Azmin set the reflector on the opposite wall from the exterior door. That gave them the full length of the morgue for safety and the interior door for escape.
Setting up her collodion bath was more complicated.
“These chemicals can be lethal. What the hell do you do with them?” Zane said grumpily as he examined her bottles.
“I create a fixing solution for my photographs. They haven’t killed me yet. It’s basically just salt and harmless if one doesn’t eat it.” Azmin looked for a place to set up the box for her chemical bath. “I shouldn’t have wasted all my dry plates. The wet ones require immediate development.”
“With chemicals containing cyanide. Cyanide may be natural, but it can be lethal.” Zane produced a surgical table and set it in a dark corner for her bottles. “It’s the reason we don’t eat fruit pits.”
“Then don’t eat my potassium salt.”
“Or mix it with acid,” he added fatalistically. “I can’t think half-blinding him with that lamp will make him talk.” He began fastening the special door latch Blair had designed for this purpose.
“For all we know, Jenkins is on a train to Glasgow or York and all we’ll see are frauds trying to cheat you out of a reward,” she said, setting up her pans. “We have to be prepared for anything.”
Louisa might be lost forever. Azmin thought that might just kill Zane. She’d watched him emerge from his stuffy professor suit tonight. He’d burned all his bridges with the university—cliché number forty by now—for a certainty. Slamming a door on a director and turning students loose to riot in the streets was not the work of a studious gentleman.
Zane had been the one to find the torches and poles and encourage marching.
“If I lose Louisa, I might as well retire to a pig farm. I’ll have failed in ways I never considered,” he said with unusual gloom.
She felt his desperation. Her so-called gift may have led to this. Had she not realized Jenkins was a bad man, had they not followed him and saved his wife. . . She would give up photography if only they could bring Louisa back.
If they didn’t save Louisa, she’d become a spinster teacher rather than risk one more person. She’d been arrogant thinking she could help anyone.
She understood the depths of Zane’s despair only too well.
“It’s late,” Zane said abruptly, cutting off her dismal thoughts. “I wish you would forget the photograph and go upstairs.”
Azmin set her jaw. Argue, she could do. “No. That won’t work. Anyone after the reward may be armed. You need me to snap the magnesium light to blind them. And my photographs will serve as evidence if they escape. This is my chance to be useful.”
Zane was gripping his walking stick like a bludgeon. He’d probably take Jenkins’ head off before he realized what he was doing. Azmin hoped to keep him focused on forcing Jenkins to tell them where Louisa was. Then Zane could behead him.
“Is your tripwire in position?” she asked to divert him. “That should give us adequate warning. I’m glad you remembered those sleigh bells.”
“Louisa asked for them at Christmas.“ Zane ran his hand over his hair and grief cracked his voice.
Azmin wanted to hug him, but one thing led to another, and they didn’t need to be distracted when inviting a villain to the door. Instead, she positioned herself behind a cabinet with the squeeze bulb connected to the reflector.
Dare flung himself down on the surgical table and yanked a sheet over his head. That would prevent him from being blinded by the light.
They waited for what surely must be eternity before the sleigh bell on the outer door finally tinkled.
Holding her breath, Azmin waited for the door to creak open. Counting to ten, she allowed the intruder to enter the black cellar before she squeezed the bulb. The magnesium exploded, illuminating the room in a bright blue-white light. A shadow froze in the doorway.
Azmin yanked the cord on Blair’s latch. The exterior door slammed so their victim couldn’t escape.
A gunshot splintered the ceiling over Zane’s head, showering the sheet with debris. Still blinking and seeing stars from the flash, despite the sheet, he discarded the linen, his gun raised. He disliked pistols, but he had to protect Azmin.
Azmin lit a single oil lamp, revealing the shooter cursing and rubbing his eyes—Jenkins.
Louisa wasn’t with him.
Zane had to resist returning fire until he knew Louisa’s whereabouts. He shoved his gun in his waistband. “Where is she?” he shouted.
Jenkins spun around and raised his pistol in the direction of Zane’s voice.
In fury, Zane swung his walking stick, connecting with thin shoulders. Still half-blind in the dark cellar, Jenkins didn’t see the blow coming. He dropped his weapon but regained his equilibrium and came forward with fists raised.
Zane’s wounded left arm had no force on its own, but the stick gave him leverage. He jabbed it under the man’s chin while kicking at his groin. He’d learned to fight dirty to fend off his larger, older Ives’ cousins. Besides, the stick and his feet protected the hands he needed to operate.
When his quarry bent over to shield his vulnerable organ, Zane cracked the ebony over his neck. Jenkins went down.
Without being told, Azmin lit another lamp. Unlike the intruder’s, her eyes should have been protected from the flash by the cabinet she’d hid behind.
While she performed her photography magic, Zane propped his boot on a skinny neck. The student groaned and tried to squirm away. “Tell me where to find Louisa, and I won’t snap your bloody spine.”
“You’ll kill me even if I tell you,” Jenkins taunted. “You’ll never find her.”
Zane wanted to grind his boot and break the bastard’s neck after this confession, but just imagining the damage he could do to all those small bones stifled his murderous rage.
“Oh, we already know where she is,” Azmin said unexpectedly. She’d set aside her camera to hand Zane the rope they’d brought for this purpose. “We just thought we’d allow you to do the honorable thing. You should probably hang him with this, Lord Dare. You have a fine hand with a knot.”
“Lord Dare,” Jenkins spat in disgust. “You’ll be even worse at the title than your father. You don’t care anything about the estate or anyone on it! I bet you don’t even care enough about your niece to bring the reward. You should have died last night!”
Well, there was the answer to that question, although the why still hung in the air. What did Jenkins care about an earl’s legacy?
Zane had a vague recollection of the solicitors mentioning aging widows living on the estate, but he was certain his father wouldn’t evict them.
Setting aside his walking stick, Zane handed Azmin his gun and kneeled to tie his prisoner’s wrists. “And exactly what good would killing me have done and why should you care?”
This was about his wretched title? He’d have given it away if he’d had a choice.
Jenkins struggled. Azmin shot a hole in the dirt floor near Jenkins’ ear. Dirt and stone splattered, bloodying the student’s cheek. Zane knotted the rope tighter than he’d originally intended, resisting the need to grind Jenkins’ face into the floor. He threw Azmin a disgruntled look. “I hope you know how to load that thing.”
“I checked. It has another shot,” she said grimly, holding it pointed. “I can put a bullet through the top of his head if you don’t mind brain splatter.”
“Brain splatter is good.” Zane yanked Jenkins up by the rope and flung him against the door. “Tell me Louisa is fine, and I won’t let my bloodthirsty companion blow out your brains.”
“She’s fine,” Jenkins yelled, his pallid face infused with fury. “I wouldn’t harm my future wife!”
“Oh, dear.” Azmin looked at the pistol with regret. “Do you have ammunition on you? I really want to shoot his foot.”
Zane almost chortled. No other woman in the world would react with such composure in the face of insanity. “In my overcoat pocket. The gun holds six rounds if you wish to make him dance.”
Jenkins gaped at them both. At least the clodpoll wasn’t entirely lost to reason. If he’d indulged in drugs or alcohol to build his courage to come here, they should be wearing off soon, but Zane wasn’t counting on it. Even though Jenkins’ hands were tied, Zane held him against the door with the knob of his walking stick while Azmin intimidated the coward by filling the gun like an expert.
“You were saying?” Zane asked, returning to his prisoner. “And mind you, we’ve met your wife.”
Jenkins attempted a sneer, although the dirt specking his face diluted the effect. “She’s just a handfast. No English court will accept it, especially once you’re dead, and I prove I’m the next heir. Your family will happily accept a viscount as husband for their sickly invalid. You won’t find her, and I’ll kill you if you try.”
“Delusional,” Azmin said abstractedly as she finished loading the gun. “Remind him we already know where Louisa is. I don’t understand why you simply don’t hang him so I can develop my photograph.”
She lied so very well. Zane had to wonder how many other lies she’d told and why, but unfortunately, he understood the necessity. “First, I’d like to understand why in blazing hell he thinks he’s the heir? I’d hand him the title, if I could, but my father has been heir since the beginning of time. And there’s no question that I’m his son and this termite isn’t.”
“I never saw your father lose his temper the way you do,” Azmin said thoughtfully, raising the pistol to aim at Jenkins’ heart. “Although that’s scarcely proof that you’re not his son. I suppose you both have the same scientific mind.”
Jenkins tried to twitch away, but Zane wasn’t done with him. He jammed his stick more forcefully against a skinny chest. “Enough. How did you intend to convince the world that you’re heir to an earldom when you have scoundrel written on every thick hair on your face?”
Jenkins spat at Zane’s boots. “Because with you out of the way, I am heir. While you and your father pretended the old man and the estate didn’t exist, my mother found a way to ensure our future. We just kept hoping you or your father would die before the earl.”
Even Azmin shut up and waited with interest for that explanation.
When neither of them spoke, Jenkins continued defiantly. “My grandmother is the earl’s sister. Didn’t know you had a great-great aunt, did you? She had the old earl sign a codicil to the title. His solicitors presented it to parliament. It allows the title to pass through a maternal line if no direct male heir can be found.”
“Oh, charming,” Azmin said. “See, my lord, if you died, you wouldn’t have to inherit after all.”
Her byzantine comment served to puzzle addled Jenkins enough to make Zane smile. “Not a laughing matter,” Zane told her, wincing as he recalled the solicitor’s letter mentioning the codicil. Jenkins could be a distant cousin. The thought appalled. “I’m not dying for anyone’s convenience, but if anything has happened to Louisa, my one and only heir will hang. What a blot on the family escutcheon that will be.”
The thought that this turnip might be his heir turned Zane’s stomach. He’d definitely tarried too long in finding a wife.
“I told you, she’s fine,” Jenkins spat out. “She thinks I’ve rescued her from kidnappers.”
Zane suffered a frisson of alarm as Azmin closed in, murderous intent on her usually serene visage. Not knowing what conclusion she’d drawn from Jenkins’ declaration, he waited. Maybe Jenkins would believe they knew where Louisa was and reveal her location if they kept him talking.
“You knocked Gopala over the head and told her he was a kidnapper?” Azmin asked in a deceptively pleasant voice.
Ah, Zane understood her ire. Of course, the man with the brown skin would be labeled a villain.
“He hired me to kidnap his sister. It wasn’t a difficult leap.” Jenkins shrugged. “She trusts a gentleman like me, not a filthy lackey.”
A lackey. Before Azmin could shoot off Jenkins’ face, Zane rammed the knob of his stick up under the imbecile’s chin again. Jenkins quivered and shrank back. The alcohol bravado wearing off?
Amazingly, Azmin’s fury faded to a hint of amusement. “I like to believe it’s justice when a bigot’s prejudice works against him. As long as she doesn’t exert herself, Louisa probably is fine. You didn’t bind her, did you?”
“Of course not,” Jenkins said, indignant. “I put her in a carriage and took her to a nice hotel. I have tickets to York. We’ll be married right and proper with my family as witness.”
Zane couldn’t let himself believe Louisa was fine. She was too delicate, too sheltered, she’d be paralyzed with fright. Azmin apparently had other ideas.
“The poor delusional idiot thinks Louisa went with him willingly,” she explained. “But Louisa knows he beat his wife almost to death. She knows Gopala is Keya’s brother and not a kidnapper. And she’s been warned all her life not to overexert herself. So she wisely didn’t attempt to run. Your niece is smart. She simply placated this imbecile and waited for him to leave. The hotel will have already found her a carriage, and if Wilson has done his job, she’s on her way home in a glorious parade of hackneys. Can we kill him now or must we wait for authorities?”
“Noooo, you’re wrong!” In a fit of fury, Jenkins twisted away from the walking stick and slammed his shoulder into Zane.
Zane kicked the bastard’s knee out from under him.
Jenkins stumbled over the developing table—overturning the container of acid. Azmin grabbed at it to prevent it from spilling. Too late, the acid splashed onto the salt—and cyanide gas hissed.
Hit directly by the fumes, Azmin swayed, dropping the gun.
Zane caught her. To his horror, she collapsed as a dead weight in his arms. Coughing on the gas, terrified Azmin would stop breathing, Zane used his boot to roll Jenkins through the closest door, then kicked it shut. Leaving the bastard to run on his own two feet, Zane carried Azmin through the dark tunnel leading to the school.
Let the bastard escape. Azmin was more important than killing a cretin.