Page 37 of The Damsel
Moving away from Downing, she reclaimed her spot along the wall and waited for the ball to end. She followed him with her gaze, never letting him out of her sight. She watched as he drank, danced, and chatted his way through the ballroom, counting the minutes as the hour approached midnight. The affair would go on for a few more hours at least, but Downing seemed ready to depart, bidding his friends a good evening and edging toward the exit.
Cassandra followed at a sedate pace, weaving through the bodies packing the ballroom in his wake. She took her time, secure in the knowledge that no one would watch her movements. Heads had turned upon her arrival, but thetonseemed to have grown bored once they realized she would do nothing more than linger on the fringes of the crowd. While she had not earned her way back into their favor— and had no intention to—it seemed talk of her scandal was finally beginning to die down as other bits of news had begun making the rounds.
She waited while her wrap was fetched, keeping an eye on the open front door as Downing passed through it. A carriage pulled to a stop before the front steps, and Downing trotted down with a spring in his step. By the time she’d bundled herself against the cold and followed, he was gone, his vehicle threading through the others clogging the street. She did not rush, nor did she fret over losing sight of him. The crest etched upon the carriage door would be enough. She knew where he was headed, and what route he would take. He would not escape her.
Randall approached in her own carriage, so she swept down the front steps and made her way toward it on swift feet. Without bothering to wait, she threw the door open herself and leaped inside before giving the driver his instructions. Once enclosed within the dim interior of the carriage with only the sparse light of gas street lamps shining through the parted curtains, she reached for the parcel she kept hidden beneath the seat.
The long ride through London gave her plenty of time to shed her ballroom finery and exchange it for her ensemble composed entirely of black pieces. Only a white shirt offered relief from the darkness of her breeches, waistcoat, boots, and coat. It all became engulfed by the domino she clasped over her shoulders, shrouding herself in the color of the night. She spent the ride using a whetstone to sharpen her dagger and ensuring her pistol was properly loaded. When, at last, the carriage rolled to a stop, Cassandra hid the weapons on her person and reached for the black mask she used as a shield against her identity. A wide-brimmed hat completed the ensemble, turning her from Lady Cassandra, known spinster, into someone else entirely.
Randall hopped down from his perch as she let herself out of the carriage, her domino swirling about her legs. He’d stopped the carriage within the same thick outcropping of trees he always did, the darkness and foliage more than enough to keep them out of sight. Neither spoke as they went about their work, having done this enough times that communication proved unnecessary. Randall knew and approved of her mission, and had never once balked at acting as her accomplice. They could both hang for this, but the driver had never seemed concerned about such things.
“He cannot be too far ahead of us,” he murmured as he handed her the lamp. “You’ll catch him up in no time. Are you armed?”
“As always,” she replied, holding up the lamp so that he could unhitch one of the horses.
Randall made quick work of the harnesses, freeing one of the pair of stomping, snorting beasts before handing her the reigns. “Take care, my lady. I heard drivers about the mews gossiping about how the magistrates have been conspiring with the Bow Street Runners to set up patrols along the road.”
“So I have heard,” she replied. “Do not worry, Randall. I will return before you know it. Keep a sharp eye on your surroundings and remember the plan. Should you find yourself set upon, you are not to wait for me. Do what you must to return home safely. I will meet you there.”
She blew out the lamp and set it aside, while Randall went down on one knee, combining both hands into a cradle for her foot.
“I’ve told you time and again, my lady … I will not abandon you.”
Bracing one hand upon his shoulder, she placed her foot into his hands and vaulted up onto the horse’s back. Riding without a saddle had taken some getting used to, but she’d come to enjoy the freedom of it. Now that she lived alone in the country, she would enjoy riding this way more often, with no one about to tell her it was not proper.
“If we are fortunate, you will not have to,” Cassandra declared.
Before Randall could reply, she was off like a shot, the long-legged Arabian galloping toward the road with one press of her heels. She bent her head to avoid the snare of tree branches, taking care to scan her surroundings. Her mask and hat obscured her vision a bit, but a high, full moon offered enough light for her to do what needed to be done.
Her domino flew out behind her with the whipping of the wind, stray tendrils of her hair caressing her face and neck. There were no vehicles just ahead of her, but Downing had to be out here. He’d expressed his plan to leave for Devon straightaway, and his bold claim that he did not fear the Masked Menace told her he would not do the prudent thing and travel from London along some other route. No, he would want to prove to himself, and everyone else, that he was no coward. Cassandra intended to prove otherwise.
She drove the Arabian at breakneck speed, watching for any sign of the carriage, listening for any approach that might be determined as threatening. She had no desire to harm a Bow Street Runner, but did not intend to let herself be put in irons either. She would do whatever was necessary to save herself should it become necessary.
At last, she caught the glimmer of light ahead—the yellow glow of a carriage lamp. She spurred her mount along faster, steadily gaining on the vehicle moving at a steady clip. Keeping hold of the reins with one hand, she palmed the butt of her pistol, but kept it shoved into her waistband. She wouldn’t draw it until she was certain she’d overtaken the right carriage.
As she pulled alongside it, the moon illuminated the carriage’s side, giving her a glimpse at Downing’s distinct crest. She jerked her weapon free, pulse racing as the thrill of a hunt nearing its conclusion rushed through her. She would make Downing regret ever laying a hand upon his wife, make him pay for every bruise, every bloodied lip, every harsh word.
The driver spotted her and gave the ribbons a snap, calling out for her to cease, to turn back. She would do no such thing. He tried to outrun her, but her single mount was not encumbered by the weight of a carriage loaded down with trunks, so she gained on them with ease. The driver seemed in a panic now, hurling epithets while doing his best to outpace her.
Within seconds, she had pulled ahead of the carriage. She yanked her reins left, turning her horse directly into the path of the carriage.
Lifting her pistol into the air, she fired it twice, the thunderous crack of the shots throwing Downing’s horses into a frenzy.
Her own mount reared up on its hind legs, but she gripped him tight with her thighs, hands clutching the reins in a white-knuckle grip. He calmed in an instant, falling back onto his front hooves and prancing in a swift circle as she murmured a few soothing words before returning her attention to the carriage. The driver shouted at the horses, while Downing’s muffled bellows emanated from within. The beasts reared and whinnied their outrage, jerking against their harnesses.
Leaping down off her horse, Cassandra took off toward the carriage at a run. She’d practiced this with Randall many times, perfecting it before putting her skills to use for the first time. Having done this enough times now to do it with little thought, she moved without hesitation. The driver clambered down to meet her in an ill-fated attempt at protecting his master. Cassandra delivered a swift kick to the center of his chest, sending him against the side of the carriage. He fell against it with a gasp, the wind knocked from him as the vehicle rocked from the force of his weight. She moved fast, not wanting to give him the chance to strike back. Raising her pistol, she brought it down upon his head with all her might. He cried out, then crumpled at her feet in a heap, blood trickling from a wound on his temple. She gave him a little kick to ensure he was out, before stepping over his prone form and approaching the carriage.
She hesitated a moment when reaching for the door, realizing that Downing had gone silent. Recalling his bold claims at the ball, she decided it was better to be safe than sorry. Opening the door with a swift yank, she used it as a shield, darting behind it just before the blast of Downing’s blunderbuss thundered out into the night.
“Show yourself, you son of a bitch!” he bellowed, the carriage rocking as if he made to exit.
Cassandra pushed the door with all her strength, grinning when it bashed against Downing’s body and sent him reeling back inside. She heard the heavy thunk of the blunderbuss falling to the ground, and crouched to pick it up before entering the carriage. She hurled it as far away as possible, not bothering to see where it fell along the dark road before turning back to the man splayed on the floor of the vehicle.
He held his nose, which had been bloodied by the door, rolling about while he let loose a string of curses. She bounded inside and knelt over him, withdrawing her dagger from its place in her boot.
Pressing the tip against the base of his jaw, she grinned. “Oh dear … I’m afraid you have quite ruined the theater of my persona. I am supposed to say ‘Stand and deliver!’ … but, well, you can’t exactly stand just now, can you?”
To his credit, Downing did not flinch away from her knife. Instead, he sneered at her, his lips drawing back to showcase bloodstained teeth.
