“I need your help.” Gabriel licked his lips and swiped at the perspiration beading his brow. He quickly apprised Prior of the events before asking, “Which watchmen are here tonight?”
“Not sure. I can find out, though.”
“Gather up whatever watchmen and constables are here. We’ll need as much help as we can get. I’m going to make sure I don’t lose track of them. I’ll meet you back here, perhaps inside.” After finalizing the hasty plan with Prior, the men parted.
Gabriel was angry—with himself. How had he missed it? He knew Clancy was connected and integrated into seemingly every one of London’s social classes. It had always given him the appearance of power, how he could make things happen. But something like this?
Gabriel headed toward the inn.
Then searing pain jolted through the back of his head. And everything went black.
Chapter 44
ODD, MUTED COLORSflashed under the night’s murky shadows. Foreign accents that Ella had never heard met her ears. Agonizing pain radiated from where Mr. Clancy gripped her wrist as he pulled her past the strangers in the tavern.
Did those people not see what was happening—what this man was doing to her? She struggled to keep her feet beneath her as Mr. Clancy hastened his pace down one of The Lark & the Gull’s low-ceilinged corridors.
Ella strained to organize her thoughts and formulate a plan. She had but one goal: to free herself from Mr. Clancy. As he pulled her farther back into the public house, past the carousing men and rough women, and into the darker, smaller, less populated passageways, her options for freedom were dwindling.
He forced her around a corner and up a narrow staircase. The sharp tavern sounds were fading to a muted hum. The light dimmed. She tried to keep track of their path so she could get out when she finally freed herself, but the twists and turns disoriented her.
Her shoulders bumped along the corridor’s rough walls untilMr. Clancy stopped abruptly and she collided with his back. He opened a wooden door and shoved her inside.
Once he finally released her, Ella blinked to adjust her eyes to the light. A fire burned in the grate to her left. A bed was to her right. A small table with a chair was under the two windows straight before her. She was in one of the inn rooms.
Then she noticed the man in the corner.
Timothy Grenshaw locked eyes on her. He stood from the chair and swore. “What is she doing here?”
Mr. Clancy snatched the wooden chair from next to the table and pushed her down by the shoulder, forcing her to sit. Before she could process the movement around her, he was wrapping a rope around her arms, securing her to the back of the chair.
“This young lady could not mind her own business.” Mr. Clancy grunted. After securing the rope he stepped to face her and ducked, resting his hands on his knees and looking her directly in the eyes. “I did attempt to warn you, my dear.”
She winced.
“Have you gone mad?” Mr. Grenshaw hissed, his black Hessian boots heavy against the wooden floor as he approached. “Someone will miss her. The last thing we need are people poking around.”
Mr. Clancy chortled and straightened. “She’ll not be our concern for long.”
“But, Rowe,” protested Mr. Grenshaw, his tone gritty. “He’ll come for her. Gutt said—”
“No he won’t.”
The men continued bickering, and the reality of the situation struck her. She’d assumed Mr. Clancy had been on her side and the side of justice, but somehow he was as much a part of this heist as Mr. Grenshaw.
“We must make haste if everything’s to be arranged by morning,” instructed Mr. Clancy. “Get Elizabeth to watch her.”
The scene quickly shifted. The men exited, but sounds of shuffling and footsteps from outside the closed door ensued.
Refusing to devolve to helplessness, Ella took quick stock of her surroundings, searching for something—anything—that might facilitate an escape. Besides the door, the window was the only other way out. She had to be at least one story up, but a cloth covered the window, obscuring any other clue as to exactly where she was.
She swung her attention toward the fireplace, where she noticed a utensil hook. The poker and the brush were on the floor.
Ella strained against the ropes, attempting to dislodge them, but they were too tight. Her fingers and hands were free behind her, but her arms were restricted in a way that rendered her hands useless.
Muddled voices came from outside the door, and she froze. The voices intensified—a male voice and a female voice.Mr. and Miss Grenshaw.
Ella held her breath to hear over the blood pounding through her.
