EscapeWithMe Read online

  Mrs. Hayes inspected the chemise for a few seconds and then smiled. She chuckled as she held up a portion of it for Sam to see. “Made your debut, did you? I knew I should have charged him more.” Sam was mortified to see streaks of blood on the chemise. Mrs. Hayes balled up the undergarment. “I’ll be holding on to this until he returns. You’ll find another one in the closet there.”

  Sam wasted no time retrieving a new chemise. She didn’t want to be naked in front of Mrs. Hayes any longer than she had to be.

  “For the time being, you’re restricted to the house, Miss Reed,” Mrs. Hayes said as Sam pulled on the new chemise. “Between breakfast and supper, you may leave your room, but business begins at sunset and I’ll not have you wandering the halls when our guests come and go. Do you understand?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Hayes walked to the door. “Your jack tar returns at eight o’clock tomorrow, and I expect you to service him again. If you don’t, you shall service Mr. Hull.” The bottom of Sam’s stomach completely dropped out. “If the lieutenant is well pleased, you’ll have earned a reward. Don’t disappoint me, Miss Reed.”

  Mrs. Hayes left. Sam heard the soft sound of a key turning. She looked at the bed and its twisted blankets and wasn’t tired in the least, but with nothing else to do, she blew out the candles and lay down in an attempt to sleep.

  Her body was stiff under the covers. Her eyes constantly flicked to the door of her room with every creak of the house, no matter how slight.

  “Damn it,” she whispered. She rolled out of bed, grabbed the chair and jammed it under the doorknob. Only then was she able to close her eyes.

  * * * * *

  Ryder stepped out of the brothel, donned his hat and saluted the taciturn Mr. Hull, who held a smoking cigar and casually glared at him. The man lifted the cigar to his lips and tucked his meaty fingers into the pocket of his vest. Ryder wondered how well Mr. Hull liked his employer.

  “Mrs. Hayes is certainly a she-devil,” Ryder commented.

  Mr. Hull puffed his cigar and blew the smoke at Ryder. “That she is, sir. She’ll tempt you into anything, but I’m the one what brings down hell upon anyone who interferes with business.”

  He smiled at Mr. Hull’s attempt to intimidate and headed toward the Shakespeare’s Head Tavern, where his driver had no doubt found himself a drink. Or four.

  A dozen people milled about on the street. Runners from the Bow Street station loitered in front of number 4, right next door to another brothel where a couple of prostitutes called to potential clients. “Aren’t you a handsome swell?” one of them cooed. “Would you like some company tonight, dearie?”

  He ignored the overly painted harlot and continued up the street to his destination.

  The Shakespeare was crowded and lively, overflowing with boisterous laughter and smelling of cheap food, tobacco smoke and sweat. A young pot-boy dodged between drunken adults and rounded up empty glasses. Sloppily dressed women entertained the male patrons. They wiggled in laps and pretended to be shocked when their human chairs groped their breasts. The barmaids weren’t dressed any more modestly. Their loose dresses sagged low and they bent down farther than necessary to set down fresh glasses of ale.

  Assets for sale and even Ryder was a buyer. He ground his teeth at the way he left Samantha, hating the guilt he felt. He had done more than needed to spare her the toil of her trade, even if just for the night. Did you spare her the task of lying beneath you?

  The memory overwhelmed him for a second, and he recalled the sight of her standing between him and the candelabrum, her gentle curves outlined beneath her chemise. The warmth of arousal spread within his loins as he remembered her long legs sheathed in bright-red stockings. The thought of those thighs wrapped around his hips made his hands clench.

  He broke free of his reverie when one of the harlots noticed him and smiled. He quickly broke eye contact only to see the man he was looking for right behind her.

  Oliver sat at a smaller table with two other men, all of them laughing. His driver’s ruddy cheeks were a good sign that he had already drunk quite heavily. Just when Ryder would have crossed the room to fetch the man, a barmaid appeared in front of him.

  “What can I get for you, sir?”

  “Ah yes, a round of beer for those men.” He reached into his pocket. “Including one for me.” Indeed, his loins ached from lack of release and he found it difficult to walk naturally.

  “Certainly, sir.” Her eyes flicked downward almost knowingly as she performed a perfunctory curtsy.

  A round of drinks later, he and Oliver left the Shakespeare and headed to New Bond Street. It was rather easy to learn the location of Mrs. Archer’s home, which hosted her illicit gaming hall, but the house was well disguised. From the front, the first-floor windows were dimly lit and the front rooms empty of occupants. The second- and third-floor windows were dark, giving the appearance that the master of the home was out for the evening.

  Ryder stepped out of the coach, his gut churning with anxiety, frustration and unspent lust. Oliver leaned down from his seat. “Shall I loiter farther up, sir?”

  “That’ll be fine,” he answered. After a quick nod, his driver clicked at the horses. Ryder then straightened his coat and approached the front door.

  The streetwalker who had told him of the gaming hall had described a certain knock that its patrons used to gain entry. Two quick knocks followed by two slow ones. Only a few seconds passed before the door opened.

  “Welcome, sir.” A very elderly butler stood back to admit him. Ryder entered the house and removed his hat. The butler offered to take it, but Ryder waved him away. He wasn’t going to be staying long. “Very good, sir,” the butler said. He then heard the heels of a woman’s shoes clicking down the stairs.

  “Lovely. We’ve enough for a new game,” she said. Ryder watched as the woman descended the last set of stairs, quite sure that Mrs. Archer herself was approaching. She was dressed in a way he could only describe as politely sumptuous—expensive fabric, exotically trimmed in peacock feathers, but showing very little of her décolletage. She looked surprised to see him.

  “I do not believe you and I have met, sir, but a new player is always welcome. May I have the pleasure of your name?”

  “Simon Carter, madam,” he said with a bow. “An acquaintance of mine recommended your fine establishment and assured me of its discretion.”

  The compliment brightened the woman’s expression. “Indeed, sir, and what is the name of your acquaintance?”

  “Mr. Phillip West.”

  “Ah,” she said with a strained smile. “Yes, I know him. I’m sorry to say he hasn’t had the best luck this past week.”

  “He is a far more dedicated faro player than I am. I hoped he might be here tonight so that I might test my skills against his.” He looked beyond her at the light coming from upstairs.

  “Our tables are on the first floor, sir. Would you care to see them?”

  “Very much,” he said. Mrs. Archer gracefully gestured toward the stairs and conversed with him as she sedately ascended to the next floor.

  “I’m rather curious as to your relationship with Mr. West. As you are no doubt already aware, he enjoys several connections among esteemed members of the gentry and rarely spends his time apart from his friends.”

  “Yes, I am quite aware.” Indeed, though his father seemed to more than tolerate Phillip’s “excellent connections”, Ryder had no doubt Phillip’s friends used him to feed their own expensive habits by promising invitations to more and more exclusive upper circles if he would only spend to put them all in the height of fashion, dine at the finest establishments, and copulate with the most beautiful of whores.

  “I only ask because he has never mentioned you, sir.”

  “My acquaintance with Mr. West is rather thin, I must admit. I have not met him often in the last few years as I am often abroad.” That, at least, was unfortunately true.

  “Then have you hear
d about Mr. West’s father? The poor man is quite ill, though as his eldest, Mr. West tells me he is soon to inherit.”

  Ryder was momentarily rendered speechless. That Phillip would look to the death of his father as a windfall to further indulge his vices was beyond cruel.

  “Mr. Carter?”

  “Forgive me. I was unaware that the father was ill.”

  Mrs. Archer did not comment further and guided him into an opulent, well-lit drawing room. It was not particularly large, but it had space enough for several tables at which four people could sit. A handful of people hovered behind the players and watched the games.

  Ryder whispered in Mrs. Archer’s ear as he scoured the room for his brother. “Might I inquire, madam, as to the amount of Mr. West’s debts to you?” Mrs. Archer gasped and tried to step away. His hand on her arm kept her close.

  “I cannot disclose such information to you, Mr. Carter. I am discreet.”

  “I ask only because I would seek to relieve some of those debts,” he cajoled.

  The faro hostess was quiet for a few seconds as she contemplated his offer, though he had no real intention to pay her anything immediately.

  Finally, he spotted him. Phillip sat with his back to the drawing room door at a table with three others, and one of them at least seemed to be an acquaintance. Phillip had always been slender like their father whereas Ryder was broad in the chest and shoulders, but Phillip looked gaunt in his dandified custom-tailored jacket. His brown hair was unusually messy.

  Ryder was now the one who guided Mrs. Archer as he carefully maneuvered them about the perimeter of the room to get a better vantage of his older brother.

  “His debts are the most extreme of all my patrons,” Mrs. Archer whispered, “and they increase with his every visit. I grow anxious that—that his father’s estate will not soon repay Mr. West’s debts.” Ryder had no doubts as to what Mrs. Archer referred. She hoped their father died sooner rather than later so that Phillip could liquidate the last of their family’s property.

  Phillip’s face was pale and his eyes were tired. He seemed much older than his six and twenty years. His brother looked at the cards on the table with resignation as if he had come to terms with how the world had seen fit to treat him.

  “Of course, madam. Could you approximate his debts to you currently?”

  When Mrs. Archer revealed the amount owed, Ryder nearly betrayed his shock. He held his breath and then slowly let it out, reminding himself that it was less than what he feared—though only slightly less.

  “I am exceedingly curious, sir, as to why you would pay Mr. West’s debts.”

  “Would that I knew the answer myself.”

  Ryder crossed the room to his brother. Phillip raised his head with alarm at his approach, probably expecting to see the dogged Mr. Webb bearing down on him.

  “Ryder?”

  “Phillip,” he responded.

  “B-back from the colonies, I see. How many days’ shore leave were you given this time?” His brother shifted uneasily in his seat. His eyes flicked to the door, betraying his desire to flee.

  “I am come to London for an intervention,” Ryder said. “There is little use for inane chatter while we both know the reason for my presence in this gaming hell.” He took hold of his brother’s collar and jerked him from his seat. Several nearby onlookers gasped. Phillip’s acquaintance reared back in his seat and exclaimed, “Good Lord, man!” His brother resisted, but a good shake quelled his attempt to wriggle away.

  Phillip avoided his eyes and fixed his attention on the floor. His expression was a mix of embarrassment and terror. “What sort of intervention would this be?”

  “The divine sort, brother, for I will bring the wrath of God down upon you should your follies bring about the ruination of our family.” He grasped the back of Phillip’s neck and hauled his brother to the door.

  “M-Mr. Carter!” Mrs. Archer stuttered. “This is highly objectionable.”

  “Shame on you for indulging him.” He spoke sharply, no longer concerned with feigned civility. The day had been tiring, his brother was obviously unrepentant, and his loins ached fiercely. “I shall contact you regarding his debts.”

  “Ryder,” his brother grunted. “Ow, stop it!”

  “It’s the least you deserve.” He quickly donned his hat and pulled Phillip’s hand behind his back, bending the elbow up until he yelped. They reached the ground floor, where the butler was already waiting with an open door.

  “M-my coat and hat,” Phillip gasped. Ryder snatched the hat from the silent butler, stuffing it onto his brother’s head. The coat he kept in his hand as he forced Phillip out the door and into the street. It was a short walk to Oliver and the coach. Phillip needed little coaxing to get in, but Ryder tossed him inside anyway.

  “Ow! More gently, please.”

  “Thank you, Oliver. You know where to go from here,” Ryder said solemnly as he stepped into the coach.

  “I do, sir.” His driver shut the door and quickly mounted his seat. The horses were in motion within seconds. Ryder sat silently, fuming while Phillip climbed into his seat from the floor of the coach.

  “Are you taking me to this so-called Mr. Webb then? I’m bound for Marshalsea at the very least, James. Possibly Tyburn if they smear me with this lie about some customs man in Lydd.”

  “Oliver is taking you to our father, where you will stay for the duration of Webb’s investigation.”

  “What—”

  “If Webb finds you, he will drag you before a magistrate, and not even Father’s passing and the inheritance for which you pray will protect you from swinging at Tyburn. You will not leave the house. You will not send letters or receive callers. No one among your precious connections will know of your whereabouts. You will not even go near a window.” Ryder’s disgust at his brother’s character could not be contained, and he was both physically and mentally strained.

  “You really don’t intend to bring me to the authorities?”

  Ryder closed his eyes and sighed. “Can you think of nothing but yourself?”

  “I am suspected of murder, Ryder,” his brother hissed. “In case you weren’t aware. Forgive me if I am a little self-concerned as of late.” He straightened his hat. “Much of Father’s business dealings hinge on his personal friendships with captains, merchants… How was I to fill his role when he fell ill? Few would deal with me. Father could never count on you so it fell to me.”

  Ryder inhaled, barely reigning in his temper. “You dare. I may not be his favorite but never have I been unreliable. You knew for a year of his poor health, and I learned of it only two months past when Mrs. Johnson was good enough to send a letter.”

  “Father insisted I not tell you.”

  “And you should have had the good sense to ignore such a ridiculous request.”

  “He’s different when you’re around. I’m not the one who killed my mother.”

  It was rare that twice in one day Ryder would wish to make another man bleed. Only because it was an old wound did he resist rising to Phillip’s bait.

  Ryder let out a deep breath and they both remained silent for a moment. Phillip donned his coat and then picked at it as they jostled along down the street. Eventually, he was satisfied with his appearance and threaded his fingers together.

  “If you’re not going to turn me in, what shall you do?”

  Ryder looked out the window at the dark streets. “I shall need any ledgers or notes of all your business dealings, whether legitimate or not.”

  “What good would that do?”

  He spoke to the roof of the coach. “Do you have them or not?”

  “I do, but my bookkeeper disappeared more than a month ago. Without him…” Ryder looked at his brother, who was rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I was lost without him, and nothing in the ledgers made sense.”

  “Give me the name of your bookkeeper and his last known whereabouts. I’ll attempt to bring him to ground. I shall require the ledgers in you
r possession.”

  “Very well. They are in my desk at my apartment.”

  “Inform Oliver of the address and lend him your key. I’ll have him retrieve the books.”

  Phillip set his elbows upon his knees. “What do you intend, Ryder?”

  “To arrange future shipments and see that they arrive without interference from the preventatives,” Ryder said. His brother’s head jumped up. “No doubt several trips will be required to resolve both your debts and those of the business.”

  “Are you serious?” Phillip spluttered. “My brother, the simple-minded soldier?”

  “I am quite serious.”

  “What do you know of accounting or distribution? What experience have you in anything to do with Father’s business?”

  Ryder frowned. “Unlike you, I have friends in the right places and far more experience with shipping. I doubt you know the first thing about sailing despite your self-assigned rank of captain.”

  “Is that it then? You’re here to succeed where I have failed? Have you come to guarantee that Father loves you best before he dies?”

  Ryder’s temper snapped. His hand shot out and laid a hard slap across his brother’s face. Phillip’s surprise was a slack-jawed, shuddering exhalation of pain. When he brought his hand back, Ryder was shaking with rage. The pain of old wounds never truly faded, it seemed. He raised one pointed finger.

  “So help me, Phillip…” When his brother made eye contact with him, he settled once again in his seat and folded his hands in his lap. “Would you rather I sacrifice you to the tenacious Mr. Webb?” His brother looked out the window, saying nothing.

  Ryder sighed. “I am not here for any selfish purpose…and despite your own selfish nature, I do love you.”

  His brother smiled nervously and made a noise of disbelief. “Astonishing.”

  “I shall do whatever it takes to clear your name and your debts.”

  Phillip leaned forward and his face was illuminated on one side by the lights of a house as they passed. His tired, gaunt expression was almost gruesome. “Even risk your own freedom?”