Page 15 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

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“So, it is not a faro bank,” Evan said dryly.

We both stood on the bottom step of the staircase, the large room before us an assault upon the soul. A number of silver candelabra supplied enough light to see the lurid wall frescoes that depicted life-sized people and animals in acts that I had not considered possible. Strange contraptions made of wood and metal and leather stood at various intervals around the room. At first, I could not quite make sense of them, but that primal part of me that recognized threat certainly understood. I grasped the banister for support, my sight too full of straps, buckles, spikes, and a leather helmet that enclosed the whole head.

“Good God,” I managed. How would someone breathe in it?

One machine I recognized from my history studies—a medieval-type rack—and another from the abolitionist pamphlets—a flogging frame.

“Go upstairs, Gus. Wait for me in the basement,” Evan said, his eyes fixed upon the flogging frame. There was a new hollowness—a bleakness—to his voice that I had never heard before. Was he remembering the men he had doctored, or had he been upon such a frame himself? A ghastly thought. “Go upstairs, Gus,” he repeated. “Please. You should not be tainted by this devilry.”

I placed my hand on his shoulder, his broad muscles tense under my fingers. “I am not a child, Evan. I can look after myself. You are not the protector of my soul.”

He looked back at me, his expression holding a strange kind of fierceness. “But I am, if you will let me. I am, as you are of mine.”

I stared at him, a sudden ache in my throat. He was right; we were, indeed, the guardians of each other’s souls.

“Then we go together,” I said, meeting his fierceness. Our eyes locked in that promise. Or perhaps it was a vow.

He gave a nod. “Together.”

We took the last step into the chamber, our hands clasped.

I had, to some degree, become accustomed to the sight of the obscene furniture and frescoes and could focus beyond them on the room at large. The roof was higher than usual in a cellar, and an antechamber, separated by a half-drawn red velvet curtain, was visible to our right. To our left, a side table had been set against the wall with three matching silver candlesticks upon it, the wax candles burned to nubs. An ornately painted blue wardrobe stood against the wall, and a little farther along, a rather handsome longcase clock.

“There is blood on those,” Evan said, holding up a candle to illuminate a bunch of birch rods upright in a stand next to the flogging frame. He studied the floor around the contraption. “Here too. Probably not a flogging for pleasure,” he added grimly.

Flogging of any sort was not my idea of pleasure, but then, I had heard a great number of men and women enjoyed the practice. So much so that it was called “the English perversion” on the Continent.

I released his hand and walked over to the wardrobe. It was large and in the Italian style, the wood painted bright blue with flowers and vines decorating the two doors and the top edge. Very pretty, if you liked that sort of thing. I opened the doors. One half was shelves—stacked with cloths—the other a wider space that held no shelves, but tall birch rods propped in the corner.

“I am glad to report they are not going to run out of birch,” I said. Dark humor for a dark place.

Evan, who was studying the rack contraption, gave a grim huff of laughter.

I closed the doors and turned my attention to the clock. The mahogany case was inlaid with gold, and its maker’s name—J. Barwise of London—was written upon the face. A very good maker and a rather incongruous addition to such a chamber. “It would seem one needs to know the time when one is being flogged,” I said. This time I got no answering laugh. I turned to see if he had heard me.

He stood inside the antechamber doorway, the curtain drawn all the way back to reveal little more than a storage space.

Seeing me turn, he said in a low, tight voice, “Do not come here.”

Surely he knew I was not going to obey. I crossed the room. “What is it?”

He sighed and motioned inside the antechamber. I leaned in to see two large, full sacks heaped upon the floor—both tied at the top with rope, one with an ominous dark patch staining the hessian.

“I hope they are full of bottles too,” I said, without hope.

He looked at me, mouth pressed into resignation. “You are going to do this with me, come what may, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Hold the candle, then. I’ll open the sacks,” he said.

Since I did not wish to be the one to open them, that seemed like a good plan.

We crouched on either side of the closest sack. I placed the flagon on the stone floor and Evan passed me the candle, or what was left of it, since it was almost burned out. Still, it had enough wick to show us whether a woman lay inside. There was no mistaking the metallic smell of blood or the glossy smear of it across the gray slate. Evan dug his finger into the clumsily tied rope and released the knot. Gently, he pulled down the hessian.

Her hair was still in its braided bun, her pale face unmarked but for a split lip. A bare shoulder showed the sweep of collarbone beneath pearly skin, then the sudden red pulp of flogged flesh. Someone had closed her eyes, or perhaps she had died with them shut. Her gown and reticule had been stuffed into the bag beside her body, her own blood staining the little blue knitted purse.

Evan leaned closer and pressed his fingertips to her poor bruised throat. I loved him for his hope, but we both knew what he would find.

He sighed. “Yes, she is dead.” He gently pulled out the reticule and passed it to me. “Maybe it will have some clue to where she belonged.”

I stared down at the pretty purse. “They killed her.” I blinked, my sight blearing with tears: pity and horror, but mostly fury. I rubbed them away with the back of my hand. “They killed her for pleasure.”

“And most likely a wager,” Evan said. “I would hazard this is Catherine Hollis from the wager book.”

I drew in a sharp breath. “I think I know what the numbers meant beside her name.” My scalp crept at the heinous realization. “It is time. The numbers are time.” I looked across the room at the handsome longcase clock. “That is why they have a clock in here.”

Evan frowned; then his face, too, twisted into fury. “You mean they wagered on how long it would take her to die? Jesus Holy Christ.” He stared at the floor for a moment, fists clenched. His desire to punch something was palpable.

Then it dawned on me. I touched the paper in my pocket. “Sally Lawrence had the same time wager against her name. They killed her too.”

“And you think there is a link between Sally Lawrence and the doctor at the duel?” Evan said.

“I do. If she died in the same manner as this poor girl, then perhaps that is a motive.” I looked at the second sack. “How many girls have died down here?” I whispered.

He followed my gaze. “At least one more.” He reached across and untied the rope, pulling the hessian down.

The other missing woman. A grubby silk stocking was still tied around her throat, and the pallor of her skin showed a stark flush of tiny red dots across her cheeks. She looked to be still clothed in her chemise. I shuddered, remembering the other silk stocking in the wager book room upstairs. Had this strangulation been some kind of spectacle?

Evan sighed and pressed his fingertips on her throat above the ligature.

I pushed the knitted purse into my pocket—not quite up to opening it yet—then sat back on my heels. “Do you think—”

“Wait.” Evan frowned and slid searching fingers up under her jawline. “Gus…I think she is still alive.”

“What?” I stared at the woman’s slack face as Evan held his hand under her nose. Did I just see the flicker of a swollen red eyelid?

“Yes, she breathes.” He snatched back his hand and pulled the hessian down, past her chest. “Help me get her out of the sack.”

He gathered her up under her arms and lifted as I dragged the sack down her body, disentangling her bare feet from its folds. Her skin was so cold to the touch.

“Chafe her hands and her feet while I get this stocking off. We must get her blood moving.”

I grabbed her freezing hands and rubbed them between my own, then switched to her bony feet. Evan had taken a small knife from his boot and was sawing through the silk ligature.

“There,” he said triumphantly as it fell from her throat, revealing the hideous red mark of strangulation. “They must not have checked she was dead. Thank God.”

He started to feel around her head, fixed upon his work. “She does not have any lumps or swelling.”

Her eyelids flickered again. “I think she is coming to her senses,” I said.

A soft moan. And then her eyes opened wide, terror in their bloodshot depths. She thrashed weakly against Evan’s hold.

“No, stop!” I said. “You are safe. We are friends. Friends!” I caught her hands again, holding them. “They are all gone. You are safe now.”

She eyed me, still terrified. “Out.” She swallowed, a grimace of pain accompanying it. “Get out.” She struggled to sit up, managing it with Evan’s help.

“Yes, we will get you out,” I promised. “My friend here is a physician. He will help you.”

She looked back at Evan. He smiled: the reassuring doctor. It seemed to have some effect, for she took a deeper, shuddering breath.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asked.

“Jenny.” Her voice was so hoarse, the utterance painfully found.

“Do you know where you are? Can you tell me what street we are on?”

“Bedford Street.”

“Good. Can you swallow, Jenny?”

She did so, then nodded. “Hurts.”

He nodded sympathetically. “It will. Do you have a bad ache in your head? So bad it feels as if your skull will split?”

“No.” She lifted her hand, spreading forefinger and thumb.

“A small ache?” I asked.

She gave a tiny nod, wincing at the movement.

Evan smiled. “That’s very good. Are you dizzy? Does the room spin?”

Jenny looked over at the other sack and gasped, pushing her feet weakly into the floor to shift away. “Cathy?”

“You know her? Is she Catherine Hollis?” I asked.

Jenny gave another pained nod.

So we were right. “They killed her,” I said softly. “Do you know who any of them were?”

She shook her head and rasped, “Masks.”

“Do you think you can stand?” Evan asked. “We do need to get out of here.”

She nodded and slowly drew her legs underneath herself, levering her body up onto all fours. I stood and offered my hands. She gave a slight shake of her head and, drawing in a deep breath of effort, clambered to her feet, pressing her hands on the wall for support.

We all heard the noise above at the same time. Footsteps and voices.

“They’ve left ’em down below again,” a man’s voice called. “We’ll have to haul them up the steps.”

Good God, the real dustmen.