Desperately, she tried to cling to the comfort of her dreams, of Benedict’s arms. Her body ached, the way it had after she’d had a fever once and shivered the entire night through.
Unfortunately, none of the warmth and safety that her delirious brain conjured remained.
No, she was cold, sticky, nauseated, and sore. And Benedict was not there to tuck her hair back or kiss away her fears.
“Bint’s finally awake,” a man muttered with a note of bitterness.
Determining that sleep had abandoned her, Eliza pressed herself to sit up. Her hip and shoulder protested with disuse, but she was relieved that her only ailments could be blamed on stagnation and whatever they’d added to her drink, not anything more nefarious.
She’d been curled up along the crushed red velvet of a carriage seat. It had been luxurious when it was purchased two, perhaps three decades before. No effort had gone into its maintenance. The window nearest her had a crack along the glass, and the wind fought through with a grating whistling sound. The seat beneath her was worn through in places, and half-faded from where the evening sun streamed through on journeys. And it was several years overdue for re-springing. The entire assembly shifted threateningly with the slightest rut.
None of this improved the state of her stomach.
Before her sat two men. One came from at least moderate wealth: His coat and vest were fine, though travel-rumpled. Light brown hair swept across his clammy brow in foppishcurls. A thin white scar slashed his right cheek—long healed. His slate-grey eyes held no warmth, no kindness, and no hope. She couldn’t be certain—she’d been half drugged when she first set eyes on him—but she thought this was the man who had accosted Bella.
Bella!Eliza’s heart skipped as she remembered the other girl, bleeding on the stones. She hoped Bella was in a better state than she was at present.
The other man was different—a laborer of some sort. He wore a ragged brown coat and vest—both cut too short. The mismatched buttons on his dingy vest threatened to burst, and those of the coat hung limply, stretched from a fruitless fight to keep the too-small fabric together. In the last several years, he must have gained at least two stone.
Gathering every bit of courage she possessed, all of Sophie’s audacity, and every one of her mother’s manners, she said simply, “Gentlemen.” Her voice was hoarse with disuse, but she thought she’d done a credible job of seeming unaffected otherwise.
“Miss Wayland,” the wealthier man said. “I trust you slept well.” His hand flexed strangely beside him.
“Yes, nothing like an exceptional cordial to facilitate a good night’s sleep.”
“You’re not fixing to cast up on me boots again?” the other man asked.
“Oh, was that you?”
“Aye,” he grumbled.
“Ever so sorry. The next time I’m drugged and abducted, I’ll try to be more considerate when I cast up my accounts.”
“So you understand the situation,” the wealthier one said.
She glanced around the carriage as though searching for an explanation before feigning understanding. “Oh, was the drugging and abduction intended to be subtle?”
He chuckled with false amusement. At his side, his fingers splayed and tightened. “You know, Blackwood agreed to accept either of Wayland’s girls. And I’ll admit, the prettier one was a temptation. But the bonus he offered for the girl his son failed to seduce was too significant to ignore. And now I find myself rather pleased with this outcome. You’re an insolent little thing. I will enjoy breaking you of that.”
There was no doubt in Eliza’s mind as to how, precisely, the man meant to break her. The fear that had been knocking on the door of her heart—kept at bay by drugs and false audacity—burst in, setting the muscle racing.
“Ah, that’s more like it.” He leaned forward with a lecherous look in his eyes. So different from the adoring warmth of Benedict’s in their more intimate moments. Even when they’d been lost to lust, his gaze filled with heat, she’d felt cherished. This man left her feeling exposed and apprehensive.
Benedict. He’d warned her, more than once. And the man had just confirmed—this was all orchestrated by his father.
Eliza would need every one of her wits about her to escape. But her thoughts still moved too slow, thicker and duller from whatever they’d dosed her with.
Finally, an idea caught.
Infusing her tone with the one Rose’s wretched grandmother always employed, she said, “I do hope you don’t believe my father will pay if you’ve ruined me. I’m expected to make a good match. A titled match. Which would be impossible if I’m made impure.”
“Wayland’ll pay,” the rich man asserted.
The other man hesitated. “What if she’s on to something? There’ll be hell to pay if Blackwood don’t get what he’s due.”
“Wayland will pay.”
“You seem pretty fixed on that, Draycott.”
