A Matter Of Delicacy

The Revelation

     This time I woke of my own accord. Some movement jostled me violently to the side and I was conscious, hands clenched into fists and my eyes darting around my dark surroundings. I was alone, still trussed like a Sunday goose and wet and aching, but I'd been moved and put in a small carriage. The box was tiny, with one cushioned bench and a boarded-up window. It held me but would be a press with two. It was not a vehicle for comfort. The only light came from a sliver of a gap around the board, falling in a grey haze over the floor. I leant over and pressed my face to it, squinting to see through to wherever I'm being taken.
     Nothing. I couldn't make out a damned thing.
     Grunting in frustration, I leant back and examined my bound wrists. They were tight, and a knot I didn't recognise. I twisted my hands this way and that, gritting my teeth when the rope dug into the raw skin underneath. They didn't budge. It's the same with the ties around my ankles, and a cloth has been stuffed into my mouth and bound tight across my jaw. It was professionally done.
     Where are you taking me, Willoughby? I glanced around and try to make out any detail about the carriage. Nothing, it's completely blank.
     Why move me? Beresford ordered him to get rid of me, but the easiest thing for him to do would have been to kill me while I was unconscious and transport my body to whatever cesspit he was planning on dumping me in. Why wait until the trained soldier had woken up and could put up a fight?
     The carriage shuddered to a halt and I froze, ears pricked and arms pulling automatically into as close to my fighting stance as I can manage.
     I heard the muffled snort of a horse, and the creak of the drivers' box as someone jumped down off the platform onto what sounded like stone? Firm steps came round the side of the carriage and I heard a clank of a padlock being moved on the other side of the door.
     I hastily moved to the other side of the carriage, shifting painfully on my aching legs, and made ready to barge into my captor the second he opened the door. It would hurt, I was still tied up so I knew I'd land hard on the stone ground beyond.
     The deadlock on the door slid across, and there was a pause, just a moment, where I was silent as a ghost. I stared at the door, unlocked but still shut.
     It flew open and I froze, heart hammering in my chest.
     Willoughby held a pistol aimed directly at my head.
     His face was stern, a lock of dark hair falling over his brow like he'd run his hands through it recently. He was tense, poised ready to run or lunge, side on to the doorway with his arm holding the pistol steady. One twitch of his long, elegant fingers and I'd be dead.
     We stared at each other. I was breathing hard through my gag. His eyes flicked over my body, checking the ties at my wrists and ankles were still intact. When his eyes meet mine again I frowned – there's a hesitance to them.
     'I know this is going to seem insane,' he said through gritted teeth. 'But I need you to trust me.'
     I was stunned. I couldn't even laugh at the madness of it. I was bound and gagged in a carriage with a gun pointed at my head, in front of a man with orders to kill me. A man asking me to trust him?
     'I'm going to put the gun down,' he said, 'and I need you to come with me. Don't try to escape, we both know you're in no position to fight. I promise this will all make sense soon.'
     I didn't move.
     He lowered the gun and, slowly, took his finger off the trigger. His eyes burned on mine.
     I lunged, throwing myself at him with every scrap of force I could muster. It was more of a haphazard leap than a coordinated attack, but hopefully, it would knock him off course enough to . . . to what?
     He stepped aside just as I crashed into him, and looped a firm arm around my waist, catching me before I hit the ground, and dragging me back against his body. I kicked back with my bound legs but he just held me tighter against his chest and pinned my arms down with his. I snarled through my gag and writhed under his grip, but he remained unshakeable.
     'Stop struggling,' he warned. I ignored him and continued wriggling, only stopping when he pressed the barrel of the pistol firmly under my swollen jaw. He was breathing heavily from holding me down, and I could feel the shake of his hands against my ribs. 'Katherine, calm down.'
     My breath came in fierce pants through my nose, and I knew he could feel me trembling all over.
     'I'm not working for Beresford.'
     I was doused with ice water all over again. Frozen against him, heart pounding in my chest so hard I could feel it in my cheeks, my fingers, my bruised and aching ribs. We stayed in this strange, fearful, intimate position for everlasting moments, him holding me firm against him, pistol under my jaw, my head against his shoulder.
     'I'm not working for Beresford,' he whispered again, his breath warm and terrifying on my neck.
     I couldn't answer. The gag was sodden, and thick in my mouth. All I could do was raise my fingers away from where they gripped the ropes of my wrists and relax enough to show I was no threat. It was careful and hesitant, and I felt him carefully ease the pistol away. We were both tense, waiting for the other to break and attack.
     I wobbled on my tied feet when his grip loosened from my waist, and he quickly took hold of my arm, easing me back so I was sat on the stair to the carriage behind me. I leant away from him, looking him up and down out of the corner of my eye.
     He's lying. He must be.
     Crouching down at my feet, he pulled a knife out from his boot and looked up at me. It was mine, I recognised it from our fight outside Rothwell House. So that's where it had gone.
'I know you don't trust me, and that's alright.' His eyes were earnest and intense and desperate, and he was right . . . I didn't trust them at all. 'But if I cut these ropes, will you stop fighting me long enough for me to show you something.'
     I narrowed my eyes at him. He pressed his lips together in a tight line and waited, the knife resting between his fingers. They were still shaking.
     He was nervous.
     I nodded.
     The knife flashed and within moments the ropes tying my ankles were cut, and waves of sharp, prickling pain ran up my ships. I hissed into the gag and hunched over, running my bound hands over the raw stripes of skin around my ankles.
     'I'm sorry,' Willoughby murmured as he reached behind my head and untied the cloth that held my gag in place. I spat it out and coughed, spattering the stones with bloody spittle.
     'Who the hell are you?' I snarled at him, my voice sounded like it had crawled into a tomb a century ago and died there.
     He pulled a hip flask out of his pocket and offered it to me. I glared at him and waved my bound hands about. Hesitantly, he cupped the back of my head in his hand and tipped the flask to my lips. Water, the best I'd ever tasted, trickled through my dry and cracked lips and I could have died from the relief of it. I drank till it was nearly empty, then swilled the last mouthful around and spat it out. It almost made me feel human again.
     'I have to keep your hands tied for now, but it won't be long.' He stood and pulled me gently to my feet again. I nearly sagged as feeling rushed to my legs, and my knee throbbed. He waited, hand gently braced around my elbow, until I was steady, then led me away from the carriage.
It was only then that I had time to examine our surroundings. Far from the rocky ground of a wood that I had expected, perfect for burying a murdered corpse, we had pulled into the paved courtyard of a large townhouse. Around us, the walls stretched high, with tall and imposing windows looking into this sparse open area. We must have still been in London, I could smell the stale scent of the Thames on the wind, but where exactly?
     Willoughby led me, limping, towards a side door, nestled to the left of the main entrance of whatever building this was. He rapped once, then three times, then once again, and the door swung open to reveal a tall, rotund man in beautifully tailored footman's uniform. His wig was perfectly powdered, his shoes gleamed, and the look he gave us – the rumpled man with a pistol sticking out of his belt and the battered woman dripping blood and fetid water in her wake – was intrigued more than alarmed.
     'Ah, Mr Willoughby,' he had the warm, rounded tone of a man long in service. 'He's expecting you.'
     'Thank you Humphrey,' Willoughby pushed me forwards and Humphrey stepped aside to let us through.
     'Perhaps a blanket for the lady? And a washcloth?' As if he was suggesting tea in the parlour.
     'Yes, have them sent to the study.' Willoughby glanced at me quickly, 'and something to eat as well.'
     'Of course, Sir.' Humphrey disappeared in a waft of shoe polish.
     'Where the hell have you taken me?' I hissed as Willoughby pushed me down a dark wood-lined hallway.
     'Belgravia. I drove towards Epping then doubled back.'
     'Who are you taking me to?'
     'You'll see, but I swear he's on our side.'
     'Oh you and I are not on the same side, Willoughby,' I snarled, waving my bound hands in his face. 'Or have you forgotten how a few hours ago you and your cronies literally tortured me?'
     He sent me a sour look and pushed me on, 'just hold on and I promise it will all become clear.'
     We rounded a corner and headed towards a large door at the far end. The hallway smelt of varnish and cigar smoke and history, with tall oil paintings of old men and battles lining the walls and the occasional chair dotted along the way. They looked about as inviting as the rack.
Who in God's name lives here? What do they want with me? Who is Willoughby actually? I started to worry about the Princess – did she get back to Montagu House, was she alright, was she worried about me? What if Beresford and Paulette had gone after her, what if they had her now and were finally carrying out the Prince Regent's deadly orders?
     We got to the door and Willoughby knocked firmly.
     'Come!' A voice called from inside.
     Willoughby opened the door and led me through, towards the man with a long face and steady gaze, sat at a large desk.
     It was Grenville.
     Instantly I was fighting again, wresting away from Willoughby's grip and snarling at him, 'you liar!'
     Willoughby grabbed my arms and held me firmly, forcing me on the spot, 'I'm not, I swear.'
     Grenville stood and came around the desk towards up, 'Miss Wentworth, I need you to calm down so we can – '
     'Calm down?!' I hissed at them and twisted my roped hands violently to the side, breaking Willoughby's grip. He ducked as I swung at him, lurching awkwardly against the ache in my ribs.      'You think you can just have your goons torture me for information after you spend months trying to assassinate my client, then manipulate me into trusting you?!' I laughed maniacally, 'You were right, Willoughby, it does sound insane.'
     'Please, Katherine, just listen, I promise it will all make sense.'
     'Oh, you do not know me well enough to call me that,' I snarled back. 'You've lied to me from the moment I met you, spied on me, hurt me, kidnapped me, and now you presume familiarity?'
     Willoughby raked a hand through his hair anxiously, 'I know, and I know you don't trust me – '
     'That's the first correct thing you've said today.' I tried the handle to the door, but my fingers were swollen and bloody and rubbed raw by the ropes. I was never going to get out. 'You'd better hurry up and kill me, Willoughby, because I'm not going to make it easy for you.'
     'I'm not going to kill you!' He threw a panicked hand toward Grenville, who was watching the whole proceeding with a steady interest. 'Lord Grenville here is trying to help – '
     'Help?' I gaped at him, 'He works for the Prince Regent! I saw you the other night, after the King's Ball, did you know that? I followed Beresford outside and he met with the Prince Regent and this slimy little toad.' I turned the fire of my glare to the Prime Minister. 'You should be ashamed of yourself. Working with the Prince to have the Princess killed? It's low even for a politician.'
     'He's not working for the Prince Regent, Miss Wentworth,' a clean, aristocratic voice rang out across the room and cut through the ferocity of my anger. I spun around and took a step back.
     A woman with silver hair and an ornate silk dress was sat tidily by the window, a polished cane resting in her hand. She looked at me with cold blue eyes. 'He's working for me.'
     'Miss Wentworth,' Grenville took a step forward and indicated the imperious woman. 'May I present Her Royal Highness Princess Augusta Frederica of Brunswick-Wolfenbruttel. Princess Caroline's mother.'