Jack walked back to him. “What did this man look like?”
“Tall tozzer. ’E was no yobber. Dressed like a toff. Bit skittish. Kept lookin’ around.”
“Hair color?”
He shrugged. “Wore a hat. One of those fancy beavers. But ’e looked to be tow-headed.”
“And that’s all you can tell me?”
Benny’s lips pulled down. “It’s enough, ain’t it?”
Jack tossed him a coin. “Find out anything more of interest to me, and you’ll get the other one.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out calling his card.
Benny snatched it, uttered a foul oath, and hurried away, disappearing into the building.
It was late afternoon by the time Jack had returned to Mayfair. Ashe removed his hat in the hall, Stoker handed him a note on the silver salver. “Delivered by Lady Aldridge’s liveried footman, milord. Said it’s urgent.”
With a feeling of dread, Jack’s ribs became a vise stripping him of air as he read the hasty missive. “Send the footman to the stables. I want Joseph and the curricle at the door with a fresh pair of horses, posthaste.”
Stoker left the hall at a run. He returned a moment later. “Do you have time to eat a spot of luncheon, milord?”
Jack shook his head. Lady Aldridge’s letter had been brief. Lady Prudence had failed to return from her walk in the grounds. Although they had searched everywhere for her, they’d found no sign. He snatched up his hat and gloves where he’d only just cast them down, and buttoning his greatcoat, strode out the front door. Shortly afterward, filled with unease, he set out for Richmond with his groom. Jack gripped the reins in tense hands. Had he missed something vital and not done enough to protect her?
Chapter Fourteen
The night seemedendless. It was very cold in the stone-walled room, and before it grew too dark for her to see without candles, Prue forced down the thick, glutinous soup and dry bread to warm herself. She used the chamber pot, then wrapped herself in the thin blanket and walked endlessly from one wall to the window until she fell onto the bed, exhausted. But her mind was in such a turmoil, escaping into sleep eluded her. When the night turned pitch black, she could do nothing but lie there and wait for daylight.
It was barely dawn when the door opened, and the nun entered with a tray. “A hot drink and some porridge to warm ye,” she said, as if she were Prue’s savior. “I’ll bring hot water and a comb for ye to tidy yourself.”
Prue’s head jerked up. “Is someone coming for me? Do you know?”
The nun deigned to reply as she walked back to the door. “I’ll return soon with the hot water.”
“And soap,” Prue called after her. Looking neat, at least, would give her the courage she needed to plead her cause with whoever would listen. A sense of panic gripped her. How long did they intend to keep her here?
Hours later, Prue had washed and tidied her hair, but no one came. Her luncheon was served by the monosyllabic nun, who againignored Prue’s entreaties. Night fell earlier now, with winter approaching, and it would soon grow dark. The thought of another agonizing night spent here brought tears to Prue’s eyes. She swiped them away and ran to the window to distract herself from listening for any sound outside in the corridor and to ease the helplessness that weighed her down.
Prue drew the stool over to the window and climbed up to pull the latch open. As she studied the view, a strong breeze blew through her hair, and it fell over her face, blinding her. She swished her hair away desperately. A church spire in the distance rose above the canopy of trees. It was the only building in sight. That spire beckoned to her like a beacon. If somehow she could find her way there, someone would surely help her.
On the floor beneath hers, an iron railing encased a narrow balcony. From her limited vantage point, Prue couldn’t make out if the window opened onto it.
Prue measured the distance between the iron bars against her hips. It should be possible to squeeze through, but how to reach the balcony below without plunging to her death? Stepping down from the stool, she studied the bed. The idea she’d dismissed earlier, inspired by a romance story she’d once read, wasn’t at all romantic, and it was very dangerous. But what did she have to lose? Who knew if she would ever leave this place alive? The fear of that drove her on.
There was a pair of sheets and the blanket on the bed. If she knotted them together to form a rope, she could tie one end around one of the bars. It might be long enough to reach the balcony below. But would the makeshift rope even hold her? Another glance out of the window at the drop to the canopy of trees curdled her blood. She decided to wait one more night. If no one came to release her tomorrow morning, she would attempt it. Just the hope of making an escape warmed her as she draped the blanket around herself and curled up on the bed, closing her eyes and willing herself to sleep.
She had managed to get a few hours. Breakfast at daybreak was the same fare: lumpy porridge, dry bread, and a glass of warm goat’s milk. To fortify herself in preparation for her escape, Prue ate every morsel.
An hour later, the nun returned with hot water, soap, and a towel.
“Will someone come to see me today?”
The nun glanced at her but failed to answer. Was that pity in her eyes?
Prue performed her scanty ablutions with the tepid water and a bar of soap that smelled strongly of lye and rancid fat and was nothing like the soap at home smelling sweetly of lavender. As she had done yesterday, it was likely the nun would not come again until luncheon. If Prue was going to attempt it, now was the time, before her courage deserted her. She donned her pelisse, then stripped the bed, and knotted the bedsheets and blanket together to make a lengthy rope. Testing it for strength, she prayed it would hold her.
Dragging the stool back to the window, Prue tied one end of the knotted rope to an iron bar and leaning over, released it to slither snake-like to the balcony below. It fell just short of the balcony floor, but that would have to do.
She kicked off her half-boots and dropped them down, praying her aim was good. When she looked down over the rail at the ground so far away, her head spun. They landed safely right where she’d hoped they would. She swallowed andscrewed her courage to the sticking place, as Shakespeare had written inMacbeth. Then she pulled herself up between the bars. Panic rocketed through her. Was she mad, to do this? Should she wait for someone to come and explain why she had been brought here? Would they release her? But she had little faith in the likelihood that whoever was behind this would set her free.
