The Gentleman and the Rogue (26 page)

“Must be lonely to have all those deep thoughts and no one to share 'em with but them journals. What kinds of experiments would you work on a young girl to make her more pliant? How'd you break a filly like that?”

Schivvers laid down the saw on the table next to Jem's hip, but trailed the scalpel lovingly up and down his arm. He then began to bisect the deeper cut already on his forearm. Jem held utterly still and gazed at the man with adoration, as if every word that fell from his mouth was a pearl.

“I knew from the moment I saw the little girl that she was special—so brave and bright, helping out with the patients and never flinching no matter how grotesque the injuries. To see her was to want her. I knew that bending then breaking that strong will would be ecstasy, and it was. The first task was to win her mother's confidence and ensure she would entrust the girl to me after her death. The next step, of course, was to engineer that death.”

Jem swallowed but continued to stare with rapt interest at the madman.

“And then, step by loving step, I bound Ann to me with chains of trust, then fear, then terror, flaying her down to the bone until only blind obedience was left. I would describe to her all the things that could happen to a little girl alone in the world. I made her see how dependent on me she was and made sure never to leave her side until I was certain her will was broken enough that I could trust her to stay where I'd placed her. Some of this work took place while we were still in Portugal, but I knew in order to really experiment intensively, it was time for me to muster out of the army and bring the girl to the privacy of a home.”

Jem would've felt more horror and sympathy on behalf of the girl if his concentration weren't completely centered on the knife carving a lovely pattern of cross-hatching on his forearm. Blood dripped down and pooled beneath his arm on the table.

Schivvers lifted the scalpel long enough to gesture around the room, droplets of red scattering from the blade onto Jem's chest. “It was in this very room that my training began in earnest. Of course, I showed her my collection and told her how easily limbs could be severed”—he indicated the jars and mummified parts—“but I also showed her certain erotic pictures and explained in detail the many things I would do to her by and by. The trick with mind control is to never let the subject fall into a routine. They must be kept off guard, sometimes treated with loving kindness, other times roughly. Awakening a subject at all hours will disrupt her normal sleep patterns and further confuse her mind. She must be made to perform humiliating tasks. Foot licking is good, or crawling naked and whimpering in simulation of a dog—really, anything that makes the subject feel less than human.”

Schivvers lowered his voice in a confiding manner and smiled. “I must confess that watching such abased behavior is extremely arousing. You can understand how it is much more exciting than merely taking a girl's virginity. And prolonging this process over months as I have is a pure celebration.”

“Absolutely, sir. Being demeaned is my specialty. I've had men ask me to—”

“No!” As if becoming aware of Jem as more than a sympathetic listener, Schivvers glared at him. “I told you. It's the taking of her innocence that matters.
That
is the crux of the game. I would no more be interested in having you at my beck and call than I would a real dog. There are no parts of me I would care for you to lick.”

Jem nodded. “Point taken, sir.”

“However…” Schivvers resumed his knife play, this time drawing ever-widening concentric circles around Jem's nipple, delicate lines that caused little pain but made Jem's nipple tighten pebble-hard and made his stomach flip over and over. “However, there are other, different experiments I might perform on someone such as you.”

“Really? What might those be?” He struggled to maintain his conversational tone, the soothing voice that kept Schivvers talking.

“I've often wondered but haven't had the opportunity to ascertain how long a man could stay alive as small bits of him are cut away. Under ideal conditions, with some laudanum to dull the senses so the patient wouldn't go into shock, how long? Months, I would wager if I were a betting man.”

He flicked the scalpel over the tip of Jem's nipple, and pain shot through him.

“I could amputate this bit, for example, and you would hardly miss it. You certainly wouldn't bleed out from it.”

And now Jem's eyes closed. He couldn't maintain his frank and friendly gaze at Schivvers's face any longer. He licked his lips and drew a breath, waiting for the bud of his nipple to be cut off.

Instead the surgeon chuckled, a surprisingly warm, deep laughter that would have inspired a smile on Jem's face under any other circumstances.

“Do you see? Anticipation! What a powerful tool,” Schivvers crowed. “I may do it, or I may never do it. You don't know, and the fear is practically worse than the pain would be.”

“Clever,” Jem rasped and pried his eyes open again. “May I ask you, sir, to please loosen the restraints long enough that I might take a piss? I swear to you I'll behave, but it would be a shame to pollute your lovely operating table.”

“Vivisection table. And it has been awash in plenty of bodily fluids over the years. I don't think a little urine will matter.”

Had to at least try. What the hell will get you to untie me, you insane bastard?

Schivvers laid down the scalpel at last, and Jem heaved a breath—until the man picked up the saw.

“I've allowed you to distract me long enough. It's time to prepare my card for Sir Alan.” Before Jem could beg or plead, Schivvers grabbed the polishing cloth and stuffed it back into his mouth.

Jem's teeth clamped down on the acrid-tasting cloth, and he moaned a protest. The fumes from the rag rose to his eyes and made them water.

Schivvers reached for his hand, and Jem knew exactly what he was going to do. As the surgeon tried to pull his fingers straight, Jem clenched them tightly.

“Cooperate. Lay your hand flat, and you'll only lose your little finger. A man can easily live without a pinky. There are other body parts I think you'd regret losing more.” Schivvers looked at Jem's cock, which shriveled as if his very gaze were poison.

Still, Jem couldn't bring himself to unfold his fingers. Schivvers delivered a hard rap to the back of his hand with the butt of the bone saw. It hurt like hell, but Jem's fist couldn't unclench. Like an old man who'd had a stroke, his fingers were clawed tight and immovable.

“Castration it is, then,” the surgeon said. He laid aside the bone saw and snatched up his scalpel again.

Jem began to scream his anger and fear into his gag. His heart thundered, and he could barely think for the pulse pounding in his ears. Schivvers was right. It was easy to break a person merely with threats.

The surgeon cradled Jem's ball sac almost lovingly in one hand and raised the scalpel.

Jem thumped his fingers on the table to show the man that fine, yes, he could take that little finger instead. Schivvers paused, and Jem thought he'd caught his attention, but no. His feeble noise wasn't why the doctor had stopped. Time had slowed so it seemed to Jem another full minute passed before he understood where the louder knocking originated. Someone was pounding at the door of Schivvers's workroom.

* * *

“Mr. Schivvers,” Alan called, then pressed an ear to the door. He heard a shuffling sound and a thump. “You are in there, aren't you? Your maid said I could find you here, and she allowed me to come down.” The servants were all asleep as far as Alan knew, but perhaps Schivvers would think Alan had roused the whole house.

Alan hoped that wasn't true. He and Annie had entered through a window. Or rather, she had. The thing had been somehow locked open so only a thin child could fit.

The girl, shaking like a tree in a high wind, had been brave enough to return to the scene of her torture, slide through the small opening, and fling open the kitchen door for him. He'd wanted to hug her but suspected she was terrified of physical contact, so he crouched and whispered, “I'll keep you safe. Remember that. Now show me where I must go.”

She'd opened the door and pointed down the flagstone stairs, but silently refused to go more than two steps down. She watched from the top, holding the carriage lamp he'd given her. It cast eerie light around the rough subchamber, which looked like a huge wine cellar.

“Mr. Schivvers,” Alan called again. “It is Sir Alan. Back again. I apologize for the late hour.”

“Ah,” came the man's delighted-sounding cry. “Late? No, you are early. I haven't even sent you your invitation.”

The man could only sound so pleased when he had a major advantage, and of course, that advantage would be Jem.

It was up to Alan to convince Schivvers he held nothing of any consequence. Alan swallowed hard and spoke. “Mr. Schivvers, what on earth are you talking about? I believe you have misplaced your young charge. I found her. Do you know how she managed to escape your care?” Alan was no actor, but he hoped he'd managed to express gentlemanly interest and not howling panic.

He looked over his shoulder at Annie at the top of the stairs, who watched him with a wide, frightened gaze. He pasted an expression he prayed resembled a reassuring smile on his face, and put a finger to his lips. Then he turned his back and pointed at his other hand so she could see he'd crossed his fingers behind his back.
I'm lying
. Perhaps she'd had a normal enough childhood to understand that particular bit of sign language. She didn't make a sound, so he went back to work with the plan that had come to him as he'd sneaked to the kitchen and made his careful way down the uneven steps.

“Mr. Schivvers,” he said again. “I am surprised you allow your charge to run around outside as if she were a Hottentot. Poor girl is barely dressed.” He waited for another long time.

He stealthily tried the door, but from the feel of it, it was locked and barricaded too. God, he wished he could slam through, but the door was constructed of sturdy oak and far more strongly reinforced than most ordinary entrances. Schivvers must have something filthy to hide behind such a strong door. Alan wished he had the use of several strong soldiers and a battering ram. But to attack as he wanted to might be to forfeit Jem's life if Schivvers held a knife to his throat. Careful negotiation was the best response right now.

“Are you going to let me in?” he called.

“Your servant is here, Sir Alan. He's admitted it all, your plan to kidnap my girl.”

“My servant?” Alan fought the nausea. He wished his voice hadn't cracked. Drawing another deep, long breath, he tried again. Casual, disinterested. “Oh. You must mean Jem. That rascal is here? I had wondered where the man had got to.”

“He was trespassing. I think I'm well within my rights to kill him.”

Alan wet his suddenly dry lips with his tongue. “He has been a nuisance to you, has he? Again, I can only apologize.” He babbled meaningless civilities. Genteel conversation. All he had to do was get the bastard to open the door. He could say anything.

“I'm shockingly sorry he's been a pest. I have worried about young Annie Cutler, it's true, and I suppose he's dull witted enough to have thought he could gain points with me by going behind my back.”

“Dull witted? I don't think so, Sir Alan. And I think he's more than a servant to you.”

Yes, God Almighty, yes, he was. And if Alan fell quiet now, he'd only confirm Schivvers's belief. “Nonsense,” he snapped.

“Sir Alan. You must think me a fool. I know all about you and your depraved desires. That is why I think you would want to trade. My girl for your man.”

Alan closed his eyes. Fear shot through him. It couldn't be. He'd been so careful all those years in Spain, so the only way Schivvers could know the truth would be through Jem's confession. And the only way Jem would do so would be under duress. Under torture. Alan swallowed hard. The bastard of a surgeon would die and soon, he hoped. He raised his voice again and was glad the fury didn't ring through. Only a bit of indignation, which certainly fit the situation. “I think I know what you imply. During all the time you knew me in Spain, did I ever indulge in any sort of depravity?”

“The desire was there. Burning in you.”

“Did I do anything even remotely impure? Favor any comely young man or fondle some young new recruit? Of course not. I touched no one,” he answered his own questions—truthfully. “So this young idiot. And I don't care how intelligent he is, Jem is an idiot.” That sentiment exploded straight from the heart. Jesus God, if Jem died, he'd never forgive him. “This fool is having you on, Schivvers. I admit to these unhealthy predilections—I won't deny it. He must have seen my sick desire, and that formed the basis of his confession. But you know I am celibate. I do not indulge. He is nothing to me. In fact, he is less interesting to me than your ward.”

He waited several heartbeats. Was Schivvers considering his words? Killing Jem? Alan raised his voice. “Apparently because you are not opening this door and speaking to me face-to-face, you're speaking the truth about a trade. And if that's true, if you want to take Jem in exchange for Annie, I suppose I must accept.”

“No, wait!” Schivvers's voice came from near the door now. “How do I know you've really got the girl? Let me hear her voice. I must speak with her.”

Alan looked up the stairs to where Annie waited, snugged flat against the wall, staring down at him with those wide doe eyes.

“She's here. You'll simply have to trust me.”

A sharp bark of laughter sounded from the other side of the door. “Ann, if you hear me, answer me now as I taught you.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Alan stretched out a hand to her, pleading with his gaze.

“Just give him a word, Major. It's all right,” he whispered.

Slowly she set one bare foot on the stairs, then another. Pace by pace she descended until she stood a few steps above Alan. She swallowed, the muscles in her slender neck moving.

“I'm here, sir.”

“My sweet Ann.” The serpentine slither of Schivvers's voice ghosting through the air made Alan's skin crawl and Ann shudder. “Whose girl are you? Tell me.”