Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
After Mr. Rosmont turned and ran up the stairs two at a time, Uncle Sol turned to the butler.
“Henderson, we must ask the servants to move quietly out of the front door and into the park square,” he said. “There are villainous men outside the mews.”
“The mews?” the butler said in alarm. “The coachman is in the kitchen, but the stableboy is still there.”
“Phoebe,” Uncle Sol said to her, “you will accompany the coachman out to the mews to collect the stableboy and bring him inside.”
She realized Uncle Sol had sent her with the servant because he predicted that the stableboy would not listen to the orders of a stranger such as herself, and he didn’t feel at ease sending the coachman out alone.
They made their way down to the half-basement and the kitchen at the back of the house. Several of the servants were sitting at the large table eating dinner.
When the butler explained about the men outside the back of the house, several of the housemaids began to panic. Keriah immediately went to them and spoke soothingly while Henderson beckoned to a man of medium height and wide shoulders, whose dark blond and silver hair contrasted his brown skin.
“Keen, this is … er …” He glanced at Phoebe’s male attire. “… Mr. Sauber. He shall accompany you to the mews to collect the stableboy and bring him here.”
The coachman frowned at Phoebe. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Henderson, but I don’t need an escort to my own mews.”
“A strong man such as yourself could probably handle three or four men,” Phoebe said, “but we think there might be five or six out on the mews road.” She had decided not to alarm the man by telling him about the full number.
Mollified by her words, the coachman grunted ascent and then headed into the scullery and out the back door.
Light from the kitchen windows and the upper floors of the house lit the paved back area with a warm glow as they navigated past the privy and laundry house, and then into the mews stable building.
The stable swallowed her in shadow and the strong scents of horses, hay, and oiled wood. Lantern light hung in uneven pools along the central passage, catching on leather harnesses and polished brass fittings. Somewhere to the left, a horse stamped and shook its head with a whicker.
Phoebe slowed her steps, lagging behind the coachman so that the stableboy would not immediately see her. She heard every creak of timber and soft snort, the thump of the coachman’s boots against the wooden floorboards, and the off-key humming coming from the far end of the building.
But she strained to hear farther, past the walls and the large double door leading to the mews lane behind the row of houses.
She heard heartbeats, strong and steady.
The men were not directly behind the doors, but ranged all around the mews—across the lane and next to the walls of the neighboring stables.
She breathed deeply, to keep her own heartbeat even so that the men outside would not notice anything amiss.
She checked that a small door in the wall for pedestrian use was locked, although the latch was flimsy—if the men attacked, they would enter through that door.
She kept her shoulders loose, her hands at her sides, her eyes roving about, counting stalls and marking darker areas.
Keen strode ahead of her with the confidence of a man who had walked this passage a thousand times. “Tom?” he called, his voice a touch impatient in the manner of all coachmen who were forced to harry small boys into doing tedious chores. “Are you finished cleaning the stalls? Where are you, lad?”
“I hear humming from the tack room,” Phoebe said.
Keen merely grunted again and quickened his steps.
They passed a row of stalls. One horse leaned its great head over the half-door, blowing warm breath toward them.
Keen strode past, but Phoebe reached up without thinking and laid a steadying hand against its cheek.
Her enhanced sense of touch made the hide seem like a thousand prickling bristles, but she gently rubbed its head.
The animal calmed at once, even though she was a stranger, indicating it had been well-trained and cared for. She withdrew her hand quickly before Keen could notice.
At the far end of the short aisle, light flickered beneath a half-closed door.
“Tom!” the coachman barked.
Phoebe heard the boy’s heartbeat leap up, then there was the scrape of boots as he dashed out of the tack room.
“Sorry, Mr. Keen, but the pitchfork was loose again.” The boy’s words preceded him through the door. A short, skinny lad dashed out, a pitchfork in hand with the pronged metal attachment clearly wobbling on the wooden handle. “Is dinner over? I haven’t finished my chores yet.”
“Forget your chores, just head into the house.”
The boy gaped at him in surprise, then his eyes flickered to Phoebe. But since she stood close to the coachman, he didn’t question her presence, nor did he have the impudence to ask who she was. “Now, sir?”
“Are you deaf? Now, boy!”
He straightened by instinct, making it apparent the coachman had shouted at him many times in the past, and went to place the pitchfork carefully against the wall.
Keen turned and headed back the way they’d come, Phoebe following in his wake with the stableboy behind her. But as she passed the double doors leading to the mews road, she paused.
There was a sense of wrongness, although she could not immediately understand it.
The smell of the stable seemed the same, or was there a faint acrid scent?
She heard the same heartbeats of the men behind the building, each slow and calm.
They had not suspected anything when the coachman came to get the stableboy.
So what was amiss?
She listened again. Then she thought to try to count the distinct heartbeats again. Seven, eight, nine …
There were only nine heartbeats. Only nine men.
Where was the tenth?
Tom had also paused and was looking at her curiously. She ignored the questioning in his eyes and instead hastened to catch up to Keen, who was disappearing through the door into the back area of the house. The boy was at her heels, and he remembered to close the door behind them.
But when they entered the house again, she turned and moved past Tom, back to the door. A glance around saw a light wooden plank they used to bar it at night, and she hefted it in place. She turned to see the stableboy staring at her in confusion.
“Follow the coachman,” she ordered him.
He hurried after Keen without hesitation.
Trailing behind them, she said to the coachman, “Go outside to the park square. Hurry.”
She chafed with impatience as she brought up the rear. She could hear Uncle Sol and Keriah on the ground floor above, speaking to servants who had been on the upper floors and urging them to leave through the front.
The long passage through the half-basement led to a tradesman’s entrance at the front of the house, in the sunken front area.
The coachman’s boots rang against the wrought-iron stairs leading up to the street level, sounding like loud bells in the silence of the darkened square.
The horse that Uncle Sol had tied to the railing whinnied nervously at his appearance.
Phoebe followed closely behind Tom, and as her head rose above the front area, she smelled the Root.
She expected to smell traces of it from the five men whose unconscious bodies were still hidden in the shadows at the front of the house, but this was stronger, more recent. And as she hurried the two servants toward the gate into the park in the middle of the square, the smell grew stronger.
Then from within the park there came a frightened squeal, then silence.
As swift as thought, Phoebe stepped in front of Keen and Tom, her arms spread out, preventing them from moving forward. She gave them a meaningful look as she placed her finger to her lips, warning them to be quiet.
Tom’s eyes had grown wide with surprise and growing fear. Keen’s mouth was pulled into a grim line, and although his shoulders were tense, he remained calm and nodded to her.
Phoebe gestured back to the house, and Keen turned around, making his way back to the sunken front area while pulling Tom along with him. They descended the metal steps again, but this time they softened their footfalls so that they did not ring against the metal.
Phoebe wasn’t certain if the gate into the park would squeak, and she didn’t want to alert anyone to her presence, so she vaulted over the gate easily. Then she stopped to listen.
There were many heartbeats in the park square, most of them beating quickly, and it was difficult to discern their exact number.
She had to focus her hearing in order to finally pick out one heartbeat that was only slightly slower than the others.
Then the man suddenly spoke, and she understood why he was agitated.
“What’s going on? Why are you all here? Go back into the house!” His confusion was evident even though he spoke from the far corner of the park, too distant for anyone but Phoebe to hear. She hurried in that direction, slipping from shadow to shadow.
She guessed that he was one of the ten men from behind the house who had circled around to the front—hopefully not to inform the five men there to begin the attack. Instead, he had found his five unconscious fellows and a dozen servants gathered in the park square.
Phoebe stopped in the shadow of a tree. A man who reeked of the Root stood facing a group of frightened servants. In his arms was one of the maids, and he held a knife to her throat, but his hand was shaking and his eyes were wild. “Go back into the house!” he repeated frantically.
She could think of only one reason he would want them all back inside—the Citadel wanted no witnesses, and so they intended to kill everyone.
Anger burst up from inside of her like an exploding flame. Her racing heartbeat, or perhaps even the scent of her anger, alerted the man to her presence.