Sophie had been taken to a small warehouse somewhere near the docks, a damp brick building containing numerous stacks of wooden crates, a makeshift bed with tatty blankets and a few old chairs scattered about. Both windows had been boarded up and the only light came from oil lamps which hung from metal chains flung over the rafters. The air was pungent with the smell of tobacco, mingled with the sickly smell of sugar and the fumes from rum.
Having made numerous attempts to flee, Sophie had been dragged into the warehouse and forced to sit on a chair in the middle of the room, while Marie paced back and forth, hugging her stomach.
“Forgive me,” Dampierre said as his lackey, a rather cold, hard looking man with a protruding forehead who went by the name of Morgan, tied her hands to the back of the chair with rope. “But you will insist on struggling.” He inclined his head to the side as he studied her, his gaze slithering over her like a snake.
She would rather kill herself or throw herself overboard than submit to him.
She wondered what Dane was doing. Was he tearing Delmont’s mansion house apart looking for her? Sophie’s heart went out to him, for he would blame himself. He would find some way to punish everyone and everything — which was why she needed to escape. There was no point crying and pleading. Dampierre was a callous, cold-hearted man and so she would need to find another way to be free of him.
“Please, Victor,” Marie cried, “is all this necessary?” She walked over to him and placed her hand on his arm. “Take the necklace, but let Miss Beaufort go home. I will come away with you,” she pleaded as she caressed his arms. “We could go to Jamaica.” She touched his cheek.
Dampierre pushed her away and she tumbled backwards, hitting her head on the floor. “My sons cannot be born to a whore.”
Sophie held her breath, waiting for a sign that Marie was not hurt. Even Morgan stood up straight and took a few hesitant steps towards the limp body.
“Get up, Marie,” Dampierre shouted. When she moved her arms he repeated his instruction as if she were a child merely seeking attention.
Morgan walked over to one of the other chairs and brought it into the middle of the room. He strode over to Marie, placed his hands under her arms, lifted her off the floor and dumped her onto the chair.
“Do you see what I must endure, Miss Beaufort,” Dampierre said with a languid flick of the wrist. “Such weakness, such whining and whimpering after a gentleman, it is … degrading.” He walked over to Sophie, ran his finger slowly down her cheek and across her bottom lip. “How is one supposed to feel like a man when it is all offered so … so freely?”
As Dampierre stepped away, Sophie glanced across at Marie, who appeared to have recovered from her injury. Marie looked up at her, held her gaze and silently mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
“No,” Dampierre continued as he paced the floor, his hands clasped behind his back. “It is the fire burning deep within that I find so … so alluring.”
In this meditative mood, Dampierre appeared far more egotistical. Yet his movements, his manner, his words felt contrived and calculated, as though driven by some strange deep-rooted obsession. It went beyond a simple carnal craving or a depraved appetite. It had something to do with proving his worth as a man. But could she use it against him, Sophie wondered? Could she weaken his position enough for him to make a mistake? It was worth a try. Perhaps he had been repressed or intimidated by a woman. Perhaps that’s where his hunger for power and control came from.
“I have decided to call you Victor,” Sophie said firmly, surprising everyone in the room for she had said very little until now. “You will have no objection?” It was both a question and a statement depending upon how one perceived it.
“No, no objection,” he replied, albeit somewhat hesitant as he considered her request. “We are to be married, after all.”
She heard the apprehension in his tone, noticed he used the word marriage in order to intimidate. “Well, as to that, Victor,” Sophie replied arrogantly. “I have decided not to accept.”
Dampierre sniggered and was about to offer what she suspected would be a peremptory reply.
“I do not want to hear what you have to say on the matter,” Sophie continued, raising her chin. “Your opinion is not important, not to me, not to anyone.”
The Comte de Dampierre stood in the middle of the room, his mouth slightly open as he stared at her. “We will be married,” he repeated, anger brimming beneath the surface.
Sophie glanced at Marie, who was watching her intently, before focusing her attention directly at Dampierre. “How can you say that when you know your lineage is lacking. Who was your mother?” Sophie was guessing this was the root cause of his vile obsession. When he did not answer, she raised her voice. “Well, who was she?”
He appeared visibly shaken and then stuttered and stumbled over his words. “My father was a gentleman. He was the son of —”
“I did not ask about your father.”
Just when Sophie thought she was making some progress in unsettling the comte, someone banged loudly on the iron door. Dampierre froze and when it became apparent the person was not about to leave, he gestured for his man to deal with it.
“If you call out, Miss Beaufort,” Dampierre warned, regaining his vitality, “I shall be forced to hurt Marie.”
But Sophie did not have the opportunity to do anything, for the person barged into the warehouse determined to cause a scene. It was not until Morgan retreated further into the room, that Sophie identified the caller as being Lord Delmont, brandishing a pistol.
“Forgive me for intruding on this little party,” Delmont said, examining his surroundings with a look of disdain. “But as you went to so much trouble to spoil mine, I thought it only fair.”
Delmont glanced in Sophie’s direction but did not reveal any identifiable emotion. He appeared taller than she remembered, his golden hair much darker, and he looked vastly more sinister in such crude surroundings.
“What do you want?” Dampierre asked, his words cutting through the air like a knife.
“Has anyone ever told you it is preferable to invite more ladies to a party than gentlemen?” Delmont replied giving Dampierre a smug grin. He pushed his free hand through his golden locks. “The numbers have been evened somewhat, as the two men you posted outside have decided to take a swim. Still, I believe I stand a better chance with these ladies than you two miscreants.”