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Chenoweth gave a low grunt, not unlike the sound he made when he found a horse’s manners particularly lacking.

“You there.” The crop whipped in Chenoweth’s direction. “Not a word, if you’d like to see any supper.”

There was a taut moment before Russ shifted back toward Rafe. “That’s the only fuckin’ word you’d utter. You know that? Sophie, Sophie, Sophie.”

A wretched sting rose on Rafe’s stomach as the crop recoiled.

“Tell me where your lunatic mother is, and perhaps this chit of yours can be spared.”

Rafe had been wondering, in a vague, half alive sort of way, why they hadn’t bloody well killed him yet. Of course it was for information’s sake. That, at least, absolved him of his other great fear; his mother was still safe, and would remain so under Alfie’s and Abigail’s care, no matter what happened here.

They couldn’t gut the information out of him. Not about his mother and not about Sophie. The bastard just didn’t know it yet.

“If you—” Rafe tried again, but he had no spit to soothe his throat with. “Think—I’m going—talk, chained up—like an animal”—he paused for a breath—“you’re wrong.” He held the butler’s gaze, refused to look down to where he heard the tip of that crop tapping on the weathered floors.

“At least get the boy some food an’ drink, Russ.” The legs of Chenoweth’s chair scraped. “He be liable to die. An’ wi’out even a blanket, you left ’im.”

“Even the worst of men deserve a last supper, I s’pose.” Russ reached the door, walking with a silent, blood-cooling swagger. This was a man who liked his position, who relished the power now in his possession. He turned and pointed the crop at Rafe’s prostrate form. “But don’t be daft— Tonight, we talk.”

“O, an’ Russ?”

Hand still on the latch, the butler turned to glare at Chenoweth.

“Mightn’t you take a peek about the cellar? There ought to be a few bottles of wine left, if memory serves. The water here’s hardly fit for drinkin’. I don’t much like horses havin’ it, in truth.”

A smirk twisted over Russ’s pale features. “If there is wine, you may count upon it I won’t see it wasted on the likes of you and your goddamned pets.” He glanced at Rafe as he spoke the last word, then quit the room.

Part of Rafe hated old Chenoweth just now, sat in his chair as he was, with the privilege of a warm coat and boots still intact. He had enough command of himself to worry about what beverage he might pair with his next meal, while Rafe’s insides turned into the caliche of desert soil. Chenoweth was restrained, yes, but one might devise a way to get out of simple ankle and wrist bindings. What held Rafe captive was far more …

He pulled upward with his hands, twice, and proved his worst suspicion correct: Not only was he wearing a straitjacket, the ties had been looped around the rope lattice of the bed frame. Even if the restraints on his legs disappeared, he couldn’t stand, walk, escape.

Christ. No wonder he’d thought himself buried alive when under the laudanum’s spell. He needed a plan. He turned his head slowly right, eyeing Chenoweth. The bristle of new beard scratched against the lattice binding. How much time had passed? Was his father nearby? How in God’s name had they known to suspect him? Mrs. Langworthy’s drugging spoke of premeditation.

“Tell—everything.”

The old man shook his head wildly. “Patience,” he whispered, just loud enough for the word to span the room’s length.

Patience. It sounded like another godforsaken virtue. Rafe was ready to take one and all of them, spear them on a kabob, and torch them over an open flame. Curse law and duty and responsibility; he knew damn well enough what was right from wrong.

His fingers sought out the openings of the straitjacket sleeves to no avail. Each passing second was a prick in his skin, and the miles between here and London a great mountain begging to be conquered. He squeezed his eyes closed. Even they stung of dryness, of a man’s body shriveling toward disuse and eventual death.

He did not want to examine the feeling splitting him open, but he was so used to looking away.

Sophie and his mother were safe; he had already established that. His current state was proof—if the bastards knew where to find either of them, they wouldn’t go to the trouble of tying him down and brutalizing him for details. As a matter of fact, Sophie and his mother were probably safest if he never returned. So why, then, was he fueled by such a bone-deep need to do just that?

He knew himself. He was a resolute, pragmatic man. He did what he ought, expected little of life to prevent future disappointments, and crafted plans in place of dreams. Those plans had always included his father. Rafe might be the linchpin, but he never trusted himself to operate alone. He always required Thomas’s orders, Thomas’s support. Even in swindling, he required Thomas’s warehouse of goods.

Believing he could find a way out of this hellscape and return to London, to something good created of his own merit … It spoke of self-belief. Of independence, hopefulness, and, most of all, absurdity.

It was hours before Russ began to snore. He had brought a ripped loaf of bread and a pitcher of sediment-heavy water to his captives, and to Rafe’s humiliation, Chenoweth had been obliged to feed him.

Perhaps he should be flattered that the butler considered him a threat, even in this withered state. At any rate, better to be tended to by a wrist-shackled Chenoweth than lie here and wait to die.

The scent of spirits had clung to Russ during his brief visit, followed him out as he spewed a series of threats and bolted his prisoners in from the outside.

Rafe couldn’t have consumed more than half a dozen bites of stale bread, and twice as many greedy gulps of water, but he felt restored, his fighting instincts seizing on the sustenance.

“I knew he’d not be able to resist the drink,” Chenoweth whispered. He had maneuvered his chair closer hours earlier, and now sat by Rafe’s bedside. “We’ve a chance to talk now.”