The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)
Charles and Deverell followed.
The silence lasted for a heartbeat.
“Hey!”
“What…?”
Thuds. Bangs. Stifled shouts and oaths. It was more than just a scuffle.
How many men had been in there? She’d assumed only two, Mountford and the weasel, but it sounded like more…
A horrendous crash shook the walls.
She gasped, stared down. The light had gone out.
In the gloom, a figure burst out of the second cellar door, the one at the end of the corridor. He turned, slammed the door, fiddled. She heard the grating sound of an old iron lock falling into place.
The man ran from the door, raced, hair and coat wildly flapping, up the corridor toward the stairs.
Startled, paralyzed by recognition—the man was Mountford—Leonora hauled in a breath. She forced her hands to her skirts, grasped them to turn and flee, but Mountford hadn’t seen her—he skidded to a halt by the nearer cellar door, now wide-open.
He reached in, grabbed the door, and swung it shut, too. Grabbed the knob, desperately worked.
Into a sudden silence came a telltale grating, then the clunk as the heavy lock fell home.
Chest heaving, Mountford stepped back. The blade of a knife held in one fist gleamed dully.
A thud fell on the door, then the handle rattled.
A muffled oath filtered through the thick panels.
“Hah! Got you!” Face alight, Mountford turned.
And saw her.
Leonora whirled and fled.
She was nowhere near fast enough.
He caught her at the top of the stairs. Fingers biting into her arm, he swung her hard back against the wall.
“Bitch!”
The word was vicious, snarled.
Looking into the starkly pale face thrust close to hers, Leonora had a second to make up her mind.
Strangely, that was all it took—just a
second for her emotions to guide her, for her wits to catch up. All she had to do was delay Mountford, and Tristan would save her.
She blinked. Wilted a fraction, lost a little of her starch. Infused her best imitation of Miss Timmins’s vagueness into her manner. “Oh, dear—you must be Mr. Martinbury?”
He blinked, then his eyes blazed. He shook her. “How do you know that?”
“Well…” She let her voice quaver, kept her eyes wide. “You are the Mr. Martinbury who is related to A. J. Carruthers, aren’t you?”
For all his reconnoitering, Mountford—Duke—would not have learned what sort of woman she was; she was perfectly certain he wouldn’t have thought to ask.