Lady Lightfingers

Word was circulating underground, for a private event was to take place just after dark, and was to be settled quickly before the authorities got to hear of it.

The amusement was only for a select few . . . those gentlemen who could afford to pay the large price demanded for a certain pleasure. They would examine the goods and place their bids independently. The whole business would be over and done with in half an hour.

The merchandise they bought would be spirited away and, if taken on board one of the ships that pushed and shoved at each other in the crowded river berths, would probably never be seen again, until years later, when they might turn up in some foreign bawdy house, coarsened and diseased.

Charles sent a note to Thomas Hambert informing him of his suspicions. He begged him to leave the matter in his hands and remain patient. Then he gathered his colleagues together, men he’d spent his learning years with – men he could trust.

‘It could be dangerous. Bessie will have her wolf pack hidden around every corner, and they’ll be armed to the teeth. If they smell a rat we’ll be done for, so if any of you want to back out, do it now.’

Bart Granger, crack pistol shot, fencing champion and physician, examined his nails. ‘Are we allowed to know who this girl is, Chas?’

‘I would rather she survived this without the embarrassment of knowing others were aware of her identity, or what’s taken place.’

‘I see. Am I to understand that your heart is engaged here, not just your balls.’

‘It is.’

‘Commiserations.’

‘You won’t say that when you see her.’

The two men picked up their cloaks, and Bart said gently, ‘All the more reason to rescue the maiden then. There are eight of us. They’ll go in two by two, and take out the wolves while you’re placing your bid. We’ve emptied our strongboxes. What will you do if it’s not enough?’

‘Abduct her, or die in the attempt,’ Charles said grimly. ‘You may present your notes to my stepfather if I do. I’ve made Joshua Harris aware of the situation.’

A wolfish grin crossed Bart’s face. ‘Nothing will happen to you, not while I’m guarding your back. You know, I’m quite looking forward to this.’

‘Who’s driving the carriage?’

Edmund Sedgley, breeder of thoroughbred horses, thwacked a sand-filled leather ned against his palm. He was enveloped in an old cloak and wore a ragged fabric cap for his role of cab driver. ‘Me, of course. We’ll be exactly where I said I’d be . . . at the back entrance. There will be several soldiers standing about, courtesy of my cousin’s regiment with side arms ready to use, or to cause a little mayhem with, while the escape takes place. You know, Chas, this is typical of you if your tale about that girl you told us is true. What’s the problem, can’t you get yourself a woman in the usual manner?’

Charles shrugged. ‘This is no ordinary woman.’

‘Poor Chas, he’s in love, and needs us to help him get the girl,’ one of the others said and they all laughed. ‘All right, let us go about our business, gentlemen.’

They patted him on the back, then Charles and Bart left together and climbed into the waiting carriage.

‘Where you going, Guv?’ Edmund asked gruffly, getting into his role.

‘Seven Dials, my man,’ Bart said. ‘His highness has business to conduct there.’ He turned to his friend. ‘May I know her name, Chas? If you are incapacitated—’

‘You must get her out, Bart. Her name is Celia Laws. Take her to my mother and stepfather, they’ll know what to do, and inform the Reverend Thomas Hambert.’

‘Edmund is right, you know, this does have a sameness about it. It’s not the same girl as before by any chance, is it?’

Charles gave him a wry smile. ‘She handed my money back, and I fell in love with her all over again.’

Bart whistled. ‘You’re faithful . . . I’ll give you that. I hope this girl is worthy of you. You’ll never live this down, you do know that.’

‘I will if you don’t tell anyone.’

‘In that case you have my absolute confidence. Have you got a weapon on you?’

‘My fists.’

‘You weren’t the college boxing champion for nothing, I suppose,’ and as the cab began to slow down Bart took two masks from inside his cloak, handing one to Charles. He held out his hand. ‘Are you ready, Your Highness?’

Charles managed a faint grin as he took it. It seemed childish, dressing up, but necessary if they were to remain anonymous. He admitted to a vague sense of excitement at the thought of the coming stoush. ‘Ready.’

Earlier, Bessie and a couple of her employees had dragged her out of her dirty tomb, and into a room with nothing but a red-velvet chair, a bed, and a few drifting curtains as furnishings. There, she’d been told to remove her clothing.

When she’d put up a struggle the clothes had been ripped from her back. Water was poured over her to get rid of the dust. Then Bessie Jones instructed two of her hard-faced whores to hold Celia down. The whoremonger had stuck her dirty hands up Celia’s skirt. The examination had been intimate and horrible, causing Celia to squirm with embarrassment.

‘She’s still intact,’ Bessie said with satisfaction.

They’d dressed her again, in a virginal white gown of opaque fabric. One of Bessie’s girls had brushed her hair out so it fell in shining ripples down her back.

‘Lie on the bed with your arms behind your head and one knee up,’ Bessie said.

‘Go to hell, you witch.’

‘Don’t make it hard for yourself.’ Bessie slapped her face, but lightly, so as not to mark it, then pushed her on to the bed and manacled her wrists with a short chain to a metal ring at the top of the bedhead. ‘Now, girl, either you cooperate, or I’ll chain your ankles as well and invite a couple of my men to take a whip to you. My clients will like that.’

There was a small window in the wall, curtained on the other side with the same opaque material. Now and again, someone’s face would appear, usually a man.

‘Help me,’ she shouted out when this happened, then realized from the leers and the excitement in their expressions that they were bidders, and enjoying her predicament. From then on she closed her eyes and was able to calm herself. It was some sort of act Bessie had put on for their benefit, and she didn’t intend to knowingly be part of it.

Celia was dying of thirst, and now she was unable to scratch, she itched all over. The furniture was probably full of fleas.

‘Undo the manacles and I’ll behave,’ she pleaded when she saw Bessie at the window, for she felt at a decided disadvantage with them on. ‘And give me something to drink. I’m parched.’

The curtain closed without an answer.

‘What’s going on?’ she said when the woman came in, carrying a jug of water. ‘Are you charging those pigs a fee to look at me?’

‘I’m auctioning you off to the highest bidder.’

The colour faded from Celia’s face as her fear came back. ‘You can’t.’

Bessie chuckled. ‘Try and stop me.’ She tipped the jug of water over Celia’s breasts and it ran down over her stomach and thighs, and soaked into the mattress. Goosebumps raced over her as the material clung. ‘There, that shows your assets off a little better for the clients.’ Tipping the jug the rest of the way she held it against Celia’s lips. Celia greedily lapped up the mouthful she managed to get before Bessie removed the jug. It was hardly enough for a good swallow. ‘At least take the manacles off,’ she pleaded.

‘They stay for the moment. They add a nice touch, I think. I’ve got my two best gentlemen about to bid. One of them is an aristocrat from Venice. They both want to come in and get a closer look at you. Here’s your drink.’ The rest of the water hit her in the face with such a rush that Celia gasped as she nearly choked on it.

When she recovered she set eyes on three men. All wore black dinner suits, and two wore identical masks. The third man had a paunch and wore a bushy moustache. He looked to be about fifty. The expression on his face was wolfish. He came to gaze down at her, then leaned forward and reached out towards her breasts, his mouth almost slavering.

One of the masked men said with soft menace, ‘Keep your hands off zee merchandise if you value your life, my friend. The final bids aren’t in yet.’

The second masked man placed a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Allow me to gut him for you, Highness.’

His Highness threw a disdainful ‘Hah!’ into the air, as if he was some amateur thespian hero in a melodrama, with more dash than acting talent.

Her eyes narrowed in on him. She’d give him melodrama – she’d give them all melodrama when she got these damned manacles off. Celia shuddered at the thought of any of them touching her. She kicked out at the man with the paunch when he leered at her. He grunted when her heel connected with his knee. She would have aimed it higher, but she couldn’t reach.

He laughed the attack off. ‘I’ll soon have you tamed, girl. I’ll take a riding crop to you and ride you from here to John O’ Groats.’ Turning to Bessie he whispered something in her ear. His offer for her, she supposed.

Eyes gleaming, Bessie beckoned to the other two men. The taller man strutted forward. His hair curled from under the brim of his hat, and his eyes glittered darkly through the slits as he gazed down at her.

‘Lay one finger on me you Venetian turkey cock and I’ll kick you so hard you won’t be able to fluff your tail feathers for a week,’ she hissed. She remembered her feet were bare and it would hurt her more than him. ‘After that I’ll gouge your beady chicken eyes out – Highness or not.’

The noise he made was halfway between a growl and a laugh. He reached out anyway, and his finger traced a path down her cheek and over the contours of her mouth – his touch so gentle that it raised little shivers at the nape of her neck. It might be preferable to have a man who touched her gently, if she couldn’t find a way to escape.

Then again, it might not. He was like all the others, except he smelled better.

A sardonic twitch pulled his lips sideways and his gaze ran over the clinging garment she wore. ‘Iz zat so, girl? I shall haff to be careful then.’ Lazily, he said to Bessie, ‘The girl izza sweet little trollop. I’ll take her.’

‘You haven’t put in a bid yet,’ Bessie said, her fists going to her hips.

‘Name zee price you want and let’s be done wizz it, woman.’

The other man gave a bit of a snort that turned into a cough.

Bessie became all business. ‘She’ll cost you one thousand pounds, Highness.’

‘Zat is perfecto.’ The man didn’t so much as blink, but waved a languid hand towards the other masked man, who was probably his servant. The stone in the ring on his little finger picked up a beam of light from the candle, and dazzled her eyes. ‘Pay zee old crone. Take zee manacles off her, Mizzis Bessie.’

‘Money first.’

‘The foreigner has more money than sense,’ the paunchy man sneered. ‘You wouldn’t catch me paying that amount of money for a common whore.’

‘No decent whore would want you,’ Celia spat at him, and the masked servant guffawed with laughter.

The man walked away, banging the door behind him.

The servant removed a roll of paper money from the top of the satchel he had hidden under his cloak. He handed the satchel containing the rest to Bessie, who began to count it. Celia recognized that satchel with its gold lettering, and her heart began to thump. She’d seen it often enough.

Charles was either very brave, or very stupid to have walked in here and put in a bid for her. Then she remembered the state she was in. She was practically naked! What would he think of her now?

It didn’t matter, because Bessie had finished her inspection of the satchel and was leaning over her. Celia could see the bulging satchel stuffed down her bodice. She was not going to allow the woman to get away with this—

When the manacles dropped from her wrists she lunged upwards, giving a scream as she let her anger free, and grasping Bessie by the hair, she wrestled her to the floor. Sitting astride the woman’s stomach she began to pummel her.

Bessie heaved about, throwing threats and foul curses into the air. Her skirt edged up and there was a knife strapped to her thigh. It came from its sheath with hardly a whisper when Celia’s fingers closed around it.

‘This is on behalf of my mother,’ Celia said, twisting Bessie’s nose between her finger and thumb, so she gave a nasal scream.

‘Your mother had too many airs and graces. She thought she was better than the rest of us but I soon showed her who was boss.’ Bessie managed to get a couple of slaps in, which incensed Celia even more.

‘She was better than you, you heap of . . .’ Something warned her not to be too vulgar. ‘Rubbish!’ To hell with it, this was not the time or place to act the lady. Celia dug the blade into Bessie’s bodice and deftly slashed it from bosom to waist.

‘She’s killed me,’ Bessie screamed.

‘Not yet, I haven’t.’ Celia pricked the knife against the whore’s neck. Suddenly she remembered a line from a play in her time with the Wentworth Players, and said with great menace, ‘Stop squawking, you heap of flea bites, else I’ll carve a smile where one wasn’t intended to be.’

Bessie fell quiet.

Charles’ glance fell on the knife, and he cursed soundly before he said, ‘She’s not worth swinging for.’

Celia felt hysterical laughter building up inside her, because he’d forgotten his accent. ‘She thought nothing of selling me to you. For that, I’m going to kill her. Then I’m going to kill you for buying me from her. How dare you . . . Your Royal Highness?’

Bessie began to wriggle. ‘Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!’

Charles’ voice mirrored his irritation. ‘For pity’s sake, shut up, woman. She’s not killing anyone. Drop that knife. Now!’ He roared.

Celia dropped the knife, and Charles kicked it aside.

The man with him began to laugh.

Bessie took the opportunity to start struggling again. Celia didn’t quite know what to do, since she’d achieved her objective. The matter was taken out of her hands when Charles pulled Bessie out from under and winded her with a punch. Then his cloak dropped over Celia and she was wrapped in a tight bundle.

Still struggling, despite her arms being immobilized, she was scooped up and thrown over his shoulder. Bumped along a corridor and up some steps, after a few seconds she felt cold damp air against her face. He placed her down, and the cobbles were rough and clammy under her feet.

There came a gunshot then, from not far off, followed by the sound of a police whistle.

Celia was pushed into a carriage head first and a pair of feet pinned her to the floor by her shoulders. ‘Keep your head down,’ he warned, then said, ‘Bart, are you still with us?’

‘Of course. That was my shot . . . a signal to the others. What are we waiting for Edmund? I’m hanging off the back of the carriage like a fly on a donkey’s tail. Let’s go before the old hag marshals her forces.’

‘She’ll have the constables to contend with as well, now,’ Edmund said, roaring with laughter. ‘Look at them all spilling into the street. There’s quite a melee going on, and the soldiers are in the midst of it.’ He raised his voice and cracked his whip over the horse’s head, shouting authoritatively, ‘I have His Royal Highness in my cab and I’m coming through – so out the way, unless you want to end up under my wheels.’

The horse gave a surprised, whinnying dance, then they were off at a trot, rocking over the cobbles. Within seconds the fog had swallowed them up and the conveyance was forced to slow down as the driver tried to get his bearings, and began to pick his way more carefully. As soon as they got out of the slums and into the wider streets, the fog thinned.

Celia’s shoulders were beginning to hurt from the pressure of the feet keeping her pinned to the floor. Feeling slightly savage over the way he was treating her, she turned her head and bit Charles’ ankle.

She was pulled up on to the seat. ‘Ouch! What did you do that for?’

Celia found herself pulled up into the seat. ‘You were treading on me, and it was painful.’

‘I’m sorry. I wanted you out of the way of any flying bullets.’

She shrank into the corner, gazing at him. The excitement of the rescue had turned to sludge in her stomach, and she felt sick. She didn’t know what to say to him – didn’t know what he must be thinking. Charles still had his mask in place. Did he think she hadn’t recognized him?

She tried a little humour, though her emotional state was as far from amused as it could get. ‘You can take zee stupid mask off now, Charles.’

He gave a low chuckle and removed it. ‘I’d forgotten I was still wearing it.’

The hysteria she’d been bottling up exploded from her in a welter of tears and laughter. ‘I hate you, Charles . . . I hate all men. I want my aunt.’ She gave a short scream of frustrated rage. ‘I’ll never speak to you again . . . never!’

‘Enough, Celia,’ he said sharply. ‘You’re safe now, and you’re being hysterical. Take in some deep breaths and gather your wits together.’

It was enough to bring her to her senses. ‘I feel sick,’ she said, her voice shaking.

He shouted for Edmund to stop the carriage, and opened the door for her. She could only dry retch. She hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for a while, so that explained why. She gave a small scream when a figure appeared from behind the carriage.

‘It’s all right. It’s my friend, Bart. I’ll introduce you properly some other time.’

Bart gave her a smile then turned to Charles. ‘I’m going back to the club while I can still find my way. I’ll see you later.’

‘Ask them to put some champagne on ice.’

As soon as the man disappeared the carriage began to move again. Charles gathered her against him and she could feel the steady beat of his heart against her ear. ‘Are you all right . . . were you ill-treated?’

‘I was kept in a hole under the floor. I had nothing to eat or drink and I was stripped of my clothing and made to wear that . . . garment. Bessie put water on it so it would cling to my body. I felt so ashamed.’

‘From what I saw you have nothing to feel ashamed of.’

‘You don’t understand, Charles. It was the faces of the men as they looked at me through that window . . . as though I was nothing but a piece of meat for sale. Only another woman could understand the loathsome feeling that comes with it. They made my skin crawl . . . saw me as something I didn’t want to be.’

‘Of course you didn’t.’

‘But I would have been if I hadn’t fled from the slums to leave my past behind.’ But for all this time, the past had been waiting to remind her of what she was and where she had come from. She started to shake as the horror of her ordeal began to sink in. ‘I don’t want to talk about what happened. I just want to go home, go to bed, go to sleep and forget about it.’

‘You can’t sleep for ever.’

‘I can try.’ She realized she was being churlish. ‘I haven’t thanked you for rescuing me. Thank you, Charles. Thank your friends on my behalf, as well. I’m truly grateful and I hope nobody got hurt.’

There was a quiver of a smile in his voice. ‘My friends can take care of themselves. Believe me, they would have enjoyed that little brawl.’

‘I’m glad somebody did. The reverend must be sick with worry about me.’

A smile touched his lips. ‘I imagine he’ll be relieved to see you. You’ve made a good friend there.’

His breath stirred warmly against her scalp. ‘Charles . . . let me go,’ she pleaded, for she didn’t want to feel close to him.

‘Let you go? But I’ve just paid one thousand pounds to get you back.’

She knew the remark was an attempt at humour. It was a great deal of money – a great deal, and if love was measured by money she was worth a lot to him. But it wasn’t. Love had no price. It was an exchange of emotion and trust. At the moment she no longer trusted anyone, including Charles, for he’d looked her over in exactly the same way as the other men had, with the need to conquer and possess in his eyes.

‘I was never yours to begin with,’ she said dispiritedly.

‘You’ve been mine since the first moment I set eyes on you, and you know it, Lizzie Carter.’ He tipped up her chin, placed a brief kiss on her mouth and allowed her to remove herself from his embrace.

They turned into Bedford Square, stopping outside the reverend’s house. Tiredness crept over her when the door opened and the reverend stood there in the misty yellow light. He looked like her guardian angel.

‘I’m not yours, Charles. I can never be yours.’ She shoved the satchel into his hands and sniffed back her tears. ‘Here’s your money. I always knew my skills would be used for good one day.’ She gently kissed his cheek, knowing she was heartsick. ‘You’ve been a good friend and that’s all you can ever be. Go back to your club and celebrate with your friends . . . Goodnight.’

He looked at the satchel, clearly astounded. ‘How did you get hold of this?’

‘Did you really think I attacked Bessie Jones with no purpose in mind but to kill her?’ Tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks, she descended from the carriage when the reverend opened the door for her.

Thomas had a relieved smile on his face. ‘You’re safe, Celia.’

‘Yes . . . I’m safe.’

‘Thank God, my prayers were answered.’

Somehow, Celia rustled up a smile to match her mentor’s. ‘Thank the Prince of Venice, instead.’

He looked puzzled. ‘The Prince of Venice?’

‘No doubt Charles will enlighten you.’

‘Charles, I cannot thank you enough,’ he said effusively. ‘Will you come in?’

‘I’ve arranged to meet my friends, sir,’ the man who loved her more than an astounding one thousand pounds said.

His friends would laugh over her predicament and the evening’s events would become an adventure to laugh over, then they’d drink themselves into insensibility to celebrate, no doubt.

‘Rest assured, this affair will not become public knowledge.’

This affair! As though they were lovers, furtive, so any feelings that might develop between them must be kept secret from the eyes of decent folk and would shrivel up inside her – and because she was not fit to become wife and mother, only a bed partner.

‘Thank you,’ Thomas Hambert said, and the pair of them shook hands.

He was a hypocrite . . . they both were. She had never felt so low. Never wanted to howl so loudly, so that her self-pitying tears and mindless rage would wash her rescuer from her mind. Charles was so sure of himself – of what he wanted, and of his ability to get it.

Well . . . so was she! She hadn’t come this far to slip back into the mire. So she called on some false courage, snorted, and walked past them, away up the stairs and into the room she called hers.

The two men gazed at each other when the door shut after her with a rather definite thud.

‘She’s upset,’ Charles said ineffectually, and swiftly outlined what Celia had been through. ‘With your permission, I’ll ask my mother to call on her in the morning. I think she needs a woman’s counsel.’

Thomas could feel only relief at the thought.

A lonely ache throbbed inside him at the thought. Celia was emotional and sensitive. She found pleasure in music and books, responded to his overtures with a shy eagerness. Tonight he’d seen another side of her, a poor, hunted creature with enough courage in reserve to take on a predator. She’d been magnificent in both her courage and her temper.

Where had he taken the wrong turn tonight? When had the game turned away from him? What had she said in the carriage . . .? That the expressions on the faces of the men had made her skin crawl?

Had he made her skin crawl? He’d been acting a part, she must be aware of that. But no . . . he’d seen what the other men had seen, Celia in her nakedness, her small waist and long elegant legs, the tilted breasts jutting against the fragile shift. He’d wanted to tear the filmy chemise from her body, and kiss the triangle of dusky darkness guarding the prize he’d been willing to pay one thousand pounds, or more for. Hell, he’d have handed over his entire fortune for Celia Laws. She was perfection.

He’d not listened to what she’d said. He’d been too insensitive to her feelings, seeing the object of his desire through the heated eyes and throbbing loins of his lust.

She’d thrust the money at him, and by doing so had regained her pride. He’d never be able to buy her, as he’d never been able to buy Lizzie Carter – that had been made perfectly clear to him. He would have to take her on her own terms. As yet, those terms had not been made clear to him.

Some women didn’t like intimacy, he’d heard, and he frowned. What if someone had violated her while Bessie had her held prisoner?

What if someone has? the voice in his head mocked. What will you do then?

He put the question from his head. He needed advice. His mother had always been there for him in the past, but he was no longer a boy; he was a grown man. Still, he needn’t be specific with his questions. His mother would instinctively know what he meant. She always did.

He shouted to Edmund to be dropped off at Hanover Square. ‘I’ll try and get to the club a little later, Edmund, but in case I don’t, the drinks are on me tonight.’

‘Charles, we weren’t expecting you,’ his mother said when she’d finished, and he crossed to where she stood.

He smiled as he kissed her, elegant in her gown of dark rose, and always serene. ‘I was on my way to my club and thought I’d drop in.’

‘Is the fog clearing?’

‘A little. How is my baby sister?’

‘Beautiful, just like her mother,’ Joshua said proudly.

Tenderly, Imogene touched Charles’ cheek. ‘Your face is bruised, my dear.’

‘It’s nothing, and it’s not the first bruise I’ve ever had.’

‘You have dirt on your suit, your jacket has a tear, your shoes are scuffed and your hair is messy. You’ve been in a scuffle?’

He shrugged. ‘It was nothing.’

‘I’m relieved to hear that.’

How calm his mother was. She had never been one to fuss unnecessarily about him when he was growing up, but allowed him to progress through childhood with his scrapes and bruises worn as a symbol of his maleness, he thought.

‘Are you staying the night? Your room is kept ready.’

‘I thought I might stay at my club. We have a little celebrating to do. Have you anything arranged for the morning, Mother.’

She gazed up at him, head tilted to one side like an inquisitive bird, suspicion forming in her eyes. ‘What’s on your mind, Charles?’

‘There’s a young woman I’d like you to call on. She’s had a hard time of late, and I think she needs a woman’s counsel.’

‘I take it the young woman is Miss Laws?’

He nodded. ‘How did you know?’

She laughed. ‘You’re my son. My instincts are alerted when you have something on your mind and I’ve seen the way you look at that young woman.’ Her smile faded as she indicated a chair. ‘Do stop looming over me, Charles, it gives me a crick in the neck. Have you got this young woman into trouble?’

Joshua got to his feet and casually stretched. ‘I think I’ll go and find something to do.’

‘You most certainly will not, Joshua Harris. You’ll stay here. You’ve been restless all evening, gazing out of the window and fidgeting, so I knew something was up. Now Charles has turned up looking as though he’s been run over by a horse and cart, and you’ve exchanged enough significant looks to alert the whole of London to the fact that there’s a conspiracy between you. I intend to get to the bottom of it. After which, he may go off and celebrate with his friends, and you can damned well go with him, if you feel you must.’

The two men grinned sheepishly at each other.

‘Fetch Charles a brandy, and pour one for yourself, Joshua. In fact, you can pour me a small one, too. Make up your mind to it. Neither of you are going anywhere until I know exactly what has been going on.’