Victorian Dream

by Gini Rifkin

  This was the upside of visiting Brighton. By local standards, he was a big fish, treated with grudging respect. And it was as much because of his own notoriety as it was Mr. Lanteen’s. Folks here feared him—with good reason. And when need be, they did his bidding.

  Tipping the velvet, he put his hands up the girl’s skirt, his intentions for sampling her wares fully underway until a knock sounded at the door

  “Damnation. It’s getting so a man can’t even roger a tart without disruption.”

  Pissed off, he pushed the startled girl to one side, crossed the room, and opened the door a crack to glare at the boy waiting on the other side.

  “Better be important for yer interrupting me,” he growled.

  “Aye sir,” the lad reassured him, “Philly said you’d best take heed. Some stranger out front’s asking about you.”

  Philly, the bartender, was a long time acquaintance. He wouldn’t send a warning without good cause.

  “All right. Good lad. Now get lost.”

  He glanced at the girl, and grabbed the front of his pants to adjust his private parts. “Keep it warm and keep it wet,” he snickered. Enjoying one last leer at the girl’s bubbies, he slipped into the dim passageway.

  Halfway down the corridor, he turned and faced the wall. Closing one eye, he pressed his face close to the ill-fitting panels. The view over Philly’s shoulder into the adjoining barroom came into focus. At first, he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Then Philly moved his hulky frame, and Bartholomew inhaled sharply. Not twenty feet away sat the bane of his existence. Not believing what he saw, he pulled away from the wall, rubbed his knuckles in his eye sockets, and took another look.

  “God’s bones. You righteous bastard. Right here in Brighton. It’s a one-way trip for you then, Captain. You’ll not be returnin’ to fair London Town.”

  ****

  The evening was not going well. Walker tried engaging a few patrons in conversation, but they ignored him. And although he had a hankering for another ale, the only thing he could garner from the bloated toad of a barkeep was more dirty looks.

  After midnight, the bobbery and confusion reached a crescendo then slid into a debauched decline. Tired and downhearted, his optimism bruised around the edges, he admitted temporary defeat and took his leave.

  Navigating the avenue toward his hotel room, he put his current troubles out of mind and considered his long-range plans. Was it time to face the real world again? Time to give life another chance?

  Since Katie’s death, he’d existed in limbo—a void holding no joy, true love, or commitment. He was a ship adrift with no destination. She wouldn’t want that for him. It had been nearly five years since that winter’s day had changed him forever. Maybe now it was time for another change—one for the better. Trelayne inspired thoughts of the future, as well as igniting his desire to experience the here and now. She had captured his heart, or at least what remained of it. As soon as he returned to London, he aimed to tell her so.

  He kicked at a tin can and ambled on. He’d have to stay in Brighton for awhile, canvassing the area. Grimsby was close by—he could almost smell the blackguard. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two.

  Hands in his pockets, he trudged up the cobbled street toward bed. What was Trelayne doing right now? Sleeping peacefully like the innocent she was, or looking up at the ink-black sky and dazzling display of stars, granting a few moments of her time to think of him. Merrick had damn well better honor his promise to keep her home and safe until his return.

  A short way up ahead on the levee, two figures appeared, ending his quixotic ramblings. Keeping a steady pace, he unbuttoned his coat, eased free his revolver, and let his hand hang down at his side. When he angled farther out into the street to gain more room for maneuvering, the two men did the same, and that old familiar foreboding raced through him, stepping up his heart rate. Trouble was brewing, and there wasn’t going to be an easy way out of this.

  Running footsteps suddenly sounded at his back. They were coming at him from both sides.

  “We got you now, you bloody Yank,” a voice threatened.

  He turned and fired, barely avoiding the length of chain aimed at his head. The man fell, writhing in pain, the chain slipping from his slackened grip. Head down like a bull, a second man barreled into him, catching him in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him. Walker landed on his back, the stones of the cobbled street bruising muscle and bone. He raised the pistol to fire again, but the man kicked the revolver from his hand, sending it spinning off into the darkness.

  Rolling to one side, he gained his feet, and slid free his Green River blade. At the sight of the big knife, the ruffian backed off, momentarily kept at bay. Then the men he’d first seen on the levee drew near. Three to one odds were not promising. He glanced around for his revolver. No luck, it was too dark to see beyond the immediate area. Flipping the knife around, he then sent it arcing end over end toward the man closest to him. The big brute staggered once then dropped to the street, the blade protruding from his chest.

  Walker ran forward to retrieve the weapon. Too late. The two other thugs were on him. Aware he was fighting for his life, he took the abuse and kept coming back for more. With sickening repetition, bone hit bone, and bone hit muscle until losing the battle seemed a certainty.

  Blood poured from his nose and split lip, and his left eye began to swell shut. His arms ached from giving as well as blocking punches. As he lost his footing, the odds dropped from not promising to grim.

  His attackers showed no mercy. Like buzzards on a fresh kill, they circled and closed in, hobnail boots coming at him from every direction. He curled up to protect his vital organs, but nothing shielded him from the hurt raining down upon his body.

  At the prospect of his life ending in a dirty backstreet of a foreign country, resentment fueled his near spent energy and he staggered to his feet.

  Snarling in disbelief, one of the murderers hit him across the ribs with a piece of planking. The cracking sound turned his stomach, was it board or bone? Gasping for air, he lurched forward two steps—it was bone. A soporific blackness engulfed him as he toppled to the ground. Stunned, he waited for the final blow. He should have told Trelayne he loved her. Now she would never know.

  He was slipping away, when a bloodcurdling wail split the night, halting the slide into oblivion. The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end, and even the brutes beating the tar out of him came to attention. As the eerie call rang out a second time, a man built like a grizzly catapulted into view. Walker crawled off to one side, and peered with disbelief through his good eye.

  Dressed in cross-gartered pants, wielding a battle-ax as if he knew how to use one, the stranger stalked toward the two hoodlums. This was no defensive maneuver—he was on the attack. Dappled in mist-shrouded lamplight, the man and the scene became an ethereal rendering from a time long ago.

  The Norseman’s sharp weapon cut one man’s throat from ear to ear. Stunned, mouth gaping, the would-be-murderer was dead before he hit the ground.

  The other aggressor tried to run, but retreat was futile. The stranger slipped the handle of his ax beneath his belt, scruffed the wretch by the collar and the back of his trousers, and pitched the flailing malefactor off the dock and into the water far below. Dusting his hands together as if he’d just tossed out the weekly trash, the colossus straightened and turned in his direction.

  No fight left in body or soul, Walker waited. Even on his most promising day, he’d be lucky to best this stranger.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A few days! What an outrageous lie. Trelayne threw her hairbrush against the wall. Then, ashamed of her childish behavior, she stomped across the room to retrieve it.

  Nearly a fortnight had passed since Walker had gone to Brighton. No, since Captain Garrison had gone to Brighton. Oh, what difference did it make what she called him? It didn’t change how she felt about him, or stop recollections of each moment they had spent together from
eclipsing all her other thoughts.

  She would never forget the feel of his strong hand holding hers, or the manly smell of him as he dared to lean close, stopping just short of crossing the boundary to a real kiss, anticipation and yearning raging through her body.

  The memories of that evening, too good to resist, goaded a warm happy feeling. Then the romantic image died a tortured death as it crashed head first into the resentment boiling in her belly. Snaring the commemorative gloves he’d sent, she raised her arm to give them the same treatment as her hairbrush. But she couldn’t. She’d slept with them every night since their arrival. With a sob, she caressed the leather against her cheek. Where could he be?

  Maybe Walker had gone back to America. He was right there on the coast, how simple to just slip away into the night. No. He wouldn’t abandon her, he couldn’t, he mustn’t. Why not, because she was in love with him? Why should that matter? He hardly knew her, and apparently did not find her a bit intriguing. Save for a few bits and pieces of interesting fodder, his past was a mystery and his future unclear. Good heavens, his current whereabouts were not even definite.

  Oh mercy, what if he were injured or dead? The blood drained from her head, and she reached for the bedpost to steady herself. She should go to Brighton and search for him. The heroines in her books would jump headfirst into danger and adventure if it meant rescuing their true love. But Merrick would barely allow her a chaperoned visit to town, let alone a trip all the way to Brighton.

  What to do, what to do? Lucien might take her, or go in her stead. The picture of Lucien leading an all-out search for Walker wouldn’t form in her mind. No, that was not the answer. Besides, Lucien had agreed to take her to visit the poor today. To prevail upon him further was out of the question. Heaven only knew what he would demand in return for a trip to Brighton. Escorting her today was recompense for his outlandish behavior at the Michaelmas party, but he had added the caveat that she must consider the audacious idea of accompanying him to the Holiday Festival at the Bond.

  Lucien was unreasonable at times. Still there was a bit of intrigue wrapped in the lonely visage he portrayed as he professed his undying love for her. Unlike some men, who didn’t seem to need her at all.

  Wistfully setting aside the leather gloves, she sorted through the trinkets covering her dresser top. Where was her heart necklace? She hadn’t seen it for weeks, and the loss of the keepsake added to her discontent. Her mother wore a matching one, it was a connection between them, and she needed to feel that closeness, especially today. Volunteering to distribute necessities to the needy sounded easy enough, but never having done it before, she was a bit nervous.

  Mother had often gone on these mini-missions of mercy, and Trelayne was determined to continue the charity work. Running the household and participating in such community events was not only challenging, it was also liberating. Today was her first true venture into the outside world so successfully hidden from her until now.

  How different life would have been had her sister lived. Dear Caroline, she missed her so. They had been such a happy family; her death had changed them all. It made Mother and Father fearful, and Branwell reckless. And it left her timid and untrusting in God and Fate and the possibility of happiness without repercussion. And her nightmares did nothing to assuage those qualities.

  The mantel clock chimed eight o’clock. Taken by surprise, she abandoned her search for the necklace, and hurried to her armoire. If she were to breakfast and be ready for a day of visitations, she must hurry.

  Glancing longingly at the gloves, she rang for the chambermaid. At least Walker had thought about her for one fleeting moment. But it wasn’t enough—she wanted more. Her hunger for him gnawed at her soul, even as disappointment battled yearning, vying for the upper hand.

  ****

  Lucien awoke in a surly mood.

  Not having been able to come up with a suitable excuse for backing out of his commitment to Trelayne, he must endure a day in London’s less affluent, louse-infected neighborhoods.

  At least Trelayne had forgiven his outburst and lascivious display at her party. And the true bright spot in this whole dreary business was her promise to consider accompanying him to the Bond—a boon to his plans, a stroke of genius. She must say yes.

  Following her refusal of marriage, he no longer knew what to do to win her devotion. His unwavering attention, coupled with exotic flowers and expensive sweets, hadn’t done the trick. She always accepted his tokens, but seemingly with reluctance as if motivated purely by the need to not hurt his feeling. Well, no more. He was through being patient, and he was through letting Fate dictate the course of his life. In the future, he would call the tune and pity to those who did not care to dance.

  Grimsby’s telegraph message had brightened his mood. What a welcome surprise. Captain Garrison’s presence in Brighton was unexpected, but it mattered little where the man met his downfall. It appeared he had put up a good fight, and his body was nowhere to be found, but the one surviving murderer swore the captain was dead. Now the only person who stood in the way of his plans was Trelayne.

  Lucien rolled over and gave Beatrice a slap on the rump. Before she could wipe the sleep from her eyes, he pushed her unrigged and shivering from the bed.

  “Make a cup of tea,” he ordered, “and be quick about it. Then lay out my clothes. I don’t wish to be late today.”

  Naked as you please, Beatrice stood before him, her mousy hair a tangle, her doleful brown eyes returning his stare.

  “You’re going to be with her again ain’t you?” she said. “She don’t want you, Lucien. She can’t show you the kind of appreciation you likes best.” As she spoke, Beatrice fondled her diddeys, and traced lazy circles around her nipples.

  The brazen display of earthy delights sent a twinge of willingness to his groin. She eyed his erection, and smiled triumphantly. Trailing her hands downward to the mat of curls crowning her thighs, she smiled and stroked herself.

  Lucien grabbed her around the waist and tugged her closer to the bed. She leaned over, inviting him to nip at her breasts as she reached to stroke and fondle him. The bitch did know how to please a man.

  He forced her head to his loins. She knelt at his side and greedily took him, her hands kneading his chest and thighs. In unison, they groaned with carnal pleasure as she performed her art, quickly bringing him to climax. Drowsy with satisfaction, he nearly fell back to sleep. Then the day’s itinerary flashed through his mind. Furious with Beatrice for trying to control him with sex, he shoved her aside and gained his feet.

  “You’re a dirty puzzle, you heartless slut,” he accused. Her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re only trying to delay me. Trying to keep me from a woman whose name you’re not worthy to speak. All you care about is getting me up your cock alley?”

  He grasped her around the throat. “Don’t ever forget who is master between us,” he warned. “There are several exquisite means of curing disobedience in concubines. It would be my pleasure and your pain should we explore those techniques.”

  “I’m sorry Lucien,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean no harm.”

  “Make the tea,” he ordered, releasing her.

  She grabbed her robe and fled to the kitchen.

  A half hour later, Lucien was on his way, wishing he’d spent the morning under Trelayne’s ministrations rather than Beatrice’s. Regardless, he did love sex. Like gambling, he could never get enough.

  Imagining how it would be with Trelayne, he nearly fell from his horse. Once introduced to the world of sexual delights, she would surely desire them as much as did he. Then his good mood plummeted as he remembered today’s agenda, and the inconvenience and disgust he would undoubtedly suffer.

  “Blast. What a waste of a good day.”

  To save riding all the way out to Royston Hall, he was to meet Trelayne’s carriage at Beningbrough Hill Road. And as it would appear unseemly for him to travel within, the original plan was for him to ride alongside. This of cou
rse was contrary to his intentions. Reaching his destination, he reined in his horse, dismounted, and watched for the old equipage the St.Christopher’s called a carriage.

  Before long, the antiquated black coach loomed up over an adjacent hill. Why the St.Christophers refused to modernize their transportation was beyond him. This decorative relic bounced and rattled along with bone jarring annoyance. And it looked like something the devil himself would use to patrol the boundaries of Hell.

  At least there was one bit of good luck. Jeb manned the reins, not the tenacious old watchdog Merrick.

  As Jeb wrestled the four matched black geldings to a halt, Lucien unsaddled his horse.

  “Good morning, sir,” the young driver called down. “Anything the matter, sir?”

  Jeb’s look of worry increased as Lucien threw his tack in the boot of the carriage and tied his horse to the rear frame of the coach.

  “My horse has thrown a shoe and bruised his hoof,” he explained, the lie rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. “I’ve no choice but to ride with your mistress.” He climbed aboard and shut the door. “Move along now,” he ordered, disallowing for any argument.

  “Lucien.” Trelayne’s surprise was apparent as he settled in across from her. “I thought you were to ride alongside.”

  He explained his horse’s condition, and although agreeing to drop the animal off at a nearby hamlet, he refused her suggestion they wait as the mount was re-shod.

  “The animal has specific needs, and my preferred farrier is the only one I will allow to work on him.”

  “Well we certainly must do what is best for the animal,” she conceded.

  At a nearby village, they accommodated the horse in temporary lodgings, and after slipping the stable boy a few quid to declare there were no rental mounts available, they forged on.

  He marveled at the interior of the coach. It was as dreary as the outside. Black-fringed curtains clung to the windows, while old-fashioned brass candle lamps and drip pans tried but failed to brighten each corner. The overall effect was completely dismal. Trelayne was the only gay spot of color. Even dressed in dark burgundy with her hair wrenched back into a chignon, she was beautiful beyond compare. He must insist she wear her hair down when they visited the Bond. On that evening every man in the room must envy him and wish for what he had attained—what he called his own.