Arnaud’s shouts only produced one footman. Everyone else had scattered to search the market. Andrew was undoubtedly on his way down, but his lame foot prevented speed. He might be hooking up his new pony cart. Grey wasn’t certain he could face her brother if anything had happened to the redoubtable Miss Leonard.
Not finding any evidence of Ellie’s presence, he eased open the door to the storage room to peer in.
“The foundation is built up in back to level the floor.” Leaving the footman at the door to pass on word if anyone found Ellie, Arnaud returned to Grey’s side. “There’s a trap door that opens into the space. It’s not really a cellar. Don’t know the original purpose. Nothing much down there but dirt. Too small for much else.”
Inside the windowless storage area, Grey held up a lantern to examine a cart with no sides. “Hold your light over here.”
Blood glistened on the cart bed. The blood was still wet. The killer had carried her through the gallery on a cart. . .
Killer. Grey’s blood ran cold. “Who was in here this morning?”
“No one that I know of besides Thea. They’re all up at the manor, waiting to see if Mort or Percy will hang.”
Was that a moan? Or wishful thinking? Standing in the stuffy, crowded storeroom, Grey held up his hand for silence. Definite moan. “Where’s that cellar?” The storage area was a clutter of crates, canvas, frames, and miscellaneous from the shoe and clock makers. No trap door was obvious.
“How would—” Arnaud quit questioning at the look on Grey’s face and began shoving aside open crates. “It’s around here somewhere. It’s too small?—”
“So is that cart, but Miss Leonard isn’t terribly large. Listen, can’t you hear it?” Grey shoved crates, just to be certain they were all empty.
Why the devil would anyone harm Eleanor? She knew nothing. The killers were all under guard. He shouted her name.
A thump and muffled moan followed.
Grey heaved canvas and other rubbish out of the way—until a crack in the old warped boards appeared.
Arnaud threw aside a stack of empty frames to reveal the door. “There’s no handle. I had to jimmy it to look in earlier. I didn’t think anyone knew of it.”
“People who lived here all their lives—” Like the Bradfords. Five of them, his cook had said. Grey had only met two of the lot, plus Blackie, but he hadn’t lived here for long.
Arnaud found a palette knife that lifted a board enough for Grey to slide his fingers under. The muted thumping became louder.
“Lantern,” Grey demanded, leaning over the opening as they shoved aside the door, revealing a dark hole—and movement!
Not waiting to see more than where she was so he didn’t crush her, Grey threw his legs over the side and slid down. He had to bend almost in half to lift his brilliant Ellie out of the dirt and spiders. He yanked out the cloth muffling her cries. In his awkward position, the movement caused him to abruptly crumple into a sitting position. That worked. He pulled her on his lap, hugged her close to prove she breathed, then kissed her brow and sent heartfelt prayers of gratitude to the heavens.
She stopped struggling and leaned into his arms as if she belonged there. Grey buried kisses in her hair, welcomed the crush of her breasts against his coat, and called up to Arnaud, “Knife, now.”
“They’re just strings. I almost broke them,” she said through muffled sobs. “When I woke, I tried to spit out that nasty rag, but I couldn’t. I should practice.”
She was weeping as she said this. Grey hoped she was hysterical. Spitting rags. . .
Standing carefully, rearranging her in his arms, he lifted her out of the hole, into the hastily cleared space above. He climbed out after her and grabbed Arnaud’s knife. While she leaned into his hold, he severed the strings on her wrists and ankles. Ropes weren’t easily available in galleries, but packages needed twine. Her attacker had been resourceful.
Grey cuddled her close and kissed her again, while he still had the chance, blatantly taking advantage of her hysterics. With her hands free, she wrapped them around his neck and eagerly lifted her lips to his. He knew he had to stop this. He would, just as soon as his heart quit trying to leap out of his chest.
Or her brother arrived. Andrew’s frantic cries rang through the length of the gallery.
Grey reluctantly set Ellie on the floor. “You’re bleeding. We need to take you to Dr. Walker. Who did this? Did you see him?”
“Tiny.” She grabbed his lapels so he couldn’t pull away. “Mort’s paintings. He may be destroying them. They’re evidence.”
Andrew limped into the storage area and collapsed on a crate in disgust. “Dammit, El, can’t you stay out of trouble for just one day?”
She giggled.
The fool woman giggled. Grey didn’t want to know what was going on inside that fascinating head of hers. He needed to focus on strangling Tiny.
No one had given the shrimp a second look. Tubercular Tiny hadn’t the strength to dig a turnip—but he’d been able to knock down Ellie. Grey’s insides roiled.
