“I am a businessman,” he said, leaning in toward her, “and I have come to collect my debt.”
ChapterTwenty-Three
He had come to collect his debt? Sybil’s mind raced with the implications of this frankly harrowing statement. The fact he had her with him suggested thatshewas his debt. That he had collected her.
“I helped your mother when she needed it most,” the man said. “My name is Howard Winston and when your mother was young and struggling, she approached me looking for a way to escape her poverty. I offered her work or marriage, and she accepted the work.” He smiled, and the light of a passing lamp illuminated a golden tooth. “In return, she promised me her daughter when she came of age.”
Sybil’s stomach dropped at the final implication that presented itself to her. Her mother offered her up as a way to pay her debts. Her mother, whom that very evening had been so kind and gentle in a way that was so unlike her—whom Sybil had thought she was finally connecting with—had betrayed her. The sting of it sank right through to her belly, spearing her heart.
“But—”
He held up a hand. “Not so fast, my dear. You see, your mother knew she made this deal with me, but when I came to collect, she told me that you were out of bounds. That as an Earl’s daughter, you were above my station.” He snorted. “That hardly weighs on me. You are the daughter of a harlot, a woman I turned into the wife of an Earl. Your life belongs to me.” He looked her over lasciviously and she had to bite back a shudder. “And the rest of you.”
“I belong to no one.”
“A pretty speech, but speeches won’t help you now.”
Sybil drew herself up. “If you believe I will marry you, you are mistaken, Sir.”
“As I said,” he said easily, “your pretty speeches won’t help you now. If you value your life, you will do as I say.” Once again, as though it was nothing, he brandished his pistol at her.
She hated him. But if she was going to get herself out of this mess, the best thing she could do was to convince him she would play along with his schemes. Then, when he least expected it, she would make an escape attempt. Yes, that was what she would do. He would be wholly unsuspicious. Or at least, perhaps he wouldn’t have time to react and shoot her before she escaped.
The carriage passed from Mayfair into an entirely less salubrious neighborhood. The houses, brick-fronted and entirely respectable, were far smaller than the ones she was accustomed to, and there was no chance for escape as Howard took her, not gently, by the arm and ushered her inside. Very well, she would merely escape from inside. There would no doubt be an opportunity. An unlocked door, perhaps, or—
Her thoughts were silenced by the sight of the opulent space that greeted her. From the outside, the house did not appear especially wealthy, but from the inside, it was clear he was wealthy. Potentially even wealthier than Thomas.
“What do you do?” she asked him as he hauled her up a set of wide stairs so richly carpeted her feet sank into them. “You said you are a businessman. What is your business? Why did my mother turn to you?”
“Gaming hells. I set your mother to work there and she paid back her room and board… and then some.” He gave an unpleasant smile. Sybil suspected he didn’t have access to a pleasant smile. “She snapped up her Earl and I waited for the inevitable.”
Sybil ducked away as he reached out to brush back a curl. “Where am I to be staying?”
“I have a guest chamber made up.” He smiled, and she noted he definitely had a gold tooth. “And tomorrow, you will share my room as my wife.”
Tomorrow? That gave her significantly less time than she’d hoped to escape.
“Don’t worry,” he added, seeing her expression. “I have a special license for the occasion.”
They arrived at a door which he flung open to reveal a relatively plain guest chamber. Evidently, he infrequently had guests or cared little about providing them with the level of comfort displayed in the rest of the house.
Sybil stepped inside and turned around to smile at his face. “Goodnight,” she said and slammed the door in his face. Now, to see if she could escape.
* * *
George woke to a light tapping on his chamber door. Rolling over, he saw the sun was still relatively low in the sky, and his carriage clock on the mantelpiece informed him it was only eight in the morning.
The knock sounded again, more insistent this time. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. “What?” he barked at the third knock.
“Sorry to disturb you, Your Grace,” his valet said, opening the door and peering inside. “You have a visitor.”
“At this hour?” George pressed a pillow across his face and his aching head. After he’d gotten back last night, he’d drank a great deal too much brandy, and the shafting light hurt his eyes. “Tell them to leave and come back later.”
“It’s Lady Averley, Your Grace.”
“Lady Averley? Did she give a reason as to why she’s here?”
“She said it was concerning Lady Sybil.”
