Demon of Mine (32 page)

The parchment
was new and inflexible, stubbornly refusing to lie flat. Still, she
managed to unfold it into something more than the square it had
been a few minutes ago. When it slipped from her fingers, there
didn’t seem to be much of a point in picking it up again. Pushing
her feet against the floorboards, she turned in another half
circle, her chains jangling softly as she eagerly eyed the creased
sheet of paper.

She let out a
breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding when she saw the tidy
scrawl that had been inked across the page. Swinging her legs
around and awkwardly pinning down one stubborn corner of parchment
with her big toe, she read. Her keen eyesight made it easy to
decipher the hand-written script. The very first words addressed
what was plainly a letter to Damon.

A
wave of longing swept over Elsie as she stared at his name, penned
by a stranger’s hand, but her curiosity demanded that she shove her
softer emotions to the back of her mind and read on.
We have your
wife
, the letter
began, cutting straight to the chase,
and intend to hold her until due payment is
rendered in the sum of ten thousand pounds. You are afforded three
days to deliver said sum, in cash, to a specific location
that will be revealed in
another letter, which will be delivered to you soon after this one.
Your wife will be returned to you unharmed shortly after you
surrender the ransom. If you do not render the payment in full
within three days, your wife’s heart will be cut out. To assure you
that the damage has indeed been done as promised, the organ will be
delivered to you in a box and you will be given three more days to
render payment with the incentive of receiving your heartless but
living wife back. Should those three days pass without receipt of
the money, she will be burned to ashes, which you may also expect
to receive in a package in due time after they have
cooled.

The letter was
signed with a simple ‘X’.

Elsie stared
at the ransom note for several moments before her shock ebbed,
giving way to coherent thought. At least she knew why she was being
held captive, and horrible as the letter’s promises were, she had
no reason to fear, did she? The Remingtons were among the
wealthiest families in England, and though ten thousand pounds was
a steep sum, it was inconceivable that Damon’s nature would allow
him to entertain notions of not paying it. Of course, there was
still the matter of his parents. As disappointed as they were by
the marriage, did their aversion to having a housemaid as a
daughter run deep enough to merit her death?

The sound of
someone stirring elsewhere in the house tore Elsie from her
worries. As quickly as she could without creating a racket, she
scooted back against the wall where she’d been left. The sack lay
on the floor, but there was no help for it. She couldn’t possibly
get it back on without her hands, and footsteps were sounding in
the hall she imagined was outside the door to her cell of a room.
Holding her back straight against the wall, she braced herself for
whatever would come when she was discovered. She’d intended to meet
her captor with a brave face, but when the door swung open to
reveal a shockingly familiar figure, her jaw defied her, dropping
as his did the same.

****

Jenny’s skirts
rustled against the brick wall of a dilapidated tailor’s shop as
she rounded the corner, careful to keep an inconspicuous distance
between herself and Véronique. The woman had marched out of the
apothecary’s premises and maintained a brisk pace since, moving
like a bee intent on making its way to the hive. Whatever she was
up to, it certainly wasn’t a leisurely Sunday afternoon walk. In
fact, Jenny’s legs ached from keeping up with her purposeful
stride. When Véronique stopped suddenly in front of a row of
houses, Jenny breathed a sigh of relief.

As Jenny
watched from against the side of what seemed to be an empty home, a
heavy feeling of suspicion settled into her gut, strong enough to
make her time spent on the long walk through the city seem well
worth it. The townhouse Véronique stood in front of was not the
sort of building anyone would imagine the haughty, rich woman
sparing a sideways glance for, let alone entering. Its brick front
had certainly seen better days, and the few unbroken windows were
impossible to see through, thanks to liberal coatings of dust. It
was a thoroughly disrespectable house in a wholly unpopular
neighborhood that most French ladies visiting London for a season
would sooner perish than set foot in. And yet, Véronique opened the
front door herself, as if she owned the shabby building, and
disappeared inside.

Jenny followed
her. After waiting a few moments, she crossed the street, keeping
her eyes down and trying to look nonchalant. Luckily, her modest
wardrobe allowed her to pass without attracting much notice in the
lackluster neighborhood. The door, when tried, proved to be locked,
but Jenny hadn’t skulked halfway across the city to be thwarted by
such a basic security measure. It was a stroke of good fortune that
the house was the last of its row, with no neighbor on the right
side. Jenny rounded the corner and hurried around the back,
searching for another entrance, or at least a broken window through
which she might be able to eavesdrop.

****

Elsie snapped her mouth shut, setting her jaw as the man who’d
just entered the room gaped at her like an idiot. And he
was
a fool – apparently his failed lawsuit
against Damon had taught him nothing. The same Lord Griffith who’d
taken the Remington heir to court –
the
Lord Griffith now that his older brother was dead – stood in
the doorway, her kidnapper.

Elsie
compressed her lips into a tight line, trying not to think about
the fact that she was clad in only her thin shift. Fortunately or
perhaps not so much, Griffith’s gaze seemed to be stuck on her
face, as if he hadn’t in a million years considered that she’d be
able to free herself of the sack that had covered it. Just when he
seemed about to say something, the sounds of a turning lock and
slamming door came from below. The startled look that crossed his
face was quickly replaced by an expression that could only be
described as fearful. The way he jumped to action was almost
comical. Stooping down, he hastily snatched up the thick sack Elsie
had managed to wriggle her way out of. For a moment it seemed as if
he wouldn’t notice the fallen letter at all, but when he froze,
bent at the waist, it was obvious that he had. After glaring
askance at Elsie, he snatched it up and shoved it into a pocket.
“See here,” he said, his voice low as the sound of a key relocking
the door came from below. “You’ll behave as if you were asleep this
whole time, or by God, you’ll pay for it.” He pulled the sack
rudely over her head and hurried from the room, shutting the door
softly behind himself.

“
I
trust that everything went well?” he asked from beyond the door,
his voice calm once again.

Footsteps
clattered on the stairs. “I got zee tea, if that eez what you are
asking,” Véronique said shortly.

“
Ah, excellent,” Griffith replied, a little too
enthusiastically. “Shall I brew up another cup, then?”

“
Of
course you shall.” Suspicion crept into Véronique’s voice. “Why,
she ‘asn’t woken, ‘as she?”

“
I
just checked in on her. She’s fast asleep.”

“
Well hurry – eet is already forty-five minutes past zee
hour.”

“
I’d noticed.”

“
Yes, zee crowds are horrible. Idiots milling about in zee
sunlight, clogging up zee streets. Eet is worse here than in Paris.
Now take care of zee girl – my head aches.” She stomped down the
hall, presumably leaving Griffith with the tea powder – whatever it
was made of – that would put Elsie into another stupor for several
more hours. Cringing at the thought, she began to plan what she
would say to Griffith when he reentered the room. If he could be
manipulated so easily by Véronique, perhaps she herself could talk
some sense into him.

When he
stepped into the room, she waited until he lifted her mask to
speak, and even then kept her voice at a whisper. “This is
foolishness. Are you really so willing to risk your life for ten
thousand pounds?”

Droplets of
tea sloshed over the rim of the cup Griffith held and fell to the
dusty floor below.

“
The Remingtons will not let you get away with this, even if
they do render the payment. Save yourself. Return me to
Damon.”

Griffith
chuckled humorlessly. “Ten thousand pounds? I’ll be getting much
more than that out of this venture, thank you very much. Now shut
up, if you have a care for what happens to you.” He mashed the cup
against her lips, spilling a little more of its bitter
contents.

Devoting her
last moments of lucidity to thoughts of Damon, Elsie drank, telling
herself that it didn’t matter if she was awake or not – he would
find her. After all, she’d awoke to danger once before to find
herself being rescued by him. The only trouble was that this time,
the building she was trapped in was not a beacon of flames that
could be seen from miles away. If it was as ordinary on the outside
as it seemed from the inside, she was practically
invisible.

****

Damon’s heart
leapt into his throat when a dark-haired, decidedly grubby man
strode into the room. After spending a couple whirlwind hours in
the city, pressing a coin into the palm of every Bow Street Runner
he could find and enticing them with the same reward he had the
thief takers, he’d forced himself to return to the house. He’d
promised to wait in the sitting room on the first floor, available
to anyone with any information whatsoever concerning his wife. The
man that approached him now, escorted by a servant, was one of the
thief takers. Desperate for information and ready to act upon any
he was given, Damon sprang from his chair. “What is it?”

The man
clutched his hat in his hands, deep brown eyes fixed nervously on
Damon. “It’s nothing definite sir, but I heard somethin’ that may
be of interest.”

“
What is it?” Damon repeated, his nails biting into his palms
as he held his hands in tight fists at his sides.

“
Well, there’s been talk of a girl, see – er, a lady perhaps –
who was keepin’ company with a strange man last night at a tavern
called the Red Oak. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it, but it’s down
near—”

“
What did she look like?” The words ‘strange man’ echoed in
Damon’s mind, setting his teeth on edge.

“
That’s the thing, sir. They said she was very pretty, with
chestnut hair ‘an green eyes, just like your wife. Young, too.
Naught more than nineteen or twenty, I heard.”

Of course,
that could have described any number of women in London, but
Damon’s heart leapt nonetheless. He raked a hand through his hair,
sucking in a breath at the thought of Elsie being sighted alive.
Too many times over the past few hours had his mind tormented him
with the possibility that she could be lying somewhere with her
heart cut out and her body burnt to precious ashes. “Tell me what
made a young woman keeping company with a man in a tavern so
strange.” There were a thousand ways the situation could be
explained. He hardly dared to hope for the one he’d been waiting
all morning for.

“
Well, they had a huge row, right out in the street in front of
the tavern. People who heard it said the girl didn’t want to go
with him, wherever he was goin’. She made a real scene, she did,
right until the man leaned down and whispered somethin’ in her ear.
She went quiet as could be after that. Just walked right along with
him, lookin’ cross.”

“
Is
that it?” Damon frowned. A stubborn young woman matching Elsie’s
description. A man. An argument held in the street outside a
tavern. Stranger things had certainly happened in London,
especially at night. It was so little to go on. It was also all he
had; the only lead the day had presented him with, and he was
desperate to take action.

The thief
taker nodded, adding apologetically. “I know it’s not the best lead
sir, but it might be somethin’.”

Damon gladly
abandoned the sitting room, moving forward in long strides the
other man had to jog to keep up with. “We’re going to the Red
Oak.”

Chapter 19

Jenny stood
behind the shabby townhouse in a street so narrow it might have
been more appropriately called an alley. The upside was that she
was alone. Abandoning all pretense of casualness, she pressed her
back against the house’s brick wall, hardly daring to breathe as
she strained to hear every bit of the conversation coming from the
second floor. At first she’d only been able to make out the dull
murmur of voices somewhere, it seemed, in the center of the house.
Then Véronique and the unidentified man she was speaking to had
moved into a room at the far end – if any area had the right to be
called that in the tall, narrow building – on the right side of the
townhouse. Their voices drifted down through a second-story window
that was missing one of its panes.

“’
Ave you sent out zee letter yet?”

The man who
responded sounded flustered. “I just finished writing it. I will
send it within the hour.”