She did understand that after nine-and-forty years of living, this was the first time her Papa had been on intimate terms with a peer, and such a connection elevated his own self-worth.
Still analyzing her father’s behavior as they took their seats on the front row of Forrester’s box, it suddenly occurred to her that her father’s ailments as well as his dependence upon spirits might have been misinterpreted these past few years.
What if his physical limitations were borne from the need to have someone make a cake of themselves over him? It had been two decades since a woman—other than his silly daughter who coddled cats—had shown him love. The need for love between a man and woman was as elemental as the need to draw breath. At least, that’s what Dot now believed, now that she’d fallen in love with Forrester.
Even her father’s craving for brandy and port could merely be filling his loneliness. Dot felt guilty she had not been more understanding. Their relationship was closer than that of most fathers and daughters, but now that Forrester had come into her life, she understood there were different kinds of love, and her father’s love for his daughter was no replacement for loving a woman and being loved by a woman.
Even as the play—Sheridan’s School for Scandal—started, her father and Mrs. Blankenship showed more interest in each other than in the actors upon the stage. It did not escape Dot’s notice when her father drew Mrs. Blankenship’s hand into his own. And he did not release it throughout the entire first act.
Although Dot was exceedingly happy for her father, his intimacy with Mrs. Blankenship made her miss Forrester even more.
At intermission, a liveried young man entered their box. “Is Miss Dorothea Pankhurst here?” he asked.
“I am.”
He handed her a note and left.
She unfolded it. It was from Forrester’s best friend, Sir Elvin.
My Dear Miss Pankhurst,
I am concerned about Lord Appleton. Please meet me in the lobby.
Sir Elvin
Her heartbeat exploded. She’d been uneasy about Forrester’s journey. What if highwaymen robbed him—or worse?
Her father and his lady love were so deep in their own conversation, they scarcely noticed she was in the same box. It took her standing and clearing her throat to capture their attention. “I’m running down to the lobby. I’ll be right back.”
As soon as she reached the bottom of the stairs she scanned over those assembled. With his height, Sir Elvin should tower above most of the assemblage. But she did not see him. She moved into the throng of unfamiliar male faces. Then she saw the chalky face of Henry Wolf.
He smiled. “Are you looking for Sir Elvin?”
“Yes.”
“He awaits you outside. Here, allow me to show you where he is.”
Her first thought was that Sir Elvin must not have the same aversion to this man as Forrester did.
Two or three very fine equipages with liveried drivers sitting upon the box lined up in front of the theatre. Was Sir Elvin in one of them? Why would he be expecting her to come to him? Was it not more gallant for him to have come to her?
“He’s just around the corner,” Mr. Wolf said.
When she saw that the side street was not illuminated as the one in front of the theatre, she became nervous. Forrester’s words came back to her as resonant as if he were standing beside her. Promise me one thing. Please do not leave your house without someone—a man—to guard you.
And here she was, leaving the theatre without her father’s protection. And at night.
An uneasy feeling creeping over her, she turned to go back to the well-lighted street, but Wolf clasped her arm so hard she winced in pain. He yanked her close and with his other hand held a sizable knife to her throat. “Make a sound and I’ll kill you.”
Chapter 20
With the knife’s point pricking her throat, her attacker forced her to a waiting phaeton and demanded that she climb up onto it. He stayed next to her as if they were stitched together, his forearm hooked around her neck. She was afraid if she moved too quickly, the knife would slice into her.
Most peculiarly, once she managed to sit on the perch, he ordered her to take up the reins and drive eastward. This maneuver, she realized, was necessitated by his need to use his own hands to hold the knife below her chin.
Horrifying thoughts cascaded over her. This evil man had chosen to come in a phaeton instead of his magnificent carriage because he wanted no witnesses, not even his own servants. Nausea rose up as if she’d ingested hemlock.
She now knew, without a doubt, this was the killer of Ellie Macintosh. He—not Sir Elvin—had written the note to lure her from the theatre. He must know of the close connection between Forrester and Sir Elvin.
But why did he want her dead?
Fear paralyzed her vocal chords. Was he one of those maniacs who took pleasure with women—then even more pleasure by snuffing the life from them?
As soon as she realized he was directing her toward the river, she was certain he was going to return to that decayed chapel where he’d murdered his last victim. The ribbons vibrated from the trembling in her hands.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she managed, her voice choked by tears. “You don’t even know me. What have I ever done to you?”
“I don’t hate you. I hate your Lord Appleton.”
Her head snapped in his direction. Moonlight diffusing through the cloudy night made his colourless face seem even more macabre. A chill spiked down her spine. “Everyone admires Lord Appleton. How could you possibly
