Page 83 of From Duke Till Dawn
Then he smiled again. “Sure I can’t get you some food?”
“A shot of whiskey,” she croaked.
He chuckled. “There’s my girl.” Without looking behind him, he exited the study, leaving her alone again with nothing but her churning thoughts and stomach.
She’d never felt so utterly helpless. Even on the streets, or struggling to get by through swindles, she’d always had a measure of control over her fate. But this complete powerlessness carved her hollow, leaving her guts to rot in the sun. Anger swamped her. Goddamn Martin! Goddamn George Lacey!
She’d dragged Alex deep into her world. How would he handle himself in the thick of things? A knife or bullet didn’t care if he was a duke.
So many possibilities whirled through her mind, dozens of scenarios. Some of them good, some of them ghastly. She could break free from Lacey and find her way back to Portman Square. Or they could catch up with her and cut her throat.
Someone whimpered.
God—it was her.
What time was it? There were no clocks in the study, and none chimed in the house. It felt like months had passed since she’d been dragged into this pit, but surely it was only a matter of hours.
Her head sagged. Tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped into her lap, leaving little dark circles on the blue of her pelisse. Only earlier today, Alex had offered to buy her a new coat. She hoped that his generosity extended to paying her ransom. But a pelisse was a fraction of what Lacey demanded.
At last, several footsteps sounded in the corridor. The door opened, and Lacey and two thickset men entered. One was her kidnapper, the other was the man who’d barreled into Alex on Bond Street.
“Almost midnight,” Lacey said as cheerfully as if they were going on a holiday outing. “Get her in the carriage,” he directed the two men.
The man from Bond Street loosened her ropes to free her from the chair. Cassandra sized him up. She could jam her knee into his crotch. Then she could go after the kidnapper. Eyes and throats were delicate parts of the body. If she just rammed the heel of her hand into his nose, she could break it and disorient him. Then maybe—
“Oh, my dear, don’t bother.” Lacey pointed a pistol at her.
Cassandra felt the color drain from her face. “That’s not necessary.”
“I assure you, it is.” He nodded in satisfaction as Cassandra was pulled to her feet and the ropes around her wrists were tightened. “It’s for your duke. In case he doesn’t play by my rules.”
More terror clawed at her, combining fear for herself with dread over what might happen to Alex. Could she warn him? How?
As she tried to formulate a strategy, she was hauled out of the study and down the stairs. They led her outside. Cold and damp night lay over the street. A carriage waited, the horses pawing at the ground, and the driver looking at Cassandra with boredom.
She was hefted by one of the ruffians into the carriage. Lacey climbed in after her, holding his serpent-headed walking stick like a cudgel. Once they had taken their seats, he knocked on the roof of the carriage, and they drove away.
No one spoke on their way to Welden Gardens. Lacey rested his walking stick against his thigh and kept his fingers laced across the expanse of his stomach, smiling gently to himself, as if recalling a private joke.
The city sat dark and quiet—they passed almost no one save for a few drunken stragglers and a dustman collecting rubbish that had been thrown into the street. Cassandra’s thoughts roiled and tumbled in a fever, a hundred thousand different scenarios playing through her mind like the worst sort of melodrama. Sickness curdled in her stomach, and her mind was all sharp angles and cutting edges. Would she live to witness another dawn? Would she see Alex again? The fact that she didn’t know made her agony all the more acute. Uncertainty killed her by slow degrees.
Finally, the carriage rolled through a huge, rusted gate covered in ivy. The gravel path crunched beneath the vehicle’s wheels, until they stopped in what looked like a semicircular drive.
The door to the carriage opened, and Lacey shoved Cassandra into her kidnapper’s arms. He didn’t bother handling her gently as he set her on the ground. Her legs wobbled beneath her, but she managed to steady herself as Lacey climbed out.
The dilapidated pleasure ground rose up like ghosts of forgotten joy, its decayed and crumbling walls and colonnades stark against the stained gray sky. Though it was dark, what Cassandra could see only inspired more dread. The gardens had lost their battle with nature. Webs of vines covered most of the standing structures, while weeds grew in abundance out of cracks in the pavement and between bricks. Rustling in the scrub proved that animals had made the derelict Welden their home—most likely rats and feral dogs, and God only knew what else. A lone, faded bit of bunting hung between two columns, shining whitely in the night like a skeleton’s rib.
“This way,” Lacey grunted. He gestured with the pistol toward an amphitheater, though half its steps had crumbled away and only a portion of the stage remained.
Cassandra hesitated. She could run now, lose herself in the shadows and hope the single shot from the pistol missed.
Lacey jabbed the weapon between her shoulder blades. “Get on, then. This isn’t a pleasant night’s stroll.”
“I don’t know where I’m going,” Cassandra said, fighting to keep a stammer out of her words.
“I’ll get you there,” he declared, digging his surprisingly sharp fingernails into her arm as he led her toward the amphitheater. They made up a party of four—Cassandra, Lacey, and the two men who served as Lacey’s hired muscle. When they reached the top, he shoved her toward the laborer from Bond Street. “Take her to the stage. I’ll wait up here. And mind,” he added coldly. “I’ve got my barking iron trained on you.”
“Difficult to forget,” Cassandra muttered.
