“The pillboxes—where are they? Not the rubbish that was on display in here, but the real ones.”
“You mean the ones my father appropriated from the French?”
Contempt laced Nicholas’s tone.
She felt a tremor pass through the hard fingers locked about her chin, but all Fothergill said was, “You understand me perfectly.”
His tone had turned to ice. He lifted Penny’s chin higher until she whimpered; the knife pricked. “Where are they?”
Nicholas met Penny’s eyes, then looked at Fothergill. “In the priest hole that opens from the master bedchamber.”
“Priest hole? Describe it.”
Nicholas did. For a long moment, Fothergill said nothing, then he quietly stated, “This is what I want you to do.”
He told them, making it abundantly plain that he would feel not the slightest compunction over taking Penny’s life should either of them disobey in the smallest way. He made no bones of his intention to kill Nicholas; it was Penny’s life only with which he was prepared to bargain.
When Nicholas challenged him, asking why they should trust him, Fothergill’s answer was simple; they could accept his offer, show him the pillboxes, and Penny might live, or they could resist, and they both would die.
“The only choice you have to make,” he informed Nicholas, “is whether Lady Penelope’s life is worth a few pillboxes. Your life is already irredeemably forfeit.”
“Why should we believe you?” Penny managed to mumble; he’d eased his hold on her chin enough for her to talk. “You killed Gimby, and Mary, and now another young fisherman. I’ve seen you—you won’t let me live.”
She prayed Nicholas could read the message in her eyes; the longer everything took, the more time they could make Fothergill spend down there…it was the only way they could influence anything.
Briefly, Nicholas met her eyes, then looked at Fothergill, clearly waiting for his response.
Fothergill hissed a curse beneath his breath, a French one. “After today, my identity here will no longer be in question—why should I care if you’ve seen me or not?”
He paused. A moment passed, then he softly, menacingly drawled, “I’m not interested in wasting further time convincing you—I want to be finished and away before Lostwithiel and his friend return. So…”
Again he lifted Penny’s chin, drawing her throat taut. Again the blade of his knife caressed. “What’s it to be? Here and now? Or does she live?”
Nicholas’s face was white, his lips a tight line. He nodded once. “We’ll do as you ask.”
“Excellent!” Fothergill wasn’t above sneering.
Turning, Nicholas walked to the door. Reaching it, he halted and looked back, waiting.
At Fothergill’s direction, Penny rose slowly from the chaise, then, chin still held painfully high, the knife riding against her throat, she walked before Fothergill to the door.
Her neck ached.
Halting her a yard from Nicholas, Fothergill spoke softly by her ear. “Please don’t think of acting the heroine, Lady Penelope. Remember that I’m removing the knife from your throat only to place it closer to your heart.”
He did so, so swiftly Penny barely had time to blink; she lowered her chin and simultaneously felt the prick of the blade through her gown, had an instant to regret she’d never taken to wearing corsets.
Fothergill clamped his left hand over her left arm, holding her to him, also hiding the knife he held pressed to her ribs between them.
He studied her face, then looked at Nicholas, and nodded.
Nicholas opened the door, scanned the front hall, then glanced back. “No one there.”
Fothergill nodded curtly. “Lead the way.”
Nicholas did, walking slowly but steadily across the front hall and up the main stairs. Locked together, Penny and Fothergill followed.
In slow procession they approached the master bedchamber. Once inside, Fothergill told Nicholas to lock the door. Nicholas did.