The hand tightened around the gun as I hesitated. “If you do not, I will shoot your companion, and I daresay I will not miss at this distance,” the voice went on.
I heaved myself into the carriage, taking the seat opposite.
“What the devil—” Stoker began. He broke off mid-sentence as soon as he caught sight of the revolver.
“Yes,” I said with a sigh of annoyance. “We are being abducted. Again.”
CHAPTER
24
As soon as Stoker climbed inside, the driver reached down and slammed the door shut, sliding home a bolt from the outside. He sprang the horse and we jolted into traffic. Stoker was next to me, his thigh pressed to mine, for the conveyance was not large. Across from us sat our abductor, a woman dressed in sober black, a heavy veil concealing her features.
“Mrs. MacGregor, I presume,” I said politely.
She threw back the veil with her free hand and she was smiling. “So Harry has talked about me, has he? He always was indiscreet.”
“Quite,” I agreed.
“If you know my name, you presumably know what I want,” she went on.
Her voice was low and rich, the sort of voice which would have suited the stage or a courtesan’s boudoir. It was a voice which could coax people into doing things. Her face was almost unremarkable except for an arresting pair of eyes, dark and watchful, and I realized then what Julien meant. Where Effie Hathaway’s brown eyes had been pellucid as a country stream, Isabel de Armas MacGregor’s eyes were bright and fathomless, and she used them to wonderful effect. A man could drown in such eyes, I reflected, and possibly quite a few women.
She was aware of my scrutiny and she smiled at it, revealing small, white teeth with sharp little canines. I was glad of those teeth. They stopped her from looking too sweet. Her cheekbones were high and broad, her mouth wide and richly colored. In all, she was a chameleon. With a sober gown and the properly demure expression, she would be as meek as a parson’s mouse. But arrayed in a scarlet satin gown of fashionable cut with painted lips, she would have been any man’s most depraved fantasy.
“Do I look the part?” she asked, batting lashes at me that I fancied had been enhanced with a bit of soot applied with a burnt match. It was a trick I had myself employed from time to time.
“I should think you could look whatever part you chose,” I told her honestly.
She preened a little. “How very kind of you. I do so appreciate when these situations are conducted politely.”
I glanced pointedly at the gun in her hand and she gave a little laugh.
“I believe you think my weapon impertinent, Miss Speedwell, but I assure you, it could have been much, much worse.” There was an unholy gleam in her eye that told me she was speaking the truth. She turned to Stoker, canting her head.
“You are an unexpected delight,” she said slowly, letting her gaze linger on a few of the choicest parts of his anatomy. He blushed again and she smiled widely. “How utterly adorable. It would be the gravest pity to shoot you, my dear,” she said, dropping her voice even lower as she looked at him from under her lashes. “Mind you don’t force me to.”
He said nothing and she laughed again.
“It is good to find another woman who enjoys her work,” I remarked, drawing her attention away from Stoker.
“Indeed,” she said, looking as frisky as an April lamb. “I think we are going to be very great friends indeed.”
“Perhaps then, as a friend, you might see your way clear to telling us where we are going?” I suggested.
The smile turned lightly mocking. “You presume too quickly upon our friendship, Miss Speedwell. All in good time. Now, if you would be so good as to toss your reticule onto the seat next to me. I know exactly what a lady can get up to with a hairpin.”
Hairpin, stiletto, clasp knife. Unfortunately, I had precisely none of these upon my person. I had dressed in a fashion suitable for the Sudbury, that is to say, dully respectable in a high-necked ensemble of violet velvet with tidy little boots of turquoise leather, chosen for the luscious poppy embroidery rather than function. I had no doubt the slender Louis heels would snap if I tried to kick her in the stomach, and there was no way to predict what might happen to a loaded revolver in the confines of the carriage.
So, I did as instructed, pitching my reticule onto the seat next to her. She smiled. “How very cooperative of you, my dear. Now, let us settle in and be comfortable. We have a bit of a journey ahead of us.”
* * *
• • •
The drive was of considerable duration—longer, I suspected, because we were being taken by a circuitous route to confuse us should we try to determine our whereabouts. We performed four left turns in a row, I noted, and then two complete turnabouts. Following this was a long pull uphill which I detected by noticing the slight inclination of my torso to pitch forwards as I was sitting facing our captor. I had hoped she might let her attention wander, providing an opportunity to overpower her, but she was alert as a fox at all times. In fact, something in the set of her chin caused me to suspect she would welcome such an attempt, and I was determined not to oblige her. Stoker and I had been in far worse situations, I reminded myself, and we had always emerged—if not unscathed—then at least alive. There was no reason we should not do so again, and as I considered the vast amount of unanswered correspondence heaped on my desk, I could not bring myself to entirely regret the diversion.
At last, the brisk clip-clop of the horses’ hooves slowed and stopped. The carriage rocked heavily as the driver alighted, booted feet landing hard upon what sounded like loose chippings. Immediately, the door was wrenched open, the wan sunlight dazzling after the gloom of the darkened carriage. A gloved hand beckoned and our hostess gestured with her gun that we were to obey. Stoker climbed out first, and I noticed the driver was careful to keep a body’s length between them should Stoker be inclined to engage in any sort of physical assault. I followed, and Mrs. MacGregor brought up the rear. We were in the drive of a large and unlovely private house. It had been built in the worst excesses of the Neo-Gothic movement, like a miniature Strawberry Hill, with gardens to match. Everything was overgrown and tangled and untended. Weeds sprouted through the gravel at our feet, and long iron red streaks marred the whitewash of the villa’s walls. A few gargoyles leered from above the portico, where a pair of potted palms sat, mournfully shedding leaves.
“Why is it always gargoyles?” I murmured.
Mrs. MacGregor ignored me. She gestured towards her cohort. “This is Göran. He will attend you, and he has a dreadful temper, so mind you don’t provoke him. He will show you the way to your quarters and I will follow with this,” she said, brandishing the gun, “just to make certain everyone is cooperative.”