Chapter 33
“Mr. Matthews.”
Lucian’s assistant stood motionless behind the desk, staring at her as if she were an apparition. Then he straightened while furtively closing a folder.
“Mrs. Blackstone. Forgive me, it completely escaped my notice that you were to return today.”
His hair was lank, and his features were slack. In the smoky gaslight of the windowless room, he looked like a wax figure that had been held too close to a flame.
Then she noticed the papers, scattered on the floor.
Burglary.
Henchmen.
Aoife’s suspicions were correct. And she was alone in the vast house. Her heart began pumping, dangerously fast.
She feigned a smile. “Don’t trouble yourself,” she said. “My arrival was unplanned.”
“Yours?” Mr. Matthews said quickly. “Mr. Blackstone is not here?”
Ice slid down her spine. She had made a mistake. She kept her gaze on Matthews’s face, on his feverish eyes, pretending not to see the open briefcase on the desk, nor the broken hinges on the doors of the large cabinet behind him.
“He is following closely behind,” she said. “He should be here any moment.”
“Ah.” Matthews’s forehead gleamed, slick with sweat.
“I shall leave you to your task,” she said, and took a small step back. The man’s expression turned strangely flat. “I shall ring for some tea,” she added, her voice sweet, her pulse pounding, run, run, run.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” Matthews said, and reached inside his jacket. The metallic glint of a pistol flashed.
Her mind blanked. Run, run, run. Her feet were rooted to the floor.
Matthews approached like something from her nightmares. “Come in,” he said, turning the black eyes of the pistol on her. “Close the door.”
Her voice sounded mechanical in her ears. “If it is money you want—”
A muscle began spasming beneath his left eye. “Close the door, please.”
She obeyed, but her hand was shaking so badly she could not grip and turn the doorknob properly.
“Oh, get on with it,” Matthews snapped.
She redoubled her efforts, and the moment the door clicked shut, Matthews’s rigidness turned into nervous, erratic movement. Keeping the shaking pistol pointed at her, he strode aimlessly around the room, muttering under his breath.
She mustn’t scream. That was one of the cardinal rules during a kidnapping: no screaming.
“I’m in possession of several pieces of jewelry,” she said. “If you need them, they are yours.”
“Hush.” He ran his left hand through his hair, gripping and pulling, whispering to himself. He spun and snatched a chair from the wall and dragged it in front of the desk, then he fixated on her with bloodshot eyes. “Sit.”
She couldn’t feel her legs when she walked to him and sat.
He stood so close she could hear his breath rattle in his lungs. He smelled pungently of sweat and smoke. He wasn’t well.
She looked up at him. “I’m willing to help,” she said quietly. “And I shan’t say a thing.”
“Hmm?” His gaze was flitting over the paper chaos on the desk. “And why would you do that, Mrs. Blackstone?”
“I … I am not fond of my husband,” she said. “Surely you know that he tricked me into a compromising situation.”
Matthews’s lips twisted with contempt. “Ah yes. And I would feel great outrage on account of any decent, gently bred lady trapped in the clutches of this villainous cad. You, however …” He looked at her, and his tongue slid out to wet his bottom lip. “You leaned in,” he said. “I furthermore witnessed your behavior at the inn. It is obvious to even a negligent observer that you have fully yielded to his corrupting influence. One can practically smell it on you. Don’t try me, madam.”
Any retort died in her throat. He had all but called her a tart.
“Hence, I hope you understand that while I shall accept the offer of your jewelry, I shan’t trust you to keep quiet.” He pushed the heavy typewriter toward her. “Load it,” he said, and nudged one of the crumpled sheets closer.
The more nervous she was, the clumsier she became. Her muscles were cramping. She fought for movement, one finger at a time. Sweat slid down her back as she flipped the paper lock and tried to force the sheet behind the roller.
“Now type,” Matthews said, and she briefly felt the hard press of the pistol against her shoulder. “Husband,” he dictated. “What’s this?” he then said, leaning down. “What are you doing?”