“Can you manage her, m’lord? Draycott’s fair fit to keel over.”
Lord Blackwood sneered but dismissed Enys with an impatient gesture that Eliza’s gaze followed. And there it was, hanging on a crooked nail beside the door—a whip. The ornate bone handle dangled straight down, contrasting the faded and frayed leather that looped on itself several times. The entireassembly ended with a lash of gut or rawhide—stained the copper shade of dried blood.
She knew the blood was Benedict’s. She saw again the way he had flinched beneath her hand in the orangery, the shame that had flooded his eyes. This was the darkness carved into his back.
Eliza’s stomach rebelled but she forced herself to breathe through it before she turned back to Blackwood.
There was satisfaction in his gaze. He’d seen where her attention lay and drew satisfaction from her knowledge of its purpose and potential.
How many times had that lash cut Benedict open? How many of his scars were written in this very room?
“You’ll not give me a lick of trouble, will you, Miss Wayland?” his voice was smooth, almost lilting. The sound would have been pleasant from another man, in another situation.
“I suppose that depends,” she replied, pleased with her even, steady tone.
“On what?” His head tilted in what appeared to be genuine curiosity.
With forced casualness, she strode forward to the desk before leaning back against it. She steadily ignored the tip of her hairpin as it dug into her belly.
“We both want the same thing, you and I—for my father to arrive with your ransom money in a timely fashion and for me to return home with him with no further trauma. If you can guarantee the second half, I guarantee I’ll be on my best behavior.”
The man smiled without warmth, without sincerity. “Miss Wayland, whatever gave you the opinion that I wanted to send you back to your father with no further trauma? I’ve learned over the years that the best, most efficient way to punish other, lesser men is through the ones they care about. Of course, that is yourpurpose in being here. Your trauma will become your father’s. And I’m rather looking forward to his.”
Eliza thought she did a credible job of schooling her expression and breathing. Her father was coming, Benedict too, she reminded herself. Draycott was not long for this world. And she had her pin-knife. Eliza didn’t need to escape or defeat him. She needed only to delay him.
As her eyes caught on the gaming table, polished to a high gloss and unblemished, an absolutely mad idea overcame her.
“If your plan was to utilize Draycott’s services in that scheme—you’ll find them wanting.”
“And why is that?”
“He is otherwise occupied with the dying process. Death doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to ease his suffering. I wonder why.”
“You killed him?” Blackwood asked, his brow raised in what might have been genuine approval.
“Afraid not, that honor belongs to your daughter.”
Now she was certain he was impressed, proud even.
“It’s a setback, to be sure. He has specific… interests. But I’m certain I can make do with what I have at hand,” he said with a pointed glance toward the whip.
“I’m given to understand you have demanded a sum that could be described as astronomical. It will take even my father days, if not weeks, to gather such a sum.”
“Your point?” he demanded.
She copied his pointed gesture and glanced intentionally not at the whip, but at the gaming table.
“We’ve plenty of time. Do you want to play?”
Chapter Forty-Four
Neither man slept.Each time exhaustion claimed Benedict, he jolted awake from a vision of some new horror awaiting Eliza. Wayland, too, startled awake every few miles.
They had been over the layout of the grounds and the house repeatedly, as well as his father’s preferences, what little Benedict knew of Draycott, and the few staff they kept.
The men had a plan for every scenario, including the ones that left Benedict physically sick to consider.
A fatigued, apprehensive focus had settled over Benedict once they abandoned the turnpike in favor of the long winding road to the grange. They were so close, he could scent violets dancing along on the night wind over the boggy, pitted moors.
