the shop was nearly deaf. Now was not the time to be ladylike. Nor was it the time to wonder if her jailer was Mr. Beasley — or the one who had sent the notes.
Arthur joined in, and the door rattled slightly under their joint efforts. But Mr. Beasley did not appear to rescue them.
After a moment she stopped, her fists aching from the force of the blows she had been raining on the door. "Do you suppose he did not know we were here?"
"We did ascend quietly." Of course they had, they didn't know who or what they might face when they reached the top, no matter that they spoke as if whoever had locked the door must be Mr. Beasley, even now.
"What shall we do?" Hero glanced at Arthur.
"I suppose we are trapped here until he comes back to unlock the door."
So they would pretend it was Mr. Beasley, still. She could not refrain from a sharp question. "The shop usually closes at six in the evening — and often enough of late the last few years, he closes early because of ill health. It is more than possible that he might not return until tomorrow morning."
He shook his head. His voice was filled with frustration. "That is simply not acceptable." He scanned the room carefully, his gaze focused and intense. "There must be some way to escape. If only Beasley had conveniently left an ax up here — " He lapsed into silence, but his gaze was searching and pensive at the same time.
Hero sank back against the door. Trapped. They were trapped here. Together. Alone. In one of her sister's fairytales, they might end up confessing tender feelings for each other. Perhaps share a kiss. But this was not a fairytale. She was alone with a man she loved, who seemed desperate to escape her. Could anything be worse? Only that he might know how she felt. Thank goodness she had not spoken of it last night in the library, tempted though she had been.
The silence began to wear at her nerves. "Why do you think Mr. Beasley locked us in here?"
He closed his eyes and pressed his ear against the door. "Why are you so certain that it was Mr. Beasley? We saw no sign of him when we searched the shop."
This was not what she wanted to hear at all. If he, too, shared her suspicions, then they could not be entirely foolish. "He could have been hidden somewhere."
"We looked thoroughly through the shop."
They had, she could not argue. He had even laughed at her for checking inside a large cupboard. "You know he does not hear well, perhaps he did not hear us calling" — a new hope struck her — "or perhaps he just stepped out for a pint and just now returned."
"That is possible enough." Arthur paused to consider her premise. "But why not leave a sign to say so?"
She sighed. He was so particular in the details. Most of the time she loved that about him, but not now. "Perhaps he forgot — he must be nearly eighty. Perhaps his sign was blown away, or stolen by a prankster."
"Perhaps."
"There was no sign of a struggle," Hero said calmly, though she felt anything but calm at that moment. "We saw most of the shop while we were searching for him. Do you suppose — " The thought was too terrible to speak aloud. But she did. "If this were a tale told by Mr. Dickens, the person who locked us in would no doubt be the fiend who sent you the message."
He grinned at the thought. "Mr. Dickens writes melodrama. Don't you think we are too sensible for such a thing? Or do you think someone with the heart of Quilp may have evil designs upon me?" The question hung in the air between them as they both considered its implications. At last, slowly, reluctantly, he asked, "But what motive would — "
She said quietly, knowing that it would wound his pride, because it would mean that the manuscript had been a maliciously illusive lure, "To make a fool of you?"
"How?"
"Someone will have to release us, after all. We shall have to explain how we came to be here .... " The full implication of what she was saying began to dawn upon her, and she trailed off. She felt a shiver
Arthur joined in, and the door rattled slightly under their joint efforts. But Mr. Beasley did not appear to rescue them.
After a moment she stopped, her fists aching from the force of the blows she had been raining on the door. "Do you suppose he did not know we were here?"
"We did ascend quietly." Of course they had, they didn't know who or what they might face when they reached the top, no matter that they spoke as if whoever had locked the door must be Mr. Beasley, even now.
"What shall we do?" Hero glanced at Arthur.
"I suppose we are trapped here until he comes back to unlock the door."
So they would pretend it was Mr. Beasley, still. She could not refrain from a sharp question. "The shop usually closes at six in the evening — and often enough of late the last few years, he closes early because of ill health. It is more than possible that he might not return until tomorrow morning."
He shook his head. His voice was filled with frustration. "That is simply not acceptable." He scanned the room carefully, his gaze focused and intense. "There must be some way to escape. If only Beasley had conveniently left an ax up here — " He lapsed into silence, but his gaze was searching and pensive at the same time.
Hero sank back against the door. Trapped. They were trapped here. Together. Alone. In one of her sister's fairytales, they might end up confessing tender feelings for each other. Perhaps share a kiss. But this was not a fairytale. She was alone with a man she loved, who seemed desperate to escape her. Could anything be worse? Only that he might know how she felt. Thank goodness she had not spoken of it last night in the library, tempted though she had been.
The silence began to wear at her nerves. "Why do you think Mr. Beasley locked us in here?"
He closed his eyes and pressed his ear against the door. "Why are you so certain that it was Mr. Beasley? We saw no sign of him when we searched the shop."
This was not what she wanted to hear at all. If he, too, shared her suspicions, then they could not be entirely foolish. "He could have been hidden somewhere."
"We looked thoroughly through the shop."
They had, she could not argue. He had even laughed at her for checking inside a large cupboard. "You know he does not hear well, perhaps he did not hear us calling" — a new hope struck her — "or perhaps he just stepped out for a pint and just now returned."
"That is possible enough." Arthur paused to consider her premise. "But why not leave a sign to say so?"
She sighed. He was so particular in the details. Most of the time she loved that about him, but not now. "Perhaps he forgot — he must be nearly eighty. Perhaps his sign was blown away, or stolen by a prankster."
"Perhaps."
"There was no sign of a struggle," Hero said calmly, though she felt anything but calm at that moment. "We saw most of the shop while we were searching for him. Do you suppose — " The thought was too terrible to speak aloud. But she did. "If this were a tale told by Mr. Dickens, the person who locked us in would no doubt be the fiend who sent you the message."
He grinned at the thought. "Mr. Dickens writes melodrama. Don't you think we are too sensible for such a thing? Or do you think someone with the heart of Quilp may have evil designs upon me?" The question hung in the air between them as they both considered its implications. At last, slowly, reluctantly, he asked, "But what motive would — "
She said quietly, knowing that it would wound his pride, because it would mean that the manuscript had been a maliciously illusive lure, "To make a fool of you?"
"How?"
"Someone will have to release us, after all. We shall have to explain how we came to be here .... " The full implication of what she was saying began to dawn upon her, and she trailed off. She felt a shiver
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