by Zoe Blake
She wasn’t fooling me. She liked the game of pain and dominance just as much as I liked to play it. I couldn’t wait to take this to the next level.
But first, there were a few loose ends I needed to handle.
To my left against the wall just out of reach was a long strip of heavy tapestry that ended in a large gold tassel. Leaning over, I grasped the tassel and gave it a sharp tug; within moments, my butler, Hutley entered.
“Where is he?”
I didn’t have to explain who I meant to Hutley. “Just outside, your grace. I figured you would want to speak with him.” We were both talking about the footman who broke the rules and brought an item from the twenty-first century onto my property.
The only way this was going to work was if I fully submerged Elizabeth so deeply in the Victorian era there was nothing to confirm her suspicions that it might be otherwise. Hearing that ringtone set back my plans. It forced me to handle her more roughly than I would have liked this early in the plan. I had hoped to give her time to get used to the idea before using my more creative means of breaking down her mind and body for my purposes.
I nodded. “Send him in and summon Harris.”
As far as the staff knew, Harris was my stable master. They had no idea he was actually my personal security, an enforcer. No one was more loyal or devoted to me than Harris. Rescuing a man from being tortured and beheaded by the Taliban will do that. They were right to want Harris dead. He was a sick sonofabitch who enjoyed violence for violence’s sake, enough to even alarm the bloodthirsty Taliban against keeping him on this earth.
The footman entered. Disrespectfully, he immediately began speaking before having his presence acknowledged by me, as was protocol. I sat and listened as he launched into a pitiful tirade of excuses for his blatant disobedience. “Look. I’m really sorry. I forgot it was in my pocket. It won’t happen again. I promise. It can’t happen again. That Hutley guy took it from me. So, like I said, it won’t happen again, I swear.”
Giving the brandy a warming swirl, I took another sip, wanting to measure my words carefully. “Well, you are correct about that; it won’t be happening ever again.”
It took him a few moments to get my unstated meaning.
“Wait. Are you giving me the sack? What the hell? You can’t do that! I need the money. I gave up my flat and sold my car to take this gig.”
“You’re shouting,” I said calmly as I rose to refill my brandy. By then, Harris had quietly entered the room, keeping to the shadows as always.
“Sod off! You’re damn right I’m shouting. You owe me! And you’ll pay or I’m going to tell the police about what you got going on here.”
Turning my attention back to the man, I asked, “And just what do you think is happening here?”
At that he floundered, “I don’t know. But something is off. This is all supposed to be some kind of intense reality show with hidden cameras and all that other crap but that chick didn’t seem to be in on the joke.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That chick?”
“Yeah, you know… the stacked one with the wavy hair.”
I felt a sudden sting against my palm. Looking down, I realized I had squeezed the glass so fiercely it shattered, piercing my palm with crystal shards and sending the fiery liquid cascading over the open wound. Looking down, I brushed at the jagged shards and blood as I tried to calm my rage. How dare he speak of Elizabeth… my Elizabeth in such disgusting terms.
“That chick happens to be my ward. A woman under my protection.”
“Whatever, dude. I get it. The cameras are still rolling and you’re keeping to character as the big bad duke but let’s get serious here for a minute. Your ward as you call her has no idea what the fuck is going on, does she? And if you want to keep it that way, you’re going to pay me the full contract and some extra for me to keep my mouth shut about whatever freaky shit you got going on.”
In order to keep Elizabeth uncertain of her reality and somewhat off-balance, I decided to hire all the actors and staff from the play to be my servants. From the moment they auditioned for the play, they understood there was the possibility of a much more lucrative position on the horizon, but all were made to sign an extremely thorough and intimidating nondisclosure agreement, swearing under pains of high penalties and damages that they would mention the project to no one, not even each other. While money was always a great motivator, I also made sure to only choose actors who had a past they wanted to hide, something serious that would lead to jail time or a complete upheaval of their personal lives. Money was good. Blackmail was better.
My plan was pitched as a completely immersive, intense reality show. Where every moment was filmed through hidden cameras to capture the true Victorian experience in real time. They were instructed to never break character, even when technically off duty and on their own personal time. They were not allowed to leave the estate or interact with anyone from the outside for one full year. To be honest, I was a little surprised how many actors did not hesitate to take me up on my offer. A testament to the power of money.
While I hid Elizabeth in the asylum after spiriting her away from that party, I brought the staff in. Before even setting foot on the estate, they all congregated at a nearby hotel I had purchased, where they surrendered all of their own modern belongings including cellphones and computers.
All of this would have the added benefit of convincing Elizabeth that her actual memories were just figments of an overtaxed mind. Everyone would look familiar from her former life but she should also recall them from the character names and costumes in the play that they were also wearing now on the estate. Soon she would have a hard time distinguishing her own memories between what was the play, what was her former life, and what was her new reality.
“I understand you completely. If you’ll follow Harris, he will take care of you.”
The footman turned, surprised to learn there was another person in the room. Suddenly some of his bravado left him, probably after he caught sight of Harris’ scarred face with its repeatedly broken nose.
Putting his hands up, he gave a nervous laugh. “Listen, we’re all friends here, right? I mean, there are cameras everywhere and I’m sure some TV crew is watching so…” His voice drifted off as he gazed up into each of the dark corners of the room, probably searching for a telltale red blinking light.
There were no cameras, no crew.
“You’re right. So, you have nothing to be concerned about,” I intoned lightly as Harris caught my knowing glance. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind Harris knew what my intentions were without my having to voice them.
I returned to my seat as Harris escorted the asshole out of my sight and off the property. Harris would be certain to put the fear of god… and worse, my retribution… in the man if he breathed a word of this to anyone.
Elizabeth was finally under my control.
I had planned too long for this day to let anything… or anyone… get in the way of what I wanted.
She was mine… and she would stay that way.
Chapter 12
Lizzie
When I awoke, I was alone and no longer bound to the bedposts. I was a little surprised how well I had slept considering the complete hot mess my life had become in the last twenty-four hours. Snuggling deeper under the heavy down covers, I tried to think things through. The problem was no matter I how spun things around in my head, nothing made sense.
The possibility that I was part of some extraordinarily elaborate plan of Richard’s to trap me in the Victorian era as his own personal sex slave was even more ridiculous than the idea that I had tripped into a worm hole on my way back from the cast party and somehow managed to travel back in time like that chick from that Scottish show. And yet, what other explanation was there?
Unless what everyone was telling me was the truth?
Was I insane?
Every living soul around me seemed to think so.
My reactions to Richard certainly were no
The problem was everything was so familiar and yet it wasn’t. The surroundings, the people, the clothes, they all felt right.
Before I could think further, there was a discreet knock on my door.
Annoyed, I realized my heart lurched at the idea it might be Richard. Then I realized that a man like him wouldn’t bother knocking. My thighs clenched slightly at the thought. Damn him! The thought of him being such an arrogant Neanderthal as to not even obey the most basic of social niceties should not be turning me on.
Mary entered, carrying a large heavy tray.
“Good morning, my lady.”
“Morning, Mary.”
“It’s Parker, my lady.”
“Right, yeah, sorry. Parker,” I added obligingly as I started to get out of bed.
“No, my lady. Please stay as you are and enjoy breaking your fast. I will tidy up the room.”
The tray had four little feet that fit snugly on either side of my thighs as she placed it on my lap. I couldn’t believe my eyes. A brightly polished sterling silver set was carefully arranged on the tray. The pot was elaborately engraved with fancy swirls and flowers. There was a pitcher of cream and a tiny pot of sugar. Hearty toast points were arranged upright in a little silver caddy. There was even a silver egg holder with one perfectly boiled egg. Arranged to the side, there were several small pastries with dishes of marmalade and clotted cream.
I had to admit it looked beautiful and terribly luxurious. I had never had breakfast in bed before. Realizing I hadn’t really eaten much at dinner, before Richard had… had seen to… punish me, I was looking forward to tucking into every delectable morsel. Carefully grasping the teapot handle, I tipped it over one delicate teacup that was decorated with thistles and roses.
Expecting tea—I was in England after all… at least I think I was still in England—I was surprised when a brew of dark chocolate poured out. This was definitely not the powdered stuff you made with hot water. It looked rich and creamy.
“Hot chocolate?”
Parker looked in my direction from across the room where she was busy fussing over the dresses in the wardrobe. At my question, she hurried over to the bed, a worried expression on her face.
Raising her hands in a placating gesture, she lowered her tone and spoke softly to me as if she were soothing a temper-prone child. “Lady Elizabeth, you usually prefer a warm chocolate to break your fast. You’ve often said tea was too bitter for your digestion this early in the morning. So, I’ve brought you what I’ve always brought you. I can have cook prepare something different if you wish it.”
Usually prefer.
Often.
Always.
Words of familiarity, of a settled routine, of knowledge of my likes and dislikes. The worst part was it was true. I didn’t like tea in the morning, always preferring the sweetness of hot chocolate. Yet, in all my conversations with Mary in the costume room during rehearsals and the run of the play, I cannot recall ever once telling her that. Were my memories false? Did that really happen? She was speaking as if she not only knew me but my likes and dislikes as well.
Deciding to play along for now, I said, “Of course, I must have forgotten. No, please do not bother cook.”
Keeping silent, I obediently sipped at my chocolate and ate marmalade toast as I wondered how far this fantasy was going to take me.
After she rang for a maid to clear away my tray, Parker set about dressing me for the day.
“His grace has stated you are declining all invitations from your friends for teas and outings till you are feeling more yourself so I have chosen one of your favorite at-home taffeta dresses for today, if you approve.”
There it was again.
Your friends.
Your favorite dress.
Words of familiarity, of a routine I couldn’t recall.
Parker held up a soft powder blue taffeta dress with delicate draping and closely pleated kilting on the hem and cuffs. I immediately recognized it as the dress I wore in the opening scene of the play but of course, like last night’s dinner dress, this was far more elegant and did not have that musty moth ball smell or pale yellow pit stains that were the norm for theater costumes.
After Parker laced me into a whalebone corset, I stepped into the dress before allowing Parker to raise it up over my hips so that I could place my arms into the sleeves. The dress buttoned down the front with a row of fifteen fabric-covered buttons and featured a few pale yellow rosettes closer to the waist. As I reached for the buttons, Parker gently pushed my hands away. After giving me a slightly admonishing look, she slowly and methodically began to fasten the dress.
With her concentrating on her task, I thought I could take her off-guard. “This reminds me of that time I was wearing this dress and Joe dropped that slice of pizza at my feet. You were so mad when he got marinara sauce on the trim.”
I watched her closely for even the slightest sign of recall, even a slight twitch of the lips.
Nothing.
“I’m sorry, my lady. I’m afraid I don’t know what a piz is or anyone named Joe.”
“It’s pizza, not piz.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Never mind,” I sighed.
Sitting dutifully at the vanity table, I watched as Parker warmed several curling tongs in the fire, before returning to my side to curl my hair into perfect sausage curls. She then swept up half my hair into a loose chignon secured at the top, with the rest of the curls cascading down my back.
After surveying her handiwork, she nodded and turned her attention to straightening up the room.
I stood… then realized I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do now.
Seeing my indecision, Parker came to my rescue.
“On days you do not have visiting obligations you usually like to stroll in the portrait gallery before retiring to the green room for the afternoon.”
There was that dreadful word again… usually.
“Yes, of course.”
I strode to the door but paused with my hand on the knob. I turned to Parker.
“Down the corridor, two flights down, then a right, then a left.”
“Thank you.”
Opening the door, I tentatively stepped out into the hallway. I would be lying if I didn’t say I was half expecting the hallway to look like my modern apartment, or a city street, or the backstage area of the theater. Wasn’t that how it always went in those time warp movies? The person would accidentally step out of the dimension into the real world for a moment before being sucked back into the fantasy.
Seeing the same lush carpet, candelabras, and oil paintings as I did the night before, I took a few steps in the direction Parker advised. As I walked, I passed several familiar faces, but with each occasion they kept their eyes lowered and only offered me a discreet nod or curtsy. Without exception each one was familiar whether they were part of the backstage crew, or an extra in the play, or someone I had just seen around the theater. Or at least I think they were familiar; things were starting to get a bit jumbled in my head. Sparing a glance over my shoulder, I decided to explore the estate a little before heading to the portrait gallery.
After arriving on the ground floor, I ducked into what looked to be a library. The place had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and lushly upholstered chairs with spindly little tables by their side strategically placed throughout the large room. In the center was a massive globe and a table covered with maps and atlases. Realizing this may be a good place to start, I began to examine the shelves carefully. Looking for a telltale diet book or something on computers tucked between the rows and rows of leather and gilt bindings.
Nothing.
Next I pushed the heavy velvet curtains aside and searched the walls for electrical outlets.
Still nothing.
What kind of place didn’t have electrical outlets? Even castles and old monasteries had electricity!
Concerned that someone, especially Richard, might come looking for me if I wasn’t where I usually was in the mornings, I decided to head for the portrait gallery.
The portrait gallery was a long promenade that took up a great deal of the east facing portion of the house. Floor-to-ceiling windows and French glass doors on the right let in the warmth and glow of the sun that shone on the portraits arranged to the left. The beautiful inlaid floor had been polished till it almost seemed like glass as it reflected the crystal chandeliers above. The occasional potted fern gave the gallery a breath of life and additional color. Slowly I walked from painting to painting. I felt as though I were in a museum before it opened.
Row upon row of stern, unsmiling faces peered down at me in disgust, as if they knew my thoughts and doubts and judged me for not accepting the luxury about me that their labors generations earlier no doubt had made possible.
Midway through the gallery, one painting in particular stopped me in my tracks.
Once more I stared at a familiar face… mine.
The sumptuous portrait in the gilt frame was of me.
My own green eyes stared back at me from a posed position in what looked to be a garden. The gown was stunning. As a fashion student I had always dreamed of wearing such an elegant piece. Perhaps they weren’t dreams? It had a daring off-the-shoulder neckline in a champagne chiffon with leaf-shaped embellishments that brought out the jade green of my eyes. I was staring boldly out from the painting as if I were daring my future self to deny its existence.
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