“You don’t have to go through with this, Kit,” my twin brother, Marcus, Lord Rycroft, the future Baron of Northshire, said from across from me.
I ignored him, my face turned away so that I could stare out at the night-drenched scene beyond the carriage window. The lamps that lined the boulevard outside our London residence had been lit just as the dying rays of the setting sun turned the western sky into an ugly, mottled bruise. Now that full dark had fallen, their flickering light fell in lambent pools on the cobblestones, bathing the street in variegated hues of orange and amber.
Marcus leaned forward, closing the distance between us to pluck my gloved hand from where it rested on my knee and press it between his own. “Kit,” he said, his tone pleading.
I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. “What choice do I have, Marcus?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the rattling of the wheels.
“You could flee instead. I could use my allowance to set you up somewhere in the country. A nice little stone cottage with a garden. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
I stared blankly back at him. “Father would know you had helped me escape. He would cut you off. He would bribe anyone who agreed to help us. Sooner or later, he would find me.”
And God help me when he did.
I loathed that I even had to explain this to Marcus. Once upon a time, we had been inseparable. Had known each other’s every secret.
Even though we were both eighteen, my brother seemed so much younger than me, forever underestimating the man who had sired us, because, though he had heard some of the stories from my own lips, he hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen with his own eyes all of the things that I had. After our mother had died and Marcus enrolled in Eton, our father’s indifferent cruelty had deepened into something much worse. And my brother still had trouble understanding this. In part, it was because Father had been on his best behavior whenever Marcus came home school, for he knew that Marcus would eventually go back, that he might tell someone what he saw. And that person might listen to him. Unlike myself, who was trapped there in our country estate, who was a girl, whose word no one would believe over a lord’s.
The memories made my fingers tremble, the first sign that an attack was on its way. I wrenched my hand from Marcus’s before he could notice and did my best to shove all recollection of the past into the farthest corner of my mind. I had survived, that was what was important.
“There has to be some way out of this,” Marcus said, as if to himself.
My eyes snapped to his then, anger burning in my breast. “There is no way out of this. I’m his daughter. His property. He’s free to pass ownership of me to whomever he chooses.”
We had both inherited some part of our father’s temper, and Marcus’s rose up then to meet my own. “So you’re just going to give up? Let him marry you off to that wretch?”
I stared at him a moment before responding, watching the ebb and flow of shadow and light play across features screwed up in anger. He was my twin. The person I was closest to in this world, regardless of the distance that had grown between us. At times, the good times, the times when he startled laughter out of me and made me momentarily forget why I so seldom laughed anymore, I still felt as though we might share a soul. And yet, he was also male. The years I had spent pinned beneath our father’s thumb, he had spent at school. Learning. Making friends. Having adventures. He was free in a way that I never would be. He would inherit our family’s fortune and title, its properties and the people who lived on them. Perhaps, one day, despite his insistence to the contrary, he would even be passed ownership of a woman in the form of a wife.
Sometimes I feared I hated him as much as I loved him.
My jealousy was bitter on my tongue when I finally spoke. “I didn’t say that I was giving up.”
“Tell me what you have planned. I can help you, Kit. I want to help you,” he said, his expression morphing from anger into concern.
He was changeable like that, emotional like our father, only without the extremes and the eventual violence. I was less so, my anger at times feeling like my constant companion. I did my best to stifle it, for this was just the type of declaration that I had been hoping to exploit.
“Fine then. Tonight, after the ball, you’ll return home with me,” I said. He had a habit of seeing me as far as the carriage and depositing me into the protection of our servants, leaving him free to pursue whatever pretty face had caught his eye that evening.
“I will,” he said.
“Then you’ll tell me every intimacy that can take place between a man and a woman, and which ones might lead to impregnation.”
He frowned at me. “I’ve only ever been with men, Kit. You know that.”
“What I know is that your knowledge on the subject must still be greater than my own. The maids I’ve tried to bribe into talking to me have all been too afraid of Father to take the risk, so my education has been relegated to the few books I managed to thieve from Aunt Jane’s library. They’re frustratingly vague. What you don’t know, surely you can find out from friends, or even the bloody footmen for that matter.” It was my turn to lean forward now, forcing him to meet my gaze. “After that, you can find out every form of contraception that I could possibly procure. And if those don’t work, you’ll find someone to rid me of the child I might one day be forced to carry.”
My brother’s eyes widened with shock. “Kit, I…”
I lunged forward and grabbed his free hand, terror making my voice tremble when I spoke. “Do not let me die like Mother, Marcus.”
In childbirth. Alone. Terrified.
His features crumpled as he leaned forward to wrap his arms around me and pull me from my seat onto his. “Never. I’ll do anything,” he whispered into my hair.
We remained like that as the carriage turned a corner and gained speed, huddling together in the shadows. My dress would be creased and my hair slightly disheveled, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I was trapped by the horror of my memories and the terror that I could suffer the same fate as our mother. I shook within Marcus’s arms, the attack I had staved off a moment ago threatening to take hold of me once more. Marcus did his best to soothe me, rocking us back and forth, humming a lullaby as he stroked my arm.
Don’t think of her. Don’t think of that day. Bury it deep, I told myself until finally, blessedly, the trembling abated.
“I hate the idea of you married to him,” Marcus said after some time.
“That makes two of us. Have you discovered anything new?” I asked.
Marcus had been gathering information about the man I would soon be formally betrothed to and relaying it to me. From what we had learned, he was deeply in debt, prone to bouts of drunken debauchery, and currently had not one, but three mistresses. It gave me hope that he would be so preoccupied with them that I might be all but ignored once we were wed.
“The seamstress he keeps might be carrying his bastard in her belly,” Marcus said.
I felt a surge of pity for the woman. “God let her live through the delivery,” I whispered.
“And there was something else,” he said, the words slow, as if he didn’t want to speak them. “A rumored bit of ugliness with one of the dancers from Covent Garden.”
“What manner of ugliness?” I asked.
Marcus remained silent, his arms stiffening around me.
I pulled away to look at him in the dim light. He refused to meet my gaze.
“Marcus,” I said, my tone demanding. “What manner of ugliness?”
He looked at me then, brows drawn down, expression filled with fear and worry. “I don’t want to say yet. I was going to make a few more inquiries into it tonight and tomorrow. Just…if there’s even the slightest chance that these rumors could be true, you will not marry him. Do you hear me, Kit? I’ll drug and kidnap you if I must. Spirit you away to a forgotten part of the continent. We can live like hermits in some small, sea-swept Mediterranean village where Father’s cronies can never find us.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. “That bad?”
He looked away again, his jaw clenched. When he answered, it was through his teeth. “That bad.”
The trembling began anew in my limbs. I tucked myself beneath my brother’s arm and wrapped my own tighter around his middle. “Tell me a story,” I said. “Anything to distract me.”
Marcus didn’t hesitate even a heartbeat. At this point, he was used to requests like this from me. “Randolph was keeping two lovers at Drury Lane, one a man, and the other a woman. The woman, Lucille, is a dancer. The man, Malcolm, an actor. Two nights past they found out about each other.”
I glanced up at him, latching onto the tale of one of his closest friends’ latest scandals. “What happened? Did they come to blows over him during a performance?”
He shook his head, the light of a passing torch glinting off his teeth as he smiled. “When we went backstage after the final curtain to pay our respects, Lucille used one of those dancer’s legs to kick Randolph between his hard enough to lift him clear off the ground.”
The picture his words painted was enough to tease a grin from me. “What did Malcolm do?”
Marcus’s smile widened as he looked down at me. “Well, naturally, when Randolph’s feet hit the floor again, he fell right to his knees, clutching himself and baying like a hound. That’s when Malcolm used one of his knees to finish him off.” Marcus’s chest shook as he chuckled. “Randolph ended up sprawled in an undignified, unconscious heap in the hallway. Bradford and I were forced to carry him out bodily, for there were threats of further unmanning him.”
I was torn between amusement and concern: a common response to most of Randolph’s antics. “Oh, poor Randolph. How is he now?”
Marcus shrugged. “Fair enough. We were able to revive him in the carriage, and he spent the night bemoaning and carrying on so much that he piqued the pity of a serving wench from one of the taverns.” Marcus raised a hand and ruffled his hair a little. “I haven’t heard from him since. I think he’s still holed up with her somewhere, licking his wounds.”
I snorted. “Right.” I might have been a virgin, but I’d learned enough from Aunt Jane’s books that I somehow doubted that it was Randolph’s pride that was being licked.
We moved on from his scandal to other gossip, passing the remainder of the carriage ride chatting about nothing but frivolities, anything to keep the darkness at bay. When we finally slowed to a stop outside the Duke of Hampshire’s house, I felt much better prepared for the night to come.
Marcus opened the door and leapt from the carriage without waiting for the footmen, as athletic and graceful as one would expect from a man who’d had riding and fencing lessons since he was old enough to sit a horse and hold a saber. Another pang of envy shot through me. Beneath my ethereal, cream-colored dress, my corset dug into my ribs something fierce, ensuring that I would never be able to leap like him. In that moment, it felt like nothing more than one of the innumerable bars that formed the inescapable cage that surrounded me.
“My lady,” Marcus said as he bowed up at me, his hand extended in wait. His tone was overly formal, his expression goading. He was teasing me, attempting to keep the mood light, unaware of my torment and envy.
I drew a deep, calming breath – well, as much of one as I could thanks to the whalebone that girdled my lungs. “Thank you, my lord,” I said, with a practiced smile as I put my hand into his.
He helped me down and then proffered his arm. I slipped mine through it and gazed up at the towering stone façade in front of us. Light and sound poured forth from the many windows, revealing tantalizing glimpses of the crush inside.
This ball was an annual affair, the only social event of the season that the venerable Duke of Hampshire threw. The ton were known to descend upon his manor en masse for the rare chance to see and possibly – if one were very lucky – interact with him. Rumor was that some years he didn’t even deign to attend it, forcing his aging mother, the Dowager Duchess of Hampshire, to play hostess in his stead. I wondered if tonight would be one of those nights, if he was somewhere inside, or else at the palace, aiding the ailing king while playing an intricate, dangerous game of political chess with his fellow dukes and the Crowned Prince as they vied for power and prestige.
“Shall we?” Marcus asked.
Awed and more than a little intimidated, I nodded up at him, and he led us inside.
“Honestly, can you believe the nerve of that woman?” the Dowager Duchess of Amesbury asked the group of ladies I stood with an hour later, her tone reflecting the outrage displayed between the lines of her ancient, craggy face.
I made a tutting noise, hoping she interpreted it as agreement. Several women made similar sounds around me, while others verbalized their accord. One would think I could simply keep silent, that my tutting would be lost in the chorus of responses. One would be wrong.
As usual, I stood on the outskirts of the event with the most matronly members in attendance. The Duchess of Amesbury ruled them all. I had no doubt that she marked every noise of ascent, noted every word of agreement. Those who disagreed, or who declined to comment, would be noted and excised from the group like the disease she saw them as.
The company I kept was calculated. As a young lady in search of a husband, I should have spent my time circling the room, engaged in conversation with the other young women who had made their debuts this year, or dancing with the men who would be my suitors, but I had learned the folly of that from Aunt Jane, Lady Cloverfell, my mother’s sister, just before the beginning of the season. She was my sponsor into society, since my father – thank God – had refused to rouse himself from our country estate to do so. He was still too busy grieving over the death of the man who had sired him, even though our formal mourning period for Grandfather had ended in late winter.
Aunt Jane doted on the duchess as though she was a lady in waiting to the queen herself. She also had a tongue for gossip, and, hoping to impart some knowledge unto me regarding the men and women I would soon be face-to-face with, had told me all manner of tales about them. I had learned a very valuable lesson from her hearsay: to be female was to be fragile.
As if my mother’s fate hadn’t already taught me that.
Aunt Jane’s gossip only reinforced my belief, for, from her own lips, any sign of gracelessness was seen as ill breeding, too keen an intelligence was thought of as overreaching, too little intelligence was treated with disdain and derision, and any perceived inappropriate flirtation was nothing short of a fatal flaw.
It made simply existing as a young lady of the ton a precarious position. One I most certainly couldn’t afford to be in. No, I needed to be beyond reproach. I needed to be seen as the height of propriety. I didn’t want to be thought of as beautiful, but boring, nor sweet, but rather snobbish. It was the safest course of action, because even though my father wasn’t here in person, I had no doubt that any misdeed on my behalf would somehow get back to him. And he would find a way to make me pay for it.
This left me in haughty, tedious company. Over the past hour, I had been subjected to speech after speech concerning the impropriety of those around us, had been informed just how vapid this year’s debutantes were – myself excluded, of course – and had listened to endless rumors regurgitated from the gossip rags they all denied reading. It was the same drivel I had listened to last night, and the night before that, and the night before that, and I was growing increasingly weary of it.
My gaze drifted to the latest lady the Dowager Duchess of Amesbury had taken to lambasting: the Viscountess of Dover. She was dressed in a beautiful gown of emerald green, her silken shift scandalously clinging to her voluptuous form, the freedom of her upper body making it all too apparent that she wasn’t wearing a proper corset beneath the garment. Her thick, chestnut tresses were done up in an intricate knot, a few spilling forth to tickle her cheeks and flit over her ample décolletage. Her expression was a mixture of rapt attention, amusement, and devotion, which was directed toward the tall, handsome, blonde man she was dancing far too close with. That man was her husband.
Quite shocking indeed. How scandalous.
I rolled my eyes inwardly.
The viscountess threw back her head and laughed loudly, causing the elderly duchess to make a noise of derision in response. “I would have thought the viscount at least above such public displays. How plebeian of him,” she sneered.
I couldn’t have disagreed with her more. The young couple looked deliriously happy. It was such a welcome sight in a sea full of adulterers and deceivers that I hoped they danced together again and again, damn the gossip.
“Yes, how plebeian,” I echoed, hating myself a little for it.
The Viscount and Viscountess of Dover broke apart as they made another turn in the dance. Through the space that widened between them, I caught sight of a short man with thick, lustrous dark hair and a face more pretty than handsome. It was my soon-to-be betrothed, the Earl of Aberdine. He was watching the couple just as closely as I had been, a glass of champagne clutched in one hand.
As the couple spun toward him, his gaze narrowed. The viscount and viscountess drew close together again, and Aberdine must have made eye contact with one of the pair, for he raised his glass in salute toward them, a lecherous smile spreading over his face.
I shifted my gaze to follow his and was shocked by what I found. A complete change had come over the couple. The viscountess had stiffened within her husband’s arms, her body so rigid that I feared she might trip as she moved through the dance. The viscount’s expression turned murderous as he glanced toward the smaller man. Aberdine must have been taunting them. There was a history there for them to have reacted so strongly, I just knew there was.
As I watched, Aberdine drained his champagne and cast his gaze around the ballroom. It lurched to a stop on something or someone I couldn’t see and turned downright predatory again. My spine stiffened, a sliver of fear snaking down it. No good would come from that look. I’d seen similar in my youth. There was violence there, and something else I didn’t want to recognize at first. Lust.
I had seen Father look at Mother that way.
Aberdine slipped through the crowd toward the back wall. I dipped a curtsy to the other ladies, made a hasty excuse about needing to speak with my brother, and then circled back through the crowd until I was out of sight from them, all the while making my way toward where I had last spotted Aberdine.
I came around a group of men to see that he had cornered a maid near a hallway, proffering his cuff to her as though there was something upon it that he needed cleaning or fixing. The young woman, close to my own age, with thick blonde hair and a pleasing face, wore a look of confusion, her gaze casting around as though searching for aid. Aberdine’s began to follow it, and I ducked behind the men just before it landed upon me, my heart pounding.
“May I help you?” an almost painfully low voice asked.
Oh, no. I must have brushed against one of them.
I looked up, having to tilt my head back to meet the gaze of the gentleman who had spoken to me. I took him in at a glance. Swarthy skin, dark eyes, a shock of thick black hair, an expressive mouth, a Grecian nose, square jaw, neck muscles straining against the collar of his jacket. It was Henry Fletcher.
I was considered almost tragically tall for a young woman, and yet he stood a head and a half above me still. His size was further magnified by the fact that he was so broad one might easily mistake him for a blacksmith instead of the renowned artist that he was.
My father had used his stature for intimidation and violence, and so I had a general distrust for men his size and larger. Because of that, I found Henry Fletcher downright terrifying, and regardless of the fact that his soulful brown eyes had never looked upon me with anything but kindness, I usually avoided him at all costs.
“No, I beg your pardon, sir,” I said with a curtsy.
Ever polite, he dipped me a bow, nodded, and turned back to the group of men he had been speaking with.
I stepped away from them to see that in my moment of distraction, Aberdine and the maid had disappeared. The hallway seemed the likeliest of routes for them to have taken. I took a few steps toward it, casually, and then turned my back to it. When it appeared that no one in the crush was looking my way, I took the final, quick steps backward into it, and when I was out of sight from the ball, faced forward, slipped my shoes off, picked them up in one hand, lifted my skirts a few inches from the ground with my other to give my legs a measure of freedom, and paced quickly up it.
I didn’t have much time. For a young lady like myself to be alone for even a short period was to court scandal. I quickened my pace, my feet moving silently over the cold stone tiles. Over the past four years, I had learned how to sneak and spy. It had been a necessary skill to avoid my father.
I found my mark quickly, for the maid was now putting up a fight, albeit a polite one.
“My lord, this isn’t the way. Please release me. I can run quickly and gather the necessary items to clean it. I’ll be but a moment,” she said, a note of panic creeping into her voice.
They were just around the bend in the hall now. I slowed my pace and stopped right before it, trying to determine whether or not it would be wise to attempt a glance around the corner.
“Come, now, you didn’t really think this was about the spot of champagne on my cuff, did you? I saw the way you looked at me,” Aberdine said, his voice low and cajoling.
“My lord, I didn’t…I don’t know what you mean, my lord. Please,” she said.
“Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean,” he said.
“No, p-please don’t, my lord. I don’t wa-”
“Stop squirming, you slut,” Aberdine hissed. “Do you know who I am? A baseborn bitch like you should be begging for my attentions.”
“I…yes, of course I know who you are. Please, my lord, please let me go.”
I heard a brief struggle, followed by what sounded like a slap. I hoped she hit him good and hard, but when I heard her strangled sob, I realized with dawning horror that it was she who had been struck. I glanced the other way down the corridor, where light and music poured into the mouth of its darkened confines. The ball was just a scream away.
Scream, goddamn you, I urged her.
“Hush, now,” Aberdine crooned. “I’ll make it better. Let’s go just inside this door and I can see to it.”
The girl sobbed a little louder.
Rape. That was his intent. That was the ugliness Marcus had heard rumor of. Or was it? Was there something worse? If Aberdine was depraved enough to assault a servant just a corner away from a ballroom, what would he do in private? Bile rose in my throat, choking me. Oh, God, I was to marry him. What would he do to me in private? Was this to be my life? Inheriting nearly the exact fate that my mother had suffered?
I barely managed to keep my gorge down as I whirled away and sped back toward the party as fast as my clothing would allow. I slipped my shoes on just before stepping into the light, and beelined toward the first female servant I spotted at a relaxed pace that took every ounce of my willpower to affect.
“My lady,” she said with a quick curtsy, her mousy brown hair bobbing as she rose, her hazel eyes looking curiously up at me.
I glanced around to see that no one was near enough to overhear. “Come with me. Now,” I said, slipping my arm through hers. I quickly led her over to the nearest server, a fellow only my height, with large, guileless blue eyes. “The housekeeper or butler, or whichever servant of authority you find first, tell them to come into that hall as fast as they physically can,” I told him, pointing toward the one I meant. “Do not delay. Do not tell anyone. Once they are on their way, find the two largest footmen you can and send them right after. On the life of one of your fellow servants, do as you’re told.”
“On…on the life, my lady?” he asked, his eyes going even wider.
“Yes. Leave the room at a normal pace, and then run, do you hear me?” I said, my voice shaking now.
The boy did as he was told, spinning on his heel and weaving away from us. I couldn’t trust that he would be quick enough.
“My lady, what do you mean? What is happening?” the servant I clutched to asked.
“Hurry. One of your fellow maids will be raped if we’re not quick enough,” I answered, nearly wrenching her shoulder out of socket as I wheeled us toward the hallway.
“Oh, God,” she said, a sliver of terror in her voice.
“What do I look like?”
“W-what?” she asked, dumbfounded by my question.
“My face. My features. What is my expression?” I demanded.
“Calm. How are you so calm?”
Relief surged through me. All my years of forcing my expression to neutral while under extreme duress were finally coming to fruition. “I assure you, I am not,” I told her. “Now look toward the ball with as casual an air as you can muster. Is anyone watching us leave it?”
I saw her turn her head out of the corner of my eye. “A few are,” she answered.
“What are their expressions?”
“Curious? Concerned, perhaps.”
“Fine. It’ll have to be fine. They see me with you. They know I am accompanied.”
We gained the mouth of the hall and picked up speed. Once we hit the darkness, I slipped off my shoes again and moved as fast as I could manage. I had no plan, no thought for how to smooth this scandal or keep Aberdine from ruining me if I was discovered to be involved – for I knew he could, it was his word against mine, and I had already learned the hard way long ago that no one would believe my word over a lord’s.
We rounded the corner. There was no one in sight. Doors lined either side of the hallway. I grabbed the maid’s arm and slowed her to a walk.
“He must have dragged her into one of the rooms. Listen now,” I said.
She did as I bade her.
We crept down the hallway as quickly as possible, my ears straining to detect anything other than the sound of my own roaring pulse. A few paces later, I heard a soft, muffled cry from the nearest doorway, and without thinking, ran forward and twisted the handle. It was locked. I clenched my fist and banged on it as hard as possible.
“Oi!” I yelled, mimicking one of the common accents I had heard so often in the streets of London since arriving here. I spent so much time manipulating my voice to hide what I was feeling from those around me that I had grown quite adept at altering it to impersonate others as well. “Mary, that you in there? Mrs. Putnam been asking fer ya, she has. Ya best come out now an’ quit yer caterwauling. She migh’ go easier on ya, ifn’ ya go to her afore she finds ya here.”
On the other side of the door there was silence. Well, at least that meant that whatever had been happening had stopped.
I banged on the door again. “Oi! Ye hear me, ya daft wench?”
Just then a portly older woman in the duke’s livery came running around the opposite corner of the hallway. She was huffing and puffing something awful, and right on her heels were two brutishly large men I could only hope were the footmen I had asked for.
“What is the meaning of this, my-”
She cut off at the sight of me desperately waving my hands. Thank God for that. My lady, she had been about to say. Aberdine could have heard her.
“Keep knocking,” I told the maid who was with me.
I pulled the older woman, who I assumed was the housekeeper, away from the others and told her what I thought was taking place within the bedchamber. Her face blanched as she listened to me. I didn’t envy her. Aberdine was a peer of the realm. It was his word against all of theirs. He could have them fired or worse. It was dangerous just for them to interfere, but I could tell by the set of her jaw that she was willing to do it.
“Is everything all right?” a voice asked from somewhere behind me. A painfully deep, familiar voice.
“I wasn’t here. You didn’t see me. You don’t know who I am.” I told the housekeeper. “Please.”
She nodded, once.
I fled, careful to keep my back to Mr. Fletcher, though my gown and my flame-red hair no doubt gave me away.
It was over. I was ruined.
Copyright © 2018 by Navessa Allen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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