“Let the lady have her amusement,” Governor Stark chuckled and waited for everyone around him to join his witticism. “She knows a good bargain when she sees one. Jarvis, you’ll own him one way or the other.”
A dark cloud of annoyance swept across her face while her uncle reflected on the bargain to satisfy the Governor’s humor. The baron pursed his lips into a pout while stroking his fleshy chins, contemplating his new lucrative investment. Beside Devon, Ames scarcely breathed.
“Eleven pounds.” She spoke up, daring the other bidder to defy her.
“I’m done,” Cox, the mine owner hissed and stalked off.
Devon heard Ames utter praise to a higher power, but not before he observed the exhilaration in his wife’s eyes. He was hauled before her.
“I have never−I really don’t know what to−” She cleared her throat. “Do you have nothing to say?” She flushed beneath his glare.
Did she recognize him? He made an exaggerated bow to mock her. “I am your slave, ready for your amusement,” he seethed the words. He saw her lips part in surprise. He almost laughed in her face. To think she bought her own husband and didn’t even realize it.
“You should thank your benefactor. I saved you from a horrid life in the bauxite mines,” she cut him off.
“I suppose I should thank the disgrace of humanity that buys and sells human flesh.”
She returned an icy look then turned her dainty nose upward, dismissing him like an outgoing tide. Repugnance filled his soul, the thought of being the property of a golden-eyed witch and her uncle, an ill-formed creature. He came face to face with the beady-eyed monster.
“Good God. What medical college?”
“Trinity College. And since I’m to be bought and sold like a horse−”
“Found your tongue did you?” Baron Jarvis’s cheeks exploded with color and he whacked him hard with his cane. “You’ll learn respect.”
Devon stepped toward him, but held back a retort. Better to hold his tongue then profit from a beating. His angry gaze swung over his wife. The crowd sped her away with hearty congratulations. He hated the impotence of being sold into slavery, and with that hatred, he vowed all thoughts of revenge upon her person.
The men were divided and herded into wagons. The procession remained slow. The massive chains lay heavy, an encumbrance to climbing in the wagons. The guards collected beneath the shade of a palm tree, the prisoners in their sights, waiting for the planter’s orders.
“You lost your bloody wits.” Ames chastised him. “So what if she bought you. At least we’re together. Be thankful for that.”
“I’ll be thankful to get off this hellhole of an island.” Devon chafed and watched her ride away with her uncle.
“So that’s the lay of it,” said Ames.
Devon laughed to the bemusement of his friend. “It’s a strange twist of fate that I escaped the hangman’s noose into another world of slavery. And an even stranger fate that I be put here of all places.”
“Fate?” Ames asked.
“Without question,” Devon replied. But since that increased his friend’s confusion, he added, “I do believe you were right, Mr. Ames. My wits were lagging, and they haven’t come back yet.”
“Don’t get all starry-eyed over the Baron’s niece,” Ames cautioned. “He’ll be ready to teach you a lesson real quick.”
“You’re right. I’ll be laid to waste. But you know, Mr. Ames, I’m inclined to think now that I might enjoy our sojourn in this tail end of the world.”
“At forfeit to your life? I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll amuse yourself, harboring a grudge against the lady.”
“Amuse? Certainly, or didn’t you observe, the lady and I have declared war.”
“Oh Lily, I do depend on your practical nature to keep me from wailing at all the unfairness of the world. Cookie’s fever is raging out of control and I’m responsible for her welfare.” Claire paced the parlor of her uncle’s great house, anxiously waiting for the two doctors she had summoned for the third time in five days.
Cookie or rather Mrs. Simson had been the cook under the employ of the late baron, Claire’s father. At a young age, Claire had difficulty pronouncing Mrs. Simson, and so, had adopted the name of Cookie. From the time they could walk, Claire and Lily spent time in the kitchen with Cookie who delighted in having her two young charges under her feet.
“When my parents were alive…” Claire touched her heart, thinking of them and all the love they showered on her. Sitting on her father’s knee, listening to his deep rumble of laughter, or listening to her mother sing to her. That was before the accident. Their carriage had been struck broadside by a driver-less coach. Over and over their carriage had tumbled down a sharp ravine−her lovely mother with a broken neck, her father dying days later. Claire survived. It was a living testament to the love they held for their only child. For cushioned safely in between her parents, she emerged unscathed.
Yet her dear papa never realized he would not survive to his senior years. He had neglected to make provisions for his only daughter in the eventuality of his death and had been inattentive of his brother’s greed and temperament. Her father’s brother, Sir Jarvis wasted no time in securing the title of Baron and all the family’s holdings. One early morning, the girls were placed in a carriage and driven deep into London. They had been dropped off into a honeycomb of filth, so confined, it made Claire shudder to remember the long ago experience. Dirt besmirched walls, rot and garbage, families stuffed like beans in a bag, children with matted hair walking barefoot, men and women drinking, squabbling, fighting and screaming every foul invective imaginable. Bewildered, the two girls had wandered the rookeries of St. Giles, frightened from the ragged children who stole their rich coats. Claire had pulled Lily beneath a stairwell. Soot dripped on them and they shivered from the dank cold. Scouring trash bins for food became a learned ritual. Scared out of her wits, Claire had wanted to cry. She had refused to give into that impulse and had comforted Lily. She needed to protect her cousin. When darkness emerged, a more fearful experience descended. Men leered−and groped at her, trying to lure her into their carriages. The promise of a bit of bread to a child whose stomach gnawed with hunger came tempting. Despite her sheltered life, her body had trembled with the evil they represented and she ran away.
With a week spent in the country, tending her ill sister, Mrs. Simpson returned to discover the girls were missing. Little had been done about an investigation. She could not prove Jarvis was at the bottom of the farce nor did she trust him. No way did she believe his weak explanation of being in another town at the time of the kidnapping. Her maternal instincts exploded. She questioned everyone. Most of the servants remained silent, terrified of going up against a knight of the realm. A stable boy gave her a clue. He had been sleeping up in the loft when Sir Jarvis and a strange man had visited. He had not heard all the conversation. The girl’s names were associated with St. Giles.
