smelled like laudanum. She parted his lips, firmly pinched his nose shut and poured the liquid from that one down his throat. All of it.
He swallowed, coughed and moaned only once. She looked at the other container, recalled what he had mentioned about it putting her in top form, and tucked it into a vest pocket.
After cursory notice of the money she discovered—scarcely enough to hire a hackney across town—she slipped his flat leather folder back into the inner pocket of the coat.
Searching hastily, she found the pocketknife that had clunked to the floor when she had undressed him. Anyone seeing her on the way out or later on the streets would instantly recognize her as a woman. She opened the blade of his knife and began to hack away her long locks without a thought to their loss other than relief.
When she felt her hair was short enough to augment her disguise, Lily gathered up the loose hair, bundled up her own clothing and then spread everything flat beneath the thin mattress so he wouldn’t find it immediately when he awoke. Left naked, he would probably hesitate for a while before calling for help.
She opened the door a bit more so that she could see better and located the ring of keys that had dropped when he fell. She stuck those in her pocket.
With a mighty effort, she grasped the fellow beneath his arms and dragged him. The struggle to get him off the floor and onto the bed exhausted her, but she finally managed.
A quick glance around the small chamber assured her that it would pass a cursory inspection if anyone peeked through the door window or opened the door to look.
There was nothing substantial to use to tie him so a gag would be useless. Her only recourse was to get out of the building and away from here before he came around again and made a fuss. She prayed that the liquid she had poured down his throat would be powerful enough to keep him asleep for a while.
After locking him in, Lily pocketed the keys again and strode down the dimly lit corridor to her right. This was the direction the sound of the other man’s footsteps had taken. Was it not?
There were windows to one side of it, closed doors to rooms on the other. She saw it was, indeed, already dark outside.
The odors in the asylum were atrocious and the intermittent sounds of human misery, heartbreaking. Lily assiduously ignored both, trying not to wonder how many were locked away in here unlawfully, as she had been.
She continued, walking purposefully, practicing what she considered the gait of a man. A sort of swagger. Longer strides, toes more out than in, since she knew that toeing in caused the hips to sway. She tugged her cuffs as she had often seen her father do and pulled back her shoulders. That thrust out her bosom, she realized when the shirtfront tightened across it. She hunched a bit to make that less obvious.
The corridor opened into a larger chamber. Lily strode right past a sleeping attendant and traversed yet another wide passageway that she found led to the cavernous entrance hall.
Two men sat conversing on the far side, well away from the main doors. One called out a good-night and she threw up a hand in acknowledgment without looking directly at them or speaking. But when she tried the door, her last obstacle before reaching freedom, she found it securely locked.
Terror gripped her, sucking the breath right out of her lungs. Then she remembered the keys. She fished them out of her pocket and isolated the largest one, hoping her guess was correct. Quickly she inserted it in the door and twisted it right, then left.
Thank God. Again she tried the door handle and, miraculously, the door opened smoothly on its hinges without so much as a squeak of protest.
With a shudder of heartfelt relief mixed with apprehension, Lily strode out, down the stone steps to the street and disappeared into the night.
Only after she crossed the Thames from Southwark, and knew she had escaped her immediate nightmare, did she pause to think about where she was going next. Her knowledge of London was rudimentary at best.
Did she dare turn to Duquesne? Did she have a choice?
Would he or anyone else help her if Clive had already put it about that she was insane? She had made a scene at the Danson’s soiree, there was no escaping that.
Was that one of the incidents of hysteria he would use to convince people? To tell the truth, she had not felt at all herself that evening and could scarcely remember much of what she had said and done. How long had he been planning to spirit her away and lock her up? Had he even drugged her that night to make her seem mad?
She leaned against the solid brick wall of a deserted haberdasher’s shop and shuddered like a leaf in a fierce wind. Tears covered her face and filled her throat and chest. Her breath came in gasps, her head ached to perdition and her knees felt weak as water.
No matter how hard she tried, Lily could not decide what she should do next. What a sheltered existence she had led before her marriage and even after Jonathan had died. No one would protect her now that she needed it. Her father, gone. Her husband, gone. Her son, too young. Her brother-in-law, dangerous. Suddenly furious that no one had given her any preparation in fending for herself, Lily cursed. Right out loud.
All she had wanted thus far was to live a quiet life in the country and to raise her beloved son to shoulder his responsibilities and be a kind and loving man like his father. Since she was twelve or so, her own father had drummed into her that’s what she should aspire to. A lot of good that had done.
Anger was a stranger to her, this horrid, all-consuming rage she felt now. And yet she was thankful for it. At least her fury had lent her the impetus to act and kept her from being paralyzed by her fear. She would not give in to the fear now that she had come this far.
Dare she trust Duquesne not to send her directly back to Clive once she related what had happened? Or should she follow through with the outrageous idea prompted by the letters she had found in Brinks’s pocket?
That she would even consider seeking out such a dangerous man brought an even more troubling question to mind. Was it possible Clive was justified? Could she truly be insane?
Guy watched his ancient butler, Bodkins, shuffle just inside the doorway. The poor old bloke should be in bed, but he’d be up and around even after Guy retired for the night. How Bodkins managed at his age was indeed a mystery.
It was nigh on nine o’clock. One more entry to make in the accounts and he would have them up to date. A first. He picked a bit of lint off the point of his pen and frowned at the stain on his thumbnail. “Yes, what is it, Boddy?”
“A young gent’s arrived, milord. A Mr. Pinks.”
“Brinks?” That appointment was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Unless Boddy had forgotten to mention it had been changed. The old fellow’s hearing had all but deserted him and his memory was not what it should be.
Ah, well, Brinks was here, might as well have done with it. He would either do for the position or he wouldn’t. Shouldn’t take long to discover which. “Very well. Send him in.” When Bodkins remained where he was, Guy repeated, louder this time.
Bodkins made a slow turn and retraced his steps. Guy shook his head sadly, wondering how much longer he could afford to allow the old dear to keep working. Putting him out to pasture would surely kill him, but if he stayed on here…
“Lord Duquesne,” Bodkins announced, his
