He shifted, then took a couple of steps closer to her. Close enough to smell the brandy on his breath. He had clearly imbibed as he had waited for her, reinforcing himself against the winter cold.
“I have an amount in coins. Guineas,” Ester began, “it is all I could get.”
“You were told to bring a note, signed by your father, that would be accepted at his bank in the city,” the man muttered harshly.
“I…I…” Ester stammered.
“My master told me that you would prevaricate and attempt to wriggle off the hook. The transaction is simple. You must pay.”
He took a threatening step toward her and Ester backed away. In a flash of moonlight, she saw his face. There was a smile on it, cruel and thin.
He took another deliberate step forward. Revulsion and fear flooded her. The lap of the water against the shore faded, as did the cold wind that ruffled its surface.
Instead, she was in the long gallery ofKendrick Priory,ancestral home of the Fairchild family. The soft, golden light of candles was reflected from fine pieces of silver and bronze that stood on pedestals along the hallway. Long, burgundy drapes covered the windows and a carpet of red and gold softened the sound of footfalls. It softened the sound ofViscount Kingsley’sfootfalls. She felt, once again, the hand upon her bare shoulder, turning her. Saw his leer and then his lips. Felt those lips fastening upon her throat, biting, tongue licking her skin. She screamed, shrinking away but held fast by cruel hands. She lashed out but her blows were ineffectual. She was pushed up against a wall, dislodging a painting that hung there so that it crashed to the ground. Kingsley laughed and struck her across the face with an open hand, knocking her to the floor.
Ester found herself screaming at the night, the dagger that she had drawn knocked from her hand, and a blow from an open hand knocking her to the ground. The emissary of the Viscount Kingsley stood over her, hand raised. Her anger flowed out of her, replaced by shame.
Defeat once again.
Kingsley had defeated her, only prevented from fulfilling his desires by the arrival of others, drawn by the commotion. By then, Kingsley had hauled her to her feet by the shoulders and pressed her against the wall. To them, the scene had been that of a respected gentleman enjoying a dalliance with a female of less respectable virtue. To them, she had been the one expected to feel shame. They had not seen him strike her.
She cowered against the boathouse as the man tore her cloak wide and seized the satchel. His hands lingered, finding her arms for a moment before he tore the bag away. Then he was looking down at her, breathing hard.
“My master will be angry that you have defied him. I will have to endure that anger. I will be blamed. I should have compensation,” he grated.
Ester heard the satchel drop to the floor. She had covered her face with her hands, fearing another blow. Now she looked up between her fingers and saw him step closer, unbuttoning the long overcoat he wore, then tossing it aside. He gave an exaggerated shiver.
“It is a cold night… is it not? No matter. You shall warm me up. And no one will ever know…”
Then, a sound reached them both on the wind. The thud of hooves on the hard-packed earth of the road. The man lookedback over his shoulder and growled in his throat. Then he grabbed the overcoat and satchel, and ran.
Ester remained where she was, wishing for the ground to open beneath her and swallow her. The memory of the assault that had driven her family out of their ancestral Cheshire home had overwhelmed her. The knife had come to her hand and she had struck out with it blindly. And been easily disarmed before being beaten to the ground. Her brave fight had lasted a heartbeat and had been defeated with contempt. Just as Kingsley had once broken her resistance without effort.
She felt worthless, shamed, degraded. The rider had probably been a highwayman. Her earlier fear was gone. Such a rogue would doubtless take the opportunity to defile her if he saw her there but she could not summon the will to move. The idea terrified her, but an exhaustion now flooded her.
How long had it been since the event that had turned her world upside down? Six months? Nine? Since her family had been forced to leave Cheshire to escape the accusing stares and malicious gossip. Since they had been forced to rent a house here on the outskirts of London from a gentleman of this county, leaving their home empty. All to escape the scandal. In all that time, she had blamed herself, had gone over and over her actions. Why had she chosen to leave the ballroom and walk alone? Had she given Kingsley any indication, as they had danced earlier in the evening, that she was receptive to his lust? Was anything of what the gossips now said, true? She could not admit to her father that Kingsley now wanted money in exchange for his silence. In exchange for not poisoning the well of the London ton against her family. Against Helen, who at thetender age of nineteen, had hoped for her debut and hoped for a husband.
That secret was an intolerable burden. Its weight was pressing her into the damp soil beneath her. She could not bear it any longer.
With supreme effort, she got to her feet.
She followed the line of the boathouse, turning the corner that Kingsley’s lackey had emerged from, and felt the boards of the jetty beneath her feet. The sound of the hooves had stopped but she was barely aware of it.
She walked faster now, until she was running, holding her skirts up.
Then the jetty was ending and she was leaping out from the edge, as far into the dark mere as she could propel herself. The cold embrace of the water welcomed her. Cold seized her. Darkness enveloped her.
CHAPTER TWO
“You know this road better than I do, old friend. You’ve come this way since you were first old enough to carry me on your back, and I, old enough to ride.”
Julian allowed his chestnut stallion,Rufus, to trot at his own pace. He kept up a low, whispered, one-way conversation with the animal as they went.
The night was dark, but Rufus knew the Chigwell road as well as his own stable. Master and mount had indeed ridden this way almost every night since Rufus was old enough to carry Julian on his back.
The cold wind ruffled Julian’s long, black hair, tossing it out behind him like a mane. He lifted his face to its cold touch, closing his eyes for a moment. In the greater darkness of his sudden blindness, he could hear the distant call of an owl, the yip of a fox, and the soft splash of an otter slipping into the water of the mere to his left.
He smiled.
