The Courtesan's Bed

by Sandrine O'Shea

  He grabbed her chin tightly between his thumb and forefinger, and squeezed. “Such spirit, like a wild mare just before she is broken. We’ll see how much spirit is left after I’ve broken you.”

  When he released her, Régine used the pain to keep herself calm. “What are you going to do to me?”

  He stepped back and folded his arms, a smirk and his dueling scar twisting his features into a diabolical mask. “I’ll beat the spirit out of you, and then when it pleases me, I’ll fuck you all night. When I’m fucked dry, I’ll give you to my friends and watch. They will take you together and make you scream, but not from pleasure. You will beg me to make them stop, but I’ll just laugh.” He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “And if you should not survive…”

  Do not give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

  “I’m hungry,” she said calmly, “and I need to use the bathroom.”

  He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “The servants will bring you food and watch you. If you try to escape, you will suffer even more when I next come to you.” He grabbed her nipples and tweaked them hard, causing her to gasp in pain. “Do you understand me, Régine?”

  She didn’t trust her voice to remain calm and steady, so she nodded.

  Dragomilov grinned, turned on his heel and left her to count the endless hours until his return.

  A door opening roused the dozing Régine. After she’d eaten, Dragomilov had returned her to the wooden frame, strapping her down so her naked back and vulnerable backside would be exposed to whatever torture he had planned. She’d submitted without a struggle, for her efforts would’ve been futile, and she needed to conserve her strength.

  At least he hadn’t come to her last night. He preferred to let her dwell on what was to come, to let anticipation crush her spirit.

  Light footsteps approached. She raised her head. Dragomilov’s latest mistress rounded the frame and came into view. Fear filled her eyes, and she kept glancing nervously at the door leading out into the hall.

  Régine smiled, not wanting to show fear or desperation. “I saw you at Odile’s auction, and Maxim’s.”

  “I’m Ivy Doucette.” She chewed on a thumbnail. “I—I’m appalled by what Serge has done to you.”

  A tiny flame of hope flickered in Régine’s heart. “Then will you help me escape? Please?”

  Ivy’s eyes widened. “I’d like to, but I wouldn’t dare.”

  Dismay flooded through her. “Is it because you love Serge?”

  The girl’s lip curled in contempt. “How can I love a man who brings another woman into the house where he keeps his mistress?”

  She nodded in sympathy. “The ultimate insult.”

  “He will make me suffer unbearably if I help you.” She glanced at the doorway again and shivered. “I am risking his wrath by even speaking to you.”

  Desperation replaced hope. “I will make it worth your while to take the risk. I have many, many influential friends who will keep you safe and see to it that Serge never harms you.” She studied the girl to assess her heart’s desire and how she could exploit it to win her freedom. “And you will become my protégé. I promise to make you one of the most sought-after courtesans in France, and live the life you’ve always dreamed about. Worth gowns, Cartier jewels, Maxim’s, the adoration of rich, handsome protectors…you name it, and it will be yours.”

  Avarice filled those wide blue eyes.

  “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Régine said, not daring to hope.

  “More than anything. But I don’t think beautiful gowns and jewels are worth angering Serge. He can be a monster.”

  “If you’re very careful and clever, he’ll never know.”

  Now she had the girl’s interest. “What would I have to do? I can’t just go to the police.”

  “You don’t have to. Just tell Serge you need to go into the city on some pretext. Go to my house and tell my maid Molly where I am. She will do the rest. Or go to the offices of Le Figaro and find Anatole Beaucaire. He will also help free me, and no one will know you were involved. I promise. In exchange, I will make all your dreams come true.”

  Doubt clouded Ivy’s pretty features, and she chewed her thumbnail again. “I don’t know…”

  “You are a fearless young woman who knows what she wants and goes after it. Just like me.”

  A faint blush tinged Ivy’s fair skin. “I have always gone after what I wanted.”

  “Then help me, and I’ll help you to get your heart’s desire.”

  Ivy studied her. “I’ll see what I can do. But no promises. Serge may not allow me to go into the city.”

  Then all would be lost.

  Régine swallowed hard. “I’ll be forever grateful for whatever you can do.”

  Ivy smiled, patted her arm awkwardly and walked away.

  Régine rested her forehead against the wooden frame. She closed her eyes and prayed that Ivy Doucette would succeed. She couldn’t bear to think of her fate if the girl failed.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When Darius arrived at Régine’s house in the late afternoon, he found Molly locking the front door. She wore a short cape and bonnet, obviously attired to go out.

  He stepped down from the cab, tired from his Channel crossing and interminable train trip from Calais, and greeted the pale, worried-looking maid. “I must see Régine. Now.”

  She grabbed his arm. “Oh, Mr. Darius. Thank God you’ve come back.”

  “What’s the matter? Did something happen to her?”

  Molly unlocked the door and they went inside. “Miss Régine went to a party at Mademoiselle d’Alençon’s the other night, and she never came home.”

  Darius’s spirits plummeted, and he rocked back on his heels. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. The carriage came home without her. The driver said he waited and waited, but she never appeared, so he gave up and drove home alone.”

  Darius’s heart sank. “Perhaps she left to spend the night with another gentleman.”

  “But she hasn’t had a protector since you left.”

  So, she had only pretended that she and Villemessant were lovers to drive him away.

  “Even if she had left with someone new,” Molly said, “the driver would’ve told me.” Her old face creased with concern. “Miss Régine doesn’t want me to worry, you see. She’s very considerate.”

  Considerate of Kate and everyone else she cared about, not herself.

  “I just know something terrible has happened to her. She’s been gone a day and two nights. That’s why I’m on my way to report her missing to the Prefect of Police.”

  Uneasiness rippled across Darius’s arms, and his weariness vanished. “You’re that worried about her?”

  “I am.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  She grimaced in distaste. “Whatever it is, I’ll bet it involves that damned Russian. He’s a right bastard, he is, who thinks he’s above the law.” She tapped her temple. “I can smell a rotter coming from a mile away, and he’s one of the worst.” She paused. “Will you please find her? If anyone can, it’s you, sir.”

  Darius rubbed his jaw, at a loss for what to do. Where did he even start to look? Paris was a huge city, spread out over many miles, and late afternoon was rapidly sliding into dusk. Dragomilov could’ve taken her anywhere, even back to Russia.

  The sound of the doorbell made them both start.

  Molly opened the door to find a young woman standing there. “Miss Molly Wicks?”

  “I am, but this is a bad time,” Molly replied.

  The woman chewed her thumbnail and looked back over her shoulder. “May I come in? It’s about Mademoiselle Laflamme.”

  Darius rushed past Molly, grabbed the visitor by the shoulders and began shaking her until her head rocked back and forth like a rag doll’s. “Tell me where she is. Now.”

  “Please, monsieur.” Her eyes filled with fear. “You’re hurting me.”

  Molly grabbed his arm.
“Sir! She can’t help if you’re shaking her.”

  Her words penetrated his desperation, and he released the young woman, his arms falling to his sides. “Forgive me, mademoiselle. My fear for Régine’s safety made me act irrationally.”

  “Understandable,” she said.

  “Please come in.” When the woman entered the foyer, he bowed over her hand. “I’m Clarridge.”

  “Ivy Doucette.” She looked surprised. “I thought you and Mademoiselle Laflamme were no longer together.”

  “Nothing but a regrettable misunderstanding. Come into the drawing room where we can speak comfortably.”

  “I can’t stay long.” She followed him into the drawing room. “Or I will be missed.”

  “Would you like tea, or something stronger?” Molly asked.

  “Neither.” She took a deep breath and blurted out, “Serge Dragomilov kidnapped Mademoiselle Laflamme two nights ago and is holding her prisoner in his country house outside of Paris.”

  Shock slammed through Darius. “Dear God.”

  Molly cried out in alarm, her face crumpling. “Oh, sir…I knew that bastard was to blame.”

  “Serge thinks I came into the city to go shopping, and I left his carriage waiting down the street so the driver thinks I’m in a shop.” Mademoiselle Doucette glanced at the drawing room door as if the Russian would come charging through at any moment. She looked at Darius. “I promised to help her, but you mustn’t tell anyone I helped you, or involve the police.”

  “I won’t.” Darius went to the desk and took a piece of paper and pencil out of the drawer. “Can you draw me a plan of the house and where she’s being held?”

  Mademoiselle gave him the address, then quickly sketched a floor plan. “If you enter through the kitchen and go up the servants’ stairs to the second floor, it’s the third door on the left.” She looked up at him. “Serge has her shackled to a wooden frame.”

  Molly gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth.

  The blood drained from Darius’s face, then rushed back in fury. “I’ll kill him.”

  Mademoiselle Doucette looked dismayed. Did she love the sadistic Russian bastard that much?

  “Serge’s three friends are at the house every evening. Dinner is served at seven o’clock, so they will be occupied. The perfect time to come into the house and get Mademoiselle Laflamme out. I’ll see that the kitchen door remains unlocked.” She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Now I must leave before the driver gets suspicious and reports me to Serge.”

  Darius rounded the desk and grasped her hand in both of his, kissing it. “I am forever in your debt, mademoiselle. If there is ever anything I can do for you—anything at all—you have but to ask.”

  She blushed and smiled. “I am not helping save her for financial gain, monsieur.”

  After she left, Molly muttered, “Hmph. A likely story. I’m sure Miss Régine promised to reward that little chit handsomely for her help.”

  “This information is worth double whatever Régine promised her.”

  He left and got back into the waiting cab. “The offices of Le Figaro. And be quick about it.”

  Luckily, Beaucaire hadn’t left for the day.

  His glare would’ve frozen boiling water. “Lord Clarridge, what a surprise. I’d thought you would’ve been married to one of your horsy countrywomen by now.”

  “I don’t have time to trade insults with you,” Darius said. “Dragomilov has kidnapped Régine and is holding her in his country house.”

  The blood drained from Beaucaire’s face, turning him paste gray. After Darius told him about Ivy Doucette’s visit, the journalist said, “Then we must rescue Régine before it’s too late.” He rose and reached for his hat. “A friend of mine went there once and was disgusted by the debauchery. We’ll pay Count Dragomilov a little surprise visit.” He headed for the door, with Darius on his heels. “But first, we’ll stop at my apartment.”

  “Why?”

  “To arm ourselves, of course.”

  They arrived at Dragomilov’s house just as the last of the twilight faded, allowing them to move under the cover of darkness. Beaucaire had his driver stop the carriage several yards down the road from the main gate, and they disembarked. Darius looked around carefully to make sure no one saw them, the loaded pistol the journalist had given him in his coat pocket.

  He was relieved that the Russian’s house wasn’t too far out into the countryside and totally secluded. There were other houses nearby should they need refuge after rescuing Régine, and the gravel drive up to the house was a short one.

  “The main gate is open,” Beaucaire said.

  “Maybe he’s expecting more company.” Darius looked over his shoulder when he thought he saw a shadow move. Nothing.

  “Then we’d better rescue her as quickly as possible, and get out.”

  They walked briskly toward the house, keeping to the bushes that lined the drive.

  “The downstairs windows on the left side are all lit, but there is only one upstairs window lit, on the right.”

  “That fits with what Mademoiselle Doucette told you,” Beaucaire replied. “The downstairs lights must be from the dining room.”

  “His three friends, and the servants.”

  Beaucaire sighed. “We’re quite outnumbered, my friend.”

  Darius grinned. “Surely one Frenchman and one Englishman can take four Russians and a handful of servants.”

  Beaucaire laughed. “As long as we’re sober, and they’re not.”

  They stopped when faced with a bare expanse of lawn without any concealing cover whatsoever.

  “We’ll go in through the kitchen door,” Darius said, “and up the servants’ stairs. You can watch my back.”

  Beaucaire nodded and crossed himself. “Let’s go.”

  Praying they wouldn’t be seen, Darius and Beaucaire sprinted across the lawn toward the house.

  Dragomilov’s belt hit Régine’s bare backside with a stinging slap.

  She flinched, but wouldn’t give her tormentor the satisfaction of screaming. He’d already slapped her in the face for refusing to beg him to take her, and her jaw ached. As the belt hit her for the fourth time, she wondered how much more she’d be able to endure before she broke and had to give Dragomilov what he wanted just to make the pain stop.

  She sent her thoughts elsewhere. How could Luc find sexual satisfaction in being whipped? She found nothing arousing in unceasing pain.

  The belt came down on her tender flesh once again, harder this time. She willed her thoughts to a more pleasant place, lying naked with Darius, his ardent kisses and caresses exciting her. Soon the pain forced her back to this room and the man whipping her.

  With a sinking heart, she realized that the bastard was just getting started.

  Darius and Beaucaire crept around the back of the house, grateful for the full moon to light their way. Their mad dash across the exposed stretch of lawn had gone undetected.

  He peered over a windowsill and looked into the well-lit kitchen, where only one older woman appeared to be preparing dinner. One of those doors in the room surely led to the servants’ stairs.

  “Let’s hope she doesn’t raise a ruckus.” Darius tried the back door, which wasn’t locked, as Ivy promised.

  Beaucaire followed, fumbling in his pockets. Once they were inside the kitchen, the cook stared at them in curiosity, but didn’t make a sound. Perhaps she thought they were more of her master’s more eccentric guests coming through the back door to surprise everyone. While Darius debated knocking the woman over the head with a frying pan, Beaucaire smiled charmingly and offered her a gold Louis. When the woman took it with an appreciative grin and slipped it in her apron pocket, Beaucaire put one finger to his lips for her silence. She winked, then ignored them obligingly and went back to rolling out pastry crust.

  “In my business,” Beaucaire whispered, “a little bribery goes a long way.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right or we’re in trouble.”


  They took the door that led to the servants’ stairs, and he and Beaucaire headed upstairs, walking softly and swiftly, their pistols drawn.

  Sweat ran down Régine’s face, mingling with helpless, uncontrollable tears, and her breath came in great, ragged sobs. He must’ve been beating her for hours.

  At first Dragomilov had given her time to recover between each blow of his belt, but her strength and stubbornness had angered him, and now he didn’t give her enough time to draw breath between one strike and the next.

  Finally, she couldn’t take anymore. If he strapped her one more time, she’d die.

  “Stop!” she screamed, struggling against her bonds like a wild woman. “I’ll do anything you want, just stop!”

  Darius and Beaucaire had just emerged from the stairs and were hurrying down the hall, on the alert for stray Russians, when they heard Régine scream.

  They exchanged panic-stricken looks.

  “Dear God,” Beaucaire whispered, turning paler. “What’s he doing to her?”

  “Something very painful.” Darius thought of the wooden frame and its sinister purpose. “Two doors down. You guard, I’ll go in.”

  A grim Beaucaire nodded.

  They reached the room. Darius prayed that Dragomilov was the only one in there. Then he opened the door and strode in. A surprised Dragomilov froze, his belt raised in midair. Darius almost faltered as well when he saw the woman he loved naked and bound helplessly, her backside crosshatched with angry red welts from a beating he’d interrupted.

  “Régine!” he cried, his voice ragged with anguish as raw fury welled up inside him and exploded. He almost charged the Russian, wanting to beat his face into a bloody pulp. But he stopped himself in time and forced himself to focus because imprudent actions could result in failure and possible death for them all.

  “Drop it,” Darius snarled before his opponent could recover, aiming his pistol with a steady hand at the Russian’s heart, “or I will kill you.”

  Dragomilov hesitated while he assessed the threat. He prudently dropped the belt.