by Jade Lee
* * *
Fantine settled into the hackney and released a sigh. Normally she would not have bothered with the expense, but she was too frazzled, too tired to walk all the way home. So she had hailed a hackney and now only wished to close her eyes.
Just as she rested her head back against the worn squabs, she felt a telltale dip as the vehicle picked up another passenger. A street child no doubt, jumping on the back. She didn't care. If he was not caught by the driver, she had no objection to sharing her ride. She had, after all, stolen quite a few rides herself at one time or another.
Releasing a heavy breath, she willed away the tension of the last few hours. She blocked out the anger, the frustration, and all the other tangled emotions she had no energy to examine. All that was left was one image, one face, smiling tenderly at her.
Marcus.
No big surprise there. He seemed to dog her footsteps during the day, why not torment her at night, too? But she need not dwell on him. He was merely another reality of her existence, a force to be measured and managed, like Penworthy and Ballast and Hurdy.
Or so she told herself.
The difference, of course, was that none of them had ever touched her, stripping away her reason with the tiniest press of his lips. A single heated look from Marcus weakened her with alarming speed. If she were superstitious, she would have said he had the evil eye.
Fantine sighed again, the sound echoing in the dark hackney. Age was making her vulnerable to one thing a man like Marcus could offer her: luxury.
She had scorned it as a child, but now, at twenty-five, she couldn't run the streets by day without feeling the ache by night. She longed for the warmth of a good fire, the ease of a comfortable bed, and the sweet scent of clean clothes.
But such pleasures came with a trap. It came with men like Marcus who cared for nothing except their own personal pleasure. Women like her mother were taken, exploited, then thrown away. Fantine was eight when she vowed never to let a man use her like that. And no one ever had.
No one, that is, except Marcus.
She should hate him for that, for bridging defenses she thought no one could conquer. Yet when he had pressed his weight into her, when he had touched her breast and trailed kisses along her face, she had wanted nothing more than to be used, to be enjoyed, to be touched however he willed.
Her face burned with humiliation even as her breasts tingled with the memory.
Biting her lip, Fantine finally faced the brutal truth. Marcus had somehow stumbled upon her one weakness, the one legacy from her mother that she had been unable to subjugate—her own body. And he had not hesitated to use it against her.
Self-recriminations did not help matters. What she needed was a plan, a course of action that would neutralize his threat. But what?
Marcus was nothing if not determined. He would find her home, seek out her various aliases, even ferret out her allies, if only to relieve the boredom in his life. Then, when he had her cornered and trapped, what would he do to her?
Delightful images sprang to mind: horrible, wonderful pictures of her mother kissing various lovers. She had never seen more than that, but she had heard things. She remembered tiny gasps, low moans, and then the final triumphant cry. Could he make her do that? Would she... Her mind balked at the thought, even as she grasped it, wondering how it would feel.
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly very dry.
She definitely needed a plan, but what? The hackney stopped long before she had an answer. She felt the boy disembark and run off. Then slowly, as if she were a hundred years old, she opened the carriage door and stepped out. She paid the coachman, feeling every ache of her tired muscles as she turned for her home.
She was not paying attention. She knew that. But tonight, she was simply too weary with herself to care. Which is why, when the blow came, she was not even aware of the man who struck it. It landed with numbing force on the back of her head.
She went down like a stone.
* * *
Two hours!
Marcus clenched the mahogany banister in his town residence and repeated the phrase like a silent litany.
Two hours!
Two hours of apologies and explanations and desperate repartee as he tried to explain why he had a countess's jewelry dangling from his watch fob. Two hours of finding other people's jewelry on his person or in his coat as he tried to convince his friends that it had all been a lark, a careless wager at whether he could be a successful pickpocket.
Then, when he had thought it all done, he had endured stern recitations about responsibility and ridiculous wagers from, God help him, his former suspect and host, Lord Harris.
Two hours, but it would take much longer before his political standing recovered, if it truly ever did.
He would kill Fantine for this!
He stepped into his chamber and stripped out of his jacket in one fluid movement. He had no more than pulled out his diamond stickpin when he heard the rapid tattoo of a boy's steps on the stairs.
"Yer lordship! Yer lordship!"
"Giles?" Marcus dashed out of his room. "What happened?"
"They got 'er!" he gasped out. "There was nothing... I could do! They just 'it 'er... an' she went down. No fight. She jes... went down!"
Marcus dropped to one knee before the boy, steadying the child's shoulders. "Who got her?"
"Urdy's men. They was waitin'!"
Marcus felt his chest squeeze into a painful knot. "How badly was she hurt?"
The boy shook his head. "Couldn't tell. She just went down!"
The knot in his chest suddenly grew, cutting off his breath.
"But I followed 'em," Giles continued. "To Hurdy's. They carried 'er inside, an' I came back here."
"Excellent," Marcus said grimly as he started down the steps. "Now take me there."
Chapter 7
Fantine knew what had happened long before she opened her eyes. She had far too much experience with being cuffed to miss the evidence now.
Forcing her body to remain relaxed, she concentrated on her other senses, cataloguing information with as much clarity as possible. The odors came first, telling her she was still in the rookeries, near the docks. She lay on a rough cot that smelled of old tick and unwashed bodies. Nearby, men's voices murmured. No women, thank God, so she was not in a brothel. The perfume she sensed came from herself, a remnant of her work in the ladies' retiring room... How long ago?
It could not have been long. The pain was not throbbingly intense. It was probably still the night of the ball, the evening when she had seen Marcus and he had...
She could not stifle a moan. Why would the world not just stop for five bloody minutes so she could get some rest? Too much, too fast. She could not keep up.
"She be awake!" called a man's rough voice.
"How long awake?" returned another voice that hovered on the edge of cultured without quite crossing over.
"Jes starting."
"She's been awake fer at least ten minutes, then. Bring her along."
Fantine restrained another sigh. The second voice was not only better educated, but its owner was canny, too.
Hurdy.
She opened her eyes. She barely saw the small, bare room before a huge brute of a man jerked her to her feet and dragged her into a hallway. She staggered, not needing to fake weakness. Her knees wobbled and her head lolled back and forth. Fortunately, her movements showed her enough that she recognized Hurdy's home. They were on the second floor, near the main staircase.
Then she was in the sitting room, stumbling toward a roaring fire in a very decadent room. Plush pillows abounded everywhere, heavy fabrics draped the walls and the single window, and a trio of fat couches stretched across the room. In the center of all this, in a large, ostentatious chaise, lounged Hurdy.
She recognized him immediately, even though this was their first meeting. With curly reddish brown hair and a sweet freckled face, he looked as innocent as a newborn babe. His green eyes we
re alive with intelligence, his expression welcoming. Even his body lay in negligent ease in a colorful silken wrap that seemed to shimmer in the firelight.
Most women would think him boyishly handsome. She thought him soft. Especially when compared to Marcus's rock-solid frame and chiseled features.
"Hello, Rat," he called cheerfully as two of his huge servants took positions on either side of the door. Then he frowned. "Or perhaps in that attire, I should call you Fanny."
Fantine glanced down, noting for the first time that her dress was somewhat the worse for wear. The buttons down the bodice had pulled wide, revealing a gaping expanse of bosom, while a tear in her muddy skirt showed a good portion of her right calf.
"What do you want with me, Hurdy?" she asked, her voice halfway between vulgar and cultured, exactly matching Hurdy's speech pattern.
"What I wanted, luv, is to meet the woman who could fool Ballast into thinking she was a boy. For years, in fact."
Fantine shrugged. "Ballast ain't known as a deep thinker."
Hurdy smiled. "True. But neither is he completely stupid." He set his brandy glass aside as he inspected her from head to toe. "Looking at you now, no one would ever think of Rat." He fell silent, still watching her. Fantine remained quiet, too. "I think," he continued, "that you are a good deal sharper than just about everyone in the rookeries."
"Excepting yourself, of course," she added, doing her best to sound sincere.
"Naturally." He reached forward and daintily rang a tiny silver bell. "I have just called for dinner. Care to join me?"
Fantine shook her head, allowing her tone to become surly. "My head still hurts from yer men."
"I do apologize for that," he drawled, "but I did not think you would come just for the asking."
Fantine folded her arms over her chest. She would have come, if only to see what she could discover about the Wilberforce job. "Next time, ask. I might jes be willing."
"Really?" he asked, his attention not on her, but on the doorway as he audibly sniffed the air.
Fantine turned slightly, mimicking his motion, catching the delightful scent of roast mutton wafting up the stairs. Sweet heaven, it smelled wonderful. To her mortification, her stomach growled.
"Truly, my dear, you must join me," he offered with a grin. "I assure you it ain't poisoned."
Fantine stepped forward, her hunger eating at her patience. Of course she wanted his dinner, but she knew she would be surrendering to him in some small measure if she joined him. She could not afford that vulnerability. She would eat when she felt safe enough to do so.
Shutting down all thought of the succulent smells, she concentrated on her enemy. "Look, Hurdy, you didn't knock me on the noggin jest to meet me. What do you want?"
He did not answer, not that Fantine expected him to. He merely folded his arms and watched her while a stocky cook set out his meal. She held his gaze, showing her irritation while secretly praying that her stomach did not rumble again.
Finally the servant was done, leaving the room as silently as he had entered, and still Hurdy did not speak, did not even move. And so it continued as the room filled with the heavenly aroma of mutton done to perfection, and Fantine had to clench her jaw shut as she tried not to drool.
Finally, he took a breath. "I understand you promised to get Sprat into Harrow."
Fantine frowned, her thoughts momentarily distracted from her stomach. She had expected that news of her run-in with Ballast would be common knowledge within moments of her escape, but she had hoped her deal with Sprat would remain secret.
"Well?" prompted Hurdy when she did not answer.
"Well wot?" she returned.
"Can you do it?"
Fantine shifted her pose into one of arrogant disdain. "I promised to."
"And can you?"
She hesitated, wondering how best to answer. She finally decided on a show of strength. "Yes, I can. For Sprat because I like him. I will not do it for anyone else."
He smiled. "That almost sounds like a challenge."
She shrugged. "Call it what you like. I will not be putting your bastards into 'Arrow."
"But you could if you wanted to," he pressed. "Or that daft peer of yours could."
She shook her head. "No." But despite her calm assertion, a shiver of fear chilled her blood at Hurdy's mention of Marcus. The last thing she needed was for Hurdy to get Chadwick involved, especially when the mere thought of Marcus tangled her emotions anew. "The daft peer is simply that. Daft. My contact to Harrow was a onetime bit o' luck. Ain't no more where that came from."
She fell silent, hoping she had convinced him.
Apparently she had because suddenly she was done. Hurdy sighed and waved her away. "Very well. Go away."
Fantine blinked. Go away? She peered at Hurdy, her thoughts reeling. He had truly just wanted to get some child into Harrow? The thought was ludicrous. Especially since... "You ain't got no children." Or at least none that he appeared to care about, none that he would pull strings to get into an elite school. She stepped forward, frustration and exhaustion making her bold. "Now look here, what's this all about?"
Hurdy glanced up from his food. "It is about nothing. I find you are unimportant after all. Go away."
Fantine dropped her hands onto her hips. "What a bloody waste o' time!" she exclaimed. Not only had she been knocked on the head, but Hurdy had learned very little from her, and she had gotten nothing out of him at all! She didn't mind being dragged in here. That was all part of the game. But to get hit on the head for no point at all, to tell him something he could have found out on his own, and that he did not want anyway... Why, the whole situation was ludicrous.
"Bloody hell," she said, spinning on her heel as she went for the door. "No wonder neither you nor Ballast can gain control of the docks. Neither one o' you got enough brain to feed a rat!"
She should not have been surprised when one of the thugs suddenly slammed the door in her face. She should not have been, but she was. And that surprise made her even more angry.
And reckless.
She spun back and glared at Hurdy. "I thought you said I could leave."
Hurdy slowly picked up a thin silver fruit knife. "You have a remarkable amount of nerve for a woman in my house at my mercy. I could have you killed."
Fantine folded her arms, letting her voice becoming more cultured by the second. "Oooh, I am mightily impressed," she drawled. "You have big, burly brutes. Ballast has big, burly brutes. But do either of you use them for any good? No. Ballast drinks and diddles with anything that moves. You cannot even kill a lame MP. Why should I think either of you worthy o' me?"
For better or worse, she had his attention now. He was not dismissing her like an annoying puppy dog. What he was doing was standing slowly, fury knotting his brow. "What do you know about 'oo I kill and why?" Despite his attempts at culture, his accent slipped as his voice rose in power and fury.
Fantine shrugged. "I know you have tried to kill Wilberforce and have not even succeeded in scratching the man."
"'Oo told you that?"
"Don't matter. What does matter is that you are already doomed. Whether or not you succeed in killing the MP, there ain't a single gent who will hire you again. And you do not even see it."
She had expected him to bluster at her, trying to intimidate her without giving anything away. But for all his vulgarity, he was not stupid. Hurdy simply looked at her, like a dog sighting a really fat rabbit.
She knew what he was thinking. He needed her. He had not had the benefit of her early training, learning how the peerage worked in all its twisted nonsense. And that gave her the upper hand.
With a slow, lazy smile, Fantine settled in to enjoy her newfound position. It had been a long time since she had felt like she had an upper hand. The moment was temporary, she knew. But for now, she reigned, and she intended to exploit it to the fullest.
First and foremost, she decided to eat. After being tormented by the smell of his delectable dinne
r, she could not think of anything but filling her stomach. Easing herself down at his table, Fantine scanned the food. There was only one plate—Hurdy's—and she took it, heaping roast mutton onto it with singular abandon. For his part, Hurdy could only drop down opposite her with barely concealed impatience.
Too bad. She was ravenous. Savoring the smell, Fantine cut her first bite, lifting it delicately on her fork, intending to draw as much pleasure as possible out of this simple act.
* * *
"Right there," said Giles, pointing at what appeared to be a tall, comfortable-looking house in the middle of a long row of warehouses. "They took 'er right in the front, clear as day."
Marcus stared at the house, unable to hold back his surprise. "Hurdy lives there?"
"It were the talk o' the rookeries fer months."
Marcus nodded, still staring at the structure, clearly visible in the light of the full moon. It was a bloody castle. True, it was short and squished between the long rows of warehouses, but it was a castle nonetheless, complete with a central turret containing a single arched window. And the whole thing was right in the middle of the dark menace of the docks.
"That light up there." Giles pointed to the turret window where a light shone clear as a beacon. "Hurdy likes to sit there and watch wot goes on out 'ere. An' 'e likes us to see wot 'e does in there. She will be in that room. Less'n 'e's got 'er in 'is bedroom."
Marcus dismounted his horse, not wanting to consider what the child was suggesting, but unable to rid himself of the image. Fantine in Hurdy's bed? Brutalized in the worst possible ways? He could not allow it.
He focused his mind on his task, removing the rope he had brought with him and neatly looping it over his shoulder. "Can you ride back without me?"
"But—"
"No buts, Giles. You cannot help any more than you already have. Go home." He slapped the rear of his horse and watched with a silent dread as his only means of escape trotted back to home and safety. Then, with a grim fatalism, Marcus prepared to risk his life for the woman he had recently vowed to torture at the earliest possible moment.