"I'm sorry to wake you, but I need the commode," she said meekly.
He glanced at the clock. "It's time we were moving anyway." He released the belt from their wrists. "Hurry up and get dressed."
An hour later Chloe stood in the freezing courtyard, her breath steaming in the frigid air as they waited while the horses were put to the chaise. Denis stamped his booted feet and blew on his hands, rubbing them together for warmth. Crispin leaned against the wall of the inn, his mouth thinned with impatience at the fumbling of the ostlers' frozen fingers.
Chloe glanced toward Denis. For an instant his eyes lifted and met hers. Then he turned away with an abrupt movement of his head. This was the man with whom she'd danced and laughed, flirted and played silly games. And now he wouldn't even meet her eye. Guilt at his betrayal? Somehow Chloe doubted it. He was a member of the Congregation. He and Crispin would both have the snake pricked into the skin above the heart. Guilt was not something they would feel.
Escape would be impossible with all three of them watching her. Perhaps, if she offered no resistance or hint of provocation, even to the loathsome Crispin, she would lull them into complaisance. But she knew this was a forlorn hope.
She looked toward her brother. Jasper was not going to relax his vigilance. His mouth was a thin slash in the slight heaviness of his face, his jaw jutting aggressively as he cursed the slowness of the ostlers, slapping his silver-knobbed cane into the gloved palm of one hand.
Chloe shivered, and immediately he shot her a swift, appraising glance from his pale, shallow eyes. He knew she was frightened; even though she pretended she'd shivered with cold and huddled into her cloak, she hadn't deceived him. His mouth quirked with a sardonic satisfaction.
"Get in," he ordered, gesturing with his head to the chaise.
Chloe obeyed without an instant's hesitation and sat in her corner, pulling the hood of her cloak over her head to cover her cold ears.
Jasper watched her through half-closed eyes. He hadn't expected her to be so compliant so quickly. From what he remembered of her as a child, she'd been stubborn and quick to anger; a passionate girl whose emotions were easily roused. He didn't think she'd changed that much, so this meek acceptance of her fate was interesting. He hadn't hurt her much. A few threats, an empty belly, and a couple of slaps were not enough to intimidate such an obstinate and emotional creature. Since severe physical punishment wasn't possible on such a public journey, when they were frequenting inns, he had intended to keep her sedated if necessary. No one would question a drowzy young woman being carried from a chaise. But so far she was making such a precaution unnecessary.
Chloe closed her eyes again. For some reason she felt less vulnerable, less exposed to them with her eyes shut. What did Hugo think had happened to her? Had Persephone taken to the wet nurse? Dante would be pining… had anybody remembered to let Demosthenes off his chain for a run in the yard? The stable hands were all terrified of him… The desolate litany went around and around in her head as the chaise bore them north.
Hugo and Samuel picked up the trail at St. Albans at mid-morning. The landlord of the Red Lion, where they stopped for breakfast, informed them that three gentlemen and a young lady, the sister of one of the gentleman, had lodged overnight and left at eight o'clock that morning. "How did the young lady seem to you?" Hugo gazed into his coffee cup as if the question were of little importance.
"Quiet," the innkeeper said, filling a tankard of ale for Samuel. "She'd not been feelin' too well… them coaches can give a bumpy ride. But she ate an 'earty breakfast this mornin'."
"With anyone else, that'd be a good sign," Samuel remarked to no one in particular.
Hugo smiled faintly. Samuel's companionship was keeping him on an even keel. "When the horses have baited, we'll be on our way." He cut into his platter of sirloin.
"We'll likely catch 'em by nightfall," Samuel said quietly as the innkeeper bustled around the taproom. "If we change the 'orses in a couple of hours, we'll make much better time than a chaise."
"True enough, but I don't want to catch up with them," Hugo said.
"Oh?"
"I don't intend to catch them at all," Hugo said slowly. "It's time this tale came full circle, Samuel. Jasper and I have a meeting ahead and a long-delayed vengeance." His voice was quiet, the words without emphasis, but his companion felt the ice of conviction, the force of purpose, and he knew that this was the last thing remaining to restore Hugo Lattimer to full health and sanity.
"You're not afraid for the lass?"
"I know the role they have in mind for her," Hugo responded, his mouth hard, his eyes green glaciers. "They'll not harm her before then."
They stayed on the heels of the chaise all the way to Shipton. For all Hugo's apparent confidence that Chloe was in no immediate danger, Samuel noticed how drawn his face became when he asked the routine question at each stage of the traiclass="underline" Had the young woman seemed well?
The answer was invariable. Quiet, travel weary, but nothing untoward.
As they rode into Lancashire, the air took on its familiar crisp clarity, the moorland stretched on either side of the road, the bleak winter brown hidden beneath a glistening coat of snow.
Samuel visibly relaxed as the terrain became familiar. His chin came up out of the folds of his muffler and his body moved more easily with the gait of his horse. Hugo, in contrast, tightened like a bowstring. He sniffed the air, his eyes moving restlessly from side to side as if on the watch for some predator.
They had kept two hours behind their quarry, staying in neighboring inns, so that at all times he felt close enough to Chloe to keep his anxiety in check. The knowledge that he only had to put spur to his horse and he would reach her enabled him to keep his head clear as he formulated and refined his plan.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon of the seventh day when they reached the turnoff to Shipton on the Manchester road. Hugo continued on the road to Denholm.
"Thought we was goin' to Shipton," Samuel commented.
'Tomorrow" was the short answer. Tomorrow night was Friday. Only on Fridays was the crypt used. Jasper wouldn't wait for another week. He'd be assuming that Hugo would at some point put two and two together and he'd want Chloe irrevocably tied to Crispin before there could be any possibility of interference.
The chaise drew up on the gravel sweep before Gresham Hall. The surge of energy that went through the three men was palpable to the still figure, huddled in her cloak in the corner of the vehicle. Terror threatened to overwhelm her. There had been no opportunities for escape. She had been watched constantly and each night slept tethered to her brother. At least Crispin had kept his distance and she'd managed to avoid further punishment at Jasper's chillingly insouciant hands.
But now they were on Jasper's land, surrounded by his people. There were no strangers to tell tales, no reins he need put upon his actions.
The footstep was lowered and Jasper jumped down. "Out!" he beckoned Chloe.
She moved to obey. Crispin unnecessarily put a hand in the small of her back and pushed her so she half fell down the steps. Jasper caught her, and it occurred to her with a fresh surge of terror that only he stood between herself and Crispin's unbridled appetite for cruelty. Jasper was vicious, but it was purposeful. Crispin enjoyed inflicting pain for its own sake.
She hadn't been inside Gresham Hall since she was a child, but it seemed as oppressive as ever when she stepped into the hall. The air was musty. Though Den-holm Manor had also been unkempt and neglected, it had felt different. Or perhaps it was only her experiences of the two houses that was so different.
"Jasper…"
A tentative voice came from the shadows behind the stairs, and Louise moved hesitantly into the dim afternoon light. "Chloe… I didn't know…"