Rogue’s Holiday

by Walker, Regan

  The king’s men agreed and prodded the two brigands down the stairs.

  Jack pulled his knife from the wall, hiding it on his person.

  “Before we leave,” said Robbie, “let’s search the place. We might find a clue as to the name of the brothel.”

  The search was a short one as they found only clothes, the makings of disguise and food. There was no paper of any kind, save an old newspaper. He doubted the two men he had met could read but the leader would have. He had obviously been the one to write the threatening message to Robbie.

  “We were lucky,” said Jack as they hastily retraced their steps to the Pavilion. “Now we just have to find her before a brothel’s customer does.”

  “I pray we do,” said Robbie. “We can change while the curricle is readied. If we are to be calling upon the best brothels in London, we had best dress the part.”

  “We wouldn’t get far dressed as we are.” They still had on the remnants of their costumes.

  “We must hurry. She’s alone and frightened and at their mercy.” Robbie dared not think of the danger Chastity faced. “I will kill anyone who touches her.” He knew then that no matter her condition, as long as she lived, he would claim her as his.

  Chapter 13

  Exhaustion overcame her but Chastity refused to give in to it. Instead, she concentrated on the jarring she endured as the carriage bumped over the rutted road and surreptitiously watched her captor, willing him to sleep so she could work at the bindings around her wrists.

  The Russian serf stared at her from the shadows across the conveyance. She felt his hatred and the cold determination he wore like a mantle. His dark eyes were hard as if steeled to some distasteful task. The man scared her to death but she would not let him see her fear.

  Finally, he drifted into a fitful sleep and she went to work on the bindings in earnest. She could feel the knot beginning to give way when her captor roused, looked at her, and then returned to sleep. She breathed out a sigh and returned to the bindings. This time, they loosened.

  With her hands free, she removed the gag around her mouth and, with a last look at her sleeping captor, opened the carriage door and leapt out. She hit the ground hard with a grunt but the vegetation along the side of the road softened the blow. She picked herself up and turned back toward Brighton. At first, her steps were slow but then she picked up speed and ran, her one slipper the only protection against the stones of the road.

  The carriage slowed and she heard a shout behind her. The sounds of running feet followed. She ducked behind a bush, her heart racing in her chest. Forcing her breathing to slow, she prayed they would not find her.

  They passed the spot where she was hidden. She thought they had missed her, but one man carried a lantern and he turned and came back, slowing as he neared her. “The footprints stop here,” he said, lifting the lantern. It was the voice of the leader. “There she is. Grab her!”

  “Thought ye’d get away, did ye?” asked the one who had been driving. “Old Augie weren’t gonna let that happen. He bound her hands again, this time much tighter. When that was done, he began to paw her, his rough hands moving over her body.

  “You disgust me,” she spit out. “Take your hands off me!”

  Gripped in his one hand, he slapped her hard across the face with the other, leaving her skin stinging. “Where ye’re goin’, ye’ll learn to like a man’s touch, Sweetin’.” Then he hit her in the mouth, splitting her lip.

  “Enough!” said the leader. “I want her undamaged. Retie the gag and return her to the carriage.”

  By the time the man Augie had dragged her to the carriage, she was aching all over, bruised from her fall to the ground and her face swelling and sore from the impact of his fist. She held on to the hope that whatever had led to her kidnapping would soon be discovered. Her father was a landed squire who could well afford to pay a ransom. But what she heard in Augie’s words and saw in the leader’s cold pitiless eyes in the lantern’s light as he took the seat opposite her told her she was not to be ransomed.

  Despairing, she sank against the side of the carriage, tears running down her battered face.

  When dawn began to creep into the sky, the carriage jarred to a stop in a part of London she had never been in. It had to be the East End of London from the descriptions she’d heard. A place of dilapidated tenement houses in which poverty and disease flourished and the stench of open sewers hung in the air and rats scurried from the shadows.

  The carriage door opened. Her captor stepped down and, grabbing her by the shoulders, wrenched her out. “How unfortunate you have muddied your costume and lost your shoe.” He reached down and pulled off her one remaining slipper, muddied from her attempted escape, and stuffed it into his pocket. “Barefoot might suit you better where you’re going, but we’ll have to clean you up a bit.”

  He left her to Augie and turned toward the building. The growing light reflected in the polish of his boots, a design she recognized as her father’s. At the base of the outside shaft tooled in the leather was a small stylized “R”, a symbol of his fine workmanship. This man was certainly a villain of the worst sort but he had means to buy expensive boots and hire brigands to do his dirty work.

  He yanked her toward the door. She glared at him, grunting her disapproval. She was terrified to enter such a place and could only hope wherever he meant to take her was not so bleak. Her hands were cramped and her arms ached from being tied behind her. Her mouth was tight from the cut lip and her throat so dry she could barely swallow.

  She stumbled up the stairs they ordered her to ascend, nearly falling more than once as she tripped on her gown and the cloak. She wasn’t freed of her bindings until they shoved her through the door to a bedchamber at the top of the three-story house.

  “Guvnor, what say ye to lettin’ me test the goods before we deliver her to the madam?” said Augie. “One tumble for good luck?”

  She could see the leader was tempted. What better way to sully a virgin than to compromise her?

  “No,” he said to Augie. “It would not serve my purpose. She’s worth more as a maid.”

  Cold fear crept up her spine as Chastity listened to them talk. She had been right to think it was not ransom they sought. She was merely a piece of goods to be traded, perhaps to the highest bidder, or handed off to some place of ill repute. The thought caused her to shudder.

  Once the scarf around her mouth was removed, she turned on her captors, anger welling within her, vowing they would not see her quaking before them. “Are you such worms that a woman must be bound, trussed up and forcibly taken?”

  “Shut up!” spit the Russian serf.

  “Why should I? What cowards you are! For shame, beating a mere woman.”

  The one called Augie raised a hand to strike her but the leader grabbed his arm. “No more bruises.”

  “Why have you kidnapped me? Why am I here?”

  “’Tis the company you keep,” was the gruff answer the leader gave her. His speech was more refined than the man he called “Augie”, who had driven the carriage, but instead of Augie’s lust, the Russian serf gave her a look of utter disgust.

  “I keep no bad company,” she said, drawing Sir Robert’s cloak tightly around her.

  “Oh, but you keep the very worst of company, and he is a wretched traitor to all good Englishmen.”

  “Surely you are wrong. I know no such man.”

  “Why, ’tis your lover, Powell,” said the Russian serf.

  Sir Robert? He might be a rogue but she could never imagine him a traitor. The king and he were close. “I do not believe it,” she said, turning away.

  “What you believe is unimportant,” he said dismissively. “I will deal with your lover later.”

  “My father can pay a ransom,” she offered, hoping he could be persuaded.

  He gave her no answer. She hated to show them any weakness but her throat was as dry as dust. “A drink of water?”

  The leader nodded to Augie who p
oured her a cup of ale. “We’ve no water.”

  She took a long drink. He waited until she was finished and returned the half-full cup to Augie, who left them alone.

  She stared out the window. The light had grown stronger. Soon, there would be people on the street. Turning to face him, she asked, “How long am I to be here?”

  “Not long,” he said striding toward the door. Again, she noticed his boots and the telltale mark of her father’s design as he disappeared through the doorway, closing the door behind him.

  The room was cold, the fireplace clean and devoid of wood. They would not trust her with fire. Had Sir Robert not given her his warm cloak, she would be suffering terribly given what she was wearing. But his cloak, like the memory of his kiss, kept the chill at bay and gave her hope he would find her.

  She went to stand at the grime-covered window that looked down on the dirty street below. Her heart sank to discover the window was nailed shut. Even had it been open, she could not jump so far without grave injury. She cast a look toward the bed. It was a mere frame with a thin mattress and no bedding.

  She saw no people on the street but it was still early. She vowed to scream at the first person she saw, breaking glass to be heard, but, given where she was, she doubted any Good Samaritan would come to help her. She sank to her knees and asked God to help her.

  Robbie and Jack were hours behind the man called “Ings”. But at least the curricle was faster than the carriage they were following. Robbie gave the grays their heads and prayed the good weather held. Chastity’s feisty nature would serve her well in this. He loved that about her for it would mean their life together would never be dull, that is, if she survived to speak to him again. It was his fault, all of it. He should have seen it coming. The thought of some man touching Chastity made him grind his teeth.

  “I seem to recall the name Ings from the newspaper,” said Jack. “It belonged to one of the conspirators. Do you think—”

  “No, that one is dead. It’s likely a relation. I don’t suppose you have visited any high-class brothels recently?”

  “Not in London but if we were in Paris, I could give you names of half a dozen, mon ami.”

  “I can think of several in London frequented by the aristocracy,” said Robbie. “We will have to call upon all of them. In the meantime, sleep if you can.”

  They arrived mid-morning and, while he stabled the grays to be cared for and fed, Jack procured them meat pies from the nearby tavern to sustain them. From there, Robbie hailed a hackney and they set off, visiting every bordello of note he could recall ever hearing mentioned. They had to be the kind who would take a young woman against her will. It was not the kind of brothel he ever frequented but he knew some had less than stellar reputations.

  Hours later, they had been to houses on Newman Street, Queen Anne Street, Princess Street, Cavendish Square, Pit Street and even one in Soho. All with no luck.

  Robbie grew sick at heart when he recalled the reaction of the madams, the abbesses who ran the brothels. When he’d given them a description of Chastity and what she was wearing, the response often was “Blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skin dressed as a Greek goddess? Oh yes, she would do quite well here. Do let us know if she desires to join our ladies, won’t you?” He dared not reveal Chastity’s name. They would laugh at her Christian name, finding it highly amusing, and remember all too well her surname. No, he must seek her in anonymity. His eyes were scratchy from no sleep and his stomach growled, reminding him he lacked food, but he pressed on. Faithful Jack uttered no word of protest, knowing they raced for a girl’s life.

  Chastity had no opportunity to summon a stranger’s help. That same morning, they bound her hands under her cloak they had brushed free of dried mud and forced her into the carriage. Her face was now wiped clean but she was certain her bruised cheek and damaged lip could be seen.

  As they set off across London, she felt like a captive bird thrust into a cage. She clung to the hope Sir Robert yet searched for her. But how could he know where they were taking her?

  The carriage came to a stop in a much better neighborhood, lined with trees, where large houses drew her gaze. This, too, was a section of London she’d never been in before.

  The leader of her abductors leaned across the carriage in an intimidating matter. His dark eyes were like windows into hell. “Don’t say a word about your situation else your lover will find a ball in his back.”

  He no longer wore the Russian serf costume but the clothes of a gentleman. The facial hair remained the same and his hair overlong for the style in vogue, convincing her at least a part of his appearance remained a disguise.

  Chastity shrank from his intense perusal. His threat was real. For some reason, unknown to her, this man was convinced Sir Robert was a traitor. She would waste no words trying to convince the madman he was wrong. She believed him when he said he would kill Sir Robert if she told anyone of her abduction.

  The man named Augie opened the carriage door to reveal an ornate iron gate behind which stretched a path with a green lawn on either side. The path ended in an elegant white manor surrounded on one side by weeping willow trees. A pond lay on the other side where pink and red rose bushes bloomed. There was no sign indicating the name of the place or its purpose. She needed none to understand they had arrived at a brothel.

  Augie untied her hands and warned her to silence with his glare. He remained by the carriage as the leader walked her up the path. Her one foot that had been unshod was sore from the road she had walked trying to escape. She rubbed her aching wrists, red from the bindings, and looked back at the carriage where Augie watched her with a menacing expression.

  As they drew closer to the front door, Chastity’s mind conjured ideas for escape. No matter where they took her, she would sneak away.

  At the front door, black with a brass knocker, a well-attired butler with gray hair beckoned them enter. The villain beside her muttered a name in the butler’s ear and handed a footman his hat.

  Apparently, they were expected for the butler asked no questions. He offered to take her cloak but she declined, unwilling to give up the one thing that reminded her of Sir Robert. She fixed the butler with a steady gaze. “I shall keep my cloak, thank you. I do not intend to stay.” They had brushed the cloak clean but there were still smudges of mud on her white costume.

  The butler frowned in puzzlement.

  Her bearded captor forced a harsh laugh. “She’s a playful minx, always jesting. Aren’t you, Sweetheart?” He dug his fingers into her arm, pinching her so hard she cried out.

  The butler shrugged and walked on.

  “Stop! Wait, please…I feel faint. Would it be possible to sit?”

  The butler paused and turned, looking down at her bare feet.

  “You just sat an hour in the carriage, dear girl,” said her captor. “Now cease your teasing and behave.” He gave her a shake that rattled her teeth.

  The butler turned away. “Follow me, please.”

  They crossed the black and white tiled floor of the entry hall, passing a wide staircase leading to the next story. At the base of the stairs stood a large man with blond hair looking straight ahead unmindful of their presence. There were no women present but then she wouldn’t have expected them to be awake at this hour having worked the night.

  They walked down a corridor, passing several rooms with impressive furnishings. This was no ordinary brothel. Finally, the butler stopped and bade them enter the well-appointed parlor. The first thing Chastity noticed was the crystal chandelier hanging above two brocade sofas flanking a marble fireplace. A gilded mirror set over the mantel made the room appear much larger than it was. The colors were subdued, a light blue and a soft rose.

  When the butler departed, a young maid, plump with blonde curls beneath her mobcap, sallied into the room and introduced herself as Emma. “Welcome to Willow House,” she said, giving Chastity a warm smile. “Miss Abby will see the gentleman in her office. You may remain here, Miss
.”

  The door was shut as they left. Chastity tried the handle. Locked. A second door on the other side of the parlor beckoned. As she stepped close to it, she heard the leader speaking with a woman, their voices lowered.

  “Not our usual…” said the woman.

  “Untouched…” the man replied.

  “I would see her alone,” said the woman in a voice that forbade argument. “Wait here.”

  The side door opened and a woman entered, closing the door behind her. Chastity did not know what she expected but certainly not a stately woman in her late forties with dark brown hair pulled back into a tasteful knot and appraising hazel eyes that reminded her of Sir Robert’s. She might have been an aging governess, so proper was her gray-blue morning gown.

  In a whispered voice, Chastity said, “Oh, please, Ma’am. I am in terrible trouble. You must help me!”

  The woman gave her a polite smile but her gaze took in Chastity’s face, dwelling for a moment on her torn lip. “Perhaps, my dear. Everything in its proper time. First we make our introductions.”

  She led Chastity to the far side of the room where a small table with two chairs was set in front of a window looking out at the willow trees. “I am Abigail Darkin, but you may call me Miss Abby. And you are?”

  “Miss Chastity Reynolds.”

  The woman gave her an assessing look before asking, “Would you like to shed your cloak? The fire burns well in the grate and I believe the room is quite warm enough.”

  Chastity held the cloak to her. “No, thank you.”

  “We can be private here,” said Miss Abby. She glanced toward the side door. “He cannot hear us. Tell me what brought you to Willow House. I’m quite certain his representations are not all there is to the story, if, indeed, they are accurate at all.”