Page 13 of The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady
Leah was uncertain of how she should proceed. On the one hand, she realized that she was too hurt to travel on her own. The Duke was right about her ribs; they would take time and rest to heal. The same could be said of her ankle.
On the other hand, there was an absurd amount of wealth in this house from what Leah had seen so far.
In the city, she knew who had the richest houses, and how much to take at a time to not arouse suspicion. Here, there seemed to not be any rules. She doubted anybody had ever stolen a thing from this place, as it was so removed in the country.
Just how far is it?Leah realized she truly had no clue of her whereabouts besides the name Worthington.Where the devil is Worthington?
Much information, she knew, would come in time. For now, at least, the sun had to rise before she had answers. In the meantime, she constructed an initial plan. It had two routes and was fairly simple.
She would rest here, recover her strength, and then, if by chance she could enchant the Duke accordingly, garner passage to France. That was a long shot, but it did not seem impossible since he had come so gallantly to her rescue. Perhaps passage over the channel was not too much to ask. She deserved a decent rest, after all, and a Duke's mansion was quite the place to stay.
If anything were to occur beforehand, anything that should make her feel threatened, or if Riphook caught wind of her, she would plunder the home for its wealthiest possessions, and she would be gone.
Chapter 5
Riphook, although most considered him to be a heartless, calculated killer and crook, had a great deal of emotional capacity. Indeed, he was a criminal, that he could not deny; he embraced it as a staple of his character. Yet he was capable of forming deep emotional attachments with people, especially those subordinate to him, for it was rare that Riphook ever enjoyed the company of someone he could not boss around.
The years had not been kind to the outlaw's face; he had broken his nose at least a half-a-dozen times. It seemed so out of place that his whole face was askew if you looked at him without squinting a bit.
His eyes were a dazzling gray, and in them one could walk for hours among cheerful friendship, or the depths of violent hatred. Beneath them were dark rings from his sleepless nights, and an old brand was visible ducking down from beneath his hair line.
Along his wrists and forearms were scattered foreign-looking tattoos, picked up from his naval circuits in Polynesia. The middle finger on his left hand stopped at the first knuckle, and one of his scattered teeth glittered, made of a solid ruby.
In short, Riphook had the credible appearance of a career criminal, and a successful one at that. He behaved as if he were a king, and in a way, he was.
In any regard, Riphook had deep emotional capacity. The bonds he formed with his gang members rivaled that of a brother or close friend. He grieved for their losses, shared in their hardships, and basked in their glory.
Perhaps it was because Riphook never had a proper family of his own, a fact he kept shrouded in secret, that he formed such close attachments with his hirelings. For in the end that was all they were: underlings in a criminal network based mainly on grand theft.
But to Riphook, and to many of them, the partnership grew into a near familial company. Included in that family was Leah Benson, the little spitfire from White Chapel.
London was a hard place to grow up poor, and within London nowhere was harder than White Chapel. Yet, out of that muck Leah Benson had clawed her way, kicking and screaming, and he had taken her into his protection. She had learned to speak properly, so she could better make off with rich folks’ silver spoons. This was a feat that Riphook much respected.
For a time, Riphook had been the only thing that stood between her and the whole of the evil in the world that she had not already met.
But all of that was gone now. It was cast aside, thrown down from the mountain, washed clean away in the sea.
Now, Riphook was furious. There was nothing that hurt him more than the desertion of a family member. For Riphook's poor, neglected, sociopathic soul, this was the greatest of betrayals.
The money? It was the last of his priorities. However, in all fairness, he had only two priorities in this situation; kill the traitor and recover his wealth.
The bang of a heavy door caused him to look up from his doodle. Lately he had been sketching; a friend had recommended it to help with his anger flare ups. “Drawing is about patience,”he had said, “it will slow you down.”
“Who's that, Deaver?” he shouted up with his grizzly voice. He sat in what appeared to be a cellar, surrounded by barrels of an unknown origin, and leaned heavily on one as a makeshift drawing desk.
“It's me, Nash.” Nash called back. “Chrisake' lemme through, Deaver.”
“Let 'em down.” Riphook growled.
Nash and one of his thugs came lumbering down the creaky stairs. They looked beat up; one had his nose smashed in. They were coming down empty handed, and Riphook was resisting the urge to snap his pencil in two.
“Boss.” Nash began, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“Let me stop you right there, Nash.” Riphook held up his hand and his missing finger demanded silence. “I don't see Leah. You didn't get her.”
“No boss, but –” Nash was cut off by Riphook slamming his fist down on the barrel lid.
“I told you to get her,” Riphook sneered. “and you didn't. Little girl was too much for you?”
