She concluded that her best chance would come when he attempted to remove her from the carriage. She gripped the closed tessen and waited.
The killer reached across the seat to a small box that sat on the opposite cushion. When she caught the telltale whiff of chloroform, another current of panic arced through her. She no longer possessed the option of waiting for the carriage to halt. Once she was unconscious she would be helpless.
“This will keep you quiet until we reach our destination,” the Bridegroom said. “Never fear, I will wake you when it is time for you to put on your wedding gown and pose for your portrait. Now, then, lean back in the corner. That’s a good girl. You will soon learn to obey me.”
He prodded her with the scalpel, forcing her to edge toward the corner. She tightened her grip on the fan. The killer glanced down, but he was not alarmed by her small action. She could not see his expression because of the mask but she was quite sure that he was smiling. He no doubt enjoyed the sight of a helpless woman clutching piteously at an attractive bit of frippery attached to her gown.
He readied the chloroform-soaked rag, preparing to clamp it across her nose and mouth.
“Just breathe deeply,” he urged her. “It will all be over in a moment.”
She did what any delicately bred lady would do under such circumstances. She uttered a deep sigh, raised her eyes toward the heavens and fainted. She took care not to collapse straight onto the blade, sliding sideways along the seat instead. From there she started to tumble off the cushion onto the floor.
“Bloody hell,” the Bridegroom grumbled.
He moved instinctively to avoid the weight of her body.
The blade of the scalpel was no longer pointed directly at her throat. As if in answer to her silent prayers, the coachman turned a sharp corner at speed. The vehicle lurched to one side. The Bridegroom automatically sought to steady himself.
It was now or never.
She straightened, twisted and stabbed the sharpened steel ribs of the folded fan into the nearest target, the killer’s thigh. The points bit deep through clothing and flesh.
The Bridegroom screamed in surprise and pain. He slashed at her with the scalpel but she already had the tessen open. The steel leaves of the fan deflected the blow.
“Bitch.”
Startled and off balance, the killer tried to ready himself for another strike. She snapped the fan closed and stabbed the points deep into his shoulder. The hand holding the scalpel spasmed in a reflexive action. The blade landed on the floor of the vehicle.
She yanked the tessen free and stabbed wildly a third time, heedless of her target. She was in a panic, desperate to free herself from the carriage. The Bridegroom shrieked again and batted at her, trying to ward off the blows. He groped for the fallen scalpel.
She opened the fan again, revealing the elegant garden scene etched into the steel, and slashed at the killer’s hand with the edges of the razor-sharp leaves. He jerked back, shrieking in rage.
The carriage slammed to a jarring halt. The coachman had evidently heard the screams.
She clawed at the door and managed to get it open. She closed the tessen and let it dangle from the chatelaine. Seizing handfuls of her skirts and petticoats in one hand to keep the yards of fabric out of the way, she scrambled out of the vehicle.
“What the bloody hell?” The coachman stared at her from the box, rain dripping off the brim of his low-crowned hat. He was clearly stunned by the turn of events. “Here, now, what’s this all about? He said you was his lady friend. Said the two of you wanted a bit of privacy.”
She did not stop to explain the situation. She dared not trust the coachman. He might be innocent, but he might just as easily be in league with the killer.
A quick glance showed her that the vehicle had come to a halt in a narrow lane. Once again she hiked up her skirts and petticoats. She fled toward the far end where the cross street promised traffic and safety.
She heard the coachman crack his whip behind her. The horse broke into a frenzied gallop, hoofs ringing on the stones. The carriage clattered away in the opposite direction. The anguished, enraged howls from inside the cab grew faint.
She ran for her life.
There was more screaming when she reached the cross street. A woman pushing a baby in a perambulator was the first person to see her rush out of the dark lane. The nanny uttered a high, shrill screech.
Her horrified cry immediately attracted a crowd. Everyone stared, shock and fascinated horror etching their faces. A constable appeared. He hurried toward her, baton in hand.
“You’re bleeding, ma’am,” he said. “What happened?”
She looked down and saw for the first time that her dress was splashed with blood.
“Not mine,” she said quickly.
The constable assumed a forbidding air. “Who did you kill, then, ma’am?”
“The Bridegroom,” she said. “I think. The thing is, I’m not certain that he’s dead.”
The following morning, Amity Doncaster woke up to find herself notorious—for the second time that week.
Four
He came awake again to the same oppressive cloud of pain and confusion that had overwhelmed him on previous occasions. But his head was somewhat clearer this time. There were voices in the mist. He kept his eyes closed and listened hard. Two people were speaking in hushed tones. He knew them both.
“He will live.” The doctor’s voice was weary and grim. “The wounds are closing properly. There are no signs of infection and it appears that no vital organs were injured.”
“Thank you, Doctor. You have surely saved his life.”
The woman spoke words of gratitude but her well-bred voice was cold and hollow, as if she was torn between rage and anguish.
“I have done what I can for his body,” the doctor said. “But as I have told you before, madam, there is nothing I or any other doctor can do for his mind.”
“I was assured that he had been cured. Indeed, he appeared quite well these past few months. Happy. Even-tempered. Enjoying his photography. There was no indication that he was slipping back into madness.”
“I would remind you, madam, that there were no indications of insanity prior to the previous occasion, either, if you will recall. As I have tried to explain to you, the medical profession lacks the knowledge required to cure him. If you do not intend to summon the police—”
“Never. You know as well as I do what would happen if I did that. Such an action would not only destroy him, it would devastate the entire family.”
The doctor said nothing.
“I will deal with this just as I did the last time,” the woman said. Resolve strengthened her voice.
“I anticipated that you would make that decision,” the doctor said. He sounded resigned. “I took the liberty of sending word to Dr. Renwick at Cresswell Manor. There are two attendants waiting outside.”
“Send them in,” the woman said. “Remind them that I expect absolute discretion.”
“They are well trained. As I explained on the previous occasion, Dr. Renwick specializes in dealing with situations such as this. He accepts only patients from the best families and he is mindful of his obligations to those who pay his fees.”
“In other words, I am buying Dr. Renwick’s silence,” the woman said bitterly.
“I can assure you that you are not the only one in Society who is doing so. But given the alternative, there is nothing else to be done, is there?”
“No.” The woman hesitated. “You are certain that he is fit to travel?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, send for the attendants.”
“I think it would be safest for all concerned if I administered more chloroform before we prepare the patient to be transported.”
“Do what you feel must be done,” the woman said. “I will
go now. I cannot watch them take him away again.”
She was leaving.
Panic flashed like wildfire through the patient. He opened his eyes and tried to rise from the bed, only to discover to his horror that he could not move. Leather straps bound him to the bed rails.
The doctor came toward him with a white cloth in his hand. The sickly sweet smell of chloroform scented the atmosphere. Two burly men in ill-fitting coats came through the door. He recognized them from his previous stay at Cresswell Manor.
“Mother, no, don’t let them take me,” he pleaded. “You’re making a terrible mistake. You must believe me. That lying whore tried to murder me. Don’t you see? I’m innocent.”
His mother’s shoulders stiffened but she did not look back. The door closed behind her.
Dr. Norcott clamped the chloroform-saturated rag over the patient’s nose and mouth.
Fury scalded his veins. This was the harlot’s fault. Everything had gone wrong because of her. She would pay. He had granted the others a swift death, taking pity on them after they acknowledged their sins. But Amity Doncaster would die slowly.
Five
I do not think that my reputation can withstand any more gossip,” Amity announced. She set aside the copy of the Flying Intelligencer and reached for her coffee cup. “Three weeks have passed since I was attacked and I still find myself in the newspapers every morning. It was bad enough knowing that silly people in Polite Society were amusing themselves with speculation about my association with Mr. Stanbridge.”
“Stanbridge is a very wealthy gentleman from an old, distinguished family,” Penny said. “He is also unmarried. In addition, he was involved in a great scandal several years ago when his fiancée stood him up at the altar. That combination makes his private life a matter of considerable interest in certain circles.”
Amity blinked. “He was left at the altar? You never mentioned that.”
“The young lady ran off with her lover. It’s been a few years now but there was a great deal of speculation about the event at the time. Everyone wondered why the woman would abandon a gentleman of Stanbridge’s rank and wealth.”
“I see.” Amity gave that information some thought. “Perhaps she got tired of having him disappear on her the way he did on me.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes, well, I knew him as Mr. Stanbridge, an engineer who happened to be traveling in the Caribbean,” Amity said. “He never bothered to mention his finances or his social connections. As I was saying, the gossip about our so-called affair on board the Northern Star was certainly annoying, but I had hoped it would dissipate before my book was published. Unfortunately, the lurid reports of my escape from the Bridegroom don’t show any sign of diminishing. They may prove to be the ruin of my career as a travel guide writer.”
“For heaven’s sake, Amity, you were very nearly murdered,” Penny said. She put down her fork, anxiety and alarm shadowing her eyes. “According to the press, you are the only intended victim of that dreadful monster known to have escaped his clutches. You must expect to find your name in the papers. We can only be grateful that you are alive.”
“I am grateful—exceedingly grateful. But I do not enjoy seeing myself pictured on the front covers of the Illustrated Police News and the Graphic. Both of those magazines portrayed me fleeing from the killer’s carriage dressed only in my nightgown.”
Penny sighed. “Everyone knows those periodicals are prone to exaggerated, melodramatic illustrations.”
“When will it stop?” A sense of foreboding settled on Amity. “I fear that my career as an author of guidebooks for ladies is doomed before my first guidebook even appears. I expect it is only a matter of time before Mr. Galbraith sends word that he has decided not to publish A Lady’s Guide to Globetrotting.”
Penny smiled reassuringly from the other side of the breakfast table. “Perhaps Mr. Galbraith will look upon the uproar in the press as good publicity for your travel guide.”
That was Penny for you, Amity thought. Her sister was always a model of grace and serenity, regardless of the disaster at hand. But, then, Penny was a paragon of feminine perfection in all things, including widowhood. Six months ago she had lost her husband after not quite a year of marriage. Amity knew that her sister had been devastated. Nigel had been the love of her life. But Penny concealed her grief behind an air of stoic fortitude.
Fortunately, Penny was riveting in black. But, then, she looked spectacular in virtually any color, Amity thought. Nevertheless, there was no denying that the deep hues of mourning set off Penny’s silver-blond hair, porcelain skin and sky-blue eyes, bestowing upon her an ethereal quality. She could have stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.
Penny was one of those women who drew every eye in the room—male and female—when she entered. She was not only lovely, she possessed a natural charm and a kind heart that endeared her to all she met. What most people failed to realize, Amity thought, was that beneath all the beauty and fine qualities, Penny was also endowed with a decided talent for investing. The ability had stood her in good stead after Nigel had broken his neck in a riding accident. He had left a fortune to his wife.
Unlike Penny, who took after their mother, Amity was well aware that she owed her own dark hair, hazel eyes and decidedly assertive nose to their father’s side of the family. Unfortunately, the women of the Doncaster bloodline who had the misfortune to be endowed with those particular characteristics had acquired a certain reputation over the years. Tales were still told of the many-times great-grandmother who had barely escaped hanging as a witch during the 1600s. A century later a spirited aunt had managed to disgrace the family by running off with a highwayman. Then there was the aunt who had vanished on a hot-air balloon ride only to reappear as the mistress of a married earl.
There were other women who had tarnished the Doncaster name over the centuries—and every single one of those who had succeeded in making herself something of a legend had possessed the same witchy coloring and the same nose.
Amity had heard the whispers behind her back from the time she was a young girl. Everyone who knew the Doncaster family history was of the opinion that there was a streak of wild blood in the female line. And while a bit of wildness was often viewed as a positive attribute in males—it certainly tended to make them more interesting to women—it was considered a decided negative in females. At nineteen Amity had learned the hard way not to trust the sort of gentleman who was attracted to her because of her family history.
No one, least of all Amity, understood quite how her disreputable female ancestors had managed to land themselves in so many outrageous situations. Their looks were hardly remarkable—except for the nose, of course. As for their figures, there were limits to what even Penny’s talented dressmaker could do with a shape so lacking in feminine curves that when dressed in masculine attire Amity had been able to pass as a young man on more than one occasion while traveling abroad.
She took a long, fortifying swallow of Mrs. Houston’s strong coffee and put down the cup with some force.
“I don’t think that Mr. Galbraith will consider the kind of publicity I have attracted to be useful when it comes to selling my book,” she said. “It’s difficult to imagine that people will be induced to purchase a travel guide written for ladies if they discover that the author is in the habit of stumbling into the clutches of terrible killers like the Bridegroom. That incident certainly doesn’t make me look like an expert on how a lady may travel the globe in perfect safety.”
The stack of newspapers and lurid magazines had been waiting for her on the breakfast table when she had walked into the morning room a short time ago, just as they had been every other morning since her escape from the killer’s carriage. Usually there was only one paper on the breakfast table, the Flying Intelligencer. But lately Mrs. Houston—a great fan of the lurid penny dreadfuls—had gone out early to collect a wide assortme
nt of morning reading material. As far as Amity had been able to determine, each new report of her encounter with the Bridegroom was more replete with descriptions of blood-curdling thrills and shuddering horror than the previous one.
It was quite astonishing, she thought, that however shocking the newspapers portrayed the kidnapping and her narrow escape, none of them managed to capture the very real, nerve-icing terror she had experienced. In spite of two stout doses of brandy before bed every night since the near disaster, she had not been sleeping well. Her mind was filled with nightmarish images, not only of her own panic and desperate struggles but of horrid imaginings of what the last moments of the other victims must have been like.
This morning—as with every morning for the past three weeks—most of the fear was replaced by a quiet, seething rage. This morning—like the other mornings—she had come down to breakfast, hoping to discover that the newspapers would be filled with assurances that the police had found the body of the Bridegroom. But once again she had been disappointed. Instead, there was a great deal of speculation about his possible fate. Surely the loss of so much blood would prove deadly, the press insisted. It was only a matter of time before the killer’s corpse was discovered.
Amity was not so certain. In the course of her travels abroad with her father she had sewn up the wounds of a number of people who had been injured by a variety of sharp objects, including shears, razor blades, hunting knives and broken glass. Even a small amount of blood could look like a great quantity if it was splashed around in a spectacular manner. It was true her new walking gown had been ruined by the blood of the Bridegroom, but she did not think that she had struck a death blow.