Could they have somehow come in on the first floor rather than the ground floor? No—what she’d thought was the front hall had been tiled. Tiles were rarely found in first-floor galleries—they had timber floors and runners.
So what were these stairs—where were they taking her?
The stairs, eleven of them, ended; the man angled himself and her through what was clearly a low, narrow doorway. With a grunt the man straightened; she felt him look around.
“Put her on the bed.”
The man moved to obey the butler’s command. Phoebe tensed, then she was hoisted off the man’s shoulder and dumped—exactly like a sack of potatoes—on a raised mattress.
The panic she’d managed until then to hold at bay welled. She wriggled, then rolling to one side desperately searched with her halfboots for the edge of the bed. The butler muttered an oath and started forward.
“’Ere—none o’ that.” The rough man grabbed her feet; anchoring each ankle in a beefy fist, he held them together and pressed them down on the bed.
She threshed, trying to break free, but with her hands so well tied she could barely move.
“Here,” the butler said, then she felt her feet being lashed together.
Bad enough; they then secured her lashed ankles to one side, then the other—presumably to bedposts—fixing her feet midway between.
When they stepped back, Phoebe tried to move her ankles and found the most she could manage was an inch either way. Worse, she could no longer shift around because she couldn’t put her soles to the bed to gain leverage.
She sensed both me
n watching her, assessing their handiwork.
“That’ll hold her.” The butler’s voice was superiorly smug.
She heard him move. “Come,” he said. “I’ll inform the master she’s here and give you a note so you can claim the rest of your fee.”
They left. Phoebe listened. A key turned in the lock of the narrow door, then she heard a creak as they went down the stairs. Straining her ears, she caught a distant muffled thud…and then she heard nothing more.
She was hooded, gagged, and bound, helpless on a bed in some strange room in some gentleman’s house. Only two rough men and the man’s butler knew where she was. And now “the master” was about to be informed.
Who was he?
The procurer? Was this his way of striking back at the agency and her? He’d learned who she was; what was he planning to do?
Her mind tried to run in a dozen directions at once; she couldn’t focus, couldn’t think….
Deverell would come for her. He would find her. He wouldn’t rest until he did.
How? She hadn’t a clue, but just as smothering panic rose once more, she remembered that he’d hoped to learn who the procurer was, possibly by that evening. Possibly very soon.
Once he knew he would go to Park Street to tell her, find her gone, and guess…then he would come.
She’d just reached that reassuring conclusion when the stairs beyond the door creaked.
Instantly alert, she listened—and heard a key inserted in the lock, then the bolt clicked and the narrow door opened. She felt the slight draft, then the faint eddy as someone large moved into the room.
The door closed.
Blind, gagged, helpless, she lay on the bed, fear sliding through her; ruthlessly she trained her senses on the man who had entered and was standing at the foot of the bed studying her. She forced herself to remain perfectly still.
He eventually stirred. “Good. I’m glad to see that you’re being sensible, my dear.”
A hand tapped her booted foot, and she jumped.
“Hysterics are so tiresome. And in this case, I assure you they would be entirely unrewarding.”