Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (36 page)

Edward, a lanky young man with thin blond hair and a darker mustache, now entered the spacious room. He was holding a sealed envelope. “Rodney should be back at any moment, sir.”

Hart nodded grimly, more images flashing in his mind. Leigh Anne, as still and pale as a corpse, with Bragg grimly hunched over her unmoving form.

“Let me see that,” he said, putting down his cigar. Once, he would have been mildly interested and somewhat amused by an unsigned and hand-delivered note. It would have signified an unusual business deal or the beginning of an illicit affair. Not anymore. Now, he could not care less.

He slit the envelope with an ivory-handled knife and pulled out a costly sheet of creamy stationery. The script was flawless and floral. His eyes widened slightly as he read.

My dear Mr. Hart
,

I have been able to resolve the matter we recently discussed. Please stop by my place of
business at your earliest convenience, tonight if you wish
.

Sincerely
,

Solange Marceaux

Hart carefully folded the letter, his mind racing, smiling a little now. Solange Marceaux had procured a child for him. He would go by the Jewel that evening and, he hoped, end this sordid case once and for all. How he wanted to tell Francesca.

But that was not a good idea. Not when she must be given a chance to follow her own heart. He stood. It was time he paid a visit to his brother anyway. “Edward, have Raoul ready my carriage. Cancel my last appointment. I am going to Bellevue myself.”

She had stopped crying a long time ago. Bridget sat on the floor in a corner of a bare room, furnished only with one bureau and a big bed, hugging her knees to her chest. She continued to shake sporadically, convulsively, and even her teeth would chatter then. The two men who had captured her had deposited her on that bed at least two hours ago, while untying her and removing the hood. The moment she was free, she had scrambled off the bed and into the corner, where she had been sitting ever since. They had left immediately, locking the door behind them, but she remained frozen with fear.

The dead boy had been dropped on the floor, not far from the door.

Bridget looked at him and threw up, not for the first time. A tear crept down her cheek.

She was so scared. How would Mama find her and save her? She knew what those men wanted; she had seen it in their eyes. She wasn’t a fool. She had seen Papa in bed with Mama, quite a few times, and even if she hadn’t, she’d heard them often enough, because their cottage in County Clare had had one room, and their bed had been separated
from hers by a thin curtain. She’d even seen Mama, once, by the brook, in the earl’s arms. Mama had been smiling. Bridget had never seen her so happy. She’d been as beautiful as an angel.

The earl had been smiling and happy, too.

Bridget choked. She was never going back home, not to that horrid little flat, but to Ireland, and she’d never see Papa again, but even worse, she’d never see Mama, and Mama would die from the grief of it.

She screwed her eyes closed shut. How long did she have until those men came back? Mama wasn’t going to save her. She had to think, but it was so hard because she was so scared. She had to think of a way to get free.

Something made a sound in the room, by the door.

The noise had been a slight scratch, and Bridget froze, looking around warily for a rat. She hated rats. Some were bigger than small dogs. If there was a rat in the room, it would eat the dead boy. She had to find something to kill it.

She heard a soft sigh.

Bridget climbed slowly, shakily, to her feet. She scanned the room but didn’t see a rat. Her gaze slammed back to the boy. And this time, he moaned.

For one moment, she froze, disbelieving—first the two brutes, then a rat, and now a ghost? And then she saw his thick sooty lashes flutter.

The boy wasn’t dead!

Bridget ran to him, gasping in relief. She sank to her knees, cradling his head. There was so much blood from where the fat man had punched him. “Boy? Boy?” she whispered urgently, and then she gave up. She knew his name—she’d only pretended not to because he was always ogling her. “Joel! Wake up! How badly are ye hurt?”

He groaned, long and low.

She held him in her lap, wanting to slap his face because he had to wake up before those two men came back, but hitting him seemed mean, even cruel. She shook his thin shoulders instead. “Joel, it’s me, Bridget! Bridget O’Neil!
Please wake up! We got to get outta here!” she cried.

His eyes slowly opened and he gazed up at her, clearly unfocused.

Had the blow to his head made him daft? “Can ye see me? D’ ye know who I am? Talk t’ me, ye fool!”

And she saw the comprehension begin to fill his gaze. “Bridget?” he whispered in some confusion.

“Thank God yer alive—I thought they killed ye, I did!” And she hugged him hard, then realized what she was about and backed away, still on her knees beside him.

He sat up stiffly, wincing, his hand going to his head. The color was returning to his face, thank the good blessed Lord. He then took his hand from his head and looked at it as if he didn’t know his own hand. It was bloody.

Instantly Bridget ripped off a piece of her skirt. The material was so thin from so many wearings and washings that it tore easily. “I thought ye were dead,” she said, moving closer. She quickly wrapped the strip around his head. “D’ ye remember what happened?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said hoarsely, his eyes turning dark.

Their gazes met.

Bridget saw the fierce determination in his eyes and she shuddered.

“How long have we been here? Ouch!” He shoved her hand away.

“Let me knot it, brat,” she said firmly, but inwardly she was thrilled. The boy wasn’t dead, and from the look if it, she had a partner to help her—them—escape.

He shoved her hand away and stood, no longer appearing at all shaky. “You’re younger than me an’ that makes you the brat,” he warned. He tied a knot in the bandage himself. “Well? How long have we been here? An’ where are we?”

“I think it’s been a few hours. It’s hard to say,” she said, also getting to her feet, the side of her skirt exposing her stocking-clad calf and the holes in it. “I don’t know where we are. They put a smelly old sack on my head and I couldn’t see a thing!”

Joel walked over to the door and tried it.

“It’s locked,” she said, aware she was stating the obvious.

He gave her a dismissive look. “Give me a hairpin,” he said.

“I don’t got any hairpins, me hair’s in a braid,” she said, hands on her hips.

He looked disgusted, but he went over to the bed, wrinkling up his nose as he tossed up the thin sheets.

She instantly understood. That bed had been used by a man and a woman—even she could smell the sex—and he was looking for missing hairpins. How clever he was!

He grinned at her, holding up a long but misshapen hairpin. “Look at that.”

She began to smile, then frowned. “What use do you got for a hairpin?”

“I’m gonna pick me a lock,” he said with another smug grin.

She was incredulous, and she watched him straighten the pin and then march over to the door. She hurried, following and standing so close behind him that her budding breasts brushed his back. He jerked a little and she stepped back, watching as he slid the pin into the lock, gently moving it about. The lock snapped open almost immediately.

“Oh, my God!” she gasped. “Are ye a burglar then?”

“Naw, I gave up them days when I met Miz Cahill,” he said, giving her a look. “Stand back. I need to make sure no one’s outside the door.”

Bridget hurried to obey.

Joel slowly cracked open the door, inch by inch, until he could peer outside. And then he closed it as slowly—as soundlessly.

“What’d ye see?” she breathed.

“Ain’t no one about,” he said, “and there’s a stairs at the end of the hall and a window to our left.”

She nodded, uncertain. “But do ye want to simply march out? Surely those horrible men are downstairs?”

“We’re going to jump out the window,” he said.

Bridget swallowed nervously. “All right,” she whispered.

“C’mon.” He took her hand. “Maybe there’s a tree outside.”

She prayed they were on the second floor and that there was big fat oak tree outside the window. Even more, she prayed they would not be caught while escaping. Joel slowly opened the door again, still holding her hand. His grasp was warm and reassuring. He was so brave that she had to sneak a real glance at him.

“C’mon,” he whispered.

They slipped into the empty hall and hurried past several closed doors and to the closed window. Joel released her hand to push it open, a task that took him a long moment, as it was stuck. Finally, the heavy glass slid upward. Bridget strained to look past him and cried out. They were very high up and the tree in the backyard was too far away to be of any use. “We’ll break our necks!” she cried.

Joel hesitated before facing her. “You stay here. I’ll climb down as if it’s a cliff. Then I’ll get help.”

“Ye can’t climb down the side of a building!” she gasped. “And I don’t want to stay here!”

Joel had started to speak when they both heard footsteps on the stairs. “Ye don’t got a choice!” he cried, pushing her aside.

“Wait,” she began, terrified, but he was climbing through the window as she spoke.

“Hey! Hey! It’s the new girl—and the boy’s going out the window!” The fat thug was almost on the landing.

Joel paused astride the window ledge. “I’ll be back,” he promised.

“Hurry,” Bridget breathed, glancing back toward the stairs.

Both men were racing toward her and she turned to bar their way.

“Get the boy!” the tall one shouted.

Joel smiled at her and disappeared from view.

Bridget stuck her foot out, tripping the fat man, who had
hit Joel so hard his head was a bloody mess. As he went down, she felt a savage satisfaction fill her.

“You little bitch!” The tall man grabbed her and threw her aside, leaping at the window.

Bridget reached out and grabbed his trousers.

He cursed, turning and trying to kick her off.

She clung with all of her might.

The fat man hit her, and as her world went black, she heard one say, “Shit! The kid made it to the street. C’mon! Before he gets away!”

The blackness was a relief.

It was a bit past four and she was late.

Francesca had expected to be greeted by Solange Mar-ceaux herself, but instead, a stunning brunette who was about her own age appeared, clad in a flimsy satin wrapper and embroidered high-heeled shoes. “Emerald?”

Francesca was going by the name Emerald Baron. “Hello,” she said with false cheer. She was now as nervous as she was exhilarated. She was also clutching the dress loaned to her by the countess, as it was carefully wrapped in paper.

“I’m Dawn.” The brunette smiled. “Come. Let me show you to your room.”

Francesca nodded and followed Dawn through the hall and past the piano, where the pianist was beginning to play. He was a young man close to their own age and he ogled Dawn as she passed, then smiled at Francesca. Dawn might as well have been naked in her flimsy robe, and she wiggled her behind a little as she passed the pianist. “Fred is a lovely boy,” she said. She gave Francesca a wink.

Francesca assumed they were lovers. She managed a smile and had a bad feeling that the night might not turn out the way that she wanted it to.

“This is your room. Lovely, isn’t it?” Dawn asked, allowing Francesca to precede her inside.

Francesca was surprised. The room was lovely, with pale
ivory walls and accents of pink and green. The bed was a big four-poster, which she refused to look at. There was a fireplace with a marble mantel, and a cheerful eating area in front of it. She laid her purse on the gilded bureau and turned.

“Here, let me hang that up,” Dawn said, taking the dress from Francesca and unwrapping it. “Well, this will certainly gain you a few admirers,” she said with a wicked grin.

“That is the plan,” Francesca said, and then realized her choice of words was unfortunate.

Dawn laughed. “Tea?” She moved sinuously to the sofa, where a silver tray with a teapot, saucers and cups, and some petits fours was placed. She poured.

Francesca sat down and smoothed her rose-colored skirts. “How long have you been working here?” she asked.

Dawn slid onto the sofa, revealing her gartered thighs as she did so. “About a year. It’s a nice place to work. Most of the women here are friendly, and it’s not too competitive,” she said.

Francesca almost echoed, “Competitive?” but managed to stop herself.

“Of course, one never knows how an evening will go. Some of the gentlemen here are quite odd in their requests,” she said, sending Francesca a sly look. “You look so ladylike. You will be very popular, I think.”

“I hope so,” Francesca managed.

“We had a Spanish prince, recently,” Dawn said, as if she hadn’t heard Francesca. “He was so handsome. I prayed he would choose me—and he did! Me and five other women. He was simply insatiable, Emerald, but of course, he used a cock ring.” She made a face.

Francesca somehow smiled. A cock ring?

“It was three days before he tired. Needless to say, we all made a fortune, as we were so exhausted and so sore that Madame Marceaux charged him ten thousand dollars for the orgy.”

“That’s a lot of money,” Francesca whispered, afraid her cheeks were red. What was a cock ring? She would ask
Hart—except she wasn’t speaking to him, so she could not. She reminded herself that she needed information, not tit-illation. “What is it like, working for Madame Marceaux?”

Dawn shrugged. “But my favorite client was this boy. It was his fifteenth birthday. His father brought him in. He chose me. No artifices, no devices, no aids. He was huge, too, and he went all night. I must say, I have never had so many orgasms.” She glanced seductively at Francesca.

“I am very pleased that Madame Marceaux has given me this opportunity to work here,” Francesca said, aware now that she was most definitely in over her head.

“She knows how to choose her ladies of the night,” Dawn breathed. “You are so beautiful and you will be good for business.”