Lady in Red (5 page)

How utterly stupid. How very, very stupid.
Of course
he would pursue her here. The moment he learned of her disappearance, he would hunt her down like a base criminal. When he found her, he would send her back. Back to that place where each day had been a nightmare of pain.

“What is this plan of yours?” she whispered, though at this moment she couldn’t imagine anything that would save her.

Yvonne crossed to a pink-marble-topped table, laden with crystal-cut bottles of liquor. She poured amber liquid into two matching stout glasses. Holding her counsel, she crossed her chamber. As she lowered herself before Mary, the folds of her gown and hoops whooshed over Mary’s legs.

“Take it.” Yvonne held out one of the glasses.

Mary clasped the cool crystal in her hand. “What do you propose?”

Studying her glass, Yvonne cleared her throat. “Mary, my dear, I know you have been through a great trial, but I must ask—” She took a long swallow of her drink. Once she had eased the snifter to her lap, she inquired bluntly, “Do you think you could bed a man?”

Mary flinched. An image of large fists hitting and yanking assailed her. Then searing pain. She forced the nauseating recollection back into the trunk where she kept all such terrifying memories. Before they could come to full life.

“I can see that you have been forced into pleasuring others with your body.”

What on earth was she to say to that? That, yes, she had been degraded and treated as less than human? The words wouldn’t pass her lips. Not ever. If she didn’t speak them, perhaps one day she could truly come to believe they weren’t true.

Mary lifted her own glass and swallowed. Hard. Several swift gulps allowed her to savor the heat of the spicy brandy trailing down to her stomach. “It was horrid,” she said simply, then added, “It was punishment.”

“I am sorry. Though most likely not to the same level of hurt as yourself, I, too, have been forced.” Yvonne laughed hollowly, her eyes haunted with imprisoned memory. “In my profession one cannot go long without receiving . . . unwanted attentions. Especially when one is first starting out and must subjugate oneself to a pimp.”

Mary frowned at this revelation. If Yvonne had been . . . “How can you do what you do now, then?”

Yvonne raised a hand and brushed it gently over her lips, possibly ridding herself of the bad taste of unpleasant memories, before she smoothed that hand along her softly curled hair. “I was fortunate. I found a gentleman who worshipped me, set me up, and then gave me this house.” The displeasure that had painted her features turned to a gentle fondness. “He was very kind. He taught me that I could enjoy my body again. He liberated me from fear and pain.”

Mary could not imagine such a thing. The best she hoped for was to never even think about being near a man’s body again. Perhaps then she could be happy.

Yvonne eyed her carefully. “I think the Duke of Fairleigh could be
your
liberator.”

Was Yvonne mad? It was a word she didn’t use lightly, having been declared
mad
herself, after all. Still, her proposal seemed nearly lunatic. Mary had no wish to be liberated from the fear that kept her in the constant—and justified—awareness of men’s dangerousness, brutality, and capacity for the utmost trickery. “I do not think that likely.”

“You feel this way now, Mary. Of course you do—”

“I will always feel this way.” Her hand, still holding the sheet in place, dug through the silk until the bite of her nails pierced her palm. “Why do you think
he
can steal my fear away?”

“There is much scandal surrounding his family and his cold demeanor is his answer to the disdain of the world. But he is a duke, Mary.” She paused, letting the information sink in before adding, “And exceptionally wealthy. Such a man—”

“Could protect me from my father,” Mary finished, a dull acceptance seeping into her heart. Edward had made her feel something she’d never felt before:
powerful
, herself.

“If your father comes here, I will lose you within moments.” Yvonne allowed no kindness in her countenance to ease the painful truth. “But if you were to go to the Duke of Fairleigh as his mistress, he might be able to keep you hidden and, if it came to it, safe.”

Once again, she would be putting herself into a man’s power. The world was such an unjust place. Could she never save herself? Could she only throw herself from one man’s whim to the next?

Mary squeezed her eyes shut against the anger inside her. No matter how hard she wished it, this world didn’t belong to women and she did indeed need a man’s help. Edward’s help. “How can you be certain he’d wish to keep me?”

“Because I have not seen him so curious about a woman in the years that I have known him.”

“You will tell me what I must do?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know if I can—” She grimaced, searching for words that would be acceptable to her ears. “Couple with him.”

“When the time comes, I will ensure you will be able to. And he will not force you. He is not that kind of man. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Fine, then.” Even as she spoke, Mary couldn’t quite hide her fear. He hadn’t hurt her. In fact, he had seemed fixated on assuring her she was safe. But he was still a man, and a stranger. And despite the unfamiliar feelings he had evoked, she cared for neither.

But to keep herself away from that place . . . from her father, she would go to Edward. What choice had she?

Still . . . she had to admit that even though she had no choice, there was something about him. Something that tempted her to get to know him better.

Yvonne took her empty glass. “Good, then. I shall arrange it. I’m sure we can find you a pleasing frock somewhere. And in the meantime, let’s drink to the moon, eh? And to your protection.” She leaned forward, her eyes full of hope. “I am so glad you shall be safe.”

Mary no longer trusted hope. It was a fool’s emotion and she was tired of being a fool, as her mother had been.

Somewhere in the back of her memory, she could still hear her father shouting,
Whore. Just like your mother. You shall be a whore.

And she would be. How amusing that, of all people, it was her father who had made her one.

M
rs. Palmer stood in a small room in the Duke of Duncliffe’s house, waiting. Waiting was something she didn’t do well. She was the mistress of her own establishment, the Palmer Asylum. When she spoke her workers jumped.

And with every moment that passed, her fury grew.

She understood a duke’s home was different. She supposed she was lucky to have been allowed through the front door and not forced up the back staircase.

She stood by the fire, digging her nails into her palms. Waiting. The news she had was not good. It was, in fact, abhorrent. Her world of control had fallen apart in recent months. Two girls had escaped her grasp and Mary was the force of it all.

She should have killed the girl months ago and put her in the ground with so many others that had tried to slip away.

She dug her nails deeper into her skin to quell her anger.

That damnable creature had assisted another girl, Eva, to escape, and then she herself had vanished. This might not have been such a catastrophe, except for the fact that her father was a ridiculously powerful man.

She waited.

Mrs. Palmer stared at the door, willing it to open.

It did not. She glared at the offending piece of wood. So much of her younger life had been at the whim of others, and now the threat that all she had worked for might be taken away burned like liquid fire in her veins.

Swallowing, she glanced around at the ruby-colored walls bathed in shadows from the fire. She’d never known such uncertainty. Always, she’d been in complete control of her asylum, guarding the secrets of the men who had placed their wives, daughters, sisters, and mothers in her care.
Control.
It was a trait she had admired so much in herself.

Somewhere along the way, though, she’d lost that control. All because of two women. Mary, of course, was the worst. An obstinate girl who needed serious discipline to keep her under her jurisdiction.

And now? Without her control, what did Mrs. Palmer have? Nothing. Soon, word might escape to the other gentlemen who’d hid their women away that she was not to be relied upon. That could not be allowed to happen.

The door swung open and the Duke of Duncliffe strode through, dressed for the evening, an orchid in his buttonhole. “Well?” he said.

She pressed her lips together, fighting harsh words. With this man she had to remember her place, even if she wished to lash out.

Duncliffe paced a moment, then stopped, his dark eyes harsh. “Tell me she is dead. That is the only reason you can be here.”

Drawing herself up, she met his gaze. “I cannot, Your Grace.”

He stared at her, a dawning sort of horror marring his handsome face. “No?”

She narrowed her eyes and said clearly, “She is escaped.”

T
he bed swallowed her up in a glorious embrace. She was floating, high and light. Her lids fluttered as she tried to open them, but she didn’t quite have the strength. So she let them stay closed to reality.

Offering herself up to the feeling of rolling, she drifted up and down, up and down. It was wonderful, not existing. There was no pain to feel or body to experience it. If she could just let go, there would be no recollection of pain, either. Oh, how she had missed forgetting. It had been the only good thing in the asylum, the moments of complete escape from the world and the horrors in it.

“Mary?”

She flinched. It was a beautiful voice that penetrated her reverie. A voice like her mother’s. She rolled onto her side, curling into a ball. Her thin chemise twisted about her legs as she buried her face in the thick pillow. She didn’t wish to think of her mother. If she did, the great abyss of memory would open and she’d be lost to it. It was so much better to just dwell in nonexistence.

“Mary!” This time the voice came harder. Sharper. The same way her mother sounded when Mary had smudged her stockings or ripped her frock.

“You must rise.”

“No,” she protested weakly. She’d finally secured a semblance of peace. Rising would dash that small feeling of relief away. She knew it, knew it the same way she knew that men’s souls were black and vacant.

Chill night met her body as the blanket was yanked away, accompanied by the whoosh of fabric. She snapped her eyes open and gasped. To her frustration, her errant arms moved with only sluggish obedience as she tried to clasp them about herself.

On a slow tide, the blur of darkness receded. And the entire bedroom seemed to ripple before the sharp edges of the burgundy walls, mahogany tables, and velvet chairs all melded into recognizable shapes.

“Chloe shall see the streets this night,” that lovely though chastising voice snapped.

“Chloe?”
Who was Chloe?

“Yes, Chloe. I’m going to crack her damned opium pipe over her head.”

Hands grasped Mary’s shoulders, then pulled her swiftly into a sitting position.

“I didn’t s-smoke—” She struggled to form words on her clumsy tongue and numbed lips.

“The devil you didn’t,” the woman—
Yvonne. Yes, that’s right, Yvonne
—said.

Yvonne!

Mary tried to jerk her head up to look at her mother’s friend. Oh, but her head was far too heavy. “I’m so sorry—so sorry.”

Panic was a familiar emotion, though it had been some time since she’d felt wretched, soul-scouring guilt at her addiction. Opiates had been force-fed down her throat for such a long time that it had been impossible to feel guilt or self-loathing. She’d been so lost in the medicine for those three years it was impossible to know shame. But now?

A gentle hand caressed her head. “I know, sweetheart. I know you’re sorry.”

“I d-didn’t smoke. Laudanum. I—I took laudanum.” Mary swayed, her body as heavy as bags of sand. It took considerable effort but she finally lifted her head and blinked up at the person forcing her to leave her comfort and forgetfulness behind. She’d been at the house now for two days and had been struggling to stop drinking laudanum. This morning she’d seen the bottle on one of the other girls’ dressers and she hadn’t been able to stop herself.

Now she had to wake her mind. Mary squeezed her eyes shut, then forced them open. Yvonne, standing before her, came into focus, outlined by the sharp shapes of the room.

Rich red hair curled about her pale, worried face. “We must have you up and about.”

“Is he coming?” Her fingers scraped at the sheet, worrying the fabric with her short nails. Yvonne’s own fear seemed to pass over to her. It was all she could do not to spring to her feet and run mindlessly into the night . . . or reach for her laudanum bottle. “Papa?”

Yvonne’s brows came together, her face tense. “No. Not your father.”

Mary nodded absently, even as her innards echoed with terror at the mere thought of the man who had condemned her to hell. Would she ever be without fear again? She doubted it very much. For that alone, she would never forgive her father.

“We need to ready you for the Duke of Fairleigh. Don’t you recall?”

Mary gripped the edge of the bed. “So soon?”

She wasn’t ready. This was all happening so fast she could barely make sense of it. Hadn’t she arrived the day before yesterday? It was two days ago when she had set eyes on that hard, empty man who’d held her with such care, wasn’t it? And now she was going to be his mistress.

“The sooner the better, Mary. You know that.” Yvonne’s beautiful, slender hands took Mary’s small ones in hers and tugged her to her bare feet. “The longer we wait, the greater the risk you’re in. And he has agreed to take you unto his keeping immediately.”

Mary only half listened as the world spun. It took every ounce of her will not to fall onto Yvonne. She swallowed back a fresh dose of anxiety. What if he tried to be intimate with her this evening? What if he expected her to—? Cringing, she closed her eyes tight and banished the thought. She couldn’t think about a man’s hands on her body. Not without pain. Not without a sharp sensation of losing herself.