The Damsel: A Villain Duology Sequel

by Victoria Vale

  “A wonderful trait in a young man, to be sure,” Lady Fletcher agreed.

  Across the room, Martin merely rolled his eyes and went back to his port.

  Robert followed suit, refusing to be baited into an argument concerning Cassandra. The others could treat her how they pleased, but he could not wait to see her again.

  He’d been unable to get her out of his head, anyway, so being able to see her, to find some way to sate this craving she’d created in him … well, it had to be better than the way he’d suffered thus far.

  Chapter 4

  LONDON

  Darkness shrouded Cassandra as she walked, the hem of her cloak flapping in the soft evening breeze. The chill of the night air required the covering, but she clung to the garment for a reason that had nothing to do with the cold—the way it helped her become one with the night, shadows clinging to its edges and obscuring her to an unrecognizable degree. With her height and the voluminous fabric veiling her, she might even be mistaken as a man. The breeches and boots she wore underneath helped the illusion, so she brushed past members of the ton coming and going from various soirees in Grosvenor Square without drawing much notice. They were as self-involved as ever, their laughter and insipid conversations about the night’s events and juiciest bits of gossip of no interest to her.

  There was a particular gentleman she’d come here to find, whom she had raced to intercept after spotting him at a musicale hosted in the home of the Marquis of Ashton. Invitations hardly ever came to her anymore—not since she had removed herself from the residence of her uncle, mother, and sister, thereby marking herself as even more of a social outcast. Ashton, however, was a friend of Millicent, and his wife was one of the few souls in this accursed city who did not turn their noses up at her.

  She hadn’t planned to attend the musicale; not until she’d learned of the attendance of a certain man. The Honourable Mr. Curtis Barlow, son of a viscount, had attended the event in the typical black and white evening kit, though his waistcoat had been a garish jonquil shade—the bright splash of color making it easy to follow his progress about the room as he’d sipped champagne and mingled with other guests between musical performances. Now, it would help her identify him in the dark.

  Barlow disgusted her the way most of his kind did—the bright, charming smile masking his true nature, the underlying malice hidden under a thin veil of courtly manners. A viper slithering through a room filled with hapless victims who had no notion of the danger lurking amongst them.

  I wasn’t Lord or Lady Ashton’s fault. They did not know what she knew—that Barlow was a man of low morals, a predator looking for his next kill. How could they know when he was so good at hiding it with a handsome face and amiable personality? Even she had not been entirely certain, not until she’d overheard a tearful conversation between two ladies in the retiring room during the interval of an opera performance. It never ceased to amaze her what people would discuss in such a place when they thought no one else could hear. She'd become adept at making herself invisible until she wanted to be seen, and had remained behind a privacy screen while listening to one lady’s account.

  She had invited Barlow into her country home for a house party, only to find him attempting to get beneath the skirts of a chambermaid. The servant had been in hysterics by the time the lady came upon them, tears wetting her face as she clawed and scratched and tried to free herself from his hold.

  Cassandra had clenched her jaw and fought the urge to hurl the nearby chamber pot across the room in a fit of rage as she’d listen to the lady tell her friend how her fool of a husband had done nothing to aid the servant. Instead, he’d cast blame on the maid for being caught alone, and insisted his friend had done nothing wrong.

  “I am certain he only misinterpreted her signals. That is what Paul told me when I insisted he do something. Mr. Barlow should not be allowed in our home … I wanted him gone, but Paul would hear none of it. Oh, and poor Libby was in quite a state. I shudder to think what would have happened had I not found them.”

  Cassandra knew very well what would have happened. She had lived through the consequences of such a thing, and there had been no one there to come to her aid or defend her.

  But she would defend Libby and her blubbering mistress. She would ensure that Barlow paid for what he’d done, and she would do it right now.

  Just before the musicale had ended, she’d slipped from the drawing room and seen herself out of the marquis’ home. Her driver, Randall, had circled the block at her command, ready for her to emerge at any time. He hadn't questioned the directive, even though it would require him to drive in a continuous circle for hours. Understanding her mission, he would do exactly as she asked, knowing it could prove the difference between success and failure.

  And so, when he’d approached within seconds of her departure, she had promptly leaped into the vehicle and made haste changing out of her evening attire. While Randall pulled off down Duke Street, she’d exchanged her lady’s finery and replaced it with her comfortable breeches, shirt, waistcoat, and boots, before shrouding herself in the cloak. A silk turban had covered her hair, but was now gone, the tresses brushed flat to her scalp and scraped back from her face.

  He had let her off on Brown Street, right outside of Grosvenor Square, and from there she'd continued on foot. He left her on her own, taking the carriage off to Reeves’ Mews where he would await her return.

  She'd taken the walk back to Duke Street on swift feet, and she’d arrived just in time to find Mr. Barlow exiting the Ashtons’ townhome. An infuriating smirk curving his lips, he trotted down the front steps with a spring in his step, an ornate walking stick twirling in one hand.

  Her timing could not be more perfect.

  She’d seen him arrive on foot, so had known he would leave the same way, taking himself off after the musicale in search of some other amusement. Where he was off to next was of no concern to her. As they left the well-lit Grosvenor Square, the shadows of the homes looming to one side kept her hidden, her steps silent as she advanced upon him. He remained oblivious to her pursuit, walking about free and clear with no regard to the danger he had placed himself in.

  These pompous lords and their sons were all the same. They walked about with such freedom and lack of fear because no one would ever punish them for their crimes against others—their abuse of the women they were supposed to protect, their cavalier attitudes toward the less fortunate, their mistreatment of servants.

  But, no more.

  If no one would defend the defenseless, then Cassandra would.

  She halted on Hart Street when he did, slipping back into a narrow space between two townhouses as Barlow held his walking stick under one arm and began rifling about in his coat pocket. Untying the cravat tied in a haphazard knot around her throat, she stretched it taut between both hands, waiting for the opportune moment. There was no one else about who might see, but that could change in an instant. It must be now, and she need only wait for an opening

  It came when he retrieved a cheroot, head lowered as he remained oblivious to his stalker.

  Moving with reflexes born from months of practice, she crept behind him on swift and silent feet, hooking the cravat around his neck and jerking him against her body. His surprised yelp died away into a choked gurgle when she tightened the linen around his throat until he could not draw breath. His legs kicked, one of his shoes slipping off and his walking stick clattering to the ground as she hauled him into the darkness.

  He must outweigh her by at least two stone, but the strength leeched from his muscles as his air became trapped in his lungs.

  She released him just before he lost consciousness, preferring for her prey to remain alert so it could squirm and whimper while she did what she pleased. Rushing back to the mouth of the alley, she crouched to retrieve his walking stick while he rolled about on the ground, coughing and wheezing and drawing in sharp breaths. She waited until he’d managed to rise to his hands and knees, gazing a
bout in a daze. Then, she lifted her weapon with both hands and brought it down across his back. He went down with a grunt, the impact knocking the wind from him.

  “What the devil?” he rasped as she neared, using one foot to push him over so he lay on his back.

  “Hmm, I’ve never been called The Devil before,” she mused aloud, moving to straddle him, then crouch down until she practically sat on his torso. “But I do like it … after all, I am here to punish you for your sins.”

  The whites of his eyes flared in the dark, the orbs going wide and his jaw slackening as he gazed up at her. With the moon at her back, she must look like some sort of specter, her face invisible in the dark shadow of her hood. Before he could attempt fighting her off, she retrieved the dagger she kept in her boot and held it up, letting the moonlight caress the metal’s sharp edge.

  “Sins?” he blustered, squirming beneath her and working himself into an indignant rage. “What sins would you accuse me of, a stranger who knows me not?”

  She scoffed. “You spoiled little lords are all the same, you know. So predictable. Here is the part where you will puff up with righteous anger and rail at me. I do not know you, you’ll claim, could not possibly have the right to judge you. But, what you’ll fail to realize is that I don’t need to know you … don’t care to, actually.”

  He began to try to fight her, her voice having given her away as a woman. Typical. Planting herself more firmly on top of him, she kept the knife in her right hand while drawing back the left in a fist. He groaned when she made impact, snapping his head to the side and filling his mouth with blood.

  “Do make this easier on yourself, Mr. Barlow. Fighting will only agitate me, and when I’m agitated …”

  She emphasized her point by digging the tip of her dagger into the meat right under his jaw. He whimpered when she drew blood with a single prick, the drop running in a bright rivulet down his throat.

  “What do you want from me?” he railed, blood and spittle flying from his mouth to splatter her cloak.

  Taking hold of his chin, she forced his head back down, leaning in close and trailing the tip of her dagger down the side his face from brow to cheek.

  “Retribution,” she whispered, before going upright and getting to work.

  She took up the cravat she’d dropped nearby and forced his mouth open before stuffing it inside. His muffled cries left her unmoved as she began using her knife to slice away the buttons of his waistcoat, then his shirt. He twisted and swung, trying to fight her off, but she used her knife to subdue him—slashing at his arm when he tried to hit her. Then, she used her knees to pin his arms to the ground, taking away the use of his hands.

  Seemingly resigned to his fate, he lay beneath her with tears in his eyes, shuddering and whimpering as fear began to truly set in.

  “You must be terrified,” she crooned, smiling down at him once she’d sliced his shirt open to bare the rest of his abdomen. “Trying to figure out what I’m going to do to you. I wonder if the poor maid you cornered during that house party felt such fear. And the ones before her ... do you think they were as afraid as you are right now?”

  It took a moment for him to understand, but once he did, he grew louder, his lips moving as he seemed to try to plead his case through the wad of linen in his mouth. She pressed her knife against his lips.

  “Shh … hush now. You are a big, strong man, are you not? A titled lord with all the power and privilege in the world. What have you to cry about? Oh, I see … you are worried that I’m going to hurt you like you hurt that poor maid—like you’ve harmed countless others?”

  He issued a garbled sob as he nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. Cassandra laughed, the sound as hard and harsh as the heart beating inside her chest. She had no pity for this man, no care for his tears or the blood he would shed by the time she had finished.

  “Do not worry, Mr. Barlow. That limp waste of flesh between your thighs is of no interest to me. No, I am interested in something else altogether.” “What?”

  The single word was almost indecipherable, but she understood it through the linen sucking all the moisture out of his mouth. Positioning her dagger against his chest, she braced herself with one hand upon the ground.

  “Ensuring that bastards like you never assault another woman ever again.”

  Then, she began to cut. She made long, deep gouges through his skin, watching with savage satisfaction as his blood welled up in the neat lines and curves. Barlow’s eyes widened until she thought they might fall free of their orbits, his face going purple as he bellowed through his gag. She was quick and efficient, realizing she only had so much time before someone heard and came to investigate, or the city watch found their way down the alley.

  When she had finished, she used his own cravat to wipe away the blood pooling over his chest and running in messy rivulets down his body. He had gone silent and pale, light whimpers the only sign that he was still alive. Resigned to his fate, just like the others she had done this to … accepting of his punishment.

  The crimson gore wiped away to reveal the word she’d carved into his chest with painstaking care.

  DEFILER.

  BY THE FOLLOWING EVENING, Cassandra had arrived at what was now her new home. Randall had been waiting for her in the mews as promised, and had conveyed her out of the city with the dark blanket of night still over them. They’d traveled until the sun broke the horizon, then found a small inn at which to rest the horses, take a meal, and relax for a short time. She had changed back into her finery in the back of the vehicle, earning her the best treatment when coming face to face with the innkeeper. She’d been offered a room in which to wash her hands and face and sleep for a bit. A hot meal had was sent up for her, and she’d been assured that Randall and her horses were well taken care of. By afternoon, they were ready to set out again, Randall driving them at a maddening pace on her command.

  Now that she no longer lived in London, she could not abide remaining there any longer than necessary. Uncle Rupert had played a large role in helping her escape Penrose House, where he lived with her mother and youngest sister. She was grateful for it, for him and his understanding and affection. He was not her dearly departed papa, and no one could replace the former duke, but he was one of the few allies she had left—the only one in her family who did not blame her for the things Lord Bertram Fairchild had done to her, and the resulting scandal that had ensued when she’d revealed it all.

  “You deserve to be happy,” he’d said when pulling her into his study and informing her that he’d purchased Easton Park. “I can see that remaining in London, among all the people who look down on you with such pious judgment, will only wear on you more and more over time.”

  It hadn’t been fair, the way the ton had turned on her once she and Bertram’s other victims had bound together to expose and prosecute him. But then, she’d always known it would be this way. She was a spinster, after all, five-and-twenty years of age, unwed, unwanted, and unpopular. Even as she’d lain all her secrets bare to the world, testifying about the horrors of being lured into solitude and robbed of her maidenhead in the most brutal of ways, they'd judged her and found her wanting. The ton refused to see her as anything other than a desperate chit who'd gotten herself ravaged while trying to get him off alone to lay a marriage trap. What would a handsome, well-liked lord like him want with a plain-faced spinster like her?

  And so, they shunned her. They warned their sons to stay out of her path, and used her plight as a cautionary tale for their daughters. The men leered at her as if she were fair game now that she was ruined, and the women held their skirts aloft to keep from brushing against her when they walked past.

  London had become a miserable place for her as a result, even as she used it as a means to gather information and exact her revenge. She had taken Uncle Rupert up on his offer, demanding the inheritance that was her due now that she'd reached her majority. He’d given it up freely, urging her to take it and be happy, living however sh
e saw fit.

  Little did he know, she saw fit to become the avenging demon who lurked in the night, punishing unsuspecting lords for their abuse of women. Bertram had been allowed to prey upon debutantes for years, unchecked. Cassandra had been only one in a long line of victims, his wealth and powerful father proving enough to get him out of trouble each time an angry papa turned up on his doorstep demanding things be made right.

  No more.

  Never again would men like Bertram be able to do as they pleased without consequences. Not as long as she drew breath and was able-bodied. Wherever she heard whispers of ungentlemanly behavior, she followed the gossip to the truth, and meted out the sort of justice she had been denied following her own rape.

  As she descended from her carriage and swept up the front walkway of her home, she hoped sleep would come easier to her knowing that another defiler of innocents had received his comeuppance.

  The dower house at Easton Park had been referred to as a cottage, but did not fit the picture of a small and quaint dwelling such a word called to mind. Two stories high, the wide front of the house boasted picturesque windows, ivy vines crawling up the brick facade, and pointed peaks covered in stone tiles for a roof. The hedges lining the path to the front door had been wild and overgrown upon her uncle's purchase of Easton Park, but his money and an army of both indoor and outdoor servants had set that, and many other neglected things, to rights. The neat hedges now guided her on a perfect path to a front door that had been painted a bright white and boasted an ornate brass door-knocker.

  Inside were two drawing rooms—a small one for her personal use, and a larger one for entertaining if she so chose—an elegantly appointed dining room, a small study lined with bookshelves, a water closet on the first floor, a kitchen, four bedrooms, and a circular veranda one could access through a set of doors in the large drawing room. Beyond it lay a small garden, which had been overrun with weeds, but was now almost bare in preparation for the new plants she’d sent for. In a small corner, her housekeeper—who also functioned as a cook—had begun cultivating vegetables and herbs.