“You are Sir Lancaster’s daughter?”he’d said, stunned.“Does he…does he know about you?”
“He soon will. As will the world.”
Even her smile had been like her father’s—cold and predatory. A sadistic gleam had lit her eyes when she’d turned her brutes on him for a final round.
“Have fun, but don’t kill him yet. Wait until all goes smoothly in a few hours. After that, slit his throat and dump him in the Thames.”
“Hurry up, my dear, or we shall be late.”Ellsworth Rigby appeared. He flicked a glance at Jack, then said to his spouse,“Let the guards amuse themselves. We have work to do.”
The couple departed.
The brutes left Jack on the floor, battered and unconscious.
He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but the moment he was able, he’d crawled back to the place where the shovel was buried. Fear pushed back his pain, drove him to find his makeshift weapon and get to work. He had to get free—warn his team that Isadora Rigby was behind the First Flame, and in addition to her goal of destruction, she had a personal vendetta.
Against Hewitt Lancaster, her father.
Christ.
Jack worked at the ropes with savage force, cutting his hands in the process. After what seemed like an eternity, he felt the individual cords snapping, the rope weakening. He sawed some more, then yanked his hands apart as hard as he could, and the rope broke.
Finally.
He reached into his inner pocket, exhaling when he found the pen. He uncapped it, removing the nib and drawing out the lock picks secreted within. Fumbling in the darkness, he managed to insert them into the cuff around his ankle, working by feel until he heard a click. He removed the manacle and got to his feet, his body protesting at the movement.
Nothing seemed broken at least. He wasn’t in the best shape to fight his way out…and maybe there was a better way. It was a coal cellar; cellars had chutes. He walked the perimeter of the space, searching for a shaft through which the coalmen would dump the fuel. The darkness impeded his vision. If only he had a light…
Then he heard it: a faint whistling sound…wind passing through a gap overhead. He followed the noise to its source. Stretching his arms up, he found the chute, feeling his way around it. The rough brick passage would be a tight squeeze for his large frame, but it was his best option.
Even if it’s going to bloody hurt.
Gritting his teeth, he dug his fingers into the brick and mortar and pulled himself up.
It took him several tries before he got purchase inside the chute, his ribs shouting all the while. The passage was even narrower than he anticipated; sweat glazed his forehead at the tightness of the space. Using his hands and feet, he inched his way upward, praying he would not get stuck. Then he hit a barrier—the door to the chute.
Air whispered through the crack between the double panels. He pushed; the panels were locked together from the outside. Pressing his ear to the wood, he listened for voices, any sign that there might be guards waiting outside. Hearing nothing, he took a risk and rammed himself into the door. He paused, waiting for a reaction from the outside. When none came, he clenched his jaw and did it again. And again.
The panels bulged outward, but the lock didn’t give. He kept at it until he heard a splintering sound…one of the panels had partially separated from its hinges. He focused on that panel, slamming his shoulder into it repeatedly until it flew off its anchors. Shoving aside the remaining panel, he hoisted himself through the opening and onto a graveled surface.
Catching his breath, he got to his feet and staggered to the nearest wall, using it for cover. He was at the back of the house, windows shedding pale light on the manicured garden. Beyond the groomed space was a wooded area, which would conceal his escape. But he would have to get through the garden first, which was exposed save for some low hedges and statuary. He scouted the darkest path to the woods, then made a run for it.
He moved with rapid stealth. Even so, the crunch of gravel and his harsh breaths were deafening in his ears. With each step, his pulse thudded with the fear of discovery. He reached the trees, and enveloped in the shadowy copse, he exhaled with relief.
A rustle sounded behind him.
He spun around, muscles bunched in readiness.
“Jack.Thank heavens you are all right!”
His wife threw herself into his arms.
Thirty-Nine
Lottie had brought a team comprised of the Angels and Jack’s own colleagues to rescue him.
Together, they surrounded the Rigbys’ mansion, swarming the entrances. They searched the entire house, but the Rigbys were gone, and their remaining servants either refused to say where they’d gone or simply did not know.
“It doesn’t matter,” Delaney said dourly. “We know where the bastards will show up.”
