Inching along over splintered floorboards that clawed at his clothing, the earl gingerly traversed a short, tight passageway that opened up to a catwalk of exposed wooden beams. A sconce holding a single candle hung on the wall below him, casting just enough fluttery light for him to make out the bare bones of his surroundings. From his vantage point, he saw it was a long drop down to the floor, where scattered stacks of large crates indicated that this, too, was another storage area, one where heavy goods were kept. Just ahead, a heavy iron pulley was bolted to one of the beams, a heavy rope and hook still dangling down into the murky shadows.
Wrexford slithered out onto the narrow rough-cut timber, intent on reaching the rope, when suddenly a loud clang echoed off the walls of the cavernous space. He froze as a second door was thrown open and a beam of skittery light cut through the gloom. Footsteps sounded and a figure appeared. The slim silhouette, the well-tailored clothes, the artfully tousled curls—Lowell was instantly identifiable as he crossed to a tall column of crates near the far wall.
The earl held his breath, willing the man not to look upward.
After setting his lantern down, Lowell turned the wick up. A flame hissed to life, throwing a circle of weak illumination over the planked floor. His movements were not quite as casually elegant as his attire. They betrayed a taut nervousness as he clumsily adjusted the angle of the light.
The beam wavered, and then picked out a chair. Hawk was tied to it, the high slatted back and coiling of rope making him look pitifully small.
Wrexford felt a surge of outrage.
The boy’s face was purpled with bruises and one eye was nearly swollen shut.
“It’s almost dark. You had better pray that Mrs. Sloane turns the Earl of Wrexford over to the authorities. Else you are going to die.”
Hawk stared at him in defiant silence.
The earl mouthed a silent curse. He couldn’t reach for his weapon without risking that Lowell would spot him.
“Actually, you’re going to die whatever she does.”
Hawk had the temerity to laugh. “Ye daft bastard—ye think she ain’t smart enough te know that? She won’t squibble on His Nibs. He’ll come find ye, and I won’t be the only one wiv the Devil’s pitchfork poking up my arse.”
His face mottling with fury, Lowell cocked a fist and hit the boy with a hard punch that landed flush on the jaw.
Hawk’s head snapped back and blood spurted from his lip. It took a moment for him to shake off the shock, and then . . .
Wrexford watched as Hawk inhaled deeply through his nose and then spit out a broken tooth with an audiblewhoosh. The tiny missile shot through the air with pinpoint accuracy and hit his tormentor smack in the eye.
Bloody hell—the little imp possessed more backbone than most men.
Lowell cried out in pain and slapped out another blow. “I swear, I shall beat you until you scream for mercy.”
“Hit as hard as ye like. Ye ain’t never gonna make me cry.”
Lowell gave a nasty laugh. “You worthless little piece of gutter scum. Much as I’d enjoy killing you now, I’d rather wait and make that she-bitch watch me cut your throat while she begs for your life. Oh, you’ll cry then—in fact, you’ll squeal like a stuck pig for I’ll take care to do it slowly.”
Hawk blinked as the man taunted him with a series of high-pitched snorting sounds.
“Enjoy your last night alive, brat,” finished Lowell, finally tiring of tormenting the boy. Taking up the lantern, he turned on his heel and stalked off.
Wrexford waited until the door clanged shut, then quickly wriggled his way to the rope and pulley.
CHAPTER 26
Charlotte tried to keep her mind occupied as she sat hunched in the lee of the outside stairwell, refusing to let herself stare at the building across the street. Fog was starting to ghost through the streets, quicksilver puffs of vapor riding a chill breeze that seemed to bite to the bone. Hugging her arms to her chest, she made herself think about how she would draw Lowell in his laboratory. The imagery offered some sensational elements—a deadly explosive, a demented genius whose family ranked as one of the leaders of the aristocracy.
The public would lap it up.
Yes, on paper it was oh so titillating, an artistic and intellectual challenge to use her skill with word and image to fan emotions. But as flesh-and-blood reality, the terror was all too palpable. All too personal. She could taste its bile at the back of her throat, she could feel its icy fingers squeezing the breath from her lungs....
Raven shifted. He was slumped against her shoulder, and while she wanted to believe he was dozing, she could sense that his body was coiled tighter than an overwound watch spring.
Tick, tick.It felt like they had been there for hours. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to sneak a quick glance.
“Any sign of them?” The boy was instantly alert.
“No.” All sorts of hideous reasons sprang to mind. The curse of a colorful imagination. She looked away from the dark shape looming up from the mist and drew him a little closer. “We must be patient.”
