“Why, aren’t you too darling for words? You really are a novice.”
He didn’t remove his hateful grasp as he seemed to regard her with new interest. Then, taking her hand, he led her towards the doorway.
“What are you doing?” Charity squeaked.
“I’m going to reward you,” he said loudly, grinning at the gentlemen about him. “You’ve done well for me and I don’t want to let you go just yet.”
“I haven’t rewarded you. It was luck. Pure chance!” Charity cried. “I…I don’t want to leave my friends and go with you.”
“Of course, you do,” he said, his tone genial as if her protests meant nothing. Which of course they didn’t. “Here. Give them a wave. They’re Madame Chambon’s girls, aren’t they? I recognise one of them. Yes, wave to them and they can proudly report back to Madame that you’re in safe hands. In the hands of a very rich man who is very satisfied with what you have done for him tonight.” Cyril jerked his head in recognition of Rosetta and Emily who were smiling at him as if they were only too pleased for Charity.
What could she do? She stumbled down the stairs and out into the fresh air, the wind cooling her tear-stained cheeks as she tried to gather her wits. Where was Hugo? Was he all right?
Now, she was on Cyril’s arm, confused, helpless. Rosetta and Emily claimed she should go with him to discover what she could, but it was fanciful to think anything good could come of it.
Charity knew she should break free and run. Why had she not when Cyril had assisted her into her cloak in the lobby? The white street, through the doors, had beckoned and for one moment she’d entertained the thought.
But then the carriage had drawn up at the bottom of the stairs.
And there was Cyril, running lightly down the steps to open the door; waiting for her just as the strange gentleman had stood waiting for her mother more than twelve years ago.
Waiting with a smile in his eyes and the promise of a different future.
Until Charity’s mother had tugged at Charity’s hand, turning on a sob, forcing Charity back up the stairs and into the grand country house where she worked and where she’d taken her daughter, secretly, for the day.
Leaving the gentleman whom Charity had seen kiss her mother in the shadows, just minutes before.
She remembered how strongly she’d wanted that ‘different future’ the gentleman had promised them after he’d pressed a coin into her palm.
And she remembered, too, how he’d shouted after them: “It’s your choice! If you don’t come with me now, I will never acknowledge that I have a daughter!”
Well, Charity wanted a different future, now, though she wasn’t sure this one would answer.
With sudden resolve she gripped Cyril’s arm and stepped towards the vehicle. “Where are we going?” she asked him, her breath frosting in the cold air, glad that her voice sounded stronger than she thought it might. Maybe she could do this. Maybe she could be of some help to Hugo.
She rubbed her hands together to keep them warm.
Of course it was nonsense to think she could find a book of blackmail but perhaps she could find some way to appeal to Cyril if they were in private. Right now, it seemed her only chance.
“Somewhere we can be comfortable.”
“To your townhouse?”
He looked down at her as he helped her into the vehicle. “You are a fetching little thing, aren’t you? What did you say your name was?”
Charity hesitated a moment as she tried to remember the moniker agreed upon by Rosetta and Emily.
“Cathie.”
“Well, Cathie, we could go to a nice rooming house, I rather thought.”
She nodded. “Probably best,” she agreed. “There are great risks in taking a girl like me to your townhouse. What would the servants say?” She forced herself to look impish.
“It’s of no consequence what my servants think,” he said with a touch of vinegar. “I’m master of my domain.”
Charity said nothing more, afraid that it might fuel a desire on Cyril’s part to prove himself master of her — which he no doubt was going to try to do, anyway.
When they stopped in front of a row of elegant townhouses, she raised her eyebrows as she craned her head to look at her surroundings. “What a lovely place,” she asked. “Who does it belong to?”
“It’s mine,” said Cyril. “And I’m taking you through the front door, Cathie, my love.” He rapped loudly. “Brown, my butler, will admit us. See if he betrays his true feelings when he takes our coats. If he does, I’ll get a new one.”
“A new coat?” Charity asked without thinking and he roared with laughter. “A new butler. Ah, Brown, I’m sure the fire has been built up in my room so it’s cosy and welcoming.” He turned to Charity as he led her along the corridor. “In here. Good, I see the staff are frightened enough to stay up until the small hours. Now, make yourself comfortable.”
Charity stared at the large four-poster bed at which he was pointing.
“Come on, now. Hop up. You know I can afford you — or rather, I can afford Madame’s exorbitant charges thanks to your help this evening.” He chuckled as he brandished a wad of notes from an inner pocket.
“On the…bed?” Her voice shook and she took a step back towards the door. She couldn’t do this, after all. No, she wouldn’t. What had she been thinking?
An image of Hugo’s stricken face swept away her fears for her own wellbeing. How could she do this to him?
How could she not do this for him?
Yet, how ill-equipped was she to carry out any useful investigative work when she had no idea what she was looking for. How could she appeal to Cyril’s better nature when he had none?
She was not about to sacrifice herself for any of Rosetta or Emily’s friends. What might Cyril do if he caught her snooping? Even if she asked some pertinent questions it would only take one wrong step to arouse his suspicions and matters would be even worse for Hugo — not to mention herself.
“My dear girl, are you really so naïve? Is this truly your first time?”
Charity pressed her lips together and gave the slightest of nods. Would he be kinder if that’s what he thought? But, perhaps for once in her life, she could be other than passive. The time had come, she decided, when she really must seize the next opportunity, after all, and run for her life. Her virtue.
He held out his hand as if he were coaxing a small animal closer.
Charity certainly felt as vulnerable as a small animal. In the sights of this hunter, she had nowhere to run.
Only, she could run. There was an opportunity. The door was not locked and she could reach it faster than Cyril could.
“Come, Cathie, I’ll be gentle. I promise.”
Charity drew in a shuddering breath as she clutched her hand to her chest.
“Come, my dear. Don’t be afraid.” His smug, smiling face came closer.
He touched her lips with his forefinger and it took every effort for Charity not to bite it off.
Instead, she reared back, spun on her heel and took off into the corridor, stopping a fateful second to take stock of her bearings.
Of course, he was too quick for her and when he pushed her back into the room and closed the door behind them, then locked it, Charity expected the worst. He had unfettered access to her now. And he was cruel. He’d make her pay. She’d heard of his type. Heard about him.
She’d been a fool to run. Now he’d push her against the wall and kiss her like she’d watched her mother being kissed. Could she pretend to enjoy it, as her mother had pretended? At first, Charity had thought she was willing until her mother had broken apart at Charity’s shout, weeping that the gentleman ruined her life.
Though, nevertheless, her mother had still nearly gone with him.
How confusing it had been. How confusing those memories still were.
“Good lord, I believe those tears are real.”
She didn’t expect it when Cyril dropped his hands from her shoulders
, the snarl softening, his tawny eyes registering confusion rather than flashing danger. No, she’d expected to be given no quarter and was sure this was just an act.
“Of course they’re real. I’m not that good an actress,” she mumbled, crossing her hands over her chest and drawing herself up, rigidly. She sank against the curtains at the window. She was his prisoner now. He believed he was entitled to her and she had no recourse. “Do what you must to me,” she said, woodenly. “I won’t scream and rouse the servants.”
He looked surprised as he stood in front of her, his expression one of curiosity. “Well, I’ve never bedded a virgin before and I can’t decide whether to make you scream out of respect for my prowess or because you can’t bear for me to leave you once I’m done.”
“Just do it and get it over and done with,” Charity ground out, finishing on a sob. What would her beloved think if he could see her now? Would she tell him? No, his pride would be too damaged. He couldn’t help her so why torment him more than he was already?
He took her hand and led her to the sofa in front of the fire. “A glass of champagne does wonders to bolster the spirits though I personally prefer brandy,” he said, pulling on the bell-rope and issuing orders to Brown to fetch a bottle from the cellars. “Now, tell me why you’re so afraid.”
“Because…you’re putting on an act.” Charity didn’t mind telling it to his face as she held her hand against her chest. “As soon as you think you’ve calmed me so I won’t scream, you’ll have your way with me.”
“And you don’t want that? Really?” He pressed a flute of champagne into her hand as he led her closer to the fire, helping her into a comfortable chair. He seemed calmer now. Less flushed and, she hoped, less drunk. Or would she fare better if he was more drunk? There was always the chance he might pass out, then.
Nervously she plucked at her skirts. “Of course I don’t. I don’t know you.”
“I might point out that this is your job. Your chosen way to earn a living. However, we’re getting to know each other now. So, Cathie, what brought you to the Red Door tonight?”
She opened her mouth in shock. Would it be folly to mention Hugo?
“My friends from Madame Chambon’s brought me.”
“They’re teaching you the tricks of the trade, are they? Nice girls?”
Charity nodded as he moved behind her. “They’ll be worried about me.”
“But you’re in safe hands. They know where you are.” To emphasise his point, he gently contoured her shoulders then stroked her neck. Charity closed her eyes as he reached her face. Submit. Submit. That’s what she had to do.
“How nice to have someone who cares even a fig for you.” He sighed. “I don’t.”
“Well, I don’t expect you to. That’s why I’m — ”
“I’m not talking about you.” He moved around to stand in front of her so he could see her. “No one cares a fig about me. Never did.”
Charity knew this wasn’t true. His grandfather had left him a fortune. He’d be receiving it in a few months.
“Is that why you must gamble? Because you’ll be destitute unless you win every time? Regardless of the cost?” She looked around her pointedly. “You really have no one else to look to?”
“I had a father and a mother, like everyone else, naturally.” He chuckled as he took a seat in the wing back chair opposite. “Can’t remember my mother as she died when I was born. My father? Well, the less said about him, the better. A cold, ruthless man. They say blood will out. What hope do I have? Thank goodness he’s about to head off to the family estates in India with my cousin. I thought I’d have to face that dastardly duty but thank God I got lucky at the cards and passed the baton to Hugo.”
And thank God Cyril didn’t know what Hugo was to Charity, since he clearly had so little love for his cousin. No, she decided, appealing to his better nature would not work. Instead, she said, “My father was a gambler and I’ve never felt the pull.”
He looked surprised. “He was, was he? And what was your father, if you don’t mind my asking?” He was toying with her now. “Let me guess. You speak decently enough. I’d say he was…a tutor? Yes, I do like guessing games. Tell me I’m right.”
“No, but my mother was a governess.”
“A governess, eh? A penniless, beautiful governess. I wonder who your father was, then? I was in love with my governess when I was sixteen. I’d have married her if I’d been able to. Were they star-crossed lovers, like we were?”
“He was a gentleman.”
“A gambler and a gentleman who’d be rolling in his grave if he saw you now.”
“He’s not dead.”
Cyril looked surprised. “So, your father is a gentleman and yet you earn your living by lying with the likes of me.”
Charity shrugged. His words hurt but she said, “What else can a girl do when she has no other means of earning her keep? Besides, my father refused to acknowledge me. At least, he refused to do so when I was eight.”
“So, you know who he is?”
Charity nodded. Good lord, had she really told him all this? She’d simply been too outraged by his pathetic claim that no one loved him. As if he were the only one.
“Who is he?”
“I’m not telling you that.”
“That’s because it’s all one big tall tale to make you seem more impressive than you really are. You’re from the gutter.” He looked disappointed. “Girls like you don’t tell the truth.”
“Because we deserve to be in the gutter? And that’s how you’d treat us?” Charity felt the rage tingling in her extremities. “I think it makes men feel strong to beat down those more vulnerable. Mostly, it’s the men who’ve been treated badly in their own lives. That’s what the girls tell me at Madame Chambon’s.”
“Oh, really?” He tapped his fingers on the arm of the sofa as if deciding what to say or do. “Well, your job is to please me,” he said finally. He indicated her glass. “Drink up, Cathie. I’m not feeling as kindly towards you as I was.”
His eyes were dark and brooding. Charity shivered. What had made her speak so unwisely to such a dangerous bully as Cyril.
“So you’ve changed your mind again? Instead of being considerate and making this a first time to remember — and make me regard you kindly and favour you above all my other clients, you think violence is preferable? That it will give you the upper hand, which of course it will?” Charity pushed out her chest. “That is the coward’s way. That’s what the girls all tell me. It’s the cowards and the bullies who use force and strength whereas it’s the men who use kindness who are given the best treatment at Madame’s, I can assure you.”
“Good God, will you stop talking!” Unexpectedly, Cyril rose to his feet, sweeping his glass from the table with an angry thrust of his arm. “There is no goodness in me so why should I waste my time trying to be kind?”
Charity shrank against the arm of the sofa as he paced in front of the fire. Her heart was pounding now. He was volatile. Unpredictable. She didn’t have the measure of him. “Has no one ever been kind to you?” she ventured. She’d touched a nerve and perhaps it was unwise to pursue this line, but she thought she understood him a little better now.
“Not my father.”
“Nor mine to me.”
“I never knew my mother.”
“Mine sent me to look after an imbecile aunt. That was fun, too.” Charity said with heavy irony.
There was a slight pause, then Cyril suddenly let out an unexpected laugh as he rose from throwing a log on the fire. “Did you really conjure that up to best my tale of woe?”
“No, it’s true. I’ve spent most of my life in thankless drudgery before I found myself at Madame Chambon’s, after I was tricked there, thinking I was applying for work as a servant. Yet, for the first time in my life, I made friends. Women who had suffered cruelty, as I had, and who were kind to me.”
Cyril looked at her strangely. He’d stopped what he was doing and was now breathin
g heavily, his mouth working as if a torrent of words would tumble out at any moment, yet he was holding it all in. Finally, he strode toward the table and snatched up his brandy.
“Do you really need that?” Charity asked. “You’re bosky, as it is. I suppose you’re fortifying yourself for…”
“I do not need you to tell me what to do.” His words held an edge of dangerous quiet.
Charity steeled herself against the inevitable. He’d hurt her, regardless of what she said. The other girls had plenty of stories about men who liked to tell a girl with the back of their hands when they were displeased.
She faced him squarely, drawing back her shoulders. Preparing herself. Managing to keep the terrible fear inside her at bay. It was naïve foolishness and false bravado which had led her into this danger. She had no one but herself to blame.
Dear Lord, why had she not planned this better?
She closed her eyes and gripped the sofa’s arm rest. Yes, it was better that she closed her eyes and make her body pliant and accessible so that she’d suffer the least amount of pain. That’s what the girls at Madame’s had told her she should do. They’d said she must transport her mind to another realm. Some of the girls swore it was this which enabled them to earn the only living available to them.
Silence. It was a terrifying prelude.
She could hear only the clock ticking. Her surroundings were a black void with just her thoughts whirling around her head.
She shifted a little. Still waiting.
If she could concentrate on the good things she’d once looked forward to with Hugo, perhaps she wouldn’t even notice his assault on her body; though in her heart she knew it would be the beginning of the corrosive destruction of her very being, the very essence of her.
Charity, the innocent, was not going to get her fairytale with the happy ending, after all, but she must survive. And she had only herself to blame. Her foolishness had brought her right into this trap. The girl that Madame had cossetted, had been the embodiment of the dream they’d all had: that a client would fall in love with them; a client worthy of their affections, and that a partnership built on mutual love and trust and exclusivity would end their sordid lives selling the only commodity they had.
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