A Lady of His Own

CHAPTER 20

THE NEXT MORNING, WHEN THEY GATHERED FOR BREAKfast, Nicholas was much improved, yet to his irritation was straitly informed by Charles, Jack, and Gervase that he could not stir a foot without a guard.

As their clear message was that they wouldn’t permit him to stir that foot, he had no option but to acquiesce.

“The patrols I set in place-in light of your arrival”-Charles looked at Jack and Gervase-“I’m calling them off. Normal enough seeing we’ve gone two days without incident. If he’s scouting about, he’ll doubtless wait another day or so for all alarm to subside before making his move.”

“Regardless,” Jack declared, working his way through a plate of sausages, “we’ll be here.”

“I need to go into Fowey and check what my sources there have unearthed,” Charles said. “It might not be anything, but we can’t afford to miss whatever scraps fate deigns to throw us.”

Gervase and Jack nodded. Nicholas looked resigned. “Perhaps I should show these two the priest hole?”

Jack brightened. “Good idea.”

Penny set down her teacup and pushed back her chair. “I’ll come with you, Charles-I want to speak with Mother Gibbs.” She rose with a smile for the others, but didn’t catch Charles’s eye. Turning to the door, she spoke over her shoulder, “I’ll change into my habit and meet you in the stables.”

She could feel his gaze narrowing, arrowing on her back; blithely ignoring it, she glided out of the dining room.

He was waiting when she reached the stables; from the look in his eyes, he was less than impressed. She held up a hand before he could speak. “If I stay here, I’ll be forced to go for a walk-I’ll be safer with you.”

The comment gave him pause, then, with a grimace, he surrendered and lifted her to her saddle.

Neither they nor their mounts had been out for two days; they took to the fields and galloped, eager for the exercise. When the outskirts of Fowey lay ahead, they reined in to a sensible pace.

In perfect empathy, they trotted toward the town. That empathy was deeper than before; from the moment she’d agreed to marry him, regardless of her qualification, she’d sensed the change in him. The absolute, unshakable confidence that she would be his come what may. Initially, she’d been suspicious, but there was no denying he knew her and her stubbornness well; after last night, his rock-solid confidence in their ultimate outcome had infected her. It could only mean that he was sure he could meet her condition, was committed to meeting it, confident he would. Which meant…

A frisson of expectation, of shining hope, surged through her; she glanced his way, let her gaze slide over him, then looked ahead. Perhaps, at last, their time had come…but first they had to catch the murderer.

They left their horses at the Pelican, took the downhill lanes to the quay, then wended up the familiar alleys to Mother Gibbs’s door.

Even though it was midmorning, Charles had to knock three times before a towheaded lad opened it. Recognizing the youngest Gibbs, Charles asked for his mother, only to be informed in an uncertain tone, “Ma’s in the kitchen givin’ the others merry ’ell.”

Charles blinked; sounds of a shrill altercation drifted up from the depths of the house. “Dennis and your brothers?”

The boy had recognized him; he nodded.

“We’ll go in.” Charles grasped Penny’s hand and towed her past the lad, who blinked in surprise.

“Close the door,” Charles reminded him.

Shaking free of his stunned stupor, the boy jumped to obey.

The kitchen lay at the end of the corridor that ran the length of the house. Penny ignored the closed doors they passed; the nearer they got, the louder and shriller the argument became. Charles ducked his head and they stepped down into the kitchen.

Mother Gibbs stood before the stove, in full flight, punctuating her statements with a heavy ladle that she banged on a chopping board on the table before her. Ranged on the other side of the table were her three eldest sons, all hulking, brawny sailors who towered over her, yet all three appeared to be trying to make themselves small, an impossible feat.

Glimpsing movement behind the wall of her sons, Mother Gibbs shifted, saw Charles, and broke off in midharangue.

The three brothers followed her gaze to Charles and Penny; Penny could almost hear their sighs of relief fall into the sudden silence.

Charles took in the situation in one glance; he held up a placating hand. “My apologies for interrupting, but I need to speak with you all, and time is short.” When no one responded, just stared at him, he shifted his gaze from Mother Gibbs’s florid countenance to Dennis’s studiously blank face. Charles paused, tasting the silence. “Has anything happened?”

“I’ll tell you what’s happened!” Mother Gibbs thumped the ladle down. “These numbskulls sent my sister’s boy off to keep watch somewhere and he’s not been home and his mother’s been here whining all morning.”

She brandished the ladle at Dennis. “You know what I’ve told you ’bout getting your cousins involved-they’re younger’n you lot. And now here we’ve had spies this and spies that for the last week ’til Sid’s up and told Bertha he was out to keep watch last night, and he’s not been back since.”

Leveling the ladle at Dennis, she narrowed her eyes. “So you just get on out there to wherever you’ve sent him and tell him to get along home sharpish, or I’ll have Bertha here whining over our teatime, and that I won’t have, do y’hear?”

“Yes, Ma.” The words were uttered in unison by all three brothers.

Dennis slid a harrassed look at Charles, then looked, somewhat sheepishly, at his mother. “Did Aunt Bertha say where he’d gone?”

“’Course not!” Lowering the ladle, Mother Gibbs opened her mouth-then registered the import of the question. She stared at her eldest son. “You know, don’t you? You sent ’im-”

She broke off because Dennis was shaking his head, as were his brothers beside him.

“We didn’t send him-or anyone-anywhere. Didn’t need to.” Dennis glanced at Charles. “His lordship here asked could we learn anything about those three gents he had his eye on-easy enough to get the stable lads as run with us to keep their eyes open and report anything odd they see.”

Dennis looked at his mother. “We didn’t send Sid anywhere-honest, Ma.”

“But…” Mother Gibbs blinked, then looked at Charles. “Sid went out yesterday evening while it was still light. Told Bertha he was going to keep watch on some spy. She thought…” Mother Gibbs stepped to the side and sat heavily on a stool as the color drained from her face. “Oh, dear.”

Charles agreed with her. He caught Dennis’s eye. “Any idea who Sid took it into his head to watch?”

Grim, Dennis shook his head. “He didn’t speak to me.” He glanced at his brothers; both shook their heads.

Dennis sighed. “Sid’s been itching to go out with us for months, but”-with his head, he indicated his mother-“we’ve always put him off. Might be he heard what’s been going on and thought to try his hand.”

Charles held Dennis’s gaze for a moment. “We need to search.”

“Aye.” Dennis looked at his brothers. “So I’m thinking.”

There was a quality in their voices that both Penny and Mother Gibbs recognized; they exchanged glances, then Penny eased past Charles and went to crouch beside Mother Gibbs as the four men discussed organizing a search.

Mother Gibbs’s hands clasped and unclasped in her lap; she looked more stunned than if one of her boys had struck her. Penny laid a hand over the old woman’s fingers. “We can’t do anything but wait-they’ll find him.”

Mother Gibbs blinked. “Bertha’s Sam was lost at sea-that’s why she’s been so set against Sid going with the others. If something’s happened to him because he wasn’t running in Dennis’s harness like all the others do…” She exhaled gustily; her gaze grew distant. “She’ll be beside herself, our Bertha.”

Penny wished she could offer some heartening platitudes, but when it came to this man-the murderer who’d walked among them for the past weeks-she couldn’t believe enough to even hope.

She looked up to hear Charles commit the stable hands from both the Hall and the Abbey to the search, then he glanced at her.

“We need to get back.”

She nodded and rose, her hand still resting over Mother Gibbs’s. As before, the three Gibbs brothers had behaved throughout as if she wasn’t there. She looked down at the old woman, met her old eyes, squeezed her hand, then went to join Charles.

He ushered her out of the house. They strode back to the Pelican Inn in record time. Charles paused only to speak with the grooms, spreading the word, then they were galloping back to the Hall even faster than they’d left it.

The news sobered everyone. Only Nicholas was game to suggest, “It could just be a coincidence.”

The others all looked at him; although no one argued, none of them agreed. Penny knew what she hoped, but the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach doused her usual confidence.

As Charles had called off the patrols, the Hall’s grooms and stable lads joined in the search, spreading out to scout through the Hall’s acres. Immediately after luncheon, one of the Abbey’s grooms arrived bearing a missive from Dalziel. Charles took it and sent the groom back with orders for the Abbey staff to search the riverbanks from river mouth to the castle ruins.

He watched the groom ride off, then, hefting Dalziel’s packet, walked inside.

Penny was waiting in the front hall; he waved her to the library and followed. The other three were there. All watched as he walked to the desk, picked up the letter knife, and slit the packet open.

Without bothering to sit, he spread out the sheets and read. Reaching the end of the second sheet, he glanced at their expectant faces. “Carmichael has no links with anyone suspicious, and he lost a brother and two cousins in the wars. Three friends have confirmed he’s been dallying with a view to getting leg-shackled to Imogen Cranfield for more than six months. Altogether, I think that puts him lowest on our list of three.”

Looking again at the second sheet, he came around the desk and sat. “Fothergill…they’re still checking but have turned up nothing suggestive yet. The family’s large-they’re having trouble tracking down the right branch. As for Gerond, Dalziel reports that some of his inquiries have started to meet with Gallic shrugs…interesting. They’re pressing as hard as they can but have nothing definite yet.”

Jack nodded, jaw firming. “So Gerond goes to the top of our list, Forthergill is an outside chance, and Carmichael is unlikely.”

“That,” Charles said, refolding the letter, “sums it up.”

“Tell me again,” Gervase said, “what we know about Gerond.”

Charles obliged. Jack asked, and Nicholas confirmed that his attacker had sworn in fluent French.

“Dalziel confirmed that Gerond has strong links with rabidly patriotic groups among the French.” Gervase’s lips thinned. “Those boxes-the pill- and snuffboxes. They might not rate all that highly to us, but if some ranked as French national treasures, that might account for someone like Gerond throwing in his hand with the new regime, even if to avenge old crimes.”

Jack leaned forward, clasped hands between his knees. “He’s of the right age, and he’s seen some action, hasn’t he?”

Charles nodded. “Some, but all on our side.”

“Whoever this is, he’s definitely had training, and some experience.”

Penny sat on the chaise and listened as they discussed the characteristics and traits they felt the killer possessed; from there, they progressed to formulating plans to draw him into the open, into their grasp. It was clear Jack and Gervase, and even more Nicholas, had focused on Gerond as their man; to them, the evidence pointed that way. Charles, however…he was usually quick to act on instinct, yet in this he hung back, refraining from distinguishing between Gerond and Fothergill.

Consulting her own feelings, she had to admit that, to her, all fingers pointed to Gerond. It was Charles’s quiet resistance to focusing solely on Gerond that emphasized the point she and the others were missing, but that Charles was not. Would not.

Charles had been a successful spy in France for years because he was, superficially, French; the French had always seen him as one of their own. What if their man was, in essence, a Charles-in-reverse?

The notion was chilling, but as she watched Charles steer their plans in such a way that they didn’t preclude the enemy’s being Fothergill, she realized just how real the possibility was.

They were still in the throes of tossing around possible plans when the clatter of an approaching rider silenced them. They all listened, then Charles rose and went to the window overlooking the forecourt.

“A fisherman, presumably with a message from Dennis. This doesn’t look good.”

He headed for the door. Jack rose and followed him; the others remained in the library.

Charles went down the front steps as the fisherman slid to the ground. The man was plainly relieved to see him.

“M’lord.” The man ducked his head, nodded to Jack behind him, then faced him. “Dennis Gibbs sent me. His cousin Sid…” The man swallowed, then went on, “They found him on the cliffs by Tywardreath. Throat slit. A bad business-the lad weren’t no more’n eighteen. There were things-a knife, cloak, and other stuff-scattered about. Dennis said as you’d want to take a look.”

Grim-faced, Charles nodded. He clapped the man on the shoulder. “Go around to the kitchen. I’ll send for you once I’m ready.”

The man ducked his head and went, following the groom who’d appeared to take his horse.

Jack stepped down beside Charles; they both watched the man walk away, head and shoulders bowed. “A bad business, right enough.” Jack glanced at Charles. “You’re going?”

Charles turned back into the house. “Yes, but you’re staying.”

Jack followed him back to the library. He told the others the news. Penny paled, but said nothing. Nicholas blanched; some of his recovered strength seemed to drain from him.

“You shouldn’t go alone-there might be more we can do when we see the site.” Gervase stood, joining Jack and Charles. “I know the area well enough, and the locals will accept me.”

Jack hesitated, then nodded curtly. “Agreed. You two go-I’ll hold the fort here.”

Charles looked across the room, met Penny’s eyes. “We’ll be back before dusk or send word-if there’s any scent to follow, that’ll be our priority.”

Penny nodded, watched him turn and stride out, Gervase at his heels. Jack watched them, too, then sighed, and came back to his chair. He smiled, resigned yet charming. “Just think of me as your watchdog.”

They were still in the library, Nicholas at the desk dealing with estate matters, Jack sprawled in an armchair with a book, Penny frowning at the household accounts she’d fetched, Jack having declared he’d be much happier if both she and Nicholas remained in the same room, when the knocker sounded on the front door.

All three of them looked up. A second later, Norris’s stately footsteps trod over the tiles; they heard the door open.

A rumble of male voices reached them-one Norris’s, the other lighter. Straining her ears, Penny couldn’t place the speaker. They hadn’t heard any horse on the drive; whoever it was had walked to the door.

She turned as the door opened and Norris stepped in. Closing the door, he looked at her, then Nicholas. “Mr. Fothergill has called, my lord. He wishes to inquire whether it would be convenient to look around the house. I understand he’s spoken with Lady Penelope on the subject. I would, of course, be happy to conduct him through the rooms we usually show.”

Penny looked at Jack. “He’s a student of architecture-he asked Charles and me what houses to view in the area. He called at the Abbey a few days ago, and Charles’s butler showed him around.”

Everyone looked at Jack.

Gaze distant, he frowned, then swiveled to look at Norris. “Send him in. Let’s see how he shapes up.”

Norris withdrew; Jack met Penny’s, then Nicholas’s eyes. “It’s suggestive he’s turned up just when Charles has been called away, but on the other hand, that could just be coincidence. Regardless, we should turn the opportunity to our advantage and see how much we can discover-if we can exclude him from our list, we could move more definitely against Gerond.”

Penny nodded; she rose as the door opened, and Norris ushered Julian Fothergill in. He came to greet her, enthusiasm and eagerness in his face.

He shook hands with her, then Nicholas, thanking them with disarming candor for seeing him. “I would be quite happy to be shown around by your butler if you’re busy.”

“I’ll take you around the house later,” Penny said, “but first, won’t you sit and tell us how your stay in Cornwall has gone?” Smoothly, she asked Norris for tea to be brought, then introduced Fothergill to Jack, giving no reason for the latter’s presence.

Jack supplied one as the two shook hands. “I, too, opted for the allure of country life rather than endure London during the Season.”

Fothergill grinned. “Just so. As my primary interest lies in things feathered and winged, London has little to offer by way of attraction.”

They resumed their seats, Jack moving to sit beside Penny on the chaise while Nicholas took the armchair he’d vacated. At Penny’s wave, Fothergill sat in the armchair opposite her.

“I take it,” Jack drawled, “that you’re lucky enough not to have to dance attendance at some office in town?”

“Indeed. I have enough to allow me to wander at will, and the family, thank heaven, are plentiful.”

“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.

He lifted the cord, gripped it in his teeth, then grabbed first one of Penny’s hands, then the other, securing both in one of his on the other side of the bedpost, stretching her arms back so she couldn’t move. Only then did he take his knife from her throat, deftly placing it between his teeth as he removed the cord and quickly used it to lash her wrists together, effectively tying her to the post.

She mentally swore, searched desperately for something to slow things down, to delay or distract.

Fothergill tied the last knot, took his knife from his mouth, and moved around her; silent as a ghost, he glided toward Nicholas.

Who was still staring, unknowing, at the windows.

Penny kicked out as far as she could-and managed to tangle her feet and skirts in Fothergill’s boots. Fothergill staggered, tried to free himself, tripped, fell. His knife went skittering across the floor.

“Nicholas-run! Go!”

Penny fought to keep Fothergill trapped, but he rolled away, wrenching free of her skirts.

Nicholas sprang to his feet, took in the scene, saw the knife lying free. His features contorted. Instead of obeying Penny, he flung himself on Fothergill.

“No!” Penny screamed, but too late.

Rolling on the floor, Nicholas grappled with Fothergill. Even had he been hale and whole, it would have been an uneven match. But Nicholas was injured and Fothergill knew where. Penny saw the punch aimed directly for Nicholas’s injured right shoulder, saw it land, heard Nicholas’s shocked, pained gasp. Fothergill’s next blow plowed into Nicholas’s jaw and it was over. Nicholas slumped unconscious; Fothergill clambered to his feet.

Swearing softly, continuously, in French.

From beneath lowered brows, his gaze locked on Penny.

She screwed her eyes shut and screamed-

He struck her savagely with the back of his hand.

Her head cracked against the bedpost, pain sliced through her brain. She sagged against the post, momentarily nauseated, dizzy, her wits reeling.

Fothergill swore viciously in her ear; she understood enough to know what he was promising. Then he moved away.

She dragged in a breath, forced her lids up enough to see. Through her lashes she watched as he swiped up his knife. Hefting it, he turned to her, then his gaze went past her-to the priest hole.

The glittering boxes distracted him. She didn’t move, sagging as if unconscious. He walked past her without a glance, paused on the threshold of the priest hole, then stepped inside.

Should she scream again? She had no idea whether there had been or would be anyone in the front of the house to hear. Her head was ringing; just thinking was painful. If she screamed again, now he had the knife once more in his hand…

Before she could decide if it was worth the risk, she heard a faint scraping sound. She thought it was Fothergill in the priest hole, but then it came again-she looked at the main door.

Nicholas had locked it, yet now it slowly, very slowly inched open.

She knew who stood in the shadows beyond even though, with the sun slanting in through the windows, with her eyes still watering with pain, she could only make him out as a vague shape.

Hope leapt and flooded through her. Her brain started to race. Opening her eyes wide, she frantically signaled to the open priest hole beside her. Not knowing where Fothergill was, she didn’t dare move her head, but he couldn’t see her eyes.

Slowly, clearly, Charles nodded, then silently closed the door.

Penny stared at the panel. What was he up to? Her head throbbed. She heard Fothergill’s footsteps on the priest hole’s stone floor; he was no longer slinking silently as he returned. Lowering her lids, she stayed slumped against the post, feigning unconsciousness.

Fothergill strode out of the hole; he marched straight past her to the side of the bed. She heard the tinkle of metal, then other, softer sounds…after a moment, she understood. He’d made his selection from her father’s collection and was stripping off a pillowcase to use to carry them.

He was loading the pillboxes into the case when the knob of the main door rattled.

“My lady?” Norris’s voice floated through the door. “Are you in there, my lady?”

Fothergill froze. Penny knew the door was unlocked; Fothergill didn’t.

In the next breath he was at her side, his knife in his hand, his gaze on the door. Then his eyes cut sideways-and caught the glint of her eyes before she shut them.

He moved so fast she had no chance to make a sound; he whipped a kerchief from his pocket, forced her jaw down, and poked the material deep into her mouth. She choked. It took a few seconds of wheezing before she could even breathe-screaming was out of the question. She couldn’t get enough breath even to make loud noises.

Satisfied he’d gagged her, Fothergill left her; silently crossing the room, eyes on the door, he went to the double windows, looked out, all around, then unlatched the windows and set them wide.

His escape route?

Turning, he looked at Nicholas, still slumped unmoving on the floor. Silently, he walked over, then hunkered down at Nicholas’s side. After a moment, Fothergill lifted his head and looked at her. Then he reached for Nicholas, hauling his unconscious form around so he half sat, slumped before Fothergill. Facing Penny.

Balancing Nicholas against his knees, Fothergill looked again at Penny. His knife flashed in his right hand as he raised it. A smile of inestimable cruelty curved his lips.

He was going to slit Nicholas’s throat while she watched.

Her mouth went dry. She stared.

And felt a cool draft drift across her ankles.

It could only come from the priest hole.

She screamed against the gag, flung herself against her bonds, stamped her feet-made as much noise as she could to cover any sound Charles might make.

Fothergill only grinned more evilly. He reached for Nicholas’s chin, drew it up.

His gaze deflected, going past her. His smile froze.

Charles appeared-was simply suddenly there-beside her.

“I think she means don’t do it.” He moved farther into the room, away from her. “Wise advice.”

He held a dagger, a much more wicked-looking weapon than the one Fothergill had; he turned it in his fingers, his dexterity screaming long and intimate acquaintance with the blade.

Fothergill saw. Understood. They each had a knife. If he threw his and missed killing Charles…

Quick as a flash, Fothergill threw his knife at Charles.

Charles dived, rolling back toward Penny. Fothergill’s knife hit the wall and bounced off, spun away, landing closer to Charles. Charles surged to his feet between Penny and Fothergill. He’d expected Fothergill to go after Penny, the best hostage, or if not that, the door, behind which half the household staff waited.

He’d forgotten the old rapier that hung on the wall above the mantelpiece. Fothergill flung himself at it, yanked it from the fixed scabbard. It came free with a deadly hiss.

His lips curled as he swung to face Charles.

With one quick, swirling turn, Charles grabbed up Fothergill’s dagger, crossed it with his, and met Fothergill’s first rush. Catching the rapier between the crossed blades, he steadied, then flung Fothergill back.

Fothergill staggered, but immediately reengaged.

Much good did it do him. Charles let his lips slowly curve. Despite the furious clashing of the blades, the sparks that flew as dagger countered flexing steel, within a minute it was clear that Fothergill wasn’t up to his weight, at least not in experience of the less-civilized forms of hand-to-hand combat.

The rapier was longer than Charles’s blades, giving Fothergill the advantage of reach, but Fothergill had never been trained to use the weapon-he wielded it like a saber, something Charles quickly saw. Trained to the use of every blade imaginable, he could easily predict and counter.

While he did, he planned and plotted how best to disarm Fothergill; he would really rather not kill the man in front of Penny. The others were gathered outside the door, waiting for his word, but he had no intention of inviting anyone in; in his increasingly panicked state, Fothergill would undoubtedly run someone through. Enough innocents had already died.

The thud of their feet on the rug covering the floorboards was a form of music to his ears. Through the fractional changes in tone, he could judge where Fothergill was shifting his weight and predict his next attack. Combined with the flash of the blades, the almost choreographed movements, he had all the information he needed; his instincts settled into the dance.

Fothergill pressed, and pressed, trying to force him to yield his position before Penny, defending her-and failed. Desperate, Fothergill closed; again with relative ease, Charles threw him back.

Fothergill stumbled, almost falling. Charles stepped forward-realized and leapt back as Fothergill dropped the rapier, grabbed the rug with both hands and yanked.

On the far edge, Charles staggered back, almost into Penny.

Fothergill grasped the instant to fling himself out of the open window.

Charles swore, rushed across and looked out, but Fothergill was already on the ground, racing away, hugging the house so Charles had no good target. Charles thought of his direction, extrapolated, then swore again and turned inside. “He’s heading for the shrubbery-one will get you ten he has a horse waiting there.”

Penny blinked as he neared. He gently removed the gag and she gasped, “Send the others after him.”

Tugging at the knot in the cords binding her, Charles shook his head. “He’s a trained assassin-I don’t want anyone else cornering him but me, or someone equally well trained.”

He jerked her bonds loose, caught her as she sagged. Eased her back to sit on the bed. Only then saw the bruise discoloring the skin over her cheekbone.

His fingers tightened involuntarily on her chin, then eased.

Penny didn’t understand the words he said under his breath, but she knew their meaning.

“He hit you.”

She’d never heard colder, deader words from him. Words devoid of all human emotion, something she would have said was impossible with Charles. His fingers gently soothed, then drifted away; turning her head, she looked into his face. Saw resolution settle over the harsh planes.

“What?” she asked, and waited for him to tell her.

Eventually, he drew his gaze from her cheek, met her eyes. “I should have killed him.” Flatly, he added, “I will when next we meet.”

Penny looked into his eyes, saw the violence surging. Slowly, she rose; he didn’t step back, so she was close, face-to-face, breast to chest.

Arguing would be pointless. Instead, she held his gaze, and quietly said, “If you must. But remember that this”-briefly she gestured to her cheek-“is hardly going to harm me irreparably. Losing you would.”

He blinked. The roiling violence behind his eyes subsided; he refocused on her eyes, searched them.

She held his gaze, let him see that she’d meant exactly what she’d said, then she patted his arm. “Nicholas has been unconscious for some time.”

He blinked again, then glanced at Nicholas’s slumped form, and sighed. He stepped away from her. “Norris! Get in here.”

The door flew open; pandemonium flooded in.