The Rogue (42 page)

Feebles
shook his head quickly. "Oh, no. I didn't hire the cart. I don't
believe in money, y'see."

Jane
shot the little man a last astonished look before the lid came down,
sending her into a darkness even more complete than that of Hyde Park
at night. Curled on her side, Jane suddenly wished that the trunk
had
held an elephant, for then it would be much larger.

She'd
never cared much for close spaces before her adventure in the
madhouse, but now the tight quarters brought back dark, howling
memories of Bedlam and the constant fear that she had not admitted
to. She was caged again, helpless, vulnerable—

Breathe
.
The trunk was solid, but had formed a few gaps between the planks
through its hard use and evidently long lifetime. Air seeped in
slowly, but Jane found she could breathe well enough, despite the
smelly quality.

"I
want a bath," she whispered, just to comfort herself with the
sound of her own voice. "I want a bath and a cup of chocolate
and a bed with Ethan in it."

She
closed her eyes and tried to imagine those things, and not the way
the trunk reminded her of a cage, or a coffin—

"A
bath with lavender soap and big fluffy toweling, all warm from
hanging about the fire…"

The
cart began to move and Jane's discomfort found an entirely new level.
She was jostled painfully, portions of her coming into bruising
contact with the trunk with every step of the pony.

"I…
want," she said between clenched teeth, "an axe!"

When
the Liars neared the portion of Mayfair where Maywell House was
located, Dalton slowed his mount and held up one hand for the others
to fall to a brisk but near silent walk.

Ethan
itched to race to Jane's rescue, but he had to admit that a secretive
approach was more sensible. Maywell had to suspect that Ethan would
gather the Liars. The last thing they needed to do would be to race
in, pistols high, and force Maywell into acting against Jane.

As
it was, Ethan desperately feared that the man already had. She'd been
so silent in the carriage, as if she weren't even there any longer…

Ice
squeezed his heart, threatening to halt the beat of it. His
Byzantine-minded, shocking, achingly beloved Jane was well. She had
to be, for if she wasn't, then there was no reason for any of
this—not the Liars, not the war, not his own existence.

So
he kept with the Liars as they quietly passed down the last sleeping
street before Barkley Square, then dismounted and even more silently
split into three different directions to surround Maywell House.

By
the time Ethan and Dalton made their way to the square, Stubbs had
already extinguished the nearest lamps by the simple expedient of
shinnying up the poles and blowing beneath the leaded-glass shades.

Kurt
led one division of lethal-looking blokes to the rear alley behind
the gardens and mews. Collis took up guard in front of the house,
with two men on each side of the front door and more in the shadows
of the park beyond. There was no more than the briefest rustle of
leaves and tiniest glint of distant lamplight on blades.

"I
don't like this," Dalton muttered. "Too much chance of
exposure. I want the Chimera, but I don't necessarily want the world
to know I have him."

Ethan
gazed at him evenly. "The Chimera is in there. If you want him,
take him. I only want Jane."

Dalton
narrowed his eyes. " 'Jane,' is it?" Then he nodded
sharply. "Very well then."

Dalton
raised his hand to order attack—

A
shimmer of light caught Ethan's eye. He caught Dalton's hand back
down. "Wait—look."

On
the second floor, facing the square, a single window remained
lighted. Ethan pulled the floor plan from his memory.
Jane's
room
.
As they watched, a female figure passed before the light, the same
motion that had caught Ethan's eye the first time.

Jane
?
All Ethan could see was a shape, until the light caught on hair the
color of firelight on silk—

"Hold
your men," he commanded Dalton as he stepped around him. "I'm
going in first."

Dalton
grabbed him back. "I don't think so. Maywell has a great many
burly servants. I think they might object."

Ethan
pointed up. "She's alone, I'm sure of it."

Dalton
eyed the figure in the window again, his jaw working. "It's
risky."

Feeling
suddenly full of fire and light, now that he knew Jane was very
nearly in his arms again, Ethan grinned fiercely and threw his hands
wide. "Risk? That's mother's milk to me. I'm a gambler,
remember?"

Dalton
snorted. "Go then. Secure her and then signal us. If we can,
we'll get her out before we take the house."

"And
her cousins?"

Dalton
nodded. "All the ladies, if we can. Go."

Ethan
went, slipping between shadows in his finest
run-for-his-life-and-winnings manner, until he made it to the front
wall of the great house.

In a
popular style, there were heavier stone blocks delineating the
corners of the house. Ethan considered using these as a sort of
ladder, but then quickly discarded the notion. Jane's window was too
central. There was no way to tell if he'd be able to move across once
he was up there.

Ivy
vines grew close and thick over portions of the front, one of the few
signs of neglect that Maywell had allowed to encroach on the
exterior. Even so, Ethan banished that idea at once. Agile,
tree-climbing Jane might manage that route down, but her more sedate
cousins would break their ladylike necks.

The
only option that Ethan could see was to climb the portico itself and
follow the ledge to beneath the window. The danger there was that the
roof of the portico was in plain sight from the other bedchamber
windows. If anyone happened to look out at the wrong moment…

It
was the only feasible way. Quickly, Ethan clambered up the columns
fronting the portico and pulled himself over the ornate molding
decorating the lintel. He had one bad moment when what he thought was
a carved-stone acanthus leaf crumbled under his grip, nothing but
moldy plaster. For a moment that felt quite a bit longer than that,
Ethan hung in space, dangling from one hand while he scrabbled for a
better grip.

Most
of the carvings were of cheap plaster—more of Maywell's deceit.
Ethan was much more careful where he put his hands after that.

He
made the roof of the portico with no more incidents and looked down.
There was no sign of the Liars, yet Ethan knew that nearly a dozen
pairs of eyes watched his every move. He gave a little wave to
indicate that he was fine, then moved quickly to the ledge. It,
thankfully, was stone, although it was slimy with soot and pigeon
droppings.

When
he reached the window, he saw that it was not locked. He tried to
peer in, but the window was fogged with condensation from the cool
damp night. He could see little but a white-clothed form sitting
before the fire with head bowed. With one hand bracing against the
aperture, he pushed the window slowly open.

The
girl before the fire didn't look up. Her quiet sobs explained why she
hadn't heard his entrance. Ethan began to smile with relief.
"Darling—"

The
girl turned with a gasp to blink at him through tear-blurred eyes.
"M-Mr. Damont?"

Ethan's
heart shrank with sudden cold. "Serena?"

«
^
»

Feebles
drove his precious cargo carefully through the just-rising streets of
London. There was naught but milk carts and window washers at work
now. The street lamps still burned, where they'd not run out of oil
overnight, and the first glow of dawn was still just a promise in the
dirty eastern sky.

He'd
done a right job of keeping the pony steady and the cart from
bouncing much, but he knew the lady would be black and blue all the
same. That was a shame, for she was a very kind lady. He liked the
way she looked right at him, as if he weren't nearly invisible after
all. Miss Rose did that too.

Finally,
St. James's Street came and went. All the best gentlemen's clubs were
there, like White's and such.

Which
was why the Liar's Club wasn't. The Liars lived on the edge of this
small area of fancy entertainments. They weren't for the solid blokes
who lived at their clubs to avoid their managing wives. The Liar's
Club was for them what thought they was mad and bad.

Morning
traffic was picking up. Feebles steered the pony around a number of
carts unloading meats and greens for the kitchens of the clubs. This
was a good time to get to the Liar's Club. No one would look twice at
a delivery right now.

The
dignified façade of White's faded into the dimness behind
them. White's looked like a right fancy place all right.

Feebles
took a deep breath, already anticipating the scent of Kurt's morning
baking. He'd get the lady out and fetch her a bun with his own hands
when he got her to the club.

White's
could keep their marble steps and fancy front door. The Liars had the
best cook in all of England.

The
carved door of the club finally came into view and Feebles pulled the
cart to a careful stop. He clambered over the back of his seat to
kneel next to the trunk. "We're 'ere," he told it.

"Let
me out," came a thin voice from within. "It's getting
harder to breathe."

Feebles
bobbed his head, removing his cap from habit, though she could not
see him. "Hold out one minute, milady," he urged. "I'll
get some extra hands to carry you in."

When
he passed through the kitchen into the back room of the club, Feebles
found the place deserted.

Worried
now, Feebles spared a moment to ring the bell to the attic. There was
no response, and himself
always
responded to the bell.

Bouncing
on his toes with anxiety, Feebles wondered what he ought to do with
the lady. Not that he had much choice. He'd have to open the trunk in
full view of the street to let her out. Better soon than later, for
even now the milk carts and such were making their rounds.

He
scurried back through the kitchen and the front room to the street
door. "I'll have you out in a miller's ounce," Feebles
muttered as he opened the door and stepped outside. "My—"

There
was no cart, no swaybacked pony, and no trunk waiting on the street
outside.

Feebles
paled. "Lady?"

When
the cart had finally stopped, Jane had let her aching muscles relax.
There wasn't one part of her that wasn't cramping or bruised.

Worse,
the air was getting thick. Apparently the cracks weren't enough
ventilation for this long an occupation of the box. "In just a
moment," she whispered to herself, "they'll carry you in
and open you up and lift you out and you can stretch—"

Without
warning, the cart jerked forward violently. Unprepared and unbraced,
Jane was flung headfirst into the side of the trunk. The sickening
knock faded after a moment, but the wild jostling went on.
Desperately bracing herself with her hands and feet, Jane tried to
minimize the impacts but she was brutally tossed despite her efforts.

Her
rescuer had told her to remain quiet, and so she had, but Jane could
bear it no longer. "Let me out!" she cried at the top of
her lungs. "Stop! Stop and let me out!"

Her
cries were met with an instant increase of speed. The cart was
swaying wildly now, the trunk actually bouncing across the bed of it.
Every bounce was a new punishment on old bruises. Jane felt as though
she were going to vomit. Only iron will and the thought of the added
nastiness in her cramped prison kept her jaw locked.

Her
breath labored harder now than before as her panic began to steal her
self-control. Gasping, she used her upper hand to bang against the
trunk lid. "Out!" was all she managed. "Out!"