Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

“So you’re not from around here?” Jack asked. Fothergill’s accent was unremarkable, unplaceable.

“Northamptonshire, near Kettering.”

“Good hunting country,” Jack returned.

“Indeed—we had some very good sport earlier this year.”

Penny exchanged a glance with Nicholas; Jack and Fothergill embarked on a lengthy and detailed discussion of hunting, one which, to her ears, painted Fothergill as one who knew. Used to reading Charles, she picked up the little signs—the easing of tensed muscles—that stated Jack thought so, too.

Norris appeared with the tea tray; while she poured and dispensed the cups, then handed around the platter of cakes, the conversation turned to places visited in England, especially those known for bird life. Nicholas joined in, mentioning the Broads; Fothergill had wandered there. He seemed in his element, recounting tales and exploits during various trips.

At one point, they all paused to sip. Penny noticed Fothergill eyeing the books along the shelves behind the chaise. His eyes flicked to her face; he noticed her noticing. Smiling, he set down his cup. “I was just admiring your books.” He glanced at Nicholas. “It’s quite a collection. Are there any books on birds, do you know?”

Nicholas looked at Penny.

“I imagine there are, but I’m not sure where…” She glanced over her shoulder at the nearest shelves.

“Actually”—Fothergill set down his cup and pointed to a shelf behind the chaise—“I think that’s a Reynard’s Guide .”

Rising, he crossed to the shelves and bent to look. “No.” He sent them a smile. “Like it, but not.” Straightening, he walked along the shelves, scanning the volumes. Penny faced forward as he passed behind the chaise.

Beside her, Jack leaned forward and placed his cup on the low table before them. Straightening, he started to turn to keep Fothergill in view—

Violence exploded from behind the chaise.

A heavy cosh cracked against Jack’s skull. He collapsed, insensible.

Half-rising, Penny opened her mouth to scream—

A hand locked about her chin, forced it high, yanked her against the back of the chaise.

“Silence!”

The word hissed past her ear. Eyes wide, staring upward, she felt the blade of a knife caress her throat.

“One sound from you, Selborne, and she dies.”

Penny squinted, saw Nicholas on his feet, pale as death, hands opening and closing helplessly as he fought to rein in the urge to react. His gaze was locked on the man behind her—Fothergill, or whoever he was.

“Stay exactly where you are, do exactly what I tell you, and I might let her live.” He spoke in a low voice, one that held not the faintest thread of panic; he was master of the situation, and he knew it.

Nicholas didn’t move.

“The pillboxes—where are they? Not the rubbish that was on display in here, but the real ones.”

“You mean the ones my father appropriated from the French?”

Contempt laced Nicholas’s tone.

She felt a tremor pass through the hard fingers locked about her chin, but all Fothergill said was, “You understand me perfectly.”

His tone had turned to ice. He lifted Penny’s chin higher until she whimpered; the knife pricked. “Where are they?”

Nicholas met Penny’s eyes, then looked at Fothergill. “In the priest hole that opens from the master bedchamber.”

“Priest hole? Describe it.”

Nicholas did. For a long moment, Fothergill said nothing, then he quietly stated, “This is what I want you to do.”

He told them, making it abundantly plain that he would feel not the slightest compunction over taking Penny’s life should either of them disobey in the smallest way. He made no bones of his intention to kill Nicholas; it was Penny’s life only with which he was prepared to bargain.

When Nicholas challenged him, asking why they should trust him, Fothergill’s answer was simple; they could accept his offer, show him the pillboxes, and Penny might live, or they could resist, and they both would die.

“The only choice you have to make,” he informed Nicholas, “is whether Lady Penelope’s life is worth a few pillboxes. Your life is already irredeemably forfeit.”

“Why should we believe you?” Penny managed to mumble; he’d eased his hold on her chin enough for her to talk. “You killed Gimby, and Mary, and now another young fisherman. I’ve seen you—you won’t let me live.”

She prayed Nicholas could read the message in her eyes; the longer everything took, the more time they could make Fothergill spend down there…it was the only way they could influence anything.

Briefly, Nicholas met her eyes, then looked at Fothergill, clearly waiting for his response.

Fothergill hissed a curse beneath his breath, a French one. “After today, my identity here will no longer be in question—why should I care if you’ve seen me or not?”

He paused. A moment passed, then he softly, menacingly drawled, “I’m not interested in wasting further time convincing you—I want to be finished and away before Lostwithiel and his friend return. So…”

Again he lifted Penny’s chin, drawing her throat taut. Again the blade of his knife caressed. “What’s it to be? Here and now? Or does she live?”

Nicholas’s face was white, his lips a tight line. He nodded once. “We’ll do as you ask.”

“Excellent!” Fothergill wasn’t above sneering.

Turning, Nicholas walked to the door. Reaching it, he halted and looked back, waiting.

At Fothergill’s direction, Penny rose slowly from the chaise, then, chin still held painfully high, the knife riding against her throat, she walked before Fothergill to the door.

Her neck ached.

Halting her a yard from Nicholas, Fothergill spoke softly by her ear. “Please don’t think of acting the heroine, Lady Penelope. Remember that I’m removing the knife from your throat only to place it closer to your heart.”

He did so, so swiftly Penny barely had time to blink; she lowered her chin and simultaneously felt the prick of the blade through her gown, had an instant to regret she’d never taken to wearing corsets.

Fothergill clamped his left hand over her left arm, holding her to him, also hiding the knife he held pressed to her ribs between them.

He studied her face, then looked at Nicholas, and nodded.

Nicholas opened the door, scanned the front hall, then glanced back. “No one there.”

Fothergill nodded curtly. “Lead the way.”

Nicholas did, walking slowly but steadily across the front hall and up the main stairs. Locked together, Penny and Fothergill followed.

In slow procession they approached the master bedchamber. Once inside, Fothergill told Nicholas to lock the door. Nicholas did.

Penny gasped as Fothergill seized the moment to release her arm and lock his arm about her shoulders, once again placing the knife at her throat.

Nicholas swung around at the sound, but froze when he saw Fothergill’s new position.

Fothergill backed, dragging her with him to the side of the room opposite the fireplace. With the knife, he indicated the mantelpiece. “Open the priest hole.”

Nicholas studied him, then slowly walked to the heavily carved mantelpiece. He took as long as he dared, but eventually twisted the right apple. Farther along the wall, the concealed panel popped open.

Fothergill stared at it. “I’m impressed.” He motioned to Nicholas. “Prop the panel wide with that footstool.”

Still moving slowly, Nicholas obeyed.

“Now walk around the bed, and sit on the side, facing the windows.”

Feet dragging, Nicholas did.

“Keep your gaze fixed on the sky. Don’t move your head.”

Once assured Nicholas was going to obey, Fothergill urged her forward. He steered her to the corner of the bed, closer to the priest hole. When they reached it, he turned her so her back was to the bedpost; the tip of his knife beneath her chin held her there while, with a violent tug, he ripped loose the cord tying the bed-curtain back.