gave me a bit of a fright, though; do you know you breathe remarkably slowly when you’re unconscious?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, rather acidly. “I’ll try to remedy that the next time I find myself unexpectedly rendered so. How did we get into a cellar?”
“I expect our lovely Miss Lettercross drugged us,” he said a bit grimly.
“As I’m not in the habit of suddenly falling unconscious and then waking up next to a printing press.
” He gave an uncharacteristically irritated snort.
“I should have stopped drinking that tea the second I noticed it tasted a bit bitter.”
Georgie blinked. “A press?” She squinted in the darkness.
“Just behind me,” Sebastian said. “Your eyes will adjust in a minute or two.”
“Why on earth is there a printing press in… well, in whoever’s cellar this is?”
“I expect it’s the cellar of the very same council office that we were in prior to having our tea,” he said. “Since I doubt Miss Lettercross could be out dragging our unconscious bodies around in broad daylight without attracting a few strange looks.”
“I can’t believe she got us both down here,” Georgie said. “Even if it’s only a flight of stairs—she’s not that large.”
“Well, perhaps she’ll put in an appearance and answer that question for us,” he said, sounding a bit weary. There was an edge to his voice that Georgie had never heard before; she supposed drugging, kidnapping, and imprisonment would try even the sunniest of dispositions.
“Surely she will, if only to give us some bread and cheese to nibble on so that we won’t starve.”
“Speak for yourself. I am accustomed to a certain caliber of meal, Georgie. I’m not at all suited to prisoner fare. If you see me eat a crust of stale bread, it is a sign that death is imminent.”
“What a cheerful prospect,” she said sweetly. He laughed.
“So,” he said, leaning back to rest his weight on his hands and gazing around at their surroundings. “I don’t wish to leap to conclusions, but do you think it’s possible—given the old drugging-and-kidnapping treatment—that Miss Lettercross might have something to hide?”
Georgie sobered; it was a testament to how fuzzy her head remained that the implications of their current situation hadn’t yet sunk in.
She felt a faint niggling at the edge of her mind—something important, something she was forgetting.
If only her thoughts did not feel so terribly sluggish—a lingering effect, no doubt, of whatever their tea had been laced with.
“We’ve no proof the Lettercrosses have anything to do with Penbaker’s death,” she said.
“She recognized your name, that’s certain. It makes sense, if her father was keeping all the news clippings about the murders.” He frowned; Georgie’s eyes must have been adjusting to the dim light, because she could now vaguely make out the features of his face again, despite the shadows.
“Georgie,” he said, his voice thoughtful, “have you ever considered that the murders in Buncombe-upon-Woolly could be… linked somehow?”
Georgie frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” he said slowly, clearly still working it out in his head, “you’ve noted yourself how odd it is, there having been this sudden rash of murders.”
“Yes,” Georgie agreed. “But more because I’m concerned about—I don’t know. Copycat killers, I suppose?”
“Always a possibility,” he conceded. “But what if there was something more linking the crimes?”
“But I solved the crimes,” Georgie reminded him. “Well, three of them, at least. And there was nothing at all to connect them.”
“I suppose,” Sebastian said, still sounding thoughtful. “Just, seeing all the news clippings that Lettercross had saved… it made me wonder.”
“If he somehow orchestrated a series of crimes in Buncombe-upon-Woolly to… what? Make Bramble-in-the-Vale look good?” She could hear how skeptical her tone was.
Sebastian shrugged. “We’re here in the first place because we realized they had something to gain from the continuation of Buncombe-upon-Woolly’s crime spree.”
“None of this answers the question of why on earth Miss Lettercross would want to kidnap us.”
“I don’t think I was the target,” Sebastian said.
“So… what? She recognized me when I walked in and gave my name, and thought that this was too perfect an opportunity to miss? To kidnap…” She trailed off, her mind working. “But what does she gain from kidnapping me?”
“Perhaps she plans to hold us captive indefinitely, and somehow make it look like the culprit is someone from Buncombe-upon-Woolly.” He offered this horrifying prospect very casually, and Georgie gaped at him.
“What?” he asked, a bit defensive. “I’m thinking like a criminal, Georgie!
” He shifted forward so that he could sit cross-legged, bracing his elbows on his thighs.
He looked far more comfortable than he had any right to look, considering he’d been dragged into a cellar while unconscious.
Although he did bear a few signs of the labors that had been involved in that effort—even in the dim light, she could see that his hair was a bit mussed, and at some point before Georgie had awoken, he’d removed his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
His hands were now clasped loosely together as he regarded her intently, his brows lowered in either thought or worry.
“I suppose she could plan to store us down here and starve us to death,” she said thoughtfully. Her eyes landed on something bulky shoved against one wall, past Sebastian’s shoulder: Now that her eyes had adjusted to the dark, she could see that he was correct—it was some sort of printing press.
She frowned, the niggle returning to her mind, more powerful this time—and then, suddenly, in a flash, it came to her.
“Sebastian.” He jerked his head toward her at the sound of his name. “I think Miss Lettercross writes The Deathly Dispatch .”
“How the deuce did you work that out?”
“The notes I saw on her desk, just before she returned with the tea—they were all about the murders, all sorts of grim little details, and lots of… speculation, too. The sort of thing Arthur—or any legitimate journalist—would never publish for fear of libel.” She paused, suddenly recalling a comment Sebastian had made while talking to Miss Lettercross.
“Didn’t you say the Dispatch had written an entire article about sleeping powders? ”
He inhaled sharply. “Yes—it was comparing how quick-acting they were and how long their effects lasted. It would make sense, then, that she would have some sort of fast-acting sleeping powder to hand, if she’s Agent Arsenic.”
Georgie scrambled to her feet and then immediately wished she hadn’t—her head spun a bit, and she’d not realized while seated quite how woozy whatever had been in her tea was still making her feel.
Sebastian’s hand was suddenly at her back, steadying her, as he, too, rose to his feet, and she turned to find him standing closer to her than she’d expected.
At this proximity, his advantage in height was particularly pronounced, and she had to tilt her head back slightly to look up at him.
It was a brief, fleeting moment—and then she looked away.
And back at that printing press.
“Of course,” she murmured, stalking toward it. “She’d want to hide it somewhere that no one else would see….”
“Well,” Sebastian said, his tone a bit apologetic, “if we are correct in assuming this cellar is beneath the village council office, then it’s not precisely private.”
Georgie waved an impatient hand. “But it’s hidden—so no one would see her using it.
I wonder how she’s been distributing them to all the shops; it’s not as if she could just waltz in herself with a stack of them…
.” Her eyes landed on a wooden crate whose lid had not been refastened, and she moved closer, crouching down to slide the lid back enough to view its contents.
“See?” she hissed, reaching inside to pull out a single sheet of paper, full of cramped print, none of which she could make out in the darkness. She glanced around. “Is there any chance there’s a torch—or even just a candlestick—down here?”