Page 100 of Ladies in Hating
“This way,” Cat said and broke into a run, the others close behind.
But as they sprinted toward the oratory, the barking cut off abruptly.
And then there was nothing but silence.
Chapter 32
We found Jemmy. He’s safe as houses. As for the rest of it—I scarcely know where to begin.
—from Cat to Pauline, dispatched from Renwick House
“What,” said the Duke of Fawkes deliberately, “in the fucking hell is going on?”
They’d skidded into the oratory a heartbeat before, and Cat had pulled up short, baffled by the sight before her. The small latticed doors that lined the immense room all stood open, the femur-shaped bars dangling loose.
All except one.
A single small door was closed and barred, and before it stood Bacon, growling low in his throat.
As their little party stood frozen on the threshold, a handful of bats emerged from one of the passages and fluttered wildly in the direction of the marble Saint Sebastian.
“Is someone out there?” called a thin voice from behind the door.
“That’s him,” said Jem. “That’s Beckett.”
Cat recognized the clerk’s voice too—a trifle plaintive and right now thready with fear. Her mind reeled.
Fawkes strode a little closer to the door. “I am the seventh Duke of Fawkes and the custodian of this estate. Who the devil are you?”
“Elias Beckett,” came the weak muffled voice. “Is it gone?”
Fawkes looked baffled and furious, his beautiful waistcoat smudged with dirt. “Is what gone?”
“Th-the monster. The thing that trapped me in here. I…” Beckett’s voice trailed off into incomprehensible mumbling.
“Don’t let him out,” Jem said sharply. “He has a pistol.”
“I don’t,” Beckett moaned. “I did, but I used it already. Can’t reload… Stupid, useless…”
“He’s lying,” Jem said. “Don’t trust a word out of his mouth.”
“Jem.” Cat reached out and brushed at the bits of straw dotting Jem’s bright copper hair. “What in the world is going on? What are you doing here? Did you and Beckett come together?”
“No,” Jem said fiercely. “Absolutely not. I followed the bastard here from London when I realized he meant to rob the house.”
There was an outburst of general clamor—and some more barely intelligible protests from behind the door—until Fawkes raised his voice and bellowed, with the force of seven generations of ducal authority, “Enough!”
Silence descended. Percy, who’d been shouting at the latticework, looked a trifle sheepish.
“You,” Fawkes said, nodding at Jem. “James, is it?”
Wordlessly, Jem nodded.
“Start at the beginning and leave nothing out. And the rest of you”—he directed a glare at the assembled company—“do not interrupt.”
Jem shrank a bit into himself at the duke’s sudden, focused attention. His hands made their way into his pockets.
“Steady on, lad,” murmured Percy. “And don’t look at me like that, Fawkes. I’m not interrupting.”
