Refuge for Masterminds

by Kathleen Baldwin

  He lights an oil lamp and hangs it on the center beam. The light helps me gather my wits. This must be his lair. He stayed aboard ship. Wise of him. Less likely to be found that way. I do battle with my fear by studying the contents of his room. He’s more orderly than Daneska. His cot is made, his washstand is organized with a towel and shaving equipment, and the slops have been changed. Papers sit in neat piles on the table, chests and boxes are stacked against the walls, as well as several coils of rope, a barrel of black powder, three metal canisters, and a box of tools.

  I leave off cataloging when another man climbs down the steps, a burly sailor. Not a man who bathes regularly, judging by the smell. Ghost kicks a chair into the center of the room. “Tie her to it.”

  “Aye.” The man jams his rough leathery hands under my arms, and lifts me to my feet, dragging me toward the chair. I sweep my feet out to the side knocking it over.

  Ghost rears like a wild stallion. Before I know what’s happened, he rights the chair, jerks me out of the other man’s hands, and slams me onto the wooden seat. He leans near to my face, giving me no choice but to stare wide-eyed at my captor. “One more stunt like that and I’ll leave the room. Meaning I’ll let Jack do whatever he wants to you. Understand me, girl?”

  I nod, and sit meek as a little lamb while Jack wraps cord around my middle, cinching it tighter than he needs to. When he kneels down to tie my ankles, each to a leg of the chair, I make not a peep. Even though his grimy hands linger too long on my legs, I say nothing. Maybe he won’t notice I’ve locked my heels down directly in front of the chair legs, so that later I can shift my feet back beside the legs and the bindings will loosen. Soon, he will finish tying me and leave. Soon, I tell myself, ticking the seconds in my head.

  Ghost is sharpening a knife.

  It will all be over soon.

  “I could hold ’er for you.” Jack stands and runs his fingers around my neck. I can’t repress a shudder. His mocking snigger brings back to life my anger. Anger that demands I escape. I will kill you on my way out, I think. Jack snatches his hand away as if my furious thoughts scorch his fingers.

  “Go.” Ghost orders.

  “Aye, m’lord.” Jack sulks out as if he has been robbed of a prize. He would’ve enjoyed watching me die.

  “Close the hatch.”

  It bangs, with the startling finality of a coffin lid slamming shut.

  “Idiotic feathers.” It surprises me when Ghost yanks one of the ostrich plumes out of my hair. Perhaps he finds it difficult to murder a woman wearing something so absurdly innocent as white feathers.

  At the plume’s unexpected weight, he carries it to the light and discovers the lock pick lodged inside. His gaze snaps back to me, and something akin to respect flits through his eyes. An instant later, whatever appreciation he felt vanishes. He jerks the other feather and isn’t surprised to find the second pick. He tosses both on the table, and comes at me with his knife.

  It will all be over soon. I turn my head and close my eyes not wanting to see him cut my throat. I feel a swift and unexpected tug on my hair. It’s over in a blink.

  I’m still alive.

  I open my eyes. My curls dangle from his fist. Those are my ringlets, the ones Sera had so lovingly draped over my shoulder. He slaps my hair down on the table beside the feathers, and returns with his knife.

  “Make one move, and I’ll cut you deeper.”

  I bite down on the gag, preparing for the worst. He grabs up my skirts, and I suck in my breath, holding in a whimper. His knife rips through the cloth, slicing away a section of my ballgown and a sizeable hunk of my petticoat including the lace.

  He only cut my gown and underdress. Why? What is he doing?

  What does it matter?

  I’m still alive.

  Air trapped in my lungs whooshes out, and I close my eyes in relief. An instant later, they open wide. I gasp, feeling the hot burn of his knife slashing through the flesh of my leg. The gag only muffles part of my scream.

  Ghost watches my face as if my pain fascinates him. I clamp my lips tight, struggling to deny him my moans of pain. He presses closer, so close his breath fills my nostrils, suffocating me with spent air and the smell of brandy.

  Then I realize what he is doing. He’s sopping up my blood with the rag he made of my underdress.

  Finally, he backs away and holds my petticoat up to the light.

  Intriguing, in a way—the spreading pattern of all that bright red blood set against the white fabric and delicate lace. Almost beautiful. Almost. It’s unbalanced. Too little white. Too much red. Too much blood. My blood. Suddenly the sight sickens me. My neck tightens and the corners of my vision explode with fireworks.

  Not good.

  As the spots whirl faster, I chastise myself. You’re not going to let a little blood make you woozy, are you? Keep your wits, Jane!

  Too late.

  No matter how hard I try to cling to consciousness, the light dims, and the room spins away.

  Twenty-one

  INTERROGATION

  I wander in and out of a murky consciousness, struggling to find my way to the surface. When at last I awaken, it is to the terrifying sound of Ghost’s voice. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “You worry too much, mon ami.” Lady Daneska sounds flippant and not at all shaken by his tone. “I made certain everyone saw me at the ball. I danced with Prinny himself. The fat prince and I made le grand spectacle.”

  He slams his hand against the table. “Stop pretending you’re French. It annoys me. You could’ve been followed.”

  “No, I was not followed, sweeting.” The way she drawls out “sweeting” nauseates me. No doubt, she says it that way to annoy Ghost further. “I would never be that careless. I’m never followed, unless I wish to be.” She trails her fingers over the front of his shirt.

  He brushes off her flirtation. “Do they know she’s missing?”

  “Poor lovesick Mr. Sinclair tried to tell them.” She laughs. “Did you send him the package yet?”

  Package. I cringe. My hair and that darned bloody petticoat. I picture them in a parcel tied up with brown paper and string. Arriving on Alexander’s doorstep.

  “He should’ve gotten it an hour ago. What happened when he raised the alarm?”

  “They lied to him, of course. Miss Stranje and her brood insisted Lady Jane went home with a headache. They couldn’t very well say she disappeared while pilfering through my rooms. Oh, my dear, I wish you could’ve been there. It was delicious. You should’ve seen Miss Stranje on the hunt. She even snuck back into my rooms in search of her precious Lady Jane. Gratifying to watch the high-and-mighty Emma Stranje stoop so low as to pick a lock herself. I left the lamp burning so she could see the blood.”

  “All the more reason you shouldn’t have come.”

  Lady Daneska pouts. “I want to interrogate our prisoner. Why should you have all the fun?”

  “For pity’s sake, Daneska. Take something seriously for once in your life. This is England we’re playing for.”

  “Oh look, our little cabbage head is awake.” She clasps her palms together. “Isn’t it nearing the time you and Jack ought to go and retrieve our wayward American?”

  Ghost stomps away from her and climbs up to the hatch. “Don’t make a mess.”

  “I’m not the one who left that pool of blood beneath her chair.”

  The minute the hatch closes behind Ghost, I try to talk around the gag. “Mr. Sinclair isn’t going to give you those plans.”

  “What makes you think I only want his plans? I want more than that. I want everything. Him. His boat. Everything.”

  I hear banging on the upper deck, and the rattle of chains, as if they’re lowering a rowboat. A rowboat? Why isn’t he taking the horse and wagon? I remember Jack’s putrid stench and the puzzle pieces slide into place. They’re rowing up the sewer.

  She digs through Ghost’s open tool chest. “You saw those plans, didn’t you?”

  “May hav
e.” The gag muffles my answer. “Once or twice.” It’s then that I notice the tool case is sitting in a different spot. Ghost has been tinkering with something at his worktable. The powder keg is moved, too, and one of the metal cylinders sits atop the table.

  “A pity.” She pulls out a hammer and rubs her thumb over its head and grimaces. “I think he already used this on someone.” She flips it back into the box and pulls out a huge hunting knife. “Ah, now this is promising. You say you only saw the plans once or twice? We both know that is not true. Your handwriting is on the list of materials.” She hefts the knife in her palm and slides it between my cheek and the gag, slicing through the cloth.

  The gag falls away and I open and close my stiff jaw. “Yes, all right. I helped with the list.”

  “Good. Start there. Give me the correct list of materials. Not that phony one you embarrassed me with.” She runs a whetstone over the blade. “Is this the knife he used on you? Not like him to leave a dull blade.”

  “No. A different one.” The sight of which, I will never forget. “You expect me to remember the entire list?”

  She continues to sharpen the blade, running the whetstone over the edge with expert strokes. “The mind is an amazing thing, Lady Jane. It will recall almost anything given the right stimulus.”

  “Folderol. We both know that isn’t true. Panic makes people forget. What is it you really want?”

  “I told you. Everything. Starting with Mr. Sinclair, and you’re going to deliver him to me.” She flips the knife. “One way or another. Question is, how much fun are we going to have in the meantime?”

  I’ve lost patience with her subtle threats. “Don’t pretend to be a sadist, Daneska. We both know you’re not a killer.”

  She turns on me, furious. And here I thought I’d given her a compliment.

  “You don’t know anything about me!” she screams. “Not one thing. How could you? You never cared two farthings for me.”

  “True enough.” I meet her furious gaze with anger of my own. “But Tess did. She’s the one who insists you’re not a murderer—that you have a soul after all.”

  Daneska slaps me. Her face is a raging storm. She walloped me on the same cheek he punched, but I press my lips together and pretend it doesn’t hurt.

  “Don’t lie to me,” she snarls.

  It’s all I can do to speak without groaning. “I’m not.”

  But now I do lie. I lie to her employing every ounce of deception I can summon. My life depends upon it. Alexander’s life depends on it. “Tess has a contingency plan if I turn up missing. She’s going to sneak back into your rooms at Carlton House in the small hours of the morning and ask you where you’ve taken me.”

  “That is a stupid plan. Why would she do something so foolish?”

  “She has some demented idea that because you care about her, you would tell her the truth. I tried to talk her out of it—”

  “But I don’t! I don’t care about her. I tried to kill her.”

  “She doesn’t think so. According to her, if you’d aimed to kill her that night at sea, you would have. She says, Daneska is a better shot than that.”

  “That much is true. I usually hit my mark.”

  “You mean to say you really did let her go? I didn’t believe it, but if you say so—”

  “I didn’t say that.” She brandishes the knife at me.

  I shake my head as if Daneska disgusts me. That part isn’t fake. “You cut Madame Cho. I didn’t think Tess would ever get over that.”

  “There! See? That shows you must be lying. Tess knows if I would hurt Cho, I would not hesitate to kill you, because I hate you.”

  “Except you didn’t kill Madame Cho. You could’ve, but you didn’t.” I temper my disgust with a hint of optimism.

  “An oversight.”

  “That’s what I thought. But Tess insists it was intentional.”

  Lady Daneska huffs resentfully. “She loves that old woman.”

  I mirror her same indignant tone. “Apparently she still cares about you, too. Foolish. We all warned her. Miss Stranje is the only one who urged her to forgive you.”

  “You’re lying. Emma Stranje would never do that.”

  “You’re wrong. She did. Ask any of the other girls. We all sat at breakfast and heard them talk about it.” That’s the absolute truth. “And Tess later told us she forgave you. I couldn’t believe it, but she did. For some stupid reason she still cares about you. That’s why she has this idiotic idea she can persuade you to let me go.”

  Lady Daneska shakes her head and paces up and down. “I hate you, Jane. You know that, don’t you?”

  I almost laugh. “I’d be a fool to think otherwise. So get it over with—kill me and prove Tess wrong.”

  She draws her knife and holds it next to my face. “Maybe I’ll just make you ugly. Then everyone will stop loving you.”

  She presses the blade against my cheek. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one loves me because I’m pretty. I’m plain.”

  “Yes. Yes you are. Plain, with those no-color eyes—”

  “Hazel.”

  “What kind of color is hazel? Boring. Just like your hair. And your thin-lipped mouth.”

  “My lips aren’t thin.”

  “Plain.” She draws back the knife. “Why do they love you?” It is the most sincere question I’ve ever heard her ask. Then she has to go and ruin it all. “Tell me what it is they love about you. I’ll carve it out, and send it to them in a teeny tiny box.” She looks down at me with disgust.

  “Where did he cut you?” She pulls up my dress and stares. Then she yanks it aside so I can see. “Look! He bandaged you. He does not do that. Lucien does not bandage people.” She presses on my wound and makes it ooze afresh. “Does it hurt?” She pokes it again just to see me wince. “That’s going to leave an ugly scar.”

  Her gaze shifts to his cot. “That is his blanket around your shoulders. Mein Gott, he tucked you in—Ghost did this!”

  “I wouldn’t know. I was unconscious.”

  She flings down my skirts, snatches his blanket away and throws it in a wad onto his cot, stomps back, and kicks my chair. She points the tip of the knife straight at my nose. “What is it you have over people?”

  Careful not to move or even breathe, I say, “Nothing. I suspect he was just keeping me alive so you can force Mr. Sinclair to do your bidding.”

  “Maybe.” She backs away an inch or two. “He said he wants you alive.” She mocks his commanding tone. “We will get more out of Sinclair if the girl is still breathing.” She waves her arm, encompassing the whole room. “Still, he didn’t have to cover you with his blanket. Tell me, what is it they all love about you? This Mr. Sinclair. Miss Stranje. All of them. Why do they care about you?”

  “I don’t know.” That is the pure truth.

  “What is it you give them?”

  I try to shrug, as much as possible with my ribs tied to a chair. That’s when I notice Ghost must’ve loosened the ropes Jack tied so tight around my midsection, probably so I could breathe properly. “I have no idea. Perhaps they feel gratitude because I do my best to take care of them. I organize their plans and advise—”

  “What? Are you mad? No, no, no. This is not the answer.” She waggles the knife at me as if it is her finger. “No one above the age of seven wants a nanny. And no one likes their governess.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, no one else does. Take my word on it.”

  A nanny? A governess? Is that what I am to them? I blink. “If that’s not it, I have no idea why they would care about me. Maybe it’s simply because I love them.”

  “Maybe.” She sulks at me, hands on her hips. “Is Tess really going to come and plead for your life? I can’t believe it.” She bends close, the point of Ghost’s knife digging in under my chin. “Swear on your mother’s grave.”

  “I swear.” Through clenched teeth, and with a clear conscience, I make the vow. Tess and I didn’t actually make a plan. At first, I
was lying to Daneska, buying time, trying to distract her. But after saying it aloud, I realize it is true. I know Tess well enough that I can predict exactly what she will do. If I don’t show up in the next few hours, she and the others will hunt for me first. Then, she’ll use the wolf-dogs to try to track me. When that fails, she will go to Lady Daneska and plead for my life.

  “You’re telling the truth.” She growls and gives what is left of my hair a vicious yank as punishment. “That little fool! That is exactly what she will do.” Daneska paces across the room, roaring with frustration. “Ach!” She stops, and hurls the knife at me.

  Instinctively, I try to duck. Not that it would’ve done any good. The knife lodges in the center post right beside my head. “It’s a good thing you never miss,” I mutter.

  “Tess will be too late. Sinclair will already be ours. Lord Wyatt and Captain Grey, they will try to stop him, but he will sneak out, and give himself over to us to save you.” Daneska stops pacing and leans in to scold me. “This is what happens when people make the mistake of loving someone. It turns them weak and makes them vulnerable. I tried to tell this to Tess, but she would not listen. You understand though, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Sadly, I do. “It’s true, love leaves us vulnerable. But no, I don’t believe it makes us weaker. Love makes us stronger inside. Braver. It gives us something to live for.” And the strength to face death, if we must.

  “Not stronger—foolish. You will see. Your lovesick American, he will come straight to us like a mindless little puppy lost without his master. We will have him then. He will do anything we want to keep you alive.”

  “One small problem with your theory—Mr. Sinclair doesn’t love me. Not really. Not that much. He likes me, yes. But love? I think not.”

  She laughs. “Liar. I watched him during dinner. He looked so jealous I thought he might leap across the table and rip Harston’s heart out. He will come. You will see.”

  I say nothing, sinking into my ropes, dreading the fact that she may be right.

  “So will Tess.” She curses in her native language. “Which means, I must go back to the palace and pretend to be sleeping. The picture of innocence. This is your fault. I hate you, Lady Jane.”