His Mask of Retribution by Margaret McPhee Read Free Book Online

the different way they looked at her because she was with him. And that sense of freedom, of power almost, obliterated the terror of the rookery.
    She should have been shaking. She should have been sobbing and weeping with fear and with shock. She stared at the candle flame without even seeing it, knowing that the calm she felt was natural and not the result of counting her breaths and slowing them, or drinking a preparation of valerian. He was a man more dangerous than any other, yet with him she had felt safe. It made no sense.
    The flame began to flicker wildly. Her attention shifted to the tiny stub of candle that remained and she knew it would not last much longer.
    She lifted the candlestick and, holding it high, glanced around the bedchamber. It was a woman’s room, but one that was not used, if the quiet, sad atmosphere was anything to judge by. The walls appeared a yellow colour and were hung with a few small paintings. A large still life, depicting an arrangement of exotic flowers, was positioned on the wall above the mantelpiece. She crossed the floor to search the dressing table. There was a vanity set, bottles of perfume, jars of cream and cosmetics, a box of hairpins, a casket of jewellery and two candelabra, both of which were empty. None of the drawers held any candles. She glanced towards the bed—large and four-postered, its covers and pillows a faded pale chintz, the colour of which was indefinable in the candlelight. At one side was a small chest of drawers and on the other a table. Neither held any candles. Nor did the small bookcase. There was nothing behind the gold-chinoiserie dressing screen in the corner. The candle stub guttered, making the flame dance all the wilder and the wick burn all the faster and the first snake of fear slithered into her blood.
    Her fingers scrabbled at the shutters closed across the window and found the catch, but no amount of prising would release it. It took her a few minutes to realise that they had been secured with nails.
    There were two doors within the bedchamber: one in the wall against which the head of the bed rested, and the other to the left, opposite the window. She hurried to each one in turn, trying the locks, twisting and pulling at the handles. But both were locked, confirming what she feared—that she was trapped in here, with nothing to do save wait for the candle to extinguish. The knowledge made her stomach knot.
    She had been safe in the rookery with him, but this was different. Now she was his prisoner. Alone in a bedchamber. And she knew how dangerous he was and how very angry he was with her father for not delivering the mysterious document. But her mind flickered back to what would happen when the candle burned out. He had said she had nothing to fear from him. She glanced again at the candle. It should have been the highwayman that terrified her, but it wasn’t. She closed her eyes and counted her breaths, slowing them as she ever did when she was afraid, making them deeper to allay the mounting panic. And when she had calmed herself, she knew what she was going to have to do.
    * * *
    ‘All done.’ Callerton finished brushing the last speck of dust from the shoulder of Knight’s midnight-blue tailcoat.
    ‘The boy should have delivered the note to Misbourne by now. We’ll—’ The banging started before Knight could finish the words. He raised an eyebrow. ‘What the hell...?’
    ‘It sounds like she’s using a battering ram against the door,’ said Callerton. ‘Do you want me to tie her up?’
    Knight shook his head. ‘I’ll deal with Lady Marianne.’
    ‘You’re due at Devlin’s for dinner in five minutes.’
    ‘Then I’ll be late; Devlin will expect nothing else. It pays to cultivate a habit of unreliability. Besides, I’ve no stomach for the after-dinner entertainment.’
    ‘More lightskirts?’
    ‘He’s hired Mrs Silver’s girls for the night.’
    ‘Again?’
    ‘Again,’ said Knight.
    Callerton gave a whistle.