by Lucy Wild
“Never had no one in there, neither, I bet.” The man leaned down towards her chest, opening his mouth as he moved towards the nipple on her right breast. “Do not move,” he hissed before taking it into his mouth.
Eleanor shuddered with revulsion, feeling his tongue slide over it. From the corner of her eye came a flicker of movement and she looked up in time to see a figure dart silently towards her. Before she could blink, something swung towards the man’s head. There was a solid thud and he slumped down to the ground, the pistol falling away from him.
Eleanor screamed and jumped backwards, looking down at the man who lay unmoving at her feet.
“Are you all right?” the figure before her asked.
Looking up in confusion, Eleanor saw an elderly woman standing there. She had moved incredibly fast for someone her age. And what was that in her hand? “Did you hit him with a frying pan?” she asked in amazement.
The old woman looked at the pan and then back at Eleanor. “It did the trick,” she shrugged. “Now come on, let’s get you dressed and get going before he wakes up.”
Eleanor dressed without taking her eyes off her attacker. “We should shoot him,” she said as the old woman picked up the pistol. “Should we not?”
“I would not be so hasty,” the woman replied, passing Eleanor her coat. “Becoming a murderer is a big commitment.”
“But he assaulted me. I shudder to think what he might have done if you had not come.”
The man began to stir, his arm moving as he let out a low groan.
“Come on,” the woman said, pulling Eleanor from the copse towards the road. “I presume this is your horse.”
“Indeed. Poor Galahad. You do not know what is happening, do you?”
“Will he take two riders?”
“What? Yes, of course.”
Eleanor climbed on first and the woman leapt up behind her with surprising haste. She felt the woman’s arms slide round her waist and felt a sudden strong urge to push her away. Thoughts of what had just happened kept coming back to her as they rode on. She did her best to ignore them but the touch of the woman behind her kept her mind from forgetting the hideous event that had just occurred. “We should have shot him,” she called back. “It was what he deserved.”
“I know much more than you about revenge,” the woman replied. “You did the right thing, letting him live.”
But as they rode towards Pickering, Eleanor had her doubts. He was free to continue roaming the countryside and no doubt he would soon be stripping some other poor innocent woman. The town came slowly into view as Eleanor did her best to wipe from her mind the thought of that man touching her in the way he had. But that was a task far easier said than done and she found herself replaying the events over and over, her skin crawling with disgust, both with him, and with herself.
Chapter 8
“What makes you think you’re a suitable person to work at the Jet Club?”
The woman sitting opposite William seemed surprised by the question. “You have heard of me before?”
William shook his head. “Afraid not.”
“You have never heard of Isabella Constantine? Star of the Divine Retribution show, performer with the legendary Lizzie Bunting?”
“You’ll have to forgive me, Miss Constantine. I have not long been in this business.”
“I see.” She narrowed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, examining William.
It was quite an unusual experience for the Duke of Ryedale. Not only was he working for a living but here was a complete stranger looking down her nose at him. He almost laughed as the woman sighed and shook her head.
“Perhaps you might demonstrate some of your skills for me?”
“I must say I am surprised. For five years, the Jet Club has courted me to come and perform here and now I grace you with my presence and what do you do? You expect me to audition? Me!”
“Five minutes should be sufficient,” William replied, ignoring her outburst. “I must ensure you are the right sort of fit for us here.”
When William had begun working at the Jet Club, he had not expected to end up interviewing potential acts. But Julian seemed to take his responsibilities as club owner less seriously than might be expected of him. At that moment he was down in one of the dressing rooms, giving an intimate tour of the facilities to two glamorous young women who had arrived an hour before.
“I have a Miss Constantine coming at one,” he had said to William upon arrival that morning. “Be a help and interview her for me.”
“Of course, Julian,” William had replied. He did not ask why but Julian explained anyway. He told him in such great detail William was glad to escape in time to tidy the office ready for Isabella’s arrival.
She looked every inch the star but William had no idea who she was, nor what was contained in her apparently infamous act. “I shall need to make use of you,” Isabella said as she stood up and opened the office door. “I did not expect to need my assistant to need to travel with me.” She continued to talk as they made their way to the stage. “I expected this to be a formality, get the contract signed and get on with the show.” She stopped at the edge of the orchestra pit and looked closely at William. “Or is this something you do with all the new girls? A perk of the job perhaps?”
“I can assure you nothing is further from my mind,” William replied. “I am merely carrying out the wishes of my employer.”
“Of course you are. Well, come on then.” She walked up the steps at the edge of the stage and William followed, having no idea what was about to happen. He had seen Lady Jet on stage though and after the things she had done, nothing would surprise him anymore.
Isabella threw off her coat and hat, revealing the most bizarre costume underneath. She was dressed as if she were an infant. Her hair was tied in bunches, something William had failed to notice during the interview. Her dress was obscenely short, barely brushing her thighs with elaborate lace frills. It was cut low to reveal her cleavage, but other than that would have been more suitable in a nursery or school than anywhere else. White socks covered her legs to the knee and as she spun round to face William, she had a dummy in her mouth.
“What is this?” he asked in disbelief.
“This is my act,” she replied, pulling the dummy out to speak. “You really haven’t heard of me, have you?”
William shook his head. “What do you need me to do?”
“Well, papa,” she grinned. “I have been ever so bad today and you know what happens to bad girls, don’t you?”
William shook his head.
Isabella pouted as she looked at him. “They get spanked,” she said as if talking to an imbecile. Leaving him stood bewildered in the middle of the stage she walked over to the wings and dragged out a chair, pointing to it. “Sit down, papa,” she said.
William did so and watched the strangest thing he had ever seen. All of a sudden, Isabella was not acting like a mature confident adult. She seemed to have regressed, skipping around the stage and twirling her bunches in her fingers. She spent several minutes in her routine before suddenly stopping dead as if told off by some unheard voice. Her face changed, filling with fear and dread as she slowly approached William.
Tentatively, she lifted her dress and turned away from him, bending forwards to lower her knickers and ensuring he had the perfect view of her most intimate area as she reached all the way to the ground before she stood up, kicking away her underwear and draping herself over her lap, her posterior pointing upwards towards him. “I am sorry, papa,” she said in a fearful voice. “I promise I will not do it again.”
William felt himself stiffening at the sight before him, her peachy round buttocks almost asking to be spanked. Unable to stop himself, he raised a hand and brought it down hard upon her bottom. She let out a yelp of surprise and a genuine tear fell from her eye.
By the time he had spanked her a dozen times, he knew exactly why she was so famous. She was intoxicating to watch, the way sh
e reacted, the way she moved, she would have the entire audience rapt, all of them aching to do what he was doing.
“Good enough for you?” she asked, leaping up from his lap. William was unable to reply, at a loss for words as she gathered up her knickers and stepped back into them. In another few seconds she had her coat and hat back on and it was as if he had dreamt the entire experience. There was the mature confident woman who had entered the Jet Club just a short time ago.
William was still struggling for words when there was an almighty crash at the front door. He leapt to his feet in time to see a mob of furious people hurtling their way into the club. “Where is he?” one of them shouted.
“Who?” William asked, taking a step slowly backwards towards the wings.
“Julian,” the man at the front of the group asked.
“I know you,” someone behind him pointed. “You’re the one who hit my brother.”
“Him?” The man at the front looked surprised. “You said he was a brute who attacked you three. He looks like he could not knock the pollen from a flower.”
“Let’s get him,” someone in the group shouted and they charged. William shoved Isabella into the wings and followed her into the bowels of the club. They ran along the first corridor they entered, the echoing voice of the men behind him. Up ahead of them a door opened and Julian emerged, lipstick marks all over his face. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“The Jones brothers want a catch up,” William shouted. “Run!”
Julian’s two friends emerged a moment later and they made quite the sight, running past Julian towards the back door of the club. “Wait up,” Julian shouted. “Don’t go.”
They were already outside and in seconds so were William, Julian, and Isabella. Behind them echoed the noise of the mob, growing closer. Isabella vanished down a side street and William twisted left after her, shouting for Julian to follow them.
The club owner did not hear, running on towards the harbour. William saw the mob run past a moment later, hot on his heels. He followed at a distance, watching as Julian leapt over the harbour wall and dived straight into the sea.
The mob pulled up short at the edge of the harbour and looked down, evidently searching for Julian whose body was nowhere to be seen. They spun round and William darted behind a cart, peering out as they walked away. “The law’ll be after us for killing him,” one said as they passed by.
“You keep your mouth shut,” someone else snapped. “No one knows anything, right?”
William waited until they had vanished before stepping out. As he did so, Isabella appeared beside him. Together they ran over to the harbour and looked down. There was no sign of Julian.
“Drowned?” Isabella asked.
“I do not know,” William replied. “I only saw him jump in.”
A few days later, William called the club staff together for a meeting. He sat on the edge of the stage as they gathered before him. “It’s been three days,” William said once they had all quietened down. “It seems unlikely that Julian is coming back. I think we must all accept the fact he is gone.”
“Is he dead?” someone shouted.
“What do we do now?” someone else called out.
“I don’t think we have much choice but to close the club. It can’t run without him.”
“You could run it,” a voice said from the back of the room. William looked and saw Isabella walking forwards. “You can’t just close the Jet Club. It’s an institution.”
“But…”
She waved a hand to silence him. “There’s no proof Julian’s dead. You can just look after it until he reappears. We don’t lose our jobs, we’re happy, our clientele is happy. Everyone’s happy.”
William looked around the room. Could he run the place? Should he run the place? He had been doing most of the work since he had arrived, Julian spending more and more time giving the tours he was so fond of providing to the prettiest women he could reel in.
He looked out at Isabella. She looked back. “I’ll do it,” he said at last. “But only until Julian comes back. Okay?”
“I think that calls for a drink to celebrate,” Isabella said. “And as the new boss, you’re buying.”
Chapter 9
Eleanor did not find her sister waiting for her in Pickering. Instead she found another letter. She had left her horse outside The Black Bull, entering with her rescuer to find the place half dead. “Where is everyone?” Eleanor asked as she approached the bar.
“First train’s about to set off,” the landlord replied. “They’ve all gone to watch it go.”
“What about you? Did you not want to see it?”
He shrugged. “I’d go see the last one go.”
“Not a fan of trains?”
“Went straight through my brother’s farm. Cut it clean in half. It can go hang as far as I’m concerned.”
“I see.” She handed over a couple of coins. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone here at noon. I don’t suppose you have the time at all?”
“Five past twelve,” he replied, glancing down at his pocket watch.
“Has anyone been in asking after me? Eleanor Risby?”
“No one been in today but you two.”
“Are you sure?”
He scowled at her. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Right, thank you.”
She sat by the window and the woman sat opposite her. “So you’re Eleanor Risby?”
Eleanor nodded before realising something. “I am so sorry. You rescued me and I do not even know your name.”
“Georgia Shaw.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Shaw.”
“It’s Miss.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Miss Shaw.”
“That is quite all right. I was married, a long time ago. Still, that is in the past. Let us instead talk of the future. What is in yours, Miss Risby? Did I hear you tell the landlord you are here to meet with your sister.”
“Yes. Here, read this.”
She handed over the letter and Georgia read it quickly. “I think I know where your sister is.”
“What, where?”
“I think she is waiting for you in Whitby.”
“What on earth makes you say that?”
“Look at the date on the letter.”
“Twelfth of August.”
“Do you see?”
“I am afraid I do not follow you.”
“When did you receive this letter? It is some time since August, is it not?”
“I still do not follow.”
“Your sister tells you that you are in danger. No doubt she feared the letter may be intercepted. Thus, she has hidden the information she needed you to have.”
Eleanor frowned, reading the letter through again. “I declare I am quite lost in all this.”
Georgia smiled. “You were told to come to Pickering. The numbers at the top are twelve, zero, and eight. Why not write the twelfth of August?”
“I do not know.”
“Because 12.08 is the time the first ever train leaves the station. She intended for you to be in Pickering to catch the train to Whitby. I am certain of it.”
“But if that is true, why not just say so?”
The sound of a piercing train whistle filled the air, making Eleanor jump. “Looks like it may be academic anyway,” Georgia said. “The train is leaving.”
“But if you worked it out, whoever is after me may have also worked it out.”
“I doubt it else there would have been a reception party here ready for you.”
Eleanor leapt to her feet. “But they would seek me at home. My aunt and uncle. They could be in danger too. How could I have been so selfish as to leave them?”
She was already running for the door, Georgia calling her back. “Wait, there is another train this afternoon. We could be in Whitby by the end of the day.”
“I am sorry. I cannot do it. I am sorry to have caused you this trouble but I must go home.”
She untied Galahad before Georgia emerged from The Black Bull. Seconds later she was riding like the wind, racing for home. How could I have been so stupid, she thought. If I am sought, they will look for me at home before anywhere else. I must warn uncle and aunt.
She was only too aware that they had told her the letter was a joke. But what was that niggling feeling she had felt at the time? That they were hiding something perhaps?
She did not slow until she passed through the gate of her home, noting with dismay that it was hanging open and the gatekeeper was nowhere to be seen. She brought Galahad to a halt by the front door which also hung open. Something was wrong. She could feel it in the air.
She had barely stepped into the hallway when she saw them. At first they looked as if they might be asleep, draped across each other in the doorway of the study. But as she drew nearer the truth emerged. They were sleeping in a slumber from which they would never awaken. Blood had pooled under them both, running in a trickle towards the wall where it vanished under the skirting board.
“No,” Eleanor gasped as she ran to them, kneeling beside them. She had barely brushed her hand over the cheek of her aunt when she heard a noise upstairs. Someone was searching her room. She turned and ran, making it outside just as a set of footsteps descended the stairs. Glancing behind her, she saw a figure with a gun pointed directly at her.
She let out a shriek as the gun went off, a section of wall beside her vanishing in a plume of plaster. Her ears rang as she caught hold of Galahad just as he began to gallop away from the noise. She hung onto his reins, scraping along the ground as another shot followed her out into the grounds.
Using all of her strength, she managed to get one foot into the stirrup as Galahad ran on and just as he reached the gate at the edge of the estate, she made it up onto his back. He did not slow until they were far from the house, fear of the noise of gunfire overriding his fatigue.
Another mile down the road, she saw a figure on horseback approaching, waving at her. She squinted as she realised it was Georgia. “What happened?” Georgia called out to her as she pulled up on Galahad’s reins. “Are you safe?”
