One Step Behind

by Brianna Labuskes

  “I shall find a way or make one.” A deep voice resonated in the quiet rooms. She tried to spin toward the door but a man’s arm pressed around her neck, and she felt a cloth pushed up against her face. She smelled the sickly sweet chloroform even as she kicked out at her attacker. It was no use, though. With her last conscious thought, she dropped her handkerchief on the floor, hoping against hope Lucas would find it and know she’d been there.

  …

  Lucas wasn’t annoyed. He’d started out disappointed. Disappointed that his wife wasn’t in his arms when he had awoken. He’d shifted to “irritated” when he’d discovered she’d left the house completely without telling anyone where she was going. But as the hours passed by without word from her, he moved swiftly away from irritated to something that chilled him to the core.

  No, he wasn’t annoyed. He was near panic. It was a new feeling, and he did not like the cold ball of ice that sat heavily in his stomach.

  He sat behind his desk, where she had clearly been before she left, studying the papers that were sprawled there along with a quick note to him saying she’d be back shortly. Why had she not waited for him?

  Lucas ran a hand over his face. He looked back at the pile in front of him: the drop-off locations, the note she’d received at Vauxhall Gardens, and the guest lists for the house party where her cousin was murdered and the one where his sister’s diary was stolen. The list of known watch collectors.

  On top of the pile was a piece of paper with notes his wife had jotted down in a map-like pattern. Arrows connected “historic relics” to “pocket watch” and “blond.” “Timing?” stood out by itself and was underlined several times. As was “baby?” He had been trying to decipher it for the past hour. She must have seen something he was clearly missing. He was struggling to think straight with the panic that continued to claw at his stomach.

  He pushed to his feet and slammed his fist onto the papers. He wanted to crumple them and toss them into the fire in frustration, but he knew that would be the epitome of foolish, irrational action. So he paced to the window instead, trying to control his emotions. He could not lose her now. Not now. He had just found her.

  A knock sounded on the door of the study. He wanted to lash out at whoever dared interrupt him in the moment, but he tempered his voice. “Enter,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  Lucas spared no time on niceties when he saw who it was. “Harrington, what do you have?”

  His man of affairs did not even flinch at the abruptness of the question or the tone in which it was asked. He simply pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and turned it over to Lucas.

  “I have been compiling all the information I could find on the men whose names appeared on all of our lists, and who fit some of the other descriptors we have narrowed down thus far,” Harrington said, without any preamble. Good man, Lucas thought. He stared at the letters scrawled on the page but could barely concentrate enough to process them. Focus, he told himself. It would do her no good if he fell apart. Harrington continued as Lucas read on, “I talked to a few other men of affairs, secretaries, and valets. The ones for whom I could not find more than a few tidbits are underlined there.”

  Lucas’s eyes traced over the names he had studied so many times. He went back to his desk and placed the new list on top of the other documents. Focus, he told himself once more. His finger paused on one of the names on the sheet Harrington had just given him. His instincts buzzed at him, a feeling he knew well not to ignore. “Lake District?” he asked looking up at Harrington.

  “Yes, I noticed that, too. The man in the pub did say that’s where the boy was sent,” Harrington said, his eyes steady. “Sometimes when people create identities, one or two truths slip in. Or it could be a coincidence.”

  Finally, the pieces clicked into place. He followed one of the arrows on his wife’s map to the list of drop-off sites. It seemed their murderer had a weakness for his past. It would lead to his downfall.

  He started for the door, brushing past Harrington without a word.

  His wife was the most brilliant and most foolish woman he’d ever met, and he was going to throttle her as soon as he knew she was safe.

  …

  Lucas’s first stop proved to be fruitless, but his second was successful. The old shopkeeper directed him to the rooms upstairs, where he’d sent a lady a few hours earlier. When Lucas inquired as to why it hadn’t seemed odd that the lady hadn’t returned through the shop, the old man shrugged a heavy shoulder and returned to reading.

  Lucas tore through the shop and up the old stairs. The door was ajar, and he nudged it open with his boot. He stepped into the darkened room that smelled of must and neglect. His heart froze when he saw the handkerchief on the floor. A few strides and he was kneeling by the delicate white lace; he picked it up and touched it to his nose. Gemma.

  He pushed aside the panic that threatened to suffocate him with every gasping breath he took, and surveyed the room. It was small, with few furnishings to clutter the place. There was a bronze plaque on one wall proclaiming that a body had been found in said location. There was a knife in a glass case on the bedside table, with another plaque reading that it could have been one such weapon that had killed Claire St. James. He ignored the bloodstained walls and opened the only other door in the residence. The pamphlet the old man had pushed into his reluctant hands had said the boy was found in the closet. There was nothing in it, even for display purposes. But the boy had been found there, presumably after having witnessed his mother’s murder. Why had he not been killed as well? Unless he’d been in the closet the entire time the murderer was in the apartment, and the killer never knew he was there.

  Lucas dropped to the floor and began feeling for loose boards. If the boy had been sent to the closet whenever Claire’s lover visited, surely he would have made a space of his own in the small enclosure. He found the right board toward the back wall, pushed down, and then pulled up. The wood came away in his hands, revealing a dark recess beneath. Lucas plunged his hand in and came back out with an old wooden box, big enough to hold some toys and keepsakes.

  He stepped out of the closet and dumped the contents of the box onto the floor in the main room. Paper and some children’s trinkets scattered. But several small leather-bound books also thudded heavily onto the wood. He thumbed through the first one, recognizing the name of one of society’s darlings for the season. He tossed it aside and picked up the next one. His sister’s. He recognized the handwriting immediately and pocketed the small, damning diary that had started the mess in the first place. There were two others, one that looked barely used, and another whose pages were yellowing from the years. He ignored the new one and went for the older one.

  He read through it, pausing only a moment when he saw his father’s name. By the time he finished, he knew one thing: he had to find Gemma. Fast.

  …

  The carriage rumbled to a stop with a jolt that threw Gemma against the door. She willed herself to remain limp even as pain radiated from the impact at her shoulder. She had roused a few minutes earlier but had made sure not to alert her kidnapper to the fact. Gemma did not have any idea how long she’d been unconscious, but she still heard the sounds of city life outside the conveyance. She prayed they were in London, because if not she had no hope that Lucas would be able to track her in time. She mustn’t think that way, though, she told herself. Now was not the time for fear or despair, now was the time for action.

  She assessed the situation as best she could with her eyes closed. They had been stopped for a few moments, but her attacker had not spoken. She tried to keep her breathing even, as if she were still under the influence of the drug, but tested moving her limbs. Her legs were free but her wrists were tied behind her back. The rope was not so tight as to cut off circulation, something for which she was immensely thankful, even if her shoulders throbbed from both the awkward position and from her earlier encounter with the door. She was lying on the floor of the carriage, wit
hout much room to maneuver even if she somehow escaped her bonds.

  The silence in the cab was deafening. She could hear the blood pounding in her own ears and willed herself not to open her eyes to relieve the claustrophobic panic. But the wait seemed endless. Finally, she sensed her captor shift against the seats. He was preparing to exit. Light hit her face for a brief moment as she felt him step over her and heard him leap to the gravel below. Pebbles crunched beneath boots. They were in an alleyway. She wondered if she should scream on the chance a passerby would hear, but if no one was about, she didn’t want to lose the advantage she currently had. She waited until the door closed again before opening her eyes and snapping into action.

  She had to get to her knife.

  She arched her back—careful not to rock the carriage—until her hands met her feet. She groped under her dress for a moment and had to bite back a cry of despair when she found the holster empty. He’d found her blade.

  Blackness threatened at the corners of her vision. She blinked it away. She had never fainted in her life, and she refused to start now.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  When she felt in control of herself once more, she was able to think again.

  So you don’t have your knife, girl. Improvise.

  It was almost as if Uncle Artie was in the carriage with her.

  There was slack in the rope, just a bit. Enough to give her hope, though. She sat up, bringing her legs underneath her, and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Then she scooted her hips back until she was in the corner of the carriage.

  Find something sharp. Anything will do.

  Her fingers fumbled along the floor, clumsy and groping. But then she felt it. A jagged little piece of metal. She nearly cried out. It wasn’t sharp enough to cut through the thick rope, but it didn’t need to be. Maneuvering so that her restraints were poised above its tip, she let it dig into the tightly wound thread. She bore down with the entirety of her desperation.

  Once she’d pierced the rope, she began flexing her hands. Her skin burned from the roughness, but it didn’t matter. She kept shifting, working her wrists against the knot. She wouldn’t pull at either end. That would only tighten it. But between the leverage from the sharp piece of metal and her movements, she felt the rope give. A little.

  She didn’t know how much time she had so she kept at it for another moment until she felt the rope shift once more. Yanking it up from where it was caught proved excruciating to her shoulders, but she bit back the yelp of pain. If the ride to wherever her captor was taking her was long enough, she might stand a chance.

  She made sure she was in the same position as he’d left her, and then she went back to feigning unconsciousness even as her heart thudded painfully against her chest.

  It was still some time before the carriage door swung open once more. “Help me, you great oaf,” her assailant said, his voice muffled and strained. She heard the driver lumber down from the perch, the carriage swaying from the movement. A moment later, a body was tossed onto the seat above. She hoped fervently that the person was alive and that he would not roll onto her during whatever journey their captor had planned. That would be far more than uncomfortable. He vaulted back into the cab after giving a terse order to the driver to continue on to their destination.

  She stilled completely as ice washed through her veins.

  She finally recognized his voice.

  …

  Lucas pounded on the door to Rathburn’s residence with barely controlled fury. He ignored the curious and scandalized gazes of those passing on the street. He had one goal.

  A few minutes passed before the harried-looking butler opened the door.

  “Rathburn,” Lucas growled out.

  “His lordship is…not…home,” the butler stuttered. Lucas studied him closer. The man looked nothing like the unflappable servant who had answered the door when he and Gemma had visited. He looked on the verge of losing his composure completely. His face was ashen, and his hair was sticking out as if he’d been running worried hands through it. His eyes darted from the street, back to Lucas, and back again. Lucas could almost see the waves of desperation rolling off him.

  “What happened?” Lucas asked.

  “His lordship is not home,” the man repeated, moving to swing the door closed. Lucas put a hand out against the wood and stepped into the foyer.

  “Tell me,” Lucas said simply. His tone left no room for disobedience.

  The butler crumpled before him, his face breaking for a second from the mask all servants employed. “His lordship has disappeared,” he finally said.

  “What do you mean disappeared?” Lucas asked. “When did this happen?”

  “He was in his study earlier. He ordered tea, but when the maid brought it in only a few minutes later, he was gone. No servant saw him leave, and I would have noticed him exiting the front door. We cannot summon the police on his lordship, but we are distraught.” The butler’s words tumbled out at a frantic pace.

  “Show me,” he said.

  The butler led the way back to the study.

  Lucas scanned the room. Nothing looked disturbed. He went over to the large window. It overlooked the small garden in the back of the house. A fence closed off the space from the alleyway behind it. He knelt on the floor under the window. Gravel and a small bit of dirt had found its way onto Rathburn’s opulent carpet.

  The villain had kidnapped Rathburn in broad daylight. Even on a quiet street, that was taking unnecessary risks. He must have been desperate, Lucas thought. Perhaps Gemma had surprised him with her visit to what he thought was his secret location. Or he’d been following her since she left the house, waiting for an opportunity to seize her.

  No matter what happened, the villain had escalated his plans in a wild manner. Where did he take them? Was he in London? He wouldn’t go to his apartments; even if he was confident no one would figure out his identity, they were in too crowded and respectable a neighborhood for him to get away with carting two resistant people in from a carriage. And when Lucas had stopped by it earlier, the residence had been empty and shuttered.

  Lucas pulled out the old diary once more and flipped through it, his eyes scanning for any potential locations. He paused.

  There. It made sense.

  He reached in his coat for several of the papers that had scattered across the floor of the museum. He found the one he was looking for: a deed to a castle not far from London. Lucas vaguely remembered the old earl who had lived there had died a few years back and the property had gone to a distant relative, or so the ton believed.

  If he was wrong, it could cost Gemma her life.

  He started for the door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Wake up, dearest Gemma,” Collin Peterson’s voice reverberated through the small drawing room. Gemma had managed to feign sleep through the journey, which had felt like an eternity but had, in reality, likely been less than an hour.

  She’d started out the morning with the feeling the locations were important, but she would never have guessed that the meek and mild Mr. Collin Peterson had anything to do with her current predicament. She thought about his eagerness when chatting with her about travel journals and ancient civilizations. She pictured the way his puppy-dog face lit up when he talked with her. He’d seemed like a different man than the one who leaned over her now, his non-descript brown eyes roving over her face.

  Blind panic nipped at the edges of her sanity when she met his empty, soulless gaze. But she knew if she gave in to it, if she let it wash over her, pull her under into the waves, all would be lost.

  His breath was hot on her face, as he studied her. Then he reached out one long finger to touch the soft skin at the corner of her eye. It trailed along her cheekbone then down her jaw before coming to a rest at the seam of her lips.

  She swallowed hard against the bile that burned in her throat.

  Without pausing to think, she bared her teeth and snapped at his finger. The mov
e surprised him into pulling his hand back out of her reach.

  “Ah, ah, my dear.” It wasn’t the anger she had expected to see there on his face. It was amusement. He almost seemed pleased. “So much fire.”

  His eyes drifted to her hair, but he stilled his hand before it reached for the strands. The thought of him burying his fingers in her curls brought the nausea back.

  Anchor yourself. Think of Lucas.

  She gripped the thought of him tight against her like a talisman.

  “Why don’t you come closer? I can show you just how fiery I can be?” It wasn’t quite bravery. It was more bravado. And her voice might have quivered when she’d said it. But she’d take it.

  Lucas. Lucas. Lucas.

  He would want her to fight. The slack. She had worked at it in the carriage when she could. But the movements had been frustratingly limited. Now, though, Peterson was distracted enough not to notice her fingers plucking at the rope.

  Just a little bit more.

  “Oh, we’ll be close soon enough,” he purred at her, his voice sliding over the fine hairs at the nape of her neck like a palpable thing. Revulsion threatened.

  Anchor yourself. Lucas.

  She needed him distracted. Her eyes had been locked on him, but she let them flicker over the room now. They caught on Rathburn, who was sprawled, unconscious, on the sofa.

  Peterson followed her gaze.

  “Ah, yes. We wouldn’t want him to miss out on the fun, for he is the guest of honor at this little party.” Her stomach dropped at the malicious glee in Peterson’s voice. He went to work on Rathburn, lifting him off the sofa with a disconcerting ease.

  Evil is strong.

  Peterson proceeded to secure him to another chair in the room, close enough for Gemma to hear Rathburn’s slow and steady breathing. Peterson stepped back to admire his work then pulled over a side table with a knife and a pistol lying on it. She shivered at the sight then flinched as Peterson slapped Rathburn across the face at full strength. She was thankful she had not received such an awakening.