Page 13 of The Cutthroat Countess

“Wha—” she blurted, blinking and staring up at a wiry, dark-haired man she’d seen several times before—one of the men Sir Stanley had sent to watch her lodgings.

Jo almost laughed as everything became painfully clear.

Instead, she drew her knees up as hard as she could and punched them into the man’s groin as he reached behind her to either check the rope or do something with her bound hands.

His yelp was loud but muffled by the fact he fell forward into her lap, his mouth landing on one of her thighs.

Jo scooted the chair back. When the man fell to the floor, moaning and clutching his jewels, she used the rope that held her ankles together to pin his neck to the floor.

He gagged and choked and thrashed, making so much bloody noise that if there were anyone else in the—

Jo heard the door open and bang loudly against the wall behind her. “Here then, what is all this racket?” a familiar, patrician voice demanded.

Before she could turn around, she heard the sound of a hammer being cocked and then a low, rumbling chuckle.

“By God, you’re a treat, my lady. But why don’t you step off poor Wilmer’s neck before he passes out?”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Jo was tied to a different chair, in a different room.

This time, Sir Stanley had directed his minion to attach her feet and hands to the wooden arms and legs.

“That should hold you, I hope.” The older man didn’t put away his gun or come all the way into the room and sit down until Jo was fully bound.

Gray smiled at her, his expression avuncular. “You are a great deal like your father, my dear.”

Jo just stared, visualizing what she’d do to him once her hands were free. Even one hand would be enough to wreak the damage she had in mind.

He chuckled. “Oh, if looks could kill, I suspect I’d be a bloody stain on the floor.” He cut an unpleasant, condescending smirk at his associate, who was lingering near the door, red-faced and unhappy looking. “Much like poor Wilmer was almost a stain. I understand you even brought down big Jack with your knives.” He shook his head, a marveling expression on his face. “That man once fought off five assailants at the same time, and yet he was killed by a mere slip of a girl.”

“What do you want from me?”

“What makes you think I want anything?” A smug smile spread across his face. “You’ve already delivered the keys to the castle to me, so to speak.”

Jo ground her teeth, furious that the man was right about her idiocy. “Then why am I here? Why haven’t you just killed me?”

His fluffy white eyebrows shot up, his expression that of an amused, indulgent grandpapa. “Are you in such a hurry to die?”

“If it means I won’t have to listen to you blather on.”

His smile hardened, as did his pale blue eyes. “I’m afraid you’ll have to listen to a bit more blathering, my dear. Mr. Morrison is busily transcribing the books I have, but I know he doesn’t have all of them. It is a shame you didn’t bring the other book with you.”

“Book?”

Sir Stanley heaved an exasperated sigh. “The other book of poems.”

Jo frowned. “What other book? If you’ve got the volumes that were in Morrison’s possession, then you’ve seen everything I have,” she lied.

Gray pinned her with a skeptical glare, as if he could stare the truth out of her. “Do you know what I did for His Majesty’s government for eleven of the last forty years, my dear Josephine?”

“You mean other than selling Britain’s secrets to her enemies?”

This time there was no mistaking the rancor in his gaze. “I was an interrogator for more than a decade.” He smiled thinly. “Trust me when I tell you that I could get answers from a stone. It has been some years, but I daresay it is a skill I could pick up again if need be.”

Jo ignored his unsubtle threat. “I hope you were paid well for betraying not only your country, but also your friend.”

Gray leaned forward, his hands clenching into fists on his thighs. “You have the hubris of the very young—one would think you would have grown out of it by now, my dear.”