Rogue in Red Velvet (14 page)

One of the house bullies from next door left carrying a woman. Her pale skin gleamed with sweat and she stirred weakly in the man’s arms. He held her closer and glanced, grim-faced at one of the officers who indicated a vehicle drawn up by the house.

The crowd fell relatively silent, with individual catcalls and not yells. Several women were carried out and loaded into the waiting carriages. At least two women weren’t moving and lay limp in the arms of the men who carried them. They could be dead. Alex feared for them, then, struck by a new thought, he spun around. Connie had taken the same drugs.

He turned to the figure in the bed and didn’t return to the scene outside until the covers moved when Connie breathed. “Are you sure she’ll be all right?” he asked Mrs. Dawkins.

“Yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t puked some of it up. They don’t know what they’re doin’. It’s criminal.”

She didn’t realize the irony of her worlds. He didn’t feel up to arguing the point at the moment. He’d rather watch the activity in the square and keep an eye on Connie.

With the house empty, even Cratchitt carried away and marched around the corner in the direction of Bow Street, the officers left. And didn’t bother to close the door behind them.

The mob shrieked and surged in.

Alex turned away, not interested in watching the windows smash and the valuables destroyed or stolen, or the scared customers flushed out from hiding. If it didn’t find what it wanted there, the rabble might turn on other houses. A few night watchmen’s kiosks would be destroyed tonight unless their owners fortified them.

“They’re not in a bad case,” said the madam. “I’ve seen enough riots to sense the mood. They won’t go running tonight.” Once roused, a London mob could destroy houses, shops, each other, anything that got in its way.

He had to accept her word because he was effectively locked in here, at least until the morning. He could only wait and hope that Mrs. Dawkins was right, both about the mob and about Connie. She slept now but she might never wake up.

If that happened, he’d kill Dankworth and to hell with the consequences.

Chapter 9

Connie blinked and light pierced her eyes but it wasn’t as painful as the dagger someone was repeatedly stabbing through her head. She wished they’d stop doing it. Nausea roiled through her belly and she took a deep breath, then another.

She heard a voice, so soft she couldn’t be sure it existed outside her head. “Connie?”

Soft bedamned. The echoes revolved around her. She groaned. “Not so loud.”

A chuckle. It
was
him. Either that or her imagination had taken wings. Cautiously, she turned her head, glad to find a soft pillow supporting it.

Alex sat on a chair next to the bed, his face illuminated by the flickering light of a branch of candles. Grey dawn filtering through the narrow window. She opened her mouth. “I dreamed about you.” She was mildly surprised that speech emerged.

He placed a damp cloth on her forehead. Her headache receded a tiny bit under the blessed coolness. “I trust they weren’t too disturbing. I came as soon as I could.”

“What happened to me?” Visions shot through her mind. Arriving at the inn, then flashes of memory, or dreams, she didn’t know which.

“You were abducted from the Belle Sauvage.” He kept his voice low but emotion throbbed in the low tones.

“I remember arriving at the inn then something happened.” She spoke slowly, drawing out her words, trying to dispel the sick, floating dizziness. “Then a woman told me to drink something, that it would do me good. She said I was ill. Then little bits of memory.” She waved a hand, glad she could still do so. “That’s not right. Dreams, visions, drinking again. Wine and something else, sweet and sickly. I was sick and somebody brought a fresh pot, then I was sick again. Someone undressed me and said they’d bring me fresh clothes. Then noise and people. And I thought I saw you, in red but I couldn’t have, could I?” Her voice tailed off.

“Look over there.”

A figured velvet coat in a rich red color was draped carelessly over a chair.

“I couldn’t stop what they did to you. I’m sorry, Connie.”

“What did they do?” It was real. Her dreams were real. What did that mean? Connie felt anchorless, plunged into a place she didn’t understand so that even as the clouds in her mind cleared she entered another world. “I came to London to see Jasper. He said we were to be married.”

A pause, then, “I know.”

She sat upright. The room spun around her once more. Putting her elbows on her upraised knees, she planted her hands either side of her head, holding it steady. “My maid came with me. Did they hurt her?”

“I have her safe.”

“Oh thank God!” A surge of relief filled her she felt a little better sitting up. Either that, or she’d left some of the headache behind. She dared to release her head, relieved when it stayed on her shoulders.

The mattress depressed when he came to sit on the bed by her side. He put his arm around her shoulders. Shamelessly she leaned against him, his hard-packed body a place of strength in her shifting universe.

He stacked pillows behind her and leaned her against them. “Can you drink something?”

She shuddered. “That’s what they did. Kept making me drink.”

He waited until she turned her head and met his gaze. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.” She said it before her mind processed the question but it was true.

“Then drink this.” He held a glass to her lips and obediently, she swallowed. Lemon and honey barley water, a nursery drink. But thirst-quenching and so welcome. A tang of the sickly sweet drug they must have fed her remained on her tongue but the fresh taste helped to wash it away. She sipped then gulped. When she’d emptied the glass, she demanded more.

He laughed softly. “Not yet. Let your body absorb it first.”

She wanted to find her anchor again, reconnect with the flow of her life. “I arrived in London on Thursday. What day is it today?”

“Tuesday.”

“Oh.” Exhausted, she leaned against his shoulder instead of the pillows and he didn’t move away. He only wore a shirt and waistcoat and she became aware of his body as she rarely did of any man’s, warm, and firm under her cheek. A refuge when she needed one.

“They took you on Thursday and kept you drugged until last night. They gave you a mixture of substances. You weren’t the only woman they took.” Abruptly, he stopped.

“Tell me everything.”

He nodded. “You deserve to know. They took other girls as well. Madams and bullies sometimes meet unaccompanied women off the stages. The girls think they’re going to a respectable house to be maids but they’re introduced to houses of ill repute instead. Some take to it, some do not. Sometimes they’re drugged. It’s a regular occurrence but not for respectable women of some substance. Someone paid them to put you in the latest house.”

“A…” She knew the word but she couldn’t say it.

He could. “A brothel. Like this one.”

With a stifled exclamation, she jerked away and then wished she hadn’t because her head throbbed anew.

He drew her back against him. He smelled good, a faint trace of the citrus scent she remembered from their time at the Downholland’s, plus a stronger aroma of soap and pure, clean male.

She drew deep, cleansing breaths.

“We’re safe here, I swear it. The madam here never takes anyone unwilling. If I’d taken you anywhere respectable, the world would chatter and you’d be no better off. I’ve been sitting here, watching you and I’ve had a few ideas.”

She thought he might have pressed his lips against her hair but she wasn’t sure. Her heart fluttered.

“Don’t think about it now,” he murmured. “Just get better. The drug is out of your system, so you can eat, drink and feel better. Much of your light-headedness will be lack of food. We managed to give you a little but you need to eat properly now. You’ll feel better in no time.”

“In that house did anyone—did I—”

He hugged her closer then relaxed his hold. “No. At least I got there in time to stop any of the men molesting you.”

She echoed a vague memory. “They took away my clothes and didn’t bring me any more. Just underthings.”

He sighed and stroked her hair, the motion soothing. “I was hoping you wouldn’t remember that part.”

“Tell me everything. Please.” She stared out of the window opposite the bed. The tops of a few buildings and some church spires were all she could see. This room must be high up. “I need to know, don’t I? All the truth, please.”

“I fear you do. Well then, these houses have something called a slave auction.”

She shuddered and hoped he hadn’t noticed but that would be too much. He rubbed her upper arm with gentle strokes. “So I was naked?”

“No, you weren’t. But close.”

“And I’m still here?”

“We’re not in that house, we’re next door. It’s a brothel and gaming house. The best in London, the madam claims. Honest, or as honest as these places ever are.”

“So some of the fashionable world, I’m assuming the male part, has seen me all-but naked. Would they know me again?”

“Probably.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For answering my questions directly.” Her world disintegrated around her, as if made of pastry. Everything she’d considered solid and real proved to be nothing.

This time she felt a gentle kiss against her hair. “You’re welcome. You deserve the truth.”

Now it started to make sense. “So someone abducted me, sold me to a brothel and saw to it that people saw me half naked.”

“I’m afraid so. But you can’t do anything about it. Sleep for a while.”

Held close and safe in his arms, she drifted away.

* * * *

When she awoke, the light outside had changed to the full light of day. This time she felt immeasurably better, her headache almost gone.

He filled her glass and although she was capable of holding it herself now, she let him help her drink. Afterward he put the glass down and stayed with her and when she leaned against him, he put his arm around her again. “Don’t think about anything now. Just get well. I have you here and safe.”

She could forget everything, here in his arms. Dangerous to think like that, because she’d have to leave this place and face whatever mess waited for her outside.

Someone knocked on the door. Alex left her and answered the summons, returning with a tray holding food. She eyed the viands cautiously.

“Don’t worry. There are no drugs in this. You’re safe.”

He was so gentle and understanding. If she felt less fragile, it might annoy her but as it was, she welcomed it, too weak to fight or even think properly. Her world had changed so profoundly. Once she’d thought through the events and their possible consequences, she’d deal with the problem. She’d been solving problems all her life. This wouldn’t be any different. Porcelain was like that. Tough when whole but so easy to shatter into a million pieces.

He placed the tray on her lap and let down the little legs at each corner which meant it rested on the bed, not on her. “There’s bread, cheese and a stew. Mother Dawkins serves hearty food. She says her girls like it.”

She’d picked up the spoon but it rattled against the dish and she nearly dropped it. “Maybe I should count myself amongst them.”

“No. And you won’t. I promise.”

She couldn’t think now. She picked up the spoon again, gripped it firmly and began to eat.

Alex had a tray of his own delivered and he sat in the upholstered chair. It gave her a chance to take stock of her surroundings. The bed faced the window, and as well as the buildings and church spires, it gave a view of the roof of some grand building across a large space. She guessed a square, because it was wider than any street she knew. Either that, or lower houses sat between them.

He glanced up and followed her gaze. “This is Covent Garden and that’s the theatre across the way. Between us is the piazza, a grand square. The builders wanted to encourage the rich to live here and built good houses but the polite world had already begun to move west, closer to the park, away from the crowds in town. So the houses are now shops, coffee houses and—”

“Brothels,” she finished with a grin. Surprisingly, her appetite had returned with a vengeance. The first few spoonfuls of the soup had stopped her stomach churning and set it to processing what she was giving it and now the stew smelled appetizing. She ripped off a chunk of bread. Fresh and soft, as good as anything she could get at home. She chewed, enjoying the flavor and feeling it chase the last of that other, unpleasant taste from her mouth. “I thought London bread was supposed to be poor and adulterated.”

“It depends where you buy it.” He took a mouthful himself. “The lady here employs a full kitchen of staff. She serves food to her customers, should they wish it.” He chuckled. “This is also a gaming house, remember. And the play here can be deep. Men need sustenance on the road to losing their shirts.”

She ate in silence for a while, concentrating on her swiftly recovering body, giving it the fuel it obviously needed. The barley water, though bland, proved excellent for rejuvenation. She drank a lot of it.