"Nowhere you'll find her," Ainsley told him.
"Oh, I don't have to find her— you're going to be happy to tell me where she is. I most certainly didn't believe you were going to have that cripple over there bring her to the gaol, all nice and tidy. But you told him where she is, didn't you? Your fine and lovely family— they all know. Which one, do you suppose, will be the first to tell me?"
"No one else knows, Edmund. The Empress is not a possession I'm particularly proud to own."
"You
don't
own her— I do!" Beales had half risen from the chair but then sat back, crossed one leg over the other. "Excuse me. I don't mean to lose my temper. So wasteful an emotion, don't you think— anger? Especially when I have at my disposal so many possibilities for persuasion. Thibaud— the girl. Bring her to me, please."
Ainsley stepped forward quickly, to be stopped by the barrel of a pistol shoved into his side as Thibaud approached the couch and grinned down at Cassandra.
"You don't frighten me," Cassandra heard herself say, her own voice seemingly coming to her ears from a distance.
"Ah, sweetings, I can change your little mind about that fast enough," Thibaud said, pulling her to her feet and dragging her in front of Beales, twisting her arm so that she was forced to bend her knees until she was at eye level with the seated man. "See if you can hold on to this one, Cap'n, huh?"
Beales inhaled sharply. "There remain moments, Thibaud, that our long friendship is all that keeps you alive. Now take your hands off her," he said coldly as he took hold of Cassandra's other wrist, smiled at her. "Don't worry, my dear, I won't let him hurt you. Not when I've already promised him my own darling Lisette. He's coveted her for a long time. Haven't you, Thibaud? Or have you changed your mind now that you've seen the redhead, hmm?"
"Bastard!" Spencer shouted, trying to rise, only to be knocked back down courtesy of a rifle butt to the stomach.
"Some one of you idiots tie his feet, for God's sake," Beales said in disgust. "And gag him. Gag them all. Damn you, Geoff, you always kept a menagerie about, didn't you? Tell you what— you there, Dominic, is it? Yes, of course, Dominic. Lovely name. Can you spell it if I were to ask you to, do you think? Never mind. Dominic? The very next man says a word, shoot him, or I'll have you shot." He leaned past Cassandra, to smile down at Spencer. "Do
you
understand, wharf rat,
hmm?
Tut-tut— careful now, don't speak! Just nod."
"No more of your tedious theatrics, Edmund. You've made your point. Let my daughter go," Ainsley commanded.
And the visibly shaken Dominic promptly shot him.
"Papa!" Cassandra wrenched her wrist free from Beales's grip and ran to her father, going down on her knees as he lay there, holding one hand to his shoulder as blood seeped out from between his spread fingers.
"Not
him,
you fool! Incompetents," Beales said, getting to his feet, a pistol in his own hand. "It's my curse to be surrounded by incompetents. Oh, and Dominic? This is for you— your name is spelled
D-E-A-D.
" He raised the pistol and fired, a small black-edged hole appearing in the center of the man Dominic's forehead before he crumpled where he'd stood.
* * *
AT LEAST THEY HAD A PLAN, one born more of desperation than genius, but it would have to do.
If only Odette hadn't insisted on coming with them, damn it, but she'd been adamant that she was the only one who could possibly defeat her twin, make their work easier by ridding them of her Voodoo protection of Beales.
Courtland led the way up the twisting staircase from Odette's altar room to the door that led into the kitchens. He and Jacko had discarded their boots to keep their footsteps undetected, and he'd dispensed with his jacket and neck cloth. At his quick count, he believed he was carrying a total of nine knives— two in each boot, one in the harness that held the stiletto he'd already killed with once in the past four and twenty hours, one in each hand, one in his waistband. And one, God help him, held tight between his teeth.
He had a moment of insane silliness as he thought that Cassandra probably wouldn't have liked to see him this way. Or perhaps, at the moment, she would.
On the island, Courtland had always remained on shore, close to Isabella, close-mouthed and private, the odd child out. Just as, grown, he'd considered himself the odd man out, different from the hey-go-mad brothers and even sisters who ran toward adventure rather than away from it.
He'd sought order, never chaos. He'd never been a privateer or a pirate. He may have ridden out as the Black Ghost when he'd seen no other choice left open to him, had his share of fevered pursuits and partaken in one or two skirmishes, but those actions he'd considered to be practical, measured, a job of work, and necessary— but not an adventure.
He'd never gone to war, never been in a real battle, had never deliberately looked for trouble.
But he was more than willing to fight now, more than ready to kill. He had to tamp down his immense anger and remember that he worked best, accomplished most, with his mind.
He went into a low crouch as he slowly depressed the latch, eased open the door, held his breath as he waited for the sound of a shout, the impact of a bullet or knife. But the hallway was clear, and he motioned for Jacko to follow him, the older man holding on to Odette's elbow to help her climb the last few steps.
They turned to the left, to enter the main kitchen, make sure it was clear of intruders before heading for the hidden staircase, and Courtland nearly tripped over Bumble's peg leg. The man who had been with Ainsley from the beginning, as sailor and cook, had so looked forward to traveling with him to Hampton Roads, lay sprawled on his back in a pool of his own blood, his throat cut from ear to ear.
Her head on his chest, Edythe's body lay beside him, the hilt of a kitchen knife protruding from her back. Edythe, who'd survived the island, only to die in a kitchen.
Courtland took the knife blade from between his teeth and slid it into his waistband. "There was no reason for this."
"Beales never needs a reason. Bastard," Jacko breathed, shaking his head. "Come on, no time to waste."
With one last look at the bodies on the floor, bodies that gave mute testimony to Beales's penchant for senseless violence, Courtland tucked the knives into his waistband and worked the lever that moved the large cupboard, exposing the staircase to the cannon floors. He held out his hand to Odette, who looked past him, at yet another steep flight of stairs, and shook her head.
"I go to where Loringa waits for me, calls to me. Good and evil, with one dies the other, and the world is balanced again. When she is found, throw her body on the shifting sands, the doorway to Hell. Let the devil have her back."
"Odette, please," Courtland whispered hoarsely. "You're in no fit condition to— " He turned his head in the direction of the sound of a pistol shot. Then, moments later, a second shot. "Odette— now."
She backed away from him as Jacko gave him a push toward the staircase. Courtland leaned toward the opening as the cabinet swung back into place, his last glimpse of Odette telling him that she was most probably on her way to Jacko's conservatory.
"Jacko, we can't leave her here to— "
"It's like the Cap'n says— we make our own choices. Her sister. Her fight and her right. Now move!"
They climbed the staircase as quickly and quietly as possible, Jacko turning off at the first landing, Courtland continuing on up past that floor, past the second floor of Becket Hall— which had all the bedchambers— and up to the other cannon floor. Decks, some of those who knew about them called these hidden floors, for the cannon and munitions stored there were much like the gun decks on the
Respite.
It was his and Jacko's plan to send two of the men to circle through the marsh grasses to the village as quickly as possible and have the rest of them arm themselves, reconnoiter first the attics and nursery, then the bedchambers, and then finally split their small force between the interior of the house and the terrace, attacking from both positions at once.
They would eliminate their enemy from the top down, leaving Beales with as few of his men as possible before attempting to broach the drawing room, hopefully with the crews from the
Respite
and the
Spectre
joining in on the assault.
It wasn't a perfect plan. Those they loved could very well be caught in the crossfire, just as the sloop had been caught between the
Respite
and the
Spectre.
But it was all they had.
He ran into the low, cavernous space, no more than seven feet from floor to ceiling but as wide and long as Becket Hall itself, and a half dozen men turned to look at him owlishly as he began pulling the knives from his boots and waistband and tossing one to each of them. If they had to kill, they would kill without sound. "Quietly, men, to me. It's Beales. He's got the Cap'n. He's got them all…"
* * *
"PAPA, LET ME TELL him where it is," Cassandra pleaded quietly as she bent low over Ainsley, holding a folded pad of cloth against his wound while Lisette wrapped his shoulder in several strips she'd ripped from her petticoat. "Please. If I tell him, maybe he'll just go."
"No. He plans to kill all of us no matter if we tell him or not," Ainsley told her, wincing as Lisette tied a knot in the ends of the last strips. "We simply need time for Courtland to make his way to the village, bring the crew. It's a hell of a thing, pardon me, ladies. We can keep most anyone out, but once they're inside, we're no safer than any other household. Edmund knows he doesn't have much more time— so we have to outlast him. Just stay alive, Cassandra. For me. For your mother. For Courtland."
"I should have found a longer scissors that day," Lisette whispered fiercely, "and he'd be dead now. I am so sorry to say he is my father, Mr. Becket."
Ainsley reached up his hand and patted Lisette's cheek. "We are privileged to choose only our friends. It was my mistake all those years ago, my dear, never yours. Now, please, if you ladies don't mind, I'm not going to remain here on the floor."
"Papa, you should stay where you are," Cassandra said, but the look on her father's face told her she was wasting her breath on a fruitless argument. Between them, she and Lisette helped him to his feet, at which time Beales ordered them both to return to the couch.
"My most sincere apologies. And how are you feeling, old friend? A flesh wound only, I'm assured, as that fool, luckily, was a very bad shot. But do you know what, Geoff? I think I'm bored. Truly. As well as most unfortunately pressed for time. Not that you don't have a lovely home, and you're most certainly a gracious host, but it will soon be time for luncheon and, alas, our old friend Bumble refused to feed me. You know what's going to happen here, Geoff, we both know that. So, as you said, no more theatrics."
"Theatrics are all you know, Edmund," Ainsley said steadying himself by placing one hand on the mantel. "You always hope to play a role, but you lack talent. Ambition, you understand, is
not
talent."
Cassandra looked around the room as her father spoke, obviously attempting to engage all of Beales's attention and anger, keep him occupied, thus buying them precious time for Courtland to summon the crew.
He'd been right. All his inventiveness, all of his plans, had been meant to deal from strength, Becket Hall a fortress meant to keep evil out, to never have what happened on the island happen again. But now evil was inside, and even though she knew there were men stationed on both of the cannon floors, those men had no idea what was happening here in the drawing room. The drawing room had become another island.
Chance was sitting up now, propped against some pillows, obviously in pain, both because of his leg and because that leg rendered him powerless to do anything but glare at Edmund Beales.
Rian had regained consciousness, thankfully, but like Spencer and Jasper, he was now bound— his arm tied to a leg of a heavy table— and the three of them were gagged, horrible rags stuck into their mouths.
The only good thing Cassandra could think of was that Spencer and Jasper had managed, while Rian was being tied up, to have themselves moved so that their backs were against the wall backed by the terrace. Like her and Lisette, still ordered to remain on the couch already against that same wall.
Bunched together so that their captors could watch them more easily. But also out of the line of fire when Courtland and the others came to rescue them. Hopefully.
Only Chance, on the couch in the middle of the room, and Ainsley, once more at the fireplace, were any distance from them.
But what was happening upstairs, with Mariah and Eleanor? Please God that Eleanor was all right, and that Mariah didn't take it into her head to be brave….
"Thibaud, bring our other friend in here," Beales ordered the increasingly sullen-looking man who was the only other one in the room that seemed to be of the same age as Beales and her papa.
"What for?" Thibaud asked, getting to his feet while he wordlessly signaled for the remaining armed men in the room to direct their pistols at their captives. "Let him die where he is, I say. No sense linin' them up like cordwood, unless you're thinkin' of having me paint the scene for you to look at in your dotage. We were through with this, Cap'n. You told me so. But you're never through, are you? You never fill up on the taste of it."
