by Gini Rifkin
“Yes, Lucien. He’ll be here soon,” she reassured, scrambling to her feet. “I’ve never known him to miss payment for services rendered.”
****
Beatrice hurried toward the inner rooms of the Abbey. She wasn’t hungry, but disobeying Lucien in his present mood would only court trouble.
Thankful she didn’t have to cook over an open fire, she puttered around the updated kitchen area, daydreaming about who might have lived in this ancient pile of stone. Did royalty, or even a princess, stay within the walls of this fortress? Who had called it home?
What she wouldn’t give for a little house of her own, with a garden, and an apple tree. She slammed a bowl down on the table. What use did it serve to think about what might have been and what never could be? Why imagine a world she would never know?
With a sigh of resignation, she added more sticks of wood to the cook stove then poured herself a jigger of gin. Stirring the kettle of soup, a bittersweet smile played crossed her lips. Old man gin was her friend, and opium her comfort. That’s what she cared about now, thanks to Lucien.
She must be gone ’round the bend to stay with him. Yet he was handsome in a terrifying way. All that long blonde hair, and those mesmerizing eyes. Pale blue eyes—the color of winter ice. Eyes that could look straight through a person, and make you feel afraid as they pierced your soul and sought out your weakness. The only time she remembered seeing tenderness in Lucien’s face was when he was asleep. Yet, as frightening as Lucien could be, Beatrice knew she wouldn’t leave him. And it wasn’t just because she loved him. Where else could she go? She had no education. True, he didn’t love her, using her only for his own satisfaction. But he kept her in pretty clothes, gin, and opium—and occasionally she was shown a small token of human kindness.
She rubbed at the back of her neck. It still burned where he had twisted her hair. Lucien’s sexual appetite was what scared her most. Sometimes it was like being taken by Satan himself. That’s why he plied her with drugs, to make her more compliant to his demands and desire. That’s how her opium habit started. Later he would call her slut and worse, blaming her for not refusing, not preventing him from following through with his wayward compulsions. No doubt it was easier to hate her than himself.
She should run away—far, far away—but she never would. She needed the drugs and a full bottle of flash lightning. And she wanted Lucien, no matter how much he hurt her.
****
Keeping to the dense woods near the Abbey, Bartholomew guided his horse in a circuitous route then gave the agreed-upon call. When Lucien stepped into view and issued the obligatory “all’s clear” wave, he urged the animal into the open and cut across the short expanse of meadow.
To keep their association private, they often met at the Abbey, cooking up nefarious plans and business schemes, or just passing time unobserved. Not looking forward to the upcoming encounter, he took his time to dismount, loosen the girth on the saddle, and turn the animal out to graze. Tired and covered with road dust, he ambled closer. Lucien appeared to be in one of his notorious temperamental moods. It would no doubt escalate to roaring ugly when he heard how things had gone wrong in America.
“Where the hell have you been?” Lucien began, before Bartholomew could even catch his breath.
“Don’t be gettin’ in a lather,” he snapped back. “I left the ship at Weymouth when they made port to unload the mail packets. Then I come overland so’s it took me a while longer than expected.”
“Why the need for such an elaborate itinerary?”
“Because a certain Captain Garrison was also aboard ship, and I didn’t want him seein’ me make for London.”
“Yes, I heard you bungled the job from tip to tail. What the deuce happened?”
Bloody hell. The cove had already found out. “Well now, Lucien, I’m trail weary and a might hungry,” he pointed out, hoping to forestall the abuse he knew was coming.
“You deserve a flogging rather than food,” Lucien railed, “but come along to the kitchen.”
Grimsby followed meekly, although what he wanted was to punch Lucien in the head. The puff didn’t have enough guts or muscle to do his own dirty work, and if things happened to go wrong, he bitched and moaned as if he could have done any better. It weren’t a perfect world, a body had to expect a setback now and again.
****
Hearing their approach, Beatrice hid the glass of gin and jumped to busy herself at the stove.
“Beatsie, old nub.” Bartholomew gave her a thwack on the rump. “How are you, girl? You got some decent victuals for your dear brother? My stomach’s near rubbin’ my backbone.”
Beatrice couldn’t help but be pleased to see her brother. He was her only kin, and in his own way looked after her.
“Hello, Barty.” She gave him a smile. “I’ve got a roasted chicken, veggie soup, and white bread. And there’s a pot o’ tea already on the table.”
“Praise be. That bow wow mutton they served wayside, gave me the mullygrubs.”
She watched Lucien take down the jug of rum and two glasses. If the drink mellowed his mood, they might spend another afternoon and evening in the country before returning to the crowded smog-filled streets of London. Maybe even stay overnight.
She was about to join the men at the table, but Lucien caught her by the arm. “Here love,” he said, handing her an opium cigarette. “Why don’t you go relax in the afternoon sun? You fixed us a fine bit of lunch. You deserve a sit down.”
The smile on Lucien’s face was innocent, but his painful grip on her wrist told her not to disobey. She grabbed the offering—it was better than food. When he released her, she ambled down the corridor and turned right as if to go to the courtyard. Lucien was watching, she could feel his gaze on her backside. Once beyond his view, she crept around the back hallway to the larder.
The kitchen and pantry shared a common wall. Pulling down a bag of sugar and shifting a sack of potatoes revealed a small hole through which she could see and hear the men sitting by the stove.
“Now, what the hell happened?” Lucien growled. “Why is this Garrison fellow still walking upright?”
“Things went a wee bit awry,” her brother hedged.
“A wee bit? You botched the whole job, you cretin.”
“It weren’t my fault. And I had extra work on account of a sailor what got in the way at a crucial moment. Don’t worry,” he soothed, with a raised hand. “That one won’t talk. He’s boxed up pretty as you please. But I was hopin’ for a bonus for the extra effort.”
“I’m debating on paying you at all, and you’ve the gall to ask for extra?” The heated glare accompanying Lucien’s words could have melted block ice.
“You weren’t there, you don’t know how hard it was to pull off what you wanted, especially with all them people millin’ about. And I’m getting older,” Barty admitted. “I need the money for my retiring years. Much as I’d like to, I can’t afford to do work for free out of the goodness of me heart.”
“Do stop carrying on. You’re a necessary evil in my scheme of things. I’ll make it worth your while. You could have at least made sure the partnership papers went unsigned. Or at least retrieved them.”
“But I saw the documents blow off the dock into the bay.”
“They were ceremonial, just for show. The real ones were signed the night before.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“No doubt you will be. Now spill the particulars,” Lucien ordered.
Spellbound, Beatrice listened as Barty explained about the crate he’d rigged and the poor sailor who had tried to interfere.
“At the last minute,” he said, lighting his pipe and blowing a cloud, “some little squeaker ran up distracting the Captain. And what with the wind a-blowin’ as it were, the crate missed the mark, injuring the girl’s parents instead. That Garrison fellow, he’s got the luck of a cat. Didn’t even suffer a scratch.”
“Yes,” Lucien agreed, “I met the good Captain a few
days ago at Royston Hall. Imagine my surprise. He’s poking his American nose into the company business and offering aid and comfort to Trelayne.”
“You’re a solicitor, ain’t there nothing legal you can do?”
“Philip’s power of attorney is indisputable, only the girl can act as proxy in the shipping line. Unfortunately, she’s deferring to the Yankee for advice—not me. The man must be dealt with, and Trelayne’s dependence upon him eliminated.”
Beatrice fumed. Lucien was always running off to see that rich piece of baggage. She hated Trelayne St.Christopher. The silly woman had everything—beauty, money, a proper education. Never bought a dress off the peg or worked a day in her life. She hoped Trelayne’s parents died. She hoped Lucien never won her heart. But it sounded like he wanted the trollop now more than ever.
Lucien poured another round of drinks. The conversation waned, and the opium cigarette in her hand seemed to tingle and vie for her attention. Enticed by the urge for a smoke, and the forgetfulness it would bring, she made to leave. Then her brother spoke again.
“I’m itching to have another chance at the Captain,” he declared, toying with his glass of rum. “It’ll be my pleasure seeing to him. Any other plans on the agenda? You know I hate being idle and I loves counting money.”
“I need you to oversee the final opium shipment,” Lucien said.
“Piece a cake,” Bart assured, “I’m your man.” He stretched out his legs, and sipped at his drink.
Lucien’s gaze hardened into the frightful expression indicating something nasty was about to happen. He gave Bartholomew’s outstretched legs a solid well-placed kick.
“Listen up and listen good,” he snarled. “This is the largest investment I have ever made, and I want no mistakes. Not one. Do you hear me? If you slip up again, as you did in America, you won’t live long enough to regret it.”
Bartholomew sat up rubbing his bruised limb. “All right, gov’nor, no need to be so physical in your explanations.”
She wondered why Lucien seemed so nervous over a drug shipment. After all, it wasn’t illegal to buy and peddle opium. Even the upper class enjoyed their share. And having successfully avoided the associated pitfalls of robbery, double cross, and general underworld treachery, Lucien anonymously made a tidy profit in his side business.
“Although it isn’t a law yet,” Lucien said, “there’s been talk of restricting opium distribution to the apothecary shops. A black market trade will follow, of course, but it will make matters all the more complicated and risky. Another shipment after this one may be long in coming. Besides, I have special plans for the proceeds, and there is a large crated object onboard of particular interest to me.”
“What is it?” Barty leaned forward, replete with curiosity.
“It’s instrumental in accomplishing my most daring undertaking yet. For now, that’s all you need know.”
So, Beatrice thought, Lucien’s mind was teeming with new schemes. More danger and thrills for him to feed upon. That was his opium—that and sex. Having heard enough, her hand tightened around the cigarette, and she slid from her hiding place.
****
“I’ll take care of things proper this time,” Bartholomew promised. “It’s personal now between the Captain and me. Besides, who can you trust like you trust me? Who else has committed murder for you, eh? Our past deeds have made us brothers of the future.”
Lucien didn’t trust Bartholomew any more than he would trust a total stranger. In fact, he trusted him less. Grimsby literally knew where the bodies were buried. He couldn’t take a chance on cutting him loose just yet.
“Both jobs are yours,” he conceded. “Our ship is out of Cape Coast Castle, laden from stem to stern with Bombay Magic. It comes to port at Brighton, within the next few weeks. I’ll keep you posted. A few pounds in the usual pockets should assure our secrecy, and mollify the authorities regarding inspection and documentation.
“You are to reassign the cargo for distribution as usual, north by rail and to Paris by ship. The profits will be enormous. The special item onboard is to be warehoused here.
“And the Captain? I’ll not rest easy until that one’s gone under.”
“Once the shipment is secured, you may make him your top priority. You have free rein as to the details, just make sure the job gets done right this time.”
Deciding to stay the night, Lucien went to find Beatrice. She was sprawled across the mattress face up, fully clothed. Since he was the one who supplied those clothes, he felt no remorse as he rent her over-blouse to the waist. She wore no proper corset, and her ample breasts spilled over the top of her camisole.
In his mind he wanted another, but untamed desire hardened his body demanding release now, and Beatrice was here and wouldn’t refuse him. She never did. She never tried to help in his attempt to save himself for the woman he cherished.
Beatrice smiled and reached for him. She was a temptress. A siren leading him astray, knowingly corrupting him when he should remain pure. She thought to bind him with her willingness to please. Now she would have what she wanted so badly.
He shed his clothes, and slid onto the bed. Her smile faltered as he tore at her skirts and plundered her, first with his fingers then with the part of him driving him beyond control. With animal lust, he consummated the act, unleashing his vengeance against all that was unjust and unfair in his world.
Chapter Seven
Although it was long after dark, and the hour quite late, Trelayne squared her shoulders, blinked a few times to clear her vision, and referred again to her mother’s household ledger.
Tomorrow was Michaelmas, a day celebrated at Royston Hall since the 1200’s and every detail must be attended to. But her heart wasn’t truly in the undertaking. Without her parents, it wouldn’t be the same. Still, she was determined to make them proud, determined to conquer the responsibilities thrust upon her in their absence.
The families who lived in the surrounding areas anticipated Michaelmas with great expectation. It was one of the few days each year when they abandoned their cares and concerns. Therefore, the day must be as festive and exciting as it had ever been.
Michaelmas was a day of thanksgiving, hope, and happiness. She was thankful her parents were alive, and hopeful their recovery would be quickly forthcoming, but future happiness seemed an elusive butterfly just beyond reach. According to her novels, its capture could only be achieved with a special someone at one’s side. Was Captain Garrison such a man?
Worn out from helping to hang decorations, she slumped down onto a chair, and exhaled a weary sigh.
Her anger for his neglect regarding the accident had cooled. Originally, she needed someone to blame other than God, or the Fates, or whoever was in charge of these things. Now she wished she had invited him to the festivities, assuming he would be interested in attending. No doubt he fretted over her safety out of a sense of duty, nothing more. He might think their celebration old fashioned, even childish. Just because he took his responsibilities seriously didn’t mean he was interested in her personally.
She gained her feet and fussed with the bouquet of flowers on the side table. He probably had a woman waiting for him back in America. What a disturbing thought, why hadn’t it occurred to her before? She broke out in a sweat, and it wasn’t from her physical labors. What if he were married? They really knew very little about his private life.
As Aunt Abigail breezed into the room, her disturbing contemplations took flight. Her Aunt was an endless well of energy, and a stickler for keeping up the traditions she had known as a child.
“How are we coming with the to-do list?” she asked, peering over her shoulder.
“Thank goodness Cook is familiar with the routine,” Trelayne admitted. “She’s made hundreds of scones, pies, and pastries for the morning group of revelers.
“Using plenty of blackberries, I hope.”
“Bushels of them,” she grinned, “all in keeping with the legend.”
Apparent
ly, when Satan was banished from Heaven on Michaelmas, he fell into a blackberry bush and cursed and spat upon the brambles, therefore none of the fruit could be picked after tomorrow. Why the plants were deemed usable again the following summer she didn’t know.
“Has she prepared a St. Michael’s bannock?” Aunt Abigail pressed.
“Indeed. Three cakes in all, as last year we nearly ran out. And she doubled the amount of charwardon and ginger caramels as well. So,” Trelayne added with satisfaction, “come the dawning, all that remains is to pick the Michaelmas daisies and prepare the stubble-goose in onion sauce.”
Her Aunt gave her a hug. “Fabulous darling. Oh, Millie,” she called, to one of the maids. “Adjust that bough of flowers over the window more to the right. That’s the ticket. The room looks very grandiloquent. Now hurry along,” she encouraged, shepherding the servants out the door, “we must begin on the decorations for the ballroom.”
The local tenants would arrive before noon on the morrow, and be escorted with pomp and circumstance into the great banqueting hall. There they would be bidden to help themselves to a resplendent array of food and drink. In turn, the guests would bring a token tithing of their harvest. Wheat or bread, fruits or vegetables, perhaps a precious length of tatted linen. Whatever they could afford without hardship.
More foodstuffs would be prepared than could possibly be eaten, the excess finding its way into pockets or hidden containers brought along by those attending. It was all according to Hoyle when it came to Michaelmas. While this gaiety ran its course, chaos would be in full swing in the kitchen where comestibles would be prepared for the second party to be held later in the evening. The neighboring gentry would attend this soirée, and along with delectable food, there would be music and dancing.
A haunting refrain from a Strauss waltz danced through her mind, wrapping itself around a vision of Captain Garrison. If he were to attend tomorrow, the evening would be complete.
When she thought of him, a river of emotion swept her along, and like a rudderless vessel, she was at the mercy of the current, a waterfall dead ahead, danger and excitement pounding in her chest as she anticipated dropping over the edge. What made one person so heart-stopping attractive, while another mightn’t turn her head? The books Penelope supplied failed dismally in explaining the phenomenon—the cause was generally attributed to celestial convergence, or the whim of Cupid, or some such nonsense. There seemed no answer for the intangible question of the ages. Whatever the reason, for her, Captain Garrison had the magic. She felt it whenever he was near.
