Oh, yes, she remembered now. Everything.
Cousin Vere had offered her a home to save her from destitution but he’d failed to collect her from the mail coach. After hours of waiting, she’d gone out into the night to seek him. She’d never found her cousin. Instead, she’d met these two devils in human flesh.
Monks and Filey.
They’d been brazen enough to introduce themselves.
Desperately, she strove to recall that short, terrifying encounter in the darkness. She’d asked the two hulking brutes for directions. Lulled by their familiar Yorkshire accents, she’d accepted their escort back to the coaching inn. She’d been so frightened, lost in the labyrinth of dockside streets, that any help had been welcome.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
They’d trapped her in a narrow alley. Filey had held her while Monks forced laudanum down her throat. Filey’s foul stench, repulsive, unforgettable, lingered in her nostrils. Now the noxious odor grew stronger as he lumbered closer.
“Aye, she looks right fresh. She’s bonny enow to catch the marquess’s fancy. But I s
till don’t reckon she looks owt like a whore.”
Monks grunted. “Any road, she’ll play a whore’s part until his lordship tires of her. Hope she knows a trick or two to keep a lad happy. Or she’ll not last out the month.”
“Happen we should have fucked her while we had the chance.” Filey’s regretful musings tested Grace’s tenuous control on her roiling insides.
“The watch would have been on us. You’ll get your turn after his lordship’s had his fill. Let’s go. The laudanum’ll wear off soon. If she comes to and sees your ugly mug, happen she’ll be in a right state for the marquess.”
“I care nowt,” Filey said. “She’s got a grand pair of tits. I lay a penny to a pound her slice is even sweeter.”
Stale gin-scented breath puffed into Grace’s face. Rough hands wrenched at the high neckline of her dress. Horror kept her paralyzed as Filey ripped at her buttons. A meaty hand shoved under the edge of her stays to palm one breast with bruising force. He was so intent he didn’t seem to notice that every muscle in her body tensed with revulsion.
Her heart raced like a half-broken horse given its head. A scream hovered behind her teeth.
Still she dared not make a sound.
This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. Not to her.
“Leave the slut, Filey,” Monks snapped. “If the marquess reckons you fucked her first, he’ll cut up rough.”
“He don’t need to know.” The encroaching, clammy hand tightened cruelly around her flesh.
Monks gave an unimpressed grunt. “He will if she blabs. I never seen a lass keep her gob buttoned.”
“Aye, happen you’re right,” Filey said regretfully. One last vicious pinch, then he withdrew his hand.
He’d pawed her only for a few seconds but it felt like his hands had violated her for hours. She felt dirty, contaminated.
After another revoltingly drawn-out moment, Filey shuffled away. Dimly through the pounding in her ears, Grace heard the door shut.
Finally she was alone. She gave a great sobbing gasp and opened her eyes.
She was in a pleasant room with white walls and two doors. The first was closed and the other opened onto a sunlit garden. Her sensation of unreality heightened. Surely she hadn’t been abducted off the public street and brought here to service strangers.
The laudanum’s mind-dulling effects ebbed. Some dissolute aristocrat meant to use her before handing her to his abhorrent henchmen.
She needed to get away now, before her jailers returned. Before the mysterious Lord John who’d ordered a nice clean tart—she cringed at the description—arrived to see what his minions produced for his delectation.
The opiate still clogged her senses and the vile taste filled her mouth. She desperately wanted a drink of water.
No, she desperately wanted to be back at the Cock and Crown waiting for Cousin Vere.
Panting and sobbing, she began to struggle against the leather ties.