LITMIR.BIZ

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he recognized the contents. It was a chemise, embroidered at the throat with the initials V C, and tied tightly about the waist with red silk rope. He looked up at Stephen with alarm. ‘My God, Hebden. You didn’t …’

      ‘Touch the girl?’ Stephano laughed in response. ‘Certainly not. She is worth more to me as a virgin hostage, than she is as some temporary plaything.’ But the image of the girl sprang to his mind, sprawled upon his bed with her skirts ripped near to the waist to give a tantalizing glimpse of her silk-covered legs. ‘Since you are so quick to search the package I intended for another, then you had best read the attached note.’ He quoted from memory. ‘Your daughter is safe, for now. If you wish her to return the same, then admit in public what you have done.’

      ‘But is this—’ he poked at the chemise and shuddered in distaste ‘—is this necessary? Surely you did not need to be quite so theatrical.’

      ‘Theatrical?’ He laughed again. ‘I have made both the Carlows and the Wardales shake in their beds for months, each one worrying that they would get a bit of rope in the mail. All because of a curse that would have no hold over them, if they did not secretly believe that they were deserving of punishment. And now, because I have sent you a lady’s undergarment, you think that I am developing a taste for the theatrical?’ He could still feel the softness of the garment, as he’d tied it up, and the softness of the girl that had worn it. He felt the pounding in his head begin again, as he thought of the girl, naked in the wagon, waiting for his return. If he truly wanted revenge, it would be so very easy. And so very pleasurable. He laughed louder. But the sound did nothing to stop the lurid thoughts in his head or the agony they brought with them.

      Then, as if one pain would stop another, he grabbed the letter opener from Keddinton’s desk, and dragged the blade of it along his palm until a line of red appeared there. He held his hand out over the shift, watching the drops of crimson fall onto the muslin. He made a fist, and squeezed it shut, until his mind cared about nothing but its own pain and the sharp sting of the open cut.

      Then he looked up at Robert Veryan, as the blood continued to drip from his hand. ‘This, you snivelling coward, is what a taste for the dramatic looks like. Tell your friend, the murderer Carlow, that for now it is my own blood that was spilled. But if he does not accede to my demands, then the next package will be soaked in his daughter’s blood. Can you manage that, without running away again?’ He leaned over the desk and watched the older man shrink away from him. It was as easy as it had ever been to intimidate him into obedience.

      Keddinton gave a shaky nod. ‘If they agree to your demands, how shall I reach you?’

      Stephano reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to bandage his still-bleeding hand. ‘You do not reach me, Veryan. I am unreachable. Invisible. Unfindable. As is the girl, until this is over.’

      In fact, she was hidden on Veryan’s own property, less than six miles from his house. If the man had been the expert spy catcher everyone thought him, such a simple deception should have been impossible. But the profound ignorance he displayed over small things was more than a match for the intelligence he displayed in others. ‘I will return to you in a week’s time, and expect to hear George Carlow’s answer. Should you, through disobedience or incompetence, give me reason to come back here before then, it will go hard for you. Do not run, for I will have no trouble finding you, no matter where you might hide. And I will punish you. Is that understood?’

      He gave Veryan a moment to remember their first meeting. He had recognized the man as a weak link in the chain that would lead him to his father’s killer. He had broken into Veryan’s private rooms, in the night. And then he had shaken the man once, as a terrier might shake a rat, and left him weeping on the floor. It had not taken a single blow to convince him to turn traitor to his friends and serve as Stephano’s right hand in vengeance.

      It was just one more proof of the falseness of the honour that supposed English gentlemen held so high.

      ‘As long as there is nothing to lead them back to me in this,’ Veryan muttered.

      ‘Is that all that concerns you?’ Stephano sneered. ‘This will be over soon, Veryan, and you will be safe. Now that I have the girl, it will not take long for Carlow to reveal his part in the murder.’ Because he could not imagine the man would be so casual with the safety of his youngest daughter. ‘But it does my heart good to see your very belated care for Verity Carlow’s safety.’

      ‘When you asked me to help you, you promised you would not hurt her,’ Veryan said the words with a whine, as though they were a defence of his betrayal.

      So Stephano leered at him and said, ‘Perhaps I regret my promise. She is a most lovely girl, and as a Gypsy, I have no honour, and am used to taking whatever I desire.’ The headache grew. And for a moment, his sight dimmed as though the pain behind his eyes was an impenetrable fog.

      When his vision cleared, Veryan was gaping like a fish, eyes goggling with shock as though he were sharing an office with a fiend from hell.

      Stephano sighed and took a moment to compose his features, hiding his weakness from the spymaster. Then he said, ‘If they do not tell the world of her disappearance, then no one shall know of it. Once they give me what I want, I will bring her back as quickly and secretly as I took her. She will be back in her home before anyone knows that she is missing, reputation intact and none the worse for the experience.’ And with that vaguely honourable promise, the agony diminished.

      Veryan grinned at him, the sweat beading on his forehead. ‘That is good. And they will never know it was me.’

      Again, back to the man’s only true fear. ‘I will certainly not tell them, Veryan. And once Carlow’s involvement in my father’s death is uncovered, no one will care how it came about.’

      ‘And we will be heroes,’ Keddinton said.

      ‘Because justice will have been done.’ Stephano repeated it as he had, several times before, to buck up the spirits of the oily little man. It was the carrot to match the stick. Keddinton had gotten it into his head that catching a traitor and murderer, after all this time, would be the thing to propel him to greater heights in government and another title. Perhaps it would. Stephano had little interest in the details. But if they helped to keep the man in line, he could think what he liked.

      Now that the headache was receding, he could feel the pain in his hand again. As he flexed his fingers, he was annoyed to see blood seeping through the makeshift bandage. He glared at Keddinton. ‘Deliver the package and my message. Tell Stanegate I accosted you in the street and was gone before you could follow. He will take this to his father. I will return in a week.’ And he turned and left the proud Viscount Keddinton shaking behind his desk.

      When she could no longer hear the Gypsy taunting her from outside the vardo wagon, Verity shouted a brief tirade of curses and pleas into the silence on the other side of the door. Then she fell silent herself, as she suspected that further shouting served no purpose. No one had come to help her when Stephen Hebden had brought her into the camp. If anyone wished to help her now, there could be no doubt of her location, nor the fact that she was held against her will. And since she had seen none of the other Gypsies, she did not even know if she wanted their help. Perhaps the tribe was full of men even more brutal than her captor. If that was the case, she would gain nothing by calling attention to herself. She had no proof that the person that might come to her aid was any better than the one who had taken her.

      She glanced around the little room that would be her prison for the day. There was a basin with fresh water, and a small mirror on the wall. She went to it, and looked at her reflection. It was as he had said. Her face was streaked with dirt, and mud was caked under her nails. Even her feet were dirty, for the muddy water of the roadway had soaked through her stockings. Carefully, she began to wash herself. Then she took down her hair, combing the leaves out of it with her fingers, then reaching hesitantly for the set of silver brushes that sat on the small shelf below the mirror. They were beautiful things, as was the silver handle of his razor, ornamented with a pattern of leaves and vines. The metal was smooth from use, but well cared for.

      And the blade of the razor was

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