A Rogue to the Rescue (The Rogue Chronicles #4) - Lana Williams

Chapter One

London, England, September 1815

“Don’t do it. He’ll catch you.”

At the whispered warning, Beatrice Linfield paused to look at Mary, the other young woman who shared the tiny room of the brothel.

The temptation to heed Mary’s advice nearly overwhelmed Beatrice, sending a chill down her spine. The haze that clouded her thoughts didn’t prevent the fear already weakening her limbs from taking a firmer grip. Her mouth was dry, her heart pounded, and her hand trembled as she reached for the doorknob. Yet everything within her demanded she escape.

Now.

This might be her only chance. The life she faced otherwise had been made clear, and she couldn’t bear it.

“Come with me,” Beatrice urged, her voice barely a whisper. “We’ll go together.” She didn’t know anything about Mary, other than her given name. But no one deserved to be sold like a piece of property to the highest bidder, let alone again and again. Deflowering rights weren’t necessarily a one-time occurrence, according to the other ladies in the brothel, especially when those rights brought significant sums of money.

“He’ll beat you when he catches you,” Mary warned.

A sob tightened Beatrice’s throat, nearly choking her. She swallowed hard and tipped up her chin. “He won’t catch me. Let us go. Together.”

Mary’s nightrail-clad form cowered on the bed, just visible in the sliver of moonlight coming in through the barred second-story window. The young woman sat with her knees up, her arms wrapped tight around her shins. She shook her head adamantly.

Beatrice wore the same thin white nightrail and nothing else, the clothing they’d been given to look more ‘virginal’. She didn’t remember who had changed her clothes and taken them or where her other possessions were. But those were just things. Things didn’t matter when one’s life was at stake.

Yet still, she curled her bare toes on the wood floor, wishing desperately for shoes. Somehow, having something on her feet seemed as if it would return a portion of her dignity.

She’d worry about things like dignity and proper clothing after she gained her freedom.

The only reason she and Mary hadn’t been sold earlier in the evening was because they’d both managed to make themselves sick and emptied the meager contents of their stomach on Mrs. Cole’s favorite gown.

The madam had been livid and struck them both. When Mr. Finch heard their initiation had been delayed, their punishment would be severe. Even the thought of the large man with his cold, pale blue eyes made Beatrice shiver.

Retching had a second benefit, limiting the effect of whatever drug they’d been given in the day—or was it days?—since their arrival. Laudanum, perhaps. Or something stronger. Whatever it was, it robbed her of her thoughts and her will. Which was why this was her chance to escape. She didn’t know where she belonged since leaving home, but it certainly wasn’t in a brothel.

Beatrice had no idea what time it was, but the thumps, bumps, and groans of the building and its occupants had faded. She had to at least try to leave now, while it was still dark. Mary was right. Being caught meant severe punishment, a whipping at the very least, according to the other women.

But staying meant losing herself, and that was far worse.

“Where will you go?” Mary asked.

“I don’t know.” Beatrice was new to London, having recently arrived from the small village of Bromyard in Herefordshire where her father had served as vicar for decades before passing away two months prior. A knot of grief tightened her chest at the thought of him.

She was alone now, abandoned by her former betrothed who’d declared his sudden love for another when faced with Beatrice’s changed circumstances. Her father, God rest his soul, had given all his money to the poor over the years, including her dowry, leaving Beatrice with next to nothing. She’d told herself that was fine. She was fine. She knew how to work, having served the community at her father’s side for years, even before her mother died when Beatrice was ten years of age.

After burying her father and settling his affairs, she’d come to London to find employment in the city and had filed with a servant registry office two days ago. At least, she thought it had been two days. Events had been a blur since then.

Soon after that, everything had gone wrong. The drug she’d been slipped at the boarding house that the registry office had recommended made days and nights slide together, and she wasn’t certain how much time had passed