At the end of the alleyway was another door, guarded by an equally burly gentleman. He stepped aside as soon as he saw them, letting them in. Emily opened her mouth to ask for help and then closed it again. Clearly whoever this man was, he knew and feared both Madam Bainbridge and Mr. Blackmore. He would be of no help to her.
In the darkened entrance where the three of them now stood, there was a flight of stairs rising to the next level and a long corridor, the end of which was well lit. Music and laughter could be heard from that direction as people talked and laughed. Her companions ignored the corridor however and led her up the stairs.
It was clear to Emily that whatever this place was, Mr. Blackmore and Madam Bainbridge were more than just guests seeking a place to rest for the night. Suddenly her intended husband surged ahead of them and extracted a key from an inner lining of his jacket. He unlocked a large, ornately curved door and bade them enter.
Madam Bainbridge entered unhesitatingly but Emily looked around frantically for escape. She thought of hurtling back down the stairs but remembered the burly man at the door. She had a feeling he would not let her out. With a sigh of resignation, she walked into the chamber.
There was a large sofa in the corner below a bookshelf liberally cushioned and covered in red velvet. Across from the decorative sofa was a desk, equally huge and covered with papers. The large leather-winged armchair sitting behind the desk resembled nothing so much as a throne. Emily took a deep breath and tried to slow her breathing.
“Welcome to my house,” Mr. Blackmore said spreading his hands out generously as he looked at Emily at last, and smiled.
“Th-thank y-you.”
“This will be your home from now on, so I do hope you try to fit in. Madam Bainbridge will explain everything to you in detail but first, I regret to inform you, that our engagement is at an end.” He stared at her in mock sorrow. “The good news is that you will have no shortage of companionship in your bed.”
Emily blinked at him, uncomprehending. “Wha-what does that mean?”
Mr. Blackmore just smiled. “Madam Bainbridge will explain.” He turned toward the armoire near the window on top of which sat a decanter filled with amber-colored liquid. He picked it up and poured a generous measure into two glasses. Passing one to her, he picked up the other. “Welcome to the family, Miss Fletcher,” he lifted his glass, toasting her and drank, never taking his eyes off her.
Emily took a tentative sip and then made a face. The drink was quite strong. Mr. Blackmore slammed his glass back on the table, nodded to Madam Bainbridge and strode toward the door. He paused there, to look back at Madam Bainbridge. “When you are done here, please find out if Natalia is available and send her to my rooms.”
Madam Bainbridge bowed her head and smiled. Mr. Blackmore left.
Madam Bainbridge walked up to the table and picked up the still-half-full glass Emily had placed upon it. She held it out to Emily. “Drink it all. You will need it,” she said succinctly.
Emily swallowed, but reached for the glass in any case, downing it in one long painful burning gulp. She coughed a few times, seeing spots in front of her eyes. Madam Bainbridge made an amused sound.
“Now, as you may or may not have deduced, this is a brothel.”
Emily blanched, face paling but did not say a word.
Madam Bainbridge smiled. “Good girl. You’re learning already. The better you are at listening to me and obeying what I tell you, the longer you will last. Do you understand?”
Emily could only blink at her in confusion. Madam Bainbridge sighed. “I will require you to answer when I ask you a question.”
Emily’s hand twitched and she looked away, her eye catching on one thing and then another. This was an Academy and Madam Bainbridge was Lady Abbess.
And I…I am to be a...
She could not even think the word.
“I-I-I-I think there has been some sort of mistake. My father would never agree to this. This is not what…”
Madam Bainbridge laughed cruelly. “Do you honestly think that anyone around here gives a tinker’s damn what your father agreed to?”
“I-I want to go home.”
The Abbess patted her on the arm. “Don’t we all, darling? That is not going to happen. So I will ask you one more time. Do you understand what you are doing here?”
“If I don’t, may I go home?”
“No, if you do not, I shall have one of the girls explain to you in detail.” Her voice was cold, ruthless. There was no mercy to be had here. She could do as she was told or she would be forced.
“I-I-I understand,” she whispered, one tear escaping her eye despite her best efforts.
Madam Bainbridge nodded. “Good. Now I will show you to your quarters where you will clean yourself up. Someone will bring you some bread and water. If you want to eat from tomorrow, you will earn your meals on your back.”
Emily swallowed, and nodded her understanding of the terms. The Abbess pointed to the door and Emily headed toward it with no clue where she was going. She opened the door to find a scantily clad woman standing there, smiling widely–her blackened teeth, some of which were missing pieces or absent altogether–on full display. She tentatively smiled back, thankful that she’d thought to pack a birch twig and tooth powder.
“Cor! You’re a pretty one aren’t you?” the woman said unabashedly studying Emily from tip to toe. Emily did not know how to respond to that statement so she said nothing.
“Come on then. Let’s get ye settled.” She whipped around, her heavy gown with its plumed up tail swinging with her. She swayed down the corridor and Emily struggled to catch up with her surprisingly fast stride.
“W-what’s your name?” she ventured to ask.
The girl flicked her an amused glance. “My real name ye mean? It’s Trudy. Trudy MacFadden. But the men just call me Fiona.”
“Why?” Emily’s brow furrowed with concern.
Trudy touched her glowing red locks. “On account o’ my hair see? Tis a Scots name, Fiona.”
“Oh…” Emily didn’t really understand but she did not want to appear too stupid in front of the only friendly face she’d seen since leaving home.
“What’s your name then?” Trudy asked.
“Oh, I’m Emily. Emily Fletcher, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Trudy smiled wide. “Oh, the men will love ye. Ye speak all lady like.”
Emily frowned. She did not want the men to love her. She wondered if it was too late to copy Trudy’s rough tongue. But she did not want to insult her new acquaintance by imitating her so she decided to just play it by the ear.
They came to a stop in front of a less ornate door than the one leading to Mr. Blackmore’s office and Trudy turned the handle before stepping back with flourish. “Welcome to your new home.”
Emily took a tentative step forward and peered into the room. It was untidily furnished with a large bed, lots of red velvet, and an armoire. The wardrobe hung carelessly open and full of gowns. Emily’s eyes widened. “Are those all yours?”
Trudy’s laughter trilled down the corridor and Emily looked around cautiously, hoping for some reason that Mr. Blackmore could not hear. “O’ course not. We all share the clothes.” She walked into the room, dragging Emily with her. After giving her another critical once over, she picked one of the gowns. “I think this one will fit you.”
Emily stared at it in horror. It was a lovely looking gown, all gold filigree and green lace accents, but the décolletage was clearly low enough for half her bosom to be on display and there was a slit in the side that reached close to the waist of the dress. It was clearly meant to leave very little to the imagination.
“I cannot wear that!” Emily cried.
Trudy’s face was suddenly extremely somber. “Now ye listen to me, young lady. What d’ye think this place is? D’ye think it’s an orphanage? D’ye think Madam is with the Sisters of Charity? No, no. This is a brothel. Ye do as you’re told, or else. Do ye understand
me?”
Emily’s bottom lip trembled and she could barely speak. “I understand,” she whispered.
Chapter 5
Emily curled up on her bed, feeling every groove in the wood. The mattress beneath her was definitely no feathered item. It barely had enough hay stuffed into it to create a buffer between her and the hard surface beneath. Tears trailed down her cheek as she thought of the goose down mattress she’d left behind. It was the one luxurious item they had left. Her father had obtained the goose feathers in a barter trade with three bolts of cloth from China. She had made up the mattress herself and every night when she burrowed into it, she sighed with content.
Stop thinking about that.
She knew that wallowing in homesickness would not help her in any way. She was in serious trouble and nobody was coming to rescue her. If she wanted to get out of this jam she found herself in, she would have to do it herself. Trudy had gone off to see if she could find some food, seeing as Emily had gone quite green at the gills. The alcohol that she had drunk was making her dizzy and she could barely think.
She lay flat, looking up at the ceiling and sighed.
I’m wrinkling the dress. That Madam will be angry with me.
She reached down, smoothing the dress as best as she could without getting up. She felt…depleted. Whatever energy she’d had to begin with had gone to being terrified and homesick.
“I should write to Father. He’ll come and get me, won’t he?” she bit her lip, blinking rapidly in an attempt to stop the relentless barrage of tears. She didn’t want to imagine that her father might have had even the slightest clue as to what her fate was going to be.
Surely he would not have sent me here if he knew.
She had to believe that otherwise she might just jump out of the window to her death. Her father might have made a lot of mistakes in recent years but he was not yet so profligate as to sell his daughter into a life of degeneracy.
Was he?
A sense of shame spun through her at her uncertainty, filling her with guilt at being disloyal to the man who had fathered her. She decided that for the sake of her own peace of mind, she had to believe that her father had not done this to her.
Not deliberately.
He must have believed the marriage was real.
She sat up, looking for a piece of paper and a quill that she might use to write him a letter. There was nothing in the room not dedicated to embellishing a woman’s looks in order to present her in the most alluring light to potential patrons. She sighed, lying back down even as the door opened and Trudy came through.
“Come, come, yer leddyship. Time to eat and then we’ll go down to the floor and ye’ll see for yerself what’s required of ye.”
Emily swallowed, not wanting to do any of those things. Trudy thrust a bowl of soup at Emily, her face stamped with determination. “Come now, no time for wailing and gnashing of teeth. Eat the soup and then we have to go.”
Emily took the bowl slowly, knowing that it might be some time before she was able to eat again, if what Trudy said was true. She scooped some soup, sniffing at it before spooning it into her mouth. She grimaced at the blandness of it, but swallowed it down in any case.
Trudy clapped and beamed at her as if she was a baby that had taken its first step. “Good lass! Now tonight, ye shall just watch and allow all the patrons to see ye. Madam wants to start a bidding war over ye. Is it true ye’re a virgin?” Trudy peered at her as if she was an exotic creature, “How quaint.”
Emily swallowed, but was unable to dislodge the lump of fear in her throat. Trudy watched her with sympathy in her eyes. “Och! Don’t worry. It isn’t as bad as ye think. Once ye get used to it, ye won’t even remember that ye were ever anything else.”
She patted Emily on the shoulder consolingly and Emily tried to smile, but she was too filled with horror. She did not want to forget that she had ever been anything other than some man’s plaything.
“Come Emily, eat your soup. It’s time to go.”
Emily finished the soup as slowly as she could before following Trudy into the darkened corridor and down two flights of stairs. The closer they got to the ground floor, the louder it got. Male voices argued at full volume while someone was playing the fiddle. Interspersed with that was some high pitched giggling which Emily assumed was the other demi-reps.
Her terror mounted with every step.
Trudy reached for her hand and pulled her into the room. She stopped short just inside the doorway and stared around, eyes wide and afraid. She did not know what she was even seeing. So much naked flesh in the room, she could not even fathom it. She closed her eyes tight, praying under her breath.
“What is this? What do we have here?”
Emily startled as she heard the man’s voice so close to her ear. She jerked away, eyes flying open. There was a man, looming over her, his hand running down her arm as he surveyed her as if she were a prize horse. Another man came to stand beside him, his eyes hazy with drink. “Is this the virgin?” he asked reaching out to squeeze her bosom.
Emily squeaked, tripping backwards before turning and scrambling fearfully out of the room. She stumbled up the stairs, crying hysterically. Somebody called her name but she ignored them, taking all three flights of stairs as fast as she could. There was a much ado behind her, some angry shouting but she did not let it deter her.
Reaching the room, she’d been assigned, she dived into it and slammed the door behind her, bosom heaving, sweat pouring from her brow, eyes wide and terrified. “God help me, please. Please, please help me,” she chanted.
She expected that Trudy would come to either drag her back or comfort her. She was surprised when nothing happened. The corridor was silent; she could not hear any signs of movement or chatter. It made her tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Gradually, her breathing slowed and she was able to think. Running and locking herself away would not work. It would not stop those men from bidding on her or make this nightmare go away. She tried to think what to do, but no new ideas occurred to her.
Slowly, she walked over to the bed and sat on it to await her fate. Suddenly she heard screaming and shot to her feet.
Very distinctly, over the sound of chatter, and inexplicably, furniture falling, a voice shouted. “Fire!”
Emily opened the door a crack and peered out, expecting it to be some sort of trick. But the corridor was empty except for a plume of smoke emanating from the stairway. Below her, she could hear the sound of running feet and people screaming.
Maybe there really is a fire.
She slowly crept from the room shuffling toward the stairs and peering downward to see if anyone was there. Although she could hear running, she couldn’t see anyone. A shot of flame suddenly appeared, flying upward and she screamed, jumping backwards. Running back to her room, she peered out the window.
Below her was a tiled rooftop which sloped downward. There were stone pillars beside it, going right to the ground. However, if she got off the roof and slipped, she could very well fall to her death. She looked backward toward the door but there was nothing but misery there.
She turned back to the window trying to estimate her chances. She remembered Farmer John's son, Anthony, leaping fearlessly from the bale of hay and trusting that his landing would be soft and painless.
Can I do the same? Do I have the courage?
She hesitated a moment longer but then there was a scream, abruptly cut off, followed by the thudding sound of flesh hitting wood. That took the decision out of her hands. She dived head first out of the window, using her hands to control the downward slide of her body.
She winced every time her hands collided with the edge of a tile and her fingers were compelled to bear her weight. Slowly, jerkily, she made her way to the edge of the roof by a pillar and grabbed onto it for dear life.
Very painstakingly, she turned her body around while clinging to the pillar and praying that it was too dark for any of the people below to se
e her. If she was to escape from this hell it was imperative that she not be spotted by any of the patrons or the girls. If she could just melt into the night, maybe they would think that she died in the fire that was clearly ravaging the entire building as well as putting the neighboring buildings in danger.
The fire brigade was already at hand, long line of men passing buckets from hand to hand while others ran into the building to salvage what they could. A crowd had gathered around, watching, screaming and wailing. Emily suspected that the screamers were probably the girls from the brothel.
She shimmied downward as quietly as she could even though it wasn’t really necessary with all the noise below. She landed on the ground hard, her body jarring, her teeth clicked and she almost bit her tongue off. Standing as still as possible, she clung to the pole, trying to become one with the night.
A Wicked Earl she can't Resist: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 4