by Jane Feather
The carriage swung violently, and she was thrown against the door, unable to protect herself with her bound hands. Her head knocked sharply against the window, but the gag stifled her involuntary yelp and she blinked back the tears rapidly. The two silent figures sitting opposite regarded her imperturbably for a minute. Apart from the few seconds it had taken them to render her helpless and dump her on the seat, half sitting, half lying, they had behaved as if she did not exist. Then one of them leaned over and helped her right herself against the cracked leather squabs. It was a small enough gesture, but Genevieve found to her horror that she was pathetically grateful for this sign of humanity in her black-clad captors who had reminded her overpoweringly of carrion crows.
The vehicle slowed and then came to a halt. One of the crows opened the door and sprang down. The other scooped Genevieve off the seat and handed her through the door into the waiting arms. She lay passive but her eyes were everywhere, taking in the high-walled courtyard, the tall, many-windowed house, the large poplar tree whose roots lifted the paving stones as it scratched for earth beneath the city’s man-made surface.
She was carried through a tall, narrow doorway into a gloomy corridor. There was no sign of habitation although her eyes told her she was in the servants’ quarters of a fairly affluent household. The paint work was fresh, the carpet underfoot unfrayed. Even the narrow staircase up which she was now borne was carpeted—an unusually luxurious touch on the backstairs. At the head of the stairs, her bearer pushed open a swing door, and they emerged in a wide corridor, where the paneled walls were hung with gilt-framed paintings. The corridor was lit by a tall window at the far end, presumably giving onto the view from the front of the house. But they did not get close enough for Genevieve to see out; instead they turned through an open door about halfway along the passage.
Here, she was put in an armchair and the scarf removed. She grimaced, rubbing her tongue against her lips in an effort to remove the bits of wool and fluff left by the gag. The silent crow bent to untie her ankles, then unfastened her wrists. With relief, she used her finger on her tongue.
“You’ll find everything you need to tidy up.” Her companion spoke for the first time, and Genevieve was so startled to hear the sound of a voice that she jumped. If the crow noticed, he gave no sign, but simply straightened up and left the room, closing the door behind him. She heard the sound of a key turn.
She was in a bedchamber, small but adequately furnished with poster bed, chaise longue, and armoire. A pier glass stood in one corner, basin and ewer on the washstand. The most distinctive feature of the room was that it was windowless. The door to the corridor had a glass pane for the top third, and this provided a dim light. A lamp, tinderbox, and flints, however, rested on a table beside the bed. The room was windowless, presumably, because it was situated in the middle of the corridor and, as she had seen from the courtyard, the house was one of a row. Any chambers not at the front or the back would be without outside light. Presumably they made excellent servants’ quarters—and excellent prisons.
Curiously, but much to her relief, Genevieve found herself quite calm now that the initial terror of the kidnapping was past. There was little she could do toward escape when not even a skylight offered prospect on the outside world, so she busied herself at the dresser and washstand, finding the familiar activities therapeutically pacifying. At least she would confront the unknown with her face washed and her hair combed. She was wearing the amber silk that she had put on for the morning’s festivities. It was a walking dress and, as such, singularly unprovocative in style and cut with a high lace tucker and ruffles on the wrist-length sleeves. Genevieve found this most comforting, although why she should she could not imagine; presumably, if she was to be divested of it at some point, it mattered little what gown she wore. She shivered as little caterpillars of disgust inched slime down her spine. She must not think of such things, must concentrate only on the thought of Dominic, on finding ways to play for time. Because he would come.
A long time seemed to pass, though, a time long enough for fear and dreaded uncertainty to overcome the moments of serenity. She paced the small room, sat on the bed, contemplated the sparse furnishings, the single, unremarkable picture of a cottage by a millstream, paced some more and all the time kept the rising panic at bay with an effort that seemed to drain her of all emotional and mental energy. When, at long last, she heard the sound of the key turning smoothly, she nearly screamed in shock and her heart began to drum in noisy trepidation.
A liveried footman stood in the doorway. “The gentlemen await you in the salon, madame,” he announced with a low bow, standing aside to allow her to pass.
Swallowing an overpowering sense of unreality, Genevieve found herself smiling formally as she walked into the corridor. The footman led her almost to the end of the passage where the curtains were drawn across the window. A wide, shallow flight of stairs curved down to a square hall lit by a glittering chandelier. They descended the stairs, crossed the hall where he flung open double doors onto an elegant apartment warmed by a fire in the grate, lit by the soft glow of many candles. The four men rose politely as she entered.
“I bid you welcome, madame,” Legrand said smoothly, coming toward her, taking her hand and drawing her into the circle by the hearth. “May I offer you a glass of champagne? Or sherry, perhaps?”
Genevieve had not been able to abide the smell or the taste of champagne since that last night in Vienna. “Champagne, please,” she said with equal formality, although without the smile. At least, she would not be tempted to take even the tiniest sip and would thus be sure of keeping a clear head.
“I trust your reception was not too uncomfortable,” her host continued, handing her a fluted glass.
“It was abominably so,” she returned. “Am I to know to what I owe this dubious pleasure?” It was amazing, but she was as icily calm and self-possessed as if she was in her father’s salle de compagnie. She did not waste energy questioning why that should be so, but merely accepted the fact and was grateful for it.
“Later, madame,” Sergei said and the soft skin of his hands rustled.
“We do not find the pleasure in your company in the least dubious,” observed Sebastiani. “I do trust we shall be able to rectify the situation for you.”
“I doubt it, signor.” Placing her glass on a sofa table where the highly polished surface threw back her reflection as she bent over it, Genevieve looked calmly around the room. Her companions were in immaculate evening dress: black silk pantaloons, striped waistcoats, ruffled shirts, and starched cravats. “I must apologize for my dress, gentlemen. I was not expecting a dinner invitation this afternoon.” She did not misread the flash of surprised admiration with which they received the cool statement, and it gave her heart.
“Dinner is served, monsieur.” The flunky reappeared to make the dignified announcement, and the group moved across the hall and into a dining room easily rivaling the salon in elegance. Five people at the vast mahogany table left plenty of elbow room, and Genevieve’s sense of unreality increased. At any minute, she thought, someone is going to come in and clap his hands, and I’ll wake up beside Dominic and this will all fade into the realm of bad dreams.
Polite conversation continued throughout innumerable courses, and Genevieve was treated with all the attentive deference of an honored guest—the only woman at the table.
She responded in like manner, using it as an exercise in sharpening her wits. She was not encouraged to drink once it became obvious that her wineglass remained untouched, and their restraint puzzled her. Surely they would feel that, a little weak headed from wine, she would be more amenable to whatever plans they had for post-prandial entertainment. But perhaps it did not matter whether she was amenable or not. Those caterpillars trailed down her back again, and she felt drops of cold sweat run down her ribs, dampening the silk of her gown. That would never do! She brought herself under control again and felt the heat recede as her pulse slowed.
The covers were removed and the port decanter appeared on the table. Genevieve rose. “I expect, gentlemen, that you would like me to leave you to your port and cigars.”
“On the contrary,” Legrand said. “We will not smoke if you find it distasteful, but pray keep us company.”
The first hint of steel! She resumed her seat with a small affirmative nod and tucked her hands in her lap to hide the slight tremor.
“The last time we had the pleasure of a conversation, madame, was in a card room during the masked ball of the Polanski’s, as I recall.” Sergei spoke.
When Dominic, cracking a whip, had driven her out into the night. Genevieve acknowledged the statement with another little nod and waited for what she no longer needed to hear. She knew what awaited her now in the dark corners of experience.
“I seem to remember that you agreed to a return game of piquet, madame,” Legrand said with gentle menace. “Or should I say to four return games?”
“I seem to remember, Monsieur Legrand, that I claimed the right to choose the time and the venue, and that no one argued with that claim.” It was pointless, of course, but the longer she kept talking, the longer would the inevitable be postponed.
Sebastiani smiled his thin smile. “Forgive us, madame, but you disappeared from Vienna in such haste that we felt that you had, perhaps …” His shoulders lifted and the smile grew thinner. “That you had perhaps decided not to honor the debt.”
“You all lost in fair play.” She spoke with calculated sharpness. “In those circumstances, I do not accept the debt.”
“But, madame, you had no intention of honoring the wager whether you won or lost.” It was Charles Cholmondeley, and the bitterness of the painfully deceived skulked behind the careful geniality. “You took from us all exactly what you wanted—information. You played us for—”
“I think Madame Delacroix knows just what she played us for, my dear fellow,” broke in Sergei, softly interrupting the rising note that threatened to disturb the smooth surface of this black comedy.
“So, madame, we will play piquet,” said Sebastiani with sudden bonhomie. “For the original stakes, of course.”
“We will cut for the honor of who plays you first.” Legrand smiled. “And who second, and so on.”
“You are not too tired, I trust,” murmured Sergei. “The night could prove to be a long one.”
“Of course, we shall each expect the debt of honor to be paid immediately, as is customary,” added the Englishman, his amiability restored.
The shape of the horror solidified. She could not possibly play all four of them sequentially and win against them all. They would be fresh as she grew increasingly fatigued. She would soon lose track of the discards as they became muddled with previous games and each time she lost, she would lose again in the violation of her body.
“Why do you wish to indulge in this farce?” Her voice was miraculously strong. “Why do you not simply take what you will take anyway? Does rape by any other name smell sweeter?” But even as she spoke the scornful words, she knew that she would play because only thus would she gain precious moments. And Dominic would come.
“Come, madame, you would not deny us a little finesse to our revenge, would you?” Sebastiani almost whispered as he cracked a nut and placed it courteously on her dessert plate. “The simple exertion of force is so crude. And, besides, this way you will have at least the illusion of control.”
“For which I am duly grateful,” she said coldly. “Shall we begin? Or do you wish to increase your insuperable odds by waiting until I am overcome by the lateness of the hour?”
For some peculiar reason that accusation of unchivalry seemed to sting her audience. It gave Genevieve a certain satisfaction, even as she realized that she had probably done herself a disservice. The more time wasted in idle conversation the better. However, the damage was done, and the veneer of courtesy seemed to have been stripped from her companions who showed her for the first time the hard faces of enmity as they rose in a body from the table.
This time, they went into a library at the rear of the house, its long curtained windows presumably looking into the courtyard. A bright fire burned with a plentiful supply of logs in the basket. On the sideboard reposed decanters and a variety of pastries and sweetmeats. The candles were all fresh and newly lit. On the card table were six unbroken packs of cards.
“That will be all, thank you, Gaston.” Legrand, having checked the room carefully, dismissed the servant. “We will need nothing between now and morning. You may send the household to bed.”
Genevieve swallowed the little nut of nausea that seemed to be blocking her throat. All the preparations had been made for a long night that they could spend in this warm, well-supplied room undisturbed by servants. The door closed behind the departed Gaston, and she was alone with her tormentors.
“Let us cut, gentlemen,” Legrand said, breaking open one of the packs. “We will each draw a card; the highest plays madame first, the lowest last. Agreed?”
It was agreed, and Genevieve watched with a curious fascination to see her fate decided. Cholmondeley, she had decided, was the weaker of the four; Sergei, far and away the stronger. There was little to choose between Legrand and Sebastiani. But if the Englishman drew the high card, she would have a better than even chance of winning the first three games. But then she would never be able to beat Sergei if she was fatigued by playing against the others. Perhaps, if she played him first, while she was fresh and her head clear of the succession of games that would eventually fill it, she could defeat him again as she had done before. But she had known then that her victory on that occasion had been awarded by the fall of the cards. She could not match the Russian for skill if luck was not on her side. It was an impossible dilemma, but not one in which she had any choice as to its resolution. Legrand drew the high card, Sergei the next, Sebastiani, and then Cholmondeley. She must play a strong player, using every ounce of emotional and mental strength if she was to win, and then, weakened, she must play the strongest of them all. It could not have been worse.
With a numbing resignation, she took the seat Legrand held for her. For a second, her eyes met those of the four men in turn. They all held the same look: the eager anticipation of the greedy predator who, closing on his prey, knows that his hunger is about to be satisfied.
“There is a woman in the house, monsieur,” the sailor said, drinking deep of the tankard of ale Silas had given him. “But no one’s seen her except Gaston, the majordomo. He took her down to the salon before dinner.”
“How many others, besides Gaston, are there in the house?” Dominic asked. He was priming his pistols, his posture relaxed as he concentrated, his voice quiet and even.
He was as calm as always before action, his mind clear of all but the plan, both brain and body prepared to adapt instantly to changing circumstances should the need arise. He was no longer tortured by fears for Genevieve—now that he knew what to do and how to do it. If she was suffering, it would not be for much longer.
“Six, monsieur, counting the boot boy,” his informant replied. “And the master and his three guests.”
“Yes, I know about them,” the privateer commented, almost absently. “We will worry about them, once we have secured the household. Seven of you to their six.” He looked around the circle of faces. “I want no killing, is that understood? There are to be no messy repercussions from this exercise.” He received affirmative grunts and nodded briskly. “Very well, you will take your orders from Silas. I have my own business to attend to.”
Silas slung a thick coil of rope, lead weighted at one end, over his shoulder. “Everyone got knives?” There was a rustle as the six men drew cutlasses from their belts. “Use them to threaten, if you must, but remember what monsieur said. No killing.” Dominic waited until the seven men had slipped out of the house, melting into the moonless night in their dark clothes as they hugged the walls, their boots swathed in cloth, making no sound on the cobbles.
Then he thrust his pistols into his belt and followed them. But he walked boldly in the middle of the street, his head thrown back, striding easily from the hip, his booted feet ringing on the pavement; a bareheaded man in britches, shirtsleeves, and riding boots, a short cloak flung over his shoulders, and implacable purpose in the turquoise eyes.
“Mine, I think, Monsieur Legrand,” Genevieve said gently into the intense quiet as she laid her last hand of the third game on the table.
The Frenchman smiled his meagre smile. “I can only look forward to our return match, madame. We will play again later, when you have fulfilled your obligations to my colleagues.”
Genevieve felt the soft glow of triumph and relief turn to bleak chill. There was to be no reprieve, then. How ever many times she won, eventually she would lose to them all. She could not avoid it, playing twelve games to their three.
Sergei took Legrand’s place and reached for a fresh pack. “Perhaps you would care to break for five minutes, madame,” he suggested solicitously. “A glass of wine, a little walk about the room?”