Stephen scowled, waving at another door on the right. “Any one I might know in the bar?”
“Still very quiet. Perhaps you’d care for some private entertainment upstairs while you wait for things to liven up?”
“Not in the mood. Not yet, anyway. Unless…is there anything unusual going on tonight? I’m feeling remarkably jaded.”
There was no flicker of knowledge in the steward’s face. “Not that I’m aware of, my lord. Shall I let you know if I hear of anything?”
“Please do. In the meantime…” From the corner of his eye, Stephen saw the front door open, and recognized the newly-arrived patrons as his butler and valet. He’d best make up his mind quickly, as Charles couldn’t be trusted to keep a straight face at seeing him. “May as well sit in on one of the tables you have going. Anyone playing vingt-et-un?”
Jamie was barely inside the chamber when his arms were grabbed by two hulking men.
“About time,” one of them muttered.
“I told you I’d be here between seven and eight,” Bertie said.
“Well, it’s almost eight. We’ve been waiting.”
He struggled, but it was useless. “What’s going on? What do you want?” Jamie cried.
Madame’s men ignored him, hauling Jamie efficiently over to the wall, where his wrists were pulled above his head. Cold iron encircled them as manacles clicked shut. One of the men tested the length of the chains.
“Can you stand comfortably? We don’t want you dangling.”
“What does it matter?” his companion asked. “Come on, this place gives me the creeps.”
“Could be a few hours before you-know-who shows up. We’re supposed to turn him over in good condition—wouldn’t do to have his arms pulled out of the sockets.”
“Who?” Jamie shouted. “Why am I here? Bertie?” But Bertie was already gone, and the two others soon followed. At the last, one of them hesitated, then set his lantern down on a table in the middle of the room. As he looked around the room, Jamie wasn’t sure he was grateful for the courtesy.
Think. All right, what did he know? He was chained to a wall, in a small stone chamber somewhere beneath the brothel. The room contained a fireplace—unfortunately unlit—and several sets of chains hanging on the walls, one of which was, of course, attached to him. In the center of the room was a large, freestanding stone block, about four feet in height, holding the lantern the man had left behind. The table—or altar—had stout iron rings sunk into the corners, convenient for chaining someone down. A smaller, wooden cart stood next to it. The tray it held was discreetly covered by a linen towel.
The phrase torture chamber came to mind.
Jamie shuddered.
No. There could be anything under that towel. A nice lunch perhaps, for him and Bertie to enjoy once his friend popped back in, grinning, to laugh at the grand joke he’d played on him. For a minute he almost believed it. Ha! You should have seen your face! What, did you think I was leaving you here? To be…
“Oh, God.” Jamie tugged at the chains. They were real enough. Although there wasn’t much strain on them, his arms were tiring of the position. He worked his hands open and closed to force his blood to flow upward.
It was impossible he was here to be hurt. Why? Who could hate him so? But it didn’t have to be personal. Bring me a slender young man, preferably with blue eyes. If Madame didn’t have what was ordered in stock, she would have to get it from somewhere.
Bertie. He closed his eyes. The young man must work for Madame. Ever want something so badly…? What had she promised him? Money? Freedom?
The next question was what his buyer wanted from him. This was a brothel. That implied sex. Jamie’s stomach tightened. But if that…if that were all, why not tie him to a bed and get on with it? He stared at the covered tray. Monstrous to think that anyone would get pleasure from causing pain, but there was good historical precedent for it. Some of the Roman emperors had been notorious for their enjoyment of cruelty. Caligula. Nero. Panic rose in him at the thought, and he forced himself to control his breathing.
All right, someone wants to hurt you. Then what?
He hadn’t been blindfolded. Unless someone came back and performed that task, he would see his attacker. Be able to identify him, press charges. It was possible the person might think he could be bribed to keep quiet. Or be so grateful to be freed that he would just stumble home and try to forget it ever happened. Or…
There were grooves cut into the stone floor, channeling toward a drain at the base of the table. They would neatly dispose of a great deal of blood.
Jamie forced himself to face the simple fact that if someone did mean to…harm…him, the safest means to ensure his silence was to…silence him forever. You know the words, Jamie, he told himself savagely, use them. Not hurt, not harm.
Rape.
Torture.
Kill.
He said them out loud, and somehow the act made him feel calmer. “All right,” he said. “If that’s truly what’s planned for me, how do I get out of it?”
Useless to shout; he had noted the thickness of the walls when Bertie had opened the door. His chains were too sturdy to break; the iron cuffs at his wrists snug enough to keep his hands from wriggling through. Would it help if he could dislocate or break some of the bones in his hand? He considered the matter dispassionately. Two drawbacks: first, if he could manage to do it, he’d have to work quickly before the flesh swelled and rendered his sacrifice void. Second, supposing he could free himself from the chains, his broken hands would be useless. He wouldn’t be able to pick the lock on the door, or work the hinges from it, or pry a rock from the wall and use it to crush the skull of the bastard who had chained him to a bloody wall…
Easy, Jamie.
I will get out of here.
If he couldn’t free himself physically, he would use his brain. Find some way to work on his assailant, some means of rendering himself worth more to him alive than dead. But how?
Charles straightened his cravat while he and Mr. Symmons waited for the steward to return. Nice place, this. And he felt like a proper gentleman, all dressed up in Stephen’s brother’s clothes, which he’d been able to tailor to himself quite nicely. He nudged his companion. “So this is how the other half lives, eh?”
Mr. Symmons glowered, and folded his arms.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” The steward, a dignified man in his late forties, took their measure with a practiced eye, turning first to Mr. Symmons. “You were a military man, sir? Perhaps you still enjoy disciplining the troops?”
“Certainly not.” Charles tried not to laugh at the look on the elderly man’s face. “I did, however, pick up some international tastes in the army, if you follow me.”
“Of course, sir. We have plenty of ladies trained in the French and Greek arts.”
Mr. Symmons harrumphed. “Pedestrian. I was thinking Spanish, perhaps Portuguese.”
The steward perked up. “I believe we could—”
“Or Indian, perhaps.”
“Red or Eastern?”
“Good heavens! Eastern, my good man. With half Egyptian—my back is bothering me tonight. I assume you can arrange it?”
Charles’ jaw dropped, but Madame’s employee positively grinned. “That’s a challenge, sir, but I believe we can accommodate you if you’re willing to wait a bit.”
Mr. Symmons nodded. “I wish to play cards for a while first anyway—say, until midnight?”
“That will be fine, sir.” He led the butler to the appropriate card room and came back for Charles. “Sir, would you care to meet a young gentleman? I can assure you, sir, that all our staff members are discreet, clean, and very willing to please.”
Charles blinked. Damn, he was good. “Er... yes. That is, I...”
“Madame has procured some fresh young lads, just in from the country. If you’ll follow me, sir, you can make your choice.”
Assuming the young men were newly-arrived, they would hardly have the
information Charles needed. He bit his lip. “Um…do you have gentlemen with experience, as well? Not too old, of course, but you know. Been around a bit.”
“Of course, sir. This way. I think I have just the perfect companion for you.”
“Wait. Would I have to decide right away? I’m—uh—I’m very choosy. I’d like to have a drink with a few of the lads, then pick one out.”
If the steward felt like rolling his eyes, he was too well-trained to show it. “At this hour, most of the lads are at leisure in the saloon reserved for…gentlemen’s gentlemen. You are welcome to take your time examining them.” He led the way to the third door down on the left.
Charles pulled at his cravat, which was feeling tight. “Will I be able to tell who’s employed here? I mean, I’d hate to make an offer to another patron.”
Now the steward’s lips curved into a smile. “I don’t think sir will have any difficulty on that account.” He opened the door to the bar, and Charles gasped. It was rather obvious, at that. The clients, few at this hour, were the ones who were fully dressed. The others…
“Oh, my,” Charles said. There had to be fifteen or twenty of them, ranging from tall and hulking to wispy and delicate, and all in various stages of dishabille. Some sported shirts open to the waist, displaying a tantalizing glimpse of muscled chest, while others, bolder, had dispensed with an upper garment altogether. And one—Charles blushed as a dark-haired young man, sleek and sinewy, approached him sporting only a loincloth.
“Buy me a drink, sir?”
“Yes,” Charles said, mesmerized. “God, yes.”
Time passes slowly when you’re chained to a wall. One learns to cope. Jamie found that by flexing the muscles of his arms, he could lessen the discomfort of their position. Twisting his hands to grasp hold of the chains themselves helped as well, although that shortened their reach enough to put him up on tiptoe, so he didn’t resort to that often. The dungeon was cold, and damp air seemed to rise from the drain in the floor, beneath which he could hear the gurgle of the river. But the longer he was in chained in one position, the more the stone at his back warmed from his own heat.
Keeping his mind from wandering was easier than he’d imagined: a lifetime devoted to the pleasures of books gave him riches that he squandered lavishly now: he recited Shakespeare’s sonnets; recreated Euclidean proofs; mused over Walpole’s defense of Richard III. All of this mental activity kept him remarkably calm and self-possessed, under the circumstances.
Until the old woman came to cut off his clothes.
The worst thing, Jamie thought, was how careful she went about it, her wrinkled face frowning in concentration as she picked apart the seams of his borrowed jacket and shirt so that she could sew them up again neatly later. It was so damned practical. Why waste perfectly good garments, especially when the wearer was unlikely to need them again? Somehow, more than anything, this convinced him that whatever was in store for him, he was not expected to survive it.
She took his spectacles, too, worth a sixpence or two at the pawnshop, and Jamie almost cried. Not being able to see increased his sense of helplessness tenfold, especially when she lit the fire, turning the room into a place of menacing shadows. At least the fire gave the promise of heat, although the cold stone walls would be slow to warm up.
The old woman refused to respond to his queries for information, so assiduously that Jamie began to wonder whether she was deaf. Or again, just very practical. Why speak to a dead man? No good could come of it. Once he was naked, she washed him down with impersonal efficiency, then dried him off, still without a word spoken.
He tried one last time as she was bundling up his clothes into a neat parcel. “Please, madam. He’ll pay you well for this information. The Earl of St. Joseph, in Hanover Square. Or any member of his staff. Please. It will be well worth your—”
The door closed behind her, and the enormous lock clicked.
Jamie shivered, with cold and creeping fear. What a difference in morale a measly few layers of cloth makes. An accoutrement of civilization, a badge of one’s rank and self-respect. Without them, he felt less than human, just an animal chained to a wall. He tried to regain the sense of calm he’d managed to find before, even in this place. Before, as long as he was alive, it seemed there was hope. Now, he fought the rising panic.
Soon. It’s going to be soon, and I’m not ready. I don’t know anything about this man, or how to fight him, and he’s going to walk through that door and I’m going to fail, I’m going to die…
Or even worse, maybe it wouldn’t be soon. Maybe he would spend hours, half the night, on the knife-edge of terror, until exhaustion dulled his senses to the point where he’d be beyond scheming to save himself. He had to find peace, find an anchor within himself. Mother. That helped. She’d been the center of his life for most of it, a friend and confidant, his only family. Jamie closed his eyes and recreated the smell of her, lavender-water and talcum powder, and the anise comfits she’d loved. But his mother was dead, belonging to the past, and he needed to focus on the future.
Stephen.
When I get out of here, I’m going home. Home wasn’t the cottage in Yorkshire, long since sold, where he’d spent most of his life. Home certainly wasn’t either of the lodgings he’d most recently known. Home was the townhouse on Hanover Square, its warm kitchen filled with conversation and laughter and the smell of almond biscuits. Home was his library, the hours spent working at the desk, or curled up in front of the fire lost in the pages of a book. Home was Stephen, smiling with admiration at him over the chess board, teasing him into mirth in return. What a joy it had been, to find a fine mind within such attractive housing. Stephen, teaching him that there were more pleasures in life than those of the mind. Oh yes, he would live, if he could, for Stephen. Nothing was going to keep them apart after this. The sparks of attraction, of affection the other man felt for him, Jamie would fan until a love grew that matched his own.
Strength blossomed in him. Whatever was to come, he would fight through it.
Stephen.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Stephen bit his lip, frowning at the cards in his hand. It was after ten o’clock, and the first-class gaming room was still all but deserted. The influx of ton gentlemen would not begin until after the long dinners at the club were concluded to the final cigar; after the prettiest young misses were whisked home from Almack’s; after the balls and musicales and other staid society gatherings began to pall. It was useless. He wasn’t going to learn anything from the out-of-towners who, devoid of London social connections, spent their evenings in a place like this.
He stood up. “Pardon me, gentlemen, I need a breath of fresh air. If I’m not back within an hour, have Winstone bank my chips for me.” Remarkably, his pile of winnings for once was impressive. Like he cared, tonight.
Stephen repaired to the bar, also nearly empty. The publican knew him well enough to reach instinctively for a bottle of French brandy.
“Good evening, my lord. Will this do, or will Mr. Jeffries prefer something from the cellars?”
“Mr. Jeffries isn’t here tonight.”
“My lord, he’s only just arrived. I saw his coach pull up just a few minutes ago, as I was coming in for my shift. If I’d known you were already here, I would have told him.”
Julian must be amazingly bored to come to Novotny’s this early in the evening. Still, no matter. If they should run into each other, Stephen would just have to fob him off with one excuse or another. In the meantime, he would have to think of some way to help in the search for Jamie. Wait a second…
“Did you say something about the cellars?”
“Yes, my lord. I wondered if you or Mr. Jeffries might like something fine from the wine cellars.”
Stephen reached into his pocket and returned with a gold coin, tapping it carelessly on the polished mahogany surface of the bar. “I’ve always been curious about your wonderful collection here. If you’re not terribly busy, is there any chance
I could get a tour?”
“Aye, my lord.” The coin was discreetly tucked away. “Follow me.”
The barman stopped and took a lantern from the table outside the door to the cellars, pausing to light it before continuing down. “We can’t leave lights burning down there, what with all the wooden wine racks and flammable spirits.”
Stephen nodded, striving to show casual interest and not worry and strain. “How far do the cellars extend beneath the building?”
“Whole way, and more. They go all the way under the stables, as well.”
They proceeded down the stairs, and Stephen suffered through an interminable tour, oohing and aahing over what, in other circumstances, he might recognize as truly impressive vintages. The wine cellars took up enormous acreage. Where were the dungeons? “Impressive,” he said.
“Ah, that’s nothing. The very best stuff is over here.”
Stephen followed his guide through an archway. This was a possibility. The corridor had several doors, locked with padlocks, on either side, and a final, unlocked door at the end. He counted. Just seven, total. Hadn’t Maisie said there were eight dungeons? But perhaps there were more in another part of the cellar.
The barman waved his lantern, scattering shadows on the walls. “This is where the good stuff is. Madame has bottles she swears were put up in the time of the Tudors. Spanish wine from the Armada shipwrecks, even. Might even be telling the truth—I once opened three bottles for someone whose name you would recognize, and one of ‘em was brackish with seawater. Other two were ambrosia, though—I sipped the last drops from the bottles when they were done.” He shook his head. “My God. Only a handful of people get the chance at something like that.”
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