Page 38 of The Damsel
“Well … I’ll be damned. The Masked Menace … a woman?”
She shrugged one shoulder, keeping the knife pressed against his throat. “Funny how that bit of information is conveniently left out of the rumors that get spread about me.”
Downing spat at her, his blood splattering her domino and a few flecks of it finding its way onto her cheek. Then, he growled and lashed out at her, attempting to wrap a hand around her throat. She reacted with lightning speed, bringing her knife up and slashing, halting the momentum of his hand as the blade found his wrist. He screamed as blood spurted from the wound, wetting his face and staining his cravat. Taking hold of the injured wrist, she squeezed, drawing a tortured cry from him and another gush of warm blood.
“There, now you’ve attempted to overpower me and learned a very valuable lesson. If you strike out at me, I strike back—and I can assure you, I will be far more ruthless about it than you.”
“You bitch,” he rasped between swift breaths. “You fucking bitch … I’ll kill you!”
Cassandra snorted. “And how do you propose to do that when you can barely land a blow before I’ve cut you to ribbons?”
His other hand came up toward her, but she swung her dagger once more, this time landing it in the center of his palm. A highpitched scream emanated from him as the blade stabbed clear through one side of his hand and protruded through the other. Clapping her palm over his mouth, she loomed over him, leaning down so close she could feel his harsh breaths against her cheek.
“Trying to strike me again? What ungentlemanly conduct. But then, I should expect nothing less from a man who beats his wife black and blue.”
The whites of his eyes flared wide in the dark.
“Yes, I know all about how you keep Lady Downing in her place,” she said with a sneer, removing her hand from his mouth.
“What has my wife to do with any of this?” he sputtered as she began loosening the knot of his cravat. “You are a highwayman! My valuables should be of far more interest to you than her. The watch in my fob pocket is worth—”
“I care not for your baubles, though I will help myself to them when I am done on principle alone. I am a highwayman as you said, so to leave without your jewels would be unseemly. However, you and I are going to have a bit of a talk first … about what I’m going to do to you for raising a hand to Lady Downing, and what will happen should I ever come to find you’ve done it again.”
He attempted to fight her off as she used his cravat to bind his wrists together, but the dagger stuck through one hand made it a clumsy effort. Eventually, she had him subdued again—his wrists bound, and the handkerchief she found in his coat pocket stuffed into his mouth. He screamed around the fabric when she pulled the knife free of his hand, then went limp on the carriage floor.
Cassandra made quick work of opening his waistcoat, cutting away each ornate button with a flick of her dagger. Then, she cut his shirt down the front, exposing his torso. His chest heaved as he stared up at her, shaking his head as if to silently implore her.
“How many times did Lady Downing beg you?” she asked, tracing the tip of her knife across his chest in a threat of things to come. “How many times did she plead for mercy only for you to ignore her and take your impotence out on her?”
He strained upward, his face darkening in the moonlight as a vein in his forehead began to pulse and throb. He growled through the handkerchief, but she merely pressed a hand against his forehead and forced him back down.
“I can assure you, Sir Downing, no matter how much you beg, or plead, I will not stop until I’m good and damn well ready to. Shall we begin?”
Pressing the tip of the dagger against her starting point, she dug in and dragged it over his flesh. His visceral screams echoed out into the night as she worked, his blood welling in each cut and trickling back into his clothes. With a humorless smile, Cassandra cut and cut until he passed out from the pain, head lolling on his shoulders.
When she was finished, the word she’d chosen for him stood out in stark, crimson relief against his pale skin.
ABUSER.
While he lay unconscious, she quickly relieved him of his ring, tie pin, snuffbox, and pocket watch. She discovered a purse within his coat that contained several Sovereigns, and a few folded bank notes. She pilfered it as well, tucking all his belongings into her own breast pockets before leaping down from the carriage.
Her Arabian waited nearby, nickering and pawing the ground with growing impatience. Downing’s driver remained unconscious, so there was no one to impede her as she threw herself up onto the horse’s back and sped off into the night, disappearing under the cover of darkness with her domino fluttering behind her like a dark banner of death.
Chapter 7
Robert leaned back in the chair he occupied, one leg propped up on a footstool and an ironed copy of theThe Examinerspread over this thighs. His father sat upright in bed, eyes glittering with excitement as he listened to the latest news and gossip straight out of London. The papers were days old by the time they reached Suffolk, but the baron enjoyed the news anyway—particularly the bits of scandal and gossip he no longer heard firsthand. Being trapped in a sickbed meant he must live vicariously through Robert, and the stories his son carried back to him whenever he could.
“After several weeks without a sighting, it would seem the Masked Menace has reappeared,” he told the baron. “An anonymous man has reported being waylaid by the criminal some three nights before the publication of this column. He reports that the Menace knocked his driver unconscious, then bloodied his nose and injured his hand before making off with a pocket watch, a ring, a ruby tie pin, and a silver snuffbox.”
“Good Heavens,” his father murmured, running a gnarled hand over his balding pate. “It seems this Menace becomes more violent with each new report. I suspect it will not be long before he’s killed someone.”
Robert shrugged, glancing at a caricature of the Masked Menace. In it, he wore an ill-fitting opera mask over a contorted face drawn in the likeness of a demon. A pair of massive horns curled up from under the brim of a hat, while a long, forked tongue slithered from a mouth sporting spiked, jagged teeth. He held a gun in one hand and a dagger in the other, long talons clenched around both weapons.
He tilted the page to show the baron, who chuckled at the drawing.
“The stories about him are overblown and exaggerated,” Robert murmured. “The violence increases with each telling because it sells papers.”
“He is still a dangerous criminal,” the baron replied. “I will be glad when the Runners have brought him to heel. The roads and its travelers will be safer for it.”
