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Helen swallowed. He didn’t intend for them to leave. Ever. She glanced toward Mrs. Tyndale, who twisted her hands. The professor would come for them, Helen was certain. Or rather, he would if Lydia bothered to tell him where they’d gone.
Barring that, surely Rhys would come for them, assuming he’d not walked into a trap of his own. The thought caused a painful twist in her belly.
She forced herself to face the truth: their odds of an heroic rescue were looking grim. She might as well make the most of the situation and see what she might learn.
“People disappear… Do you mean people like Fiona Foster?”
Sir Rupert’s gaze narrowed, and he motioned them back to the settee. Helen retook her seat reluctantly, and Mrs. Tyndale settled next to her.
“What do you know of Fiona Foster?”
“I know enough,” Helen said, deciding that if she couldn’t leave Sir Rupert with grace, she would at least show a bit of boldness. “I know you kidnapped her for the Pharaoh’s Trinity.”
Sir Rupert’s jaw ticked in agitation.
“And I know she must be held somewhere in this house.”
Sir Rupert snorted a laugh. “You think I would be so stupid?”
He hadn’t protested her kidnapping accusation, but when she voiced her suspicions about Fiona being in the house, his derision had the ring of truth. All right, then. Fiona was not in the house.
Another guard appeared in the doorway and leaned close to whisper something to his colleagues. Sir Rupert frowned at their conference. With a nod toward the tea things, he said to Helen, “You may pour,” before joining his men. Their voices were too hushed, the distance too great for Helen to hear.
“What do you think has occurred?” Mrs. Tyndale whispered.
“I can’t imagine,” Helen said, but Sir Rupert had left them alone for the moment. She glanced around the room, searching for something—anything—to use as a weapon. There were the candelabra, but she wasn’t sure she had the stomach to strike a man on the head, and she didn’t think she could subdue Sir Rupertandhis men anyway. Then inspiration struck. “Mrs. Tyndale, do you have your laudanum?”
The lady stared at her in confusion—certainly, now was not the time to worry over a megrim—but then her eyes widened in understanding. She nodded and quickly retrieved the small bottle from her reticule and passed it to Helen.
Helen tucked the vial into the palm of her hand and bent to pour the tea. As she did so, she dropped a generous dose into one of the cups before adding an oversized lump of sugar. If Sir Rupert were incapacitated, perhaps she and Mrs. Tyndale could talk their way past the guards.
Sir Rupert returned to them with a fierce frown, and to Helen’s surprise, two of the men left the doorway, leaving only one guard behind. Helen curled her hand around the bottle in her lap. “Has something happened?” she asked, forcing a firmness to her voice she was far from feeling. Adventure, she decided, was a tad overrated.
“It seems I’m to have more unexpected guests. And at such a late hour, too.”
Someone had come for them! Helen didn’t bother to hide her smile of relief, and a measure of tension eased from Mrs. Tyndale’s shoulders.
Sir Rupert took his seat across the tea table and reached for his cup. “It’s no matter, though. My men will see that they’re dispatched without delay.”
Helen’s smile slipped as she lifted her cup.
——
Rhys frowned asAkeem assessed the fence. It must have been ten feet tall, with intricately wrought scrolls and arabesques. Pointed finials topped it to form a nearly impenetrable barrier between Sir Rupert and the rest of the world. Only a fool would attempt to scale it.
“You can’t mean to scale it,” Rhys said. “You’ll be too visible if the guards return, and all it requires is one slip to be speared like a pickled radish.”
“You’ve a better suggestion?” Akeem said as he flexed his hands and prepared to climb.
“There’s a perfectly serviceable gate—”
“Which is locked—”
“Which I can unlock,” Rhys bit out. There was no time for arguing, and the stakes were much too high for errors. Leaving Akeem to his foolish endeavor, he strode to the gate. He bent and reached through the fence, feeling his way around the lock with his fingers before taking out his pen prototype.
Tyndale, he was gratified to see, had cast his lot on the side of good sense. The older man kneeled athis side while Rhys dismantled the pen. Reaching through the fence once more, he carefully inserted the slender ink cylinder into the lock, feeling for the tumblers inside and applying just the right amount of pressure. He held his breath as sweat dampened his temples, but he needn’t have worried. His fingers worked the lock deftly, and in a matter of moments, the tumblers clicked.
Rhys glanced to either side. Assured that the guards hadn’t returned, he rose and held the gate for Tyndale to pass through before closing it softly behind them. Akeem was nearly to the top of the fence, and Rhys was tempted to leave him. He would have done so if he trusted the man not to betray them. But he didn’t trust him, so he waited, arms crossed, until Akeem finally dropped to the ground.
