Shana Galen (12 page)

Oh, how she hated Winn. How could he have done this to her? Had he never thought of anyone but himself? Had he never considered his foolish playing at spying could be dangerous? Or maybe he knew this all along and did not care. Maybe he cared more for the thrill of espionage than he did for her or their children.

And where was he now? Did he even know she was gone? Certainly her absence had been noted by now, but was he a good enough spy to realize who had taken her? And could he rescue her? Would he even try?

Elinor was not certain of any of it. She was no longer certain who her husband was.

But of one thing she was certain. If she wanted to escape, she was going to have to do it on her own. She paced and planned and finally rang the servant’s bell.

She’d been so shocked that she’d pulled the rope, so shocked that she was actually going to go through with her daft plans, that she had to sit down for a moment because her legs wobbled too much to support her. She’d half fallen on a stool in front of a mottled dressing mirror, and in the warped glass, she could see her reflection.

Loose pieces of hair clung to her cheeks and forehead in sweaty ringlets, her dark eyes were wide, and her face was as pale as a specter’s. No, she thought with a shake of her head. This would not do.

She smoothed her hair back, pinched her cheeks to give them color, and took several deep breaths. She stood, straightened her gown, and was calm and composed when the door opened to admit the servant. It was a hulking giant of a man, and he did not look pleased to have been summoned. Some of Elinor’s calmness fled, but she was determined to avoid at least the appearance of anxiety. After all, this Foncé could not see her pounding heart or hear her mind screaming in complete and utter terror.

“What do you want?” the man growled. At least that was what Elinor thought he said. He had a strange accent, and she had to guess at half of his words.

“I wish to be taken to see Mr. Foncé, if you please.”

The servant shook his head. “If Foncé wants to see you, he’ll ask for you,” he said, or something to that effect.

“He will want to hear what I have to say, I assure you,” she said, doing her best to sound firm and commanding. She’d had years of experience managing a household and ordering servants about. Despite her nervousness, she could play this role in her sleep. “If you do not take me to him, he is going to be most displeased. After all, if I’m forced to sit here and think and wait, I may change my mind.”

The servant frowned, his heavy brows coming together over the prominent ridge of his forehead. “I’ll be back.”

He exited, and she heard the key turn in the lock. She would not allow herself to consider the possibility that Foncé would not want to see her. She had not lied when she said her resolve would fail if forced to wait.

After what seemed an interminable amount of time and too many trips across the thirty-three steps of the room, she heard footfalls again. Quickly, she smoothed her gown and stood at attention again. The servant opened the door and motioned for her.

Elinor was equally terrified and elated. It was working! Her plan was working! But did she even want it to work? She really had no other choice, unless she was content to sit in this room until Foncé decided he no longer had need of her and carved her to pieces. Besides, she could be brave. Winn did this sort of thing all the time, she supposed. Was he braver than she? Impossible. Elinor had birthed two children. She had faced their temper tantrums and their battles of will. She had nursed them when their fevers were so high she was not certain the girls would live through the night. She had gone without sleep or sustenance and emerged on the other side only a little worse for wear. And what the experience had taught her was that she could do anything if she must.

She could face this Foncé. She must.

She was shown into a library of sorts this time. It unnerved Elinor slightly that the venue had changed. She had planned where she would sit and what she would say, with the drawing room in her mind. But the library would have to do. It was a darker room, and the drapes were drawn, but Foncé had lit several lamps. Their flickering light glinted off the metal of the knives he was polishing.

Elinor took a fortifying breath and forced herself to enter the room when the servant mumbled something she assumed was her introduction.

Foncé did not speak. He looked up at her and polished a long knife with a rectangular blade. Elinor thought it might be called a meat cleaver.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she said. He did not ask her to sit, as she had expected, so she stood awkwardly before him.

“I hope this is important,” he said, placing the cleaver down and lifting a smaller, more delicate blade. “I am busy, as you see.”

“It is important, and I shall endeavor to be brief. I think I may be of service to you.”

Foncé continued polishing, but he raised a brow with interest. Elinor frowned as she watched him. Was it her imagination, or had he removed a dark crimson material from the blade? She clenched her hands into fists and hid them in her skirts. Her nails bit into her palms, and she focused on that sensation rather than the wicked knife being cleaned before her.

“You seem interested in my husband, the man you think may be the spy Baron.”

“I know he is Baron.”

“And you’ve taken me in order to lure him out.”

“In part. I thought you might make attractive bait.” He set the delicate blade down and lifted one with a hooked end. Good God, what was the purpose of that?

“I regret to inform you that if Lord Keating is this Baron, he will see this is a tactic to capture him and not rise to the bait.”

Foncé stroked the blade. “That is unfortunate for you.”

“But perhaps not for you. Perhaps I could be of some assistance.”

Foncé’s expression did not change, and Elinor felt panic creeping closer and closer. If he did not like her proposition, she was doomed. “Why would you assist me,
ma
cherie
?”

“Because I would hope you would repay kindness with kindness and allow me to go unharmed.”

“I see.” Foncé lifted another weapon, this one a long blade with a forked end. “And what can you offer me that would entice me to accept this proposal?”

“I will lure Baron out so you may capture him.”

“I do not need your assistance. I will have him eventually.”

“But why wait, when I can make certain he is yours before morning?”

Foncé stroked the implement he held in his hand, and Elinor could imagine the sharp prongs piercing her flesh. “Go on,” he said.

“I’ll send a note, and we will make it seem as though I was able to smuggle it out. I will tell him I overheard your plan to take me to Almack’s and kill me.”

Foncé’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I take you to an assembly room?”

“Because it is symbolic. If you were to kill me there, it would show the
ton
no one is safe, and because it shows you have the power to access such exclusive venues. Lord Keating will understand the significance and come for me.”

Foncé shook his head. “He is no fool. He will make certain the locale is secure before the prescribed time. When he discovers it is not, he will not come.”

“He will come. If I ask him to. If I assure him we can escape.” And she could assure him that quite honestly. She knew Almack’s as well as her own house. She knew the back exits and the tucked-away rooms. “I can also sneak you in. I know the owner. He will let me in.”

“I see.” Foncé looked thoughtful. “And why would you do this for me?”

Elinor gestured to the knives. “I do not want to die, for one.”

“And you have no qualms about betraying your husband?”

She shrugged. “Ours is no love match. We have a marriage of convenience, like the rest of Society. In truth, I hardly know him. He is rarely, if ever, home.”

Foncé set the forked implement down, and Elinor let out a breath she had not known she was holding. “How can I trust you?”

That was the question she had hoped would not arise. But Foncé was an intelligent man. He saw the flaw in her plan. “I give you my word,” she began, as she’d rehearsed in her room.

He shook his head. “Not good enough.”

Elinor wanted to curse. She had been so close! “I know no way to prove myself. You shall simply have to trust me.”

“I do not think so, madam.” He lifted a small, delicate scalpel. “But I think I might know a way to ensure your cooperation.”

“It was not the body of Lady Keating,” Blue said from somewhere far away. Winn could hardly hear the other agent for the rushing sound in his ears. “But the news is not good, nonetheless.” He trained his bright blue eyes on Melbourne.

“Go on,” the secretary said. Somehow Winn managed to move into a chair. Elinor was alive. Foncé had not killed her. Not yet. Winn did not have to bear the responsibility for the death of his wife and the mother of his children. Not yet.

“It was our man inside the Maîtriser group, I’m afraid.”

Wolf’s head snapped up. “We have a man inside the Maîtriser group?”

“Melbourne is just full of surprises, isn’t he?” Winn muttered.

“Not anymore,” Blue said ominously. “A friend of mine with the Bow Street Runners reported a body floating in the Thames and suggested I might have an interest in taking a look.”

“And?” Melbourne asked.

“And it was our man.”

“How do you know Foncé killed him?” Wolf asked.

“Because he’d carved his name on the man’s chest. It is a departure from his usual practice, but I have no doubt it was his work.”

Winn put a hand to his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head pounded, and his eyes were dry with fatigue. He closed them briefly, feeling them burn under his heavy lids. “I don’t suppose this man gave you any information as to Foncé’s whereabouts,” Winn said, opening his eyes and looking at Melbourne.

“He had not managed to determine that information yet,” Melbourne said. “I’m afraid we are no further along than we were before.”

“So what now?” Winn demanded. “Do we sit here and wait for Elinor’s body to wash up? Do I twiddle my thumbs while that murderer carves her up?” The image of her tender porcelain flesh flashed in his mind. His fingers could still feel the silkiness of her skin. His hands could still test the weight of her breasts. He could not imagine that glorious flesh marred by the crude red slashes of Foncé’s tools. Would Caroline and Georgiana ever forgive him for not saving their mother? Could he ever forgive himself? He’d not yet forgiven himself for Crow. He did not think he ever would.

Melbourne was speaking to Wolf. “Saint has found nothing yet?”

“She has uncovered several interesting possibilities, but research is a slow process.”

“Yes,” Blue murmured. “Especially when the researcher is Saint.”

Wolf shot him an annoyed look.

“I have one or two operatives in Town,” Melbourne said. “I could send them on surveillance. Perhaps they might turn up something.”

Winn felt his hopes sink. Research. Aimless canvassing. These strategies would not save Elinor. Not in time, anyway.

A sharp knock sounded on the door, and Melbourne cursed. “Now what?” He stalked to the door and threw it open, revealing a clerk in black, cowering in the casement. “I said I did not wish to be disturbed!”

“I know, my lord, but this just came. It is addressed to Lord Keating. His butler sent it as soon as it arrived at his house.”

Winn jumped to his feet and snatched the vellum from the clerk’s trembling hands. He all but ripped it when breaking the plain red-wax seal, but what he saw made it possible for him to breathe again. “It’s from her,” he said. Skimming the words she’d written and trying to make some sense of them, he closed his eyes and attempted to focus.

“It’s a trap,” Wolf said.

Winn opened his eyes and glanced at the room of men. They all wore the same expression. Without even having read the missive, they knew what it contained. Winn knew too. It
was
a trap.

And he had no choice but to fall into it.

***

The man had said his name was Tolbert, pronounced
toll-bear
, and Elinor thought it suited him. At least the
bear
portion of the name suited him. Her servant had given his name grudgingly and only after they’d been in the closed carriage on the way to the rendezvous for three-quarters of an hour. After she’d written the note, closely supervised by Foncé, she’d paced her room for hours, waiting for Winn’s response. She’d had the note sent to her home, with instructions for Bramson to forward it to Lord Keating if he was not at home. But she had not really known if Winn would receive the note or not. She suspected he was wherever spies in London congregated, and no one—not even Foncé—knew where that was.

But somehow the note had found him, and he had penned a curt reply that he would see her at the appointed time and place. As she and Tolbert sat outside Almack’s and waited for the clock to reach nine o’clock, she wished she could part the carriage drapes and scan the surrounding area. Was Foncé lurking nearby? Was Winn arriving outside Almack’s even now? She lifted her hand to the drapes, parted them slightly, but Tolbert snapped them shut in front of her face with a whoosh. “No peeking.”

Elinor sat back, feeling duly scolded. Hadn’t she been a baroness when she left her house this morning? Hadn’t she been afforded every respect and courtesy and deference possible? And now servants snapped drapes shut in front of her face, and she could do nothing to object, because he was armed to the teeth and would slit her throat without a second thought.

Five long minutes ticked by, and Elinor heard distant church bells clang nine times. The sound seemed strange to her for some reason. Wrong. She glanced at Tolbert, but except for a peek through the curtains, he did not move. Elinor thought about inquiring as to why he was allowed to look through the curtains when she was not, but in the weak light from the carriage lamps, she could see the glint of metal from one of his knives, and she bit her tongue.

Was Winn waiting for her, even now? Was he waiting outside Almack’s, wondering if she was coming, wondering if this was all a trick, wondering if she would leave him waiting? The irony of Winn waiting for her was not lost on Elinor, but for once she did not wish their positions reversed. She wanted to be with him. Somehow she knew if she could just reach him, fall into his arms, all would be well. He would find some way to save them. He had to.

Tolbert parted the drapes again and nodded. “Let’s go.”

Elinor could not think what might have changed since the last time he had looked, but she was glad finally to exit the conveyance. As soon as she stepped out, she halted.

“What is going on?” This was not Almack’s. They were in front of a house she did not know.

“Change of plan,” Tolbert said.

“What?” How could Foncé change the plan? It was
her
plan!

But now as she looked at what appeared to be a hotel of sorts, Elinor knew she was the one who had been duped. Foncé was no fool, and he had obviously found some means of changing the meeting location without her knowledge. This was his territory, not hers, and she felt completely at a loss.

Her belly tightened with a sickening dread. She had led Winn into a trap.

Perhaps he would not come. Perhaps he would be able to rescue them both. She was all but useless now.

Tolbert kept close to her, a concealed knife pressed to her side and his hand on her upper arm as he led her to the door of the hotel and then through the public rooms and up the stairs. Elinor had a quick glimpse of several women and men conversing in a drawing room, but nothing looked untoward to her. The hotel looked much like any other. She considered crying out for assistance, but her companion seemed to sense her urge and dug the knife in deeper. Tolbert, who had only ever lumbered when she had been waiting on him, moved at a punishing speed. Elinor was disappointed at the quick glimpse she caught of the rooms. She had no sense of it from such a hasty perusal.

As Tolbert pushed her up a second set of stairs, she tried to imagine Winn walking these same worn stair runners only moments before. She closed her eyes briefly and allowed herself to be propelled by Tolbert. She tried, desperately, to feel Winn’s presence. At their home in Mayfair, she always knew when he was in residence. There was a subtle change in the feel of the house—a quietness, a tension, a holding of breath that commenced when he walked through the door. And even if the house had not changed, she changed when he was near. Her skin became warm and sensitive, even the softest material seeming to chafe uncomfortably. Rooms that had been chilly only moments before seemed unbearably hot. Her clothing felt tight, her hair heavy, her hearing intensified. It was as though every part of her coalesced and focused on Winn.

But she did not feel him now. Try as she might, she did not sense his presence anywhere. Her heart, which had been pounding quite a staccato, now thumped heavy and painful in her rib cage. She began to fear he had not come. She began to fear he had suspected the trap and would leave her to Foncé’s whims. Her chest sagged as her heart seemed to double in weight. If her plan failed so spectacularly, she knew she would not live out the hour. She would have had to be blind not to see how much Foncé anticipated carving her up with the ghoulish implements he lovingly referred to as his tools.

“Here,” Tolbert said, stopping before an ordinary door, which was closed, as were the other doors along the corridor. Elinor had not even noticed they had reached the landing for the stairs and started down a corridor. Now she blinked and attempted to take in her surroundings. The walls of the corridor were bare of portraits or other ornamentation. A few stubs of candles burned in a brace a little ways down the hall, but no other light illuminated the shadowed corridor. The carpet beneath her feet was worn but not yet shabby. The door before her was wood and painted white. The paint had yellowed slightly, but except for a small section near the handle that was peeling, was still in good repair.

“Go on,” Tolbert ordered her, motioning with the dagger. He put his hands on his hips, revealing a brace of pistols, additional daggers, and other weapons she did not want to consider. Elinor prayed Winn was behind the door, because she did not have the first inkling as to how she was going to evade Tolbert before Foncé arrived. Clearly, her grand delusions of saving the day were only that—delusions. And now she was completely at Foncé’s mercy. He would never keep his word and release her when and if he captured Winn. And did she want to be released if her husband was dead because of her foolishness?

She put her hand on the door’s handle, turned it, and was surprised it opened. It swung wide, revealing a dark room without even a fire in the hearth. She hesitated and tried to take a step back, but Tolbert’s foot blocked her exit. He jerked his head toward the room, and she shuffled inside. The door closed with a bang behind her, and she jumped at the unexpected sound. The room seemed devoid of windows and was black and cold as a cave. And yet she sensed she was not alone. “H-hello?” she whispered. “Winn?”

Something or someone moved in the far corner. Light flickered, and she blinked as a small candle sputtered to life. It did little to illuminate the man seated in the corner of the room beside the bed. He was dressed in black, and no inch of skin was visible. She thought she might have been able to detect the glint of his eyes, but she was uncertain.

Something felt wrong, and she inched backward. She darted her gaze about, searching for some means of escape, but there was nothing.

“Come closer,” the man said. It was not Winn, at least the voice had not sounded like his. It was accented and quite deep. Winn had a tenor voice with all the trappings of the British nobility in his clipped words.

“I…” She did not know what to do, what to say. What had Foncé planned for her?

“Come closer,” the man demanded again.

Elinor looked over her shoulder at the closed door behind her. Tolbert and his arsenal stood on the opposite side. She was not getting out that way. And in a very short amount of time, Foncé and his men would descend on this room and take her and whoever this man was prisoner.

“I am terribly sorry,” she sputtered. “I think I have the wrong room.”

“Take off your coat,” the man said.

Elinor frowned. Had he misunderstood her? “But I—”

“Take off your coat.” His tone did not brook any argument, and she felt compelled to fumble with the buttons and shrug off her spencer. She looked about for somewhere to place it, but could not see any furniture save the bed limned by the candle. She moved closer, laid the garment on the bed. Her fingers grazed the coverlet, and she was taken aback to discover it was satin.

“Take your hair down.”

Elinor frowned, looked at the door and then at the man. “Sir, I’m afraid you have the wrong woman. I am here to meet—”

“—your husband. I am aware. I won’t hurt you.”

His words did not reassure her.

“Take your hair down,” he ordered again.

Elinor was confused, but she dutifully began removing the pins from her hair. Not wanting to wake Bridget this morning, she’d styled it herself and quite simply. It was easy to uncoil it so her long tresses fell to her back. Instantly, she felt vulnerable and exposed. The elaborate coils and curls of her coiffed hair were familiar to her. She’d been wearing it thus since she was a young girl. It was a shield, a protection as much as any article of clothing. And now that her hair hung down and her coat had been removed, she began to feel helplessly unprotected. “But my husband was supposed to come,” she protested before the man could speak again.

“He sent me. Put your hands on the bed.”

Elinor did not believe she could have heard either statement correctly. Why would Winn send another man in his stead? She had promised a romantic interlude in the note, all the while penning it, knowing Winn would see past Foncé’s words and know she needed his help. But perhaps he had misunderstood? Clearly, this man had taken the missive at its word.

“I am afraid there has been some mistake,” she began. She looked at the door. Perhaps if she informed Tolbert the wrong man had been sent to meet her…

“There is no mistake,” the man across the bed said. “Put your hands on the bed and bend over.”

Elinor stood completely frozen. She was devoid of options. Tolbert was behind her, and soon Foncé would be arriving. He would kill her and this man, and in the most heinous manner imaginable.