Yawning, she donned a dressing robe and a thin pair of shoes, and carried the oil lamp by its finger handles as she left the room.
The common areas of the house were dimly lit by tiny pilot lights in the hallway gas lamps. In the entrance hall, the grand staircase was illuminated by the very faint glow of a pair of bronze cherub lamps affixed to the newel posts below, and the pilot lights of the chandelier. If the house’s main gas supply line were completely shut off each night, it would entail too much risk and work to relight all the lamps every morning.
The house was still and quiet, pleasantly cool and fragrant with rosin and furniture oils. After passing through the entrance hall, she walked along a shadowy hallway and approached the library. But just before she crossed the threshold, she heard a sound that gave her pause.
A series of distant but raucous cries was coming from somewhere, from . . . outside?
Garrett went down a small passage that led toward the back of the house, and entered a cleaning room used by the valets and footmen to polish shoes and boots, and clean and brush coats. After setting the glass lamp on a small cabinet, she unlocked and cracked open a window, and listened intently.
The sound came from beyond the kitchen gardens. It was the aggressive honking of the geese in the poultry yard. They were raising a veritable war council. They’ve probably seen an owl, Garrett thought. But her heart had begun to beat unevenly, as if with a drunkard’s gait. She had a momentary feeling of weightlessness, as if the floor had dropped out from her feet. As she bent to the lamp, she had to work for enough air to blow out the flame.
Her nerves were crawling. Stinging. The “creevles,” she’d once heard it called, by a patient who said his nerve disorder made him want to jump out of his skin.
The geese were quieting now. Whatever had antagonized them had moved on.
Garrett’s fingers trembled as she eased the window shut and relocked it.
She heard small noises near the back of the house. A rattle, a metallic clack. The thin squeak of a hinge. The creak of a floorboard.
Someone had entered the house through the kitchen.
Panic made her insides collapse. Her hand fluttered to her throat, searching until she found the silk cord that led down to her silver whistle. It would produce a sound that would travel at least four city blocks. If she blew a few shrills in the entrance hall, it would alert the entire household.
Her fingers curled around the slender silver tube. She left the room and stole along the short passageway to the hallway, pausing at the corner. Seeing no sign of intruders in either direction, she ran full-bore toward the entrance hall.
A dark shape intersected her path, and a blow came out of nowhere, catching her temple and sending her crashing to the floor. Disoriented, she lay in a heap. A bright ache blossomed in her head. Her jaw was clamped in hard fingers as someone pushed a wad of cloth in her mouth. Garrett tried to turn her face away, but there was no escaping the viselike grip. Another length of cloth was cinched over her mouth and tied behind her head in a cleave gag.
The man crouching over her was very large, his movements swift and efficient. He was in exceptional physical condition, but his face was heavyset and too broad, as if his features were gradually being absorbed over time. The eyes were ugly and shrewd. The small mouth appeared further diminished by a thick black mustache, so meticulously trimmed and waxed that it was obviously a source of pride to its owner. Although Garrett couldn’t see a knife, he used something to sever the silk cord from her neck, and coiled it a half dozen times around her wrists. After wrapping the cord crossways to cinch the loops tight, he finished with a knot opposite her thumbs.
The man jerked her to her feet. Casually he dropped the silver whistle to the wooden floor and crushed it beneath his booted heel.
Garrett’s eyes and nose stung as she saw the flattened, split piece of metal, ruined beyond repair.
A pair of shoes entered her field of vision. She looked up and saw William Gamble. Reflexively she reared backward with such force that she would have fallen had the large man not reached out to steady her. For a terrible instant, she felt her gorge rise, a rude churning behind her ribs, and she was afraid she might be sick.
Gamble surveyed her without expression, and reached out to push back a few loose tendrils of her hair, regarding the abrasion on her temple and cheek. “No more marks on her, Beacom. Jenkyn won’t like it.”
“What’s it to him if I rough up a housemaid?”
“She’s no housemaid, idiot. She’s Ransom’s woman.”
Beacom stared at her with new interest. “The female sawbones?”
“Jenkyn said to bring her back to London if we found her.”
“A pretty piece,” Beacom commented, running his hand along the curve of her back. “She’s mine to play with until we get there.”
“Why don’t you take care of business first?” Gamble asked shortly.
“It’s as good as done.” Beacom held up his right hand, which was fitted with a contraption resembling a set of brass knuckles. It was made of jointed iron, with sharpened knobs protruding from the top. He used his thumb to pull back a tiny hook on the side, and pressed a button that caused a talon-like blade to snap out.
Garrett’s eyes widened in horror. The mechanism was like the spring lancets used for bloodletting.
Beacom grinned at her expression. “With this one little blade,” he told her, “I can drain a man as empty as weekday church.”
Gamble rolled his eyes. “You could do it just as easily with a small folding knife.”
“Toss off,” Beacom told him good-humoredly, and loped to the grand staircase, effortlessly ascending the steps two at a time as he headed to Ethan’s room.
A muffled scream tore from Garrett’s throat. She ran after him, only to feel Gamble’s arms latch around her from behind. She used all her weight to plant her feet hard on the ground, just as Ethan had taught her. The maneuver pulled Gamble a degree off balance. Garrett sidestepped and used her bound hands to strike backward at his crotch.
Unfortunately her aim was off, turning what would have been an incapacitating blow to the groin into a glancing swat. But it hurt Gamble enough to make his arms loosen. Twisting away, Garrett raced up the stairs, making as much noise as the gag would allow.
Gamble caught up to her as she reached the next floor, and gave her a hard shake. “Stow it,” he growled, “or I’ll break your neck right here, no matter what Jenkyn wants.”
Garrett went still, panting, as she heard noises in different parts of the house—a crash of what sounded like glass and furniture, and a heavy thud. Good God, how many men had Jenkyn sent?
Flicking a contemptuous glance at her, Gamble said, “You should have let Ransom die from the bullet wound. Would’ve been a damn sight more merciful than what Beacom’s doing to him.” He gave her a slight push. “Show me to his room.”
A few burning tears runneled down to Garrett’s chin as Gamble pushed and prodded her along the hallway. She reminded herself that Ethan was a light sleeper. It was possible he’d awakened in time to defend himself, or hide somewhere. Soon the servants would realize the house had been invaded, and they would come down from the third floor. If Ethan could manage to stay alive until then . . .
The door to his bedroom was wide open. The interior was faintly illuminated by the pilot lights from the hallway lamps, and a weak spill of moonlight from the window.