“Think you can ’andle ’er, Matlock?” the blond taunted.
“Yeah, Grimmet, I can ’andle ’er. Me an’ ’er ’as an understandin’. We’re gonna be real good friends.”
The blond snorted, folding his arms across his chest. The redhead chuckled and turned me around until I was facing him. The brown eyes gleamed darkly with lust in the dimness of the carriage. One arm moved up, curling around the back of my shoulders. The thick lips parted. My heart pounded wildly, and I tensed, ready to gouge his eyes out. He might kill me, yes, but I intended to do an awful lot of damage before he did. He chuckled again and started to lower his lips over mine.
“I wouldn’t, Matlock!” the blond warned.
“You can ’ave ’er after I get done, Grimmet. There’s plenty-a time.”
“Let go of ’er,” Grimmet ordered.
The redhead turned to glare at his colleague. It was clear that the two men detested each other, working as a team only because they’d been ordered to do so. I squirmed in Matlock’s arms, trying to pull free, and he wasn’t even aware of my struggles as his anger mounted.
“You tellin’ me what-ta do, Grimmet?”
“That I am, mate. Anything ’appens to ’er, it’s my ass as well as yours.”
“’E ain’t gonna—”
“They say she still ’as ’er cherry. Black Jack plans on takin’ it ’isself. ’E finds out you beat ’im to it, ’e’s gonna slit your throat, mine, too, for lettin’ it ’appen.”
“I ain’t afraid of ’im!”
“No?”
The question was flat, without inflection. Matlock hesitated for a moment, then scowled and let me drop back against the cushions. I caught my breath, and my heart continued to pound wildly. I closed my eyes, moving as far away from him as I could. The panic was still there, shrieking silently inside me, ready to burst its bounds and turn me into a jibbering madwoman like those poor, pathetic creatures they kept chained up in Bedlam. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t. I had to gather my wits, use ’em. I wudn’t gonna be raped, not yet. For the time being I was perfectly safe unless I did something foolish like trying to jump out of the carriage.
Pull yourself together, Randy. Calm down. Stop tremblin’ inside. It ain’t gonna do you no good. You gotta use your ’ead. You’ve been in bad scrapes before. You’re gonna get outta this one.
The panic didn’t go away, but somehow I managed to contain it. I took several deep breaths and straightened my skirts, sitting up in the corner of the carriage. Matlock sat beside me, a huge, angry hulk, and Grimmet watched me with narrowed, suspicious eyes, not trusting me for an instant, ready to spring if I made the least movement.
“’Ow—’ow did you find me?” I asked. There was a quaver in my voice.
“Wudn’t no trace uv you in St. Giles,” he told me. “Couldn’t find ’ide nor ’air of you, but Black Jack wudn’t about to give up. ’As a real letch for-ya, ’e does, ’as ’ad ever since ’e sawya that mornin’. ’E kept us lookin’ for you all them weeks, then ’e finally decided you might-a been pinched. ’E ’as connections on Bow Street, checked it out, learned you’d been bonded to this bloke Gordon, an’ th’ rest was easy, just a matter uv findin’ th’ right opportunity to grab-ya.”
“You—you’re takin’ me to ’im?”
Grimmet nodded. “’E ’as a special ’ideaway in St. Giles where we’re breakin’ in th’ girls for th’ new ’ouse. ’E’s expectin’ big things from you, Randy. ’Magine you’ll be ’is number one ’ore.”
Like ’ell I will, I thought. Anger was beginning to stir, eclipsing the panic. I wudn’t no weak, whinin’ maiden snatched out of some fancy girls’ school. I was Duchess Randy, schooled on the streets, more than a match for these two brutal oafs. I might not ’ave th’ brawn, but I ’ad brains, an’ th’ two of ’em together didn’t ’ave th’ intelligence of a peahen. I gazed at the blond, forcing back the anger, summoning a shaky calm that gradually grew more stable. Black Jack Stewart was just going to ’ave to find ’imself another whore.
I couldn’t get out of the carriage, no, but when we got to th’ ’ouse I’d ’ave an opportunity to get away. I’d make one. I wudn’t scared. Not any longer. Not much. I was calm now, calm an’ crafty. I ’ad brains an’ determination, an’ I ’ad incentive.… ’E’d be gettin’ restless now, getting surly, wonderin’ where I was, wantin’ ’is dinner. Bleedin’ Scot. Beautiful, bleedin’ Scot. I’d grown used to ’im. I’d grown fond of ’im, crazy as that seemed, maybe more than fond. Feelings I had never dared examine too closely stirred inside now, now that I was in danger of losing him, and my determination solidified, hard, cold, supplanting everything else. Nothing was going to keep me from him. Nothing. I’d face Black Jack Stewart and ’is whole bleedin’ army, and I’d win, too.
No longer afraid, I sat calmly in the carriage with my two abductors, biding my time. Through the windows of the carriage London was dark gray and brown, mottled with black shadows as darkness fell, a few lights making blurry yellow-orange splotches against the dreary expanse. I could smell the river, a combination of mud and moss and water, salt and the stench of refuse. A church bell tolled solemnly. Matlock and Grimmet were silent, Matlock still brooding angrily, Grimmet still watching me with narrowed eyes. Another smell assailed my nostrils, an unmistakable smell that I knew so well, that seemed even stronger now that I’d been away from it for a while. Like the lair of some filthy animal, St. Giles exuded the odor of the beast.
We passed St. George’s, marble and masonry gleaming a dull gray white among the shadows. We drove through the labyrinth of narrow, congested streets, and I made a note of each familiar landmark, composing a mental map that would guide me back to my Scot. The brothels, the doss houses, the opium dens and gin shops and sordid tenements were just as they had been, but they seemed alien now, seemed even filthier and more squalid now that I had come to know another world. I had been a part of St. Giles, a product of these streets and alleys, shaped by them, but that had changed now. Already it had changed, and I was a stranger. The carriage moved down Half Moon Alley, pathetic whores and swaggering ruffians and gin-soaked bawds thronging the pavements, dirty, tattered children darting about noisily. A scrawny little girl in pink rags taunted a fishmonger, hands on hips, her hair tangled, her face streaked with dirt. As the monger cursed her she seized a scaly haddock from his cart and dashed away, disappearing into the mob. I might have been witnessing a scene from my own past. That child might have been me just a few short years ago.
“Won’t be long now,” Grimmet said gruffly. “’E ’as everything ready, ’as a room for ’er. Don’t lose ’eart, Matlock. Maybe ’e’ll let you ’ave a turn at ’er when ’e’s broken ’er in.”
“To ’ell with ’im!”
“That attitude’s gonna get you in a lotta trouble, mate.”
“Mind your own soddin’ business, Grimmet!”
Grimmet smiled a taunting smile. Matlock glared at him. They were like two bulls in a pasture, stamping the ground, ready to charge at each other. Grimmet was obviously the chief henchman, Matlock his underling, a situation that clearly galled him. The redhead turned to look at me with a combination of hatred and vicious lust, as though I were somehow responsible for his lack of stature in Black Jack’s organization. I repressed a shudder, knowing full well that were it not for Grimmet’s presence I would already have been savagely raped. Both of them were brutal animals, but they were like playful pups compared to their leader, the man who intended to “break me in.”
I refused to think of it, refused to let panic and fear get another hold on me. We drove deeper into the labyrinth, turning down first one street, then another, moving through the darkest, most dangerous section of St. Giles, a neighborhood avoided by all but the hardiest, most corrupt denizens of the slums. I recognized Wormwood Alley, a narrow, dingy passageway barely wide enough for the carriage to pass through, and a few moments later we stopped before two crumbly brick pillars with a heavy iron gate between them. A burly
lout shouted at the coachman. The coachman gave some kind of password, and the gate was unlocked at once, creaking audibly as it was swung back.
The carriage moved into a small, closed courtyard and stopped with a rocking jolt. Matlock shoved open the door and scrambled heavily out. Grimmet followed, reaching back to take my arm, pulling me roughly onto the cobbled ground. The carriage turned around and moved back down Wormwood Alley. The burly giant swung the heavy iron gate shut with a bang and snapped the padlock in place. Night had fallen completely now, and the courtyard was a nest of darkness, thick black shadows cloaking the decrepit three-story gray frame house surrounded by overgrown shrubbery and tall trees. Moonlight sifted through the tree limbs, and I could see that the courtyard was entirely surrounded by a huge stone wall at least ten feet high, the barred gate providing the only access. The place was a bloomin’ fortress, I thought, frowning. Climbin’ that wall wudn’t goin’ to be no lark, but I’d climb one twice that ’igh if need be.
Grimmet clenched my arm firmly, leading me up three broken marble steps and into a huge, empty foyer with a bare gray wood floor and faded blue paper peeling on the walls. Candles burned in a pewter candelabra sitting on a rickety wooden table. Open archways led into the other large rooms, equally bare, and a once stately staircase curved up into darkness, a tattered violet runner covering the steps. Matlock followed us in, banging the door shut behind him, and a raven-haired ruffian in black breeches, gray blue shirt and thin black leather jerkin came up a flight of steps that apparently led to the basement. He carried a tray, and he examined me as though I were a side of meat.
“I see you brung ’er,” he said coldly. “Any trouble?”
“Easy as pie,” Grimmet retorted. “Never ’ad an easier snatch. ’Ad a bit uv trouble with Matlock ’ere, though. ’E wanted to bang ’er ’fore Black Jack ’ad ’is fun.”
The dark-haired man looked at Matlock, and then he set the tray down on the table, jerking his head back toward the basement steps.
“Fat blonde down there still ’adn’t made up ’er mind to cooperate. Refused to eat ’er meal. Reckon we’ll ’ave to let ’er starve a couple-a days. She’ll be willin’ enough to work then.”
“’Ow ’bout th’ one upstairs?”
“Oh, she’s purrin’ like a kitten. ’Ad ’er myself a while ago. Fast learner, that ’un. Get ’er washed up an’ in a fancy gown, she’ll bring ’em in like a magnet. ’Bout ready to leave, ’er.”
They continued to talk, Grimmet keeping a firm grip on my arm, Matlock sulking, and I learned that there were five girls stashed away in various parts of the house, being “trained” for their new line of work by Black Jack and his men. Grimmet, Matlock and Hogan, the black-haired man, were the only ones on duty tonight, although Black Jack and two others would be arriving later on. That made six, seven counting the lout guarding the gate. It wudn’t goin’ to be easy gettin’ away from seven of ’em.
“When’s ’e arrivin’?” Matlock asked sullenly.
“Wouldn’t know,” Hogan said. “’E don’t tell me ’is plans, just said ’e’d be ’ere sometime tonight.”
“Any gin left?”
“Plenty-a gin left, but I suggest you keep away from it. ’E dudn’t like us ’ittin’ it when we’re watchin’ th’ wenches.”
“Sod off, ’Ogan!”
Matlock shambled down the foyer and disappeared into one of the back rooms. Hogan and Grimmet exchanged glances. Hogan shook his head.
“That ’un’s gonna find ’imself outta work. Mistake givin’ ’im any kind ’uv responsibility. You go on and get yourself a bite to eat, Grimmet. I’ll escort this ’un up to ’er room.”
Grimmet released my arm. I rubbed the flesh where his fingers had squeezed. Hogan examined me again, silent, clearly not finding me to his taste. I sensed that he was even more important than Grimmet, perhaps Black Jack’s top lieutenant. His face was an impassive mask, his eyes a stony blue-gray, his lips thin and cruel. Wouldn’t think nothin’ of drivin’ a knife through my ’eart, that one, wouldn’t even blink an eyelash. He jerked his head toward the staircase, indicating that I should precede him, and I found his grim silence far more intimidating than the others’ rough treatment. Hogan didn’t need to resort to brutality to get his message across. Just lookin’ at ’im chilled you to the marrow of your bones.
I went up the staircase to the second floor, the hallway as bleak and deserted as the foyer below. Hogan motioned for me to continue on up to the third floor, and I obeyed silently, still outwardly calm but beginning to feel shaky again inside. The full enormity of my plight, of what they planned for me, struck me with sudden force, and I paused a moment, gripping the banister. No, no, I wudn’t goin’ to think about it. It wudn’t goin’ to ’appen. Not to me. I moved on up the stairs, knowing that if I allowed one chink in my armor, I’d be utterly lost and a prey to every fear. Other girls might ’ave ’ysterics, might faint, might cry an’ cringe an’ beg for mercy, but not me.
When we reached the third floor, Hogan moved in front of me, opening a door a short way down the hall. He stood in the doorway, waiting for me to enter. I moved past him, silent. We hadn’t exchanged a single word. The room was large and surprisingly well furnished, a floral-patterned wine-and-gray carpet on the floor, wine-colored drapes at the windows, a chair upholstered in royal blue sitting in front of the gray marble fireplace. A fire burned low, the dancing blue-orange flames reflected in the polished headboard of the large brass bed that dominated the room, an elegant royal-blue counterpane covering it. A bottle of wine was chilling in the silver bucket that sat on a low table, two fine crystal glasses beside it.
Hogan tilted his head toward an open doorway and addressed me for the first time, his voice as cold and expressionless as his face.
“In there you’ll find a bath. I ’ad one of th’ wenches ’eat the water an’ bring it up just a while ago. Bathe yourself. Do a thorough job uv it, understand? You’ll find a brush, comb, paint for your face—everything you need to make yourself fetchin’. There’s a gown. Put it on. I’ll be back up ’ere in an ’our to check on you. Be ready. Black Jack may not show up for some time, but you be ready.”
There was no overt threat, but it was there nevertheless, every word laden with icy menace. I didn’t want to admit that he frightened me, but he did. He scared th’ ’ell outta me. No use denyin’ it. He stared at me for a moment with stony gray-blue eyes, then turned and left the room. He closed the door, locked it. When the sound of his footsteps had died away, I moved over to the door and examined it. Solid oak. Steel lock. I bent down to peek through the keyhole. He had taken the key with him. In the adjoining room I found a hairpin, and I spent at least twenty minutes trying to pick the lock, finally realizing it was utterly futile. I’d need a packet uv explosives to get it open.
The windows were all barred. Sure, they would be. Heavy iron bars, impossible to pry loose. I was as much a prisoner here as I’d been in the bowels of the roundhouse. I stood very still in the middle of the bedroom, trying to come to terms with the situation. All right, Randy, you can start gettin’ all panicky again, start tremblin’ an’ feelin’ sorry for yourself, or you can use your ’ead. Use your ’ead. Play along with ’em. Make ’em think you’re resigned, an’ wait for your chance. It’ll come. You’re goin’ to get out uv ’ere. Keep calm.
Half an hour must have passed since Hogan left, and he would be coming back soon. Better do what ’e said. Better bathe and “be ready.” I went into the adjoining room and removed my clothes and bathed quickly. The soap had a subtle, provocative scent, a faint suggestion of wild violets. It was smooth and creamy, elegant. Must’ve come from France, I thought, rinsing myself. I climbed out of the tub and dried myself with a large, soft towel. Nothin’ but the best for Black Jack. I slipped on the petticoat of frail black lace, the skirt swirling in billowy layers. The gown was rich red silk brocade embroidered with tiny jet-black flowers, and the cloth made a delicious rustle as I put it on.
&nbs
p; None uv th’ girls at Big Moll’s ever ’ad a garment like this un, I thought as I stood in front of the full-length mirror. The elbow-length bell sleeves were very full, dropping off the shoulder, and the snug, form-fitting bodice left half my bosom bare. The sumptuous brocade skirt was extremely full, belling out over the lacy underskirts. The fit was surprisingly good, although it was a bit tight at the waist, and the high-heeled red satin slippers might have been made for me. Well, Randy, I told myself, you certainly look the part. You look exactly like a very expensive whore. I brushed my hair until it fell in thick, lustrous waves, and then I examined the face paints, disdaining them all. I didn’t need lip rouge and powder and the rest. An old ’ag like Lady Evelyn might ’ave to paint ’erself an’ put on patches to make a man notice ’er, but I wudn’t pushin’ forty.
Returning to the other room, I prowled around restlessly, growing edgy again despite myself. Ten minutes passed, twenty. Hogan should already have been back up here. What was I going to do? If only I had some kind of weapon, something I could crack him over the head with. I glanced around the room. No vases, no heavy books, no poker or shovel by the fireplace. There wasn’t anything I could use, unless … I hurried over to the table and pulled the bottle out of the bucket. Ice tinkled loudly. French wine, judgin’ from th’ label, probably cost a bleedin’ fortune, not that Black Jack would’ve paid for it. Holding it firmly by the neck, I lifted the bottle like a club. It was plenty ’eavy enough, so ’eavy you could crack a man’s ’ead wide open.
I smiled to myself, feeling better now. They weren’t quite as smart as they thought they were. I’d knock Hogan unconscious and, somehow or other, sneak downstairs and out of the house without any of the others seeing me. Maybe there was a back staircase for servants. Most big ’ouses ’ad ’em. I’d slip out and climb that bloody wall—it wouldn’t be easy, but I’d do it—and I’d be long gone before they knew it. I waited, tense, and it seemed an eternity before I finally heard footsteps in the hallway outside. Don’t get jumpy now, Randy. Relax. You got surprise on your side. ’E ain’t expectin’ anything. ’E thinks you’re a ’elpless female.
Once More, Miranda Page 28