Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy (34 page)

"I would be ever so grateful."

Penelope waltzed off, her cloying perfume the only indication that she'd been there, at all. Once she disappeared, the jailer's polite demeanor vanished. He shoved Lavinia into the cell and spun the key in the lock.

Lavinia screamed and screamed until her voice was hoarse, and her nails broken and raw from clawing at the wood, but no matter how violently she carried on, the door never opened and Penelope never returned.

Oh, dear Lord!" Penelope stumbled to a halt, her mouth dropping in shock and disgust. "Why, Penelope"—Charles chuckled nervously—"I didn't expect you back so soon." "Obviously."

He was on the bed in the hotel room where she'd left him when she'd traipsed off to chat with Lavinia. A blond maid—who wasn't even pretty!—was with him. Her skirts were rucked up, the bodice of her dress pulled down to bare her bovine breasts.

Charles was positioned between her plump thighs and had been sucking away at a large nipple. Penelope's untimely entrance had interrupted his thrusting, and he had the decency to withdraw and roll away.

The trembling maid pleaded, "I'm sorry, milady. He made me do it."

Penelope scoffed, "That's a bald-faced lie, you little slut."

"It's true, ma'am. I swear."

"I'm sure you enjoyed every second of it. What has he promised you that convinced you to spread your legs?" "Nothing!"

"He's flat broke, so whatever he offered, you'll never see a farthing. Now get out of here, or I'll talk to your employer and have you fired."

There was a belt tossed across the end of the mattress, and Penelope grabbed it and lashed out, whipping the girl across the head and shoulders as she raced out.

Penelope chased her to the stairs, landing blow after blow, until the maid started down and moved out of range.

"Don't come sniffing after my husband again," Penelope shouted, just because she supposed it was the sort of thing a wronged wife ought to say.

She stomped off, but she wasn't really upset by Charles's philandering. She didn't care what he did. The more he sought out whores for his pleasure, the less she had to provide.

His continued presence as her spouse was insupportable, and she avoided him as much as possible, but still, she was glad she'd married him. It was amazing, the boons a woman could acquire with the title of countess next to her name. By observing Charles, who was a veritable master at cunning and deceit, she'd learned how to take full advantage of every circumstance. With her being so young and so beautiful, others were loathe to refuse her anything, so she foresaw only profit and comfort in her future.

As to Charles? He was on his own, and she wasn't about to wallow in his penury. He had dug the hole he was in, and she wouldn't hoist him out of it.

When she entered the room again, he was standing, his clothes straightened, every hair in place. He was calm and collected and completely unrepentant, as if he hadn't just been fucking a hussy before her very eyes.

"Lie down on the bed," he had the gall to insist.

"No."

"I command that you perform your marital duty. Your intrusion kept me from finishing, and I'm hard as a rock. You will satisfy me at once."

"Considering where your rod has been"—she yanked out a knife she'd begun to carry everywhere and gestured to his cock—"if you wag it at me, I'll slice it off."

"If I am in need of wifely tending, you will render it without complaint."

She laughed. "Your tricks and threats don't work on me anymore, Charles. Can you actually assume to order me about and get away with it?"

"I am your husband. You will do as I say, or I will beat you to within an inch of your life."

"If you touch me, I'll stab you to death when you're done."

He frowned, ready to kill. "You are entirely too disobedient, so evidently, I haven't been sufficiently instructive during my lessons."

"Your lessons—as you like to refer to them—are over."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm leaving you."

"Leaving me? Hah! I don't give you permission to go."

"Your opinion is irrelevant. From now on, you can fornicate with every trollop in the world, you can defraud every innkeeper, you can cheat every acquaintance, but I don't have to stay and watch."

She went to the dressing room and retrieved the satchel she'd packed earlier, and she peeked inside to ensure that her secret stockpile was hidden there. Charles had stupidly informed her that he kept a tiny hoard of gems that he was slowly converting to cash so his creditors wouldn't realize his ploy.

She'd pilfered the jewels before visiting Lavinia, and she was delighted to note that Charles hadn't noticed they were missing. She closed the flap on the bag, then sauntered out.

"Farewell, Charles."

"What?"

"I'm off to Bath with friends. I'll relax for a few months. Then .. . ? I can't decide, but from this point on, my whereabouts are none of your concern."

"Listen to me, you spoiled little fiend—"

"Sod off, you old drunkard."

She marched out and fled the hotel, hurrying down the block and around the corner. The ruffian she'd hired was waiting for her, and she walked over to him. They spoke in low tones.

"Were you able to steal his coach?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Did you locate a buyer?"

"Of course."

"For the horses, too?"

"They fetched a pretty penny."

Charles prided himself on his continuing to possess the fancy conveyance with the sleek matched bays. He liked to brag how the fleet animals kept him one step ahead of debtor's prison.

The ruffian handed over an envelope of cash, and at seeing the large amount generated by the sale she grinned. She'd always detested the cumbersome, pretentious vehicle and was relieved to be rid of it—though she doubted Charles would feel the same.

"Marvelous!" she gushed. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, milady. Is he in the hotel?"

"Third floor, first door on the right. If you go immediately, you'll catch him. Will I get the reward for turning him in?"

He submitted another envelope. "Half now, and the other half when he's in chains." "Have you my address in Bath?"

"Indeed, I do, Lady Kettering. Indeed, I do. I'll send the rest of the money as soon as everything's finalized."

"He'll never know it was me who betrayed him, will he?"

"No. I guarantee it." He tipped his hat. "I'm glad we're on the same side. I'd hate to have you as an enemy."

"Yes, you would."

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you." "And with you, as well."

She proceeded farther down the block, to the hansom cab she'd previously arranged. She climbed in, the driver cracked the whip, and she dashed off without a backward glance.

Unhand me, you wretch!" "No."

Charles struggled with the restraints on his wrists and ankles, but couldn't loosen them. "You obviously don't realize who I am."

"Don't I?" The smug villain chuckled.

"I'll see you hanged for this outrage."

"For a fellow who's completely bound, and about to be gagged, you're awfully bossy."

"For a fellow who's completely insane," Charles retorted, "and has committed a deranged act against a personal friend of the King, you're awfully brave."

"Let's go, Your Majesty."

"To where?"

"Debtor's prison. Where would you suppose? There are plenty of folks eager for me to escort you there."

"Prison! I say, you can't just waltz into a man's hotel room and cart him off to the gaol."

"I can, and I have." The criminal reached for Charles's arm, yanked him off the bed, and steadied him on his feet. "Now let's go."

"I demand to see a magistrate! I demand to contact my solicitor!"

"So sorry, but I can't oblige you."

"I'm an earl. A peer of the realm. Only my equals can sit in judgment of me."

"Well, they'll have to find you first, won't they? Though somehow, I suspect they won't bother to look."

The thug started toward the door, dragging Charles with him, and Charles bellowed, "Help! Help! I'm being kidn—"

A wad of cloth was crammed in his mouth, his protests silenced. The brute peeked into the hall and, espying no one, he pulled Charles out, lugged him down the rear stairs, and tossed him into a waiting carriage. As his head banged painfully and his body landed with an undignified thump, the driver clicked the reins, and the horses whisked him away at a fast trot.

In a matter of seconds, he disappeared as if he'd never been.

Margaret sat on the verandah of the elaborate house she'd purchased near London. With a small farm and stable as part of the property, it was a bucolic location. The grass was so green, the summer sky so blue. With the breeze that was blowing, there were sailboats out on the Thames, their sails fluttering in the wind, and as she watched them, she suffered the worst wave of melancholy.

She gaped around at her monstrosity of a residence, wondering what had possessed her to think she needed so much. She'd heeded Attorney Thumberton's counsel as to how she should live according to her elevated station, but in this she'd been foolish to follow his well-meaning advice.

The lengthy corridors and high ceilings echoed with how alone she was, and she couldn't stand to walk across the marble floors. Her heels clicked so loudly that she'd bought dozens of rugs merely so that her strides would be quieter.

She'd attempted to make friends in the neighborhood, but had quickly learned that she was notorious. People were still talking about Lavinia, about Penelope and Lord Kettering, and with Margaret being a blood relative, she'd been painted with the same scandalous brush.

Out of boredom, she'd tried to establish another school, but hadn't had any luck attracting students. The local gentry deemed her too infamous to teach their progeny, and the common citizens was unnerved to see such a wealthy lady working, so she had nothing to do, and the monotony was driving her mad.

She riffled through the morning's mail, surprised to discover a letter from Lavinia that must have been posted just before her ship departed for Australia. Margaret crumpled it into a ball, knowing she'd never read it. Over the past few months, she'd received several others, and they'd been filled with such vitriol and malice that she was positive it wasn't worth breaking the wax seal.

Despite how Lavinia had almost murdered her, she pitied her aunt. Margaret understood desperation and despair, how they could make a woman do things she'd never dreamed, so she hadn't wanted to be vengeful. At the same time, Lavinia wasn't exactly sane, and she'd proven she could be extremely dangerous. Margaret had been terrified at the thought of her being freed.

She supposed she could have aided Lavinia with her legal troubles, or at the least, begged for mercy on Lavinia's behalf, but she hadn't intervened, and she couldn't decide if it had been the appropriate choice or not. Though Lavinia had never been apprised, Margaret had paid to have her lodged in a private cell as she'd awaited trial and deportation.

It wasn't much, but it was something, and she tried not to regret that she hadn't provided more assistance.

Kettering's name sporadically popped up in the gossip columns, and there'd been claims of his being in debtor's prison—which she didn't believe. Penelope was often mentioned as attending house parties and fancy soirees. Apparently, she had become a belle of High Society, but Margaret scarcely noted the stories. She truly didn't wish to know how her cousin was faring.

At the bottom of the stack of mail, she was delighted to see a letter from Mr. Thumberton that contained the report he'd prepared at her request. She couldn't figure out what had spurred her to solicit the information. She'd been strolling in the yard, on a warm evening in May, and the most riveting deluge of loneliness had washed over her as she'd caught herself remembering Jordan Prescott.

It had been the same kind of day precisely a year earlier when she'd initially met him. Though she hated to be maudlin, she vividly recalled every detail of the occasion when he'd wrongly barged into her dressing room at Gray's Manor, thinking her to be the heiress he'd needed.

Images floated through her mind, and for once, she didn't chase them away. She reflected on how handsome he'd been, how strong and confident. He'd seen a passion and hunger in her that no other person had ever observed, and she missed being the woman he'd known.

He'd rejected her because of money, and she couldn't ignore the months of trauma she'd endured after Lavinia had tossed her out. Yet, during that last violent afternoon, when Lavinia had tried to kill her, Jordan had saved her life.

She'd never forget the look in his eye as he'd knelt before her in the clearing smoke of Lavinia's assault. He'd gazed at her as if he'd still cherished her, as if the affection she'd once sensed was still rolling around somewhere inside him.

She'd been distraught and bewildered by the attack, so she'd pushed him away, and afterward, she'd been too proud to contact him and ask him to come back. But where had her pride gotten her?