Lady Lightfingers (33 page)

‘You must get her out, Bart. Her name is Celia Laws. Take her to my mother and stepfather, they'll know what to do, and inform the Reverend Thomas Hambert.'

‘Edmund is right, you know, this does have a sameness about it. It's not the same girl as before by any chance, is it?'

Charles gave him a wry smile. ‘She handed my money back, and I fell in love with her all over again.'

Bart whistled. ‘You're faithful . . . I'll give you that. I hope this girl is worthy of you. You'll never live this down, you do know that.'

‘I will if you don't tell anyone.'

‘In that case you have my absolute confidence. Have you got a weapon on you?'

‘My fists.'

‘You weren't the college boxing champion for nothing, I suppose,' and as the cab began to slow down Bart took two masks from inside his cloak, handing one to Charles. He held out his hand. ‘Are you ready, Your Highness?'

Charles managed a faint grin as he took it. It seemed childish, dressing up, but necessary if they were to remain anonymous. He admitted to a vague sense of excitement at the thought of the coming stoush. ‘Ready.'

If her seething fury got any worse than it was at this moment, she would explode!

Earlier, Bessie and a couple of her employees had dragged her out of her dirty tomb, and into a room with nothing but a red-velvet chair, a bed, and a few drifting curtains as furnishings. There, she'd been told to remove her clothing.

When she'd put up a struggle the clothes had been ripped from her back. Water was poured over her to get rid of the dust. Then Bessie Jones instructed two of her hard-faced whores to hold Celia down. The whoremonger had stuck her dirty hands up Celia's skirt. The examination had been intimate and horrible, causing Celia to squirm with embarrassment.

‘She's still intact,' Bessie said with satisfaction.

They'd dressed her again, in a virginal white gown of opaque fabric. One of Bessie's girls had brushed her hair out so it fell in shining ripples down her back.

‘Lie on the bed with your arms behind your head and one knee up,' Bessie said.

‘Go to hell, you witch.'

‘Don't make it hard for yourself.' Bessie slapped her face, but lightly, so as not to mark it, then pushed her on to the bed and manacled her wrists with a short chain to a metal ring at the top of the bedhead. ‘Now, girl, either you cooperate, or I'll chain your ankles as well and invite a couple of my men to take a whip to you. My clients will like that.'

There was a small window in the wall, curtained on the other side with the same opaque material. Now and again, someone's face would appear, usually a man.

‘Help me,' she shouted out when this happened, then realized from the leers and the excitement in their expressions that they were bidders, and enjoying her predicament. From then on she closed her eyes and was able to calm herself. It was some sort of act Bessie had put on for their benefit, and she didn't intend to knowingly be part of it.

Celia was dying of thirst, and now she was unable to scratch, she itched all over. The furniture was probably full of fleas.

‘Undo the manacles and I'll behave,' she pleaded when she saw Bessie at the window, for she felt at a decided disadvantage with them on. ‘And give me something to drink. I'm parched.'

The curtain closed without an answer.

‘What's going on?' she said when the woman came in, carrying a jug of water. ‘Are you charging those pigs a fee to look at me?'

‘I'm auctioning you off to the highest bidder.'

The colour faded from Celia's face as her fear came back. ‘You can't.'

Bessie chuckled. ‘Try and stop me.' She tipped the jug of water over Celia's breasts and it ran down over her stomach and thighs, and soaked into the mattress. Goosebumps raced over her as the material clung. ‘There, that shows your assets off a little better for the clients.' Tipping the jug the rest of the way she held it against Celia's lips. Celia greedily lapped up the mouthful she managed to get before Bessie removed the jug. It was hardly enough for a good swallow. ‘At least take the manacles off,' she pleaded.

‘They stay for the moment. They add a nice touch, I think. I've got my two best gentlemen about to bid. One of them is an aristocrat from Venice. They both want to come in and get a closer look at you. Here's your drink.' The rest of the water hit her in the face with such a rush that Celia gasped as she nearly choked on it.

When she recovered she set eyes on three men. All wore black dinner suits, and two wore identical masks. The third man had a paunch and wore a bushy moustache. He looked to be about fifty. The expression on his face was wolfish. He came to gaze down at her, then leaned forward and reached out towards her breasts, his mouth almost slavering.

One of the masked men said with soft menace, ‘Keep your hands off zee merchandise if you value your life, my friend. The final bids aren't in yet.'

The second masked man placed a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Allow me to gut him for you, Highness.'

His Highness threw a disdainful ‘Hah!' into the air, as if he was some amateur thespian hero in a melodrama, with more dash than acting talent.

Her eyes narrowed in on him. She'd give him melodrama – she'd give them all melodrama when she got these damned manacles off. Celia shuddered at the thought of any of them touching her. She kicked out at the man with the paunch when he leered at her. He grunted when her heel connected with his knee. She would have aimed it higher, but she couldn't reach.

He laughed the attack off. ‘I'll soon have you tamed, girl. I'll take a riding crop to you and ride you from here to John O' Groats.' Turning to Bessie he whispered something in her ear. His offer for her, she supposed.

Eyes gleaming, Bessie beckoned to the other two men. The taller man strutted forward. His hair curled from under the brim of his hat, and his eyes glittered darkly through the slits as he gazed down at her.

‘Lay one finger on me you Venetian turkey cock and I'll kick you so hard you won't be able to fluff your tail feathers for a week,' she hissed. She remembered her feet were bare and it would hurt her more than him. ‘After that I'll gouge your beady chicken eyes out – Highness or not.'

The noise he made was halfway between a growl and a laugh. He reached out anyway, and his finger traced a path down her cheek and over the contours of her mouth – his touch so gentle that it raised little shivers at the nape of her neck. It might be preferable to have a man who touched her gently, if she couldn't find a way to escape.

Then again, it might not. He was like all the others, except he smelled better.

A sardonic twitch pulled his lips sideways and his gaze ran over the clinging garment she wore. ‘Iz zat so, girl? I shall haff to be careful then.' Lazily, he said to Bessie, ‘The girl izza sweet little trollop. I'll take her.'

‘You haven't put in a bid yet,' Bessie said, her fists going to her hips.

‘Name zee price you want and let's be done wizz it, woman.'

The other man gave a bit of a snort that turned into a cough.

Bessie became all business. ‘She'll cost you one thousand pounds, Highness.'

‘Zat is perfecto.' The man didn't so much as blink, but waved a languid hand towards the other masked man, who was probably his servant. The stone in the ring on his little finger picked up a beam of light from the candle, and dazzled her eyes. ‘Pay zee old crone. Take zee manacles off her, Mizzis Bessie.'

‘Money first.'

‘The foreigner has more money than sense,' the paunchy man sneered. ‘You wouldn't catch me paying that amount of money for a common whore.'

‘No decent whore would want you,' Celia spat at him, and the masked servant guffawed with laughter.

The man walked away, banging the door behind him.

The servant removed a roll of paper money from the top of the satchel he had hidden under his cloak. He handed the satchel containing the rest to Bessie, who began to count it. Celia recognized that satchel with its gold lettering, and her heart began to thump. She'd seen it often enough.

Charles was either very brave, or very stupid to have walked in here and put in a bid for her. Then she remembered the state she was in. She was practically naked! What would he think of her now?

It didn't matter, because Bessie had finished her inspection of the satchel and was leaning over her. Celia could see the bulging satchel stuffed down her bodice. She was not going to allow the woman to get away with this—

When the manacles dropped from her wrists she lunged upwards, giving a scream as she let her anger free, and grasping Bessie by the hair, she wrestled her to the floor. Sitting astride the woman's stomach she began to pummel her.

Bessie heaved about, throwing threats and foul curses into the air. Her skirt edged up and there was a knife strapped to her thigh. It came from its sheath with hardly a whisper when Celia's fingers closed around it.

‘This is on behalf of my mother,' Celia said, twisting Bessie's nose between her finger and thumb, so she gave a nasal scream.

‘Your mother had too many airs and graces. She thought she was better than the rest of us but I soon showed her who was boss.' Bessie managed to get a couple of slaps in, which incensed Celia even more.

‘She was better than you, you heap of . . .' Something warned her not to be too vulgar. ‘
Rubbish!
' To hell with it, this was not the time or place to act the lady. Celia dug the blade into Bessie's bodice and deftly slashed it from bosom to waist.

‘She's killed me,' Bessie screamed.

‘Not yet, I haven't.' Celia pricked the knife against the whore's neck. Suddenly she remembered a line from a play in her time with the Wentworth Players, and said with great menace, ‘Stop squawking, you heap of flea bites, else I'll carve a smile where one wasn't intended to be.'

Bessie fell quiet.

Charles' glance fell on the knife, and he cursed soundly before he said, ‘She's not worth swinging for.'

Celia felt hysterical laughter building up inside her, because he'd forgotten his accent. ‘She thought nothing of selling me to you. For that, I'm going to kill her. Then I'm going to kill you for buying me from her. How dare you . . .
Your Royal Highness?
'

Bessie began to wriggle. ‘Don't kill me! Don't kill me!'

Charles' voice mirrored his irritation. ‘For pity's sake, shut up, woman. She's not killing anyone. Drop that knife.
Now!
' He roared.

Celia dropped the knife, and Charles kicked it aside.

The man with him began to laugh.

Bessie took the opportunity to start struggling again. Celia didn't quite know what to do, since she'd achieved her objective. The matter was taken out of her hands when Charles pulled Bessie out from under and winded her with a punch. Then his cloak dropped over Celia and she was wrapped in a tight bundle.

Still struggling, despite her arms being immobilized, she was scooped up and thrown over his shoulder. Bumped along a corridor and up some steps, after a few seconds she felt cold damp air against her face. He placed her down, and the cobbles were rough and clammy under her feet.

There came a gunshot then, from not far off, followed by the sound of a police whistle.

Celia was pushed into a carriage head first and a pair of feet pinned her to the floor by her shoulders. ‘Keep your head down,' he warned, then said, ‘Bart, are you still with us?'

‘Of course. That was my shot . . . a signal to the others. What are we waiting for Edmund? I'm hanging off the back of the carriage like a fly on a donkey's tail. Let's go before the old hag marshals her forces.'

‘She'll have the constables to contend with as well, now,' Edmund said, roaring with laughter. ‘Look at them all spilling into the street. There's quite a melee going on, and the soldiers are in the midst of it.' He raised his voice and cracked his whip over the horse's head, shouting authoritatively, ‘I have His Royal Highness in my cab and I'm coming through – so out the way, unless you want to end up under my wheels.'

The horse gave a surprised, whinnying dance, then they were off at a trot, rocking over the cobbles. Within seconds the fog had swallowed them up and the conveyance was forced to slow down as the driver tried to get his bearings, and began to pick his way more carefully. As soon as they got out of the slums and into the wider streets, the fog thinned.

Celia's shoulders were beginning to hurt from the pressure of the feet keeping her pinned to the floor. Feeling slightly savage over the way he was treating her, she turned her head and bit Charles' ankle.

She was pulled up on to the seat. ‘Ouch! What did you do that for?'

Celia found herself pulled up into the seat. ‘You were treading on me, and it was painful.'

‘I'm sorry. I wanted you out of the way of any flying bullets.'

She shrank into the corner, gazing at him. The excitement of the rescue had turned to sludge in her stomach, and she felt sick. She didn't know what to say to him – didn't know what he must be thinking. Charles still had his mask in place. Did he think she hadn't recognized him?

She tried a little humour, though her emotional state was as far from amused as it could get. ‘You can take zee stupid mask off now, Charles.'

He gave a low chuckle and removed it. ‘I'd forgotten I was still wearing it.'

The hysteria she'd been bottling up exploded from her in a welter of tears and laughter. ‘I hate you, Charles . . . I hate all men. I want my aunt.' She gave a short scream of frustrated rage. ‘I'll never speak to you again . . . never!'