And felt a cool draft drift across her ankles.
It could only come from the priest hole.
She screamed against the gag, flung herself against her bonds, stamped her feet-made as much noise as she could to cover any sound Charles might make.
Fothergill only grinned more evilly. He reached for Nicholas’s chin, drew it up.
His gaze deflected, going past her. His smile froze.
Charles appeared-was simply suddenly there-beside her.
“I think she means don’t do it.” He moved farther into the room, away from her. “Wise advice.”
He held a dagger, a much more wicked-looking weapon than the one Fothergill had; he turned it in his fingers, his dexterity screaming long and intimate acquaintance with the blade.
Fothergill saw. Understood. They each had a knife. If he threw his and missed killing Charles…
Quick as a flash, Fothergill threw his knife at Charles.
Charles dived, rolling back toward Penny. Fothergill’s knife hit the wall and bounced off, spun away, landing closer to Charles. Charles surged to his feet between Penny and Fothergill. He’d expected Fothergill to go after Penny, the best hostage, or if not that, the door, behind which half the household staff waited.
He’d forgotten the old rapier that hung on the wall above the mantelpiece. Fothergill flung himself at it, yanked it from the fixed scabbard. It came free with a deadly hiss.
His lips curled as he swung to face Charles.
With one quick, swirling turn, Charles grabbed up Fothergill’s dagger, crossed it with his, and met Fothergill’s first rush. Catching the rapier between the crossed blades, he steadied, then flung Fothergill back.
Fothergill staggered, but immediately reengaged.
Much good did it do him. Charles let his lips slowly curve. Despite the furious clashing of the blades, the sparks that flew as dagger countered flexing steel, within a minute it was clear that Fothergill wasn’t up to his weight, at least not in experience of the less-civilized forms of hand-to-hand combat.
The rapier was longer than Charles’s blades, giving Fothergill the advantage of reach, but Fothergill had never been trained to use the weapon-he wielded it like a saber, something Charles quickly saw. Trained to the use of every blade imaginable, he could easily predict and counter.
While he did, he planned and plotted how best to disarm Fothergill; he would really rather not kill the man in front of Penny. The others were gathered outside the door, waiting for his word, but he had no intention of inviting anyone in; in his increasingly panicked state, Fothergill would undoubtedly run someone through. Enough innocents had already died.
The thud of their feet on the rug covering the floorboards was a form of music to his ears. Through the fractional changes in tone, he could judge where Fothergill was shifting his weight and predict his next attack. Combined with the flash of the blades, the almost choreographed movements, he had all the information he needed; his instincts settled into the dance.
Fothergill pressed, and pressed, trying to force him to yield his position before Penny, defending her-and failed. Desperate, Fothergill closed; again with relative ease, Charles threw him back.
Fothergill stumbled, almost falling. Charles stepped forward-realized and leapt back as Fothergill dropped the rapier, grabbed the rug with both hands and yanked.
On the far edge, Charles staggered back, almost into Penny.
Fothergill grasped the instant to fling himself out of the open window.
Charles swore, rushed across and looked out, but Fothergill was already on the ground, racing away, hugging the house so Charles had no good target. Charles thought of his direction, extrapolated, then swore again and turned inside. “He’s heading for the shrubbery-one will get you ten he has a horse waiting there.”
Penny blinked as he neared. He gently removed the gag and she gasped, “Send the others after him.”
Tugging at the knot in the cords binding her, Charles shook his head. “He’s a trained assassin-I don’t want anyone else cornering him but me, or someone equally well trained.”
He jerked her bonds loose, caught her as she sagged. Eased her back to sit on the bed. Only then saw the bruise discoloring the skin over her cheekbone.
His fingers tightened involuntarily on her chin, then eased.
Penny didn’t understand the words he said under his breath, but she knew their meaning.
“He hit you.”
She’d never heard colder, deader words from him. Words devoid of all human emotion, something she would have said was impossible with Charles. His fingers gently soothed, then drifted away; turning her head, she looked into his face. Saw resolution settle over the harsh planes.
“What?” she asked, and waited for him to tell her.
Eventually, he drew his gaze from her cheek, met her eyes. “I should have killed him.” Flatly, he added, “I will when next we meet.”
Penny looked into his eyes, saw the violence surging. Slowly, she rose; he didn’t step back, so she was close, face-to-face, breast to chest.
Arguing would be pointless. Instead, she held his gaze, and quietly said, “If you must. But remember that this”-briefly she gestured to her cheek-“is hardly going to harm me irreparably. Losing you would.”
He blinked. The roiling violence behind his eyes subsided; he refocused on her eyes, searched them.
She held his gaze, let him see that she’d meant exactly what she’d said, then she patted his arm. “Nicholas has been unconscious for some time.”
He blinked again, then glanced at Nicholas’s slumped form, and sighed. He stepped away from her. “Norris! Get in here.”
The door flew open; pandemonium flooded in.
CHAPTER 21
NICHOLAS STIRRED AS SOON AS THEY LIFTED HIM. NOT SO Jack. By the time he opened his eyes, then groaned, Dr. Kenton had arrived. The dapper little doctor lifted Jack’s lids, moved a candle before his eyes, then gently probed the huge contusion above his right temple.
“You were lucky-very lucky.” Kenton glanced at the cosh Charles had retrieved from behind the chaise. “If your skull wasn’t so thick, I doubt you’d be with us enough to groan.”
Jack grimaced; he bore with the doctor’s fussing, but signaled to Charles the instant Kenton’s back was turned.
If Jack was up to making such faces, he was at least in possession of his wits; Charles eased the doctor from his patient’s side and bore him away.
Fifteen minutes later, Gervase returned, grim-faced. They gathered again in the library as they had hours earlier; this time, both Jack and Nicholas looked the worse for wear, pale and drawn, both in pain, Jack from his head, Nicholas from the shoulder wound Fothergill’s blow had reopened.
They took it in turns to relate their story. Penny described how Fothergill had arrived, how he’d seemed so innocent to begin with, and how that had changed-how he’d incapacitated Jack, then used her to force Nicholas to do his bidding. She stopped at the point where Charles had appeared at the bedchamber door. She looked at him, sprawled beside her on the chaise. “How did you know to return?”
“I shouldn’t have left.” He looked grim. “We were galloping toward Fowey when the penny dropped. Dennis’s cousin couldn’t have had any direct connection with our nemesis; the knife and cloak were stage dressing to ensure I connected the death with the intruder here and raced off to investigate, presumably so something could then happen here. I turned back. Gervase went on to see if there was anything we could learn from Sid Garnut’s death.”
Gervase shifted restlessly. “Other than being proof beyond doubt that our man-Fothergill as we now know-is cold-bloodedly callous, there wasn’t anything more to be learned.” He paused, then added, “The boy had been dispatched with almost contemptuous efficiency. Fothergill, or whoever he really is, feels nothing for those he kills.”