there's a good fellow. I want to at least get one of you.' He'd shot, and then they'd cut him down where he stood.
I wanted to hurry, to get Lady Breckenridge far from this place, but my body was tired. The pain in my head had not subsided, my leg still hurt, and I could barely feel my hands. But we had to leave quickly. I had believed Kensington when he said he was not a killer, but that did not mean he would not hire someone to kill for him.
I had realized, when speaking with Lady Jane, that Kensington had not murdered Peaches himself. He might have wanted to, but he had not. I had decided the truth after rowing up the Thames with Grenville, after learning that Peaches had had no money in her attic room, and after discovering that Lady Jane sometimes lent Peaches her private coachman.
Most of it had come to me as I'd lain in bed this morning, listening to church bells and enjoying a clarity of mind I'd not had in a while. I had written Sir Montague about my last witness, and could only hope he would pursue said witness if I did not survive.
But I wanted to survive. I was angry, and I determined to see this out. Nor did I want Lady Breckenridge to come to harm because of my slow stupidity.
'I will try to untie your hands,' I told her.
She nodded, her hair rustling on the carpet.
An investigation of my pockets showed me that Kensington's man had relieved me of the small, sheathed knife I usually carried. I groped for Lady Breckenridge's hands, my own aching and clumsy, and found the cords at her wrists.
For a long time I tugged and picked at the bonds. Hurry, my mind urged. But I was fumbling and slow, and beneath my touch, her fingers were like ice.
'I could wish for your butler just now,' I said, trying to keep up our blithe conversation. 'My leg hurts like fury.'
'Barnstable would certainly be useful,' she said. 'I imagine he and my servants are searching for me by now. Not that they'd think to look here.'
I worked for a while longer, striving for something to say, something witty and funny that would put her at ease. But Lady Breckenridge was an intelligent woman, and I could hear her fear in her intake of breath. She understood that our odds for survival depended on being free and gone by the time Kensington or his brute returned, and that the odds of our being free and gone were slim.
'How was your leg hurt, Lacey?' she asked. 'Not tonight, I mean, but in the Army? It was in the war, was it not?'
I picked at the knots. 'French soldiers amusing themselves.'
Led by a grinning, leering ensign, who'd been delighted to have captured a lone English soldier. He'd decided to take out his frustration over the recent French defeats by torturing me.
I remembered his rather fanatical laughter, the worried look on his sergeant's face, the glee in the voices of the men who'd decided to follow their officer's example. I remembered gritting my teeth against the pain, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of hearing me scream.
'They shattered the leg with cudgels,' I said. 'After which, they hung me up by the ankles for safekeeping.'
'Good God,' Lady Breckenridge said in shock.
I said nothing, and the memories faded. The French soldiers had gotten their comeuppance when an English patrol had blundered by. The tiny ensuing battle had killed the French ensign and most of the others. The English had not found me and had ridden off, leaving me with the dead. I had stolen the ensign's pistol and water bag and crawled away.
'You are making me feel rather sorry for you,' Lady Breckenridge said.
'It could have been worse. The surgeon did not have to amputate.' When I'd heard this verdict, I had nearly wept with relief.
Lady Breckenridge's bonds at last gave way. I slipped the ropes from her wrists and began rubbing them, trying to restore the blood to them. Once she began to weakly move her fingers, I moved to untie her ankles.
Another quarter of an hour passed before I at last got the bonds around her ankles loose. Then I had the devil of a time climbing to my own feet. I sought the wall behind me, leaned there, and tried to catch my breath.
Lady Breckenridge sat up and brushed the hair from her face. She wore a thin silk gown that rested low on her shoulders, made for attending the opera. Whatever shawl or wrap she'd had, they must have taken it. I removed the coat of my regimentals; I had a devil of a time unfastening the cords with my clumsy hands. I draped the coat over Lady Breckenridge's shoulders, and she gathered it to her gratefully.
'I will try to get the door open,' I said, my voice dry as dust.
'That would certainly be to our advantage,' she said.
I had to use the wall for support while I made my way to the door. The starlight was faint, showing me little.
I found the door when my groping hand bashed painfully into the doorframe. The door was locked, not surprisingly.
I bent to the keyhole and felt a faint draft on my face. That meant that that no key had been left on the other side. I remembered that I'd been able to force open the door of Peaches' room rather easily; I hoped that would be the case here.
They'd taken the walking stick, of course, the fine, strong cane that had helped me make short work of the kitchen door. My bad leg hurt too much for me to stand on it while I kicked with my right boot heel. The left leg was too weak to make much of an impression if I kicked with it instead. This door also seemed much more stout than the one to Peaches' room.
I felt for the hinges and found them, cold and metal. If I could remove them, I could pry the door loose. I would need a tool. I fumbled my way across the room, hoping to find something with which to aid me. My boot crunched glass, then I tripped over the remains of a mirror frame. I crouched to discover if anything in the debris would be of use.
I cut myself on the shards as I sifted through them and grunted and cursed under my breath. Lady Breckenridge asked if I were all right. I said no. While I picked through the glass, I explained to her what I planned to do.
'I might need your help,' I said.
I heard her struggle to her feet, while I continued to search the floor.
I found, by cutting myself on it, a fairly large piece of mirror. It might help, but only if the glass were strong.
Lady Breckenridge's outstretched hand touched mine. I grasped her under the arm, before she could cut herself on the glass, and pulled her with me back to the door.
The mirror did not work. The door's hinges were old but frozen with rust. I could not pry a gap large enough to lever out the hinge-pin on either hinge. The mirror slipped and cut my hand open, and I swore without apology.
'They did not even leave me a handkerchief,' I muttered, popping the pad of my hand into my mouth.
'They left mine.' Lady Breckenridge slid a warm piece of silk from her bosom and pressed it into my palm.
I promptly ruined the fine handkerchief by sopping up my blood. I kicked the door, out of temper, but it remained solidly closed.
'We could try to climb out of the window,' Lady Breckenridge said. 'If we can reach it.'
The window in question sat high on the wall, a dormer that would look out over the street.
'It is a long way up,' I said. 'We could not climb down the roofs without breaking out necks.'
'We might at least shout out of it,' Lady Breckenridge said. 'Someone might hear us and help.'
I thought her optimistic; if anyone had heard me break in through the back door, not to mention the men who'd brought Lady Breckenridge here, no one had sent for help. Perhaps they'd put their heads under the bedclothes and gone back to sleep, having learned to ignore what went on at number 12, St. Charles Row. I wondered whether the lad I'd paid had actually gone to fetch Pomeroy. In any case, he'd not come.
The only way to reach the window was for me to lift her to it. She proved light and agile, and scrambled to
