Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1) (25 page)

"Bullard?"

Tom nodded. "An' Johnny. They grabbed her and knocked her flat."

"They hit her?" All thoughts scattered at the horrifying image of Amanda struck by the two thugs.

"Flat."

Unconscious. Amanda was unconscious and stolen by two brutes. He tried to sort through the rage, fighting for his battle calm as he decided on a strategy. "How long ago?"

"Twenty minutes—"

"Twenty!"

"I followed 'em to make sure where they was going. When I knew, I came back 'ere."

Finally Stephen felt a measure of control return as he found a glimmer of hope. "You did the right thing, Tom. Where did they go?"

The boy's face paled, and Stephen knew the news would not be good.

"They took 'er to Tess."

The name meant nothing to Stephen, but from the boy's terrified expression, he could well guess what was in store for Amanda if he did not find her soon.

"Can you show me where?"

Tom nodded, but his eyes were still pulled wide with fear. "But it won't do no good."

"Why?"

"Tess'll let 'im break 'er in first as payment."

Stephen swallowed, dread mixing with the rage building in his gut. "How long do we have before he starts?"

"He'll start as soon as the chains are on."

Chapter 12

Rule #13:

A lady never drinks gin.

Gillian woke to a throbbing headache and the raucous sound of male laughter. All her senses seemed dim, as if she struggled through water to consciousness, but she was sure she could smell the stale scent of sweat and gin as if they were right beside her.

She did not move. She did not dare risk inflaming the already overwhelming pain from her temple. So she kept still and concentrated on what she could guess of her surroundings. She lay on her side, presumably on a soft bed, for she felt a mattress and damp sheets beneath her. Except for her head, she felt mostly unharmed, almost whole except for a heavy weight on her wrists.

She cracked open her eyes, flinching at the sudden stab of candlelight. It took another moment for her sight to adjust to the wavering light so she could look at her hands.

Shackles. Someone had fastened cold iron fetters across her wrists. And that someone watched her from a chair directly beside her bed.

"Wakey, wakey, ladybird."

Gillian blinked, the coarse voice jolting her into awareness. She had memories of that voice, fragments of thoughts encased in darkness. Had she been climbing down the trellis?

" 'Ere yer are, tart. Drink up."

Suddenly her head was tilted backward and the hard neck of a bottle clanked against her teeth. Foul-smelling gin gushed into her mouth. She swallowed reflexively, then gagged on the burning liquid, twisting her head in an effort to knock it away.

"'Ey now! Don't go wasting good rot." He took a swig, swallowing with loud gulps before smacking his lips in satisfaction. Then, with a gap-toothed smile, he settled on the bed beside her. " 'Ave some more."

"No—" The word was a soft gasp, but he would not listen, already intent on pouring more of it down her throat. This time she was ready for him. She remembered what Tom said about people stealing young girls and getting them drunk for days on end until they forgot everything except their next taste of gin. Tom told her how to fool them, how to pretend to drink, but not swallow, letting the gin spill to the side of her neck.

Unfortunately, knowing and doing were two different things, and though she at least did not half drown in the vile stuff, she was forced to swallow a few mouthfuls before spilling the rest.

" 'At's a good girl."

Gillian was still trying to catch her breath, but when she did, she glared up at her captor. "It is vile!"

"Aye. But ye'll soon be beggin' me fer it."

Gillian let her head drop weakly back onto the mattress, only half pretending exhaustion. Her memories finally returned, and with them came the certain knowledge she was in dire straits. She had been abducted by this man and presumably taken to some bawdy house for initiation into her new life. That would explain the soft moans filtering through the walls and the explicit drawings on the wallpaper surrounding the bed.

She searched her still-foggy memory for anything else Tom had told her that might help. Nothing, except what she would have thought of in the first place: drink as little as possible and pretend to be weaker than she was. Fettered and watched, she had little hope of escape before Stephen found her.

"My guardian will be furious when he finds me."

Bullard laughed, the sound echoing harshly off the thin walls. "Yer guardian ain't gonna find you."

Gillian looked up at her captor, forcing herself to see past his grimy clothing, the matted beard, and his few yellow teeth. She focused on the dull brown of his eyes. "My guardian will find me. And when he does, he will kill you." She paused, trying to hold his gaze. "You had best make your deal with me now, before he gets here."

He blinked, and for a moment she thought she might have gotten through to him, but a second later he stood, tugging open his ragged breeches with a harsh cackle. "You ain't got nothing left to bargain with, ladybird."

Gillian felt her breath freeze in her chest as she realized his intention. For the first time since waking up, she faced the possibility that Stephen might not arrive in time to help her. Bullard stepped forward, grabbing the gin as he moved, and she recoiled, her hands moving backward on the sheets.

And she touched something thin and sharp.

A hairpin! She did not know if it was hers or some other poor unfortunate's, but however it got there, she was eternally grateful. It would be awkward, but given enough time she knew she could pick the lock on her shackles.

The problem was finding the time.

She eyed the man Tom had called Bullard, seeing his Adam's apple bob up and down as he poured half the bottle of gin down his grizzled throat. He was half-drunk and liable to get even more so before the evening was over.

Good. She had handled drunken men before—most especially her own father and his cronies. The first step was to gain some measure of authority. Remind them of a stern grand dame, and they all seemed to quiver. But that meant sitting up, and between the gin and her pounding head, she was not at all sure she could do it.

Bullard set down the bottle and came closer, advancing slowly on her in what he clearly thought was an attractive male swagger. It only made her feel nauseous. She took a deep breath and pushed herself up, neatly catching the hairpin and twisting it into the lock as she moved.

Pain lanced through her head, and the world spun about her. She felt light-headed and hot, then cold and clammy in alternating waves. And still Bullard kept coming.

"I am going to be ill," she said in a gasp.

That stopped him, at least for a moment. He took one look at her face, then twisted away for the nearby bucket. He hauled it over to her, and she felt her stomach roil until it heaved. She prolonged the agony, pretending to rest as she took shaky breaths, all the while twisting her shackles into her skirt to hide her work with the hairpin.

" 'Ere. This'll settle yer stomach." He tilted her head back and poured more gin down her throat. She tried to jerk away, but he held her head fast, and she was powerless to stop the first few swallows. She wished she could get ill again, but the burning sensation in her throat did indeed hold back the nausea. And he insisted she finish the rest of the bottle.

Ten minutes later, she was soaked through with gin. Although she managed not to drink much, her head still whirled and the world seemed softer, almost fuzzy as her thoughts drifted.

" 'At's better, ain't it?" He sounded almost gentle, and though she knew it was an act, she pretended to accept his newfound kindness. She smiled at him, her movements vague, as if she were lulled into a gin-induced euphoria.

"You want a job?"

He blinked. "Wot?"

She smiled and lifted her head slowly, her words gauged to keep him off balance as she continued to fiddle with the hairpin. "You need not live like this, you know. Preying off of young boys, stealing girls. There is a better life available to you."

He stared at her, his face slowly splitting into his yellowed grin. This time she did not even flinch at the smell of his breath. "Wot, you think Prinny 'as a spot on 'is council fer me? Shall I give 'im advice on 'is tailoring?" His laughter was loud, pounding against her head until she flinched.

"I can get you a job," she persevered. "You can work in the earl's household—"

"And wot would his nibs want with me?"

"You could work in the mews or as a footman. Eventually you might even be butler." She twisted to look directly at him while moving the lock to a better angle. "It would be an honest job and a chance for a better life."

He stared at her, his eyes wide. Then he broke into a deep laugh that had him falling backward onto the sheets. "Wot should I say then? Yes, yer nibs, no, yer holy nibs. Bless your bleeding pisser, yer nibs.'"

Gillian lifted her chin, stung by his blatant refusal. "I am serious. I have enormous influence with the earl. I could get you an honest job." She tried not to blanch at so huge a lie.

He sat up, his eyes suddenly cold. "I got yer job all ready fer ye, ladybird. And I don't want no more yammering."

She took a deep breath, striving for a calm she did not feel. "You have to trust somebody sometime, Bullard. You can try for a better life."

He clenched his teeth, his eyes narrow and feral. Suddenly she realized she had badly misjudged the situation. Offering help to a boy Tom's age was one thing, but Bullard was too far gone to listen to her.

And her time had just run out. He leaned over her, trapping her between the thick columns of his arms.

Snick.

The shackles sprang open. She was free.

She did not waste any time. Throwing the heavy irons into Bullard's face, she bolted for the door. The room swam, and she felt heavy and slow, but she staggered forward. Behind her, she heard Bullard howl in rage, barreling toward her with the power of an enraged beast.

She made it to the door a second before him, hauling on the latch only to find it locked. Idiot! she railed at herself. She should have realized it would be secured against her.

Slamming herself sideways, she narrowly avoided Bullard's grasping hands. Her only other hope was the window, and she dashed toward it as fast as her wobbly legs could stumble.

Barred.

The window was barred closed. Then she felt Bullard's heavy fists grab her hair, dragging her backward as she screamed in frustration and fear.

His hands were brutal on her body as he lifted her upward and threw her onto the bed, his face split by an evil grin. "Scream away, ladybird. Ain't none wot will come to you now. Not even yer bleeding, holy nibs."

Gillian scrambled backward on the bed, grabbing the shackles as her only weapon. She held them high, gasping for air as she waited for an opening. Her only hope was to knock him unconscious in a single blow. She would not get another chance.

He grinned, anticipating her move, even relishing the challenge.

CRASH!

The door burst inward, and Bullard spun around, ready for the new threat. Gillian did not wait to see who arrived. It had to be Stephen, thank heaven, but just in case it was someone else, she swung the iron fetters hard, slamming them into Bullard's temple, then waited for him to crumple.

He did not. He bellowed in rage and raised his massive fists toward her. She tried to jump away, but she was blocked in by the wall, her feet twisted awkwardly in the sheets.

Then Stephen entered the fray.

Bullard's massive fists were still in the air when Stephen jerked him off balance and flattened him with a powerful right cross. The villain raised his arms in defense, but he never had the chance. Stephen struck him time after time until Bullard was nothing more than a bloody mass on the floor.

Gillian could only watch in shock until Stephen finally stopped. He stood still, his fists clenched, his breath coming in angry gasps.