She threw back the veil with her free hand and she was smiling. “So Harry has talked about me, has he? He always was indiscreet.”
“Quite,” I agreed.
“If you know my name, you presumably know what I want,” she went on.
Her voice was low and rich, the sort of voice which would have suited the stage or a courtesan’s boudoir. It was a voice which could coax people into doing things. Her face was almost unremarkable except for an arresting pair of eyes, dark and watchful, and I realized then what Julien meant. Where Effie Hathaway’s brown eyes had been pellucid as a country stream, Isabel de Armas MacGregor’s eyes werebright and fathomless, and she used them to wonderful effect. A man could drown in such eyes, I reflected, and possibly quite a few women.
She was aware of my scrutiny and she smiled at it, revealing small, white teeth with sharp little canines. I was glad of those teeth. They stopped her from looking too sweet. Her cheekbones were high and broad, her mouth wide and richly colored. In all, she was a chameleon. With a sober gown and the properly demure expression, she would be as meek as a parson’s mouse. But arrayed in a scarlet satin gown of fashionable cut with painted lips, she would have been any man’s most depraved fantasy.
“Do I look the part?” she asked, batting lashes at me that I fancied had been enhanced with a bit of soot applied with a burnt match. It was a trick I had myself employed from time to time.
“I should think you could look whatever part you chose,” I told her honestly.
She preened a little. “How very kind of you. I do so appreciate when these situations are conducted politely.”
I glanced pointedly at the gun in her hand and she gave a little laugh.
“I believe you think my weapon impertinent, Miss Speedwell, but I assure you, it could have been much, much worse.” There was an unholy gleam in her eye that told me she was speaking the truth. She turned to Stoker, canting her head.
“You are an unexpected delight,” she said slowly, letting her gaze linger on a few of the choicest parts of his anatomy. He blushed again and she smiled widely. “How utterly adorable. It would be the gravest pity to shoot you, my dear,” she said, dropping her voice even lower as she looked at him from under her lashes. “Mind you don’t force me to.”
He said nothing and she laughed again.
“It is good to find another woman who enjoys her work,” I remarked, drawing her attention away from Stoker.
“Indeed,” she said, looking as frisky as an April lamb. “I think we are going to be very great friends indeed.”
“Perhaps then, as a friend, you might see your way clear to telling us where we are going?” I suggested.
The smile turned lightly mocking. “You presume too quickly upon our friendship, Miss Speedwell. All in good time. Now, if you would be so good as to toss your reticule onto the seat next to me. I know exactly what a lady can get up to with a hairpin.”
Hairpin, stiletto, clasp knife. Unfortunately, I had precisely none of these upon my person. I had dressed in a fashion suitable for the Sudbury, that is to say, dully respectable in a high-necked ensemble of violet velvet with tidy little boots of turquoise leather, chosen for the luscious poppy embroidery rather than function. I had no doubt the slender Louis heels would snap if I tried to kick her in the stomach, and there was no way to predict what might happen to a loaded revolver in the confines of the carriage.
So, I did as instructed, pitching my reticule onto the seat next to her. She smiled. “How very cooperative of you, my dear. Now, let us settle in and be comfortable. We have a bit of a journey ahead of us.”
•••
The drive was of considerable duration—longer, I suspected, because we were being taken by a circuitous route to confuse us should we try to determine our whereabouts. We performed four left turns in a row, I noted, and then two complete turnabouts. Following this was a long pull uphill which I detected by noticing the slight inclination of my torso to pitch forwards as I was sitting facing our captor. I had hoped she might let her attention wander, providing an opportunity to overpower her, but she was alert as a fox at all times. In fact, something in the set of her chin caused me to suspect she would welcome such an attempt, and I was determined not to oblige her.Stoker and I had been in far worse situations, I reminded myself, and we had always emerged—if not unscathed—then at least alive. There was no reason we should not do so again, and as I considered the vast amount of unanswered correspondence heaped on my desk, I could not bring myself to entirely regret the diversion.
At last, the brisk clip-clop of the horses’ hooves slowed and stopped. The carriage rocked heavily as the driver alighted, booted feet landing hard upon what sounded like loose chippings. Immediately, the door was wrenched open, the wan sunlight dazzling after the gloom of the darkened carriage. A gloved hand beckoned and our hostess gestured with her gun that we were to obey. Stoker climbed out first, and I noticed the driver was careful to keep a body’s length between them should Stoker be inclined to engage in any sort of physical assault. I followed, and Mrs.MacGregor brought up the rear. We were in the drive of a large and unlovely private house. It had been built in the worst excesses of the Neo-Gothic movement, like a miniature Strawberry Hill, with gardens to match. Everything was overgrown and tangled and untended. Weeds sprouted through the gravel at our feet, and long iron red streaks marred the whitewash of the villa’s walls. A few gargoyles leered from above the portico, where a pair of potted palms sat, mournfully shedding leaves.
“Why is it always gargoyles?” I murmured.
Mrs.MacGregor ignored me. She gestured towards her cohort. “This is Göran. He will attend you, and he has a dreadful temper, so mind you don’t provoke him. He will show you the way to your quarters and I will follow with this,” she said, brandishing the gun, “just to make certain everyone is cooperative.”
We looked at Göran, who gave us a broad grin as he fondled his clasp knife, polishing it with an exaggerated gesture on his lapel. When he had made his point, he pocketed the blade and unlocked the front door whilst we stood a little way behind. I listened for any sign ofneighbors, but there was nothing to be heard except country sounds—birds twittering in the bushes and the new green leaves of the trees rustling in the wind. Clouds were building, scudding across the sun and throwing the house deeply into shadow as Göran threw open the door.
The house was exactly as I feared—a veritable architectural wedding cake with every possible extravagance and embellishment worked in plaster. With care and good furnishing, it might have been acceptable, for the proportions of the rooms were suitable for a large family home. But the roof must have been damaged, for every ceiling was bubbled and cracked, the plaster crumbling away. The floors were stained with watermarks that ruined the elaborate parquet, and I distinctly heard mice scrabbling about in the walls.
“What a lovely home you have,” I said to Mrs.MacGregor, baring my teeth in a smile.
She returned the gesture. “Rented for a song from an owner who has almost forgot the place exists. The nearest neighbor is six miles, so there is no one to hear you,” she added with an unmistakable note of menace, all the more disconcerting for being delivered with a smile.
I decided against goading her further, and we followed the taciturn Swede down a corridor and through a door, down a flight of stone stairs and through another door. Through it was a small chamber, cut into the earth and built of stone. The seams in the stone floor were packed with black dust, and I realized we were standing in the former coal store. A trapdoor high in the wall above us showed where the stuff had once been delivered, but I could see the shiny new hinges even at a distance. No doubt the hasp and lock on the other side were new as well, and the inside of the coal store had been fitted out as a sort of jail. A pair of narrow mattresses festooned with dubious-looking stains had been thrown down, and a chamber potstood expectantly in the corner. In the center of the room, a cast-iron column was bolted to the floor, running the height of the room and through the ceiling some fifteen feet above. Around it were lengths of bright new chain, heavy stuff, with shackles to match. While Mrs.MacGregor watched from the doorway, Göran secured the shackles around our arms and legs. Wound as the chains were about the column, we were free to shuffle about the room but could not make it as far as the door. A single lantern had been lit and hung on a peg next to the door, well out of reach.
“We will bring food in a while,” Mrs.MacGregor said brightly. “I do hope you will be comfortable.” With that she slammed the door, and I heard the familiar, desolate sound of a key turning in the lock.
“Well, here we are again,” I said calmly. “This is usually the point at which you become hysterical.”
