Page 23 of The Damsel
Cassandra had clenched her jaw and fought the urge to hurl the nearby chamber pot across the room in a fit of rage as she’d listen to the lady tell her friend how her fool of a husband had done nothing to aid the servant. Instead, he’d cast blame on the maid for being caught alone, and insisted his friend had done nothing wrong.
“I am certain he only misinterpreted her signals. That is what Paul told me when I insisted he do something. Mr. Barlow should not be allowed in our home … I wanted him gone, but Paul would hear none of it. Oh, and poor Libby was in quite a state. I shudder to think what would have happened had I not found them.”
Cassandra knew very well what would have happened. She had lived through the consequences of such a thing, and there had been no one there to come to her aid or defend her.
But she would defend Libby and her blubbering mistress. She would ensure that Barlow paid for what he’d done, and she would do it right now.
Just before the musicale had ended, she’d slipped from the drawing room and seen herself out of the marquis’ home. Her driver, Randall, had circled the block at her command, ready for her to emerge at any time. He hadn't questioned the directive, even though it would require him to drive in a continuous circle for hours. Understanding her mission, he would do exactly as she asked, knowing it could prove the difference between success and failure.
And so, when he’d approached within seconds of her departure, she had promptly leaped into the vehicle and made haste changing out of her evening attire. While Randall pulled off down Duke Street, she’d exchanged her lady’s finery and replaced it with her comfortable breeches, shirt, waistcoat, and boots, before shrouding herself in the cloak. A silk turban had covered her hair, but was now gone, the tresses brushed flat to her scalp and scraped back from her face.
He had let her off on Brown Street, right outside of Grosvenor Square, and from there she'd continued on foot. He left her on her own, taking the carriage off to Reeves’ Mews where he would await her return.
She'd taken the walk back to Duke Street on swift feet, and she’d arrived just in time to find Mr. Barlow exiting the Ashtons’ townhome. An infuriating smirk curving his lips, he trotted down the front steps with a spring in his step, an ornate walking stick twirling in one hand.
Her timing could not be more perfect.
She’d seen him arrive on foot, so had known he would leave the same way, taking himself off after the musicale in search of some other amusement. Where he was off to next was of no concern to her. As they left the well-lit Grosvenor Square, the shadows of the homes looming to one side kept her hidden, her steps silent as she advanced upon him. He remained oblivious to her pursuit, walking about free and clear with no regard to the danger he had placed himself in.
These pompous lords and their sons were all the same. They walked about with such freedom and lack of fear because no one would ever punish them for their crimes against others—their abuse of the women they were supposed to protect, their cavalier attitudes toward the less fortunate, their mistreatment of servants.
But, no more.
If no one would defend the defenseless, then Cassandra would.
She halted on Hart Street when he did, slipping back into a narrow space between two townhouses as Barlow held his walking stick under one arm and began rifling about in his coat pocket. Untying the cravat tied in a haphazard knot around her throat, she stretched it taut between both hands, waiting for the opportune moment. There was no one else about who might see, but that could change in an instant. It must be now, and she need only wait for an opening
It came when he retrieved a cheroot, head lowered as he remained oblivious to his stalker.
Moving with reflexes born from months of practice, she crept behind him on swift and silent feet, hooking the cravat around his neck and jerking him against her body. His surprised yelp died away into a choked gurgle when she tightened the linen around his throat until he could not draw breath. His legs kicked, one of his shoes slipping off and his walking stick clattering to the ground as she hauled him into the darkness.
He must outweigh her by at least two stone, but the strength leeched from his muscles as his air became trapped in his lungs.
She released him just before he lost consciousness, preferring for her prey to remain alert so it could squirm and whimper while she did what she pleased. Rushing back to the mouth of the alley, she crouched to retrieve his walking stick while he rolled about on the ground, coughing and wheezing and drawing in sharp breaths. She waited until he’d managed to rise to his hands and knees, gazing about in a daze. Then, she lifted her weapon with both hands and brought it down across his back. He went down with a grunt, the impact knocking the wind from him.
“What the devil?” he rasped as she neared, using one foot to push him over so he lay on his back.
“Hmm, I’ve never been called The Devil before,” she mused aloud, moving to straddle him, then crouch down until she practically sat on his torso. “But I do like it … after all, I am here to punish you for your sins.”
The whites of his eyes flared in the dark, the orbs going wide and his jaw slackening as he gazed up at her. With the moon at her back, she must look like some sort of specter, her face invisible in the dark shadow of her hood. Before he could attempt fighting her off, she retrieved the dagger she kept in her boot and held it up, letting the moonlight caress the metal’s sharp edge.
“Sins?” he blustered, squirming beneath her and working himself into an indignant rage. “What sins would you accuse me of, a stranger who knows me not?”
She scoffed. “You spoiled little lords are all the same, you know. So predictable. Here is the part where you will puff up with righteous anger and rail at me. I do not know you, you’ll claim, could not possibly have the right to judge you. But, what you’ll fail to realize is that I don’t need to know you … don’t care to, actually.”
He began to try to fight her, her voice having given her away as a woman. Typical. Planting herself more firmly on top of him, she kept the knife in her right hand while drawing back the left in a fist. He groaned when she made impact, snapping his head to the side and filling his mouth with blood.
“Do make this easier on yourself, Mr. Barlow. Fighting will only agitate me, and when I’m agitated …”
She emphasized her point by digging the tip of her dagger into the meat right under his jaw. He whimpered when she drew blood with a single prick, the drop running in a bright rivulet down his throat.
“What do you want from me?” he railed, blood and spittle flying from his mouth to splatter her cloak.
Taking hold of his chin, she forced his head back down, leaning in close and trailing the tip of her dagger down the side his face from brow to cheek.
“Retribution,” she whispered, before going upright and getting to work.
She took up the cravat she’d dropped nearby and forced his mouth open before stuffing it inside. His muffled cries left her unmoved as she began using her knife to slice away the buttons of his waistcoat, then his shirt. He twisted and swung, trying to fight her off, but she used her knife to subdue him—slashing at his arm when he tried to hit her. Then, she used her knees to pin his arms to the ground, taking away the use of his hands.
