COLIN PUSHED on the Cat & Canary’s door, and it swung open with a prolonged creak, revealing a plain wooden interior encrusted with years of accumulated dirt. He stepped inside and glanced around the tavern. It was a shame the blaze had missed this street, he thought with a grimace. This was the kind of firetrap London needed to rid itself of.
A nauseating reek of rancid food choked the air. A few scruffy men sat conversing morosely at one table. No proprietor was in sight. All was quiet.
Colin couldn’t imagine Amy in a place like this, even as Robert’s hostage. He turned to leave, but caught himself glancing uneasily over his shoulder. After a pause, he addressed the motley group at the table. “Pardon me, but is anyone staying above?”
The answer was a mix of shrugs and grunts that he took to be a negative. One man looked up at him, his bloated face showing surprise at finding someone of Colin’s class in this tavern.
Colin focused on him. “I’m looking for someone…”
“Anyone you’d be lookin’ fer’d be on Leadenhall Street,” the man offered, inclining his head toward a street across the way, behind the shed where Colin had stashed Ebony. “Try the Rose ’n’ Crown.”
“Thank you kindly,” Colin replied, moving to the entry. He couldn’t wait to get out of this depressing establishment.
Halfway through the door, he heard a thud from above. His blood chilled. He swung back around. “Are you certain no one’s up there?”
He would swear he heard a muffled yell. The men didn’t react. One of them slowly rose, the legs of his chair scraping back on the wooden floor.
“No one’s up there,” he stated, running a dirty hand through shaggy hair that might have been yellow if it weren’t so greasy.
A scream. Hysterical. Unrelenting. Anxiety sent Colin’s pulse racing, and he felt as though his chest might burst. Noting a rough staircase in the back, he started toward it.
The yellow-haired man moved swiftly to round the table and block him. He wrenched a long, rusty knife from his belt and brandished it in Colin’s face. “You cannot go up there.”
Another scream sounded above. Colin’s hand went to the hilt of his sword…and then to his pouch. He pulled out a gold guinea and flung it on the table, his eyes boring into the other man’s.
“Room six,” the man muttered, turning to scoop up the coin and test it between his teeth. “Third floor.”
Colin bolted up the rickety staircase.
ROBERT RIPPED off one side of Amy’s stomacher.
His pale eyes gleamed recklessly.
He tugged at her laces, heedless of her screaming. Neither did he stop when she tore at his neckcloth and pulled on his hair. His breath was heavy and labored; the stench of stale ale and old vomit suffused the air around them.
She clawed long, bloody scratches along his cheeks. But instead of relenting, he growled low in his throat and tugged up on the voluminous skirts of the wedding gown.
Though she’d thought she could feel no more panicked, the cool air on her legs fueled her useless howling to new heights. When Robert shoved his knee between hers, her anguish was so acute that it overwhelmed any physical pain.