Now Playing on Outworld 5730

by R. T. W. Lipkin

  “I need to talk with another woman. Someone who can understand.” The duchess looked away, out into the unending rainfall.

  “You’re pregnant,” said Pamela. “I know just what to do.”

  Chapter 74

  Alexander could bear anything, but Clive didn’t—and couldn’t—know that. Couldn’t know that no matter how Clive beat Alexander and abused him he’d never come close to the beatings and rapes he’d endured at home from his own father.

  So he moaned and shouted and begged and pleaded, putting on the show that he knew Clive would enjoy in the same way that Alexander so passionately displayed his nonexistent lust for the yellow-eyed demon.

  After Clive had had enough—if indeed he could ever have enough of abusing another human being—he’d entered Alexander in much the same way his own father had, although Clive was far more creative than Lawrence had ever been, urinating on his back after he’d orgasmed and pulled out.

  “Please, Clive,” Alexander had said. “You know how much I care for you. I’d do anything for you.”

  Clive kicked Alexander in his already-bruised ribs and said, “Get out of my sight, boy. The next time I send you to do a job, I expect you to deliver. Not to hear that the very person I ordered eliminated is still breathing.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alexander said as he crawled out of Clive’s office. Alexander knew that Clive loved it when he crawled, so he didn’t do it too often, wanting to save the behavior for special occasions like this one. It was more convincing that way.

  “Fix it,” Clive said to Alexander’s bloody, piss-covered back. “Now.”

  Fix it. That was how Clive Idrest viewed the life of another human being—as something to be fixed—by ending it.

  Alexander had crawled through Clive’s house on his hands and knees. He knew Clive would be watching him, and there was no better display—barring begging for your very life, which he’d done earlier—of subservience and shame than this.

  After he’d crawled out onto the slab, he’d gone straight into the ocean, letting the acidic waves wash over him, cleansing him of his encounter until he felt Clive had been burned off him.

  Only then could he go back to his apartment, a single room in the rear of the employees’ housing complex, a falling-apart structure that’d been built seemingly out of twigs and mud. Yet it was an improvement over the tents many of the other workers on 75 lived in. All this removed from the sight of any of the wealthy residents.

  Beau Ogden was alive. Alexander sighed in relief. Although three other people were dead, which he’d hoped to avoid, and the factory was destroyed. He hadn’t been able to find a way around that.

  Back in his room, Alexander looked at his wounds in the monitor. His scarred back would soon have new scars. After the bleeding stopped. But it was worth it. Everything was worth it. Being beaten was worth it.

  Fucking the sickening Clive Idrest was worth it. The waiting, although intolerable, would inevitably be worth it.

  There was a knock on the door, the knock Alexander always answered.

  “My God, Alexander. What did he do to you this time?” Gilbert stared at his lover and balled his fists. He couldn’t hug him, since the man’s back was raw.

  “It’s all right, Gil. I’ll heal.”

  “I’ll wash you off.”

  The two men went into the shower stall together and Gilbert carefully tended to Alexander’s wounds, wincing as he touched the open flesh. But Alexander himself would never wince. He’d surpassed that kind of automatic reaction years ago, just before Marguerite had accomplished the unthinkable and killed their father.

  That day, over a decade ago, Alexander hadn’t known Gil, hadn’t known where Marguerite was, hadn’t known what he’d do or how he’d do it.

  Several years afterward, when he met Gil by chance one gray afternoon, when they’d fallen in love, when Gil had found out who Alexander was, their plans were merged and put into motion.

  After the shower, the lovers sat on the edge of Alexander’s narrow bed and held hands. They didn’t speak, afraid that anything they said, even here in Alexander’s private quarters, could be overheard.

  They had other methods of communicating and safe places to talk. For now, Gilbert Stevens and Alexander Rhodes held on to each other.

  Chapter 75

  After the duchess had gone back to her rooms, probably to heave again, Pamela thought, she’d summoned a servant.

  “Yes, my lady,” the red-cheeked girl had answered. She seemed breathless.

  “Could you ask Calvert to come by?” Lady Patience said. She needed him in order to implement her plan.

  “Of course, my lady.” Nell curtsied and turned to leave, but Lady Patience interrupted her.

  “Have you seen Lettie?”

  “She’s in with Mrs. Allman, I’m sure, my lady,” said Nell, who curtsied again.

  “Then she must know.”

  “Yes, my lady. Everyone knows. About the marquess and the earl like, you mean.” Nell smiled.

  “Of course.” Lady Patience suddenly felt terribly sad for Lettie, but she wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it was no fun to be an actor playing the part of a servant at a majestic, even if the pay was pretty good. She’d never considered this before. But the idea loomed large now.

  She should have gone to the thirty-fifth and become a whore. At the very least she would have had sex already, something that seemed in short supply here in Regency England. If you were a lady, that is. If you were a servant girl, then Lord Trevelton had his way with you. Or the duchess and the duke. And perhaps Vernie and that putrid viscount.

  Maybe it was just Lady Patience herself. Maybe she was the only woman at this majestic who wasn’t in love or even in sex. Although the red-faced girl who’d just left the solarium probably wasn’t having any either. But maybe she already had a mate or would find one soon. Just because you were a servant didn’t mean you couldn’t have love and companionship.

  Did Jewel Allman arrange things so that there’d be suitable companions about? Yet there was no one suitable for Lady Patience, for Pamela Hyland.

  Was it so impossible to find love and companionship? To find someone to have a real romance with? One that would be true and good and sure. One that would last a lifetime.

  She’d read too much and seen too much. And she knew no one in life who had such a romance. But that didn’t stop her from wanting one for herself. And she’d always gotten what she wanted. Always.

  Although this time . . . perhaps her desires were too fantastical.

  Calvert’s arrival interrupted her scattered thoughts.

  “You asked for me, my lady?”

  Lady Patience didn’t know anyone else who could come close to filling her with such a sensation of calm confidence and security. Something about the man’s very presence reassured her about the essence of life itself.

  “I did, Calvert. I have a secret mission for you.” She thought she detected a small smile before the butler’s expression became impassive again. He had the most beautiful ebony skin, and his upright bearing was thrilling to observe.

  “Yes, my lady,” he said.

  “Calvert, do you think you could sit down?”

  “I could, my lady, but I shall not.”

  “I’d be so much more comfortable if you did.” He could sit beside her on the settee.

  “It wouldn’t be proper, my lady,” Calvert said.

  Lady Patience stood. She didn’t want to have to look up into the man’s dark eyes. Sometimes when she was talking with him she thought she saw something behind them, the whatever it was that gave him such gravity.

  “Calvert, I need you to do something. Not for me. I wouldn’t ask for myself. And no one else can know about it. Not even Jewel Allman. Would that be possible?”

  Something flickered in Calvert’s expression, and Lady Patience wondered what this encounter would be like if it were taking place somewhere else. In a café or on a street corner. If she weren’t Lady Patience and he was
n’t Calvert, the butler at Hollyhock Manor.

  “I would have to have more information, my lady,” said Calvert. “If that is possible.”

  “Of course. I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s about the duchess.”

  “I see,” said Calvert, and Lady Patience thought that it was quite possible he did see, and that she was hardly the only one who’d noticed that Sophia was pregnant.

  “The duke. I’m not sure why he had to leave, but if there would be any way at all to hasten his return, I think that would be beneficial to the duchess.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “It’s not simply that she misses him.” Lady Patience didn’t want to say too much, but she had to impress Calvert with the situation’s urgency.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Although of course she does. I didn’t mean to imply that she didn’t. But there’s something else altogether, and I feel she would benefit greatly if he were here. I’d almost go so far as to say she’s desperate for him to come back. As soon as possible.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Calvert, do you know where he went? Or when his expected return is? Even if I could give that much information to the duchess it would be so helpful to her right now.”

  “I do, my lady. Although not about his return.”

  “Could you assist me in getting in touch with him? I know that it’s not done, but . . .”

  “This is a special circumstance, my lady. I understand.”

  “Yes, Calvert. And I feel helpless.”

  “Would it suit if I myself made the contact?” Calvert was actually smiling now.

  “Oh God, Calvert, that would be so good of you. And the duchess would be so grateful.”

  “I shall try, my lady.” Lady Patience wanted him to add for you, but he did not.

  “Shall that be all, my lady?” Calvert said, but he didn’t move.

  “Will you let me know? When you know. Of course,” Lady Patience said.

  She had to restrain herself from grabbing Calvert’s hand and pressing it between hers, which is what she wanted so much to do. To thank him for helping her out. To feel his hand next to hers.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Chapter 76

  They’d been like a sideshow at the circus, Ephraim thought. Everyone coming to have a look at the two dead men, magically alive. Come see the corpses. They walk, they talk, they eat and drink. Free admission for all.

  Ephraim lay in the tub, the steam rising around him, a near-empty wineglass in his hand, the completely empty bottle on the floor. He was avoiding Etterly, who’d insist he get dressed for dinner when what Trevelton wanted to do was go to sleep for a day and a half.

  That idiot Baron North had been the worst of the lot. He’d actually poked Wyatt, checking to make sure he was himself and alive and not someone in a Lord Saybrook costume, pretending to be him.

  If he heard But the two of you were dead! one more time, he’d kill the speaker. Then someone would be dead. Regardless of who it was.

  He still hadn’t seen Violet, although he wasn’t sure he could face her, since Etterly, damn his shriveled soul, had given her the letter and, knowing Violet, she’d read it. Knowing Violet, she’d memorized it.

  What fool things had he said in it? The wine was blurring his memory. He hadn’t possibly said he loved her. God no. Worse. He’d said he loved Charlotte. He’d told Violet something on the order of how much he loved Charlotte and how little he loved her. Perhaps. Maybe he hadn’t mentioned love at all.

  But he certainly had told her his real name and confessed his lowly place in life, hardly the marquess he was doing such a poor job of portraying. Wouldn’t a real marquess have done away with the disloyal earl, dispatching him in short order?

  But Lord Trevelton was such a lousy marksman he couldn’t even shoot Lord Saybrook in the thigh.

  And damn Wyatt for telling him the truth. That it was Charlotte all along. That she’d lied to both men. That her faithlessness and deceit were as much a part of her as the sheen in her thick blond tresses and the spark in her blue blue eyes. That she cared for no one but herself, although she had married the Conroys’ plant manager, Abel Fulton.

  “Dad won’t let me fire him,” Wyatt had said. By then they were on their third bottle of wine, this one the usual sour vintage they served nightly in the dining room. But by then neither of the men cared, although they both noticed.

  “I didn’t know your father was still active in the operations,” Ephraim said. The wine might be fifth-rate, but the food was excellent. Cook herself had brought yet another tray out to the stables. It seemed neither of the two men could get enough to eat.

  “He rules everything, Ephraim. I’m supposed to still be learning the business.”

  “After all this time?”

  “It’s hard to believe she really married the man. But she did. She even took his last name, invoking some antique law to do it. So no one can find Charlotte Churchill, I assume. Although who would want to.”

  “Just hire someone named Cain and you’ll be well rid of him,” Ephraim said. He was eating his third sandwich by then, and it tasted even better than the first two had.

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that.” Wyatt was on his fourth sandwich, and Ephraim watched jealously as Wyatt inhaled it.

  “Did she finally find someone she can be faithful to? I wonder.” Ephraim choked on the word faithful, then started coughing. Her scent still lingered in his senses, the aroma of love and loss.

  “She ripped my heart out,” Wyatt said. He started assembling yet another sandwich. Ephraim downed the rest of his wine.

  “I’m surprised she could find it.” Ephraim opened another bottle of wine, hoping it would be better than the last.

  “Don’t start again, Ephraim. I’m warning you.” Wyatt chewed on a huge bite of his latest sandwich. “I’ve never been so hungry.”

  “Nor I. Being dead does wonders for a man’s appetite.”

  “I’ll miss Cook after this is over.”

  “Becky was never my girlfriend.” Ephraim felt the need to get that point nailed down. He had treated her horribly, but it was the best he could have done at the time.

  “That’s not what she thought,” Wyatt said. “What she told me.”

  “So you had her as well?” The plans for a second duel arose in Ephraim’s imagination. This time he’d insist on swords. No chance of Calvert sabotaging them, and Wyatt was a lackluster swordsman, unlike Ephraim.

  “You truly do not listen, Ephraim Croft. Lord Whoever You’re Supposed to Be. Of course not. Becky wanted me to intercede for her. As though I would have done such a thing.”

  “I never so much as kissed her.” Although Ephraim had kissed her and done quite more than that with her. It had been the most careless relationship he’d ever had. More careless than the relationship he’d had with Violet Aldrich.

  Violet Aldrich. Between the steam in the bathroom and the countless glasses of wine he’d had, Ephraim could almost see her, as though she were there with him, a ghostly presence, sharing the tub.

  He was afraid of very little, maybe nothing at all, but the thought of Violet, of seeing her, of her confronting him with the note he’d written . . .

  He called for Etterly to bring him another bottle of wine, but when Etterly came into the bathroom he arrived with a stack of towels and insisted that Trevelton get out of the tub and start getting ready for dinner. A dinner Trevelton shouldn’t have been hungry for, yet, inexplicably, he was.

  Twenty minutes later he was downstairs, looking like the proper marquess he was supposed to be, mingling with the other players at Hollyhock Manor, all of them still wanting to hear every detail that Trevelton and Saybrook, risen from the dead, could give them.

  Chapter 77

  Violet gripped the edge of Mrs. Allman’s desk and leaned forward.

  “Please don’t make fun of me, Mrs. Allman. I’ve had a rather difficult day already.” Rather difficult. Watching Rafe get
killed while he killed another man, then finding out they were both alive. Reading and rereading and rereading the devastatingly awful letter he’d left for her.

  “I have no time for such antics, Violet.” Jewel Allman sat back in her seat.

  “But I didn’t pass the audition,” Violet said. She hadn’t. They hadn’t been interested in her at all. Their rejection had been nothing more than an offhand dismissal. “Did something happen?”

  “You’ll have to ask them. I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “But, Mrs. Allman. I can’t afford the return trip. I’ll have to wait until the majestic’s over and go back with the group. Did you tell them that?”

  “I told them you’d be on the transport in ten days. I’m sure they understand that they’ll have to pay for your return passage. This happened once before, ages ago, and the production company covered all the expenses. It’s a risk I take when I hire actors. But they’re necessary to a convincing majestic.”

  “Did the actor get a good part?” Violet felt almost dizzy with the onslaught of a thousand conflicting emotions. And all she could think to ask was if the other actor, someone she didn’t know, had gotten a good part. And she didn’t know what part she herself was being offered.

  But . . . Mirage. The most widely viewed fabula on Earth and rapidly gaining a popular audience in the outworlds as well. Were her dreams finally becoming real?

  “I’m no judge of that, but he seemed anxious to return at the time. The transport’s due here in ten days, so you’ll have the opportunity to end things properly. I’ll just simply have to let Harriette go back to being Lady Patience’s lady’s maid”—Jewel Allman sighed heavily and shook her head—“so I’m putting you in charge of training her so that she’ll be able to do something. Anything. Do your best. You aren’t back on Earth yet.”

  “But I haven’t said I’m going.” Violet thought of the letter she’d left in the pocket of the oilskin coat hanging on the peg in the kitchen. Thought of Rafe. No, Ephraim Croft. She had to at least try to speak with him before she made a decision.