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Elizabeth’s head ached abominably, not only from the blow she had been dealt but from whatever drug they added to the water they had given her to drink.

She had determined to take only enough water to keep dire thirst at bay, and she attempted to hold it in her mouth and spit it out rather than swallowing it.

Her gown, shoes, and spencer had been removed while she was unconscious, and she seemed to be wearing nothing but her chemise.

She knew that she was in a cellar; it was icy-cold and damp, and it smelled of mold.

Her thoughts turned to Darcy and her family, but something within her knew that if she allowed herself to give in to the despair that threatened her, she might never see any of them again.

She gritted her teeth with determination and forced herself to open her eyes and look about.

Dim light filtering in through a filthy window high in the wall in an adjoining room seemed to indicate that it was daytime.

With some difficulty she raised her head.

To her horror another mattress lay near hers, and there was a body on it—whether alive or dead Elizabeth could not tell.

She could make out a slight form huddled beneath a blanket and blonde hair spread out on the mattress.

The girl—if it was a girl—lay on her side.

As Elizabeth watched in shock, the girl shifted slightly and moaned.

Elizabeth could clearly recall her capture and her concealment, blindfolded, beneath the pile of ragged, filthy blankets in the back of the cart.

She had dropped one of her gloves along the path and had managed, with considerable effort, to remove the second glove in spite of the cords that bound her wrists behind her back.

The lout who had blindfolded her had torn off her bonnet impatiently, and she had no idea of what had become of it.

As she lay on her pallet, she tried to recall all the details—as many as she possibly could—of her abduction and capture.

She blessed her father for having made her commit to memory long passages from Shakespeare, mathematical rules, Latin declensions, French verbs.

Once she had collected the details of her own situation, she could call them to mind and examine them at leisure.

She instinctively realized that some means of escape might be found in the most trivial details of her misadventure thus far.

She recalled that they had jounced for what seemed like hours along the lane, and when her two captors finally called a halt, Elizabeth had pleaded the call of Nature.

She was led to a break in the hedgerow beside the lane and required to close her eyes while her blindfold was removed, and the bonds were loosened.

A quick and frantic sweep with her eyes revealed that they were nearly to the turnoff for London.

The gray horse that had pulled the farm cart was being removed from the traces and led up the hill and between the trees to a carriage where another gray was already in place.

A third man, also clad in a smock, seemed to be overseeing the change.

His face was hidden by his hat and a kerchief, but to Elizabeth he looked familiar.

He was wearing Hessian boots, incongruous with his farmer’s garb, and she began to think he resembled George Wickham.

Elizabeth continued to squat low so that she could take in as much as possible.

When the horses were ready, one of her captors came for her, wordlessly grasped her by the arm, hauled her up, and re-tied her blindfold.

She managed to drop the other glove in the middle of the lane before being dragged up the hill and through the trees, and unceremoniously bundled into the carriage.

She thought she could hear the cart being pushed out of the way, and in a few moments, one of her captors entered the carriage, sat on the opposite seat, and the carriage moved off, presumably on the road to London.

The other occupant never spoke, and Elizabeth was left to wonder who he was.

Elizabeth shook herself back to the present and swallowed her horror as the other girl in the cellar stirred and moaned again.

She was clearly in dreadful straits, and Elizabeth had no way to help or comfort her without making their situation worse.

Nevertheless, she tried, vainly, to overcome the nausea and headache so that she could rise.

She had made it to her hands and knees when her bladder signaled its urgent need for relief.

As she gathered her forces and looked around her for a bucket or chamber pot, a bright light suddenly appeared and approached.

It took several moments for Elizabeth’s eyes to adjust, and she could see that the light was from a lantern in the hands of a woman who was also carrying a basket.

She set the basket down, hung the lantern from a peg on the wall, and spoke.

“Good morning, ladies! Arise, shine, for thy light is come! I have brought you this delicious breakfast. Ah, Miss Bennet. I see that you are awake. You may relieve yourself in the bucket over there by the window.”

Elizabeth managed to rise, realizing that she was barefoot, and she made grateful use of the bucket before staggering back to her mattress.

To her utter shock, her companion had been laid out flat on her stomach, and their captor was bathing the girl’s bare back with a cloth and some water.

It was a nightmare of crisscrossed welts and sores, half-healed and raw looking.

Elizabeth fought back another wave of nausea and sat on her mattress.

“These are healing, my dear, dear Miss Grant,” said the woman.

“But you will have scars. No more comfortable house for you. There will be plenty of men eager to pay a shilling for you at Covent Garden, especially as your pretty face has been spared. You are indeed fortunate. We will let you stay here until your wounds have healed.” She turned to Elizabeth.

“The lesson for you, dear Miss Bennet, is that obedient girls fare much better in this establishment than do disobedient girls. Follow the rules and you will live a life of luxury and comfort. Ignore them, and this—or worse—may be your fate.” She went to the tray and brought back two bowls and two spoons as well as flasks of water.

“Now, ladies, eat this porridge. You would be well advised to eat every bite so as to keep up your strength.”

Elizabeth ate the thin porridge, drank all of her water, and watched her captor as much as she could.

The woman’s tall, thin form was clothed in a shapeless gray cotton garment, little better than a chemise, and a white apron—none too clean—was tied about her waist. Wisps of faded blonde, graying hair escaped from a white mob cap, also none too clean.

She sat back and folded her hands to signal that she had finished the meal, looking steadily at her captor .

“What are you looking at? Has my face turned green?”

“No, ma’am. I am trying to place your accent. You do not sound as though you are from London.”

“In such places as these, it is better not to ask. But since you have, I’ll tell you. I’m as much a gentleman’s daughter as you are, Miss Bennet. My father was a clergyman, rector of a fine, wealthy parish in—well it does not matter where.”

Her captor picked up the lantern and the basket and departed, leaving Elizabeth and her companion in the dim cellar.

Elizabeth slept for some unknown interval. She was awakened by the sound of weeping from the girl on the other mattress. The dirty window still admitted plenty of light, and she surmised that it was afternoon.

“Miss—Miss Grant, may I be of some assistance?” Elizabeth rose, finding that her headache had eased enough to allow her to sit on the edge of the girl’s mattress. “May I help you into the other room or do something to make you more comfortable? I have no water or cloth to ease your pain.”

Miss Grant turned over with difficulty, and Elizabeth took her hand, which was hot and dry. “Please call me Arabella,” she said.

“My name is Elizabeth. What has happened to you that they have beaten you so? ”

“A client paid to do this. There are men who derive great satisfaction from inflicting injuries of this nature, and from the pain they cause.” She winced and changed position.

“In my case, I displeased Madame Charpentier, the proprietress, by protesting a bill that she said I owed. This was my reward. Of course, I will be too disfigured to please the exacting clientele of this fine club. How did you come to be here? You seem to have only just arrived. It is a dreadful shock, I know.”

Elizabeth sighed and laid her chin on her hand.

“Yesterday I was in my father’s home, Longbourn, in Hertfordshire, happy with my parents and sisters.

I . . .” Something told Elizabeth to pass over the subject of her betrothal and of Darcy in general.

“I went out for a Sunday afternoon walk, and two men came up behind me and hit my head. I was rendered unconscious, placed in a carriage, and brought here. Am I right in my understanding that this is a place of low morals? That my virtue is in danger?”

“Dear Elizabeth, it is a place of no morals at all. And no virtue.”

“How did you come to be here?”