The Shocking Lord Standon. Louise Allen

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      ‘Give me my clothes back!’ Jessica Gifford made a wild grab at the bundle of drab garments before the maid tossed them out of the door and slammed it. Outside, the key turned.

      ‘Now then, don’t give me trouble or I’ll have to get Madame Synthia up here, and you won’t like that, believe me.’ The maid grinned and went over to the wardrobe with a sway of her hips that indicated that the skimpiness of her gown was more than just an accident in the wash.

      ‘This is all a terrible mistake.’ Jessica stood there shivering, stark naked and too bemused and angry to be properly afraid. But at the back of her mind there was a growing awareness that she should be. She should be very frightened indeed, she realised, for it seemed that all the far-fetched tales she had heard about innocent country girls being snatched off the street by evil procurers were nothing less than the truth. But she wasn’t some innocent young milkmaid, she was a grown-up, independent, educated woman—this should not be happening to her!

      ‘There has been some error.’ She tried a reasonable tone, keeping her breathing light in an attempt to control it. ‘I am a governess, here to take up a new position.’

      ‘You’ll take up one of those all right.’ The maid laughed. ‘Lots and lots of new positions. You are a virgin, aren’t you?’ The glance she sent Jessica’s shivering, goose-bump-covered body was scornful.

      ‘Of course I am! I said there was some mistake. I asked the woman who greeted me as I got off the coach if she was Lady Hartington’s housekeeper and she said yes and took me to a carriage and the next thing I know, I am here.’

      ‘Yes, well, Lady H. won’t be wanting your services for her precious brats after tonight, especially as Lord H. himself is here and is likely to bid high for you. He’ll be getting you to show him the use of the globes, I’ll be bound. Or perhaps he’ll be slow at his Latin and’ll need a good birching. Put these on.’ She tossed a handful of flimsy scraps of fabric on to the bed.

      ‘This is a brothel?’ As well to have it clear, the logical, sensible part of Jessica’s brain told her, while the rest of it screamed in silent panic.

      ‘Lord love you, of course it is. Best vaulting house in town. Wonder if we ought to do something about your hair.’ The maid peered at her. ‘Nah. I’ll just unpin it, give you that ready to be tumbled look. They like that.’

      ‘There has been a mistake,’ Jessica repeated, adopting the tone of clear reason she found effective with some of her more dense pupils. ‘I am a governess, I am in the wrong place. If I am kept captive here, that is kidnapping and when I complain to the magistrates someone is going to be in very serious trouble with the law.’

      ‘How’re you going to do that, then?’ The maid advanced on her with a hairbrush and began to pluck out hairpins. ‘You’ll stay here until you’re properly broken in, then there’s nowhere else for you to go because no one respectable will want you. If you want to chat to a magistrate or two, I’m sure there’s some here tonight. Very sympathetic they’ll be—want to make you feel right at home, I’ll be bound.’

      Cold fingers of fear slithered down Jessica’s spine. She had been earning her own living for three years and she knew just how perilous was the position of an unprotected young woman with the slightest hint of scandal attaching to her name. She knew, all too well, the consequences of that one step off the slippery path of respectability.

      If she got out of here and complained, most likely she would be ignored. If she were believed, then she was as good as ruined, whatever happened.

      ‘How can you help them do this to another woman?’ She put her hand on the other girl’s arm imploringly. In this situation she was not too proud to plead. She would be on her knees begging in a minute. Whatever it took to end this nightmare. ‘Don’t you want to be out of here yourself?’

      The maid stared at her as though she was mad. ‘Leave here? I’d be crazy to,’ she said shortly. ‘Warm room, good food, lots of company, gentlemen giving me good tips. All I have to do is lie on my back on a clean comfy bed and do what comes natural. Leave here and go back to what? A filthy slum in Wapping, that’s what. And there you do it up against the wall for a handful of coppers and a black eye.’ She peered in the mirror and pinched her own cheeks, bringing some colour into her pert, sharp-featured face.

      ‘Look, you silly cow,’ she said suddenly, with what Jessica realised was an attempt at kindness, ‘it ain’t so bad after the first time. Why make it difficult for yourself? If you make a scene, Madame will just send up some of the doormen to break you in, and you won’t like that, believe me.’

      Jessica sank down on the end of the huge bed, oblivious to the cold slippery satin under her bare behind. The choices appeared to be to be deflowered by a group of bully boys, to be sold to some debauched gentleman or to throw herself out of the window. Only that was barred with iron.

      Life had been hard, these past three years, but she had her modest savings, a respectable profession, her self-respect and she was dependent on no one. Under no circumstances was she going to give that up. Her mind seemed to move beyond terror into a desperate resolve.

      The maid was gathering up her fallen hairpins. Jessica put her foot carefully on one of them. ‘All right,’ she said, having no trouble letting her voice shake. ‘What happens now?’

      ‘There, that’s better! See how much easier it is if you stop being so foolish about it? What’s your name?’

      ‘Jessica.’

      ‘Well, Jessy, I’m Moll. We get’s you into your costume—that won’t take long, there ain’t much of it—then at midnight the show starts. You’re the only virgin on the bill, so the bidding’ll be brisk. You’ll get a nice rich gentleman who’ll tip you well after, I’ll be bound, seeing you’re the real thing.’

      ‘What’s the time now?’ Jessica reached for the scraps of muslin the maid held out.

      ‘Twenty to the hour.’

      ‘Well, if there isn’t any other option… Isn’t there a costume that’s a nicer colour?’ she asked, feigning petulance. ‘I don’t like lilac. It looks so insipid with blonde hair.’

      Moll did not appear to find the sudden change of tone suspicious. ‘I think there’s a green one, that’ll be pretty with your eyes.’ She opened the wardrobe doors again.

      The maid’s shriek was cut off by Jessica bundling her bodily into the clothes press. One piece of muslin was around her wrists, the other gagging her mouth before she could recover her wits. Jessica pulled down more pieces from the hooks, tying the struggling girl’s ankles.

      ‘If you make a noise in the next half-hour, I’ll hit you on the head,’ she warned, hoping she sounded convincingly fierce. ‘If you are quiet, nothing will happen. Understand?’

      Wide blue eyes stared at her over the gag, then Molly nodded energetically. Jessica shut the wardrobe door, wedged a chair under the handle, retrieved the hairpin and set about picking the door lock.

      In sensation novels, the sort governesses are supposed never to read and in fact devour by the shelf full, the beleaguered yet valiant heroine can pick a dungeon lock in seconds as she escapes from the wicked duke’s evil clutches. Her hands shaking, cold sweat standing out all over her, Jessica could only conclude that either wicked dukes employed inferior locksmiths to brothel СКАЧАТЬ