Pain exploded through his skull.
Blackness engulfed him.
He fell and knew no more.
The first thing he realized when the blackness thinned, then receded, was that he was sitting awkwardly slumped in a chair, his head—throbbing mightily—hanging forward, his arms pulled back.
He tried to frown, but even that hurt. He tried to shift in the chair and realized his arms were lashed; his body was, too. Then his senses cleared and he felt the rope chafing his wrists. He was sitting in a straight-backed chair, with ropes around his torso, and with his hands tightly bound behind the chair’s back.
He blinked, forced his eyes open, then squinted against the glare cast by a nearby lamp. Glancing aside, he waited; when his vision cleared and focus returned, he found himself staring at a rough stone floor.
His feet were flat on the floor; whoever had left him there hadn’t bound his legs.
Letting his gaze slowly rise, he followed the floor to a nearby wall; it, too, was of rough stone.
Slowly, feeling as if his neck might break if he moved too fast, he raised his aching head; someone had struck him across the back of the skull with something heavy—a cosh, most likely.
Finally, breathing in shallow pants, he sat upright, easing his shoulders against the raised back of the chair. Biting back a moan, he briefly closed his eyes as the room spun, but then his senses settled. Swallowing, he carefully raised his lids and, without shifting his head, looked around.
“Ah—excellent.” The deep fashionable drawl came out of the dense shadows behind the shielded lamp. “You’ve survived.”
The matter-of-fact tone sent a chill down James’s spine; the speaker hadn’t cared whether he’d lived through the attack. Squinting, he tried to see past the flaring light from the lamp, positioned two yards away atop several old crates and trained full on his face. “Who are you?”
“Obviously you have a hard head.” The speaker paused for a second before reflecting, “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but no matter. At least this way, should your fiancée prove difficult, I’ll have all the bait I might need.”
If James had harbored any doubts that the speaker was indeed Henrietta’s would-be murderer, that little speech had slain them. More, the taunting amusement laced through the last words confirmed that the blackguard had seen through their plan . . . and, James realized with a jolt of icy shock, had gone one step further and turned their plan back on them.
Instinctively, he tested the bindings about his wrists, but the ropes held tight. Worse, he still felt wretchedly weak and woozy. He slumped against his bonds. “You won’t get away with this.”
“You think not?”
James could hear the smile in that cultured voice.
“Well,” the speaker went on, “we’ll see.”
James hauled in a breath, moistened his dry lips. “What the devil do you think to gain?”
A pause ensued, then, in a more pensive vein, the voice replied, “I would have thought that was obvious. After tonight’s demonstration of how very wide the Cynsters’ net can be cast, I was left wondering what might induce the delightful Miss Henrietta to leave the overprotective circle of her family and come to me—clearly that’s the only way I’m going to be able to lay my hands on her—and then . . . there you were. Leaving the Cynsters’ house late, walking home alone through the night, lost in your thoughts . . .” The speaker chuckled softly. “I
t really was too easy.”
Another pause, as if the man was reflecting. James struggled to get his mind to function past the throbbing ache in his head.
“I was considering sending one of your fingers, perhaps the one carrying your signet ring, but that does seem a trifle gruesome, at least as an opening gambit, and all in all it might be wiser to keep that option in reserve, just in case the lovely Henrietta needs further inducements to come to your aid.” The speaker shifted; a gloved hand appeared in front of the lamp, turning something in the beam so James could see. “Besides, I suspect this”—the man rolled a thin piece of gold-colored metal with a shiny head between his gloved fingers—“will do, will be sufficient to bring her flying to your rescue.”
James stiffened as he recognized his cravat pin. Again, this time surreptitiously, he tested his bonds, but they gave not at all. Raising his gaze to where he thought the speaker’s face must be, he asked, “And then what?”
“And then . . .” James couldn’t see anything of the man’s face, but he could clearly hear the cold relish in the blackguard’s voice, could sense his chilly smile of anticipation.
“I intend to stage a double murder.” The villain paused, then went on almost eagerly, “I haven’t done one of those before. Killing Henrietta Cynster will, clearly, start a manhunt, but what if it appears that you—her fiancé—killed her, then committed suicide? Better still, what if it appears that you’ve killed Henrietta in the same way Lady Winston was murdered?” Cool satisfaction laced the man’s voice as he went on, “And then, naturally, overcome by grief, or perhaps by fear of the consequences, you shoot yourself?” Self-congratulation welled, ringing clearly as the man continued, “Oh, yes, that will fit nicely. After all, Lady Winston lived next door to the young lady you were thinking of offering for. Perhaps that was how you noticed Melinda Wentworth—because she lived next door to your lover?”
James tasted bile; raising his head, he swallowed and said, “I would never hurt a woman like that—like you hurt Lady Winston.” Gaze steady on where he judged the murderer’s face to be, lips tight, he shook his head. “You’ll never get anyone to believe that. Aside from all else, I barely knew Lady Winston.”
Unperturbed, the murderer replied, “Oh, I grant you there may be questions in the minds of some, but you would be surprised how easily the general populace can be led.”
James caught a shift in the shadows, then the gloved hand appeared and closed about the lid of the lantern.
“And who, after all,” that suavely chilling voice murmured, “can know the torments of another man’s mind?”