The other man looked affronted for a moment, but other than a malicious glare toward Constance, he flounced off behind her, his shuffles quickly disappearing. She grinned, as it was much easier to manipulate one man at a time.
Brooks removed his cravat and wound it around both of his wrists, where he pulled it tight together. “Are you sure you can handle what I enjoy?” he asked.
“Oh, you would be surprised,” she returned airily. She slipped off her jacket and then started on the buttons of her waistcoat. When it parted, she slipped her hand beneath the fabric and cupped her own breast through her shirt. “Do you like to watch as a woman pleasures herself?” She started to slide her hand down toward the apex of her thighs. “Or do you want to punish me for being so naughty?”
His breath was heavy, the color high on his cheeks and while she hated what she was doing, she allowed Madame Corressa to take control, because Constance couldn’t stomach the thought of entertaining a man like Brooks, even if it was only to catch him in a trap of his own making.
He tugged both ends of his cravat and slowly rose to his feet. “I prefer to watch you reach your pinnacle on the brink of death.”
Some of Madame Corressa’s courage faltered at that, because while she had heard of men enjoying certain proclivities, she had been spared those horrors. “Indeed? And is that how your wife died? Did you take her last breath a bit too far?”
The pupils of his eyes grew and nearly eclipsed all of the blue. “She couldn’t please me properly, and with that bastard in her womb, I couldn’t allow her treachery to stand. She had to be dealt with.” He walked around behind her. “I made it look like an accident, that she fell down the stairs and broke her neck, but she had been dead before that.”
Constance saw the strip of cloth in her line of vision and her heart skipped a fearful beat.
“This was this same strip of cloth that saw her end,” he whispered in her ear, making chills crawl up her spine. “It’s only fitting that it shall also see yours.”
Constance didn’t have time to raise her hand to her throat before the silk was choking off her air.
Chapter 23
Devin headed back down the hall when a quick scan proved that Constance hadn’t returned to the ball. While his conversation with the maid had been necessary, it seemed that too much time had passed, even though it had been less than a half hour. Nevertheless, his gut was warning him that something was terribly wrong.
He checked the last place he had seen her, the music room, but it was empty. He clenched his fists, as while Constance could have made a trip to the ladies’ retiring room, he doubted that was the case.
Withdrawing the knife from his boot, as ladies’ slippers hadn’t been part of his costume, Devin started checking doors as he made his way down the hall, careful to keep his weapon out of sight if he encountered anyone. He didn’t want to draw any undue attention to himself or sound the alarm just yet. When a crowd this size panicked, it could be worse than the initial danger—and just as easy for the culprit to slip out undetected.
When the downstairs search proved fruitless, he inspected the basement with the excuse that the countess wished for him to check the wine supply in the cellar. Thankfully, the butler wasn’t present to assure him that all was satisfactory, thus giving him the freedom to slip past the servants who were busy going back and forth tending to the party upstairs.
Again, Constance was nowhere to be found, so that just left the upper floors, which consisted mainly of bedchambers and the attic.
If she wasn’t there…
But no, he had to believe that Granelli’s pride would allow him to believe that he’d outmaneuvered Devin.
Making his way to the second floor landing, the first thing Devin noticed was something lying near a console table in the hall. At first, he couldn’t make it out, but when he drew closer, his stomach clenched, as when he picked it up, he recognized it as the wig Constance had been wearing. He clenched the false hair in his fist and tossed it on the table, along with his mask, as he strode past, even more determined to find her.
His focus was keen for any sign of a struggle, his ears open to any sort of noise, but when he turned a corner, he stopped briefly, as there was no need to check any further. Granelli was limping in a pace outside of a closed door, which told Devin exactly where he would find Constance.
His nemesis spied Devin, as well as the two men on either side of him. “Ah, Blackmore. You found us.” He grinned broadly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait your turn. The lady is occupied with Sir Isaacson at the moment.”
Devin sauntered forward slowly, but no less threatening. “Not for long.”
As Granelli gave the signal for his companions to head for Devin, he brought forth his knife, making sure the gaslight in the nearby sconces hit the light and offered a menacing gleam. It was enough to make them hesitate.
“What are you waiting for?” Granelli snarled. “Get him!”
This time it was Devin’s turn to smile as he lifted a brow and blew them a kiss. It was enough of a motivation for them to rush forward.
Constance heard the shuffle outside, even though black spots were starting to dance in front of her line of vision. She had considered slumping over and acting as though the baronet had won, and then playing her hand when he relinquished his hold, but her heart told her who was outside, so it gave her a renewed sense of purpose.
Gritting her teeth, she used all the strength she had to throw her head back against Sir Isaacson’s midsection. He gave a slight grunt and it was enough for him to release his hold so Constance could take a fortifying breath. Although her bound ankles kept her from becoming too mobile, her arms were free to do as she pleased. Grabbing Brooks around the neck, she used her momentum and his weight to pull him off balance and flip over her back. He landed on the floor in front of her with a mighty thud.
While he was working to recover and catch his breath, she started on the ties of the rope binding her to the chair. She was able to get one foot free before he rose on his hands and knees. With a well-placed kick with her buckled shoe, she caught him on the jaw and he fell back down. It gave her enough time to free her other leg. Once that was done, she grabbed the heavy wooden chair and slammed it down on his back. He screamed in agony as more than one of his ribs likely broke from the impact, but she didn’t stop to inquire after his health.
Instead, she set her heel against the back of his neck and pressed down firmly. There were more anguished howls as he flopped underneath her, whether from pain or frustration, she couldn’t say which, nor did she care.
As she ground her shoe against the tender part of his spine she said, “Now that the tables have turned, you are going to write a confession, in your own hand, about how you murdered your wife, the Countess of Tyne, and all of the other dastardly deeds that you have done through the years, including the false accusation of thievery against Devin Blackmore.”
