one more profane than the next, and every last one deserved. He listened to her staccato breaths, and breathed in the faint scent of her perspiration and floral toilet water mingling with her panic. The darkness suited him perfectly. He found daylight generally unhelpful in such endeavors.
He didn’t answer her question. “Unfortunate, your outburst last evening. There was little choice but to place you here, where you wouldn’t attract undue attention.” The outrageousness of his statement rang in the enclosed space. He knew the power of fear, that great equalizer. He couldn’t see her, but imagined her expression of anger and dread. His ears picked up a hesitation as though she was trying to find words that wouldn’t come.
“What did you expect? For me to simply acquiesce, follow you blindly into that den of iniquity? How long have you been in this room, alongside me?” Her voice was halting, with a slight hoarseness to it, as though weakened from disuse.
His ear, trained to exotic languages, detected the faint tremor. He remembered her eyes from the night before, wide and shadowed under the brim of a spectacularly ugly bonnet. “It’s of no importance,” he said finally, feeling her balled fists leave his chest.
“To you.”
He shrugged his shoulders, well aware that she couldn’t see but surprised by the spirit of her rejoinder. She was disoriented, a good thing. He knew the feeling, having once spent three days in complete darkness in the caves of Pashtun after running afoul of a caravan and a sheik who had misinterpreted his interest in the sheik’s cargo. Miss Woolcott, he’d wager, was not seasoned in quite the same way, despite her momentary bravado.
He had been expecting a spinster, redolent of moth balls and camphor oil, a type with which, despite his travels, he’d had mercifully scant experience. “I believe we’re well beyond niceties such as formal introductions,” he said. He’d always felt a certain tedium when it came to women of his own class, who, for the most part, believed the world extended no further than the Thames. But then again, he should probably be grateful. Thus far Miss Woolcott had substituted a surprising penchant for violence for the more predictable histrionics. The footman had not emerged unscathed in their scuffle.
“You are entirely too cavalier,” she said, sharply. Her voice was uncommonly low with none of the breathlessness so common to young women. “You will have to forgive my earlier behavior,” she continued, and he wondered briefly how she was going to explain her surprising attack on the footman. In his experience, Englishwomen dealt with the unwelcome by reaching for the smelling salts rather than the pointed end of a letter opener. “I’d been led to believe that I was to meet with Sir Simon Wadsworth, to take photographs of his estate, his gardens. Instead, I find myself here.” As far as she was concerned, she might have found herself in the steppes of Russia instead of a windowless, cork-lined room in the English countryside.
He took a step toward her, knowing the impact enforced proximity carried. He didn’t have to touch her, not yet, at least.
She did not back away. Bolder than she had any right to be, she continued undaunted. “There was obviously some mistake.” She was dissembling but it was of little import in the grander scheme of things. “I wish you to clarify this situation or at the very least offer an apology. A case of mistaken identity, perhaps?”
His silence was worse than any answer.
It must cause her some pain, he acknowledged impartially, the gash in her leg. Unfortunate, that injury, but she had struggled more than anyone had anticipated, regrettably attracting the attention of the overzealous footman. He couldn’t really fault the man when she’d seized the letter opener in a pitiable attempt at self-defense. Entirely unexpected.
Her voice shook. “You’re clearly unwilling to provide me with answers.”
He smiled in the dark.
Her skirts rustled, as though she was drawing herself up straight. The small movement made her wince. “I’ve spent the last I don’t know how many hours in this suffocating room. All I can recollect is receiving Sir Wadsworth’s commission, making arrangements to travel to his country estate, arriving and then—” She broke off mid-sentence.
“And then?”
She let out a hiss of breath. “I refuse to put into words what I saw.”
“So you do remember. Fortunately, I can put it into words, if you feel it beneath you.”
More silence, although her breathing had accelerated.
“I take it you’re appalled, Miss Woolcott.” He could just picture the thinning of her lips, the tensing of her shoulders. In general, Englishwomen were willfully ignorant of nature and its carnal imperatives. He, however, was not discomfited in the least, with the tenor of that discussion.
“I should like to leave this place.”
“I’m certain you would. And to have your injury seen to.”
No tears. No importuning. Interesting. Miss Woolcott appeared to have been hiding a spine under all the hectares of gray wool, not to mention some spirit under that singularly heavy bonnet that had shielded her face from his eyes. For some reason, he remembered the feel of her thin shoulders, like bird bones, beneath his hands.
“Where is my photographic apparatus? It is of great value to me.” Her tone had taken on the impatience of a stern governess.
He’d rather face a stampede of wildebeests. And had, as a matter of fact, not so long ago on the shores of Lake Tanganyika.
The heap of chests, bandboxes, and her camera, like a giant spider on three legs, had been swept from the main hall, along with its owner. “It is secure.” Although you are not. Far from it, he wanted to add.
“As though I should believe you.” She paused in the darkness. “If you refuse to give me answers, I should like to leave now,” she repeated, as though to a child reluctant to give up his toy. Her low voice vibrated with suppressed fear.
“My apologies.” He didn’t attempt to keep the sarcasm from his voice, nor his desire to shock. It had been some time since he’d had direct contact with the rarified, hot-house type of well-bred Englishwoman. If he listened carefully, he could hear the pulse of narrow-mindedness throbbing. “I am clearly remiss in my duties. Therefore, you may like to know this room where you have spent the last five hours was constructed by the great grandfather of our present host, Sir Wadsworth, who, when not disporting himself at debauched masked balls over which he presided with salacious enthusiasm, spent time here. History tells us the illustrious Lord Edgar Wadsworth provided the most exacting specifications for this project. He preferred to partake of his pleasures in sound-proofed surroundings. One can only speculate as to why.”
Her breathing stilled. He wondered whether she was a virgin. It would make things somewhat more difficult.
She digested his statements before adding a challenge of her own. “Before setting out on my journey, I made some of my own inquiries, learning of the estate’s history. I did not believe the present Sir Wadsworth shares in his ancestor’s unfortunate proclivities. Clearly, I was mistaken,” she said tightly, reluctant to refer more specifically to what she had seen the previous evening. “As a result, I should still like to leave. Now,” she repeated.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “If we leave, you will go quietly? The injury you sustained could have been far worse.”
“As though that would have mattered.”
“Actually, it does matter. I’m to keep you in good health, for the next day or so.”
She approached him in the darkness. It took courage, he conceded. Her soft breath fanned his throat where the top two fastenings of his shirt lay open. He was surprised to find his body tightening in response to the scent of lavender floral water.
“And what comes afterwards?” There was pain in her voice, a strangled quality that spoke not just of her injury and incarceration but of something else.
“Why make the situation more difficult for