Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (2 page)

Lionel had cornered her two days ago to congratulate her on receiving an offer of marriage.

"Who could have offered for me?" she had asked in surprise. "I know no one."

"Come, come, sister dear," he said with a smirk. "I have occasionally introduced you to my guests, when you do not shyly run away."

"It is not shyness," Eleanor said tartly, "but nausea which makes me run, brother."

He laughed. It was his response to every unpleasantness. "You're a mite particular for a lady well past her last prayers, Nell. You're twenty-three—positively antiquated—and yet here I am with a possibility for you. How would you fancy to be a lady, eh?"

"I am a lady," she retorted. "If you talk of marriage, I tell you, brother, you do not number any gentlemen among your acquaintance."

"An earl, my dear, has no need to be a gentleman. Lord Deveril is most anxious to woo you."

Deveril! Eleanor shuddered even now at the thought of him. The worst of her brother's cronies, if he could be called that at all. He was more an incarnation of evil itself. Lionel, after all, was only twenty-five years old. He was naturally selfish and malicious, but no more than that. It was Deveril, or so it seemed to Eleanor, who had introduced evil into his life in the form of drunkenness, drugs from the East, and vicious amusements.

"I will never marry Lord Deveril," she had said with absolute certainty. She would die first.

"So haughty!" he had sneered, but she had seen he was put out. He wanted this marriage. "Lord Deveril has a way of getting what he desires, Nell, and he would be more inclined to kindness if you were to go willingly."

"He does not know what kindness is. Mark my words, Lionel, the answer is no and will always be no, do what you will. I will never be forced so low!"

She shivered slightly now at the defiance she had flung at him. It had been foolhardy, but she had been driven by fear—fear of Deveril with his cadaverous body, moist lips, and snake eyes. He even smelled like a corpse. She shuddered at the thought. Life under Lionel's dubious protection was infinitely preferable.

She was startled out of her thoughts by a knock at the door. "Who is it?"

"It be Nancy, Miz Eleanor. I brung you a hot drink, ma'am. A body couldn't be sleeping through this lot."

The voice was as soft as it could be and still carry through the door. Nancy was quite new to the house. She was young, pretty, and perhaps sly, but she had treated Eleanor with respect, and the thought of a hot drink was pleasant. The girl was right. The chance of sleeping seemed remote for hours to come.

Eleanor padded across the threadbare carpet, shuddering in the chill even in her voluminous flannelette nightgown, and cautiously opened the door. There was only the maid standing there, red hair slightly disheveled, with a covered nightcup in hand.

"Thank you, Nancy," Eleanor said as she took the cup. "This is very thoughtful of you." She tried to repay kindness with kindness. "You would be well advised not to return below."

The girl colored, but gave her a saucy look. "I must do what Master sez," she retorted. Her thick accent spoke poignantly of the country life only recently abandoned for the greater opportunities of the city.

Eleanor signed. "As you will. Thank you, anyway."

She felt so sorry for such as Nancy. When the inevitable happened she would be thrown out to live as best she might. Beyond a warning, however, Eleanor was powerless. She carefully locked the door before hurrying back under the blankets.

The bed felt pleasantly warm after the chill of the air, and the aroma of the spiced milk lifted Eleanor's spirits. She sipped. Goodness, there seemed to be a little rum in it, too. It was overly sweet for her taste, but it was comforting and she drank it down. She snuggled under the covers again.

The drink had relaxed her, and she soon found herself dozing, less bothered by the sounds from below. She did not know whether she had slept or not when a noise teased at her consciousness.

A lock scraping.

The long-unused door to the dressing room was squeaking open.

To her horror, Eleanor found that her limbs seemed to be weighted and nerveless, her mind tangled in wool. Her vision was blurred even though she blinked to clear it. Worse still, she could only focus on one small spot at a time, and that only by great effort. Struggling, she heaved herself up a little in the bed and saw the girl, Nancy, come over to her.

"Happen you're not comfy with that plait, Miz," Nancy murmured with a smirk as her fingers went to work. Eleanor would have liked to object, but it seemed too much effort. If she slept with her long hair unbound, it would be in a terrible tangle in the morning. The girl was only trying to be kind, though. But what on earth was she doing to the buttons of the nightdress?

Nancy pushed her gently down again. "There, miz. That's right pretty."

Eleanor gratefully allowed sleep to claim her again.

Meanwhile, in the disordered drawing room below, a stranger to Lionel Chivenham's set was finding the night equally nightmarish.

Christopher Delaney, Lord Stainbridge, had intended only a peaceful evening at White's, but as he left he had been gathered up—that was the only way he could think of it—by Chivenham and some of his cronies gaily celebrating the end of Napoleon and the return to power of the Bourbons. Short of violence, he had found no way to disentangle himself. He was not a violent man, and after all, he and Chivenham had been in the same form at Eton, though he had never liked the man.

Though he had permitted himself to be swept along to Chivenham's house, one look at the company there had determined him on an early exit. To his surprise, however, he had found one kindred spirit, a Frenchman with an interest in Chinese porcelain and art almost as strong as his own. Somehow the time had passed and a quantity of wine had been drunk as they explored the subject.

They'd studied a few select items that Monsieur Boileau had brought for Sir Lionel's consideration. Only later would it occur to Lord Stainbridge to wonder why a debt-ridden Philistine such as Chivenham would be interested in valuable works of art.

Sir Lionel came over to join the pair. He picked up a graceful jade horse. "A delightful piece, is it not, Stainbridge?"

"Exquisite." Lord Stainbridge felt the word did not come out with quite the precision he would have wished. He feared he might be slightly foxed, a most unusual occurrence, for he was moderate in drink.

"Exquisite as a lissome boy, you might say, eh, Stainbridge?" That was Lord Deveril, a loathsome man. A shiver of fear stirred within Lord Stainbridge. He looked up to see he was the focus of malicious eyes. Even Monsieur Boileau was smiling cynically.

He found his brain did not seem to be working with its usual swiftness. Repartee was beyond him. "No," he said, taking refuge in terseness.

"Perhaps you are right," said Lord Deveril amiably. "Some of those delightful young men are incomparably beautiful, are they not?" He leant forward confidingly. "Such as the ones in a certain house in Rowland Street?"

Lord Stainbridge fought to keep his panic from showing. What they were suggesting was a capital offense, and even if his rank protected him, he could never endure the scandal.

He couldn't seem to think straight... even more alarming, it was as if a stranger had invaded his mind and was saying that none of it mattered anyway. This surely was not only wine working on him!

With resolution he rose to leave, and his suspicions were confirmed. He had reasonably good control over his muscles. It was his mind that was awry. Somehow, when Chivenham put his arm around his shoulder, he found himself going with him without resistance.

"Don't be shy, my dear friend. See, we have someone special for you."

Lord Stainbridge found himself face to face with the charming young man he had recently encountered in that certain house in Rowland Street.

The lad had remarkably large brown eyes framed with long lashes, and retained the ability to blush. Young Adrian smiled with the seemingly genuine delight that had first attracted the earl, but with great effort, Lord Stainbridge did not respond. Terror sat like ice in his heart.

"I fear you have made a mistake, Chivenham," he said, grateful to have gained some control over his wandering wits. "I'm a ladies' man, myself. Been married, you know."

"My apologies, Stainbridge." Sir Lionel fairly oozed contrition as he turned them both away from the bewildered youth. "I have been grievously misinformed! I only wished to please you after you have been so good as to enjoy my hospitality. I must make amends," he gushed. "Tell you what! I have a lovely lady above stairs, a virgin no less, anxiously awaiting my pleasure. I give her to you." He swung around to announce his generosity to the crowded room. It was met by a raucous cheer.

Lord Stainbridge felt he was in hell, surrounded by grinning, jeering faces made macabre by the flickering light, by swirling smoke from the fire and the candles.

His mind was weaving out of control again. He wanted only to be gone. "Too kind. There's no need. I'm sure—"

"Not at all, dear friend. I will be bereft if you don't." Sir Lionel was steering him toward the door. "After all, some of these gentlemen might take my earlier words amiss. If you serve the doxy well, what can they say? Come along. Please."

"Aye!" shouted some anonymous voice. "Show your stuff. Don't like to think I've been drinking with a backgammon player."

"You see," said Sir Lionel in distress. "And all my fault. Prove them wrong, my dear Stainbridge, and I will present you with this beautiful horse which was the cause of all the trouble." He picked up the horse and held it up temptingly. "Exquisite as a lissome woman is it not?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." He had only meant to agree with the description, but somehow he found himself being led unresisting out of the room. It seemed easier to go along with it all. He could perform. His brief marriage had proved that at least. And the jade was superb. It deserved a better home than this...

* * *

Eleanor came to consciousness when a noise again penetrated her dulled mind. She looked up and tried to focus. Wavering in the light of a single guttering candle, her brother and a stranger stood looking at her. The stranger was tall, pale, and slender. Both he and her brother seemed to be at the far end of a very long tunnel. This was strange when she knew her room to be, in fact, rather small. With horror she saw Lord Deveril move into the scene as well.

She heard their voices as if from far away. She tried to speak but found it quite impossible.

"There you are, man," said her brother's voice, slurred with drink. "A sweet virgin. I'm sure you're eager to show those Captain Sneerfuls you're a real man. And then there's the horse. Prove yourself on the jade and you gain the jade, eh? Good, that! Gain the jade! Ha!" He fell into a drunken paroxysm of mirth. "Fail... well, there's no question of that, eh?"

Her brother staggered forward, or perhaps that was just how Eleanor saw it, to lean on her bedpost. His cravat hung loose, his collar was all awry. As he thrust his head forward his smooth, round face seemed suddenly grotesquely large and distorted. She saw the malevolent triumph in his eyes and moaned slightly.

"She... she don't seem very willing," slurred the second man coming closer. He was not so very tall after all, and he had the narrow hands and face of a saint, or was that her vision again? This was a most peculiar dream.

"Nervous. Virgin. Told you. She's willing enough, don't you fear. Come on, girl," Lionel said loudly. "If you've changed your mind, get up and out of here and don't come back!"

Full of sick horror, Eleanor strained every muscle to heave herself up off the bed. If necessary, she would crawl out of this room and out of this house. The only effect, had she known it, was to make her lean forward in a parody of a whorish invitation, her long, chestnut hair tangled around her and her loosened nightgown giving a tantalizing glimpse of her breast.

Lord Deveril came forward and chuckled as he pulled her nightgown down yet further, his eyes glinting. "That's my pretty! Don't let the fine gentleman down, but don't you worry. If he won't serve you there's plenty down below who will. You'll get your dues come morning." He and her brother laughed uproariously at this and swayed out of sight.

Eleanor's arms gave way. She sank back upon the bed as her ravisher loosened his clothes.

He loomed above her, wild-eyed in the dim light. She managed one word with a tongue that seemed to have grown enormous. A feeble, "Please!"

"All right, all right," he muttered, flinging back the bedclothes. Cold air cut at her, convincing her of the reality of this nightmare. Horror crept over her, pulling at her mind with claws. She tried again to move.

He stared owlishly at her nightgown. "Is this the new style for whores? God almighty!" He fumbled with the buttons and she flopped a hand up to stop him. He brushed it away. "I'll do it." Then he ripped the threadbare garment down the front.

Eleanor felt herself whirl into a deep pit of darkness, and she welcomed it.

"You're like a bloody rag doll, doxy! Come on. Earn your pay. Serve the man!" Stinging blows to her cheeks brought her back from the welcome dark, but she could not summon any movement. Her legs were wrenched apart and the darkness hovering at the edge of her mind crept in again. A weight settled on her. She heard a muttered curse, then fled back to oblivion.