Ravenstone (Book 1, The Ravenstone Chronicles) Read online

  It was past midnight when she finally sat up slowly, and pulled the covers from her legs. She stared at the scars running down her legs. They would be a constant reminder of that day when Doctor Foster had confirmed to the family she would never walk again.

  She pointed her toes and smiled, still unable to believe it possible. She had discovered a return of sensation a year ago, when she had had been woken by a cramp in her foot. For two years, she had had no sensation in her legs at all. The sudden return of feeling was a gift, even if that feeling was marred by pain.

  She did a few stretches, then she moved to the side of the bed, and placing her feet on the floor, she stood up. After the first few months, she was able to walk slowly across the room, strengthening her muscles until she was able to walk with barely a limp.

  It had been a year now and she could do much more. At night, she often explored the gardens, running barefoot on the grass. Her midnight walks had brought rumors of a ghost that haunted the gardens. No one suspected her, for she had no one in whom she could confide.

  She was kept upstairs where no one but the servants could see her. Her mother made it quite clear that a cripple was useless to all. Georgiana was ignored to do as she pleased, and so her prison had turned into her sanctuary. She meant to keep it that way.

  She moved across the room to lock the door then stopped in front of the mirror to stare at the pale image she had become. Her long brown hair curled over her white nightdress. The deep shadows under eyes looked like bruises. Maybe Nurse Gibson was right about being fortunate someone wanted to marry her at all. She had never met Sir Edward Fairchild and he might well be the answer to escaping her father. But she couldn’t leave Jane and Margaret here with him.

  It had to be tonight, she knew.

  She picked up a pair of scissors and holding her hair in a single clump, she cut it off. She trimmed the remainder as short as she dared. Then she moved to the bed and dragged from under it a suitcase. Taking out a pair of breeches, she pulled them on. They were a good fit. She tied over her breasts the strips of linen she had prepared, and then slipped a white shirt over her head. The shoes pinched her toes. Last, she combed the black paste into her hair.

  She considered her image in the mirror. A boy stared back at her with large fearful eyes, his hair neatly combed. She had stolen the clothes from one of the stable boys, and it was a stable boy’s image that now stared back at her. Satisfied, she pulled the cap down on her forehead, grabbed the jacket, and moved toward the window. Suddenly, she stopped.

  She had almost forgotten.

  She turned back to the case on her bed, and reached for a small bundle. Carefully, she removed the cloth and examined the pistol that lay in her hand. It was no ordinary pistol, the white ivory handle ornately decorated with her father’s coat of arms. Measuring the powder, she poured it down the barrel and placed the patched ball on the crown of the muzzle. With the ramrod, she forced the ball down to the chamber, where it tamped against the powder.

  Carefully she placed the stolen pistol in her pocket, trying not to think about the servant her father had arrested for stealing it. The man had raped a chambermaid. He had deserved arrest, she reminded herself. The maid had been dismissed once it was evident she was with child and she had come to Georgiana begging for help. Georgiana had helped her, giving her jewelry in exchange for bringing her the pistol she knew her father kept in his desk.

  She quietly unlatched the window, and then taking a deep breath, she climbed out into the night in search of her father.

  2

  Atop the roof, she waited, listening. The house was a two-story yellow brick Georgian surrounded by a wooded garden on the north side of Russell Square, south of the lands where the Regent hoped to build his palace. Her father had the wall around the house and garden rebuilt the first time she had run away. The tall brick structure was an imposing obstacle and meant to keep both people out and her in. A dog barked in the distance. She could hear the horses in the stables in the carriage house. A carriage passed in the street below while the watch cried out the time. The usual sounds.

  From her perch, she could see above the houses in all directions, despite the clouds that obscured the moon and stars. Satisfied that all was as it should be, she made her way along the roof to the lattice on the side of the house. She climbed down, pausing to look inside her father’s bedroom window on the second floor. His room was empty. She cursed, hoping she had not waited too long.

  She climbed down to the ground, and then made her way around the side of the house, staying in the shadows. Outside the study window, she looked to see if he was still downstairs. A light inside illuminated his desk and an empty chair, and the fireplace in which no fire burnt. She was too late. He had already departed. She cursed her misfortune and contemplated giving up for the night, but the panic inside her would not allow for further delay.

  She crept toward the garden wall and the great tree that grew beside it. She scaled the branches as she had done many times as a small girl. Only then, she had never dared use the tree to climb over the wall as she did now. Once on the other side, she stood for a moment waiting for the pain in her legs to subside. The jump from the top of the wall was still the worst, but she dared not use the gate, for her father had a guard stand there every night. He was not a trusting man, her father.

  A light fog drifted down the darkened street, and she startled at a sudden movement across the road. A stray dog disappeared into an alley, and she inhaled deeply trying to calm her racing heart. She had followed her father before, always losing him in the maze of city streets as they approached the Thames. But he had always gone in the same direction, and it was that way she turned now.

  He never took his own coach but hired a hackney at the south side of the square, which took him to Covent Garden. She did the same, hoping his habit had not changed this night. Once they arrived, she took a coin from her pocket, her hands shaking, and thanked the driver.

  “It’s the sickness you’ll find here, lad, better be careful,” he advised.

  She nodded and walked past Harlequin Court toward Wellington Street, careful to avoid the treacherous alleys that led to the Thames. The streets were crowded with men and women, the women offering services and the men shopping for appetites not met at home. Coaches and hackneys dropped off passengers and picked up others. Gentlemen strolled along in groups or alone, followed by girls selling themselves. A man in a top hat in front of Georgiana paused on the sidewalk to fondle a prostitute while his friends gave encouragement.

  She sidestepped the men, avoiding eye contact and making sure she walked like a man, her stance open, her arms swinging and her head held high. She faked a confidence she did not feel.

  She dodged the children begging in the street, while the prostitutes ignored her in her stable boy clothes. She spat on the sidewalk, and hoped her disguise would hold.

  Here in the warrens and back alleys, she had lost sight of her father twice before. She had not dared stay long and always returned home. Tonight she was determined to discover where he went. She turned down King Street and then onto James Street, trying her best to act like she belonged, despite being scared out of her wits.

  “Now ’ere we ’ave sweet young one who’s to find ’imself some pleasure. What say you for a six pence, young master?”

  The old crone strolled forward, exposing her left breast, and smiled with missing teeth. The skin on her breast was scarred as if burned and her tit sagged to her belly. Georgiana turned to walk past but this one was more persistent, more desperate, and would not allow her to pass.

  “It’s young flesh I seek,” Georgiana answered, speaking in a deep voice as she had practiced.

  The smile disappeared from the old woman’s face, and she spat a gob at Georgiana’s feet, hitting her target.

  “O young, is it? My old flesh not go’ enough for the likes of you.” She didn’t bother to cover herself, but stepped menacingly closer.

  Georgiana stayed her ground, r
efusing to be intimidated. She drew from her pocket a coin and held it up. “Where?” she asked.

  The old woman eyed the coin. “Now, that all depends on how young me master likes his flesh.”

  “Very,” she answered.

  The old woman took her eyes from the coin, and stepped back. Georgiana took another coin from her pocket.

  “Like that, is it? Well it’s not me place to judge or say ’tis evil you are about. The ’ouse you want is last on the left. May God take pity on your soul.”

  Georgiana walked quickly down the dark street toward the house mentioned, and tried to ignore the fear growing inside her. A hulking blackguard kept watch at the front door, so she headed for the alley around the back. The rear door to the house was locked, so she studied the wall. Finding her first hand hold, she pulled herself up, careful to support her weight for the next move. Slowly, she climbed a crumbling wall to a second floor balcony. She prayed the room she was crawling into was empty.

  A door opened onto the balcony but no light came from inside. She listened, but no sound came from the room. Entering slowly, she felt her way toward the far door, opening it enough to look out carefully. The hallway was empty.

  The light from the hallway illuminated the interior of the room, and revealed a bed and a washstand. A young girl lay tied to the bed, her eyes open, watching the intruder. She was naked, her small breasts barely formed. She lay motionless, blinking passively. The look in the girl’s eyes was one she recognized all too well. It was one of utter defeat. She had given up fighting and waited now only for the end. Georgiana couldn’t allow that to happen.

  She moved closer to the bed, and taking a folding knife from her pocket, she cut the rope around the girl’s hands and feet. It was a foolish notion, she knew. One she could not afford, but she could not help herself either. Her instinct to protect was too strong. The girl was trembling, her skin cold, but there was nothing to cover her. Watching with a vacant look, the girl closed her eyes as if she had not slept in weeks. Georgiana shook her gently but the girl curled up like a cat to sleep. She should leave her, find her father, and do what she had come to do, protect her own. Only she couldn’t. No one had helped her escape her father’s abuse. The servants must have known, her mother. They had all chosen to look away instead, chosen to protect their own. If she left this girl here, she would be no better than them.

  She moved back to the door and slipped through to the hallway. A hallway of closed doors paralleled a filthy, threadbare carpet. Music and voices drifted up the stairs, and the heavy smell of tobacco hung in the air. From upstairs, a door opened and shut, and footsteps moved toward the stairs.

  Fearing discovery, Georgiana had no choice but to open the next door. She listened outside for a second, and then entered. Furnished with a bed, desk, and chair, the room was empty. A closet in the corner stood half open, and clothes lay scattered about. Half-eaten food on a plate had attracted a rat, which eyed her before returning to its meal.

  She picked up a black dress on the floor, some shoes that had seen better days and a blanket. Quickly she darted into the hall and returned to the girl, who still lay on the bed asleep. Georgiana shook her hard, and she opened her eyes, protesting with a moan.

  “You must wake up,” she said, pulling the girl up into a sitting position. “Here, put this on.”

  The girl moaned again, barely lifting her arms to get the dress over her head and slip her arms into the sleeves. Georgiana slipped the shoes on her feet and laced them up. They were far too big.

  “Can you stand?” Georgiana whispered, but there was no answer. She felt her foot knock against a glass with a brownish residue next to the bed, the sweet medicinal smell of laudanum explaining the girl’s soporific state. Georgiana sighed and looked at the balcony, wondering how she was going to get the girl down to the street. She should leave her, and return to the search for her father, but she knew she couldn’t. Quietly, she cursed herself.

  Voices and footsteps poured down the hallway, and fear set in. She grabbed the girl under her arms and yanked her to her feet. The sudden rough handling roused the girl. She screamed and pushed Georgiana away.

  “Don’t scream,” Georgiana whispered, putting a hand over her mouth. But the girl fought her, punching her hard in the face. “I’m trying to help you. Be quiet.”

  Wild eyed and panicked, the girl fought her, and they fell on the floor struggling. The bedroom door opened, and someone grabbed Georgiana by her shirt and slammed her against the wall.

  “What’s this we ’ave ’ere then? A thief doing away with the goods, are you?”

  Georgiana saw a massive fist move toward her and tried to get out of its way. It smashed into her nose and white-hot pain shot into her head. Her assailant dragged her by her shirt out the door and down the hallway. She tried to stand up but he moved too fast, blood streaming from her face. At the stairs, he shoved her and she felt herself falling. Her head hit the stairs as she went all the way down. She lay still at the bottom, thinking she had to move or he would kill her.

  Wracked with pain, she pushed herself up and ran blindly toward the front door, but found it blocked by another man ready to stop her. She ran to the left, into a salon filled with cigar smoke, men lounging around, and naked girls entertaining them. She pulled back curtains on a window: barred. The man chasing her entered the room, paused in the door, smiled, and walked slowly closer. She drew the pistol from her pocket and aimed at his chest. He stopped suddenly, the smile melting away.

  “Now, boy, there be no need of that.”

  A girl screamed and the noise in the room faded as the focus shifted to the confrontation.

  “I’ll show myself out, thank you, kind sir,” Georgiana said and indicated with the pistol that he should step aside.

  He moved slowly to one side of the room, and she moved past him, keeping the pistol pointed, aware that her hand was shaking. Aware of her weakness, he shadowed her movement. Walking backwards toward the front door, she paused to make sure the other man behind her at the door saw her pistol. With the attention of both on her, she waved the second man away from the door. He opened it for her, and stepped aside.

  At the entrance way stood a newly arrived patron on the scene, surprised at what he was witnessing. It was her father. The shock of seeing him caused Georgiana to stumble, but she recovered quickly and hoped the blood on her face would hide her identity.

  “Sir, if you will step aside, this boy was just leaving,” said man at the door.

  Her father’s eyes were on the pistol in her hand, his stolen pistol. He raised his eyes to her and she saw suddenly that, in his recognition of the pistol, he had now also recognized her.

  “Boy?” her father asked, raising an eyebrow. He studied her, his eyes moving from her face to her legs.

  Her heart sank. It was over she thought, but to her surprise, he did step aside. She moved cautiously out the door and into the night, then she ran quickly down the road toward the busier Savoy Street, not looking back.

  Her breathing was labored as the blood flowed from her nose down her face and throat. Finally, out of breath, she ducked into an alley to rest, hiding behind some old wooden crates. She tilted her head back and pinched her nose, crying from the pain. Footsteps followed down the street, and she moved deeper into the dark and kept still, praying they would pass.

  They didn’t.

  “Georgiana, I know you are here,” he said softly. “Are you coming out or must I come in?”

  She kept still, shrinking into the darkness as best she could, wondering why she was hiding. What could be more to her needs? He was here in a dark alley with her still holding the gun. Let the bastard come.

  “You leave me no choice.”

  He moved down the alley toward her hiding place and her panic ballooned.

  “How long have you been following me?” he asked, his voice filled with anger.

  She didn’t answer, holding her breath as she waited for him to come close enough so she could
be sure of her aim in the dark. He paused in front of her hiding place, listening for her to give herself away. Then he took another step, then two more. She raised the gun, but he caught the movement, and brought his walking stick down hard on her arm. She cried out in pain, dropping the gun and bolting. She pushed off the wall and dashed back down the alley. She felt a blow to her head, and stumbled, crashing to the ground with a scream.

  “I ’ave ’im, Guv’ner,” a male voice said, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her up.

  It was the same voice as from the house. She should have known her father would leave nothing to chance.

  “Much obliged, Thomas.”

  Her father took hold of her other arm and they dragged her out the alley. Kicking hard, she managed to land a blow on her father’s shin, and had the satisfaction of hearing him draw in his breath in pain. He let go of her arm and slapped her hard. For a moment, the world was dark.

  “Find the pistol,” she heard him say.

  Thomas searched the alley, and then handed the pistol to her father. They bound her hands and feet, and then threw her in a coach where she lay in the dark unable to move. Her father got in, then the door closed, and they moved off into the busy streets.

  “What will you do with me?” she asked softly.

  “What an extraordinary question, my dear, but I fear it is a question that needs must answer. I despair that I greatly underestimated you, Georgiana, and it is not a mistake I am willing to repeat. You really should have accepted marriage. I meant only the best for you.”

  “I will not abandon the girls to you.”

  “Ah yes, the girls. Such pretty young things they will turn out to be, and such temptation, no doubt. But pray tell me, what is it exactly you had planned for me?”

  She kept her silence, trying to twist her arms into a more useful position. She still had her pocketknife.

  “Come now, speak up, this is not the time to keep your own counsel.”