Page 36 of The Damsel
Sir Downing was beating her. It showed in the way she cowered whenever he looked in her direction, the way he grabbed her arm whenever she spoke out of turn—his grip hard enough to leave fingerprints. Cassandra had watched them in Hyde Park, had followed them home from the theater the night before last. Lurking in the shadows, she’d listened to him berate his wife for speaking to another man during the interval for too long.
As she sipped her lemonade and watched him laugh and smile, surrounded by others of his ilk, her fingers itched for the hilt of her knife. She already knew the word she would carve into his chest, could smell his blood and hear his screams and pleas for mercy. He’d probably piss himself, the coward. Men like him tended to fold like a deck of cards when confronted with someone who did not cower in fear at the sound of their raised voices.
The affair had only just begun, so she settled in for the long night ahead. Taking up her usual position amongst the other wallflowers, she listened in on the various conversations around her. It never ceased to amaze her the sorts of things people would speak about in public when they thought the din of other conversations were enough to keep them safe. But, as usual, no one noticed her standing amongst them, silently pressed against the wall.
As she expected, all gossip revolved around the highwayman terrorizing the Great North Road.
“Have you heard?” a matron in a silk turban whispered to a friend. “There hasn’t been a single robbery for at least a fortnight!”
The companion wafted a painted fan before her face. “Of course there hasn’t been. I knew the Masked Menace would turn coward once the Runners began investigating. The brute is probably too frightened to show himself for fear he will meet his match in them.”
Cassandra hid her smirk behind her glass and remained half-hidden by a potted plant while she listened to the two women gossip.
“I suppose it’s now safe to travel the roads at night,” said the matron. “That Menace fellow will dance the hangman’s jig in a month or less, mark my words.”
The lady with the fan shuddered. “I hope so. What sort of blackguard terrorizes the innocent that way? He must be a perfect beast!”
“Hmph! He certainly is, and the sooner he is caught, the better. I’ve heard more than my fair share of debutantes romanticizing him, making him out to be some sort of dashing hero. What utter nonsense!”
“Ridiculous!”
Cassandra moved on, ducking her head and pinching her lips to keep from laughing aloud. As she moved through the crowded assembly, handing her empty glass off to a footman, she caught snatches of more gossip about the highwayman.
“I hear he’s a giant … well over six feet tall!”
“A man who was robbed by him says the villain disappeared into thin air. He’s a demon, I tell you!”
“He must be dead if he hasn’t turned up in an entire fortnight. Fell off his horse and broke his neck, I’d wager.”
Each claim was more outlandish than the last, making Cassandra’s shoulders shake with barely contained mirth. The way thetoncould take a bit of gossip and twist it into the most outlandish tales never ceased to amuse her. The truth was never as grand as what they could conjure in their minds, and stories of the highwayman were no different.
She neared the dance floor now, her gaze falling onto Sir Downing’s back and latching on. The dancing had begun, but he didn’t have a partner for this quadrille. So, he remained within the circle of his acquaintances, oblivious to her nearness or the plans she had in mind for when she finally got her hands on him. Pretending to watch the dancers, Cassandra kept her ear attuned to the conversation happening amongst Downing and his friends.
“I’d be careful if I were you,” one of the men said while extracting a snuff box from his breast pocket.
“Just because the roads have been quiet these past weeks does not mean it is safe.”
“He’s right, you know,” said a portly man with a quizzing glass held in one gloved hand. “Her Ladyship and I are off to Scotland to visit her ailing mother tomorrow—but only once the sun has risen and we shall only travel while there is light. One cannot be too careful in times such as these.”
Downing waved a dismissive hand. “This Menace fellow does not frighten me. Besides, if the gossips are to be believed, he has either died, hidden away in an act of cowardice, or descended back into Hell.”
He shared a chuckle with another man, but the fellow with the quizzing glass did not seem amused or convinced.
“Until I see him swinging from the end of a rope myself, I shan’t believe he is gone.”
“I say, Hollis, you fret like an old woman.”
While the others burst out laughing at Downing’s little quip, Hollis stared down his nose at them through his quizzing glass.
“Hmph. Call me what you will. If I’m an old, fretting woman, then at least I’ll be a living one.”
“Calm down, old chap,” Downing drawled. “The man’s a common thief, not a murderer.”
“Not yet, he isn’t,” Hollis retorted. “The moment someone refuses to hand over their valuables, he’s a dead man. And we’ll see who's laughing then.”
“I say again … I am not afraid of the Menace. I’ve business in Devon and must leave tonight. I refuse to allow that blackguard to have me quivering like some schoolgirl. Let him try me if he will … I keep a blunderbuss under the carriage seat and would wager he’s never been faced with something like that.”
Cassandra rolled her eyes and shook her head, the man’s bravado setting her teeth on edge. If it was the last thing she did, she’d have him sniveling and begging like the recreant he was. She only wished his friends could be there to witness it.
