Lucien appeared beside him, a drenched wraith in comparison with his companion's bulk. "You'll owe me another five hundred for this," he said, coughing into his sleeve.
George merely gestured impatiently to the door set into the wall of the house. "Will the servants be up?"
"Not at this hour… unless Catlett's still roaming." Lucien hawked into the street. "The night watchman will be in his cubbyhole under the stairs, but we'll not be going anywhere near the front of the house."
"What of this Catlett?"
"He'll be in his pantry if he's not abed. I know the routine." Lucien fitted the key into the lock, and the door swung open without so much as a creak. "Well-maintained household we have here," he observed sardonically, stepping into a narrow foyer. "Now, keep your mouth shut and be light on your feet."
He opened another door, revealing a set of stairs set into the wall. It was pitch-dark, no candles in the sconces, but Lucien went up with the sure-footed tread of one who could find his way in the dark. George fumbled behind him, trying not to breathe, conscious of his rasping excitement, of a heaviness in his loins that hitherto he had associated only with carnal congress.
Lucien opened another door at the head of the stairs and peered around. The corridor was dimly lit with sconces at wide intervals along the wall. There was not a sound. He slipped into the corridor, George looming behind him, the man's shadow huge on the wall ahead.
The house was as quiet as the grave when they reached Juliana's door. Lucien stepped back, pressing himself against the wall. "She's in there. You find your own way out. I'll fetch a hackney and bring it to the street corner."
George nodded, his eyes glittering in the waxy, sweating face, his lips wet. He put a hand on the latch as Lucien flitted away to safety. The viscount had no desire to get any closer to this abduction.
George pushed the door, and it opened soundlessly. The room was in darkness, except for the faint glow of embers in the fireplace. The bed curtains were not drawn around the bed, and he had a clear view of the sleeping figure. For a minute he watched her. Watched the way the sheet lifted over her bosom with each even breath. The way her hair spread out in a rich pool against the white lawn of the pillow. He frowned at her bandaged hands, then shrugged. She wouldn't be needing them for what he had in mind.
He bent over her, his hands large, heavy, the fingers strong as any laborer's. Those fingers went around Juliana's throat and squeezed.
Her eyes shot open, filled with sleep and terror; her bandaged hands scrabbled at the fingers pressing her throat. She opened her mouth to scream, but not a sound came out. She was drowning, suffocating, and her befuddled brain didn't know whether this was real or nightmare. The face hanging over her, so intent, so closed in on its purpose, was familiar, and yet it wasn't. It was a mask… a mask of hideous menace… a mask from a nightmare. Surely only a nightmare. Please, dear God, only a nightmare. But she couldn't breathe. She struggled to wake up. Her eyes were popping in their sockets. Her chest was collapsing. A black wave rolled over her.
George released his hold as she sank limply into the pillows, her eyelids drooping over her terrorized eyes. The marks of his fingers were shadows in the darkness on the white of her throat. He placed his hand over her mouth. She was still breathing, but light and shallow. He took a thick scarf from his pocket and tied it around her mouth, knotting it at the back of her head. Then he pulled back the bedclothes and looked at her unconscious form, every curve and hollow outlined beneath the thin lawn shift.
He dragged his eyes from her, conscious of the passing of every minute, and opened the armoire. He pulled out a thick cloak and rummaged through the dresser drawers, finding a pair of silk stockings.
Bending over her, he bound her ankles together with one stocking, pulled her arms in front of her, and tied her wrists with the other; then he swaddled her still form in the cloak, bringing the hood over her head. Her breathing was still shallow, but it was regular. He maneuvered her over his shoulder, took one last look around, then made for the door. His excitement was such that it was difficult to move slowly and cautiously along the deserted corridor. At any moment he expected a door to open, to be accosted with a shout of outrage. But he reached the door to the internal staircase without mishap.
He slipped into the darkness, closing the door behind him. The house was pitch-black and there was no Lucien to guide him. He waited, his heart hammering, his hands wet, until he was steady enough to step down the steep, narrow flight, an arm encircling his burden. He could feel the shape of her, could smell her hair and skin, could feel her breath warm on his neck.
At the foot of the stairs he stepped into the narrow lobby. The side door was slightly ajar, and his heart leaped. He was a second away from success. He stepped through the door and into the alley.
A shrill whistle made him jump. Bur it was Lucien, beckoning from the end of the alley. George set off at a lumbering run, Juliana's head bumping against his back. A hackney stood in the street, Lucien already inside, shivering with cold and wet.
"Goddammit, but I'll get an ague with this night's work." he complained as George tipped Juliana off his shoulder onto the bench and clambered up after her. "So you got her." He examined his wife's unconscious body with an air of mild curiosity. "What did you do to her? She's not dead, is she?"
George loosened the cloak, tipped back the hood. Juliana's head fell back against the stained leather squabs. Lucien raised his eyebrows at the gag, then leaned over and lightly touched the bruises on her throat, observing casually, "Dear me, quite rough weren't you, dear boy?"
"I wasn't taking any chances," George replied, sitting beside Lucien, where he could see his victim as she lolled against the cushions with each jolt of the iron wheels over the cobbles. He smiled and stroked his chin.
Lucien's teeth chattered, and he fumbled for the flask of cognac in his pocket. With a shudder he put the neck to his mouth and tipped the contents down his throat. "Dear God, but I'm cold." He drank again, desperate to warm the icy void in his belly. His hands and feet were numb, his fingers blue-white, as if his blood had stopped flowing. He cursed again as his chest heaved and he was convulsed with a violent spasm of coughing.
George had never seen anyone cough with such violence. Lucien grabbed for a handkerchief and held it over his mouth. George saw the white cloth darken with blood. Instinctively, he moved a little away from him along the bench, fearing some contamination. He reached into his pocket for a small vial of smelling salts.
Lucien continued to cough, his hollow eyes blood-streaked with the strain. But he watched through the paroxysms as his companion uncorked the vial, leaned forward, and pushed it beneath Juliana's nose.
"What d'you want to wake her for?" Lucien croaked. "Wait until we get there, you fool. You don't want her making any trouble."
"She won't," George said sullenly, but he sat back again, replacing the vial in his pocket. He wanted to be there when she came to. He wanted to see her eyes open. He wanted to see her realize what had happened to her. He wanted to see her eyes fall upon him and know that she was powerless as she felt the bonds at her wrists and ankles, the gag in her mouth. But he would wait. He turned his head to look out at the black night, and he missed the moment when Juliana's eyes fluttered, opened, then closed again.
Her throat hurt. It was agony to swallow. She couldn't move. She couldn't open her mouth. The faint stinging tang of smelling salts was in her nose. She kept her eyes shut. What had happened? The memory of the terrifying nightmare flooded back. The hands at her throat. George's face, swollen and greasy and triumphant.