The Secret Life of Lady Lucinda (29 page)

“Now then…” Mahmud clapped his hands together, and the dancers stopped singing and dancing before quickly filing back out of the room, leaving only a couple of servant girls and guards behind. He leaned forward, and there was an intense gleam in his dark, almond-shaped eyes. “Tell me everything you can about your wife, William. The more I know, the easier it will be for my men to locate her. Tell me what she looks like.”

William quickly did, and as he spoke, he painted a verbal picture of Lucy that was so vivid he could practically see her standing there before him. He suddenly frowned, realizing that he’d inadvertently left out the most relevant detail. “She is the daughter of Lord and Lady Hampstead, our former ambassador to your country, and the man who has her is the very one who killed her parents.”

Mahmud finally looked well and truly shocked, for his mouth had dropped open and his hand had paused in midair on its way to the fruit bowl. He blinked, abandoned whatever piece of fruit he’d planned on sampling this time, and sank back against his plump cushions with a dark expression upon his face. “You tossed me a bone before when you mentioned John Croyden and his daughter, but I have just now realized how much meat there’s on it.

“Lord Hampstead was a guest in this country. I knew him well and considered him a friend. We met on many occasions, both publicly and privately. Following his death, my men searched for over a year for the culprits who did it, but they came up empty handed and…well, we eventually allowed the case to rest.” His eyes met William’s in a shockingly sincere expression. “Helping you find your wife and the man who killed her parents will be most satisfying.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
F
IVE

C
onfined to a small, sparsely furnished room, Lucy stared out of one of the three small windows that lined the wall. They offered her no means of escape, for she would never be able to fit through any of them, and even if she did, she’d likely break a limb or quite possibly her neck in an attempt to jump, for she was quite high up. Even if the windows did not give her hope, they did serve to distract her from what had become of her life—a thin thread connecting her to the outside world.

There were people down there, each of them going about their business, completely oblivious to her existence as she stood there watching them go by. She’d noticed a few days ago that a family of six lived across the street, and she now followed their daily routines with keen interest—the father as he left the house in the mornings in order to go to work and the children when they came out to play in the afternoons.

A slow ache tugged at her heart as she wondered if she would ever have children of her own. She’d long since lost whatever hope she’d had of William coming to her rescue, though she hadn’t decided on the reason for him not showing up. Had he simply been unable to find her? Or was it because he didn’t care enough? She took a deep breath and expelled it again as she strained her neck to watch a group of women walk by, their heads covered by scarves and their faces concealed by veils.

It no longer mattered
why
he hadn’t come, just that he hadn’t. Thinking about him only made the pain so much worse, so she tried not to remember how safe and warm she’d felt in his arms—the way her heart had leapt and her stomach fluttered whenever he was near. She thought of his tender kisses, the touch of his hand, and she shook away the memory, knowing that she was only adding to her own torture if she did. And to what avail? She would never see him again.

Determined to think only of the present, she forced her mind back to her current situation and to Stanton. He had told her very little about what was in store for her, but he’d kept her alive. A deep, blinding rage trickled through her veins at the very thought of him. She’d had one chance at revenge during the last six weeks—one moment when he’d left her unguarded in the room of whatever inn it was that they’d been staying at for the night. Having finished his meal in her company, he’d stepped outside for only a few moments, but when he’d returned, she’d been ready for him. She’d smashed the carafe that had been forgotten on the table, grabbed the longest shard, and waited for him to come back.

Tears burned before spilling down her cheeks as she recalled her failure. She’d been so close, but he’d been swift to dodge her attack, sustaining only a minor cut to his arm while her fingers had taken the worst damage. She lowered her gaze to the palm of her hand and to the two bright lines that now crossed it. Blood had gushed from the wound, the pain of it overshadowed only for a moment by the beating that Stanton had delivered to her in a fit of fury. Lucy drew the now trembling hand to her face, intent on wiping away the tears, when she heard a key scrape against the lock in the door.

“Wallowing in self-pity again, I see,” Stanton remarked as he stepped inside the room, locked the door again, and popped the key inside his jacket pocket.

Lucy drew a deep breath as she turned to face him. She hated that he had seen her cry, and she hated herself for being too weak not to.

He stood before her now, studying her with that same charming smile of his that merely suggested that they might be old friends. She wanted nothing more than to rip it from his face and trample on it until it turned to dust.

“Your confinement has done you good,” he said as his eyes roamed over her. She shifted a little but refused to turn away. She would be brave, she told herself, and not a coward. “The bruises have completely vanished from your face. Show me your hand.”

Hesitantly, she lifted the scarred palm and fingers and turned it toward him so he could have a closer look. His jaw clenched as he stared down at it, and when he raised his eyes to meet hers, they were black with anger. “That was a foolish move, Lucy. You should have known better.”

He stepped away from her again, and she noticed now that he was holding a dark green bundle under his arm. Her gaze went to it, and she immediately heard him chuckle. “As you can see, I’ve brought you a gift.” He tossed the bundle carelessly on the bed, the movement unraveling it enough for her to see that it was some sort clothing. “Now then, why don’t you try it on?”

She waited for him to leave, but instead he came toward her until he was so close that she could feel his breath upon her face. She shuddered and instinctively drew away, but his hands came up to grasp her arms, preventing any hope of retreat. “Turn around,” he told her in a low voice as he pushed against her, urging her to do as he asked.

Squeezing her eyes shut to block out this nightmarish reality, she complied with his wishes, trembling as his hands ran down her back, his fingers working the buttons of her gown until she felt the weight of her dress lifted from her shoulders and fall to the floor. She was standing in nothing but her chemise now, and an unbidden flash of standing in much the same way six weeks earlier while William undressed her by the lake flickered through her mind.

Determined not to unravel in front of this monster, she buried the memory and focused her attention on one of the windows instead. She would get through this somehow, just as she’d gotten through everything else before.

“I believe you can manage the rest of it on your own,” Stanton said, and when Lucy turned back around, she saw that he was now sitting on the bed with his arms and legs crossed while he stared at her with great intensity. He’d refrained from forcing himself upon her during their time together, and for that she was grateful, though she couldn’t quite understand why he hadn’t, for the look that he gave her now suggested that it was
not
from lack of desire. And when he spoke again, his voice was low and deliberate. “I suggest you begin by removing your chemise. You won’t be needing that anymore.”

“I…I cannot,” she muttered, knowing how silly it was, for the sheer fabric hid nothing from his view. Still, she knew that she felt more protected with it on than she would with it off.

But without as much as offering her a response, Stanton had leapt to his feet and ripped the garment away from her, his eyes widening ravenously as he gazed upon her naked form. “You might as well get used to it, my dear. I shan’t be the only man perusing your lovely attributes today.”

She felt sick and suddenly dreaded that he might have changed his mind and decided to have her after all. To her complete and utter relief he backed away slowly, while she in turn did her best to hide herself from him with her hands, but her desperate attempts at some measure of modesty only made him laugh. “And as skittish as you are, you certainly do have a body to be admired. Now then, put these on, will you? We’re beginning to run late.”

Only too eager to find herself clothed again, Lucy grabbed the garments from Stanton’s outstretched hand while he mocked her with a scornful grin, his eyes still feasting on her each and every curve until she felt sullied beyond compare. She turned each of the items he’d handed her this way and that as she tried to figure out how to put them on, horrified to find herself blushing profusely as she fastened the last of the buttons on the cropped…She’d no idea what to call it, for it was unlike anything else she’d ever seen—something like a bodice without the skirts attached, ending just below her bust line and leaving her belly completely bare.

The trousers she’d been given were full and billowy and similar to what she’d seen many of her parents’ servants wearing. But in contrast to the ones she’d seen in the past, these were of such thin fabric that each and every outline of her legs, hips, and bottom remained visible beneath. They sat low on her pelvis, the waistband adorned with strings of metal beads that jingled with every move she made. Lucy drew a sharp breath. “I cannot go anywhere like this,” she murmured as she tugged and pulled on the skimpy bodice in the hope that it would somehow cover more of her. It did not. Instead, her breasts squeezed together beneath it, bulging against the tautness of the fabric.

Stanton’s lips curled into a smile. “I think you look perfect. In fact, I’m quite confident that the bidding will escalate to an astronomical amount, but you’re right of course, you cannot be seen in the street looking so…inviting.” He tossed her another garment, which she caught against her chest—a long tunic made from a denser fabric. “Put that on and tie the red sash around your waist. There’s a scarf too, for covering your head. I suggest you wear it so you don’t draw too much attention to your hair. I’d like to leave that as a surprise.”

He turned to go but paused before reaching the door. “I see no point in keeping the truth from you any longer, Lucy. Tonight, I’ll be auctioning you off to a wealthy pasha, and then I’ll be on my merry way while you remain here…the prize of his harem, I’m sure.”

Lucy stilled. She’d known this would happen—feared it each and every day—but she was still shocked to hear him say it. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried not to panic, and when she spoke her voice was detached and calm, as if it was coming from someone else entirely. “Will you tell me who’s behind this? Will you tell me who it was that ordered you to kill my parents?”

He took his time, and the silence that filled the room in that instant was almost suffocating. But then he finally tilted his head, gave her a most pleasant smile, and said, “It seems as though your dear Uncle George didn’t enjoy being the spare as much as he let on.”

Lucy’s skin began to prickle. A shiver raced down her spine.

“He didn’t appreciate putting so much hard work into an estate that wasn’t his. He wanted the title, the fortune, the land… So he came to me, and we struck a deal.” He shrugged as though the whole matter was of little importance. “I was falling into debt at the time and desperately needed the money. But, your uncle apparently had a soft spot for you. However, it can’t have gone very far, can it?” Stanton said as he grinned. “Selling you into slavery hardly seems a better fate. I, however, cannot complain, for I am free to collect whatever profit I can make off you, and to ensure that I get the job done, your uncle promised me another hundred thousand pounds once I return and present him with a proof of sale.”

Lucy couldn’t breathe. It was as if someone had just ripped her lungs from her chest. She felt faint, light-headed, confused…The world she knew had spun completely out of control. Her uncle? The man she’d loved so dearly? The very one who had made her laugh as a child as he’d raced around the garden with her on his back? He’d helped her father build the tree house for her in the garden. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered.

The left corner of Stanton’s mouth drew upward to form a sneer. “How very trusting of you.” He pulled a piece of paper from inside his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and held it up for Lucy to see. “My orders, as you can see, were to ensure that you did not return to England. I believe you’ll recognize the signature on the bottom there—my guarantee, if you will, that your uncle intended to keep his word in regard to my payment.”

It was unfathomable…unthinkable. But as the thought of George callously deceiving them—of so cruelly betraying them—began to sink in and settle in her head, she found herself consumed by a worse sort of anger and hatred than she’d ever felt for Stanton. Her whole body shook with it; her jaw clenched, and her heart pounded in her ears.

“So you see,” she heard Stanton say, and it was as if his voice was coming from some distant place, far, far away, “I’ve been more than patient. Six years is really a very long time to wait in order to get paid.”

Without another thought for herself or anything else, she flew at him, her fists pummeling against his chest while desperate sobs of grief and anguish escaped her throat, but he soon had her overpowered with his strength, holding her in a tight embrace and grinning with unabashed amusement while she struggled and writhed against him. She wanted him dead—to watch the spark of life that flickered in his eyes dwindle and die as he drew his final breath. And then she would return to England, somehow, and face George. She’d burn down the whole bloody estate if that was what it would take to see justice served. “I suggest you learn to guard your emotions well, you little hellion,” Stanton whispered in her ear as he tightened his hold on her. “The man who buys you will have no qualms about giving you a daily lashing or two until you learn to submit and behave.”