Esme strained her neck as best she could, trying to catch a glimpse of what they’d uncovered. Her heart thundered wildly, and she longed to run toward them and see what it was. Damn these manacles.
Whatever it was appeared to be wrapped in something, perhaps cloth of some sort, several layers of it too. Finally, when they had a pile of discarded fabric, Thatcher held it up to the lantern, inadvertently giving her a nearly perfect view. It was, most definitely, a box. About the size of a cigar box, yet not quite as ornamental, at least it appeared as such from what she could make out beneath all the dripping mud.
“Is that it?” Waters asked, his voice lined with disappointment.
“Let me see it closer,” Esme pleaded, hoping they’d forget she was a prisoner and bring the box over to her. She itched to see what from her position looked to be engravings. How could she be this close and not be able to see it, touch it? She’d waited so long. It was far crueler to be denied a glance than it was to hang from this monastery wall.
“I don’t think so,” Thatcher said, turning toward her. “Now, about that key.”
CHAPTER 4
Fielding had followed the sound of voices all the way to the innermost part of the ruins. The Raven’s men had a woman with them, and she was quite the talker. He’d managed to find a ledge where he’d situated himself to see how many he was up against. Peering over, he wished they had a bit more lighting below.
“I will give you no such thing,” a woman’s voice said. Where was the woman? He spied Waters standing in the middle of the room, and Thatcher looked to be walking directly toward Fielding. He crouched farther down to make certain he wasn’t seen, then peered back over the edge. There, chained to the wall, was the woman, wearing nothing but a flimsy night rail. Since when were the Raven’s men in the habit of abducting women? Evidently his uncle wanted this artifact badly.
Well, this certainly complicated matters. It would have been nice had Jensen and his Solomon’s friends warned Fielding about the possibility of having to rescue a woman in addition to the box.
Of course he had no obligation to save her. She hadn’t been part of his original agreement.
“Where is it?” Thatcher asked, his voice coming from between tightly clenched teeth.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“The key to open this bloody thing.” He held up the box in question.
“Let me see the box closely; it might jar my memory,” the woman said.
“I know you have it. The Raven said the Worthington woman had the key. That’s you, ain’t it?”
There was a long pause before she answered, as if she’d been considering a lie. “Yes, that’s me, but I don’t have any keys with me. If you take me back to London, though, I’ll be happy to retrieve all the keys I own for you to dig through.”
Worthington. That was the name of the scholar on Mr. Nichols’s list. Fielding again peered over the ledge. He’d imagined an old matronly figure with grayed hair and a shapeless body, her nose firmly implanted in a book. Not the slip of a woman below him. Even in the dim light, he could see her tantalizing breasts under night rail.
Fielding wondered if the men of Solomon’s knew about this supposed key. And if they did, why hadn’t they warned him? There’d been nothing about a key in the notes they’d given him either. Bastards probably didn’t share all their information with the hired help.
“Get your filthy hands off me, you beast,” she said. Thatcher was indeed putting his hands on her, searching her for some sort of key, from the looks of it. Although why he thought the woman could hide anything beneath her almost transparent nightgown, Fielding didn’t know. He rolled his eyes. He’d never liked Thatcher, always felt the man took pride in being as vile and contemptuous as possible.
“What do we have here?” Thatcher asked. “That’s an unusual pendant.” He pulled his hand back, yanking the necklace free, and stepped away from the woman.
“That is nothing,” she protested. “A frivolous gift from my father is all. It’s not even real gold; I believe it’s made of painted steel. It will probably rust in another month or so.”
All Fielding could see was a slight glimmer against the lantern light. A bit of jewelry perhaps. So she had been hiding something.
“We’ll see about that. Waters, get over here. And hold that light still.”
“You have no idea what sort of trouble you could be in for,” the woman warned. “That box is quite likely very dangerous. And I’d wager that your employer is paying you to retrieve it, not open it.”
She was a smart one, Fielding would give her that. However, her common sense was sorely lacking. It was she who didn’t realize the danger she was in.
While he’d never known Waters to harm a woman, Thatcher was the kind of man who took what he wanted regardless of what the implications might be.
“Look there,” Waters said. “See that notch? It looks just like her trinket.”
“Go ahead,” she said loudly. “Open the box. All that lies within the walls of that box are evils. Death, destruction, pestilence. The plagues of Egypt. The ruination of humankind. Go ahead,” she said again. “Unleash terrors upon yourself, it matters not to me. But I cannot watch.”
She sounded remarkably like Mr. Nichols. Fielding shook his head. He’d never understand adults who believed in such fairy tales.
“Perhaps she’s right,” Waters warned, his voice wavering with nerves. “The Raven did ask us to get the box, steal her key, and bring them back to him.”
