ChapterTwenty-Four
To Sybil’s disappointment, being locked in a room for the remainder of the night and half the morning did not provide many opportunities for escape. She considered the window, but the pavement was two stories below and her chances of success were lowered even further by the fact there was no nearby drainpipe to climb down.
Next, she surveyed the room for weapons, but they had not provided her with even a poker. The fire, too, was unlit, and although she considered the chimney, when she poked her head through the next morning, she could not so much as see the sky, though she knew it was sunny outside. The only thing she could do, therefore, was wait for someone to collect her. Then, she told herself, she would run.
Around mid-morning, though with no clock it was impossible for her to tell the time, a maid came into the room with a long white dress made of satin and silver lace. Sybil had seen other ladies wearing them, but when it was to be her turn, she had not thought it would be for a man such as Howard Winston.
“Is that what I think it is?” The maid, a girl barely older than her with great circles around her eyes and hollow cheeks, did not answer.
“Please,” Sybil pleaded, holding out a hand. “You have to help me. He’s going tomarry meif I can’t get away. He has a pistol.”
“You should wear the dress, My Lady.” Her voice was small.
Sybil eyed the door from the corner of her eye, which remained open. “I’m sorry,” she said, and before the maid could react, tossed the dress over her head. Heart pounding, she ran for the door, throwing herself through it, along the corridor to the main stairs. The front door was there… just there. All she had to do was escape through it. Once she was on the street, she would find someone prepared to help her. There had to besomeone. She was Lady Sybil Wilson, daughter of an Earl. That meant something, even in grimy townhouses.
But when she reached the front door, the handle wouldn’t turn. Locked. It was locked. Shock and sour fear replaced her excitement at the prospect of escaping as she stared at it. No, this couldn’t be happening. She could not betrappedhere.
A hand landed on her arm, and she wrenched herself free, only to come face to face with Howard Winston. His eyes glittered with malice.
“So you thought to escape me, did you?”
“Please,” she said, holding out her hand. “Please, you have to let me go.”
“Ihaveto, do I?” This time, when he took her arm, his fingers dug in tightly enough to hurt. “You don’t yet know me, Sybil, but when you do, you will see that I always get what I want.”
Sybil cried out as he dragged her unceremoniously through the house. Not back upstairs to where the wedding dress lay; instead, they went through a small door inset in the wall and down a set of worn stone steps into a cool cellar. Barrels stood against the wall and a small window cast gray light across the room, illuminating cobwebs and a rickety chair.
“I thought you might prove to be uncooperative,” he said, thrusting her in the direction of a chair. At a snap of his fingers, two servants descended the stairs and advanced toward her. “But as you can see, I am prepared for every eventuality.”
Thick rope, coarse and rough against her skin, was wrapped around her wrists, and though she struggled, the two men held her down. Howard watched her, licking his thick lips with appreciation.
“You will make me a bride to be proud of,” he said when eventually she was secured, forced into the chair with her arms held behind her back. Already, her shoulders ached.
“I will never be your bride.”
He leaned close enough that she could see the way hairs clung to the clef in his chin; close enough that she could smell the foul stench of his breath. “You have little choice. In three hours, you will wed me, whether you want to or not.”
Sybil’s first, irrational, instinct was to declare that he could kill her before she would marry him, but if she was dead, she would not be able to find a way out of this. Far better that she kill him, and then she would not have a husband to concern herself with.
Howard stood back. “A little time alone may change your mind.” He nodded at the servants. “Stay with her. See to it she has no food or water.”
“Yes, Sir.”
With slow, ponderous steps, he ascended the stairs and closed the door, shutting her only escape method. Unless, of course, she could squeeze through the window, but she thought that unlikely. Her palms sweated as she considered her options, which were very few. The servants looked more like boxers than footmen, with broken noses and cold, cruel eyes. She would receive no help from them.
* * *
If this were a situation less fraught, George would have waited for the power of the Constables before attempting to enter Howard Winston’s townhouse. As it was, however, after sending one of his men to fetch the Bow Street Runners, there was little time to waste.
A faint drizzle hung in the air as he surveyed the house before him, noting the alleyway that led down one side. The servants’ entrance, no doubt.
Beside him, Lady Averley’s hands trembled as she looked at a place that no doubt held few pleasant memories for her. He did not ask whether she was ready; he knew she would not be. He knew she would do it anyway.
If there was one thing he had learned about Sybil’s mother in the few hours they had spent together that morning, it was that she was prepared to do anything for her only daughter.
With a curt nod, not daring to say anything in the unusually cool summer morning, George strode to the front door, one hand on his cane and the other curled into a fist. Lady Averley, dressed in a cloak with a hood that shadowed her face, slipped down the alleyway.
When he pounded on the door, he half expected it not to open. If he were conducting a kidnapping and forced marriage, he would be certain not to open the door until the deed was done.
