EscapeWithMe (12 page)

It would be over quickly, she repeated to herself. He would
finish, drink his wine and then pass out. She would change clothes and try to
sneak out, possibly through the window. It wasn’t as far to the ground.

The duke turned her around and bent her over the bed. The
corset made it difficult to breathe. Tears burned in her eyes and she repeated
her mantra. He grasped the skirt of her chemise and flipped it up. She could
hear him stimulating himself and waited anxiously. A whole minute passed. The
duke was breathing heavily, still masturbating.

“Damnation,” he growled. She dared to look back.

His erection was gone. She didn’t feel relieved though. What
if he demanded her to bring it back?

“Your Grace?” she asked quietly.

“Damn, damn!” He stuffed himself back into his breeches and
walked a few steps to the wineglass he had set down. She allowed herself a sigh
of relief, though not too obviously. Gratefully standing up, she covered
herself with the chemise and sat on the bed.

The duke took a swallow of wine and frowned into the glass.
The powder around his mouth was terribly smeared. Sam realized with a wince
that it was now on her neck. He then returned to the bed, sitting down tiredly
next to her.

“It’s been like this almost a year,” he grumbled. “All the
other girls must know.” Sam didn’t know what to say. She didn’t wish to comfort
him, but she didn’t want Mrs. Hayes to flip out.

“Have you spoken to a physician, Your Grace?”

“Of course I have. Damnable man had nothing useful to say.
He told me to spread horrid-smelling oils upon my ballocks and to avoid
friction when alone. I wake with a full mast, but the wind dies the moment I
set sail.”

An interesting metaphor.

“I even attempted to copulate with my wife last week.” He
finished his wine and Sam leaped at the opportunity.

“Let me get you some more,” she offered, taking the glass
from him.

“Indeed,” he said distractedly. She went to the wine bottle
and refilled his glass.

“The ship isn’t broken, Your Grace. If you’re able to
achieve ‘full mast’, then you simply need a good wind and an alert crew.” She
returned to the bed and handed him the glass. He didn’t respond immediately and
drank deeply.

“Perhaps I’ve had too much wine,” he slurred. “The taste of
it has become repellent.” Sam’s eyebrows went up. Would he recognize the taste
of laudanum? “My
wife
,” he said bitterly, “has become just as repellent.
She is beautiful and
despises
me.”

“Less wine then,” Sam said. “A better diet too. Try to
discover what attracts her. Wouldn’t that be a challenge?”

“She fancies dresses and balls and surrounding herself with
sycophants.” He nearly finished his glass and she gently took it from him.

“Maybe she’s trying to escape.” Sam encouraged him to lie
down, which he did without protest or awareness. She set his glass on the
nightstand.

“We’re both miserable. Doubly so together.” His eyelids were
drooping.

“But imagine it, Your Grace. Your wife, eager to be bedded.
That fancy dress on the floor, and her shock at your power over her desires.”
The duke smiled sleepily at that, his eyes now closed.

“It would be quite a…sight,” he agreed.

It was only a moment before she was sure he was asleep. She
would have danced in victory if only she had the time. She fished her original
clothing from under the bed, but she was so nervous that she didn’t think she
could wait long enough to change. Compromising, she tugged her trench coat out
of the bundle of clothes and then tightened the string holding the rest
together. Putting her arms through the sleeves, she was about to tie the coat
shut when a loud knock sounded on the front door downstairs.

“Who owns this house?” a man yelled from outside. “You’re to
be brought before the magistrate posthaste!”

Sam blanched. “Shit.” She looked at the duke, still sound
asleep. “Shit, shit.” She had to get out of the house before the constables
found her. She didn’t want to discover firsthand what punishment she’d receive
for being in a brothel. Whipping? Jail?

Someone was racing upstairs. She knotted the belt of her
coat and went to the window, but it was harder to open than she had guessed.
She tugged at the frame, inching it up. The door burst open and Sam froze.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Hayes gasped. The bawd sized up the
situation very quickly and her expression was terrifying. Her hands at her
sides were like steel claws, just like the ones in the drawing.

She ran at Sam, screaming, “I’ll wring your neck!”

Chapter Eight

Mrs. Hayes’ eyes were wild and her brow knit together with
rage. When the woman was about to rake her face, Sam reacted out of sheer
instinct. Her fist flew forward, not well aimed, and hit Mrs. Hayes in the
neck.

The bawd’s shriek was cut off by the blow to her windpipe,
but it didn’t temper her anger. She was coughing but also growling. She grabbed
the shoulders of Sam’s coat, shaking her and trying to throw her to the floor.
Sam’s strictly heavier form prevented the shorter, older woman from succeeding.
Instead, one of Mrs. Hayes’ fisted hands let go of the coat and slammed down
onto Sam’s shoulder.

Sam was instantly pissed. Kicking anything her bare foot
could impact, she hit Mrs. Hayes’ ankle and didn’t resist being dragged to the
floor. She was on top and punched the older woman again, this time with intent,
and nailed her square in the mouth. Her knuckles smarted, but Mrs. Hayes let
her go to shield her own face. Blood dribbled from a cut in her lip.

The sight of blood startled Sam and she scrambled to her
feet. After grabbing her clothes, she headed to the hallway and peered over the
balustrade. A man and Mr. Hull were on the ground floor and seemed to be
struggling, but she couldn’t see them entirely.

“I’m going up there. Now get out of my way.” Mr. Hull was
quickly making his way upstairs.

It was now time to panic.

“Miss Samantha! Over here,” someone frantically whispered.
From a narrow door meant to look part of the wall, Mary was beckoning her to
the servants’ stairs. Sam rushed to the maid and slipped inside. Mary hurriedly
shut the door and was first down the unlit staircase. Sam followed but her foot
slipped and she almost brought both of them down. She then kept her hand on
Mary’s shoulder, letting the maid lead her one floor down to the kitchen. A
single candle illuminated the room well enough to spot the rear door.

“The other men already scuttled. Out that way, miss. Run!”
Sam didn’t need to hear it twice and pulled the door open. Shouts echoed from
farther inside the house but she ran without looking back. A woman’s cry was
the last thing she heard before rounding the side of a house and barreling down
a narrow alley.

Mud and grime splashed her legs. Heavy footfalls pounded
somewhere behind her. One of the constables? She emerged from the alley onto a
larger street. Opposite her, packs of people loitered like pigeons around an
immense building that seemed to be yet another theater, but she was so turned
around and panicked she didn’t know which one. She didn’t want to mistakenly
return toward the brothel, but her pursuer was rapidly catching up and there
was no time to do anything but act.

Choosing a direction at random, she turned left and ran. Her
bare feet stung. Her heart was racing. She barely avoided tackling a very
foul-smelling man who grabbed at her, but she struck his hands away and hung a
right at the next intersection in the hopes of ditching the constable.

She darted past more groups of late-night merrymakers who
loudly and drunkenly remarked on her passing. To her left she spied an
especially narrow street between two tottering buildings, the eaves of which
pinched close together. It was unlit and dangerous, but no more so than the man
hounding her. Just as she would’ve disappeared into the darkness, a bruising
hand clamped on to her shoulder and halted her momentum. Yelping, she threw her
free arm and hit his shoulder. The man growled with rage and when he twisted
her around, she blanched to see Mr. Hull.

“You conniving jack whore!” He hauled her several steps down
the street, obviously intending to take her back to the brothel.

“You’re a rapist and abuser,” she screamed, kicking and
punching him. “And an all-around piece of shit!”

All the strength went out of her when Hull’s fist connected
with her cheek. Stars burst in front of her eyes. She would’ve crumpled if Hull
weren’t holding her up. She was also perilously close to losing her cookies.

Then she heard a strange sound, like a New Year’s Eve
noisemaker.

“Stop there! What’s going on?” an unfamiliar man said. The
rattling grew louder and she blearily saw two older men lurching toward them.
They weren’t dressed in any uniforms but carried identical lanterns held high
to better see Hull’s face. One of them stowed a wooden rattle in his belt only
to pull out a club. Night watchmen.

“She’s a thief,” Hull accused, “and when my wife tried to
stop her, she hit her in the mouth.”

“I’m not a thief,” Sam slurred. Her lips were half-numb and
her whole world was spinning. Damn, she was in so much trouble. “And he’s not
married to her.” She jerked free of Hull’s grip but nearly stumbled and had to
be propped up by one of the watchmen. “She runs a brothel.” She pointed at
Hull. “And he rapes the girls.”

The watchman not holding her pointed at her with his club.
“Is the coat yours? You are wearing something besides that, aren’t you?”

What did her clothes matter? It was obvious who the bad guy
was.

“The chemise and corset they forced me to wear aren’t mine,
but the coat’s mine. These are too,” she said, swinging the bundle of clothes
in her hand. “I took my first chance to escape and wasn’t about to run naked
through the streets.”

“You’re naked to most sensibilities,” the watchman gripping
her arm said, “and how can those be all your clothes? They’d barely cover you.”

“Did you hit the woman?” the first one asked.

“She attacked me first. I was escaping through a window and
she ran at me.”

“A window…” the first watchman said as though that
illuminated something.

“This one’s drunk,” the second watchman said. “I can smell
it.”

“You had to smell it to know that?” the first one asked.

Hull interrupted. “She’s lying. Those clothes aren’t hers
and she jumped my wife!”

“Is your wife still at the house?” the first watchman asked.

“She is, and she’ll tell you the same as me.”

“They’ll both be lying,” Sam insisted. “Question her without
him in the room and see if they come up with the same story.”

“We know how to do our duties,” the second watchman spat.

“That one should go to the watch-house tonight. I’ll see
what the wife has to say,” the first one said.

“What about the clothes she stole?” Hull asked irately.

“I cannot take a naked woman through the streets, sir,” the
second watchman said, “but the clothes will be returned to you.”

Sam didn’t dare speak up again and her apprehension was a
cold lump in the bottom of her stomach. Who knew what mutation of the law she’d
be subjected to? Would the same person be judge and jury?

Hull and the first watchman headed back to the brothel as
the second watchman pulled her in the opposite direction. She heard Hull
weaving a story about his wife running a finishing school and wasn’t it
terrible that his generous wife be so mistreated by a wicked thief. Whether or
not the watchman took his story with a grain of salt was left a mystery as she
was led out of earshot.

Her feet ached and were possibly bleeding. She didn’t want
to think about infection. Her head was pounding terribly and she relied heavily
on the watchman to guide her down the street as dizziness kept her from
maintaining balance.

“I cannot be the first woman from that house that you’ve come
across,” she said. “The maid, Mary—she can vouch for me. She knows what goes on
there.”

“Nothing I can do for you, girl. The beadle’s the one you
want.”

Just as Sam would’ve said more, a whiff of garbage assailed
her and she promptly deposited the contents of her roiling stomach onto the
street.

* * * * *

With a fresh shirt and coin for the constables, Ryder reined
in his hackney-horse beside his coach, which Oliver had stopped a couple of
doors shy of the brothel. A painted carriage, attended by both a coachman and
footman and pulled by four matching grays, sat outside the brothel. From the
open front door, a portly man in fine clothing carefully stepped outside. The
footman launched into action, opening the carriage door and lowering the
stairs. The man lurched toward the carriage. His wig was askew and his powder
was heavily smeared around his mouth.

A couple of beggars watched the entertaining proceedings
from the edge of the light. Once the man was seated, the carriage lit off into
the night.

“Sir,” Oliver said as he took the reins of Ryder’s horse.
Swinging down, Ryder quickly walked to the house and stepped into the foyer. A
constable stood guard at the salon door.

“I am Ryder West,” he announced.

“Henry Bainbridge, sir. We were wondering when someone would
prosecute this place,” he said. “Didn’t think it’d be one of the clients.”

“A change of heart,” Ryder said vaguely. He shook hands with
the constable and asked to see inside the salon, hoping to see a tall redhead
sitting unmolested on the settee. To his dismay, she was not in the room with
the other sobering
mademoiselles
.

After the door closed, Bainbridge sighed heavily. “Where one
disorderly house is eliminated, another takes hold a few streets away. Always a
demand for it and money to be made.”

“All of London is a brothel,” Ryder said somberly. “Did you
not find a woman on one of the upper floors with red hair, green eyes?”

“No, but Moses is upstairs still searching.”

The distinct sound of a slap on someone’s cheek turned both
their heads to the before-silent kitchen in the rear of the house. A whimper
followed. His throat seized up, and it was a race between him and the constable
to the back of the house. Ryder won and burst into the kitchen.

Mrs. Hayes stood over a shaking maid, who held her cheek and
huddled against the cabinets. It was the servant who had collected his clothes
from Samantha’s cell, and she had obviously suffered other blows if the
discoloration on her face was any testament. Blood trickled from her nose.

Mrs. Hayes turned at the noise of their entrance, wide-eyed
and retreating. A fresh cut on her lip was still bleeding.

“I had to do it,” she stammered. “You would’ve taken her.”

“Did I not warn you of the consequences? Would that Mr. Hull
were here to watch,” he growled. He stalked toward her.

“Mr. West,” Bainbridge shouted. Mrs. Hayes cried out and
threw her hands up to cover her face. With less satisfaction than he would’ve
preferred, Ryder clamped on to her plump arm and pulled her to the hallway
door. He then shoved her at the constable, who caught her with some surprise.

“Your bawd.” He approached the maid and knelt. “What’s your
name?”

“Mary Powlett,” she said shakily.

“Where’s Samantha, Mary?” She shook her head and fresh tears
seeped from her eyes. “It’s all right. You can say what happened. The constable
needs to hear it.”

A few deep breaths and Mary had control of her voice. “After
Mrs. Hayes had you cast out, she prepared to receive the…” She looked at Hayes
and the constable. “The duke. I had to ready the room and another cleaned up
Miss Samantha. They were in there together when the constables came.”

Ryder hissed softly and closed his eyes. His chin dropped to
his chest.

“She didn’t want to be in there, but she had no choice,”
Mary insisted. “When the constables arrived, I went upstairs through the
servants’ stairs and saw Mrs. Hayes go into the room. She screamed at Miss
Samantha and I heard them fight. Then Miss Samantha came out and I took her
downstairs. She left through that door,” Mary said as she pointed at the back
door of the kitchen, “but I don’t know where she is now. Mr. Hull—he came
through looking for her and he threw me against the wall.” Her sobs threatened
to garble her words, but she swallowed them to say, “When I woke up, Mrs. Hayes
was over me, scolding me and hitting me.”

“Where is this Mr. Hull?” Bainbridge asked of Mrs. Hayes.

“He’s not here. I don’t know,” she said stiffly. “And you,
Mary. You’re no longer in my employ.”

“I can’t lie to a constable,” Mary pleaded. “They know what
kind of house this is.”

“I have the means to prosecute to the fullest extent of the
law, Mrs. Hayes,” Ryder said as he pulled Mary to her feet, “and quite
fortuitously, I have need of a maid.”

Mary looked at him with wide eyes. “You do, sir?”

“With your permission, constable, I’ll have my man convey
Miss Powlett to my apartment. If you need more testimony from her, you may
contact me.”

Bainbridge nodded and steered Mrs. Hayes to the front of the
house. “That’ll be satisfactory. The justice of the peace won’t be sitting until
morning.” The second constable, Moses, descended the stairs ahead of them along
with a sickly blonde
mademoiselle
who was coughing into a fine white
kerchief.

“All right then?” Henry asked.

“No one else upstairs,” Moses confirmed.

Ryder could lose no more time. Samantha was hurt and likely
quite frightened. After Mrs. Hayes and the blonde woman were deposited into the
salon to await a wagon, Ryder gave each constable their payment and his
address. “I must beg your leave, sirs, if you’ll excuse me.”

Just as he turned to scour the streets for Samantha, the
bulky Mr. Hull stepped into the house with a paunchy watchman. Mr. Hull had the
audacity to smirk at him.

“You were too late. His Grace already plugged her.”

“You bastard,” Ryder spat. He caught Mr. Hull by surprise
with a jab to the stomach, knocking the wind and the smugness out of him. Hull
doubled over, but before Ryder could bring his knee up to test the strength of
Hull’s jaw, Bainbridge restrained him while the other constable stood between
him and Mr. Hull.

“Yield, Mr. West,” Bainbridge grunted.

“Where is she?” Ryder demanded.

Hull was sucking in air, nearly on his knees. “Where she
belongs.”