Читать книгу His Mask of Retribution - Margaret McPhee, Margaret McPhee - Страница 9

Marianne knew it was the highwayman, but he was alone and there were seven men around her. He walked forwards and the expression of darkness and ferocity on his face made her stomach flip. The ruffians began to close with eagerness upon him, but he did not hesitate, just kept on walking.

One of the villains gave a mocking laugh. ‘You think we’re scared because you’re wearing a bleedin’ mask?’

She did not hear the highwayman’s answer. There was only the sickening sound of bone crunching against bone and the villain laughed no more. A hand closed tight around her upper arm and the thin-faced man looked down into her face.

‘Unhand me!’ She struggled to free herself, but the thin-faced man only smirked at her efforts.

She could not see the highwayman properly, but she could hear every fist that landed, could hear the grunts and the gasps and the curses from the ruffians. There was such menace about him that it made that of the villains pale to insignificance. The men before him seemed to crumple. One was thrown against a wall, slithering down to lie in a limp and bloodied heap. Another turned tail and ran away. She had never seen such power, such strength, such utter ruthlessness. It shook her to the very core. And it shook the thin-faced man too. With a snarl of disgust he gestured the biggest, heaviest-set of his men towards the highwayman. The villain was a giant of a man, his fists huge and scarred, and as Marianne watched he slipped a wicked-looking hunting knife from his pocket.

‘Come on, darlin’, me and you’ve got some business together. Fitz’ll take care of the distraction.’ The thin-faced man manhandled her towards the mouth of the close.

‘No!’ She struggled against him, straining for release, and her eyes met the highwayman’s across the carnage just for a moment. Something passed between them, something she did not understand. He was her enemy and yet he was also her only hope. He was different from the men in the rookery. He was different from any man that she had ever seen. His gaze shifted to focus on the men between them. She watched it harden, and darken, and she shivered just to see it. She stared in awe, wanting both to run to, and away from him. The thin-faced man’s fingers bit all the harder into her arm as he wrenched her so roughly that she lost her footing and went down on her knees. He yanked her up and dragged her towards the building in which she had first seen him. And behind her she could hear the sounds of the fight intensify.

They were just inside the close when the scream pierced the air. A scream of pain and of terror. A scream that made her scalp prickle and her blood run cold. Then there was silence. She strained her neck and saw the big villain lying curled on the ground sobbing like a baby. And the highwayman was still coming: relentless, unstoppable.

Knight saw Marianne Winslow being dragged towards a house by a thin-faced man. Her eyes were fixed on his and in that moment he saw her with all of her armour and pretence stripped away: her soul, bared in such honesty, and vulnerable. She was not Misbourne’s daughter now, but a woman in her own right—one who was in grave danger because of him. He felt the extent of her fear, felt her unspoken plea reach in and touch him in a place he had thought lost long ago. Something inside him seemed to boil up and spill over. There were two men between him and Marianne. Knight knew that time was running out.

‘Come on then, mate,’ taunted the stockier of the two. ‘Show us what you’ve got.’ The black-toothed ruffian moved his fingers in a beckoning gesture. ‘We don’t fight with Queensbury rules he—’

Knight smashed his fist as hard as he could into the ruffian’s nose. The man dropped and did not get up.

The sole remaining villain was backing away with his hands raised in surrender. ‘You can ‘ave ‘er.’ The man’s face was pale beneath the grime. ‘Just don’t hit me, mate.’ A telltale wet patch spread across the fall of the man’s trousers as he spoke. Knight hit him anyway and kept on moving into the close.

From above came the sounds of the struggle. A door slammed, muffling the sounds. He took the stairs two at a time, up to the first floor, hearing the struggle grow louder as he ran. He kicked open the door and saw Marianne backed against the wall watching in terror while, in the middle of the room, the villain unfastened his trousers. Both faces shot round to him.

‘What the hell…?’ The villain scrabbled at the open fall of his trousers, his shifty grey eyes taking in Knight’s highwayman clothes and the kerchief that still masked his face. ‘Piss off and get your own.’

‘She’s mine,’ said Knight.

‘This is my territory—that makes her mine.’ The thin-faced man pulled a razorblade from the pocket of his jacket and brandished it at Knight. ‘Now piss off. Three’s a crowd.’

‘I agree.’ But instead of retreating, Knight walked straight for the man. His left hand caught the wrist that swiped the razor at Knight’s neck; his right grabbed the back of the half-mast breeches and, before the villain could react, ran him headlong out of the window.

When he turned back to Marianne she had not moved one inch; just stood there frozen, spine against the wall.

‘You killed him,’ she whispered.

He let the lethality fade from his face. ‘I doubt it. We’re only one floor up. Probably just broke a few bones.’ He paused. ‘Did he hurt you?’

Her gaze clung to his. ‘No.’

Thank God!

Her voice was quiet and calm, but her face was pale as death and he could see the shock and fear that she had not yet masked in her eyes.

Someone outside started to scream.

‘We have to leave here. Now.’ But she still made no move, just stared at him as if she could not believe what was happening.

‘Lady Marianne,’ he pressed, knowing the urgency of their predicament. He took hold of her arm and together they ran from the room.

The kitchen of Knight’s house in Craven Street was warm and empty save for the two men that sat at the table. The stew that Callerton had prepared earlier was still cooking within the range, its aroma rich in the air. There was the steady slow tick from the clock fixed high on the wall between the windows. The daylight was subdued through the fine netting that Callerton had fitted across the window panes, lending the room an air of privacy.

‘You were out of sight by the time I got out of there. And I knew you wouldn’t go back to the room,’ Callerton said. He unstoppered the bottle of brandy sitting on the scrubbed oak of the kitchen table between them and poured some into each of the two glasses.

Knight gave a nod. They both knew the arrangements if something went wrong. ‘How is she?’

‘She’s resting.’

‘You got to her in time?’ Knight gave another nod. ‘Just.’ Marianne Winslow’s virtue had hung by a thread within that rookery. He wondered what he would have done had he not arrived in time. Killed the blackguard in the room with her. Blamed himself for all eternity.

‘Thank God for that.’ Callerton downed his brandy in one. ‘You’ve got to give her back.’

He knew that. He also knew that he had come too far and could not give up Misbourne’s daughter just yet. ‘That’s what Misbourne’s banking on. We keep her…for now.’ In his mind he could still see those dark eyes of hers, holding his with such brutal honesty, and the look in them that would not leave him.

Callerton rubbed at his forehead. His face was creased with concern. ‘The letter he sent is from the right date. And it’s definitely something that Misbourne would not want towncried. You’re sure it’s not the right one?’

‘Positive.’ He did not let himself think of the woman. This was about Misbourne. It had always been about Misbourne.

Callerton grimaced and shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why give us something we could use against him if it’s the wrong document?’

‘Maybe he’s testing us to see if we know the right document.’

‘And once he knows there’s no hoodwinking us he’ll give us the genuine article.’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

‘How do we send him the message?’

‘Remember the night before Viemero?’

Callerton raised his brows. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘Never more so.’

‘It’s too risky!’

‘It will show him that we mean business.’

‘Aye, it’ll do that, all right.’ Callerton played with his empty glass. ‘But I wouldn’t want to be in your boots tonight.’

Knight grinned. ‘Liar.’

Callerton laughed.

Within the darkened bedchamber that was her prison Marianne stood by the mantelpiece and stared into the flame of her single candle. The shutters were secured across the windows and despite the chill of the early evening, no fire had been lit upon the hearth.

The thoughts were running through her head, constant and whirring. Of the highwayman in the rookery. Of their journey back to the shuttered room. It seemed like a daze, like something she had dreamt. She knew only that the highwayman’s arm had been strong and protective around her and that the villains lurking in the shadows of the narrow streets had watched him with wary eyes and had not approached. No one had moved except to scuttle out of their way. Her family and her servants had always provided a barrier between her and anyone who did not move in her own small, vetted circle, but this was different. This was like nothing she had ever experienced. Men looked at the highwayman with a curious mix of hostility and deference, women with a specific interest they made no effort to hide. He had intruded into their world, snatched her right from their grasp. They had not liked it, but not one of them had moved to stop him.

He had kept her moving at a steady pace, twisting and turning through the dark maze of narrow lanes until, eventually, the lanes had widened to streets and light had started to penetrate the gloom. The streets had grown busier, but no one had entered the space around Marianne and the highwayman; everywhere they went a path had opened up through the crowd before them. Even in her dazed state she had known the reason: they were afraid of him, every last one of them.

And by his side, Marianne Winslow, who for the past three years had been scared of her own shadow, Marianne Winslow, who had more reason than any to be afraid, had walked through the most dangerous rookery in London, past villains and thieves, unscathed and unafraid. She was still reeling from it, still seeing the different way they looked at her because she was with him. And that sense of freedom, of power almost, obliterated the terror of the rookery.

She should have been shaking. She should have been sobbing and weeping with fear and with shock. She stared at the candle flame without even seeing it, knowing that the calm she felt was natural and not the result of counting her breaths and slowing them, or drinking a preparation of valerian. He was a man more dangerous than any other, yet with him she had felt safe. It made no sense.

The flame began to flicker wildly. Her attention shifted to the tiny stub of candle that remained and she knew it would not last much longer.

She lifted the candlestick and, holding it high, glanced around the bedchamber. It was a woman’s room, but one that was not used, if the quiet, sad atmosphere was anything to judge by. The walls appeared a yellow colour and were hung with a few small paintings. A large still life, depicting an arrangement of exotic flowers, was positioned on the wall above the mantelpiece. She crossed the floor to search the dressing table. There was a vanity set, bottles of perfume, jars of cream and cosmetics, a box of hairpins, a casket of jewellery and two candelabra, both of which were empty. None of the drawers held any candles. She glanced towards the bed—large and four-postered, its covers and pillows a faded pale chintz, the colour of which was indefinable in the candlelight. At one side was a small chest of drawers and on the other a table. Neither held any candles. Nor did the small bookcase. There was nothing behind the gold-chinoiserie dressing screen in the corner. The candle stub guttered, making the flame dance all the wilder and the wick burn all the faster and the first snake of fear slithered into her blood.

Her fingers scrabbled at the shutters closed across the window and found the catch, but no amount of prising would release it. It took her a few minutes to realise that they had been secured with nails.

There were two doors within the bedchamber: one in the wall against which the head of the bed rested, and the other to the left, opposite the window. She hurried to each one in turn, trying the locks, twisting and pulling at the handles. But both were locked, confirming what she feared—that she was trapped in here, with nothing to do save wait for the candle to extinguish. The knowledge made her stomach knot.

She had been safe in the rookery with him, but this was different. Now she was his prisoner. Alone in a bedchamber. And she knew how dangerous he was and how very angry he was with her father for not delivering the mysterious document. But her mind flickered back to what would happen when the candle burned out. He had said she had nothing to fear from him. She glanced again at the candle. It should have been the highwayman that terrified her, but it wasn’t. She closed her eyes and counted her breaths, slowing them as she ever did when she was afraid, making them deeper to allay the mounting panic. And when she had calmed herself, she knew what she was going to have to do.

‘All done.’ Callerton finished brushing the last speck of dust from the shoulder of Knight’s midnight-blue tailcoat.

‘The boy should have delivered the note to Misbourne by now. We’ll—’ The banging started before Knight could finish the words. He raised an eyebrow. ‘What the hell…?’

‘It sounds like she’s using a battering ram against the door,’ said Callerton. ‘Do you want me to tie her up?’

Knight shook his head. ‘I’ll deal with Lady Marianne.’

‘You’re due at Devlin’s for dinner in five minutes.’

‘Then I’ll be late; Devlin will expect nothing else. It pays to cultivate a habit of unreliability. Besides, I’ve no stomach for the after-dinner entertainment.’

‘More lightskirts?’

‘He’s hired Mrs Silver’s girls for the night.’

‘Again?’

‘Again,’ said Knight.

Callerton gave a whistle. ‘You’ll be late back, then.’

Knight scowled at the prospect. ‘I’ll have to make a show of it, but I’ll be back in time.’

‘Most men would love a chance to play the rake. Come to think of it, most men would be living the dream rather than faking it.’

‘I’m not most men.’

‘No, you’re not,’ agreed Callerton more quietly. ‘Most men would have left me to die in Portugal.’

The two men looked at one another, feeling all of the past there in the room with them. The only sound was of something being thudded hard against wood, coming from above.

‘We’ll get him,’ said Callerton.

‘Damn right we’ll get him. And in the meantime I’ll silence his daughter.’ Knight slipped the black silken mask from his pocket, tied it around his face, grabbed a branch of candles and strode up the stairs.

The ivory-and-tortoiseshell hairbrush splintered into three from the force of being hammered against the door. Marianne threw it aside and continued her assault with her fists and her feet, not caring about the pain.

The panic was escalating and she feared that she would not be able to keep a rein on it for much longer if he did not come soon. She banged at the door so hard that her blood pounded through her hands and she could feel bruises starting to form. She glanced round at the mantelpiece and the dying candle upon it. The light was already beginning to ebb. Soon it would be gone. Her stomach turned over at the thought. She bit her lip and banged all the harder.

She did not hear his footsteps amidst the noise. The lock clicked and then he was there in the bedchamber with her.

‘Lady Marianne.’ His half-whisper was harsher than ever. ‘It seems you desire my company.’ He stood there, holding the branched candlestick aloft, and the flickering light from the candles sent shadows darting and scuttling across the walls. His brows were drawn low in a stern frown and the shadows made him seem taller than she remembered, and his shoulders broader. He was dressed in expensive formal evening wear: a dark tailcoat, white shirt, cravat and waistcoat, and dark pantaloons. Beside all of which, the mask that hid his face looked incongruous. No ordinary highwayman.

‘My candle is almost spent.’ Her pride would let her say nothing more. She glanced across to the mantelpiece where the lone candle spluttered.

‘It is.’ He made no move, just looked at her. His gaze dropped to the broken hairbrush that lay on the floor between them. ‘Not very ladylike behaviour.’

‘Highway robbery, assaulting my father and abducting me on the way to my wedding are hardly gentlemanly.’

‘They are not,’ he admitted. ‘But as I told you before, I am what your father made me.’

She stared at him. ‘What has my father ever done to you? What is all of this about?’

He gave a hard laugh and shook his head. ‘Have I not already told you?’

‘Contrary to what you believe, my father is a good man.’

‘No, Lady Marianne, he is not.’ There was such ferocity in his eyes at the mention of her father that she took a step backwards and, as she did, her foot inadvertently kicked a large shard of the handle so that it slid across the floor, coming to a halt just before the toes of his shoes.

She saw him glance at it, before that steady gaze returned to hers once more. ‘My mother’s hairbrush.’

She looked down at the smashed brush, then back up at the highwayman and the fear made her stomach turn somersaults. She swallowed. ‘Does she know that her son is a highwayman who has terrorised and robbed half of London?’

‘The newspapers exaggerate, Lady Marianne. I have terrorised and robbed six people and six people only, your father amongst them.’

Her heart gave a stutter at his admission.

‘And my mother is dead,’ he added.

She glanced away, feeling suddenly wrong-footed, unsure of what to say.

He carried on regardless. ‘Were you trying to beat the door down to escape or merely destroy my possessions?’

‘Neither,’ she said. ‘I wished to…’ she hesitated before forcing herself on ‘…to attract your attention.’

‘You have it now. Complete and undivided.’

She dared a glance at him and saw that his eyes were implacable as ever.

‘What is it that you wish to say?’

The smell of candle smoke hit her nose and she peered round at the mantelpiece to see only darkness where the candle had been. A part of her wanted to beg, to plead, to tell him the truth. But she would almost rather face the terror than that. Almost. She experienced the urge to grab the branch of candles from his hand, but she did not surrender to the panic. Instead, she held her head up and kept her voice calm.

‘All of the candlesticks are empty.’

His gaze did not falter. She thought she saw something flicker in his eyes, but she did not understand what it was. He stepped forwards.

She took a step back.

He looked into her eyes with that too-seeing look that made her feel as if her soul was laid bare to him, as if he could see all of her secrets, maybe even the deepest and darkest one of all. She knew she should look away, but she did not dare, for she knew that all around them was darkness.

The silence hissed between them.

‘I would be obliged if you would fill them. All of them.’ She forced her chin up and pretended to herself that she was speaking to the footman in her father’s house, even though her heart was thudding nineteen to the dozen and her legs were pressed tight together to keep from shaking.

His eyes held a cynical expression. He turned away and headed for the door, taking the branch of candles with him. She heard the darkness whisper behind her.

‘No! Stop!’ She grabbed at his arm with both hands to stop him, making the candles flicker wildly. ‘You cannot…’ She manoeuvred herself between him and the door, trying to block his exit, keeping a tight hold of him all the while.

His gaze dropped to where her fingers clutched so tight to the superfine of his coat sleeve that her knuckles shone white, then back to her face.

She felt her cheeks warm and let her hands fall away. ‘Where are you going, sir?’ She was too embarrassed to meet his gaze. Her heart was racing hard enough to leap from her chest and she felt sick.

He raised his brows. ‘I may be mistaken, but I thought you requested candles. I was going to have my man bring you some.’

Her eyes flickered to the branch of candles in his hand, then to the darkness that enclosed the room beyond. ‘But…’ The words stopped on her lips. She did not want to say them. She could not bear for him to know. Yet the darkness was waiting and she knew what it held. She felt the terror prickle at the nape of her neck and begin to creep across her scalp.

‘Lady Marianne.’

Her gaze came back to his, to those rich warm amber eyes that glowed in the light of his candles. Please, she wanted to say, wanted to beg. Already she could feel the tremor running through her body. But still she did not yield to it, not in front of him. She shook her head.

‘If I were to leave the candles here…’

‘Yes,’ she said, and the relief was so great that she felt like weeping. ‘Yes,’ she repeated and could think of nothing else. The highwayman passed her the branch of candles. Her hand was trembling as she took it; she hated the thought that he might see it, so she turned away. ‘Thank you,’ she added and sank back into the room, clutching the candles tight to ward away the darkness.

There was silence for a moment, then the closing of the door and the sound of his footsteps receding.

She stared at the flicker of the candle flames and thought again that, in truth, he was no ordinary highwayman.

The clock in the corner on the mantelpiece chimed midnight. Misbourne left his son and his wife in the drawing room and made his way to his study. He needed time to think, needed space away from his wife’s incessant weeping, because his heart was filled with dread and his stomach churning with fear over the gamble he had taken.

‘Had he released her she would be here by now,’ Linwood had whispered and Misbourne knew that his son was right. Yet he could not admit it, even to himself. He needed a brandy to calm his nerves. He needed time to gather his strength and hide his fears.

But everything changed when he opened the door to his study. For there, on the desk that he had left clear, lay two pieces of paper like pale islands floating on the vast sea of dark polished mahogany. One was a smooth-cut sheet of writing paper, and the other was a crushed paper ball. His heart faltered before rushing off at a gallop. He hurried across the room to the desk. The writing paper bore his own crest, but it was not his hand that had penned those three bold letters and single word.

IOU Misbourne.

The ink glistened in the candlelight. His hand was shaking as he touched a finger to it and saw its wetness smear. He whirled around, knowing that the words had only just been written. Behind him the curtains swayed. He wrenched them open, but there was no one there. The window was up and the damp scent of night air filled his nose. He leaned his hands on the sill, craning his head out, searching the night for the man who had the audacity to walk right into his home to leave the message. But not a single one of the lamp posts that lined the road had been lit. The street was dark and deserted. Not a figure stirred. Not a dog barked. And of the highwayman there was no sign.

He knew what the crumpled ball of paper was before he opened it. The letter he had sent to the highwayman. A letter that could have been used against Misbourne. A letter that could cost him much in the wrong hands. Crumpled as if it were worthless. The villain knew what the document was. He knew, and there was only one man left alive with that knowledge. Misbourne felt sick at the thought. It was everything he had guarded against. Everything he had prayed so hard to prevent. He shut the window and closed the curtains, knowing it would do little good; the highwayman had been in his home, the one place that should have been safe.

He filled a glass with brandy, sat behind his desk and drank the strong warming liquid down. His eyes never left the words written upon the paper. Misbourne was more afraid than he had ever been, both for himself and for Marianne. He knew there was only one thing to do when the highwayman next made contact. If the highwayman next made contact.