For the Earl's Pleasure

by Anne Mallory

  “Yes.”

  He pulled more firmly against her breast, drawing the maid further in. “Good. You are the best maid she could have. We’ll give her another place to search instead. A safe place tomorrow. She can get her adventure done safely. Tomorrow. Yes?”

  Telly moaned as Roland pulled her into a dominating kiss.

  One hand worked up under her skirt and the maid gasped and rubbed herself against him.

  “If you can’t convince her to wait until tomorrow though, send me a note,” Roland said. “I’ll make sure to keep you safe.”

  “You treat me so well, Roland.”

  Roland undid his trousers and pushed the maid somewhat violently against a hedge. “That’s right. And you always come to me first, don’t you.”

  “Yes!” The maid’s head slipped back as he pushed into her, forcing her against the twined branches. Telly wrapped her arms around the man’s neck and held on as he grunted and thrust, somewhat brutally pushing them both to completion.

  Two footmen watched from the window near Valerian, their heads peeking above the sill, faces nearly pressed to the glass.

  Valerian turned back to the pair copulating. He couldn’t but picture Abigail’s face thrown back in ecstasy instead. Whereas as a youth he might have found the scene before him titillating, just as the two footmen obviously did, now he just found himself wishing to be back inside. Upstairs.

  The man gave one final grunt and thrust into Abigail’s maid hard. Telly squealed into his mouth.

  He let her slide back down and gave her a pat on the rear. “I’ll be back tomorrow, if’n I don’t see you tonight.”

  Telly nodded frantically, eyes glazed, and the man slipped over the wall. Telly returned inside, her color high and breath uneven. Valerian followed her to the kitchen, where she picked up the promised glass of milk, and then up to Abigail’s room. She smoothed her skirts with her free hand and knocked.

  He followed her inside and Abigail opened her mouth to say something.

  “Tell your maid nothing,” he demanded. “Tell her you aren’t going out.”

  Abigail looked at him and for a second he thought she would argue, but then she said to Telly, “I’ve decided to turn in for the night, Telly.”

  “Oh, very good, miss!” Telly set the milk on the dressing table, wincing only slightly as she did. Stupid girl had twigs on her back, but Abigail’s attention was elsewhere.

  Telly picked up the trousers and shirt as if she were taking them to the wash. Clever girl.

  Part of him wanted the maid to take the outfit. To keep Abigail safe in the house. The other part of him knew that if Abigail didn’t have the outfit she would go out in a dress anyway and give herself away completely.

  “Abigail,” he said, calling her attention back.

  Abigail turned and saw her maid. “No, Telly, leave those.”

  “But, miss—”

  “I’m not going to use them, Telly. I just want to have them near should another incident present itself like the one with that man who came to the house the other day. You understand, correct?”

  Telly looked torn.

  Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “Good night, Telly.”

  “Good night, miss,” Telly said softly, backing away to the door.

  As soon as the maid’s footsteps echoed down the hall, Abigail turned to him. “Now what was that? Are you going to tell me?”

  He opened his mouth and then shut it. He could tell her that Telly was a fake. That she believed Abigail to be slightly crazed. He could completely crush her with a few sentences.

  “I just think it wise not to have her with us.”

  “But you were the one who wanted—”

  “I know.” He moved abruptly to the window. The maid had probably been giving that man information for a long time now. Relieving her knowledge of her mistress’s condition. It was likely how those men had known Abigail could see spirits.

  He swallowed. How they would have known who to target.

  He looked back at her—strong and sturdy. Hiding the vulnerability beneath. Her maid was the only one who she thought believed her—and she had turned false. Her mother hardly counted, hiding the shame for so long.

  Knowing that no one believed in her…

  “I’m sorry for not believing you, Abby.”

  Her indrawn breath was reflected in the hand that rose to her chest.

  Damnit if he didn’t suddenly want to prostrate himself in front of her and beg forgiveness. “I’ll make it up to you. Someday. I promise.”

  She looked bemused, but nodded, the color in her cheeks heightened, making her even more desirable. “Thank you,” she said softly. Her eyes lightened and happiness began a tentative bloom within their depths.

  He wanted to scream with the unfairness of it all. The wasted time.

  The look on her face morphed into concern.

  “Valerian, you are starting to flicker a bit again, just around the edges.”

  He felt it, the tug pulling. “I need to go.”

  She nodded and gathered her things. “I know. I’m ready.”

  “No, I want you to stay.”

  “No.” She looked at him calmly. “You can’t leave without me.”

  “I will find a way. I did earlier.”

  There were crinkles at the corners of her eyes as she stepped toward him. “No. You will start to lose your way.”

  “I know.”

  She put an insistent hand on his sleeve. “You might not be able to return. You might become an aimless spirit wandering.”

  “Perhaps. But I will return. I promise. Now you must promise me, Abigail. I know you will follow, but—” He looked to the window. “You must promise me that you will stay in the hack. That you will not follow me once we are free of the house.”

  “Why?”

  “You are in danger.”

  “I know.”

  “No, you—” He took a deep breath. “Promise, or I will simply stand here until I fade away.”

  She stepped back. “No.”

  “Yes. Promise me.”

  She swallowed. “Very well.”

  “Good. I will hold you to it, Abigail. Are you ready?”

  He watched her straighten her shoulders. “I’m ready. I have been ready.”

  Under what star had they been brought together? And was it a lucky or unlucky one?

  “I as well.”

  And in that he was answering more than just one query. Her lips parted, her eyes filmed, but she simply nodded and they walked through the door.

  Chapter 22

  It was almost as if now that he had embarked upon the truth and accepted it, that he was able to follow where the tug led.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “The Lamppost Tavern.”

  Abigail shot him a sharp look. “You had the letters in the wrong order.”

  She had always been especially quick. “Yes.”

  “You saw the whole sign?”

  “Yes.”

  She stayed silent for a moment as the carriage rocked across the stones. “In what condition were you?”

  “Still alive.”

  She nodded, biting her lip. “That is good.”

  Something pressed against his chest—wanting to come out, but the last restraints of his stubbornness pulled it back. He just nodded in return, the tension settling upon the carriage.

  “Valerian, I wanted you to know—”

  “I do, Abigail.”

  She nodded again and the tension, instead of dissipating, grew thicker.

  They had taken great pains to avoid being followed. There had been two men watching Abigail’s house—whether they had been in with Roland, the duke, or some other entity, he didn’t know. But they had successfully negotiated around the watchers while well-timed distractions had taken place—a carriage overturned down the street, an argument between two drunkards on the corner.

  He could only hope that there hadn’t been another lackey about—or a ma
n like Evans—who watched while no one knew.

  The carriage passed the tavern and he looked across from the sign. A brick building, completely innocuous-looking, stood to the side.

  But there were bars on some of the windows. Not completely unusual, not enough to cause comment if one didn’t know, but now they stood out like a sign proclaiming “asylum” in bright letters.

  The hack stopped a block down from the tavern, as instructed. He watched Abigail in her borrowed clothing, smoothing her trousers. Her shoulders were straight, but he could see the tension lacing them.

  She calmly tipped her head.

  He smiled faintly and touched his lips to hers. “See you on the other side, Smart.”

  He concentrated on the pull. Concentrated on exiting the carriage, and walked through.

  Abigail waited for Valerian to disappear into the brick building, then pushed open the door and nimbly exited the carriage without one ounce of remorse.

  She handed the driver three times the fare. “Wait here and you will receive the same compensation upon the return trip.”

  The driver eagerly accepted the money and tipped his hat.

  She concentrated on the brick building as she walked. The bars. What she knew would be inside.

  A few people passed on the street. Late-nighters returning from parties or early-morning workers dragging themselves to their jobs.

  She walked up the steps and touched the door handle. It swung open an inch.

  She swallowed. In any other circumstance she would run far, far away. But Valerian was inside. Both the living one and the not quite living one.

  She was going inside no matter which one emerged after.

  She pushed open the door. The entrance hall was dark, but a stairway lifted into the next floor and a faint light shone down.

  She saw Valerian at the top of the stairs, his edges more dim than she’d seen, leaning against the wall and dipping through. He suddenly turned.

  Swearing filled the hall and he limped back down the stairs, the lines of his body growing firmer as he drew nearer.

  His hands wrapped around her arms.

  “You promised to stay in the carriage.”

  “You are flickering again, Valerian.”

  His lips tightened. “I don’t care.”

  Calm ran through her at his words. “You will die.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You will stay a spirit forever or go into the beyond.”

  His grip tightened. “What if I want to stay a spirit? Stay with you? Will you leave then?”

  The words wrapped around her, seductive in their intent. She tried to shake them away, but with each vine she peeled away, another would grip and coil.

  She dipped her head. No, she knew what she had to do. “No.”

  “Don’t do this, Abigail.”

  “I must.”

  “You are in danger.”

  “So are you.”

  “No, you—”

  Voices from outside drew close to the door.

  Valerian swore again. “Let me go first. And don’t do anything foolish!” He darted up the stairs.

  Voices followed behind. Not hurried. Measured. They hadn’t been discovered, then.

  And she couldn’t go back. Valerian seemed to know it too, if his pinched full lips were any indication. “I have to find my body so that I can kill you myself.” He closed his eyes, then waved her forward, his hand plastering her to the wall each time he heard a sound.

  He led her through a maze of corridors and landings. Faint sounds followed and surrounded. Then the sounds sharpened. Moans, screams, pleas. She shut her eyes.

  “Abigail—”

  “No, continue.” He hesitated and she pushed against his side. “Go.”

  They entered a long hall that contained beds on either side, a corridor stretching through the middle.

  The moans hit her as she walked down the center row of the beds. The men’s wrists were strapped to the rails, and in some cases their ankles. Some had blindfolds, some had gags, while others stared unseeingly at the ceiling. One ungagged man looked up as she passed.

  “Help, my child. Help me pass to the beyond.”

  She swallowed. Dear Lord.

  “Help me.”

  Similar scenarios played out in her mind from the other asylums she’d been forced to visit. They clanged and converged together and she gripped her head. The spirits couldn’t be separated from the poor live souls.

  “Help.”

  With Valerian freed, he could shut this place down. Free everyone inside. She turned away, tears blurring her eyes as the man’s pleas continued. A hand touched her back—a fleeting touch. She blinked the tears away and moved forward.

  “Where do you feel pulled?” she asked in a low voice, hoping that her voice wouldn’t break.

  Valerian hesitated, then pointed to a hall at the end of the row. She nodded and walked that way, the horrific moans following her like a trail of snakes.

  She could feel the cuffs about her wrists. Feel the terror of being pinned down, unable to fight. Feel the despair that no one would ever help.

  She shook off the shivers. She needed to get through this. To find Valerian, escape, and send someone back here to close the place down.

  She had just turned the corner into the hall when a door opened and a man stepped outside. He stopped and stared at her while she stared back. He smiled unpleasantly and his hand lifted to his head.

  A purple bruise marred his forehead from where she had hit him with the plank. She shifted on the balls of her feet.

  “Miss Smart, what a pleasant surprise,” his cultured voice said and memories of him speaking while she was pressed against the bricks froze her mind. “We have a bed waiting just for you. It has been waiting for weeks now. Years really. How fortunate for us that you’ve chosen to come of your own volition.”

  Something lodged in her throat. Two men appeared behind him. Valerian shimmered.

  “Grab her,” the man from the alley said.

  The lackey who stepped forward to do so was obviously convinced that she would be taken easily. He strutted toward her. “Come here, little filly.”

  She gripped behind her, her fingers closing around metal. The man reached toward her and she grabbed the bedpan and arced it up into his chin. His head jerked back and he crashed toward the floor. The other unknown man and the one from the alley rushed toward her at once. Valerian stepped in front. He planted his feet, expression tightening, and as the unknown man reached him, Valerian pushed forward with his hands. The man abruptly folded in two and dropped to the ground. Valerian staggered, but she couldn’t go to his side. The man from the alley stalked toward her, though his eyes tracked to the left and the right.

  “Have a little help again, Miss Smart?”

  “Yes.” She straightened. “Better to leave now while you can.”

  “Oh, no. I will deal with your helper. Our bait.”

  Bait? Oh, dear God.

  She didn’t have time to process her horror before the man continued. “In the meantime, I have a little help too.” He whistled. Valerian charged him as soon as the note sounded, but it was too late. Footsteps echoed down the hall. The two of them went down, tackled to the floor. Valerian got in a punch before he clutched at his stomach.

  “Abigail.”

  And he disappeared.

  Three other men ran inside. “Mr. Evans?” One of them said.

  She stared at the spot where Valerian had just crouched. She fervently hoped he was waking somewhere in the building and not either gone for good or with his spirit trapped somewhere else.

  The new men stepped toward her and she squared herself to fight. She was going to lose. She knew it. But she wanted to take at least one of them to the grave with her.

  Evans regained his feet. “All alone, Miss Smart? That is too bad, now isn’t it?”

  He took a menacing step forward, but another man stepped from the shadows, raising his hand. “Stop.
”

  The men immediately ceased, even Evans, though he looked furious.

  The man from the shadows stepped into the shine of the lamp. Abigail’s throat closed as his features came into view.

  “Good evening, Miss Smart.”

  Valerian woke to unimaginable pain. He strained at the straps at his wrists. Abigail.

  The ceiling came into view. The same ceiling that had lined the other room. The one where Abigail still remained, surrounded by men intent on harming her. He strained against the bonds again, but his muscles barely obeyed.

  He heard a scream and pulled harder. He needed to get to her.

  He imagined the brush on her table—one she had kept all these years, the look on her face in the height of passion, the girl that had once raced him up the tallest tree.

  He twisted with everything in him and there was a clang as the bar disconnected from the bed. His restraint slid from the bar as it banged to the floor. He undid the other tie as quickly as he could—fingers numb and cold, barely feeling the pinch of the ties.

  He pushed himself up and undid the ties to his ankles in the same way, relieved that he still maintained most of his clothes. The last tie shot free and he lost his precarious balance, tumbling to the ground.

  He laid there for a second, stunned, before attempting to get up. His muscles wouldn’t obey. He tried to grab the rail that was still attached above him, but it was too high. He turned his head and saw a stool across the room. If he could just get to the stool, he could lever himself up.

  Abigail. He had to.

  He pushed himself onto his stomach, reached forward, and started crawling, arm over arm, the pins and needles growing more heated as he progressed.

  Another scream.

  He anxiously pushed with his legs and they weakly gave a shove against the tiles. He pulled and pushed like a demented snake until he reached the stool.

  He dragged himself upward, his unused muscles straining. He sat for a second, winded, then pushed himself up. He couldn’t afford to rest. He shuffled toward the door, bumping into everything as he went, scattering cloths and pushing into tables.