B etween sulking over his wounded sensibilities and seeking revenge over affronts to his very existence, Ethan had decided to focus on the latter.
He'd gone years without allowing anyone to burrow beneath his skin deeply enough to cause him pain.
Which had served him well and would continue to do so.
His sympathy and concern for Fam Dyer were temporary aberrations.
The sooner he escaped his prison and returned to his own class, the sooner he'd put paid to whatever current madness had seized him when it came to a murderous criminal.
He'd had them bring him hot water and soap to bathe this morning.
The clean clothes he'd requested were plain, but well-made, and in good repair--a white cotton shirt, black wool breeches, and black wool stockings.
He looked like a bloody footman, but he had to admit he was warm and comfortable.
Unfortunately, he'd already searched every inch of his humble chamber for a weapon or a way to escape and come up empty-handed.
Thunder rolled overhead. The skies from the windows high on the walls had been dark and grey all morning.
The first spattering of rain sounded like pebbles thrown at a window.
Reminded him of his first dalliances with one of his father's grooms. He'd been sixteen and certain he was in love.
Turned out, he was being used by the groom to be blackmailed into securing him a higher position and better wages.
Even then, Ethan had been a contrary sort.
He'd told the groom to go to hell. Of course, the man had revealed their affair to Father.
The entire episode had ended badly for both of them.
The groom had been dismissed without a character, and Ethan had been exiled to one of the family estates in Yorkshire rather than being allowed to return to Cambridge to resume his studies.
Perhaps Dyer was right. Perhaps he did sell himself cheaply to get what he wanted.
A clap of thunder shook the house. Lightning flashed and hung in the sky, illuminating the bank of windows.
In an instant, Ethan spotted an iron ring set into the wall between two of the windows.
He studied the position of the iron ring and tapped a forefinger on his chin.
His breakfast tray had not yet been fetched by one of Dyer's men.
Ethan snatched up the fork and tucked the heavy instrument beneath his pillow.
Now he realized why he'd rolled up the strips he'd torn from his sheet to trip one of his captors.
He sat down on the bed and told himself repeatedly his was a ridiculous plan.
All the while, he tied the strips back together, tore off more, wove them into a braid, and secured the fork as tightly as he could at one end.
With a quick glance at the door, he dragged one of the chairs into position against the wall under the iron ring.
He stood back in the middle of the floor and swung the fork overhead like a lure used to train his father's bird hunting dogs.
At the last minute he launched the fork toward the iron ring.
Again and again, he went through the same motions whilst trying to keep an eye and ear attuned to the door. A steady ache set up in his arm and shoulder. His first consideration was correct. This was a foolish plan. Perhaps he could--
Clang!
Ethan could not believe his eyes. The fork hung down from the middle of the ring attached to the thick braid of strips he'd woven.
He fed the braid up until the fork was low enough for him to climb onto the chair and tie a secure slip knot.
He pulled the knot tight and raised the fork until it rested sideways across the bottom of the ring.
Breathless, he shoved the wardrobe behind the chair against the wall.
Once he reached the top of the wardrobe he stripped off his stockings, braced his feet on the wall, clasped the braid of cotton strips in his hands, and began to slowly climb the wall.
He lost track of time as he drew closer and closer to the windows.
When he reached the point that he could clasp the bar directly in front of him, he wanted to shout his victory to the rafters.
Instead, he grabbed the fork with his free hand and began to bang the thick handle against the glass repeatedly.
He was shocked the glass shattered so easily.
Or perhaps his eagerness to escape gave him more strength than he realized.
The rain and icy air braced him. Once he cleared as much of the glass away as possible, he gripped a bar with each hand and pulled himself up between them.
He managed to wiggle the top half of his body out of the window.
What luck1 A tiled roof jutted out beneath the window.
Once he was out, he could slide down the roof and perhaps make the drop to the street without injuring himself too badly.
Not that it mattered. If he made the street, he'd do all in his power to find the river and then follow the damned Thames all the way back to Grosvenor Street.
He twisted his body one way and then another.
Fuck! His hips and thighs were too thick to pass between the bars.
He hung there for a few minutes and sighed.
"The plan was excellent," he muttered. "The execution, however.
.." He pushed against the bars to back out of the window and did not budge.
He used his arms and his bare feet braced against the wall to try and free himself.
The rain lashed at him. In minutes he was soaked to the skin.
The frigid rivulets ran down his body until even his breeches were drenched.
"What the bloody fucking hell do you think you're doing?" Fam Dyer's deep voice boomed across the room like the thunder rolling outside. Ethan refused to answer.
"Looks to me like he's got himself stuck right and proper," Sullivan said as Ethan heard their boot steps come to stand beneath where he hung in the window.
"I don't suppose you'd want to climb up here and give me a shove, would you, Sullivan?" he called over his shoulder.
"I'd be delighted to shove you, milord, but I don't think you'd care for the direction I'd choose. How the devil did you climb all the way up there? Is your father a monkey?"
"That's an insult to monkeys,' Ethan replied.
"Bull, are you up there?" Dyer called out.
"Aye, guv'. Ready when you are."
Ethan looked out the window to see one of the largest members of the gang make his way cautiously across the tiled roof. He came to kneel in front of the window. "Got yourself in the soup, lad, and no denying that."
"I was bored," Ethan said. The man grinned.
"Himself has got murder in his eye. You interrupted his bath. Once you get back in that chamber, you're likely to have more excitement than you ever wanted."
"No doubt."
"Give me your hands." He wrapped his thick fingers around Ethan's wrists. "I've got him, Sullivan," he shouted down into the room. "Ready, guv'?"
Ethan started when not Sullivan, but Dyer answered from atop the wardrobe.
"Ready, Bull. I've got him." He closed his eyes as he was lowered down the wall until he felt powerful hands grip his ankles and slide up his thighs.
Once his feet touched the top of the wardrobe, he stepped a little to the side to free himself from Dyer's embrace.
"I've got it from here," he mumbled. The icy damp began to settle in and he shivered as he climbed down off the wardrobe and slid onto the chair before jumping to the floor. Dyer leapt from the top of the wardrobe and landed without making a sound.
"You've got bollocks, lad," Sullivan said as he handed Ethan a thick bath sheet. "I'll give you that much."
"Plenty of bollocks for a damned fool. Shite for brains.
Come with me." Dyer strode out of the room.
Ethan glanced at Sullivan who shook his head and waved him on.
He followed his captor down the stairs to the second floor and up a well-lit corridor carpeted with fine Persian carpets in black and gold.
"Have someone repair that bloody window, Sullivan.
And send up more hot bath water and some food.
" Dyer stood in an open doorway and stared at Ethan expectantly.
Sullivan gave Ethan a wry salute as he continued down the stairs.
Once Ethan entered the room, he heard the door close and lock behind him.
The bedchamber was done in elegant shades of black and gold.
The wall coverings were gold embossed silk.
The bedclothes and bed curtains were black velvet edged in gold.
An entire wall of barred windows ran behind the bed.
These curtains were black as well, though they were tied back with gold cords which allowed dim beams of light from the overcast skies to flood the room.
On a sunny day the light had to be blinding.
A large black marble mantel and mantelpiece framed a cavernous fireplace where a fierce blaze flickered and danced.
In front of the hearth stood a huge copper tub.
Before Ethan had the chance to speak there was a knock at the door.
Dyer went to open it and admit several men carrying buckets of steaming water.
One man had a tray filled with serving dishes and pieces of china which he placed on a table on the other side of the bed.
They filled the tub, nodded to Dyer and left the room. He locked the door behind them.
"Get out of those clothes and into the tub before you catch pneumonia. I'll have a helluva time ransoming a damned corpse." Dyer went to an escritoire set in the far corner of the room and subsided into a high-backed chair. A large black cat leapt onto the desk and settled down facing Dyer.
"I don't know," Ethan said. He shed the bath sheet and peeled his wet clothes off.
"I think my father might prefer to ransom my corpse.
" He stepped into the tub, sat down facing Dyer, and sighed at the glorious sensation of warmth soaking into his very bones.
He closed his eyes, stretched out, and rested his head against the raised back of the tub.
"I try not to deliver corpses unless I am asked to," Dyer replied. "Doing so creates complications."
"I can imagine," Ethan said, eyes still closed as he continued to revel in the simple luxury of surrounding his bruised body with the comfort of hot water. He tried not to think too hard about Dyer's motives in providing him a moment's normalcy in their current absurd situation.
"No, you can't, Ethan. You cannot begin to imagine, and I...hope you never have to."
Ethan opened his eyes and met Dyer's intent, unwavering gaze. "What are you looking at?" His voice nearly failed him, so shaken was he by that dark-as-night stare.
"I'm looking at you, you damned fool."