Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) (8 page)

"Bond Street," the earl said, without turning his head.

Even I had heard of this enclave of exclusive boutiques. 'Twas where the upper classes came to gambol—and certainly no place for one such as me. With a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, I began to recite arguments in my head. As it turned out, I did not need them. Not at our intended stop, anyway. My employer swore when he saw the boarded up door to the charming brick house.

"I suppose we should head back then, my lord?" I tried not to sound too cheerful. "In truth, this place is too fine for the likes for me. I shouldn't feel comfortable—"

He cut me off with a speaking look and issued a terse command to the driver. Nothing stopped his lordship for long. Less than ten minutes later, we arrived at a second destination. I was relieved to see that we had departed the haughty stretch of Bond Street for a well-maintained but more modest neighborhood. Nonetheless, as the carriage slowed to a stop, I tried once again to dissuade him.

"Perhaps the earlier shop being closed was a sign, my lord," I said. "Truly, I have no need of—"

"Nonsense," he replied with an irritable glance in my direction. "'Twas no sign but that of Madame du Bois' ill-managed business practices. From what she charges, she ought to be flush in the account rather than hiding from creditors. But there are plenty of fish in the fashionable sea. Ah, excellent." Grim satisfaction entered his voice. "Mrs. Cunningham is still here, and she's nothing if not discreet."

I looked at the shop. There was no doubt of its elegance, even from the outside. But something about it stirred a sense of disquiet. From beneath the scarlet awnings, two windows stared out like vacant eyes. The poppies in the window boxes ought to have been cheerful; instead, their heads splashed like blood against the whitewashed front.

"Please, Hux, let us not stop here," I whispered.

His mouth twitched at my desperate use of his name, but he gave no other indication that he had heard me. He handed me down and steered me forward. Opening the glossy red door, he said, "In you go, my girl."

Though the day was bright, little light slipped inside the shop. The front parlor was dark and hushed. My sturdy heels sunk into the mossy carpet as I stood there, looking at the vine-covered wallpaper and the heavy wood furniture set by the fireplace. A clerk dressed in black led us to the sitting area and brought tea in china cups. As my employer gave crisp instructions, I looked into the roaring flames, my sense of foreboding fanning higher and higher.

Moments later, the proprietress herself appeared. That she was fashionable, there was no doubt. Tall and thin, she wore a morning dress of dark gold, the linen sleeves and collar dripping with fine lace. Her black hair was divided fashionably in the middle with coils hanging over her ears. Her painted red lips parted in a wide smile as we stood to meet her.

"Earl Huxton! Welcome, welcome. 'Tis been an age since you last visited my humble establishment. Not since ..."—her smile widened—"well, it has been at least half dozen years, has it not? Before your nuptials, of that I am certain. Oh—but forgive me! May I offer my sincere and belated condolences on your loss?"

To my surprise, my employer ignored her extended hand and nodded curtly. "Good day, Mrs. Cunningham. I trust business is well. This is Miss Jones, my secretary."

I bobbed a curtsy.

Mrs. Cunningham's black eyes latched onto me, raking me from head to toe. Her thin brows climbed. "Your secretary, my lord? How ... unusual. But lovely, in her own way. The pure skin, the softness of her features. And the eyes, they speak of such innocence, such sorrow. I can see how they must draw at a gentleman's soul."

"I merely arrange his lordship's library," I hastened to explain, "and assist in managing his social affairs—"

"Why of course you do, dear." Her expression reminded me of the painting in the library. Smug, rapacious. "And what a fine assistant you must be."

"That is enough, Clarice," my employer said with quiet menace. "Miss Jones is my secretary, and you will treat her with respect. Do your job with the discretion for which you are known, or I shall take my business elsewhere. Is that understood?"

"Of course, my lord." I caught the flash in Mrs. Cunningham's eyes, but her lashes lowered quickly. When she raised them again, this time at me, the orbs held a smirking gleam. "Come back then, little dove, and I shall see you properly outfitted. Will you be joining us, my lord?"

I stared at her. Surely she was not suggesting that the earl accompany us to my fitting? 'Twas outlandish, the very thought of it. A gentleman present during my state of undress ... I turned to my employer, certain he would give her a set down for suggesting so squalid a thing.

His brows descended, but he said only, "A dozen dresses to start. And whatever else she needs to wear with them." He looked at my cloak, and I was again made aware of its threadbare patches. "And for God's sake, something to keep her warm."

Mrs. Cunningham bowed, her lips spreading wide, I was sure, at the thought of the fatted calf being proffered to her.

"My lord," I said urgently, "I have no need of such—"

"Go, Miss Jones." His tone booked no refusal. "I have business to attend to and will return for you in an hour's time."

Mrs. Cunningham took my arm in a firm grasp. As she steered me into the back of the shop, I saw it was larger than I had supposed from the front. Here, there seemed to be a labyrinth of darkened rooms, some of them not quite completed.

"We are in the midst of renovation," the dressmaker said. "To accommodate my clientele. Business is booming, and one must keep up with the times. Here, this room will do."

The walls of the chamber were papered in an oriental motif of red and gold. Bamboo furniture and a screen painted with peacocks contributed to the suffocating exoticism. It was far more decadent than I would have expected of a fitting room. But the large cheval glass in front of the raised platform indicated that such was its use, as did the table piled with bolts of fabric.

Mrs. Cunningham waved me over to the single chair. "Remove your boots and have a step up."

Despite my feeling of unease, I did as I was told. 'Twas just the nerves of a first experience, I reassured myself. I had never been to a dressmaker's before. Aunt Agnes and I had sewn our own clothes or made over those abandoned by the ladies at the school. In fact, I had never undressed before anyone but my aunt and Ginny, my roommate. Then the image flashed into my mind's eye, of me untying my robe, of Hux over me, his hands against my bare skin—

"Stockings, too," the proprietress said, as she gathered the tools of her trade. "What a charming blush you have, little dear. Such a piquant shade of pink. Do you appear so all over?"

Unable to formulate a response to such a question, I stepped onto the platform. Its red covering welled lushly between my bare toes.

"Come, come, Miss Jones. There are only us two here, and both of us women of the world. There's no need for false modesty."

The woman in the reflection raised her chin. "'Tis not false, Mrs. Cunningham."

"Ah, virtue as well as innocence. No wonder his lordship could not resist offering you a, ahem,
position
. Earl Huxton has always had the most exacting of tastes. Of all my clients, he has always provided the finest raw materials to work with."

Raw materials? What did she mean? And why would Hux be a regular client of hers?

As I mulled over the possibilities (all of them provocative), she slid behind me. I recoiled at the touch of her fingers at my nape. Thankfully, she undid the hooks with expert speed. She pulled off the dark garment, and I stood, arms hugged around my chest, trembling in my unmentionables. In the bright lamplight, there was no hiding the bedraggled state of my corset and thin, oft-mended petticoat.

"Ah." In the looking glass, her eyes flashed with alien fire. My breath caught, and I twisted my head back to look at her. But there was only her knowing black gaze, the Roman nose, the too large mouth. She walked back and forth behind me, taking me in from all angles. "So now we see the assets you have been hiding beneath this bombazine abomination. But this is better than expected. Nice bosoms,
very
nice waist. Not much for hips, but nothing a bit of padding won't help. A French corset can see to that."

"I don't need a French corset," I said firmly, "nor anything beyond a modest frock. I wish to be garbed as befitting my station."

"Of course, dear, of course. 'Tis part of your charm, this plain demeanor which hides the passionate creature within." I tried not to squirm as her hands skimmed down my sides, as her lusty chuckle sounded near my ear. "Ah, but methinks the beast wants out of her cage. Let's take her dimensions, shall we?"

She pulled at a loop of satin draped around her neck. It was the length of a measuring tape, but its width was unusual—at least five inches thick—as was its ruby color. There were no markings on it that I could see.

I frowned. "What kind of measuring tape is that?"

"Oh, one of my own invention," she said, smiling. "It has all sorts of useful functions. But first we'll have to remove your undergarments."

"Remove my—" I swallowed as panic pulsed over my skin. "Surely that isn't necessary."

"Why of course it is, little dove. We'll just—"

There was a timid scratch on the door. It cracked open, and the clerk's voice filtered through. "Mrs. Cunningham?"

"Damn it, Kitty. Haven't I told you never to interrupt when I'm with a client?"

"Begging your pardon, Missus. But there's a bit of a ... problem. It requires your personal attention. Directly, if you please."

In the reflection, I saw creases form around the dressmaker's mouth. No doubt in response to the urgency in Kitty's voice. "Hold tight a moment then, Miss Jones. I shall be right back."

So saying, she draped the satin over my neck. I did not hear the rest of her words, nor witness her departure from the room. The world suddenly contracted into a dreaded prism of colors. The intensity pierced me, needles of painful heat and brightness. I did not move to rub my eyes, for the vision came not from those earthly orbs but a more sinister place. A darkness that welled from my soul. Terror overtook my breath as madness claimed me once more.

ELEVEN

I was in a shadowy cave. No, not a cave: its walls were printed damask. 'Twas the glow of a single table lamp which created the illusion of a dome. Next to the table was a chair. Upon the chair was a man, his back to me, his front oddly facing the wall. I could see nothing of him but the dark slick of his hair and the downward slant of his shoulders. They were shuddering beneath the pale fabric of his coat. A lurid ménage of wine and sweat assaulted my nostrils. And underlying that, the paralyzing scent, the one that signaled my captivity in madness.

The smoky floral smell grew stronger and stronger until it singed my senses. I could not move, so heavy were my limbs. Memory faded, fogged over by the sweet, acrid burning, petals bursting to flame.

"What do you think of the view, my lord?"

Every hair stirred at the sound of Mrs. Cunningham's voice. Only it was not only hers—but mine as well. I could feel myself being pulled from the shadows, moving with slithering grace toward the figure in the chair. Her fingers—my own—slid over the man's shoulders, massaging, stroking, our lips hovering by his ear.

"Lean closer, my lord, and take a good look. Is she not as I promised? A fresh English rose, ripe for the plucking."

The man's panting shivered down my spine. He pressed closer to the wall. All at once, I understood what he was doing, and my stomach gave a greasy lunge.

"Look at her tits. How full they are, how delicate pink the nipples." Our breath stirred the dark hair over the man's ear. "Wouldn't you like to touch them, my lord? To feel all that sumptuous softness in your palms?"

His head bobbed like a well-trained pet's.

"Watch Kitty's hands. They're your hands, aren't they? Touching her ladyship's lovely white skin. The daughter of a marquess, she is, but she wants it as badly as any trollop. Look at how her thighs are trembling."

The man's face was now plastered against the wall. I knew he was watching the scene I had described, seeing his lurid fantasies unfold from the secret viewing hole. My palms grew clammy and cold even as my tongue snaked out, curling around the man's ear. He shuddered with excitement. I was enveloping him with shadow, with the words flowing from my lips. Fabric rustled beneath my fingers.

"Ah, what a man you are, my lord. Your rod is a monster—the biggest I've seen. How it twitches. It wants for a good fuck, doesn't it? It wants to poke between those shy dimpled thighs. To feel that creamy virginal cunt. And once she feels this fine prick, how she'll beg for it. She'll scream as you give her a good hard ramming—"

He was groaning now, in rhythm to the lascivious suggestions and the rapid jerking of my arm. With my other hand, I reached to my neck—unwound a gleaming length of rose-red satin I knew to be there. As I lowered that silken loop toward the man's lap, something nudged against my mind. A memory, a thought. What was it? Something that I needed to do, to remember—lucidity flashed then, a star blazing across the dark universe. The blinking of dawn just before the night swallowed me whole.

With all my strength, I threw the satin noose from me.

*****

The wild-eyed creature in the looking glass stared at me. She was dressed in a ragged corset and petticoat, a coil of red ribbon just beyond her bare toes. She was shaking, her hair undone and falling over her bare shoulders to her waist.

She was me.

With a jolt, I snapped into my earthly body. I could feel the heart thundering in my chest, the dizzying rush of blood in my veins. My vision cleared; I saw where I was, knew who I was. My fingernails bit into my palms, and the crescents of pain felt good, vital because I was alive and sane once again. Then I heard the voices, coming from beyond the door but nearing with each step. Mrs. Cunningham was returning.

Panic ignited my actions. I snatched my dress from the table. There was no time to put it on, or to do the laces on my boots. Throwing the bombazine over my shoulders, I stumbled barefoot to the door. I wrenched it open. The voices grew louder, coming from the corner to the left. I took off in the opposite direction.

I ran as I had never done before. My feet skidded across the wooden planks as I turned another corner and another. How far did this maze of rooms extend? I knew not what awaited at the final destination, I just kept running, away from Mrs. Cunningham and her satin tape and the sweet burning evidence of my madness. I heard raised voices, a cry of alarm. I had a minute, mayhap two, of freedom. Should I hide in one of the darkened rooms? Keep going? My body did not want to stop. Then I saw it, and my heart lifted.

Praise God, a window that let in the light. Next to it, a door.

I grabbed the knob. It would not turn. I rattled it as a desperate animal does the door of its cage. To no avail. The footsteps were nearing, louder, reverberating beneath my feet. I tugged my dress off my shoulders and wound it around my fist. I smashed through the pane of glass. Shards exploded, tinkling onto the gravel outside. I cleared the edges of the window sill once more and hoisted myself through.

I gasped as pain bit into the bottoms of my feet. But there was no time to stop. Limping, I turned right down the narrow alleyway. 'Twas dark and humid here, the bowels of industry filled with heaps of rubbish and crawling vermin. The smell of excrement festered in my nostrils as I hobbled on with desperate speed. My heart stuttered at a sudden, high-pitched sound.

"Wot you goin' so fast fer, luv?"

From atop one of the rubbish piles, a dirt-streaked boy winked at me. More pale faces peered out from the swarming mounds. My chest constricted with horrified pity.

Children. By the looks of it living here, in the filth.

A shout whipped my head back. I saw them: Mrs. Cunningham and Kitty, their faces blurred by distance. They were waving their arms and yelling after me. I did not pause to catch their words. With feral focus, I pushed forward, heedless of pity, of pain and fatigue. I could see the alley's end now. A vertical beam of light that flickered with movement.

Carriages passing. People. Safety.

The noises of the street grew closer. I was almost there. My lungs straining, I plunged into the light.

A thundering came at me from the left—an enormous dark shape bearing upon me. With instinctive speed, I threw myself out of harm's way. My shoulder hit the cobblestones with breath-stopping force. Pain lanced through my arm, my side. I struggled to sit up, a wave of nausea smudging my vision. A sea of shouting faces surrounded me. I felt something grab hold of my arm. I pulled free, somehow stumbling to my feet.

The world spun around me. I needed to keep going, to push onward, to get away. I forced my legs into action as the roar of the mob blurred into color and shape.

She came out o' nowhere
—
I didn't see 'er, I swears it
...

I made it one step, two.

Slatternly disgrace, that's wot I calls it. A gin whore, no doubt, an' in daylight, too.

I had to keep going, keep moving, couldn't stop ...

Behold Satan's consort! Mark me words, children
—
she's possessed, she is. The bride o' the devil walkin' among us. Well, she'll pay for her wickedness. May her soul burn in all the fires of hell!

They surrounded me. I thrashed out wildly as I was lifted from my feet, the world tilting, dissolving into haze. Shouts, jeers faded in my wavering awareness. With the last thread of consciousness, I tried to see the face of my attackers. I glimpsed blue fire. A thought blazoned through the mist of pain:
Can't let him know.

Then the darkness came, and I let go.