Page 32 of The Devil in Her Bed
“Fucking hell.”
He tore back through the Lord Chancellor’s room, barely taking the time to lock the unconscious man inside before he leapt down the entire flight of stairs.
Someone had vaulted—vaulted—from the empty warehouse across the lane onto the roof and had planned to use that exact method as their escape.
Which meant… whoever had done it was still in the house.
A muffled cry drew him to Mrs. Kochman’s room. If they’d hurt the poor, elderly woman, he’d tear them apart. Kochman had likely been around since Waterloo, and hadn’t the eyesight God gave a mole rat by this age.
“Mr. Alquist?” The lady’s tiny voice rang from the bed when he opened the door. “Someone was in here, Mr. Alquist. They gave me a dram of something and I can’t seem to… to stay…”
“Mrs. Kochman.” Chandler ran to her bedside. “Are you all right? Were you poisoned you say?”
“I-I can see sounds in the darkness. They’re like colors. Your voice is blue, Mr. Alquist. Like water, but heavier. You’re so lovely to look at, I bet the ladies tell you that sometimes. When they take you to bed…”
Holy bleeding Christ, she was addled as an Irishman on St. Patrick’s Day. He checked her pulse, her breaths, her pupils. She didn’t seem to be in any imminent danger. She hadn’t been poisoned, but drugged.
A slight creak in the floorboards told Chandler exactly where their intruder had gone.
His bedroom.
Swearing a foul streak as wide as the Thames, Chandler left Mrs. Kochman’s side. He’d taken the vaulting pole away from the intruder, and now they were searching for another way out.
An anticipatory smile tightened his mouth.
There was no way out… except through him.
The moment he crept back into the hall, a soft and familiar scent teased his body into awareness of a different sort. Citrus and honey.
Chandler shook his head. Now was not the fucking time, and certainly not the place to be conjuring her.
He stalked the darkness, moving slow and soundless, counting the steps he’d memorized to his room. A pistol in the dark was rarely a boon, unless his nemesis had one.
He pressed his ear to the door and listened. A latch was undone and wood scraped against wood.
He knew exactly where the interloper was. He’d somehow found out about the hidden ladder to the observation room on the third floor.
Probably from poor addled Mrs. Kochman. The woman was a legend; she’d withstood torture back in her spy days, or so they whispered at the Secret Services.
But this villain had gotten her to spill secrets.
And for that he would pay.
Chandler palmed his weapon and kicked his own door in. The moonlight provided ample light for him to catch two slim legs dangling from the pull-down ladder.
He lunged forward, caught an ankle, and tugged.
Instead of landing flat on his back, the nimble invader grabbed the ledge of the ceiling just in time, swung his legs out, and kicked the pistol from Chandler’s hand.
The weapon went flying, but Chandler had the criminal subdued before it hit the ground. A quick jab to the stomach stole the air from his enemy’s lungs and the strength from his limbs. He lost his grip and Chandler caught the body, elbowing them both to the ground and using his superior weight to secure wiry arms behind the man’s back in his inescapable hold.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.
The slight figure merely struggled for breath on his stomach, remaining still otherwise.
Chandler extracted his knife, tucking it beneath the man’s chin next to the jugular. “Make a move and I’ll open your vein.”
No move was made. No words were said. What he wouldn’t give for his shackles. A rope. Anything. In order to further secure his opponent, he’d have to take the knife from his neck or his hand from where it clamped around two very slim wrists.
