ed and struggled and made as much noise as she could manage, hoping it might wake the sleeping house, but she already knew it was too little to help. Collins’s big fist came down, and the darkness caved in around her.
“Next time you want to rescue a damsel in distress, would ye at least plan it better?” Noonan demanded as they pulled their horses to a halt by the front gate of Starlings House. “I don’t suppose we can get a dram of whiskey before we go haring off?”
“You can do what you want, as long you alert the household and send help to the Dower House,” Brandon said grimly.
“I’ll stay with ye.” Noonan was long suffering but determined.
“No, you won’t, you’ll get help,” Brandon snapped. “I don’t know what they have planned, how many men are involved, but I can at least hold them off until help arrives.”
“Lad, you don’t even know if she’s here.”
“She is.” Brandon stared into the darkness. He could just barely see the outlines of the Dower House, but his instincts, which had kept him alive in conflicts that had killed all those around him, told him he wasn’t wrong. “Get moving!”
“One man against an army?” Noonan scoffed, but there was no missing the real concern in his voice.
She was here and she was still alive—he knew it in his bones, and suddenly all his fear vanished. There was time, he could save her, and relief and exultation filled him, wiping away his exhaustion. He would rip the heart out of anyone who had tried to harm her, he would take her to safety and never let her go again.
“No one’s going to hurt her,” he said, turning Aristide toward the winding road to the dower house. “I won’t let them.”
“Ye’re daft,” Noonan said, but he was already moving toward the main house, Apollo picking up speed.
Brandon started forward. He couldn’t very well thunder up to the rescue—even if he had enough rage to destroy an army he was still only one man, and he needed the element of surprise. He nudged the poor, exhausted horse onto the grass to muffle the sounds of his hooves and moved forward into the inky blackness.
Chapter 29
Emma could smell fire. She slowly lifted her head, ignoring the pain, and looked around her in the darkness. She was in a room, not one she recognized, and she’d been secured to a chair, upright. There were windows—the patch of dark sky was still marginally lighter than the walls, and she tried to jerk her chair forward. The house was silent, but the scrape of the wood against the floor was too soft to rouse anyone. She squirmed, trying to see if she still retained possession of the small surgical saw, and a gratifying tear at her skin reassured her. She would end up covered with scars like a pirate, assuming she managed to survive this night, and she didn’t care.
She must be in the Dower House, presumably in one of the attics. The house was still and silent—everyone would be asleep, and there was no terrifying crackle of flames licking at ancient timber.
But she could smell fire.
She jerked again in the chair, trying to make noise, making it thump against someone’s ceiling, but she couldn’t lever herself up enough for a satisfying sound. She tried it again, when a soft, eerie voice came to her out of the darkness.
“It’s useless to fight it, Mrs. Cadbury. This is payment for your sins.”
She froze, squinting through the shadows, and finally focused on Mr. Fenrush sitting placidly by the window, watching her out of glittering eyes. For a moment she was disoriented—what was he doing there? The fires had been set—she could smell the slow burning start of them—and he was still in the house.
She worked with her tongue, trying to dislodge the gag, but the piece of fabric was huge, and she was getting nowhere. She rocked in the chair again, hoping the repeated thumps might rouse someone, but she didn’t hold out any great hope. She knew from experience that these women slept like the dead—too many nights of working had trained them to sleep well and deeply when afforded the chance, and it had always been absurdly difficult to rouse them for morning classes in London. No one would waken to a muffled thump.
She would have to be more creative. Fenrush hadn’t moved, seeming relaxed and comfortable, and she tried to move her hand around to loosen the saw from sleeve.
She couldn’t move. The new ropes that bound her to the chair had simply been added to the old ones, and all the squirming and twisting and fidgeting got her nowhere. She couldn’t move her hand enough to reach the knife.
“You’re wondering why I’m here, Mrs. Cadbury?” Fenrush said in that still eerily polite voice. “I wanted to see you burn. Collins thought it an excellent idea, though I expect I shall have to reprimand him when we return to London. He’s become much too impertinent. I can’t abide impertinent servants.”
He might have been discussing the dismally crowded condition in the women’s ward, as he often did. His solution was usually to set the women out on the streets to fend for themselves while he made room for male patients with such debilitating conditions as a mild case of gout, just as Emma had fought him tooth and nail. His current logic made no sense—he could hardly watch her burn without succumbing to the conflagration himself.
She jerked the chair again, but he didn’t move, placidly watching her as he might observe a patient. “It’s too late,” he murmured. “The fires are set.”
His voice was softly cheerful, but she ignored him, concentrating on reaching the saw. The smell was stronger now, and She knew it wouldn’t be long before she heard the sounds of crackling flames, and by then it would be too late.
With sudden determination she flung her body onto the floor, making as much noise as she could, loud enough to wake the dead, she hoped, and the saw slid out of her sleeve, close enough to grasp. She rolled, banging the chair while she did so, kicking at the floor, and ended up with the saw clutched her fist.
Fenrush hadn’t moved from his spot near the window. She’d seen dementia in late-stage syphilis cases, and he had clearly slid into that foggy world, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking him harmless. When madness hit, patients could be extremely violent.
She twisted her wrists, managing to reach the first layer of ropes imprisoning her, and she sawed through it with surprising ease. No wonder she seemed to be bleeding everywhere—the tool was razor sharp, and as it severed the second course of ropes it tore into her dress as well.
Once her arms were free, the pain of blood returning to her muscles almost made her pass out. It ripped through her, and she wanted to scream, needed to scream. She yanked the gag out of dry mouth and shrieked at the top of her lungs.