What Price Love?

by Stephanie Laurens

  His voice was cool, detached. No hint of humanity colored his tone.

  “You’re…?” It was too difficult to manage whole sentences.

  “Indeed. I’m the one he vanquished.”

  She could feel his eyes on her, cold, assessing. “So…?”

  “So now I’m ruined!” His façade cracked; emotion spilled through—fury, malevolence, naked hate. Suddenly, he was raging. “Completely and utterly! Like many of my peers, I’ve lived my life on tick, so the fact their bills haven’t been paid hasn’t immediately alerted my creditors. By the time they realize that this time is different, that this time they won’t be paid at all, I’ll be far away. However, I’m not delighted to be forced to leave my life here, so comfortable and accommodating, and disappear. Yet that—” His voice cracked as he spat the word, dripping with malice.

  He paused; Pris heard him draw a deep breath, sensed him struggle to resume the mild, debonair mask he showed the world. “Yet that”—his voice was once again a smooth, melodic, well-conditioned drawl—“is what your fiancé has reduced me to. I’ll have to scurry off to the Continent, and live hand to mouth until I can find some gullible soul to supply my needs. But that degrading scenario is not, in itself, why you’re here. You see, now I haven’t even the illusion of funds, I can’t gamble.”

  Pris frowned.

  “No—not the horses. Cards are my vice, and a very expensive mistress she’s proved to be. But I could keep her, could feed and clothe her as long as I could tap funds from somewhere. And yes, that’s where the horses came in. I care nought for the racetrack, but I found it, and those drawn to it, so useful. So easily twisted to my purpose. It was all working so well, until…until your fiancé, and if I have it correctly, your brother, intervened.”

  His voice had altered on that last phrase. Pris fought to suppress a shiver. Was he taking her with him to the Continent?

  She gathered enough breath, enough courage to mumble, “So me?”

  A long silence ensued, then he said, “So you, my dear, are my revenge.”

  In the carriage behind, Dillon reached up and rapped on the trap door. When it opened, he asked, “How far ahead are they?”

  “ ’Bout a hundred yard, maybe more.”

  “Get as close as you can.”

  “Aye, sir. Joe always takes the route down Whitehall—I’ll be able to close the gap then.” The trap fell back into place.

  They were rolling down Pall Mall, still slow as the hackney dodged the carriages of gentlemen out for a night in the hells.

  “Tothill—that’s the stews, isn’t it?”

  Dillon nodded. “One of the many.”

  “Why there?”

  He hesitated, then answered truthfully, “I don’t like to think.”

  The journey seemed interminable, but after heading down Cock-spur Street, the hackney wheeled into Whitehall and picked up pace.

  They rattled along at a good clip, then had to slow, with much cursing from the driver, as Westminster loomed on their left and the hackney had to negotiate the largely pedestrian traffic thronging the square before the Guild Hall.

  At last they pulled free, but the cursing continued. Dillon risked standing, and pushed up the trap. “What is it?”

  “Lost ’im!” the driver wailed. “I know he went up ’ere, but he’s turned off somewheres.”

  Dillon swore and leaned out of the window to the right. “Slow down—we’ll search.”

  Rus hung out of the other window as they rolled slowly along, but the bulk of Westminster Abbey blocked that side of the street. Then the abbey ended, and he peered into the night. A street opened ahead. As they neared, the driver called, “Should I head up to Tothill, then?”

  “Wait!” Rus stared. “Down there—is that them?”

  “That’s him!” The driver swung his horse around, and they clattered down.

  “Right two ahead,” Dillon called.

  “I see him.” The driver took the turn too fast; he slowed, corrected, then swore volubly again. “Gone again.”

  “Search!” Dillon ordered.

  They headed into a maze of narrow, cluttered lanes and fetid alleyways. It had always struck Dillon as one of fate’s ironies that some of the worst stews in the capital existed in the shadow of the country’s most venerated abbey. They quartered the area, the black carriage now directly behind them; they occasionally stopped to listen, and heard the clop of the other hackney’s horse, but never spotted it. They reached one edge of the densely packed area; the driver slowed.

  He leaned around the edge of the box to speak to Dillon. “We’ll never find him this way, guv, but where he’s gone in, he has to come out, and I know where he’ll do that. Do y’want to try that way?”

  Dillon hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

  Looking across the carriage, he met Rus’s eyes. “Better to risk being a few minutes behind, than losing her trail altogether.”

  Grim-faced, Rus nodded.

  The driver drove back to the first corner they’d turned down. He’d barely pulled to the side of the road, when he called, “ ’Ere he comes now! Hey, Joe—pull up!” To make sure of it, the driver angled his horse across the street.

  His mate drew up alongside the black carriage amid a welter of colorful curses. Dillon jumped down to the street. Rus hit the cobbles on the other side of the hackney.

  “ ’Ere.” Joe eyed them warily. “What’s up?” Belatedly, he touched his cap. “Gents?”

  A smile was beyond Dillon. “You just carried a fare into the stews. A man and a lady—am I right?”

  “Aye.” Joe glanced at his friend.

  “Just answer them. They’re not after you.”

  “Was the lady struggling?” Rus asked.

  Joe blinked. “No…well, not so’s you’d notice. She had this thing over ’er head—she weren’t fighting the gent, but then she couldn’t, could she?”

  “Where did you leave them?” Dillon rapped out, hideously conscious of the minutes ticking by.

  “Where?” Joe stared at Dillon, then looked at his friend. “Ah…”

  Suddenly, a shadow loomed at Dillon’s shoulder. Dillon glanced at the newcomer, who’d approached on catlike feet. The man stood a head taller than Dillon, and was half again as broad, every inch of it muscle and bone. His hands were hams, his eyes small; he leaned close to tell Joe, “Mr. Tranter says as you should tell the gentl’man anything he wants to know.”

  Eyes like saucers, Joe just nodded.

  The apparition waited, then inquired in the same innocuously dulcet tones, “What, then? Cat got your tongue?”

  Joe nearly swallowed the appendage in question. He coughed, helplessly looked at Dillon. “Betsy Miller’s place. That’s where I set them down.”

  Dillon glanced at the giant. “Betsy Miller’s?”

  “It’s a brothel,” the giant helpfully supplied. “A high-class one. Caters for the likes o’ the pair o’you.” His nod indicated Dillon and Rus.

  Over the back of Joe’s horse, Dillon and Rus stared at each other.

  The giant nudged Dillon. “Reckon you’ll want to get on your way, like. Mr. Tranter, me, and the boys’ll be right behind yer.”

  Dillon slammed the carriage door seconds later.

  23

  Still blind and effectively dumb, Pris stumbled along what she assumed was a corridor at the top of a long flight of narrow stairs. Behind and to her side, Wallace paced, steering her, one hand wrapped about her arm.

  “Here we are.”

  He halted her, reached across her to open a door, then pushed her through it.

  She staggered over the threshold; instantly, the acrid smell she’d been aware of from the moment she’d been bundled into the building intensified. Sweat, men, and a peculiar mustiness. Starved of air, she thought she might swoon. Swaying, she held her breath, and fought the blackness back. This was not the time for sensitivity. She was going to need every ounce of wit, strength, and courage she could muster to escape what ever Wa
llace had planned.

  She felt him tug at the knots securing the silk covering her face. An instant later, the folds loosened, then fell. While Wallace unraveled the long band, drawing it free, she licked her dry lips, then blinked and looked around.

  At first glance, she thought she’d been mistaken in her impressions and Wallace had brought her up the back stairs of some mansion; the room looked like an opulently furnished bedchamber, with a large tester bed complete with red velvet hangings and crimson satin coverlet, with bloodred, embossed wallpaper on the walls. Then she blinked again, and her focus sharpened.

  The velvet was thin, cheap, the satin tawdry and stained. The bed appeared solid enough, but was old and much scarred. The linen covering the pillows was worn and yellowed, the lace edgings spotted and torn.

  All her impressions coalesced into one picture.

  Wallace freed her hands.

  She spun around, but he stood squarely between her and the door. “Where is this?”

  Her voice, at least, was restored, her tone firm and sure.

  Wallace was watching her closely. “This establishment is popularly known as Mrs. Miller’s Sanctuary.”

  She arched a brow, openly suspicious.

  Wallace smiled. “Indeed. Mrs. Miller is an abbess, and this is a sanctuary not for the girls who serve here, but for the gentlemen who visit to indulge their taste for females in various—shall we say esoteric?—ways. For instance, one of the specialties of the house is the deflowering of gently reared virgins. A surprising number fall on hard times, and find themselves here, selling their wares. You, of course, are hardly a pauper, but”—he shrugged—“you are here.”

  Pris quelled a shiver. She wasn’t a virgin, but she couldn’t see how that was going to help her. Stepping back, she folded her arms and glanced again at her surroundings. No door but the one beyond Wallace; no window at all.

  Dillon would come after her; Rus, too. She knew it in her heart, felt it in her soul. She had to keep safe until they reached her.

  She looked at Wallace. “Why here? Why this? As a means of revenging yourself on Dillon and Rus, surely it lacks a certain something? Directness comes to mind.”

  Wallace’s almost-smile chilled. “Au contraire, my dear. I flatter myself that the revenge I’ve planned will strike your fiancé and your brother where it will hurt the most—and they’ll be helpless to protect themselves, or you.” He shifted, viewing her, letting his gaze rove over her, not lasciviously but in cold calculation, with no more emotion than if he were assessing a side of beef.

  “Consider, if you will”—his eyes rose to trap hers; his were pale, leached of recognizable feeling—“how much your fiancé has now invested in you. His love.” Wallace softly snorted in derision. “His pride, too, the fool. Regardless, you’ve come to mean a great deal to him. As for your brother—he’s not just your brother, he’s your twin. More, you’re his twin sister—his feelings for you have to run deep, have to be a part of how he sees himself. As with Caxton, you’re a part of your brother.”

  Wallace’s expression grew gloating. “What do you think it will do to them to know that because of their actions against me, they’ll have brought about your ruination? More, your defilement?”

  Pris stared at him and tried to block out his words. There was no point thinking about the pain that would cause Dillon and Rus; if she did, it would paralyze her…perhaps what Wallace was counting on?

  Then again, she’d seen no indication that he saw her as anything other than an exceptionally beautiful but otherwise typical young lady. One who would swoon and collapse, rather than fight.

  Wallace continued, his voice his smooth drawl; he was in control and knew it. “What I’ve planned for you, my dear, will be an excellent revenge on both Caxton and your brother. It will damage beyond bearing something they hold dear, in a way neither will ever be able to put right. It will haunt them all their days—they’ll carry the guilt to their graves.”

  His eyes gleamed; he seemed to taste, to savor, the malice in his words. “Even with the backing of their powerful connections, they’ll be helpless to repair what I’ve arranged to break.” His gaze, cold and hard, fixed on her; his lips curved. “You.”

  She inwardly shook, but forced herself to ignore the room about her, to lift her chin defiantly. “What have you planned?”

  He seemed amenable to explaining himself, and at some length. The longer he stood speaking with her…

  With a wave, he indicated their surroundings. “As I mentioned, this establishment caters to a certain class of gentlemen. Those with money, and thus status. I’ve arranged for you to be the evening’s entertainment for four young and exceedingly difficult to please bloods. Mrs. Miller was quite happy to help—she likes to keep her customers satisfied. And they’ll be excellently well satisfied with the sport you’ll provide them. All four, you see, are aristocrats, vicious young sods partial to the worst of perversions. They’ll have seen you gracing tonnish dance floors, and will have lusted after your body from afar. All will have dreamed of having that luscious body to do with as they please…to night, those dreams are going to come true.”

  His smile took on an edge; his eyes glittered. “Do fight them—they’ll enjoy raping you all the more.”

  He turned and went to the door; pausing with his hand on the latch, he looked back. “If you survive the night, I’ll make sure Caxton and your brother know where to find you. My only regret is that I dare not dally to witness their soul-tearing grief, but I’m sure you—and they—will understand.”

  A coldly triumphant glint in his eye, he swept her a mocking bow. “I’ll bid you a good evening, Lady Priscilla.”

  Pris watched him leave; she was trying so hard not to imagine what he’d planned, her mind wouldn’t function—she couldn’t find any words, any more questions to delay him.

  The latch clicked shut, and broke the spell. She dragged in a breath, and started toward the door—only to pull up, and step back as the door swung inward again.

  Revealing one, then three more gentlemen. As Wallace had warned, they were of her class, with the telltale planes of cheeks, nose, and chin, the heavy-lidded eyes that immediately fixed on her, that roved freely over her figure as she backed; their every stalking movement screamed their self-confidence, their belief that they could seize and have what ever they wished.

  All four were expensively but rakishly dressed. Their faces already bore the stamp of dissipation, along with lascivious sneers.

  Their expressions openly and lecherously cruel, openly expectant, they moved into the room. She backed until her legs hit the end of the bed. She searched their faces and found no hope there; they’d been drinking but were very far from drunk. Then she looked into their eyes, and saw malice and a species of hate staring back at her.

  She knew, then, that they fully intended the next hours to be worse than her worst nightmare.

  The hackney driver hauled back on his reins; the carriage slowed.

  Dillon was out of the door and on the cobbles before the horses came to a stamping halt. Rus tumbled out behind him.

  The street was empty. “Which house?” Dillon looked up at the driver.

  With his whip, the driver pointed to a narrow building on the opposite side of the street. “That’s Betsy Miller’s.”

  Dillon raced for the door, Rus on his heels.

  The black carriage that had followed them from Mayfair passed; it pulled up a little way along. Dillon didn’t spare it a glance. Reaching the door, he pounded on the panels.

  Pleading wasn’t going to work. Neither was screaming; as she watched them eyeing her, smiling with anticipation, Pris sensed that they’d like that, that sobbing and crying would only spur them on.

  She’d backed as far as she could; there was nowhere she could run. No better place to stand; at least she had space to either side and some support at her back.

  They’d closed the door; now they doffed their coats, tossing them onto a rickety chair in a corner.
Two of them started to roll up their sleeves.

  “Well, now, Lady Priscilla.”

  The lout she instinctively knew was the leader—the dominant one, the one most important to distract—approached, weight balanced, ready to catch her should she try to bolt.

  Years of wrestling with her brothers came back to her. She shifted her weight, her mind racing, assessing.

  Four—at least two too many. But…

  “Lovely Lady Priscilla,” the leader sneered.

  The others spread out, flanking him—and her. But it was the leader she watched.

  He continued, his well-bred accent purring, “With that lovely mouth, and those luscious breasts, and those long, long legs, and that sweet little arse…my how you’re going to entertain us to night.”

  His voice changed over the last sentence, giving her a second’s warning.

  She braced as he and one other lunged and grabbed her arms; laughing at her attempts to resist, they effortlessly hoisted her up and back onto the bed.

  Pris fought like a heathen, kicking and hitting—overconfident, they hadn’t bothered to secure her limbs. The thin coverlet on which they held her down, the reek that came off it, engulfing her like a cloud, acted like a potion; a strength she hadn’t known she possessed flooded her.

  They cursed, exerted their strength. She bit one hand, kicked out on the other side—and felt the toe of her shoe sink into her target.

  The leader howled, cupped himself, then collapsed. Her struggles shoved him off the bed; he landed with a thump.

  The unexpected event transfixed the others for an instant. Pris took aim, and drove her fist up under the aristocratic nose of her second attacker.

  He hadn’t seen the blow coming; he took the full brunt, shrieked in pain as blood spurted. He clapped his hand to his face, but immediately pulled it away, stared in horror at his bloodied palm, then his face blanched and his eyes rolled back. He fell—across Pris, pinning her as she struggled to lever up onto her elbows.

  The remaining two snarled. Aggression was suddenly thick in the air.

  Pris could taste it, feel it choking her as the other two seized her arms—this time holding them down as they clambered up on their knees on the bed, using their weight to subdue her.