Margaret McPhee - His Mask of Retribution

‘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.