“Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam to visit the prisoner,” the other guard informed him.
“This prisoner’s not allowed any visitors,” the gruff man replied.
Assuming his stiffest posture, Richard stepped forward, addressing the man as though he weregiving orders. “Then I shall return with my father, Lord Matlock, so that he may insist you allow us passage.” He did not like using his father’s position as a peer, but it did come in handy in moments like these.
The man squinted his eyes and moved aside. Unlocking the door, he asked, “You have any weapons on you?”
Richard had a knife in his boot, but he was not about to give that up. Rouncewell had said to be cautious. Instead, Richard handed over the knife he carried in his coat. And when the guard motioned at his fob chain, he handed that over as well.
Both of the guards moved in front of him, pistols ready should their prisoner rush them at the door. He must be as dangerous as Rouncewell had implied.
They motioned him forward, and Richard heard the doors close behind him as soon as he set foot inside the room. His skin crawled at the sound. He was as much of a prisoner as the man Blackburne—at the mercy of the guards to allow him out. Not a pleasant realization.
The prisoner stood in the corner, as still as a statue. His features were obscured in the dim light of dusk, away from the only window in his cell.
“Nicholas Blackburne?” Richard asked, stepping forward when the man still did not move.
No reply.
Cautiously, Richard took another step forward, now standing in the middle of the smallspace. “Are you Nicholas Blackburne?” he repeated. He blinked several times, his eyes adjusting to the dark.
Still no answer. Was the man still alive? His hair fell over his face, long, dark, and curly. There was no puff of breath where his mouth would be. But he was upright. Richard looked for a cord above the man’s head. He had heard too many stories of men hanging themselves before their trial.
He took another step forward, reaching his hand out to feel for a pulse, eyes searching, pulse racing, sensing a trap and choosing to spring it and be done with it rather than wait.
With a shout, the man lunged at him, whipping around Richard and wrapping his arm around his neck.
Immediately, Richard dropped his chin to his chest, preventing the man from choking him.
And then, he felt the cold edge of a knife pressing into his neck. From the corner of his eye, he saw the silver tip on the handle. His knife. “How?” Richard grunted, not expecting an answer. He had not even felt Blackburne slip the shiv from his boot.
The next seconds would mean the difference between life and death. The man behind him was taller than he was—Darcy’s height. He was strong. Perhaps stronger than Richard. It was safer to assume his opponent was stronger and more skilled than he was. To underestimate him again would be a fatal mistake.
Irritated at himself for losing possession of hisweapon to the prisoner when he knew better, Richard jerked his right shoulder upward while his hands pulled the prisoner’s knife-wielding hand down.
Slipping his head through the narrow gap, keeping the sharp end of the knife away from his face, he twisted Blackburne’s arm behind his back. Richard could have stabbed him in the side, but Rouncewell had sent him here for a reason, and he would find out why.
Blackburne grunted, but he held fast to the knife. Lord, he was strong.
Richard thrust his arm upward, the prisoner’s shoulder snapping. Only then did he drop the knife.
Holding up his free hand, Blackburne said, “Are ye going to finish me off, or what?”
His voice sounded so much like Darcy, Richard released his hold.
Slowly, Blackburne stood, rubbing his shoulder and wincing. “Ye’re a bold fighter. I could’ve sliced yer jugular.”
“And allow a prisoner to escape using my own knife? I think not.”
Turning to face him, Blackburne brushed his hair away from his face, and Richard felt his jaw go slack.
The man standing in front of him was the spitting image of his missing cousin. It could not be, but the words crossed his lips anyway. “Darcy? Is that you?”
“There’s that name again. Second time I’ve heard it today.” He frowned, inspecting Richardas thoroughly as Richard looked at him. From the top of his head to his hairy toes, he was Darcy’s identical twin.
Richard asked, “What is your name?”
“Nicholas Blackburne.”
