Chapter Twenty
Althea had noidea where she was. They had blindfolded her before they brought her here. Glad they’d at least removed the scarf from her eyes, she slowed her breathing, frightened that the panic she’d experienced as a child would return. Her fear of being restrained and locked in small places had never left her since her brother, Freddie, had shut her in an airtight cupboard. She’d been almost senseless when they’d found her.
Surrounded by racks of wine, she was tied fast to a wooden chair. The cellar was carved out of rock, the air dank. She stared around in the dim light, dry-eyed, the back of her throat aching from unshed tears. Was she in a tavern? No sounds of revelry penetrated the heavy door at the top of the stairs. It was utterly silent. Her exhausted mind wouldn’t stop wrestling with fearful questions. Had Ben and Mrs. Peebles been allowed to go free? Would Crowthorne fall for the trap, and Flynn learn the truth from him? Was Jet safe in Mayfair, or cast out on the road?
Crowthorne had left the man with cold eyes to watch her. He came in to check on her every hour. The way he looked at her made her want to be sick. He reeked of ale and his hands grew less steady each time he leaned over her to check her bonds.
Next time he came, she would beg him to let her go to the privy. Once out of this cellar, she might find a way to escape.
A huge rat scuttled across the stone floor toward her. Althea stiffened in horror. It sniffed at one of her feet and she froze, a scream trapped in her throat. It stopped to stare at her before disappearing behind the racks. She took a deep breath and yelled.
The door opened, and the man came down the steps, an evil-looking knife tucked into a scabbard at his waist. “I told you to be quiet.”
“There’s a rat here!”
“More than one I imagine.” He laughed. “You have bigger things to worry about than vermin.”
“I need to go to the privy.”
“Am I supposed to care?”
“You will if Crowthorne learns of it. Because you won’t get paid.”
He pulled the scarf from his pocket and blindfolded her again. She held her breath as his fingers worked at the ropes around her ankles.
He dragged her to her feet, his strong hands rough and careless. She sagged and almost fell. When she steadied herself, she shrugged out of his grasp. “Untie my hands.”
“Can’t have that. You might get it into your head to give me trouble.”
“And how would I do that? Overpower you? I can’t manage if you don’t.”
He cursed and fumbled at the tight knots. She winced as his impatient fingers hurt her sore wrists. “If you try anything, I’ll hurt you.”
She stroked the delicate skin rubbed raw. “Crowthorne said you weren’t to touch me.”
“I can hurt you where it doesn’t show.” He pushed her. “Walk. Up the stairs.”
Althea stumbled blindly up the steps with him prodding her from behind. When his hand touched her derriere, she froze. “Take your hands off me, or Crowthorne will learn of it.”
He shoved her again, this time a finger between her shoulder blades. “I find better company in a tavern wench. He’s welcome to you.”
He reached in and she heard him take the key from the lock, before he pushed her into the privy. “Replace the blindfold when you come out.” The door shut behind her. She eased the scarf away and blinked. The privy was too clean for a tavern. The narrow, high window useless. Her spirits sank to her boots. Escape was impossible. He would kill her if she tried. He appeared to fear nothing. And there was nothing decent in his nature that she could appeal to. She could only hope that the promise of Crowthorne’s money would keep her alive.
A jug and a bowl of water sat on a console. She drank from it then washed her sore wrists and face. Then she replaced the blindfold and called out to him. He opened the door. She’d tied the scarf loosely. As she shuffled forward, she looked down at an expensive Turkey carpet on the floor. She passed by a fine rosewood table. Definitely not a tavern; a gentleman’s house, but surely not Crowthorne’s. He wouldn’t risk taking her there.
“Can’t you put me in another room upstairs? It’s too cold in that cellar,” she pleaded as he retied the scarf making it tighter. “You know I can’t escape.”
Without answering her, he led her by the elbow, back down the stairs. He pushed her onto the hard seat and secured her hands again, her arms aching from the strain.
His footsteps moved away from her. “You’ve forgotten the blindfold,” she yelled, fearing she would fall into hysterics.
“It stays on this time.”
“No!Please.” The door slammed shut behind him as sobs racked her dry throat.
*
Gray morning lightfiltered into the room. Crowthorne’s men worked with devastating effectiveness. All the oak paneling had been stripped from the walls, revealing nothing behind them but lath and horsehair plaster.
