Jessica had adopted the tone and manner she’d found effective in dealing with unruly boys bigger than she was and with those of her uncles’ and aunts’ servants who made nonsensical remarks such as “Master wouldn’t like it” or “Missus says I may not.” Hers was a tone and manner that assured the listener of only two choices: obedience or death. It proved as effective in this case as in most others.
The footman darted a panicked look toward the stairway at the end of the hall. “I—I can’t, miss,” he said in a frightened whisper. “He—he’llkillme. No interruptions. None, miss. Ever.”
“I see,” she said. “You’re brave enough to throw a porter half your size into the street, but you—”
A shot rang out.
“Bertie!” she cried. Dropping her umbrella, Jessica ran toward the staircase.
Normally the sound of a pistol shot, even if followed, as this was, by feminine screams, would not have thrown Jessica into a panic. The trouble was, her brother was in the vicinity. If Bertie was in the vicinity of a ditch, he was sure to fall into it. If Bertie was in the vicinity of an open window, he was sure to tumble out of it.
Ergo, if Bertie was in the vicinity of a moving bullet, he may be counted upon to walk straight into it.
Jessica knew better than to hope he hadn’t been hit. She only prayed she could stop the bleeding.
She raced up the long stairway and into the hall and headed unerringly toward the shrieks—feminine—and drunken shouts—masculine.
She flung open a door.
The first thing she saw was her brother lying faceup on the carpet.
For an instant, that was all she saw. She hurried to the body. Just as she was kneeling to examine it, Bertie’s chest heaved jerkily and he let out a loud snore—a loud, wine-reeking snore that drove her instantly upright again.
Then she noticed that the room was as still as a tomb.
Jessica glanced about her.
Strewn about the chairs and sofas and sprawling over tables were, in various stages of dishabille, about a dozen men. Some she’d never seen before. Some—Vawtry, Sellowby, Goodridge—she recognized. With them were a number of women, all members of an ancient profession.
Then her gaze lit upon Dain. He sat in an immense chair, a pistol in his hand and two buxom trollops—one fair, the other dark—in his lap. They were staring at her and, like everyone else, seemed frozen in the same position they’d been in when she’d burst through the door. The darker female had apparently been in the act of tugging Dain’s shirt from his waistband, while the other had evidently been assisting the process by unfastening his trouser buttons.
To be surrounded by a lot of half-dressed, drunken men and women in the early stages of an orgy did not distress Jessica in the least. She had seen little boys running about naked—on purpose to make the females of the household scream—and she had more than once been treated to the sight of a bare adolescent bottom, for this was often a male cousin’s idea of witty repartee.
She was not in the least disconcerted or agitated by her present surroundings. Even the pistol in Dain’s hand didn’t alarm her, since it had already gone off and would need to be reloaded.
The only disturbing sensation she experienced was an altogether irrational urge to rip those two strumpets’ hair out by the dyed roots and break all their fingers. She told herself this was silly. They were merely businesswomen, doing what they were paid for. She told herself she felt sorry for them, and this was why she felt so acutely unhappy.
She almost believed that. At any rate, whether she did or didn’t, she was mistress of herself and, therefore, of any situation.
“I thought he was dead,” Jessica said, nodding at her unconscious brother. “But he’s only dead drunk. My mistake.” She walked to the door. “Do carry on,monsieurs. Andmademoiselles.”
And out she went.
Up to a point, Lord Dain decided, all had gone swimmingly. He had finally worked out a solution to his temporary problem with trollops. If he couldn’t tolerate having them in a brothel or in the streets, he would have them at home.
It would not be the first time.
Nine years ago, at his father’s funeral, a round-heeled local girl named Charity Graves had taken his fancy, and he had taken her, a few hours later, in the great ancestral bed. She had been jolly enough company, but not nearly so jolly as the thought of his recently deceased sire spinning in the tomb of his noble ancestors—and most of the ancestors whirling along with him.
An annoyance had resulted nine months later, but that was easily enough dealt with. Dain’s man of business had dealt with it to the tune of fifty pounds per annum.
Since then, Dain had confined himself to whores who plied their trade according to businesslike rules, and knew better than to produce—let alone attempt to manipulate and blackmail him with—squalling brats.
Denise and Marguerite understood the rules, and he had every intention of getting properly down to business at last.
Just as soon as he dealt with Miss Trent.
Though Dain had felt certain she would accost him sooner or later, he had not expected her to explode into his drawing room. Still, that was, in a general way, in accordance with his plans. Her brother was falling to pieces with a gratifying rapidity, now that Dain had taken an active role in his disintegration.
