No Place for a Lady

by Jade Lee

  He stepped forward, resolution knotting his shoulders and fists. His movements were awkward considering he had to keep one hand on the boy, but he managed nevertheless. With a single well-aimed blow, he smashed Ballast into unconsciousness.

  Fantine jumped back from the villain's body, gasping with dismay as the portly man slumped to the floor.

  "Nice hit," she said, and he was surprised to hear a note of admiration in her voice. "Next time, ye think ye could warn me?"

  "He ain't dead, is he?" asked the boy in a small voice.

  "Naw," said Fantine. "But I do not wish t' be 'ere when 'e wakes."

  Both Fantine and Marcus turned toward the only door, but the boy, now reassured that his father still lived, found his courage again. Stepping before the door to block their way, he merely smiled at them. "Me father's men will stick ye as soon as ye step through that door."

  Marcus sighed, his anger still simmering. "I will not be murdered in this hellhole," he said flatly. "It would kill my mother."

  Fantine glanced at him, her expression unreadable, but her attention returned to the boy. "They cain't kill us if ye stop them. Tell them yer father is drunk. They'll believe that right enough."

  The boy smirked back, his expression mimicking his father's earlier one. "An' why would I do that?"

  "Because if you get us out safely, I swear t' see ye into Harrow."

  Marcus stiffened. Good Lord, she could not be bringing that up again? Not when he thought he had just managed a narrow escape with Ballast. "Absolutely not!" he began, only to be cut off by the boy.

  "'E won't do it," said Sprat, jerking his head toward Marcus.

  "'E'll do it," returned Fantine. "Trust me." Then she crouched down far enough to look at the boy eye to eye. "It be your only chance, Sprat. Do you want to live like your father? Getting piss-eyed drunk every night and grabbing at anything what moves 'cause your life is too damned empty for anything else?"

  Sprat paled at her bald assessment of Ballast, and Marcus feared she'd overplayed her hand. But the boy had intelligence. His gaze slipped to his father's slumped form, taking in the spittle that dribbled on the man's chin.

  "Once in Harrow," Fantine continued, "you can create your own life. Become friends with the elite, learn what you need to know. Maybe one of them has a sister—"

  "Do not even think it!" exploded Marcus. Then Sprat's gaze slipped to Marcus. He suddenly felt uncomfortable under the boy's scrutiny. Why, the lad was judging him, weighing his character! Yet, there was nothing he could do except hope he passed the test, because he had the feeling their very lives depended on it.

  He failed.

  Sprat spat at his feet. "'E won't do it."

  "He will," returned Fantine. "If you cannot trust him, then trust me. I have never lied to you."

  "Ye ain't never had to afore."

  Marcus swallowed. Both Sprat and Fantine were staring at each other, measuring each other's worth in infinitesimal detail. Marcus himself had already been dismissed as unimportant, a mere detail in this game. He would have been insulted had it not been abundantly clear that he had no clue how to function in this dockside world. He could watch, readying himself for anything, but Fantine and this small boy were the true players.

  Marcus almost smiled at the thought. Finally! A new game to learn!

  And at that moment, Sprat made his decision.

  "Best cover up," he said as he jerked his head at Fantine's clothing. "Less'n ye want everybody to know ye're a girl."

  Fantine gasped as she glanced down at her clothing. Though her breasts were not exposed, they were handsomely apparent. She would not be able to repair that, Marcus realized. The damage was too extensive. So, rather than give in to temptation and watch her wiggling movements as she struggled with the torn fabric, he yanked the shirt off one of the unconscious thugs.

  "Wear this. It will cover up most everything. With luck, people will only see what they want to see."

  "They want to see a half-naked girl," muttered Fantine. But she did as he suggested. Within moments, she had tucked the overly large shirt into what was left of her breeches. There was nothing to do about the cut seam on her leg, but at least she looked vaguely like a boy.

  "Let's get to it," said the boy. But before they could do more than take a deep breath, the boy pinned his steely gaze on Fantine. "Cross me an' I'll kill you."

  Fantine nodded, her manner equally serious. "I know."

  Apparently satisfied, Sprat raised his voice enough to carry though the door to any listeners. "Come on, ye buggers," he bellowed as he pushed open the door.

  Marcus was just crossing the threshold into the main pub when Ballast began to revive. It started as a muffled groan, growing louder as consciousness returned. Fantine and the boy heard it too because they sped up their pace, pushing through the crowd almost before Marcus could shut the door behind them.

  "Out o' me way," cried the boy as he weaved quickly through the crowd. "Ballast's got a special treat fer 'is lordship, and th' swell is anxious t' see it."

  Picking up his cue, Marcus shifted quickly into the pose of a drunk peer too stupid to realize his own danger.

  "Hurry up, boy," he said, slurring his words slightly. "I want to shee this woman with four breasts." He grinned as he made a drunken grab for the barmaid while stumbling past a thick-shouldered obstacle. "One for each hand, an' my lips, then another for spare."

  The boy rolled his eyes for the crowd's benefit, tugging Marcus away from Gilly. "Come along, guv."

  Marcus nodded and lurched forward, making sure his motions speeded up their progress. From behind, he heard Ballast's roar as the man fully regained consciousness. Fortunately, they made it out into the street before the noise died.

  "Go that way," said Sprat, pointing. "An' around th' back."

  Fantine nodded, grabbing the boy's arm before he could escape. "Will 'e hurt ye fer this?"

  "Naw," he said with a grin. "I'll jes tell 'im ye knocked me out while I was taking ye to the stable."

  "The stable?" asked Marcus.

  "Ballast's place t' initiate girls into whoring," Fantine answered grimly.

  Marcus gritted his teeth, wondering how she could speak of such things as if they were of no consequence. But there was no time to think as the sounds from within the pub grew louder. "We must be going," he said urgently.

  Fantine nodded. "Do it," she said, turning toward Marcus.

  He blinked. "Do what?"

  "Hit the boy. But do not hurt 'im."

  "What? Now?" It was not that he misunderstood her meaning or even the purpose of the act. It was simply that his mind could not grasp that he must actually hit a boy with the intent of knocking him unconscious. "But—"

  "Hurry," urged Fantine as she began stacking debris in front of the pub door.

  "Very well," he said, forcing himself to knot his fist despite his reluctance. Then he pulled back and swung.

  His blow landed neatly on the boy's cheek, knocking the child's head to one side. Then the boy turned his head back to him with a grimace.

  "'At's it?" he asked as he slapped disdainfully at his cheek. "Me own grandma cain do better than that. There ain't gonna be no bruise!"

  Marcus gaped at the boy. Did he actually mean he was to hit him harder?

  "Aw, never mind, guv," Sprat said, disgust plain on his small face. Then he grabbed a nearby piece of wood and raised it aloft. "Remember," he said urgently. "Yer deal is wi' me."

  "I remember," answered Fantine softly.

  Then the boy hit himself with his makeshift club. He had not enough strength to do more than bruise himself, but Marcus winced nevertheless. Then tossing the club away, Sprat looked at Fantine. "Good eno'?"

  "Aye. Good enough."

  With an impish grin, he sprang backward as if thrown, smashing bodily against the wall only to sprawl on his side in the dirty gutter.

  Marcus stared at him in shock, amazed at the sight. "Do you think he is really injured?"

  "No," she s
aid with a smile. "He is good. Almost as good as I was at his age." Then, before she could say more, the pub door burst open and three very large men armed with long knives appeared, easily pushing through Fantine's stack of debris.

  "They's right 'ere!" one of them bellowed.

  Marcus and Fantine ran.

  * * *

  Jump, scramble, duck, run. No thoughts. No noise. Run.

  Fantine scampered like the rat she took her nickname from. She scurried, she struggled, but most of all, she ran, searching through the black night for an escape.

  Chadwick was right behind her, huffing and wheezing like an old dog. In truth, he had done remarkably well, especially given that Nameless had already run him for almost an hour before the evening began. But now they were racing for their lives. She had no doubts that if Ballast caught them...

  Don't think, she admonished herself. Run.

  She did. But with every turn, every street, she heard the heavy footfalls of her pursuers. Ballast's men were falling behind, but not nearly quickly enough. And she feared that Chadwick would soon give out.

  Run. Quietly. Run.

  Then Chadwick stopped.

  She didn't notice at first, but then the steady huff of his breath disappeared. Spinning around, she saw him leaning against a brick wall, gasping for air.

  "Not much farther," she lied. "We cannot rest. They are just two streets back."

  He shook his head, pushing each word through his gasps. "I am... too slow. You go. They will not... hurt... a peer."

  "Don't be a fool," she whispered urgently. "Your title is no protection. Bloody hell, you punched Ballast in the face! You may have disfigured him permanently. If he catches you, he will hurt you, then kill you, then toss your body where no one will ever find you."

  He looked up at her, his expression bleak in the cold moonlight. He knew the truth, she suddenly realized. He knew his title was no protection.

  "And what will he do to you?" he asked hoarsely. He pushed her down the street with surprising strength. "Go. I cannot run like you. Not through these streets." She watched him straighten his shoulders, his hands clenching into large, punishing fists. "I will hold them off as long as I can. Go to Penworthy. He will help you escape."

  She stared at him, shock robbing her of words. Was he truly offering to sacrifice himself for her—an actress, as he had so contemptuously put it? Apparently, he was, and for the first time ever, her heart softened toward a peer.

  "Blimey, you are a fool."

  He lifted his head, a bitter smile on his lips. "Aye," was all he said.

  Fantine looked down the alleyway. She knew she could escape their pursuers. There were any number of any holes and darkened comers that would hide her. But she had not abandoned him to Ballast before, and she could not do so now. No one, not even a rich, arrogant peer, deserved that fate.

  "There must be some other choice," she said, more to herself than him. Then her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden burst of laughter from a pub across the street. The door had opened and an aged whore stumbled outside supporting a man obviously too drunk to know better than to wander outside with a desperate woman. Fantine turned away, knowing the whore would strip her cull of his valuables long before he relieved the itch that brought him outside.

  Fantine dismissed the pair without a second thought. It was only one of the thousands of sins that occurred nightly in the rookeries. But Chadwick seemed inordinately interested in the sight.

  "Come along, guv," she said, her irritation plain. "She be busy an' we ain't got time fer a diddle now."

  He looked up, his eyes glittering slightly in the moonlight. "On the contrary," he said softly. "I think now is the perfect time."

  Before she could react, he caught her about the waist and pressed her against the wall. The brick was cold against her back, and with half her breeches torn apart at the seam, the chill seeped directly into her bones. Then he pressed himself against her, his every hard angle heating her front with a devilish fire.

  "What are you doing?" she gasped, alarm coursing through her.

  His hands trapped her securely against the wall. To her left was a pile of refuse—a broken barrel, a shattered chair. To her right lay the open street. There was room and air about her, and yet she still felt surrounded by Chadwick, his body strong and heavy as he tried to shield her from view.

  "You paid no attention to that other pair," he said, his breath a warm caress against her cheek. "You dismissed them without a second thought."

  She tried to take a breath to calm herself, but that only pushed her breasts farther against the muscled wall of his chest. She closed her eyes, trying to block the memory of other hands, other chests pressed against herself, against her mother. Against all the actresses in the company.

  She had always escaped before. As a child. But as Chadwick's hands wormed their way beneath her cap, discarding the item with a single flick of his wrist, she felt a strange languid heat weaken her body. It frightened her, and yet, she had no strength to fight as his nimble fingers burrowed deeper, pushing away the pins so her hair flowed freely.

  "That is much better," he whispered. "Now no one can see your face."

  She closed her eyes, mentally correcting his statement. No one could see her burning face except him, no one could see the flush that stained her skin except the man who was even now making her chest tighten with a tingling awareness that set her head spinning.

  "This is wrong," she said, her voice too soft and breathy. She had meant to sound forceful, but she could not, not when she felt his breath hot on her skin as he trailed his lips over her shoulder, nuzzling along her neck until he found the sensitive curve of her ear.

  "We are hiding in plain sight," he whispered as he settled harder against her pelvis, his desire a hot brand that made her squeak with alarm. "Shhhhh," he whispered, soothing her with more kisses, more heady touches along her arms and her neck. His hands slid beneath her shirt. "I am merely another customer doing his business against the wall."

  "No," she gasped, wondering why she wasn't fighting. Why didn't she struggle as she had in her mother's greenroom? Why did the strength in his body seem a wonderful shield against the cold?

  "Yes," he answered, as his fingers brushed apart the torn bindings over her breasts. She cried out, a low whimper of alarm, while her legs gave way, dropping her weight onto the corded muscles in his thighs.

  Then, too swiftly for her reeling senses, he pulled back, dropping his hands to the bottom of her breeches, grasping the one untorn leg in both hands and ripping it open. Both sides now fluttered down to lie flat against her legs like parts of a shortened skirt.

  "I run," she gasped, speaking to herself more than him. "Men never catch me." But he had caught her. He was even now settling himself even more securely against her. His hands dropped to her hips, curving beneath her bottom and pulling her up hard against his arousal.

  "Wrap your legs around me," he said, his low voice reverberating through her body. "They are almost here. We must make this look real," he said as his mouth found hers.

  The kiss was hard and heavy, draining the last of her thoughts away. He invaded her mouth with practiced ease, caressing her lips and then dueling with her tongue. She could taste him, strong and potent, and she felt as if she were being swept away in a storm—a heaving, surging flood of bodies and moans and guttural cries.

  "No!" she whispered, feeling herself drown beneath the onslaught, even as her body arched into him. But it was too late. Through the haze that fogged her thoughts, she could hear their pursuers heavy bootfalls coming steadily closer.

  She felt Chadwick's body clench, tensing as he began the motions of the act. Though clothing still separated them, she felt his hardness press deeply against her, felt herself open and moisten as the bawds said would happen.

  No! Her mind screamed silently. It was too much. He was too much and she was afraid. So afraid, despite his whispers.

  "A moment longer," he soothed against her chee
k. "They're almost here."

  She acted without thought, her movements coming from panic and fear. Grasping the broken leg of a chair, she lifted it up high and brought it down hard on Chadwick's temple.

  He crumpled like a stone.

  When Ballast's men searched their street, they saw only a filthy whore, calmly picking the pockets of her sotted cull. They could not see much of him as his face was turned into the wall. One of the men chuckled as he passed them by, thinking that drunken fools always got what they deserved.

  Chapter 4

  "She hit me!" Marcus spun on his heel, glared at Penworthy, then continued pacing off his fury within the confines of his friend's library. "I can barely credit that it happened!" he muttered. He, a peer of the realm, had been sprawled near naked in the sewer. "She clubbed me with a block of wood, robbed me of everything but my breeches, then left me there to rot!"

  Penworthy did not respond. Much to Marcus's frustration, all his friend did was lean back against the winged chair and extend his stockinged feet toward the fire. And rather than outrage, Marcus read amusement in the man's gaze.

  Marcus spun away, letting his gaze fall into the fire. "She is a menace. She should be locked up."

  "Tell me," responded Penworthy. "How do you feel today?"

  Marcus lifted his head and turned back to his friend. "Feel? Bruised, battered, and..."

  "Alive?"

  He stiffened, uncertainty making his voice sharp. "Alive? Of course, I am alive, though no thanks to her. Do you know she stole my pocket watch? My sister gave that to me for Christmas last year!"

  "I see you have another already."

  Marcus frowned, looking down self-consciously at the chain that held his current watch. "Well, yes. Mavenford sent me this for my birthday. Quite a handsome piece, actually."

  "Hmmm," repeated Penworthy, though this time there was a wealth of meaning underlying the sound. It suggested all sorts of things, not the least of which that Marcus had half a dozen pocket watches that he could lose to Fantine without even noticing. And that, perhaps, it was his own fault for bringing a watch to the rookery in the first place.