Ivory and Steel
Page 22
The penalty for murder, Phyllida realized, was hanging.
With a flick of her wrist Lady Woking freed the sharpened steel blade from its ivory casing. In one swift movement she grasped Phyllida around the shoulders and stepped behind her. As Phyllida gasped the needle-fine point jabbed into her neck, stinging, bringing blood.
Mr. Frake started forward then froze. “Don’t hurt her,” he said, his teeth gritted.
Lady Woking only laughed.
Phyllida cringed at the sound then threw herself sideways. The woman’s bulk held her and the knife slashed downward, toward her shoulder. Phyllida cried out but this time remained still. Something warm flowed along her collarbone to the hollow at the base of her throat then down her breast. She closed her eyes, fighting back the rising nausea of shock and pain.
“If you try that again you’ll be sorry.” Lady Woking’s voice remained even, deadly cold. She trailed the knife along Phyllida’s neck, leaving a scratch that seeped more blood. “Mr. Frake, you will open the door. If you really do not wish to see Miss Dearne hurt you will do nothing to interfere with my leaving.”
“Let her go.” Only the slightest tremor sounded in the Runner’s voice.
“Oh I think not, my good man. I am not such a fool.”
The door flew wide and Lord Ingram, garbed in his deep green dressing gown, stopped on the threshold, taking in the scene in one rapid glance. His face hardened but as he started to crouch for a powerful lunge, Lady Woking stopped him with a sharp command. She drew the knife back a mere inch, but it was enough.
Even with her head forced back Phyllida could see the blade, poised for a fatal stab. Coldness washed over her, leaving her numb, her body not reacting to the raging panic that welled within. She couldn’t escape…
Slowly Lady Woking took a step forward and Phyllida, perforce, went with her. “Get away from the door,” she ordered. “Both of you.”
Mr. Frake stood his ground, unmoving, his gaze never wavering from the woman’s face.
Orange flame from the candlelight flickered along the steel blade as it flashed in Lady Woking’s hand and Phyllida bit back an anguished cry. Her shoulder stung horribly and the puffed sleeve of her wrapper fell forward where it had been sliced through. Blood welled along the razor-fine cut then dripped down her arm.
“If you wish me to hang it will be at the cost of Miss Dearne’s life,” Lady Woking said with amazing calm. “The choice is up to you.” She looked from the Runner to Lord Ingram, whose frozen expression betrayed nothing. “Move away from the door,” she repeated.
Both Mr. Frake and Lord Ingram obeyed.
The woman’s arm slid up to Phyllida’s neck and tightened, choking her. “A wise decision, I assure you,” she said. Step by step she backed from the room, drawing Phyllida with her, her desperation lending her strength. The blade remained poised at the base of Phyllida’s throat, barely an inch below the strangling hold.
The blood that didn’t seep from the gashes pounded in Phyllida’s ears. She didn’t dare struggle—Lady Woking would kill her before letting her go. The woman had nothing more to lose.
They crossed the threshold and started down the hall. Mr. Frake and Lord Ingram followed, cautiously, careful not to come too close. Lady Woking punctuated each of the men’s steps with tiny jabs of the needlelike knife.
The light about them increased as they neared the illuminated steps and as they reached the landing Lady Woking hesitated. By the shifting of the woman’s hold, Phyllida could feel her searching for footing on the top stair. Lady Woking wavered a moment then descended first one step then a second. The knife pressed into Phyllida’s throat until she followed.
Ingram reacted with a compulsive jerk of his arm and Lady Woking instantly jabbed home the knife. An exclamation escaped Phyllida, which she bit back, but too late. Ingram’s fists clenched.
No mercy could be found in Lady Woking’s grip, not a shred of kindness. Only single-minded determination. She would not be released, Phyllida realized, even when the woman won free of the house. Her heart plummeted through the bottom of her stomach. Once her escape was assured the woman fully intended to kill her, as surely as she had murdered Louisa and the dowager.
She swallowed convulsively and the movement of her throat caused the knife to scratch her skin.
Lady Woking descended another step, teetering, and risked a quick glance toward her feet. Phyllida braced herself. If she were to survive, she would have to act quickly…
An idea formed and she looked up, straight into Ingram’s agonized face. The fear for her she saw there lent her courage. She rolled her eyes, hoping he’d understand, knowing he must. It was her only chance… He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and eased himself closer. Lady Woking’s head jerked up and the knife pressed into Phyllida’s neck and Ingram stopped once more.
He was near enough though, Phyllida prayed. He had to be. She wouldn’t allow him not to be. With every ounce of her strength, Phyllida threw her weight backward.
The knife sliced into her throat and she cried out as they fell. Ingram was after them, wresting the blade from her assailant as they tumbled down the steps in a tangle of bodies until Phyllida’s head struck a banister pole.
* * * * *
Hazily, Phyllida became aware of confusion. She lay on something hard—the floor, she supposed—though a pillow seemed to support her head. Every part of her ached or stung. Or both. Apparently though, she was alive. Surely she shouldn’t hurt this much if she were dead. She dragged open her eyes and found herself staring up into the ruggedly handsome and concerned face of Lord Ingram.
“I remember doing this before,” she murmured. “At the opera house.”
“Thank God you’re all right,” he breathed, his voice shaking with relief. His arms tightened about her, half-lifting her from where she lay, and his mouth descended on hers.
She struggled, but only enough to free one arm, which she threw about his neck. She clung to him, oblivious to everything except the man she loved.
At last he raised his head. A smoldering glow lit his eyes and a smile, so possessive of her as to set her heart racing, touched his lips. “I’ve wanted to do that ever since that first night,” he said.
“Why didn’t you?”
He smoothed the hair back from her brow and kissed her forehead. “I cannot think of a single reason that doesn’t now seem preposterous. Never mind, I shall make amends in the future. Many and frequently.” His mouth found hers once more then he buried his face in the loose hair that fell about her shoulder. “My God, Phyllida, what were you doing in that room?”
“I thought Mr. Frake suspected you. I had to find proof that you weren’t guilty.”
He stiffened then held her slightly from him so he could stare fully into her face. “You risked that—for me?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t believe ill of you. I-I even tried to justify your motive for murder. When I realized I did that, I knew it was impossible for you to be guilty.”
“Oh my God,” he breathed, and held her close.
“If you don’t mind my suggesting it, m’lord,” Mr. Frake’s voice interrupted, “you might see to it the young lady sees a doctor. That was a nasty crack she took on the head and a few of those cuts look like they could use a bit of tending to. She was a little too ready with that knife, for my taste, was Mrs. Simpson.”
That brought Phyllida back to a sense of her surroundings. She looked around, moving her head with care, and found the hall ablaze with light. A large number of people stood about, sketchily clad in dressing gowns and nightcaps. No one was talking. Except for the servants, she realized. Their excited chatter sounded unaturally loud. The marquis hovered over Constance Yarborough, protectively, as if he feared she too would fall victim to the knife-wielding murderess.
Lady Woking stood silently near the door, eyes lowered, flanked by two uniformed Bow Street patrolmen. Each held one of her arms just above her elbows. Deep crimson spots sprinkled across her arms and t
he front of her gray gown. Blood.
Mine, the realization floated through Phyllida’s mind and she shivered. Lord Ingram’s arms tightened about her and he pressed her face tenderly against his shoulder.
“Well now, m’lord, miss. It’s about time my men and I were a-going. I’d like to thank you for your assistance in the capture of our murderess. All’s well as ends well, I always say.”
Phyllida eased herself away from Ingram into a sitting position. “It’s finished, at last.” Even to herself her voice sounded shaky. She could put the past behind her—but that meant she would have to face her uncertain future.
“Not quite.” Ingram regarded her, his expression solemn. “Miss Dearne, you have a very worthy charity but no one to head it.”
Her face fell. “Oh no. Perhaps Lady—” She broke off. Lady Woking, whom she had counted on in the past, would not help her anymore.
“Might I suggest Lady Ingram?”
Her gaze flew to his enigmatic expression, as irritatingly unreadable as ever. “Your mother, my lord?” she hazarded.
“My wife. Her position might not be as exalted as that of a Lady Allbury but I am sure it would suffice.”
The Runner chuckled. “Oh I wager the next Lady Allbury will be willing to lend a hand. Just make sure your future projects call for watercolors.” He winked at them. “I daresay it will have to be a special license affair for you, what with miss being in mourning.”
“A…” Phyllida’s voice trailed off.
“An excellent suggestion.” Lord Ingram’s smile flashed. “I shall act upon it at once. You may expect an invitation in the very near future.”
“I’ll look forward to it, m’lord.”
The Runner and his men made their departure but Phyllida barely noticed. She regarded Lord Ingram with a certain amount of trepidation. “Are you quite certain you wish for a special license?” she asked.
“Certainly. I’ll not engage in anything as improper as a flight to the border.”
“That isn’t what I meant. Do you really wish to marry me?” In spite of herself a note of wistfulness crept into her tone.
“It seems eminently practical. You find yourself in dire need of a new place to live and I find myself in dire need of you. We can then chaperone Miss Yarborough until Allbury is out of mourning. What arrangement could be better?”
With that she found herself in complete agreement. He gathered her once more into his arms and she went without protest.
After several very satisfying moments he held her slightly away from himself. “What do you think, Miss Dearne? Can you bear to become my wife?”
She folded her hands demurely in her lap. “My lord, for the sake of the charity, it seems I must.”
“Phyllida!” His eyes gleamed dangerously. He raised her hand to his lips then turned it over and kissed her wrist then her palm. “For the sake of the charity?”
“Certainly. It finds itself in dire need of a sponsoress and I,” she caught her breath as his lips brushed her throat, “find myself in dire need of you.”
“Well it’s about time we were in agreement about something,” he said, and his mouth descended once more on hers.
About the Author
Janice Bennett has the eclectic background often encountered in writers. She earned one B.A. degree in anthropology from UC Santa Cruz, another in classical civilizations from UC Irvine, and an M.A. degree in folklore and mythology from UCLA. Over the years, she has worked as a bookkeeper, archaeologist, and college instructor in crafts, jewelry making, needlework and novel writing, and has been a frequent presenter of workshops on a variety of writing topics. She also teaches t'ai chi and is a certified hypnotherapist specializing in pain management.
To date, she has written nine novellas and twenty-four novels. She has won several awards, including two Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice awards and two Romantic Times Career Achievement Awards, for Time Travels and for Regencies.
Janice lives near the top of a sloping hillside on the outskirts of a tiny rural town, looking out over nothing but trees. With her reside her husband, her son, her computer and an assortment of birds, cats, dogs, guinea pigs, hamsters, fish, horses, and any other animal currently in need of a home.
Janice welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by Janice Bennett
Events Unlimited 1: Cold Turkey
Events Unlimited 2: Bunny Hop
Events Unlimited 3: Black Cats and Boondoggles
Events Unlimited 4: Hot Dogs
Haunting Flame
Wishing for Love 1: Candlelight Wish
Wishing for Love 2: Starlight Wish
Wishing for Love 3: Moonlight Wish
Print Books by Janice Bennett
Events Unlimited 1: Cold Turkey
Events Unlimited 2: Bunny Hop
Events Unlimited 3: Black Cats and Boondoggles
Events Unlimited 4: Hot Dogs
Wishing for Love 1: Candlelight Wish
Wishing for Love 2: Starlight Wish
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Ivory and Steel
ISBN 9781419938399
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Ivory and Steel Copyright © 2012 Janice Bennett
Edited by Ann Leveille
Cover design by Dar Albert
Photos: Ken Schyuze, Prill Mediendesign/Shutterstock.com and Solma/123rf.com
Electronic book publication July 2012
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