Willing (2 page)

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, extending a hand to her, eyebrows raised in wait of introduction.

She took his hand and shook it firmly. His brows went up, appraisingly. “Constance, your lordship.”

He lifted her hand to kiss it, but stopped. “Lordship? What makes you say such a thing?”

She smiled. She could feel the men’s attention shifting toward her now. “Your posture, the texture of the skin on your hand, and the ring on your finger. Takes more than riding clothes to hide high breeding in a place like this, m’lord.”

He smirked, staring a moment, then kissed the back of her hand. “Please, Constance. Will you sit with us a moment?”

She did, settling into the dark eyed man’s seat. The four quiet men finally began to look her in the eye, each appraising her, each almost suspicious. It was clear they were unaccustomed to such a place. She chuckled.

“This your first time then, lads?”

They shifted uncomfortably, but the dark eyed man just laughed, then dropped into the chair beside her. He set a hat on the table and planted an elbow beside it, turning to give her his full attention. His dark hair was smoothed back, falling just past his ears, and the smell of his pomade hit her, suddenly. It was rather pleasant.

“Might I ask you a few questions?”

Constance shimmied in her seat, getting comfortable. “You may.”

The man leaned in. “Where were you born?”

“Right here in London.”

“Do you have any family in the city?”

“I do not.”

A drunk girl burst into uproarious laughter and Berty began to yell from the bar, sending the girl upstairs with her customer.

“How long have you worked in such an establishment?”

“Several years. The exact timeframe is none of your business.”

He raised a brow, but did not skip a beat. “Are you literate?”

Constance glared at him a moment. “I am.”

“Where were you educated?”

“Oh, in the best schools, I assure you.”

He smirked. “Please Constance. I’m curious.”

Constance took a deep breath. “I learned from the books my brother brought home from school, if you must know.”

“Did you, now? Your brother was educated, then?”

“He was - for a time. Wouldn’t you be better suited asking where I learned to ride a cock? Isn’t that a far more pressing subject?”

The man’s stern gaze shifted, and he leaned back in his chair. “You are as intriguing as the madam professed.”

She snorted, softly. “Did she now?”

The men suddenly shifted, turning their attention toward the room, their backs to her.

“We have a proposition for you, my dear.”

“Then propose, m’lord. It’s rather late.”

He smiled. “We are in need of a woman of your talents.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“We have a carriage waiting outside to take you to our destination where you will be most welcome.”

She stiffened. “Destination?”

“It is my home. I am having a bit of a gathering this evening, and that gathering requires just such a creature as yourself.”

Constance glared at him. “Will I be serving drinks in the buff, then?”

He raised his brow and smirked. “No. Not quite.”

Constance stared at him a moment, meeting his gaze with unwavering confidence. “Fine. You pay by the hour. Price is tripled for me to leave the brothel, and each lad pays for their own time. And I require an accompanying guard to assure my safety - who will also require pay.”

The dark man’s eyes went wide, considering her. His lips betrayed a smile as he gestured to his companions. They were up and out the door with unnerving grace.

“Your stipulations are more than agreeable, my dear.”

Constance’s mouth fell open before she could catch herself. She’d expected an argument. “Well, I’m glad.”

He stood again, waving across the room to Berty. Constance turned in time to see her frown before she rounded the bar. Constance let the dark eyed man wrap his riding cloak around her and rose from the table. He offered her his arm, and as several of the nearby girls watched, Constance took it and let him lead her outside.

Chapter Two

Roger Tims soon joined her in the waiting carriage, stubbornly agreeing to be the muscle that Berty sent as her insurance policy from time to time. Her ‘patrons’ left her to ride alone, climbing into a separate carriage up ahead.

The ride was relatively smooth, creaking and clomping its way through the streets of Whitechapel, then beyond. She settled into her seat, resting her shoulder against the wall of the carriage, watching the world change out her window. They hit a rough patch that lasted several minutes as the view out her window went from cobblestone streets, to mist laden fields, grey and silver in the moonlight. They’d ridden for close to an hour when the carriage driver hollered for the horses to stop.

Constance sat in the dark space, Roger’s nose whistling as he breathed beside her. She glanced over at him, finding him asleep. Roger had short dark hair, hidden under a wide brimmed hat, his handlebar mustache finely waxed and curled. She considered reaching over and straightening an end, letting him look a fool when they arrived to their destination - Roger in his brown suit and hat, his mustache sprouting like eyes from a potato, reaching for the sky.

The door to the carriage opened before she could move and the dark eyed man stood just outside. Roger startled awake and the dark man stepped aside, gesturing to Roger. Roger climbed out of the carriage, leaving Constance alone with the stranger. She swallowed.

Without his cloak, his high breeding was clear. His dark suit was tailored perfectly, his coat tails starched and straight. He swept them aside as he sat next to her, pounding his fist into the ceiling of the carriage to signal the driver. The carriage jostled back into motion, and the man turned to her.

“Name,” Constance said before he could speak.

He stopped, startled. “What was that?”

“Doesn’t have to be your real name, as I understand discretion, but I would like to have a name by which to call you, if I might.”

The dark eyed man narrowed his eyes. “Alisdair. You may call me Alisdair.”

“Alright, Alisdair.”

He paused, smirking. “Constance?”

“Yes?”

“How are you at taking directions?”

She chuckled. “I am quite good at it, actually. When I want to be. Wouldn’t know it to look at me though, right?”

He smiled. “There are rules for this evening that I need you to follow.”

She paused. “Alright.”

“It is absolutely imperative that you do as I say, can you assure me of that?”

“Are you paying me to do otherwise?”

He stared at her a moment. “No, I am not.”

“Then I think I can manage. Thank you.”

Alisdair scratched his chin, the corner of his mouth curled up just so. “We will arrive at the estate in silence. You are not to speak, not to question or make a motion unless commanded to do so.”

Constance made to speak, but he continued.

“If I ask you a question, you may respond. If I command you to speak, I will tell you what to say.”

“I see.”

“You will be told where to go and what to do. At no time are you to look anyone in the eye or speak to anyone but myself. Am I understood?”

“You are.”

“If someone other than myself attempts to speak to you or make requests of you, simply walk away. Come to me, but do not speak.”

Constance swallowed. “Shall I cease speaking now?”

He chuckled. “You may speak now, but once we arrive – once the footman opens the carriage door, you are mute.”

“Had you told Berty you required a mute, I assure you, she’d have suggested someone else.”

Alisdair shot her a jovial glare. “I didn’t require a mute, I required a mind.”

“Desired for my mind? How rare.”

“Where were you educated, if I may ask? Please answer this time.”

She sighed. “I wasn’t.”

He watched her face, his brow furrowed. “You cannot hide your intelligence, Constance. It’s clear you’ve had learning.”

“I have, but as I said, the learning I acquired came from books, not from school.”

“Self-educated, then?”

“Indeed.”

He turned his attention to his hands. “Interesting. Your parentage, then?”

This was a strange question to be asked of a patron. “My father was a clerk, worked to put my older brother in the best schools -”

“But not you?”

She smiled. “Well, he died before I was of school age. Brother worked to care for us from there.”

“How did you end up in Berty’s establishment, then?”

Constance watched his face. It was strange to be asked such a question on this very day – the anniversary. “My brother and mother died when I was seventeen. Consumption.”

“Aah, such a terrible disease.”

“Certainly.”

“Could you have not worked elsewhere? A girl of your mind could -”

“I didn’t rush headlong into the brothel, if that’s what you think.”

He shook his head, palms displayed in apology, but she didn’t let him speak.

“I did try. Could have done a good number of things, perhaps married some miserable bloke, but the only room I could afford was in one of the Grisholm houses. Worked as many hours as there were in a day and barely made enough to pay rent. Meanwhile, these idiot girls were making rent and laying about all day in their underthings while I looked like a fool. Was only a matter of time, really.”

This was almost true. She didn’t think he needed to know more – nor wanted to.

“Would you change it, if you could?”

Constance couldn’t help, but laugh. She shrugged. “I don’t think I would. Not yet, anyway.”

“Really? Why is that?”

The carriage jolted and shifted beneath them. They’d stopped.

“Because, as it turns out, I really like sex.”

Alisdair’s eyes went wide just as the carriage door opened. The footman bowed to them, stepping aside to allow Alisdair to exit. He climbed down the steps, then turned, holding out his arm to her. She let him help her down the stairs.

The word ‘estate’ did not properly describe the palace she found before her. The stone face of the home was decorated with great stone pillars, framing a grand staircase that led to the open doors. The stairs and the path to the house were lit by torches, all burning away on spires or held by the doormen. There were several carriages parked along the driveway, their horses being led to a nearby stable for rest. Constance swallowed, wanting to ask after the display. She quickly remembered herself and her orders; she wasn’t to speak.

She stood aside and the horses clomped off, leading the carriage away. She stood there, the pebbles of the path grinding under her feet, and stared up at the palatial estate. Its interior glowed gold, taunting and tempting her in.

Alisdair returned to her side, offering his arm to her again. She glanced up to him, hoping to share her thoughts by her expression alone. The desire was forgotten when she looked up find his face covered by a mask, the dark eyes still beautiful beneath. She glanced down at her corset, the laces dingy and worn with time. She straightened and took his arm.

The house was lit by candles, hundreds of them, in sconces on the walls or in holders on the tables. The doorman took her cloak, leaving her there in her corset and dress, feeling exposed suddenly in that grand place. Alisdair led her down a long hallway, coming to high double doors. He knocked three times.

The doors opened from within to show a grand ballroom, glowing in gold. There were candles in the chandeliers overhead, candles along the walls, and most unnerving were the large circle of figures, all in robes and hoods. They all held candles of their own, their faces hidden by masks. Constance faltered at the doorway as Alisdair tried to lead her inside. He turned toward her, meeting her gaze for an instant, a stern look of expectation – and a hint of beseeching - that reminded her of their agreement.

Alisdair led her right through the center of the crowd, each masked face watching them, their candles casting flickering light across the marble floor. She kept her eyes straight, remembering not to look anyone in the eye, despite feeling their attention upon her. Some of the hooded figures were taller than others, and she began to feel certain she wasn’t the only woman present. Yet, these other women were of higher breeding, she was sure. Alisdair stopped at the center of the room, coming to stand before a high stone table. He released her arm and turned to face her, casting his arms out to draw the attention of all.

“Brothers and Sisters. We have our altar.”

The masked figures spoke in low monotone, words jumbled and echoing off the high walls, too low for her to understand.

“We must honor her, accordingly.”

Alisdair looked down at her, betraying the slightest smile. She quickly averted her eyes.

“Disrobe.”

Constance startled at this command. She glanced around, letting herself look no higher than each person’s feet, and quickly counted thirteen figures. Thirteen men and women all standing around waiting for her to bare her ass. She took a deep breath and reached for her corset laces. She sighed as the corset came loose, letting her stomach and chest relax. A dark haired footman lunged forward to take the garment from her as another lighter haired one quickly lifted the hem of her dress and helped pull it up over her head. She didn’t have time to protest as they pulled it from her arms. The blond footman tugged at the drawstring of her pantaloons and they fell past her hips, baring the dark hair between her legs. The darker one gathered her clothes neatly and they both flitted away as quietly as they’d come, leaving her to stand at the center of the room, naked. She let her hands fall at her sides, refusing to betray even a hint of trepidation.

Alisdair held her gaze now, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. He turned with a flourish and rounded the high table, coming to stand at its head, his arms out. The dark haired footman rushed up behind him, helping him into his own robe. He did not pull the hood over his head like the rest.

“Bring the vessel forward.”

Two robed figures appeared at her arms and led her toward the table. One dropped to his knees at her feet, coming to settle on all fours. She opened her mouth to ask what on earth he was doing, but Alisdair stopped her.

“Please, take your place on the altar.”

Her brow furrowed as she looked down at the kneeling man, the other figure coaxing her upward. Constance did as she was expected, planted her foot squarely on the bent man’s back, and climbed up on the high table. The surface was brutally cold against her bare backside. She stifled a yelp at the sensation, catching a reprimanding glare from Alisdair. The figures gently moved her on the table, making her lie down before Alisdair, her arms at her sides. She was completely bared to him. Though the table was cold, she steeled herself against it, fighting the urge to shiver.

“Bring forward the athame and chalice.”

Constance stared at the ornate ceiling overhead, keeping her eyes focused. She was adamant that she follow Alisdair’s orders, earn her keep, but her heart was racing. There wasn’t a bed in sight, no drunk and naked men pawing at her, coming from something as simple as friction in their drunken and exhausted state. She swallowed the knot forming in her throat.

The knife appeared at her side and all semblance of calm was gone. Constance surged on the table, turning to lunge away from Alisdair’s reach, but there were hands at her arms and legs instantly, pinning her down to the table. She screamed, but a hand was soon clamped over her mouth, stifling her cries. She fought against the hands that held her, watching Alisdair raise the knife over her. Then he set it beside her on the table. Next he held a goblet high over her, speaking in soft tones, a language she couldn’t understand.

She glared up at him, the hand still held over her mouth, causing her breath to come in angry snorts through her nose. He looked down at her, his masked face smiling, then took up the knife as she growled in protest. He pressed it to his hand and sliced his own fingertip.

He barely winced as the blood appeared along the edge of the blade. Then he began to speak. The figures in the room responded to his foreign words with a string of their own, the silence thereafter still carrying a hint of the sound.

Constance watched him, terrified, waiting for the knife to touch her skin, to pierce her body. She knew stories of girls like her meeting such bloody ends. She’d known one of the girls that died by the Ripper, and many of the johns that came to the Keg and Barrel knew the others. Now, she lay in a room full of high born lunatics, and they were waiting with bated breath to see her harmed, just like so many other girls of her kind. Bastards, the lot of them.

Alisdair set the knife down, then held his bloodied fingertip over the glass. His blood fell into the cup with a near silent ‘plip.’ He turned to the dark haired footman, handing the knife and chalice back to him. The hand that held her mouth loosened, then with a gesture from Alisdair, left completely.

“You son of a -”