He continued back into the house, letting the events of the morning play over and over, as if he were watching a scene in a play repeat itself over and over. Each time some unnoticed part of his brain picked up on another tiny detail.
By the time he crossed the foyer, Briar had joined the rest of the family in the dining room. “Don’t you look like a ray of sunshine this morning,” she teased.
Mind still replaying every detail of Ada’s leaving, he ignored her, and pulled out a chair. “Something’s not right.”
Meena rolled her eyes. “Because Mrs. Templeton doesn’t find you her cup of tea? Poor boy.”
He sat back, hard enough to make the chair creak. “No, I mean something about them, those men.” He looked over at Spencer. “Wasn’t there something odd?”
His cousin-in-law tapped a finger on his chin, thinking. “I see what you mean. Can’t place it exactly.” He slammed a hand down on the table. “The uniforms.”
“And the shoes.” Edison met the other man’s gaze. “The shoes are wrong. Navy midshipmen wear black half boots. Those blokes—”
“Hobnail boots.” Spencer broke in. “All three of them.”
“Damn it.” Edison jumped up so quickly his chair toppled over.
He raced for the door, Spencer right behind him. As he yanked it open, he thrust out an arm, blocking the other man. “I’ve got this. Best you keep watch here. Once I get her back…”
“They might move on the family.” Spencer kept his voice low. “Understood.”
Edison flew out the door. As he jumped down the steps, he heard Meena’s calming voice. “Don’t fret, Mrs. Templeton. Edison excels at rescues.”
Chapter 8
Terror had faded quickly, along with the feeling in her hands. But fear—plain fear—lingered. It muddled her thinking and dulled her senses.
The rope coiled around her ankles had cut off the last of the blood flowing to her feet, making her toes tingle painfully. Making it hard to think.
If she’d consented to Edison’s offer, she’d be free now.
Granted, there were three of the sods, and they were heavily armed, but she’d seen him fight. Edison would have routed those men in a trice.
They’d be on their way to prison, and she’d be eating a fine luncheon by a warm fire at some companionable inn.
Instead, she was tied to an old wooden chair, contemplating what would befall her when her captors returned. The worst of it was, she had no one to blame but herself. Her need to be away from him, from his mesmerizing sensual energy, had led to this.
It wasn’t fair. How could wanting to do the right thing—the sensible thing for all concerned—go so badly wrong?
Ada wiggled her toes, wincing at the tiny needle jabs that cascaded up her legs with each movement. Numb, and growing colder by the moment, her fingers were a lost cause. The back parlor in which they’d stashed her was deadly quiet, but for the scuttling of small creatures in the walls and the sound of her own, harsh breaths. It felt like she’d been there for hours already, but the rays of sunlight seeping like weak tea through chinks in the boarded-up windows had moved barely an inch.
Minutes—not hours—had passed since she’d been bundled into the rearmost room of the abandoned cottage.
The coach had hardly pulled down the overgrown drive to the careworn little home before the ruffians escorting her doffed their stolen naval uniforms and revealed themselves for the hired criminals they were. They’d barely allowed her a moment to relieve herself and take a sip of water before they bound and gagged her and threw her into the back parlor.
At least they’d given her a chair.
The one pretending to be an officer wanted to toss her straight on the dirty wood floor, but one of the more junior men pulled the only functioning chair into the middle of the empty room and set her on it. Then with only the most cursory check of her bindings, they marched out of the house.
She’d taken the opportunity to twist around in her chair to survey the room. But for a second, broken chair, a sad old writing desk missing it’s drawer, and piles of dust and garden detritus blown into the corners, it was empty.
It was only now, now that she was growing cold and stiff, that she surveyed her situation with clear eyes.
They didn’t want her dead.
There’d been many opportunities to toss her body in a ditch once they’d left London proper. And they already had her device, blast it.
So they needed her.
Needed her to divulge the formula for the battery, no doubt. The mechanics would be easy to recreate once they dismantled it. It was the particular combination of chemicals she’d employed that allowed the stored electricity to drain out slowly and evenly that made it unique.
They’d be back for her at some point. She had to get out.
Now that her brain was functioning again, she noticed far more than she had earlier. Dead leaves meant an open window.
Or a broken one.
A cheer, muffled by the rag, escaped her. Not one but two broken windows. Both had boards nailed haphazardly across the fronts, but now that she looked more closely, the panes were shattered, leaving large, wicked looking spikes of glass on the floor beneath them.
She rocked sideways and toppled over, coming down hard on her shoulder. A cloud of dust enveloped her, making her sneeze violently, while the rag cinched over her mouth made breathing difficult. It took several long moments for her to draw in enough oxygen to move again.
Her bound feet didn’t afford much leverage, but she was able to spin herself around just enough to gain purchase on a sliver of glass with the edge of her boot.
She inched it closer, pressing it hard between her shoe and the floor. Once she got it close enough to the chair, she turned herself around until her fingers brushed one jagged piece.
She flexed her fingers several times, but they were stiff and deadened by the tight rope. A muffled thump came from outside the window, sending her heartbeat skyrocketing. Her fingers trembled as her breath came hard and fast behind the gag. She pressed her temple against the floor planks, concentrating hard, willing her clumsy fingers to grab the sliver of glass.
And then she had it.
Now, if she could only turn it between her fingers and saw through the rope. She bit her lip, concentrating hard. With her fingers so numb, and the glass so sharp, it took a moment for her to realize that the sticky feeling at her fingertips was blood.
At least she couldn’t feel the tiny cuts she knew must be scored into her fingertips.
The rope was proving tougher than her skin. She let her head droop back down to the floor and closed her eyes, sucking in a few breaths of dust while she allowed herself a break. It wasn’t working. She wasn’t making a lick of progress against the coarse rope.
And then she felt the vibrations against her cheek. A door slammed, then feet, treading lightly but quickly down the hallway.
Hot tears filled her eyes and spilled over, cascading down her cheeks.