As Guy cantered away, Somerton’s words echoed through his mind. We may need a conveyance to carry Cora and the others home. The words conjured up the searing image of Cora lying motionless on the filthy table in France. He could not dispel it. Never would he allow her to go through that again.
God help him, he could not go through it again, either.
Thirty-Two
Cora bucked into wakefulness with the first puncture of the needle. The metallic smell of blood coiled its way into her consciousness, and two female voices murmured inches above her. Light flickered nearby, but it was too bright for a mere candle. An oil lamp? Possibly. However, given the plush quality of the bed beneath her, she was not in a barren cell but a well-appointed bedchamber. Therefore, the illumination was likely coming from one of those lovely Argand lamps now found in every aristocratic home in London.
All this she registered before cracking her heavy eyelids open. Once she did, she was treated to the slow, steady draw of a needle near her face, followed by a sharp tug on her throbbing shoulder when the woman pulled the thread tight.
So her plan to flush Valère from hiding had finally worked. All had gone well, except the part where she, rather than Valère, got stabbed and was carried away. That little chink in her scheme complicated the situation more than she wanted to admit.
“Who are you?” The question emerged rusty, barely audible.
The older woman jumped, pricking Cora’s shoulder. “Sorry, miss. I’m the housekeeper, Mrs. Pettigrew, and this is Lydie, one of the upstairs maids.”
“W-water.”
“Lydie, fetch a glass, girl. Be quick about it.”
Such an ordinary action as drinking proved to be an awkward, arduous task. Cora slumped back on the bed, flushed and perspiring from her exertions. So reminiscent of a few weeks ago.
“Miss, I have a few more stitches to set,” Mrs. Pettigrew informed her, uncertainty lacing her voice.
“Proceed, Mrs. Pettigrew. My shoulder is numb now—I won’t be able to feel it,” Cora lied. Her shoulder muscles tensed in anticipation of the needle’s next entry. She turned her face into the pillow at the first bite of the needle piercing her raw, angry flesh.
Three stitches later, the housekeeper finished, and the three of them labored to wriggle Cora into a nightdress before tucking her under the covers. After the servants left, she closed her eyes, succumbing to exhaustion, only to open them again minutes later when she heard the heavy tread of someone stepping into the chamber.
Valère.
His confident stride brought him to the side of her bed. Cora’s eyes opened wider as he approached. She learned her lesson well the last time they were in a bedchamber together. She would never lose sight of him again. Then she noticed the black patch over his eye and fought to keep the smile off her face. Thanks, Scrap.
Valère’s fingers closed around the neckline of her gown, ruining her euphoria. Quick as a whip, she clasped his wrist in a grip less iron-like than she would have preferred.
Steel gray eyes slammed into hers. “Release me.”
Cora’s hold tightened at his low command. It was obvious he could break her grasp with a quick flexing of his wrist, but he didn’t. His lack of action confused her.
“I don’t think you heard me, mon ange. Release. Me.”
Bracing herself for the worst, she eased away her fingers and watched the blood rush into the slender white lines encircling his wrist.
The edge of her gown slid down her shoulder, uncovering one pale breast. With teeth clamped together, she stared at his chest. She didn’t flinch or show any outward sign of the fury, of the terror churning beneath the surface. His hand rested on the mattress above her head while he trailed a finger around the sensitive rim of her wound. She clutched the bedsheet and contracted her shoulder muscles to lessen the raw tingling sensation his touch created.
His finger continued its descent.
She called upon the skills she had honed as the Raven to help her through what was to come. “Stop.”
“Why?”
She made to sit up, but his finger didn’t move, and it dug into her chest. Excruciating pain slashed through her shoulder, causing her breath to catch. She dropped back onto the bed, perspiration coating her brow.
“Now, look at what you made me do.”
“Bastard,” she wheezed.
“Ah, has that old rumor surfaced again?” Ignoring the painful twitches racking her body, he walked over to the wall next to the bed.
She heard a series of noises, and then a whoosh of incense-misted air wafted into the chamber. Valère threw back her covers, lifted her into his arms, and carried her into a hidden room. With something akin to reverence, he propped her up against a profusion of black and red satin pillows of various shapes and sizes. Cora drew her gown over her nudity, feeling more vulnerable in this room than the last.
While Valère went to light several candles, her gaze took in the forbidden decadence layering every nook and cranny. The room was large, perhaps twice the size of the adjoining bedchamber. Across the way, a wide plank of wood was suspended several feet in the air by two thick ropes anchored at the ceiling. The whole ensemble looked like a child’s swing but far more provocative. The braided ropes were wrapped in black silk for the first seven feet or so, and a long train of red silk was attached to the underside of the plank rather than covering the rough grains of the seat.
Everywhere she looked, carnal toys abounded. Cora recalled enough about their time together to know that she had just become the most useful toy of all. Bile, hot and thick, surged into her throat. “I am going to be sick,” she said, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth.
Valère jerked around. “Do not. Or you will regret it.”
She closed her eyes against the awful room and swallowed back her dread. Concentrate on getting through the next hour. Do not think about your revulsion or how you are about to betray Guy. Just get through the next h-hour. Even in her mind, the word shuddered through her body. Good God, an hour with this murderer would surely sink her into the abyss of madness.
When she opened her eyes again, it was to find Valère standing by the bed with his coat gone and his cravat hanging limply from his neck. He eyed her as if she were a loathsome insect leaving feces behind on his newly laundered handkerchief. “Are you quite done?”
Perhaps he would fall asleep after—afterwards, and she could try to locate Ethan. She held onto the hope, even though Valère had never fallen asleep in her presence. Smart man. “Yes, my lord.” She plastered what she trusted was a welcoming smile on her face. “My apologies. I fear the loss of blood has weakened my stomach.”
His harsh features softened, and he unfastened the two buttons at the top of his shirt as he sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. The rapt set to his features conveyed a determination that would not be swayed by a weak stomach, injured shoulders, or change of heart. “Then we must be careful not to shake the bed too much, mon coeur.”
He braced one hand next to her thigh, leaning into her. His breath fanned across her sweat-dampened face while his fingers peeled back the flimsy protection of her gown. Every instinct begged her to strike out and end this torture. But Cora’s logical mind kept her pinned to the bed, allowing the nightmare to continue. She needed a few days to heal. There was no way she could fight off Valère, locate Ethan and Grace, sneak out of the house, and make her way back to London in her current condition.
She didn’t even know where she was.
As was her custom when faced with a terrible prospect, her mind turned to Guy for solace. She focused on his dark, penetrating eyes, his silky, long hair, and the husky timbre of his voice. She imagined his arms lifting her from this strange bed and whisking her to Herrington Park, where they could begin anew.
But her reckless bid for revenge had likely destroyed any chance she’d had for true happiness. She ignored the fact that she had made up her mind at the Rotham ball to end their romantic relationship. Her treacher
ous heart would not release him so easily.
Valère’s cold hand closed around her breast, and she heard a low rumble of appreciation. She had miscalculated in the worst possible way. Not only would she suffer the consequences of her single-mindedness, but so would Guy. Their deepening bond and her disappearance would ensure he would sustain an unforgivable torment, wondering where she had been taken, envisioning what Valère was doing to her. Unforgivable.
A knock on the outer chamber door interrupted his cruel torment.
“Monsieur?” Marcel called, opening the door.
“In a moment,” Valère snarled. When the door closed, he resumed his punishing manipulation of her breast while his hooded gaze skimmed her features. He bent and drew her earlobe into his mouth; his thumb flicked over her nipple.
Unable to remain passive, she jerked her head to the side to dislodge him. Undeterred, he clamped down on the soft flesh of her ear with his teeth. Tears welled in her eyes.
“My lord?” a muffled voice said through the thick chamber door.
Valère released an unsteady breath. “You have been given a bit of a reprieve, my beautiful betrayer.” He sat up and gave her nipple one last vicious squeeze.
Cora bit back a painful gasp.
Valère chuckled. “Perhaps your stomach will be stronger upon my return.” He rose from the bed, straightening his clothes, and repositioned his erection with the slow glide of his fingers, staring at her all the while. “Soon,” he said with a dangerous undercurrent before joining Marcel in the corridor.
Cora pulled the nightdress over her nakedness again. She counted to fifty before allowing the steady stream of tears to slide down her cheeks. Her ragged breaths rent the air while her forearm pressed against her abused breast. A sense of desolation overwhelmed her. She could not bear to go through such degradation again. While she was in his dungeon, Valère used torture as a means of drawing knowledge from her about the Nexus. Now he meant to inflict a different kind of torture upon her. One that preyed on her emotional fears, one that time rarely healed.
Thirty-Three
“Good evening, my lord.”
Guy twisted around at the raspy greeting. Specter stood in the misty shadows of a large oak tree. Their rendezvous did not take place in a rotting back alley, as was their norm, but in an old cemetery adjacent to Bunhill Row.
“I do not have time for pleasantries,” Guy said. “Do you have any information on Lord Danforth?”
“I do.” The informant paused. No doubt to remind Guy who was helping whom. “An associate of mine is caring for him at present. The Frenchman’s footpads were not kind.”
“Danforth’s with your people?” Relief pooled in Guy’s stomach. Cora’s brother was alive. He could not wait to tell her.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Why have you not informed me before now?”
Specter’s stance widened. “Because I did not know before now.”
Guy backed off. The benevolent phantom had never given him any reason to distrust his word. “My apologies. His injuries are severe?”
“Not life-threatening, though he will be in a great deal of discomfort for a while.”
Danforth’s tolerance for pain was legendary, so Guy let the comment pass. “Thank you for helping him. His sister will be most pleased. Any word on Valère’s whereabouts?”
The skeptic in him did not want to follow Jack blindly into what could be another trap—no matter how convincing the footman’s tale.
Specter’s hood dipped down. “The Frenchman’s taken up residence at a country estate just outside of the city.”
“Who owns the estate?”
“A name I think you’ll recognize.”
Guy locked his jaw in impatience. “Which is?”
“Lord Latymer.”
Stunned, Guy said nothing. His hands curled into fists, and his jaw clenched tight. Of all the possibilities at the Foreign Office, never once had they considered Latymer as the traitor. The undersuperintendent was the only man Somerton had ever called friend. Jesus, what a muddle. Valère’s occupation of the undersuperintendent’s home did not bode well—on many levels, not just this mission.
“Are you sure it is Latymer’s estate?”
“Without a doubt.”
Latymer’s involvement would explain a lot. Valère always seemed to be one step ahead of them and able to penetrate their defenses. Whatever information Somerton had shared with Latymer no doubt went straight into the Frenchman’s ear.
Latymer must have alerted Valère to Cora’s real purpose in France, too. Even though Somerton considered Latymer his friend, Guy suspected the traitor had not learned about Cora’s secret identity from Somerton. The chief of England’s Secret Service did not share that kind of information with anyone. Even his family. The bastard probably intercepted missives between Somerton and Cora, and then forwarded them on to Valère for money or power or whatever the hell bound the two.
Indecision sliced through Guy. Cora’s life could be measured in minutes now, and Somerton could stroll unawares into an equally lethal situation when he went to update his superior.
“Problem, my lord?” the raspy voice mused.
“Somerton is on his way to see Latymer now.”
“Ah, I see your dilemma.”
The dark shadow shifted; waves of menace vibrated off his informant. There was something different about Specter tonight. The informant’s tone conveyed a powerful, barely contained derision—one quite different from its usual amused indifference.
“Do you have something on your mind?” Guy asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” the cloaked figure said. “Minutes before your summons arrived, I received word that the Raven is under the Frenchman’s control once again.”
Guy’s nostrils flared at the unnecessary reminder. “You are well informed.”
“It’s my job to be so,” Specter returned. “You have benefited quite well from that fact over the years.”
Guy bit down on the inside of his cheek, unable to deny the truth of his informant’s words.
“Wasn’t she under your protection, my lord?”
Silence skidded off the stone walls surrounding them.
“Yes,” Guy clipped out.
Another lengthy stillness ensued. Guy allowed the hooded informant to see the humiliation and anger burning in his soul. “What does your chief think about the Raven’s disappearance?”
Guy frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What I asked, of course,” Specter said. “Does Somerton mourn her disappearance, or is he indifferent to the problem?”
What was it about Somerton that snagged this shadowed figure’s curiosity? Guy recalled the streak of pain that crossed Somerton’s face upon hearing of Cora’s kidnapping. “He is quite upset, I should think. Why do you ask?”
“Go to Raven,” came the quiet order. “I will see to your distressed leader.”
Guy nodded and turned to leave. He should have felt relief that Specter took the issue of Cora’s disappearance no further than a simple inquiry. But relief was only a small part of what fired through his veins. A very small part. The bulk of his emotion equated to ungovernable rage. Rage against Valère, rage against Jack and himself, and he even felt rage against the mysterious informant at his back.
“My lord?”
Guy halted, squared his shoulders, and waited for the delayed tongue-lashing. “Yes?”
“Be careful. The estate is well guarded.”
Guy glanced back. “I assumed no less. If you have nothing further to offer…”
He did not wait for an answer, simply allowed the growing fog to envelop him. For the first time in their clandestine relationship, it was Guy who disappeared into the shadows.
Guy reached The King’s Arms at the appointed time, after first stopping at his town house to change out of his formal clothes and to grab a small arsenal of weapons. He located Somerton’s carriage outside the inn’s stables and startled Cora’s servants awak
e when he opened the door. They scrambled out, apologizing as they went. He held up a hand. “No need to apologize. It has been a long evening.”
“How long do you expect Lord Somerton to be, my lord?” Dinks asked, covering a yawn.
Guy thought on the Specter’s revelations about Lord Latymer. He had to consider it would be some time before Somerton and reinforcements arrived. Time that Cora did not have.
“I will give him another hour to join us. If he is not here by then, we will continue on to Latymer’s without him. In the meantime, let us all get a few minutes’ rest.”
“Latymer, my lord?” Dinks asked, a quizzical look on her face.
“That’s right,” Guy said. “You recognize the undersuperintendent’s name?”
“Undersuperintendent?” Dinks shook her head. “No, sir. At least I don’t think so. Are you speaking of Maurice Pencavell?”
Something stirred low in Guy’s gut. “No, his younger brother Pierce. Maurice died under mysterious circumstances a few months ago, and the middle son took the title.”
“Yes,” Dinks mused. “Just as I thought.”
“Dinks, what do you have yammering inside that brilliant head of yours?”
She sent Bingham a brief glance, which made the coachman’s face scrunch up and turn a ghastly shade of purple.
“I’ll be off for a bit of sleep if you don’t need me, m’lord.” Bingham didn’t wait for an answer. He stalked off toward the stable, his shoulders hunched.
Jack looked at the maid. “I’ll see to him, Dinkie.”
Dinks nodded before giving herself a hard shake. “Many years ago, I spent a few weeks inside that estate, entertaining the former baron.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m not proud of those days, my lord. But they kept me off the streets. Some would suggest one stew is no different from the other, and to those kettle-brains, I say go spend the night on a urine-stained stoop in the middle of winter and see if you feel the same in the morning.”
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