CHAPTER ONE
“OY, MISSY … ”
Horace’s harsh voice came from behind her, raising the hair on the back of her neck. Eliza had made it to the top of the stairs leading to the back door, but there was no way she would make it out now.
“Don’t ya run from me. I told ya t’ go pack yar crap. Wilkins will be ’ere in an hour.”
With Horace breathing down her neck, there was nothing to be gained by running. Eliza swung around to face him and did her best to stand her ground. “I told him no, and I’m telling you again: I’m not going with him!”
She braced for the backhand she knew would follow. Sure enough, pain exploded down the right side of her face, and she flew against the wall three steps behind her. God, how had her mother put up with this for six years?
Horace was of medium build, thickly muscled and broad-shouldered. If one didn’t know what a brute he was, one might even think him handsome. But all Eliza could see was his lust for violence. She tried to straighten, but he pushed her back against the wall and ground his groin into her belly. He smelled of stale ale and sweat, and she could feel his manhood swelling as he rubbed against her.
“Wilkins paid me twenty quid for yar li’l virginal cunt, so ’e owns ya now.”
Outrage overrode pain and disgust, and she pushed at him hard enough to force him back a step. “You sold me to Pig Face? You truly are despicable!”
His face twisted with hate and his open hand connected painfully with the other side of her face. Wilkins and Horace were birds of a feather, best mates so to speak, and calling Wilkins “Pig Face” was sure to get his goat—she should have thought of that.
“Always with the big bloody words. Ya’re nothing but a tavern wench, but ya won’t go with the customers and ya won’t let me between them lily-white thighs. What the fuck did ya ’spect me ta do with ya?”
He was screaming at her at the top of his voice now. Through the haze of pain, Eliza heard Lynn chime in from the bottom of the stairs.
“Just lock ’er in the cellar, love. Let Wilkins deal with ’er when ’e gets ’ere.”
Eliza ignored her. In for a penny, in for a pound. She might as well get him good and mad now—maybe Wilkins wouldn’t want her if she was all bruised up. Correcting his pronunciation, she countered, “I expected you to ignore me, but even that was obviously hoping for too much.”
Grabbing her by the hair, he dragged her down the stairs and along the corridor toward the store cellar door. “Ignore a bit of all right like you? Not bloody likely. But I ’ad enough of ya stalking about the place like ya bloody own it and looking down yar nose at me.”
The cellar door loomed before her. Eliza tried with one hand to yank her hair out of Horace’s grip and braced herself with the other against the door frame. She could not let him lock her up down there.
She knew why he was so keen to get rid of her—she was the only obstacle to his full ownership of the inn. Her father had left the inn to Eliza and her mother in his will. That meant, now her mother was gone, it should be hers. But if it bought her freedom from Wilkins, she would give up all claim to it. “You can have the inn. Just don’t make me go with Pig Face.”
Eliza couldn’t quite keep the desperation out of her voice, and the way he chuckled in her ear confirmed how much he liked hearing it. “Too late, Liza, he paid me coin for ya.”
Lynn cackled behind her. “He owns a mill and ’e’s willin’ ta marry ya. What the fuck’s yar problem?”
With that she kicked Eliza hard in the small of her back, sending her flying down the short flight of stairs into the cellar, where she landed on a heap of coal. She heard something crack inside her, then a strange kind of prickly sound accompanied the darkness trying to claim her before she was pulled back by Lynn’s shrill laughter. “Prince Charmin’s all out of glass slippers, ya stupid cunt.”
Eliza got up, white-hot rage giving her the courage to taunt them into killing her right then. A quick death would be better than having to endure Wilkins and dying at his filthy hands. “I’m gonna make you pay for this and everything you ever did to my mum, you greedy, wife-murdering clods.”
Something solid slammed into her arm with such force it lifted her off her feet. She heard another crack and pain exploded all through her. This time she didn’t think she would be able to get up again. She lay limp, waiting for Horace to deal her the deathblow. But it didn’t come.
Instead she felt Horace’s fetid breath fan over the side of her face as he whispered in her ear. “I wanna fuck ya and kick the living shit out of ya all at the same time, but Wilkins paid to be the first in yar snatch and ’e wants ya still breathin’, so I’ll leave ya to contemplate yar future … see, I know some big words too.”
She heard him climb the stairs, slam the door, and throw the bolt. And then, when she was sure she was alone, she gave herself up to despair. Hot tears streaked down her aching face as she let herself rest against the mountain of coal at her back. Something warm and sticky seeped into her collar, and she wondered if the cut was big enough for her to bleed out.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I tried.”
She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, wishing she wasn’t so completely alone in the world. “But how do you expect me … ” She frowned at the usually pitch-dark upper left corner of the room and caught her breath. The coal chute had been left open and the mountain of coal reached almost to the top. Horace couldn’t have known. They certainly hadn’t noticed it before. It was growing dark out, and the opening did not add much light. Could she get up? Did she dare to hope she could make it out of the cellar, away from the inn and the fate Horace had arranged for her?
She might as well try. She had nothing more to lose.
CHAPTER TWO
JUST NORTH OF HAMPSTEAD, NOVEMBER 1819
The last pale light of the day filtered through the bare trees onto the road and the two men traveling it in an elegant open sports carriage. The jingle of the harness preceded their passage, the sound of the horses’ hooves muted by the leaves blanketing the road. One man did his best to nap on the high seat, but the vehicle’s driver seemed to thoroughly enjoy his occupation and the way the gathering darkness drained the color from the forest around them. A light rain had fallen earlier, and the damp soil smelled rich and fertile. It was a perfect evening to drive the last remaining miles to London.
The driver was Sir Henry March, knighted for his services to the crown during the campaign against the Corsican megalomaniac—although nobody cared to speculate on what exactly he had done to warrant that knighthood.
Beyond being a knight of the realm, Henry was a classical scholar, a notorious libertine, and the responsible owner of four estates, who could trace his lineage to William the Conqueror.
He was a handsome man. His nose was straight, his sandy hair was cut short and reached down into short-cropped sideburns, and his lips were neither too thick nor too thin. However, his jaw had a determined set to it, and even when he was otherwise relaxed, his blue eyes were intense.
His person was presently obscured by a calf-length, multi-caped greatcoat and a carriage blanket thrown over his knees against the November chill. But it was generally agreed that he cut an impressive figure, even if his clothes tended to be comfortable rather than fashionable.