Twenty-two
DARING DEVICES
“You won’t need this.” Daneska turns out the oil lamp, and snickers because she’s leaving me in the dark. She stubs her toe on the ladder and curses me roundly.
I won’t miss that lamp, or the stink of the cheap burning oil. Darkness is not my enemy. I memorized Ghost’s hold, the position of every pole, every beam, every box and barrel, and more importantly, I know exactly where she left that knife stuck in the center post.
I set straight to work, wriggling my ankles toward the inside of the chair legs. Immediately my ankle bindings loosen. I tip the chair to the left side, leaning against the post to keep from falling over, and shake the ropes on my right ankle until they slide off the bottom of the chair leg. My right foot is free, but I can’t risk tipping the chair the other way because there’s no pole to brace against. Only one thing to do. I inch my left foot up through the loops, twisting and pointing my toes, but remembering to relax the muscles. Rigid muscles do not pull through ropes as easily as soft relaxed ones. I use the toes of my right foot to help move the ropes, shifting them one by one over the heel until my left foot is free.
It’s easy now, to scoot the chair until it faces the center beam and the knife. While Daneska lectured me on the pitfalls of love, I managed to loosen only one of the knots binding my hands. Ghost tied a double sheepshank with a secondary complex double constrictor knot around my wrists. I can’t get out of it, and I’m more frustrated than a plucked hornet.
Obviously, he must know Miss Stranje requires us to learn how to untie ourselves. I managed to undo the sheepshank, but that secondary cinch is brutal. He shrewdly employed a smaller rope, which makes it even more difficult. With the sheepshank out of the way, at least I have a two-inch gap between my hands. Not very helpful. With my hands still incapacitated, and my ribs strapped to the chair back, I need that knife.
I position myself squarely beneath it. Because my feet are free, I’m able to tip the chair up just enough to get my mouth over the handle. I bite down, trying not to think of how it tastes like years of filth. There’s no time for squeamishness. I quickly work the knife free of the post.
Now comes the tricky part. Pressing my chin against my chest, I lean forward pushing the tip of the knife into the ropes around my midsection. I try to isolate one of the cords. This is difficult to do in the dark. As soon as I can tell I’ve wedged the blade between two cords, I twist so the cutting edge is out, and saw up and down. Jack only tied one knot in the back. If I can cut through one cord all the bands will uncoil. I work the knife as fast as I can.
The whisper-soft pop as each small strand gives way is a victory. I keep my teeth clamped tight around the hilt, even though my jaw is aching, and the wretched thing tastes like greasy palms, fishy salt water, oakum, and ship’s tar. I suppress a tremor of disgust.
With a snap, the band finally springs apart. All I need to do now is shift from side to side until the whole pile loosens. I stand up, finally free of that dratted chair! I continue holding the knife in my mouth and I lower my arms so I can step over the ropes binding my wrists. I slice the ropes apart over the blade. My hands are free at last!
I take the knife from my mouth, spit out the disgusting residue, and with cords still dangling from each wrist, climb the ladder. I lift the hatch and peek out, expecting Jack or some other sailor to send up the alarm, but the ship is quiet. It’s still dark outside. Not as deep black as midnight, it looks closer to four in the morning. Still, it’s dark enough to provide some cover. I slip out through the hatch, careful to close it silently.
I stoop low and skitter across the upper deck, staying close to the railing, aware I’m leaving a trail of bloody footprints on the deck. The gangplank has been drawn up, leaving me no easy way down. I lean over the gunwales judging the distance to the dock. We sit ten or twelve feet above it and about two feet away. If my leg wasn’t injured, I might consider jumping. As it is, I would either land in the river or knock myself out crashing against the deck on the pier.
“Oye! Who’s there?” It’s a sailor or one of Ghost’s men. I’ve no idea which. It’s not Jack or I would throw the knife. I spot the heavy rope off the bow tying the ship to the pier and dash for it. I grab what’s left of my skirts, toss a length of the silk over the thick rope, and jump over the side. Hanging onto the cloth, I slide down the line, landing with a thud against the docking post.
I find my footing and run up the pier. The man shouts obscenities at me from the upper deck, where he’s setting down a gangway to give chase.
Ghost and Jack took the ship’s rowboat, and unless my nose misled me, Jack must’ve rowed him up and down a sewer more than once. I’m willing to bet that sewer leads directly beneath the Drowning Sow Tavern.
I’m guessing it’s the same tavern we passed on the way here. There isn’t a tunnel leading to Spitalfields as we’d imagined. It’s a simple trapdoor to the sewer canals, which run underground throughout parts of the city. The closer to the river, the bigger the sewers are. What better route for smugglers to transport in French wines, brandies, and cognac. And it’s an ingenious way for spies to move in and out of the city without being seen. Clever man, our Ghost, and he’ll be dropping Mr. Sinclair down that trapdoor any minute if I don’t get there in time.
I dash up the pier, praying for darkness and fog to stay with me an hour or two more. Ghost’s horse and wagon must be tied nearby. He or one of his men must surely have used it to deliver the gruesome package containing my hair and blood. I reach the end of the dock and scurry up the embankment.
There! The horse and wagon stand under a tree. The harness and rigging are still on the poor creature. He should’ve been brushed and properly tended. I had expected to find him unhitched, and anticipated I’d have to ride bareback. Faster that way, but this will have to do.
I release the brake and back the gelding up. The sailor from the boat is thundering down the pier toward me. I clamber up onto the driver’s seat and startle the poor horse with a rattling shake of the reins. “Go horse! Go!”
He takes a plodding step forward. I give the reins a harder shake. “I know you can trot, darn you. You trotted last night when I was stuck in the back.” I grab the whip and smack him good. The ornery horse rears and bolts forward at a full run, bouncing up the road so fast we’re bound to break a wheel. I don’t care. Ghost’s man is running after us, shouting for me to stop. As if I would. What kind of fool does he take me for?
I wrap the reins around my palms as I’d been taught as a girl. Except that had been a little buggy and a smallish pony. This horse, who I decide must be named Harold for numerous reasons, is not smallish, he’s full size. And even though the wagon is not very big, it’s not nearly as agile as a buggy. The blasted thing rebounds over a bump and nearly throws me off.
I am hanging on to my seat with one hand, and praying the horse has some idea where we’re going. This fog makes it nearly impossible to gauge what’s up ahead more than a few yards. Fortunately, the hill is steep, and Ghost’s man only has two legs—he’s slowing, whereas my trusty Harold has four, and gallops up the slope as if a demon is driving his wagon.
I look back and see the man throw his hat onto the road as I disappear into the mist. Harold stops running quite so fast and I steer us toward a small bridge that crosses the sewer and angle up the road to Lower Thames Street. We’re finally on cobblestones and I allow my poor horse to slow to a trot. “Good boy, Harold,” I croon, wishing I had Tess’s way with animals. “Keep going,” I add quietly. The street is empty at this hour. Each clack of Harold’s shoes against the stones startles me with its loudness, but the fog swallows the sound as surely as a snake gulping down a mouse.
The world is silent and asleep except for us, and I wonder if Ghost has already captured Mr. Sinclair.
Concentrate.
Timing is the key.
Unlock the scenario, Jane. Hurry.
It all tumbles out before me—the players in the game, a map
of possibilities, and probable options.
They will have been looking for me, all of them, including Alexander, Captain Grey, and Lord Wyatt. At the end of the first hour and a half, they’ll have subtly scoured all of Carlton House. They’ll have found clues that make them think it is a lost cause. Miss Stranje will tell Georgie and the others about the blood she saw in Lady Daneska’s room.
They’ll think the worst. I’m dead.
Ghost made his move. The package arrived and they will have realized I’m alive. They’ll figure out it’s Mr. Sinclair the Iron Crown is after, not me. I’m just the bait.
What will they do?
They won’t give in. They’ll expand their search, broadening it to the streets around Carlton House, hunting for a clue, any clue leading to my whereabouts. Tess will have Phobos out with her; she’ll set him on my scent. They may find something that leads them to the docks or they might not. Tess won’t give up. Not yet.
Captain Grey will order Mr. Sinclair back to their rooms and send him with an armed guard to keep him safe. They’ll tell him he’s in too great a danger to be out on the streets. “Lady Jane is all right,” they’ll tell him. “They won’t hurt her. It’s you they want.”
Alexander won’t listen to them. He saw all that blood, and my hair. He won’t believe I’m all right. He’ll be frantic knowing they’re hurting me on his account. His heart will tell him he must do something.
My eyes begin to water. I dash away the tears.
Think, Jane, think.
When will he make his move? How will he make his move?
Of course! When everyone else was at the soirée, Ghost had someone slip a note into Mr. Sinclair’s room, beside his pillow, on his washstand, somewhere only he would find it. That means Alexander will sneak out as soon as the guard they have placed to protect him falls asleep.
I tick the minutes and hours since this game has been in play. My jaw tightens.
It’s now.
Now!
Any minute Mr. Sinclair will find his way to the meeting place. I urge Harold into a faster trot, studying the street for movement. Up ahead on the corner, I see the dim flicker of a light in a window. It’s the only light on this street.
I slow the wagon, wishing Harold’s shoes didn’t echo like gunshots. Dangling from the signpost is a carving of an ugly boar with tusks. The Drowning Sow. I pull up not daring to drive the cart past the window. If Ghost is inside, I don’t want him to come out to check the street. I turn into the narrow alley next to the crumbling brick building and climb down. There’s nothing to tie Harold to, so I pull on the brake. The squeak against the wheels nearly makes me jump out of my skin.
I climb down and pet Harold’s nose. “Hush,” I say when he nickers. “Wait here and be a good lad.”
I tiptoe around to the front window and peek in through the corner. Ghost and Jack are right there, sitting at an otherwise empty table. I jump back and flatten myself against the wall. They’re still waiting. Alexander isn’t here yet. I press against the crumbling bricks, my hand clapped over my chest, and close my eyes trying to catch my breath.
Blast this dratted fog.
That’s why I didn’t see him. The darkness of the night. The rudeness of the oil lamp flaring from the dirty tavern window. These are excuses. How did I not see someone on the street? He blends with the night, clad entirely in black, except for his hair—a shock of gold peeking out from under his hat. He’s here! Alexander Sinclair reaches for the tavern door.
“No!” I cry out to stop him. On the empty street the sound of my voice echoes louder than I’d expected.
“Jane?”
One quick glance through the window and I see Ghost is out of his seat. I lunge for Alexander’s arm and tug him toward the wagon. “Run!”
I scramble up into the driver’s seat and struggle with the jammed brake. I give it a vicious shove, and the blasted brake finally disengages. I snap the reins. “Go, horse! Run, Harold. Go, lad.”
Harold moseys nonchalantly forward.
“I see you’ve done this before.” Alexander smirks.
Ghost dashes around the corner behind us and roars my name. Jack skids out beside him.
Alexander stops smiling. He grabs the reins from me, clucks his tongue and flicks the whip against Harold’s backside. “Get up!”
Harold’s ears twitch and he lurches into a trot. Another flick of the whip and Harold flies into a canter. I look back and see Ghost aiming a gun. First, he points it at me. Then he shifts it to Mr. Sinclair. It must’ve occurred to him that he might not want to kill the one person he needs alive, so he aims the barrel back at me. I duck. The shot skims past my shoulder. If I hadn’t anticipated it and dodged—Ruddy hell! Ghost meant to put me in the ground with that shot.
“Know how to use one of these?” Alexander hands me a pistol out of his coat.
Loaded. Impressive.
“I’m a quick study.” I turn and take aim. Seeing Ghost tamping down for another shot, I fire. A nasty fluff of smoke obscures my vision for a second. I wave it away, and see I’ve merely grazed Ghost’s arm, but the bullet struck Jack square in the shoulder. Ghost looks up from the blood dripping down his sleeve to me. Angrier than ever, he takes aim and this time he won’t miss.
“Turn,” I scream to Alexander. “Turn!”
Mr. Sinclair seems to be rather adept at handling the obstinate horse. He swerves left onto a street. Ghost’s bullet splatters bricks on the corner of a building, instead of my skull. With a flick of the whip, we are galloping east. Racing toward Haversmythe House. Toward safety.
Twenty-three
UNLOCKED
“Turn right at the next street, Mr. Sinclair. If you would, please.”
He complies without saying a word. He’s still breathing in hard heaves.
“And up there, turn left onto Fleet Street.” I point. “You may rest easy, Mr. Sinclair. They won’t catch us now. Perhaps you might want to slow Harold to a trot. He’s had a rather exhausting night.”
I realize I am giving orders. That’s what I do when my nerves are stretched beyond their limit. Oh, pig swallup. That’s not true. It’s what I always do. Do this—don’t do that. I daresay I am probably the bossiest female in all of England.
A streetlamp flickers up ahead, and Alexander swerves toward it. “Whoa.” That is the first word he has said in ten blocks, and I’m not certain if he’s giving a command to Harold or ordering me to be quiet.
He must’ve meant Harold, because the horse is the only one of us who obeys. “What are you doing?” I demand. “You must stay on Fleet Street until we come to the Strand, and—”
“You’re a mess.” He pulls on the brake and tucks the reins under his leg.
“I’m well aware I look a fright, thank you. Delightful of you to notice.” I stare at him indignantly. “Although if you had followed Captain Grey’s instructions, this race for our lives would’ve been completely unnecessary.”
“How do you know I disobeyed Captain Grey’s orders?”
“A bit obvious. You’re here, aren’t you?”
Alexander is staring at me assessing the bruise on my jaw. “He hurt you.”
“Nothing worth mentioning.” I wave away his attention. “We really should be going—”
“He hit you.” He cups my cheek in his palm. “The brute hit you.”
“I was being rather noisy and uncooperative, you see.”
“I can imagine.” He strokes my cheek so softly it actually begins to hurt less. “I am sorry.” His fingers tremble.
“You’ve nothing to apologize for.”
“And your hair—your beautiful curls.”
“It wasn’t beautiful.” I want to hear him say it again, and I don’t mind at all that he’s threading his fingers through what’s left of my hair. “I’ve been meaning to whack it off. It’s the new style, you know. All the rage. Caroline Lamb bobbed hers. It’s called: à la Titus.”
His gaze drifts down to my lap and the bloodstains a
ll over my skirts. Even in the dim light I see him suddenly turn pale. Judging by his grimace, I think he might be sick any minute.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Now it’s me, reaching for him, patting his shoulder reassuringly. “Really, it’s not.”
“Where did he…” He swallows. “Where did he stab you?”
“He didn’t. Not a stab really, more of a nick or a cut.”
Mr. Sinclair grows impatient with my half-explanations. “Where?” He’s reaching for my skirts and I think he might pull them up in search of the wound himself.
I clap my hand over his. “He cut my leg.”
He takes a shuddering breath. “How bad?” He glances around the street as if he’s searching for something. “There must be a doctor or a surgeon somewhere near here. How bad is it, Jane?”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“Are you telling me the truth?” He clamps both of my shoulders in his hands.
I nod and look down. Ashamed I have lied to him so often that he doesn’t trust me. “I’m all right. Truly.”
He still holds me as if I might slip out of his grasp at any moment. “You could’ve been killed. Don’t you see? And if you had—”
“I’m not dead, Alexander, and I’m not dying. I simply look a little ragged, that’s all.” I flick my rough, shorn hair and muster up my best smile.
“Thank God.” He takes in a breath and clasps my face in his hands. “So help me, Jane, if anything had happened to you, I—”
I have no idea what he was about to say, because I stopped him with a kiss. Or maybe he kissed me. I’m not sure which. It doesn’t matter. It was pure heaven and I almost cried. I pressed my lips against his, and the next thing I knew both his arms were wrapped around me. His divine lips are not nearly so gentle as they had been on the cliffs of Stranje House.
I am not complaining.
They are warm and good, and the tender way they work against mine fills me with wonder. I wind my arms around his neck and kiss him back, hiding nothing, opening my heart to him. The sweetness of his mouth makes me forget the gash on my leg, and even Ghost and Lady Daneska. His kiss is pure and good, and it melts away all the evil in the world.
Refuge for Masterminds Page 21