Soulbound (Darkest London 6)

Her lips curled in a smile. “Afraid your ladylove might see?”

“Stop pestering the lad, Miri.”

Good man, Archer. He, at least, understood discretion. But then Sin caught Archer’s evil smile.

“It’s clear,” the bastard said, “that he’s near wetting himself with worry. And I’d hate having to explain the spoilt upholstery to the management.”

“Arse.” Sin turned his attention to the empty stage. “The both of you are unmitigated arses.”

Miranda elbowed him softly. “Miss Starling is quite fetching, is she not?”

Sin lurched upright, and Miranda smiled. “Oh, come now, your study of her was fairly obvious, dearest.”

“Miss Starling?” Perhaps he could play the ignorant buffoon.

Apparently not. Miranda gave him a chiding look. “All of London is talking about the young heiress. The richest girl in the land, who has the audacity to be an American.” Her smile grew teasing.

“Nothing the ton loves more than a wealthy anomaly,” Archer added with a certain dryness.

Miranda gave him a little kiss on his cheek. “Never fear, Ben. You’ll always be London’s most infamous moneybag.”

Archer rolled his eyes, but wrapped an arm about her slim shoulders, tucking her closer to his side. Sin was grateful for the distraction, hoping they’d become engrossed in each other, as they tended to do, and forget about him. No such luck graced him. Miranda turned her too-keen attention back to him.

“I do not blame you for noticing her, brother. Miss Starling is quiet lovely.” She gave him a saucy look. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve developed a tendré.”

Gods, but he could feel himself blushing. Damn it all to hell. The air unnaturally heated as his power threatened to slip his control, and he took a calming breath. “I know her, is all.” He cleared his throat. “Or knew her. Long ago.”

“Then go speak to her,” Miranda urged. “You are too isolated as it is. Make friends, Sin.” Concern marred her smooth brow. “You know I speak from experience when I tell you that cutting yourself off from the world won’t help.”

It was a known fact that on every third Sunday, in Mab’s household, three-quarters of the staff had the day to themselves. It was also known that Cook made a cherry trifle for those unfortunate few who must remain behind. It would be simple enough, then, for Eliza to sneak into the kitchens and give the trifle a liberal soaking of opium syrup. There was a risk that the staff might imbue too much and not fall asleep but perish, but given that many in Mab’s employ were of fae blood, Eliza did not believe – or rather she fervently hoped – it would not kill them.

More difficult, however, was finding a means of escape. Hope came by way of the spirits seller who made a monthly visit to the house to deliver ale and mead. Eliza took the risk to speak to him.

“You shall be called back here,” she told him, “because the barrels you are delivering now shall meet with an unfortunate accident.”

When the driver, a crabby, grizzled man of an indeterminate age, scowled, she spoke on before he could protest. “It shall be done. However, you stand to earn one hundred pounds if you help me with a delicate matter.”

Still frowning, the man scratched the back of his head, sending his cap over one eye. “An’ what’s to be done when the mistress of the house puts the blame on me? I’ll be expected to pay for them ‘faulty’ barrels. An’ I want no trouble.” Despite his protests, his expression that said he could be persuaded.

“One hundred pounds on top of your expenses.” Eliza shrugged. “Or I could simply damage the barrels and leave it at that. I doubt anyone in the house would believe the blame lies upon my shoulders.”

The man harrumphed. “Mad chit, you are.” But he was listening.

It was a plan filled with pitfalls and holes. Everything could go wrong, but Eliza was taking that chance. Mellan had helped. No, he’d not open the doors for her; Mab would not know his part in things. But he’d given her Mab’s key to the chains that bound Adam to the cellar wall and then taken Mab out for the day.

Eliza hated that she must put her faith in Mellan’s promise that he’d keep Mab away and that she had to believe the one man who had every reason to crush her beneath his boot.

Mellan’s eyes had borne into her. Do not fail me, Eliza. And do not think for a moment that you can cross me and live.

Now, when escape was upon her, Eliza’s palms were so sweaty that it took her three tries, her hand slipping from the key, to turn the lock on Adam’s cell door. He lifted his head, his eyes a dull copper color in the dingy light, but he made no move to rise.

“Dear God,” she muttered as she took stock of him, “what did she do to you this time?”

He was black and blue, more slashed than whole. He grunted as he made an effort to sit. “Another productive visit.”

Eliza shook, the key clinking as she slipped it into the lock that attached his chains to the cellar wall. Damnation, but she’d expected him to be in better shape than this. The moment the chains clattered to the floor, Adam took a deep breath, his wide chest lifting. He rubbed his wrists, still bound by the cuffs and the heavy lengths of chain attached to them. Flushed and fevered, he gazed up at her. Every fear within her came to a standstill. She forgot to breathe. Why was it this man affected her thusly? How could he heat her blood and make her heart stutter with merely a look? Worse, why did she want to hold him close and tell him how sorry she was that theirs was a relationship that would never come to pass?