Elizabeth sat alone in the middle of the massive four-poster bed, clad in nothing but a chemise and dressing gown. The clean, fresh fabric felt heavenly against her skin. Beckett had allowed her - accompanied by two guards, of course - to return to her house to collect necessities. She had tried to sneak a kitchen knife in case things became out of control, but the soldiers confiscated it from her and, after informing Beckett, he ordered her locked in this room to prevent another escape attempt.
Her hair was damp from the bath the servants had brought earlier, and she pushed strands from her face as she picked at the hem of her chemise, trying not to give in to panic.
She had agreed to Beckett's terms, only because she believed he would release her father that very day. Foolishly, she'd thought she could wait only until her father was out of danger, then steal back the letters of marque and make a run for it. How stupid of her not to realize that Beckett would insist on payment before he held up his part of the bargain.
Either all these perilous misfortunes are turning my brain into mush, or the man is truly more intelligent than me, she brooded with more than a touch of irritation. I prefer the former to the latter.
She had tried every possible route of exit - the door was securely locked, the windows as well. She had attempted to break the glass with her elbow, but it only resulted in a bruise. There was nothing in the room with which to pick the locks, and all she had done so far was sit on the bed and dwell on her plight, and that of her father. They were both trapped - he in a filthy prison cell, she in this luxurious bedroom.
She thought she heard the stairs creak, and she jerked her head up, expecting perhaps a maid to enter. After several minutes, the door did not open.
She got to her feet and moved carefully over to the door, peering out through the keyhole for the telltale flicker of a candle. She saw nothing, and straightened, letting out a sigh of both relief and tension. Servants passed the door fairly often, and each time they did her heart began to pound. But she assured herself that Beckett would not return until later - from what she could deduce, he had left to attend a dinner at a wealthy captain's house. Knowing how long these events sometimes lasted, it wouldn't finish until late evening. But with a glance out the window at the twilight sky, her time was soon drawing to a close.
With another sigh, she leaned against the wall and surveyed her surroundings. The room was large and somewhat sparse; she assumed that not all Beckett's personal belongings had arrived yet. A thick Persian rug adorned the floor, and an elegant cherry wood bookcase stood at the far wall, sadly devoid of books - she would've liked something to read, although she doubted she could concentrate on it.
A chest of drawers sat against the opposite wall and, to alleviate both her boredom and agitation, Elizabeth padded over and examined it. If she were a guest in someone else's home she would never be so rude as to pry through their private effects, but she had no such qualms now.
On the top of the polished drawers was a crystal decanter of brandy, two matching snifters on a small silver tray. She was tempted to take just a mouthful - God knows I could use the fortification - but she needed a clear mind and her wits about her.
The top drawer was almost empty, but she rifled through the contents anyway. A leather folder of blank pages, a small key, a pocket watch, a thin box of quills - nothing she could use as a weapon. She extracted a neatly penned document from beneath the box, curiously scanning over the writing, but it was only a receipt for the Persian rug.
There was another, smaller door opposite the main door, but Elizabeth had already checked it - it was locked. Now, she picked up the small key from the drawer and crossed the room, fitting it to the keyhole. The door opened with a click, and she cautiously peered through the crack, as if terrified of what she might find inside.
It was just a small dressing room, dominated by a large mahogany armoire. She swung the door open wider, taking several hesitant steps in.
Assured that the room was empty, she peered about her as she moved to the armoire. Despite herself, she was curious - she'd never seen the inner workings of a man's wardrobe before. At least, that was if she didn't count the roughly clad sailors down at the docks.
She unlocked the doors of the armoire with the key left conveniently in the lock. It was divided - half for drawers and half for hanging. Intrigued, she pulled open the top drawer. It was full of neatly folded linen shirts. Several shirts had a cascade of expensive lace, but most had one ruffle along the cuff. Some were crisp white and others a pale cream, all with full sleeves and perfectly ironed.
The next drawer contained neckcloths, starched and surprisingly long. Elizabeth thought that if she were a man she would hate to wear fabric tied around her neck all day - but then again, the bastard deserves it, she thought spitefully.
The hanging portion of the armoire was filled with jackets and waistcoats. Some were plain black or dark blue, with just an almost indiscernible pattern - others were brighter, with more noticeable designs, the coats cut from expensive fabric and trimmed with braid or brass buttons. She reached out to touch a brocade waistcoat when she heard a very audible creak on the stairs. She froze, until she was sure the footsteps were approaching the the bedroom. It was undoubtedly just another servant, but what if one of them came in and saw her rifling through their master's possessions? She slammed the armoire shut and fled back into the bedroom, pushing the door closed, giving the key a quick twist in the lock and stuffing it into her dressing gown pocket. After a moment she changed her mind and replaced the key in the chest of drawers, sitting down on the bed just as the door swung open.
Her heart leapt into her throat as she saw that it was Beckett.