"Cognac," Lucien declared feebly, raising the flask to his lips.
The woman stared at him in horror. She knew when she looked upon the dying. "This a-way sir." She took his arm, but he shook off her hand with a curse.
"Just bring me cognac and hot water, woman." He stumbled into a room to the side of the hall, handkerchief pressed to his mouth as the bloody phlegm was dredged from his lungs.
Juliana, listening to this, felt a smidgeon of hope. Lucien was clearly too ill to be capable of serious violence. That left only George. But trussed up as she was, George was quite enough to deal with.
George kicked open a door at the head of the stairs and threw Juliana down onto the bed. "Remember this room, my dear? Your wedding chamber." He pulled the cloak loose, flinging her onto her belly as he dragged it away from her.
Juliana was conscious of her shift riding up on her thighs, the air cool on the backs of her legs. With a jerk she twisted onto her back, trying to push down her shift with her bound and bandaged hands.
George chuckled and twitched it up again. "I like it just the wav it was."
She moved her hands to her mouth, trying to pluck at the gag, her eyes signaling frantically. At this point she had only one thing on her mind.
"Want to say something?" He smiled. "You'll be doing a lot of talking soon, my dear stepmother. You'll be giving me a full confession of murder. You'll write it out for me, and then we'll visit the magistrates, and you'll be able to tell them all about it, too."
Juliana heaved her legs over the side of the bed and kicked her feet backward under the bed, trying to locate the chamber pot. George looked puzzled for a minute; then he smiled again.
"Ah, I understand. Allow me to help you." Bending, he pulled the pot out and pushed it with his foot into the middle of the chamber. "There," he said solicitously. "I trust you can manage. I'll be back when I've breakfasted."
Juliana's eyes spat green fire. But at least he'd left her to struggle alone. And her hands were tied in front rather than behind. There was always something to be thankful for, she thought wryly, standing up and hopping across to the chamber pot.
She managed somehow, and with little shuffles also managed to push the pot back beneath the bed; then she hopped over to the windowsill and took stock. The gag was so tight in her mouth, she couldn't work it loose with her fingers and, with her wrists tied, couldn't get at the knot behind her head. The strips of silk stocking were tight, and she couldn't slip her bandaged hands free.
Her eyes roamed around the room, saw Sir John's razor strop hanging on the wall by the washstand. Where there was a strop, there was usually a razor. She hopped to the washstand. The straight blade lay beside the ewer and basin, waiting for Sir John, as it had every morning of his adult life. No one had touched the room since his death.
Gingerly, she picked up the blade with her fingertips and tried to balance it on its edge, the cutting blade uppermost. She slid her hands forward until the silk at her wrists was directly over the blade, then sawed the material against the edge. It was blunt, in need of the strop, but she was too impatient now to attempt to sharpen it. It fell over. Carefully, she rebalanced it, holding it steady with the tension of the silk. Began again. Little by little the thin, strong silk began to fray. Twice the blade fell over when the tension of the silk lessened. Patiently, she replaced it, her heart thudding, ears strained to catch the sound of a footstep outside, the creak of a floorboard. Her throat hurt so badly, she wasn't sure she would be able to talk even if she weren't gagged. Then the material parted, the razor clattered to the washstand.
Juliana shook out her wrists, cramps running up her arms, clawing her fingers. Then she struggled with the gag and freed her mouth. Wool stuck to her tongue and her lips, reminding her vividly of Ted's ruthless lesson in the dangers of the London streets. Sleeping in one's bed seemed to be as hazardous as anything else, she thought, slashing the razor through the bonds at her ankles.
She was free. Her hurts were forgotten under a rush of exhilaration. She had heard George turn the key in the lock of the door as he'd left. She ran to the window. It was a long drop to the soft earth of a flower bed beneath. But the ivy was strong. Or looked it, at least. Whether it would bear her weight remained to be seen. There was no other option.
She pushed up the casement. The wind blew cold and wet. pressing her thin shift against her body, but she ignored it. Twisting sideways, she dropped from the windowsill, gripping the edge with her fingers, ignoring the pain in her torn palms. Her feet scrabbled for purchase in the ivy. Found a toehold of brick. Heart in her mouth, she let go of the sill with one hand, moved it down to clutch at the creeper. It held. She brought the other hand down, and now her entire weight was supported by the ivy and the toehold. Hand over hand she inched downward, feeling the creeper pull away from the wall. But each time she managed to move her hands and feet to another site before the vine gave way.
She was concentrating so hard on her hazardous climb, she didn't hear the pounding feet in the room above. But she heard George's wild bellow. Looked up, saw his face suffused with rage, staring down at her. She let go and dropped the last ten feet to the soil. She landed awkwardly, twisting her ankle. For a fateful minute or two she sat in the soil, gasping with pain. Then she heard George's bellow again, knew he was running downstairs, would appear out of the kitchen door. She was up and running through the drizzle, ignoring the pain of her ankle, making for the driveway around the house. Instinctively seeking somewhere out in the open, where there might be other eyes to witness.
She could hear George behind her now, hear his heavy, panting breath, imagined she could almost feel it on the back of her neck. In ordinary circumstances she could have outstripped him easily. But she was barefoot and the gravel was sharp. Her ankle turned with each step, bringing tears to her eyes. She rounded the side of the house. The gravel drive stretched ahead to the lane. If she could make it to the lane, maybe there'd be a carter passing, a farm laborer… someone… anyone.
George ate up the distance between them. His breath raged in his heaving chest, his great belly jounced, his massive hands were in fists, but he was gaining on her. She was slowing, her feet troubling her. He reached out, seized the hem of her shift, hauled her backward as she fought, kicked, scratched, hair swinging wildly.
Somehow she wrenched herself free, hearing the thin material of her shift rip as she hurled herself forward, toward the gate to the lane… so close… three more steps…
George's breath was on the back of her neck, his hands reaching for her. The sound of iron wheels on the lane, jouncing over the rough pebbled surface… With the last gasp of breath Juliana leaped into the lane, in front of a hay wagon.
The driver pulled back on the reins, staring in disbelief at the frantic figure in the path of his shire horses.
"Please…" Juliana struggled for sufficient breath to speak. "Please… help me… I-"
She got no further. George had seized her from behind, clamping his hand over her mouth, twisting her hair around his other hand, holding her head still. His voice was calm, sensible. Not his voice at all as he explained to the astounded farm laborer that she was deranged, was kept confined for her own safety. That she'd escaped from her chamber by attacking the servant who'd brought her food. That she was violent and dangerous.
The laborer looked at the half-naked, wild-haired, frantic figure struggling in the hands of a man who was clearly in full possession of his senses, who spoke so rationally, with such assurance. The girl gazed at him with desperate, almost feral, eyes, and he shuddered, muttering a prayer, averting his eyes from the danger of a lunatic's stare. He shook the reins urgently as George pulled the madwoman aside, and drove off, urging the horses to greater speed.