She turned as the door opened and Norris stepped in. Closing the door, he looked at her, then Nicholas. “Mr. Fothergill has called, my lord. He wishes to inquire whether it would be convenient to look around the house. I understand he’s spoken with Lady Penelope on the subject. I would, of course, be happy to conduct him through the rooms we usually show.”
Penny looked at Jack. “He’s a student of architecture-he asked Charles and me what houses to view in the area. He called at the Abbey a few days ago, and Charles’s butler showed him around.”
Everyone looked at Jack.
Gaze distant, he frowned, then swiveled to look at Norris. “Send him in. Let’s see how he shapes up.”
Norris withdrew; Jack met Penny’s, then Nicholas’s eyes. “It’s suggestive he’s turned up just when Charles has been called away, but on the other hand, that could just be coincidence. Regardless, we should turn the opportunity to our advantage and see how much we can discover-if we can exclude him from our list, we could move more definitely against Gerond.”
Penny nodded; she rose as the door opened, and Norris ushered Julian Fothergill in. He came to greet her, enthusiasm and eagerness in his face.
He shook hands with her, then Nicholas, thanking them with disarming candor for seeing him. “I would be quite happy to be shown around by your butler if you’re busy.”
“I’ll take you around the house later,” Penny said, “but first, won’t you sit and tell us how your stay in Cornwall has gone?” Smoothly, she asked Norris for tea to be brought, then introduced Fothergill to Jack, giving no reason for the latter’s presence.
Jack supplied one as the two shook hands. “I, too, opted for the allure of country life rather than endure London during the Season.”
Fothergill grinned. “Just so. As my primary interest lies in things feathered and winged, London has little to offer by way of attraction.”
They resumed their seats, Jack moving to sit beside Penny on the chaise while Nicholas took the armchair he’d vacated. At Penny’s wave, Fothergill sat in the armchair opposite her.
“I take it,” Jack drawled, “that you’re lucky enough not to have to dance attendance at some office in town?”
“Indeed. I have enough to allow me to wander at will, and the family, thank heaven, are plentiful.”
“So you’re not from around here?” Jack asked. Fothergill’s accent was unremarkable, unplaceable.
“Northamptonshire, near Kettering.”
“Good hunting country,” Jack returned.
“Indeed-we had some very good sport earlier this year.”
Penny exchanged a glance with Nicholas; Jack and Fothergill embarked on a lengthy and detailed discussion of hunting, one which, to her ears, painted Fothergill as one who knew. Used to reading Charles, she picked up the little signs-the easing of tensed muscles-that stated Jack thought so, too.
Norris appeared with the tea tray; while she poured and dispensed the cups, then handed around the platter of cakes, the conversation turned to places visited in England, especially those known for bird life. Nicholas joined in, mentioning the Broads; Fothergill had wandered there. He seemed in his element, recounting tales and exploits during various trips.
At one point, they all paused to sip. Penny noticed Fothergill eyeing the books along the shelves behind the chaise. His eyes flicked to her face; he noticed her noticing. Smiling, he set down his cup. “I was just admiring your books.” He glanced at Nicholas. “It’s quite a collection. Are there any books on birds, do you know?”
Nicholas looked at Penny.
“I imagine there are, but I’m not sure where…” She glanced over her shoulder at the nearest shelves.
“Actually”-Fothergill set down his cup and pointed to a shelf behind the chaise-“I think that’s a Reynard’s Guide.”
Rising, he crossed to the shelves and bent to look. “No.” He sent them a smile. “Like it, but not.” Straightening, he walked along the shelves, scanning the volumes. Penny faced forward as he passed behind the chaise.
Beside her, Jack leaned forward and placed his cup on the low table before them. Straightening, he started to turn to keep Fothergill in view-
Violence exploded from behind the chaise.
A heavy cosh cracked against Jack’s skull. He collapsed, insensible.
Half-rising, Penny opened her mouth to scream-
A hand locked about her chin, forced it high, yanked her against the back of the chaise.
“Silence!”
The word hissed past her ear. Eyes wide, staring upward, she felt the blade of a knife caress her throat.
“One sound from you, Selborne, and she dies.”
Penny squinted, saw Nicholas on his feet, pale as death, hands opening and closing helplessly as he fought to rein in the urge to react. His gaze was locked on the man behind her-Fothergill, or whoever he was.
“Stay exactly where you are, do exactly what I tell you, and I might let her live.” He spoke in a low voice, one that held not the faintest thread of panic; he was master of the situation, and he knew it.
Nicholas didn’t move.
“The pillboxes-where are they? Not the rubbish that was on display in here, but the real ones.”
“You mean the ones my father appropriated from the French?”
Contempt laced Nicholas’s tone.
She felt a tremor pass through the hard fingers locked about her chin, but all Fothergill said was, “You understand me perfectly.”
His tone had turned to ice. He lifted Penny’s chin higher until she whimpered; the knife pricked. “Where are they?”
Nicholas met Penny’s eyes, then looked at Fothergill. “In the priest hole that opens from the master bedchamber.”
“Priest hole? Describe it.”
Nicholas did. For a long moment, Fothergill said nothing, then he quietly stated, “This is what I want you to do.”
He told them, making it abundantly plain that he would feel not the slightest compunction over taking Penny’s life should either of them disobey in the smallest way. He made no bones of his intention to kill Nicholas; it was Penny’s life only with which he was prepared to bargain.
When Nicholas challenged him, asking why they should trust him, Fothergill’s answer was simple; they could accept his offer, show him the pillboxes, and Penny might live, or they could resist, and they both would die.
“The only choice you have to make,” he informed Nicholas, “is whether Lady Penelope’s life is worth a few pillboxes. Your life is already irredeemably forfeit.”
“Why should we believe you?” Penny managed to mumble; he’d eased his hold on her chin enough for her to talk. “You killed Gimby, and Mary, and now another young fisherman. I’ve seen you-you won’t let me live.”
She prayed Nicholas could read the message in her eyes; the longer everything took, the more time they could make Fothergill spend down there…it was the only way they could influence anything.
Briefly, Nicholas met her eyes, then looked at Fothergill, clearly waiting for his response.
Fothergill hissed a curse beneath his breath, a French one. “After today, my identity here will no longer be in question-why should I care if you’ve seen me or not?”
He paused. A moment passed, then he softly, menacingly drawled, “I’m not interested in wasting further time convincing you-I want to be finished and away before Lostwithiel and his friend return. So…”
Again he lifted Penny’s chin, drawing her throat taut. Again the blade of his knife caressed. “What’s it to be? Here and now? Or does she live?”
Nicholas’s face was white, his lips a tight line. He nodded once. “We’ll do as you ask.”
“Excellent!” Fothergill wasn’t above sneering.
Turning, Nicholas walked to the door. Reaching it, he halted and looked back, waiting.
At Fothergill’s direction, Penny rose slowly from the chaise, then, chin still held painfully high, the knife riding against her throat, she walked before Fothergill to the door.