He gripped Sarah’s shoulder with his free hand.
“
Still
you refuse to
choose?” Sir Richard glared at him. “Perhaps I need to press a little harder.”
Caro gasped and Roland had to close his eyes to the entreaty in her
look.
Think
! he exhorted himself. One wrong move and three lives could be in
ruins.
“Please, father.”
“Mr Hawthorne has too much honour to put
either
of us in your hands!” With dignity, Sarah relaxed in an
attitude of defeat, sinking in the gilt chair set out for her. “If you must
choose, choose me, though I warn you, you’ll regret it!”
Roland gripped the back of the settee for support. “No, Sarah,” he
whispered. But what could he do? He was powerless. Emasculated. Defeated before
the game had begun.
“That is against the rules of the game, my dear.” Still smiling, Sir
Richard removed the knife from Caro’s throat. “Mr Hawthorne must make his
choice.” He looked at Roland enquiringly. “Or must I choose for him?”
Pressing the knife once more to Caro’s throat, he drew her up from
her seat. She made a strangled sound, like a trapped bird.
“There’s something fitting to my breaking in Venetia’s spawn though
it’s to be expected you’d place a higher value upon the very delectable Lady
Sarah since your parentage of the sadly dispirited Miss Caro has always been in
doubt.”
“No!” It was all he could do to utter the word. He felt sweat
crawling over his body, like an army of ants on his chilled, trembling frame.
Sir Richard cocked an eyebrow and his lips curled in a rictus of a
smile. “No? Not Caro …? Or no, you dispute my assertion?”
“I am her father,” Roland managed, hoarsely, raising his head. “I
will kill anyone who suggests otherwise.” The entreaty he saw in Caro’s eyes
was agonising. He’d do anything to protect her. The doubts fed her regarding
her parentage had led to this. Had led them all to this. He could not let her
think he had forsaken her.
“The lovely Lady Sarah, then. Yes, an understandable choice. Knowing
how you’ve lusted after her I can imagine what it will cost you to watch me
arrive first at the finish line. So you’ve made your choice then. Lady Sarah …”
He paused, meaningfully. “Come, Hawthorne, say it. You’ve chosen Lady Sarah as
the spoils tonight. Is that right? Then say it!” Angrily, he jerked Caro’s
hair, the knife still at her neck. She began to cry.
“Yes … Lady Sarah,” gasped Roland, defeated, as he slumped over the
back of the sofa, his head resting on his folded arms.
Stand up like a man
, he exhorted himself once more. But he could do
no more than keep his flickering, light-sensitive eyes open for a few seconds
at a time. The scene was reproach enough for his cowardice. Caro’s whimpers
contrasted with Sarah’s admirable bravado were equally intolerable. Sir Richard
was now fondling the dice as he stood beside the baize-topped card table set up
near the fire.
“Garth!”
At a nod from Mr Hollingsworth the bullet-headed thug left his post
at the door and pushed Sarah roughly back into her chair. Roland caught the
flash of bravely concealed fear before she bowed her head.
So, she could no longer look at him? He didn’t blame her. With
difficulty, he raised himself at the rattle of dice.
“First throw is yours, Hawthorne.” Sir Richard beckoned to him, then
strode over to his side. “Let me help you, you’re done in, old fellow.” His
voice was full of feigned concern. “That’s right, steady does it. Got a head
like a sore bear, have you? A nice warm fire will make you feel better. Isn’t
the lovely Lady Sarah a sight to behold?”
Roland cast her an imploring look. She looked like a queen on her
throne with her haughty eyes and lips curled with disdain. Longing and despair
slashed his insides as he feasted his eyes on her for as long as he could keep
them open.
“Lady Sarah will appreciate your cooperation. Ah, luck appears to be
on your side, which refutes your offensive charge that I am not a man of
honour. Yours is the higher number.”
“I forfeit,” said Roland who was glad he could now see only
throbbing pinpricks of light in front of his eyes. His overloaded senses were
at breaking point. The best he could do was remain upright.
Dimly, he registered the heavy bulk of another of the brothel
heavies just two feet from him.
“But not I,” crowed Sir Richard in the next round. He circled Sarah,
savouring her obvious loathing, and the terror she could not entirely hide. “Of
course, I could simply request the young lady divests herself of her gown.” He
trailed a bony forefinger over Sarah’s exposed throat, caressing her collar
bone and closing his eyes in ecstasy, as he murmured, “Soft womanly flesh. But
no, I am, and remain, a gentleman. If the lady would just point her toe I shall
merely remove her dainty slipper.”
Dropping heavily to his knees Sir Richard slipped off Sarah’s shoe.
Caressing her foot, he held it against his cheek, murmuring, “The anticipation
is nearly killing me.”
It did not surprise Roland to lose the next throw. He watched, his
disgust and horror equal to his helplessness. As much as he struggled to remain
clear headed, he wondered if losing consciousness would put an end to the
nightmare for them all. What pleasure would Sir Richard gain if Roland were
unable to witness it? This whole spectacle was designed purely to humiliate
him.
Sir Richard eyed Sarah, lasciviously. “And now for the lady’s
stocking.” He laughed as Roland was held back, this time by a chuckling Mr
Hollingsworth.
On his knees again, Sir Richard held out Sarah’s foot, as if
parading it before them. Roland tried not to look but his gaze was drawn to the
dainty white silk-clad leg before travelling to Sarah’s face. Her brave attempt
to mask her fear with contempt, and then the hope he saw when her glance locked
briefly with his, was almost too much to bear.
He blinked open his eyes at the sound of Sarah’s shocked whimper.
“The ribbons are a delight, don’t you always think?” Sir Richard
addressed Mr Hollingsworth in a matter-of-fact tone, as his arm disappeared up
Sarah’s skirts. “That join between silk stocking and flesh, just above the
knee. I cannot help myself, but I must explore a little further-”
With a roar Roland tore himself away from his captor and hurled
himself upon Sir Richard. “Blackguard!” he managed between gritted teeth.
Caught unawares, Sir Richard was thrown on his back. However, Garth
and his compatriot exerted little effort to return both men to their feet.
Sir Richard quickly regained his composure. “So glad you appear to
enjoy this as much as I had hoped,” he said, smoothly, dusting himself down.
“Hawthorne, you win the next toss. Congratulations! I await with anticipation
your choice. What? You wish to have the lady’s stocking
back
? I had thought to keep it as a souvenir, but” - he shrugged
– “it is within the rules.”
With trembling fingers Roland took the insubstantial garment Sir
Richard withdrew from his pocket. He had never replaced a lady’s stocking
before. Of course he had undressed Venetia many times. She’d enjoyed all forms
of bedroom sport. Dismayed, he reflected this may well have been one of the
party games his late wife had enjoyed in company with Sir Richard and which her
erstwhile lover was now enjoying at his expense.
No words were exchanged but Sarah pointed her foot obligingly so
Roland could roll the stocking over it with clumsy, trembling fingers.
“You tie it,” he whispered, leaving the slip of silk to fall slackly
over her ankle. Not only did he feel incapable, physically, but honour
dictated. The lady had suffered enough indignity. She’d not want to feel yet
another man’s hands climbing her leg. How she must despise him now. His
manliness had been torn from him with as little effort as her stocking.
“I can’t,” she responded unsteadily. “Please …” And she held out her
leg again. A spasm engulfed her and he realised her fear was far greater than
she displayed.
Feeling the contours beneath the smooth silk he eased up and over her
calf was little consolation. His fingers were clumsy and tying the bow almost
beyond his capabilities. Pausing in his difficult task, he glanced up at her
face. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. He felt the light pressure of her hand on
his head as he finished his task. An exoneration? A farewell to what they might
have shared? Unable to stand he had to be helped to his feet.
“Douse him with cold water!” Mrs Hollingsworth’s command echoed
stridently through the room.
Blinking at the shock, Roland opened his eyes in response to Sarah’s
sudden cries. Until now she had been self controlled in her bravery. But now
she sobbed as Sir Richard removed the pins that secured her hair and which now
fell in a mass of thick, chestnut curls over her shoulders. It was glorious.
Glossy, abundant, with a life of it’s own. Roland’s heart rejoiced at the
vision of splendour, then shrivelled. Memories of this corrupt toad would
forever mar whatever might have been between them. Roland had been stripped of
his honour, and without honour his life was meaningless.
With another cry of helpless rage he lunged forward. A glint of
silver caught his eye as his fists made contact with Sir Richard’s skull.
And then the murky darkness that had punctuated the last hour or
more enveloped him and he surrendered himself to the oblivion that so
effectively extinguished his honour and dignity.
SARAH AND
CARO huddled together for warmth beneath the thin blanket. Neither spoke
although Sarah knew sleep eluded Caro who so desperately needed it.
In the silence of the attic she soon became accustomed to the sounds
of the house: the insistent scratching of mice, the muffled thumps and groans
of its occupants plying their trade, and the muted sounds of the city.
After what seemed like hours she became aware of a new sound from
behind the adjoining door. Muffled groans, but not like those others.
Joy banished her fears. Surely it must be Roland.
Though it felt like days, it had probably been only two hours since
they’d been dragged up the stairs by Garth and locked into this hole of a room.
There was no light. Sarah had no idea how long it was before dawn,
if they would be released or what their captors’ plans were. Her greatest fear
was reserved for Roland. He had been unconscious, blood trickling from a wound
to his temple throwing into relief the pallor of his parchment skin as he’d
been carted out of the room while they had all looked on. The indignity of it.
To be humiliated before his own daughter and the woman he loved would be a near
mortal wound to his pride.
The mood of the evening had quickly degenerated after Roland’s
departure. Mrs Hollingsworth clearly felt cheated of her sport and Sir Richard
had become despondent.
Slumping
into a chair, apparently more in his cups than Sarah had suspected, he looked
liverish as in answer to the brothel madam’s question he’d muttered, “No, I
haven’t the faintest idea what we should do with ’em. Lock ’em up and we’ll
worry about it in the morning.”
Sarah feared Sir Richard might consider the girls and Roland posed
too much of a risk to be allowed their freedom.
Yet surely he would release them? Any petitions for Sir Richard to
face justice would be dismissed as the manufactured grievances of a cuckolded
husband towards his late wife’s former lover.
Another, equally insidious thought intruded. If Sir Richard really
were arrogant enough to believe he could get away with his crime, would he
decide to prey upon the girls once more, now that Roland were out of the way?
Or was it really only entertainment if Roland bore witness?
Sarah’s ears were so busy monitoring Roland’s laboured breathing
that it was Caro who jerked upright at the faint scrape of a key in the lock.
She gripped Sarah tighter as the door eased open on rusty hinges.
Someone moved stealthily towards them.
“Quiet! I’ve come to help you escape,” came a breathless whisper.
“If you have money and take me with you I know how it can be done.”
“Miss Morecroft!” whispered Caro.
“Hush.” The young woman raised her candle. In its dim glow she looked
frightened. Wearing only a thin nightgown, her feet bare, she shivered. “There
are ears everywhere.”
Sarah rose from the bed. “Of course you want money.” The softness of
her voice did not hide her anger. “Isn’t that behind this whole charade? You
wanted revenge, Miss Morecroft – for your father’s well-deserved
banishment. I have read your diary.”
The candle flickered and Miss Morecroft’s dull countenance flamed.
“Mr Hawthorne destroyed my father, but I wrote of my anger, not revenge. I’m as
much a prisoner as you, thanks to the dreadful day I met Archie Hollingsworth.
Do you want me to help you? I assure you, there’s no one else here who will.”
“Yes, please,” whimpered Caro, shivering beneath the blanket.
Shifting restlessly, apparently to get warm, Miss Morecroft
continued in her frightened whisper. “I want ten pounds upon your safe
deliverance so that I may buy respectable clothes.” Her teeth chattered. “I’ll
need a reference, too, to secure a position. Do I have your word?”