“Yes, I hear you,” the masked man said impatiently before returning his attention to me.
“I have enjoyed our conversation, my dear.” The gentleness in his tone made my skin crawl. Then he addressed his henchman. “See that she does not become a nuisance.”
My blood went cold.
After one last look at me—measured, possessive, assured—he walked away.
Jenkins’s mouth curled into a lascivious smile, his intent unmistakable on his face.
Chapter
Thirty
Into the Viper’s Nest
We docked well east of where the barge carrying the men had stopped, where the river bent inward, and the bank fell away into shadow. Finch chose the spot deliberately—far enough removed that no lantern light from the house could reach us, yet close enough that we could move swiftly once we had our bearings. The barge nudged softly against the mud, and one by one, Finch’s associates and the newspaper men disembarked, boots sinking soundlessly into the damp earth.
Music drifted faintly toward us on the night air. Somewhere upstream, men toasted spring, indulgence, and pleasure, utterly blind to what lay just beyond their line of sight.
We moved quickly as we didn’t have the luxury of time. When we drew close enough to the house, I signaled the men to crouch. It was a prearranged maneuver—one last pause to observe before we committed ourselves.
From the rear, the house was an unremarkable structure—broad, square, and built for function rather than beauty. Light spilled generously from the lower windows, illuminating the grass and the worn stone terrace.
Above, the upper floors lay mostly dark, save for a single faint glow that wavered and steadied again.
My pulse quickened.
“One floor up,” Finch murmured beside me. “That should be it. They wouldn’t keep them in the dark.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“We should move now, Your Grace.”
“Not yet,” I replied quietly.
Everyone stilled at once, every gaze fixed on the house. No one shifted. No one spoke. We had agreed on this moment in advance. We would not move until we were certain. Guesswork would cost lives.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Just as doubt began to creep in, a light appeared on the second floor. Moments later, flashes of red waved from a window.
Rosalynd’s red cape.
The breath left me in a sharp exhale I could not stop. Relief and fury collided in my chest, fierce enough to curl my hands into fists. She had done exactly as planned—exactly. And yet the sight of her there, so exposed and perilously close to discovery, sent a surge of helpless anger through me that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with fear.
“There,” Finch said softly. “Rear corner. Second floor.”
“I see it,” I replied. “That’s where they’re being kept.”
We moved at once, keeping low as we approached the rear of the house beneath the cover of trees. The sounds from the front grew louder with every step—the thrum of music, the roar ofvoices swollen with drink, the occasional shriek of laughter that set my teeth on edge.
They celebrated while women waited in terror above their heads.
The kitchen entrance lay recessed at the back of the house, its door scarred and poorly lit. Strangely enough, no one was guarding it.
Finch tested the handle. Locked—but barely. A sharp crack of metal, a muffled splintering sound, and the door gave way beneath his shoulder.
Heat and noise rushed out to meet us.
