Page 82 of Let Me Be Your Hero
“You’re right,” he said, wrapping his hands around her trembling fists. “Not that I don’t respect you. Because I do. But you’re right that I should have shown you my workshop the first time you asked. I’m sorry, because I would never want tomake you feel embarrassed in front of your sisters. I just… I fear that once you see my inventions, you won’t find them all that impressive.”
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I am certain that I will. And I’d like to judge that for myself.”
He nodded. “You will. I’ll show them to you right now. Just… let me go in and clean things up a bit. Make it somewhat presentable.”
“All right,” she said in a clipped voice. “Thank you.”
He unlocked the door and stumbled inside, closing it behind him. He lit a few lamps. He hadn’t been in here in weeks, and, as he’d been keeping the door locked, the household staff hadn’t been able to come in and perform any basic cleaning. It was a bit dusty, in addition to being a bit grimy, and he felt the crunch of metal shavings beneath his boots.
There wasn’t much he could do about that. It wasn’t as if he had a broom. But he grabbed a rag and started wiping down the screw-cutting lathe.
He wasn’t doing a very good job of it on account of the fact that his hands were shaking. He managed to bump the pile of metal rods stacked next to the lathe, and half of them went clattering to the floor.
He threw down the rag, frustrated, and gazed around his workshop. Tins of six different kinds of grease were scattered about the table, many of them staining rings into the scarred wood. Hammers, files, and lathes were strewn about, and papers were scattered everywhere.
He bent and began gathering the fallen rods. Who did he think he was fooling? He wasn’t going to make this place presentable, not if he spent a whole week cleaning, and Izzie was waiting impatiently at the door.
Well, at least he had a moment to gather himself. When she made the horrifying discovery of what a dull fellow her husbandreally was, he would accept her rejection stoically. He would not beg, cry, or try to make her feel guilty about her decision.
He had always known this day would come, after all.
Resigning himself, he crossed to the door and opened it.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “All right. You can come in now.”
She said nothing. The corridor was… strangely quiet.
He opened his eyes. “Izzie?”
He looked to the left. He looked to the right. He poked his head inside her library and called her name.
She was gone.
CHAPTER 37
One minute, Izzie had been standing in the corridor, wringing Archibald’s handkerchief, wondering if she was making a mountain out of a molehill when a great metallic clattering came from behind the door to his workshop.
She had paused with her hand on the knob, wondering if she should go in, wondering if her husband needed her help, when a hand clamped over her mouth. She didn’t have time to gasp, much less scream.
Another arm wrapped around her midsection, dragging her backward down the corridor. She tried to struggle, but she was at a bad angle, with her back to her assailant, and he propelled her easily along.
She heard a door open, and she was pulled inside a sitting room that the family seldom used. As her assailant turned to shut the door, Izzie brought her leg up and smashed her foot down on his, for all the good it did. Her flimsy slipper slid off his thick riding boot without leaving so much as a scuff.
He made no sound of protest at her attempt to defend herself, not even a grunt. Suddenly, she felt the cold muzzle of a gun against the soft skin of her neck.
“One sound and you’re dead,” a male voice hissed in her ear. She couldn’t quite place his accent. It wasn’t the exaggerated vowels and clipped consonants of the upper classes, but nor was it the East London drawl of John Nettlethorpe. An upper servant, perhaps?
Whoever he was, he thrust a length of cloth into her face. “Gag yourself.” She hesitated to take the cloth a beat too long, and he prodded her with the gun. “Now.”
Her fingers fumbled as she complied. Once she had finished, she turned.
Her eyes widened as she saw a familiar face.
Then, everything went black.
Archibald checked every room in the house—a time-consuming endeavor. Izzie wasn’t in any of them.
She was gone.
