“Your father will be dead. And so will you be,Mr.Fox.” He advanced on Perry, and she backed away.
Fox sawed frantically. She was leading the Squire away from him.
His man was still struggling with the tinderbox, finally catching a spark.
“Have you forgotten?” Fox asked. “She has three brothers, Fenwick.”
“Yesh, three brothers. A puffed up bashtard, an heir with his head up every horse’s ash, and another chasing skirts. Won’t matter once we are married. They’ll do the right thing to keep up appearances.”
“You don’t know my brothers,” Perry said.
Blood rose in him. Her voice was strong. That was something. He sawed furiously, felt a line loosen and then nicked himself.Shit.
“Three brothers,” he said. “One for each squirely ball and the squirely prick.”
A snigger came from the servant. Sir Richard advanced on Perry and grabbed the shoulders of her gown, ripping them. The gown pulled apart and he tore at her shift, revealing her breasts.
The lamplighter stopped to stare, and the Squire laughed.
“Look away. Mayhap I’ll let you have her too.” He swung a glare to Fox. “And you can watch.”
Fox pushed himself straight and wrestled his shoulders, holding on to the fragments of rope. Almost there, but not far enough along to risk giving himself away.
Fenwick pushed her onto the bed, and she flopped back and then sat up, clutching the sides of her shift with one hand. Her other hand jabbed into her skirts.
She had something else hidden away. If he could see her move, Fenwick would also.
Blast this rope. He turned the knife and worked it. This sailor had tied a fine knot.
“There’ll be blood,” she said. “I’m having my courses.”
The squire paused. “You’re lying. Ladies lie about and moan when they’re bleeding.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “You don’t know any true ladies.”
“Well, it won’t matter. Never been scared of a lady’s blood. “He waved his minion over and grabbed the brace of candles. “Took you long enough, you fool. Here now,Mr.Fox, I’ve something of interest to show you.” He skirted past Perry and lifted the light.
Fox’s heart almost stopped.
The painting, Felicity and Perpetua, hung over Fenwick’s bed. He almost dropped the knife, but made himself keep going, sawing as if he were carving through the heaviest wood.
Perry hopped off the bed, rearranged her dress, and backed toward Fox. “You stole it,” she said. “You killed my mother for the painting.”
The sharp blade broke through the last binding. He flexed his arms. He was free, but he could feel the slick of blood on his arms.
“No,” Sir Richard shook his head, and then threw back his head and laughed. “Offered it to me, she did. ‘Here, take this’, she said, ‘and let us go.’ A masterpiece it was. She’d sent a copy made by Mr. Fox to ransom her husband.”
“Mother wouldn’t have done that,” Perry said.
“Aye. That duke wants him and so do I. Send a Frenchie. No blame to Sir Richard.” He frowned. “Fucking frogs don’t know how to finish anything, but I do. I killed your mother because she betrayed me. To own a masterpiece like this was just a perk of the free trade.”
“It’s not a masterpiece,” Fox said. “It’s the copy I painted. I know the markings.”
He laughed. “I know what’s what.”
Fenwick plopped the candelabra on the bedside table and swooped like lightning on Perry, throwing her down on the bed.
The fool of a henchman turned to watch. Fox sliced through the tat and the scar cleanly, and the man’s garbled cry brought Fenwick round.
