Page 69 of The Damsel
Peter had leaped into action without hesitation, leaving him to continue watching the house.
Now, as night began to fall on the second day, he became antsy to be off. Peter had returned, and now sat in his carriage farther down the street, waiting for him. Before Downing’s townhouse, Stratford’s equipage had just pulled to a stop and the man himself descended and approached the house.
Robert sprang into action, moving at a sedate pace to keep from drawing too much attention to himself. There were enough people in the square to keep him from seeming out of place as he crossed the square.
Ducking on the front steps of a neighboring townhouse, he peered up over the stone railing and watched as servants came and went, carrying various trunks and loading them onto the back of the vehicle. Robert clenched his jaw and forced himself to remain in his place and watch. He could not act … not yet.
He needed Downing and Stratford to leave the city, giving him a better chance at subduing them. Out on the open road, there was no place they could hide.
His spine tingled as he spotted Downing, leading the way to the carriage with a hat under one arm. Robert remained as still as he could, held his breath, and waited for any sign of Cassandra. If he was going to follow them out of London, he needed to know for certain they had her in their clutches.
His stomach churned when Stratford appeared, carrying what looked like nothing more than a bundle of sheets. But Robert couldn’t take his eyes off that bundle as he watched for any sign of movement, anything that would confirm his suspicions that the sheets cloaked the body of a woman held in the earl’s grasp.
When the man came off the bottom step, the bundle shifted slightly, and something came falling out from its confines. A woman’s arm hung limp, swinging with every one of the earl’s steps. Long and slender, it seemed caked with dirt and something else. Blood?
Rage rushed through him, but determination helped him keep a cool head. He did not know what they'd done to her, but these men would atone for it. Whether the arm he’d seen was attached to a living Cassandra or her corpse, he would make sure they paid for what they’d done.
Satisfied that his plan would work, he turned and dashed down the lane, spotting his carriage idling on the side of the road and making a beeline toward it.
“Follow them,” he instructed his driver before joining Peter and Felix inside.
His valet and the footman gave him questioning glances, which he answered with an abrupt nod.
“They have her. We’ll follow them out of London and strike when the moment is right.”
Peter opened the wooden chest resting on the seat beside him, giving Robert a glimpse of the twin revolvers resting inside on a bed of velvet.
“We are ready and will have your back until the end.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, he retrieved the black mask Cassandra had left behind in the hotel room. He’d sent Felix for it, along with a few other items he would need.
“I hope you know what you are doing, sir,” Felix said, seeming more on edge than Peter.
The man was accustomed to mending clothes and polishing boots, not involving himself in dangerous intrigues. Well, it would seem they must all step into roles they’d never expected to play. Robert had never thought he’d be willing to go so far for love. But then, maybe he’d never truly loved at all. Not like this … not until Cassandra.
“I do,” he assured the valet. “It will work, you’ll see.”
Chapter 12
The carriage rocked and swayed as it rumbled down the road, London falling farther behind them with each passing moment. Cassandra closed her eyes and clutched the bedsheet tighter around her nude body. She ached from head to toe, and had long grown used to the steady pounding in her head. Two days spent in the clutches of Sir Downing and the Earl of Stratford, and they had yet to kill her. She wished they would get on with it. At least, if she was dead she’d be free from the pain and degradation they’d subjected her to.
She'd remained tied to the ceiling beams in that basement room, though they’d lowered her to the ground a few times a day for a few bites of stale bread and sips of stagnant water. Downing had made his intentions known, wanting her alive until he was ready to deal the final blow that would end her life.
On the first day she’d fought them, kicking and screaming, hurling every foul epithet at them that came to mind. It had earned her a beating, but not before she’d kicked Downing in the face and bloodied his nose, leaving a butterfly-shaped bruise spreading toward his eyes. She’d been unable to fight them both off with her hands tied, which meant while she was dealing with Downing, Stratford was able to subdue her with her own knife. Along with days’ worth of dirt, grime, and sweat, her skin held several cuts—some shallow, some deep, all painful. They’d let the blood dry on her skin in crimson smears, leaving her looking like death while days without bathing had her smelling no better. She could see the mess of her hair from the corner of her eye, matted and tangled, her scalp stinging from the way Stratford had dragged her from the basement before throwing her to the ground and wrapping her in this bed sheet.
Two days of being beaten and cut, with meager food and very little water, had left her weak and unable to fight back. There had been nothing for her to do but go along with their commands, hoping it would spare her for one more minute, on more hour, one more day.
She didn’t know why this instinct to survive persisted, when her fate was all but certain. It would be better to throw open the carriage and throw herself out, hoping to be caught under the wheels. At Downing’s country home in Devon, she would be subjected to even more torture. These two men represented the worst of those she had punished, the sort with no morals and a taste for debauchery. They would enjoy every moment of ripping her to pieces until there was nothing left.
She’d be dead in a matter of days, though no one would miss her … no one would care.
Except Robert.
Her stomach twisted and her chest ached at the thought of him, of all the things she’d wanted to give him. For the first time in so many years, she wished she could be someone different—the sort of woman Robert deserved. How someone as bright, sunny, and pure had come to love her, she had no idea. She only knew that with her final desperate act of vengeance she’d ruined any chance of basking in that love, of accepting it and returning it.
I’m so sorry, Robert.
She would die, and he would mourn her. In time, though, he would carry on just as he had following the loss of each of his brothers. A man who had survived so much death and pain had to be resilient. He would on to lead a good life, free of the complication that came with loving a woman like her. His need to love and be loved would not see him living that idyllic life alone. He’d find someone else—someone as sweet and kind as him. Someone who would blush when he called her beautiful, or smile when he put flowers in her hair. Cassandra clenched her teeth at the images conjured by her thoughts. This mythical woman did not even exist, and still Cassandra wanted her dead. She wanted to throttle her, squeeze the life from her with her bare hands and claim what was hers.
