EscapeWithMe

by Ruby Duvall

The distinctive sound of Mrs. Hayes’ laugh was growing louder, as well as footsteps on the stairs. Sam quickly dumped a few good spoonfuls of the bottle into the open wine and stashed the remaining laudanum with the makeup. Standing by the bed, she put one hand on one of the bedposts and the other on her hip, canting that hip to one side and hoping she looked sexy, or at least willing.

  The door opened. Mrs. Hayes was looking back and laughing as she entered. “Your Grace has such wit.”

  Sam couldn’t control her reaction when a familiar face walked in. The duke was a middle-aged man with a large, round belly and so much powder on his face that he could’ve worked at the circus. Sweat had mixed with the powder at the edges of his fake hairline and turned crusty. The beauty patch insensibly positioned next to his prominent nose made him the same man that had been leering at her at the theater, and it was no wonder he had been ogling her. He knew he was going to have her.

  “Mademoiselle Samantha,” Mrs. Hayes said as introduction.

  Sam did her best to smooth the shock away from her face and bowed as Milly had with the marquess. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I was surprised to recognize you,” she explained. At least it was the truth.

  “Yes, we did exchange glances at the theater.” His words were already slurred. He gestured at her with his wineglass. “You look even lovelier, madam. Très ébouriffé.” The duke’s pronunciation of French was much better than Mrs. Hayes’. Sam was starting to suspect why the woman used so much French.

  “Merci beaucoup,” Sam said playfully for Mrs. Hayes’ benefit. She even smiled a little. The duke grinned and raised his glass in salute.

  “Does Your Grace require anything else?” Mrs. Hayes asked with one hand on the door knob. Sam tightened her hand around her hip, trying to stay strong, but panic was setting in.

  “Leave us.” The duke swatted his hand dismissively in Mrs. Hayes’ direction. The woman gave Sam a very pointed look just before leaving. Smiling with satisfaction, the duke was oblivious to any awkwardness in the room and walked past her to the tray with wine. Her heart shot up to her throat as he refilled his glass. “You’re not as young as the last few of the new girls,” he observed, “but you don’t seem disposed to ill humors. Your color is very agreeable.”

  “Your Grace is too kind.” Indeed, she was likely healthier than most other women in the entire city, not just those near her age.

  “Mrs. Hayes tells me you are from the colonies.”

  “I am,” she said carefully.

  The duke sipped his wine and turned to her. “I cannot imagine living so roughly. I can hardly bear the country.”

  “The colonies have their own cities, Your Grace. Philadelphia, Boston, New York.”

  “Pah,” he said. He made that same dismissive motion with his hand, the lace at his wrist fluttering in the air. He drank much more deeply of his wine then, taking several gulps. “Artless architecture, uncultured and unfashionable people, horrendous savages prowling about…”

  “Freedom, opportunity, untamed landscapes,” she countered. The duke looked her up and down. She tensed.

  “Untamed indeed, mademoiselle.” He set down his wine and came closer to her. “You certainly make the colonies seem inviting.”

  How long did it take for laudanum to have an effect? Did she put in enough? What if the duke got her on her back?

  The duke smiled lecherously. He was older, drunk, and only after his own pleasure. She tried to tell herself it would be quick.

  He stepped close enough that his large, soft belly brushed her. Even with him wearing shoes and her wearing none, she was taller than him by a couple of inches.

  “I’ve never met a woman with both height and grace,” he said. Sam could smell how heavily the duke had been drinking. His compliment was sincere enough, but she couldn’t get herself to smile. “Nervous, are you? A member of nobility can have that effect.”

  The duke clutched her against his round belly and put his slobbery mouth against her neck as he groped her backside. She gasped in disgust, but he didn’t seem to notice and brought her hand against the front of his breeches. He was half-erect and she froze.

  She had to put her mind elsewhere, but she couldn’t refocus her thoughts. The duke moved her hand over his erection, and he whispered crude things about how he would have her.

  It would be over quickly, she repeated to herself. He would finish, drink his wine and then pass out. She would change clothes and try to sneak out, possibly through the window. It wasn’t as far to the ground.

  The duke turned her around and bent her over the bed. The corset made it difficult to breathe. Tears burned in her eyes and she repeated her mantra. He grasped the skirt of her chemise and flipped it up. She could hear him stimulating himself and waited anxiously. A whole minute passed. The duke was breathing heavily, still masturbating.

  “Damnation,” he growled. She dared to look back.

  His erection was gone. She didn’t feel relieved though. What if he demanded her to bring it back?

  “Your Grace?” she asked quietly.

  “Damn, damn!” He stuffed himself back into his breeches and walked a few steps to the wineglass he had set down. She allowed herself a sigh of relief, though not too obviously. Gratefully standing up, she covered herself with the chemise and sat on the bed.

  The duke took a swallow of wine and frowned into the glass. The powder around his mouth was terribly smeared. Sam realized with a wince that it was now on her neck. He then returned to the bed, sitting down tiredly next to her.

  “It’s been like this almost a year,” he grumbled. “All the other girls must know.” Sam didn’t know what to say. She didn’t wish to comfort him, but she didn’t want Mrs. Hayes to flip out.

  “Have you spoken to a physician, Your Grace?”

  “Of course I have. Damnable man had nothing useful to say. He told me to spread horrid-smelling oils upon my ballocks and to avoid friction when alone. I wake with a full mast, but the wind dies the moment I set sail.”

  An interesting metaphor.

  “I even attempted to copulate with my wife last week.” He finished his wine and Sam leaped at the opportunity.

  “Let me get you some more,” she offered, taking the glass from him.

  “Indeed,” he said distractedly. She went to the wine bottle and refilled his glass.

  “The ship isn’t broken, Your Grace. If you’re able to achieve ‘full mast’, then you simply need a good wind and an alert crew.” She returned to the bed and handed him the glass. He didn’t respond immediately and drank deeply.

  “Perhaps I’ve had too much wine,” he slurred. “The taste of it has become repellent.” Sam’s eyebrows went up. Would he recognize the taste of laudanum? “My wife,” he said bitterly, “has become just as repellent. She is beautiful and despises me.”

  “Less wine then,” Sam said. “A better diet too. Try to discover what attracts her. Wouldn’t that be a challenge?”

  “She fancies dresses and balls and surrounding herself with sycophants.” He nearly finished his glass and she gently took it from him.

  “Maybe she’s trying to escape.” Sam encouraged him to lie down, which he did without protest or awareness. She set his glass on the nightstand.

  “We’re both miserable. Doubly so together.” His eyelids were drooping.

  “But imagine it, Your Grace. Your wife, eager to be bedded. That fancy dress on the floor, and her shock at your power over her desires.” The duke smiled sleepily at that, his eyes now closed.

  “It would be quite a…sight,” he agreed.

  It was only a moment before she was sure he was asleep. She would have danced in victory if only she had the time. She fished her original clothing from under the bed, but she was so nervous that she didn’t think she could wait long enough to change. Compromising, she tugged her trench coat out of the bundle of clothes and then tightened the string holding the rest together. Putting her arms through the sleeves, she was about to tie the coat shut when a loud
knock sounded on the front door downstairs.

  “Who owns this house?” a man yelled from outside. “You’re to be brought before the magistrate posthaste!”

  Sam blanched. “Shit.” She looked at the duke, still sound asleep. “Shit, shit.” She had to get out of the house before the constables found her. She didn’t want to discover firsthand what punishment she’d receive for being in a brothel. Whipping? Jail?

  Someone was racing upstairs. She knotted the belt of her coat and went to the window, but it was harder to open than she had guessed. She tugged at the frame, inching it up. The door burst open and Sam froze.

  “Your Grace,” Mrs. Hayes gasped. The bawd sized up the situation very quickly and her expression was terrifying. Her hands at her sides were like steel claws, just like the ones in the drawing.

  She ran at Sam, screaming, “I’ll wring your neck!”

  Chapter Eight

  Mrs. Hayes’ eyes were wild and her brow knit together with rage. When the woman was about to rake her face, Sam reacted out of sheer instinct. Her fist flew forward, not well aimed, and hit Mrs. Hayes in the neck.

  The bawd’s shriek was cut off by the blow to her windpipe, but it didn’t temper her anger. She was coughing but also growling. She grabbed the shoulders of Sam’s coat, shaking her and trying to throw her to the floor. Sam’s strictly heavier form prevented the shorter, older woman from succeeding. Instead, one of Mrs. Hayes’ fisted hands let go of the coat and slammed down onto Sam’s shoulder.

  Sam was instantly pissed. Kicking anything her bare foot could impact, she hit Mrs. Hayes’ ankle and didn’t resist being dragged to the floor. She was on top and punched the older woman again, this time with intent, and nailed her square in the mouth. Her knuckles smarted, but Mrs. Hayes let her go to shield her own face. Blood dribbled from a cut in her lip.

  The sight of blood startled Sam and she scrambled to her feet. After grabbing her clothes, she headed to the hallway and peered over the balustrade. A man and Mr. Hull were on the ground floor and seemed to be struggling, but she couldn’t see them entirely.

  “I’m going up there. Now get out of my way.” Mr. Hull was quickly making his way upstairs.

  It was now time to panic.

  “Miss Samantha! Over here,” someone frantically whispered. From a narrow door meant to look part of the wall, Mary was beckoning her to the servants’ stairs. Sam rushed to the maid and slipped inside. Mary hurriedly shut the door and was first down the unlit staircase. Sam followed but her foot slipped and she almost brought both of them down. She then kept her hand on Mary’s shoulder, letting the maid lead her one floor down to the kitchen. A single candle illuminated the room well enough to spot the rear door.

  “The other men already scuttled. Out that way, miss. Run!” Sam didn’t need to hear it twice and pulled the door open. Shouts echoed from farther inside the house but she ran without looking back. A woman’s cry was the last thing she heard before rounding the side of a house and barreling down a narrow alley.

  Mud and grime splashed her legs. Heavy footfalls pounded somewhere behind her. One of the constables? She emerged from the alley onto a larger street. Opposite her, packs of people loitered like pigeons around an immense building that seemed to be yet another theater, but she was so turned around and panicked she didn’t know which one. She didn’t want to mistakenly return toward the brothel, but her pursuer was rapidly catching up and there was no time to do anything but act.

  Choosing a direction at random, she turned left and ran. Her bare feet stung. Her heart was racing. She barely avoided tackling a very foul-smelling man who grabbed at her, but she struck his hands away and hung a right at the next intersection in the hopes of ditching the constable.

  She darted past more groups of late-night merrymakers who loudly and drunkenly remarked on her passing. To her left she spied an especially narrow street between two tottering buildings, the eaves of which pinched close together. It was unlit and dangerous, but no more so than the man hounding her. Just as she would’ve disappeared into the darkness, a bruising hand clamped on to her shoulder and halted her momentum. Yelping, she threw her free arm and hit his shoulder. The man growled with rage and when he twisted her around, she blanched to see Mr. Hull.

  “You conniving jack whore!” He hauled her several steps down the street, obviously intending to take her back to the brothel.

  “You’re a rapist and abuser,” she screamed, kicking and punching him. “And an all-around piece of shit!”

  All the strength went out of her when Hull’s fist connected with her cheek. Stars burst in front of her eyes. She would’ve crumpled if Hull weren’t holding her up. She was also perilously close to losing her cookies.

  Then she heard a strange sound, like a New Year’s Eve noisemaker.

  “Stop there! What’s going on?” an unfamiliar man said. The rattling grew louder and she blearily saw two older men lurching toward them. They weren’t dressed in any uniforms but carried identical lanterns held high to better see Hull’s face. One of them stowed a wooden rattle in his belt only to pull out a club. Night watchmen.

  “She’s a thief,” Hull accused, “and when my wife tried to stop her, she hit her in the mouth.”

  “I’m not a thief,” Sam slurred. Her lips were half-numb and her whole world was spinning. Damn, she was in so much trouble. “And he’s not married to her.” She jerked free of Hull’s grip but nearly stumbled and had to be propped up by one of the watchmen. “She runs a brothel.” She pointed at Hull. “And he rapes the girls.”

  The watchman not holding her pointed at her with his club. “Is the coat yours? You are wearing something besides that, aren’t you?”

  What did her clothes matter? It was obvious who the bad guy was.

  “The chemise and corset they forced me to wear aren’t mine, but the coat’s mine. These are too,” she said, swinging the bundle of clothes in her hand. “I took my first chance to escape and wasn’t about to run naked through the streets.”

  “You’re naked to most sensibilities,” the watchman gripping her arm said, “and how can those be all your clothes? They’d barely cover you.”

  “Did you hit the woman?” the first one asked.

  “She attacked me first. I was escaping through a window and she ran at me.”

  “A window…” the first watchman said as though that illuminated something.

  “This one’s drunk,” the second watchman said. “I can smell it.”

  “You had to smell it to know that?” the first one asked.

  Hull interrupted. “She’s lying. Those clothes aren’t hers and she jumped my wife!”

  “Is your wife still at the house?” the first watchman asked.

  “She is, and she’ll tell you the same as me.”

  “They’ll both be lying,” Sam insisted. “Question her without him in the room and see if they come up with the same story.”

  “We know how to do our duties,” the second watchman spat.

  “That one should go to the watch-house tonight. I’ll see what the wife has to say,” the first one said.

  “What about the clothes she stole?” Hull asked irately.

  “I cannot take a naked woman through the streets, sir,” the second watchman said, “but the clothes will be returned to you.”

  Sam didn’t dare speak up again and her apprehension was a cold lump in the bottom of her stomach. Who knew what mutation of the law she’d be subjected to? Would the same person be judge and jury?

  Hull and the first watchman headed back to the brothel as the second watchman pulled her in the opposite direction. She heard Hull weaving a story about his wife running a finishing school and wasn’t it terrible that his generous wife be so mistreated by a wicked thief. Whether or not the watchman took his story with a grain of salt was left a mystery as she was led out of earshot.

  Her feet ached and were possibly bleeding. She didn’t want to think about infection. Her head was pounding terribly and she relied heavi
ly on the watchman to guide her down the street as dizziness kept her from maintaining balance.

  “I cannot be the first woman from that house that you’ve come across,” she said. “The maid, Mary—she can vouch for me. She knows what goes on there.”

  “Nothing I can do for you, girl. The beadle’s the one you want.”

  Just as Sam would’ve said more, a whiff of garbage assailed her and she promptly deposited the contents of her roiling stomach onto the street.

  * * * * *

  With a fresh shirt and coin for the constables, Ryder reined in his hackney-horse beside his coach, which Oliver had stopped a couple of doors shy of the brothel. A painted carriage, attended by both a coachman and footman and pulled by four matching grays, sat outside the brothel. From the open front door, a portly man in fine clothing carefully stepped outside. The footman launched into action, opening the carriage door and lowering the stairs. The man lurched toward the carriage. His wig was askew and his powder was heavily smeared around his mouth.

  A couple of beggars watched the entertaining proceedings from the edge of the light. Once the man was seated, the carriage lit off into the night.

  “Sir,” Oliver said as he took the reins of Ryder’s horse. Swinging down, Ryder quickly walked to the house and stepped into the foyer. A constable stood guard at the salon door.

  “I am Ryder West,” he announced.

  “Henry Bainbridge, sir. We were wondering when someone would prosecute this place,” he said. “Didn’t think it’d be one of the clients.”

  “A change of heart,” Ryder said vaguely. He shook hands with the constable and asked to see inside the salon, hoping to see a tall redhead sitting unmolested on the settee. To his dismay, she was not in the room with the other sobering mademoiselles.

  After the door closed, Bainbridge sighed heavily. “Where one disorderly house is eliminated, another takes hold a few streets away. Always a demand for it and money to be made.”

  “All of London is a brothel,” Ryder said somberly. “Did you not find a woman on one of the upper floors with red hair, green eyes?”