I looked at Finch and his associates. “We give no quarter. Whatever it takes, we get those women out.”
“No quarter will be given,” Finch said. “You have my word on that.”
“Let’s move.” If any man had laid hands upon her, he’d better pray for God’s mercy. He would receive none from me.
Chapter
Thirty-One
A Rescue at Any Cost
Finch’s female associate stepped into the corridor first, her approach unhurried, her smile easy as she offered a bottle and a wrapped parcel to the guard.
“About bloody time,” the guard muttered, one hand already reaching for the parcel. “My stomach’s been growling for the better part of an hour.”
She laughed softly, indulging him. As she did, she shifted her position, turning him away from the door he was guarding.
The moment his attention wavered, we moved.
Finch and the others were on him at once. A hand clamped over his mouth as he was driven back against the wall, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. Another blow followed—swift, precise. His resistance collapsed at once. He was lowered to the floor, senseless and unmoving.
We tried the door, but it was locked. And there was no key on the guard.
I swore under my breath. We couldn’t afford the time to hunt another way in.
“Watch the main stairs,” I ordered, gesturing in that direction. “If anyone comes up, cry out a warning.”
One of Finch’s men moved at once and positioned himself by the side of the staircase.
The door was a solid one, built to keep people out rather than merely discourage them. Finch struck first, driving his weight into it hard enough to rattle the frame. But the door held. I rushed it next. The impact shuddered through my bones; the lock did not give. Finch tried again. The wood groaned, and the iron protested, but the door did not surrender.
“Once more,” Finch muttered. “Together.” We rammed the portal once more with everything we had. This time, the lock cracked free, and the door burst inward.
The room lay in shadows, silence, and despair. Shuttered windows kept it dim, while the air was thick with heat and smelled of the cloying sweetness of drugged wine. Women lined the walls—so many of them—some slumped forward, others stared vacantly ahead. A few stirred at the noise we’d made, confusion flickering sluggishly across dulled faces.
Rosalynd was not among them.
But Lady Honora was. She sat near the far wall, her posture unnaturally straight, her eyes unfocused.
“Get them out,” Finch said to his men. “Quickly.”
His men moved at once, practiced and efficient. Finch’s female associate was already among the captives, murmuring reassurance, steadying uncooperative limbs, urging them to their feet. They swayed, disoriented, but they could walk. That was enough.
“Nicky,” I said. “Take Lady Honora.”
He hesitated. “But?—”
“Now.”
“Yes. Of course.”
He took her hand gently. “Come, my lady.”
One by one, the women were guided out of the room that had held them captive to the service stairs, where they disappeared out of sight.
When the room was empty, I searched again for Rosalynd. Corners. Shadows. Behind the curtains. Nothing.
“She isn’t here,” I said.
