Mistress

Chapter One- Sample

Steel grey eyes combed the cobbled alley of an ominously silent London street. Garbage and human filth littered the walkways, piled higher than the carriage wheels in places, stacked up against the run-down brick buildings that stood crumbling from age and poverty-induced neglect at either side of him. Baron Leggett Saville spared his surroundings less thought than he did the cold that stung his face and hands, despite the protective clothes he wore.

It was strangely still for the mid-night hour, the cold having driven even the most dedicated of thieves and prostitutes to the warmth of the all-night taverns scattered throughout these slums. That a man of his rank and prestige should be willing to brave the weather as well as his money and his life in these surrounds was nothing less than remarkable. That he should choose to do so with nothing more than a carriage and one lone servant for teetered on the brink of insanity.

Two black horses tamped at the icy cobbles, tugging impatiently at the reins. The restless sound of their pawing echoed in crisp staccato bursts through the otherwise silent alley. Even his carriage was black, simple but elegant and void of the emblem of nobility that customarily hung from the doors. Tonight it cloaked him in shadow, blending in neatly with the black of his well-tailored clothes and sheltering him in the icy darkness of the night air. Saville preferred it that way.

One grey-gloved finger rose stiffly above the rest only to tap back lightly down atop hands that were folded neatly over the ivory handle of the cane he held braced between his knees. It was the only sign of impatience he allowed. Like some mythical dragon, his breath steamed the biting air as he waited. He had been here well over an hour. If necessary, and though it would likely freeze the horses, he would wait all night.

"Looks like snow, m’lord." Sparra One-Eye rasped, his soft voice grating the silence like sandpaper. He stood just outside the open carriage door. Shadow hid his grim features as he watched the road through a single, blue eye. A dark leather patch adorned with a circular pattern of steel beads covered the other. Long strands of greasy brown hair hung like an unwashed curtain around a face that had been neither cleaned nor shaved in days. Dirt blackened his nails and the well-worn clothes he wore, once tailored for a gentleman, were now so poorly mended as to be hardly recognized as fine.

Though the Baron couldn’t see them, he knew Sparra always kept a gun conveniently tucked into the waistband of his trousers and hidden beneath his coat. There would also be a short blade snugly sheathed inside his boot.

"So it does," was Saville’s only answer. He settled back against the seat and continued to watch the street.

In the distance, a muffled cry reverberated through the iced alleyways. Sparra lifted his head slightly, stepping cautiously away from the carriage. Towards the mouth of the alley, barely illuminated from the dim light of a distance street lamp, a shadow disengaged itself from the rest. "‘Ere she comes, m’lord."

Saville closed his eyes as he listened to the thin reedy wail of a newborn’s cry, echoing off the crumbling bricks of the narrow alley. A corner of his mouth twisted into a wry grimace of a smile. "Hark, the healthy lungs of the Saville heir."

Saville’s tone held less warmth than the icy weather, and when he nudged Sparra with the toe of his boot, the manservant stepped towards the approaching midwife without comment.

Well-bundled against the cold, the midwife paused to regard the dark countenance of the carriage. Well into the evening years of her life, the woman’s lined face betrayed none of her thoughts as she hurried to close the gap between herself and the carriage. The baby basket she carried in her arms released another raspy wail but no effort was made to comfort the infant bundled haphazardly within.

"Finally," Saville remarked as the midwife drew abreast of the open door. "One would think you in no hurry to collect your reward."

"Lady Michadle had a difficult birth, my lord." The midwife lowered her eyes as she spoke, the humble gesture not quite masking her irritation. "And there was difficulty slipping past her husband. Had his concern for her been any less, he might have demanded to see the child. Fortunately, the little wretch stayed quiet long enough for me to leave the castle grounds."

Baron Saville leaned slowly toward her, the darkness obscuring his face. "Be careful how you speak of my new son. T’would be a pity to have worked so hard to gain this wealth only to lose your tongue." When she paled and stepped nervously backwards, he snapped, "What did you tell them?"

The midwife shifted the basket uneasily; the baby’s constant wails grew louder as it was bumped and jarred within. "I am not a fool, my lord Baron. I told them it died. By the time they discover differently, I will be safely out of England and the child within the confines of your home."

From the corner of his eyes, Saville glimpsed a flicker of movement. Barely distinguishable in the shadows behind her, he watched as Sparra drew the knife from his boot.

"I wish you the most comfortable of travels." Saville extended a grey-gloved hand, offering her a charming smile. "My heir, if you please."

She held out her own in return, palm-up in mimicked expectation. "My money, my lord Baron."

Both his eyes and smile grew notably colder, but Saville retreated slowly back into the darkness of the carriage. From inside came the musical jostling of many coins. "Take your payment then. It’s more than you’ll ever need."

A heavy pouch, the drawstrings looped over the ivory-knobbed handle of his cane, was extended through the open doorway. The midwife looked first at it, then the outline of him against the seat. She hesitated a moment, before her hand stretched out to take it. She lay the basket upon the floor, just inside the carriage’s open door. "Congratulations on the birth of your son," she told him, as she backed away.

He inclined his head, following her retreat with his predatory eyes. "Thank you."

At which point Sparra came out of the shadows. His hand clapped over the midwife’s mouth, muffling her scream as the blade of his knife passed in front of her eyes. It cut through both night and skin, leaving a trail of red spurting to the icy cobblestones at the midwife’s feet. The woman clutched her throat with both hands. She gurgled, her eyes--so beautifully panicked--widening as crimson drops splashed between her fingers, falling to the ground with a rain-like pattering. She began to sag.

As gentle as any lover, Sparra lowered her to the street before using the wool of her skirts to wipe his blade clean. He took the pouch of coins from her limp hand, stepping over her fallen form to hand it back to Saville. Without a backwards glance, he closed the carriage door and the rig jostled as he climbed up into the seat and took the reins.

Lying neglected at the Baron’s feet, the infant cried on, and Saville relaxed for the first time all night. He leaned back against the seat, swaying gently with the sedate rocking of the carriage as the horses pulled it from the alley, turning towards home.

Outside, it finally began to snow.

* * * * *

It was three in the morning before the Baron’s coach finally pulled up the darkened drive. The London Season long since ended, most of England’s nobility had retired to their country estates for the winter. The Baron was no exception. It simply made it easier for him.

The house was completely dark. No light burned in any of the windows. No servants remained awake. Nor were there stable-hands to take the horse’s reins as Sparra drove up to the house.

Saville climbed laboriously from the carriage, leaning heavily upon his cane. Leaving Sparra to unfetter and rub down the horses, he picked up the basket and limped into the house. Through massive oak doors, he entered the dreary Hall and paused at an entry table to light a lamp by which to see.

He paid little attention to the squalling infant at his feet. But as the yellow glow of the wick light spread out to encompass the room, he bent to study the mottled, unwashed creature that wiggled beneath the single blanket provided it. He nudged the side of the basket with his foot. "May as well stop your bawling. You’ll get no pitying out of me."

Settling the basket in the crook of his elbow and picking up the candle, he started down the hall, limping and leaning heavily upon his cane. No attention was paid to the surrounding wealth. Though barren in a masculine fashion, here and there a table or knick-knack stood out from the shadows. A Greek statuette, an blue gilded Asian vase, a painting with gold-trimmed frame; though scattered few and far between, all had been carefully selected for their lavishness. When the candlelight hit them, they glittered like treasures from out of the darkness.

The Baron was blind to all of it as he passed door after door, turning into one room only to pass straight through it and out a second door into another long passage. Finally he came to the room he wanted and stopped. Pulling a thick, iron key from his jacket pocket, he unlocked the door.

The hinges groaned as he pushed it open, revealing a narrow flight of stone steps, enclosed by stone blocks, circling down into the dark. Here the candle barely pierced the gloom, but, gripping the handle of his cane tightly, Saville began a long and winding descent into the basement chamber.

There was only one room at the bottom of the stairs. Once a dungeon, the barest attempt had been made to convert the dreary circular room into a bedchamber. There was a grand four-poster bed, brightly colored rugs upon an otherwise bare and cold floor, and a large, crackling fire in what had once been a torturous pit that was large enough to consume nearly eight feet of wall space. Despite the roaring fire, the room was cool, and the Baron made no move towards removing his jacket. He limped heavily to the bed, and the lump of blankets huddled in the middle.

He set the basket on the edge and his candle on the bedside table. With his cane, he prodded the mound of blankets situated in the center of the mattress.

"Congratulations," he said, his voice deepening with sarcasm. "You’re a mother."

The movement was so slight, had he blinked he would have missed it entirely. Two folds of blanket parted enough for her to peer at him. Locks of dark hair curled upon what little he could see of the sheets. Though she kept her body hidden, her eyes he could see well enough and the fear that hovered within them, muted by a fog of the opium he forced in her whenever she became lucid enough to be bothersome.

He smiled without warmth. "Have you no desire to see the heir of my empire?"

She did not move.

The Baron’s smile faded and, in a sudden fury, he roared, "Look at him!"

His shout ricocheted through the cold stone prison, and the woman in the blankets shrank from it and from him. But even as the last vibration faded from hearing, she pushed herself up onto her knees and the blankets fell away.

Barely twenty, she was pretty with dark hair and eyes, but pale. Too long in the basement and out of the sun, her skin had developed a sickly pallor. She was also the only American likely to be found in London as, across the ocean, the war for independence continued to rage. It was for this reason he had selected her. Patriotism was running quite high, and there were very few people in England who’d bother themselves to befriend an enemy of the crown.

But even more important than that, as the granddaughter of a French aristocrat, fallen though he’d been, her blood was still as blue as any Saville could hope for. That alone made her perfect for his needs.

"Look at him," Saville coaxed, a chilling smile turning the corners of his mouth.

Naked, she crept out from beneath her protective covering. Like a patchwork tapestry of pain, from her arms and shoulders, down her back, buttocks and thighs, the brown and yellow of old bruises mingled with the red and purple of new ones. Here and there, the bruises were interrupted by swollen purple lines. Earlier that day they had been fresh welts.

Wobbling on hands and knees, she moved toward him with somnabulistic slowness, struggling to keep her eyes focused on both him and his cane all the while. Stretching out her arm, she inched her fingers to grasp the edge of the baby’s basket and pull it towards her. She teetered unsteadily, blinking her huge, dark eyes, which seemed so sunken and bruised against her pale cheeks, and shivered.

Saville did not let it go. Instead, his smile returned even colder than before. "Admire your new son, Olivia."

* * * * *

It was a struggle to keep her eyes open and focused, but Olivia bent down to look inside the basket. A baby. She had to blink three times before she realized what she was seeing was real. Then she groaned, a tormented, half-strangled sound as tears filled her eyes.

Saville smirked. "You see, despite the incompetence of your womb, I will have my legacy afterall. The blood may not be that of a Saville, but the name and the lands will survive into inheritance."

Inside the basket, only partially covered by its single blanket, the baby shook with cold. Its fingers and lips had turned blue. In her hurry, the midwife had not even bothered to clean it up and dried birthing blood and patches of soft, white down still covered it in places.

As if sensing a sympathetic heart, the baby puckered its face for another lusty yell. One stubborn kick of its legs and the blanket came completely off. For the first time, Olivia saw what the midwife had succeeded in hiding. Too late, she grabbed the blanket to cover the child again, but Saville had already seen it. His face became mottled with apoplectic rage.

"A girl?" His bellow crashed through the room like thunder. "That bitch!"

Olivia threw herself across the basket barely in time to block the Baron’s cane from striking the infant. It struck her full across the back and she jerked, screaming into the quilts and mattress. Clutching the baby to her naked chest, she scrambled for the edge of the bed. Saville grabbed for her leg, swinging his cane after her and catching her hip. Her knees buckled and she fell to the stone floor.

"Bitch," he rasped. Limping heavily, his weight balanced against the bed with one hand, holding his cane like a weapon in the other, he rounded the corner in pursuing her as she crawled across the floor, hugging the baby, trying to keep her back between it and him. "I’ll teach you...Give it to me!"

With the infant clutched tightly in one arm, Olivia kept the basket beneath her, using it almost for balance as she crawled. The rough stone floor tore her nails and bruised her knees as she fought both to get away and get to her feet. As she rounded the second corner, the cane struck the back of her left shin.

"Get over here!" Saville hissed.

He jerked his arm back to hit her again and, wide-eyed and panicked, whimpering in mindless, animal-like terror, Olivia grabbed at the bedside table, heaving herself unsteadily onto her feet. Her hand fell across the heavy base of the candle holder as, from the corner of her eyes, she saw the shadow of the Saville rising up to cover the wall before her. He was just behind her, that terrible cane upraised for another blow.

No, her mind cried. And then every fiber of her aching body echoed the sentiment with an unexpected fury. With cornered savagery, she turned and lashed at him. She only realized she had the candle-holder in her hand when she saw it crack across the Baron’s temple.

He made no sound, but simply buckled under the blow and fell. He lay at her feet without moving, and Olivia’s legs gave out under her. She sat hard on the edge of the bed, panting, the room spinning and the baby screaming as she clutched it tightly to her chest.

Blood oozed from the gash in the Baron’s forehead. Olivia shook as she saw it not only on the brass base of the candle holder, but splattered on her hand and arm. She dropped the heavy weapon next to the Baron.

She had killed him! Gasping wildly, she rocked where she sat, clutching the baby, clutching herself, terrified as she looked around the prison that had been her home for...longer than she could remember. She raked her fingers back through her hair, tangling them hopelessly in snarls. Oh God, what now?

Her limbs felt as deadened weights as she pulled a quilt from the bed and wrapped both herself and the baby, who’s pitiful cries fell quiet as she finally grew warm. The effects of the opium made her entire body feel as though it belonged to someone else as Olivia staggered for the stairs. For the first time in months, she climbed them, one hand braced against the wall, her feet stumbling on the steps and tripping on the hems of the quilt.

As she neared the top, in a moment of pure terror, she heard footsteps coming down the hall. She crouched against the wall, shivering in her quilt, so afraid that she could taste it in her mouth. Mercifully, the baby made no sound and the tromping of that heavy set of boots continued without pausing past the door and away into silence.

Relief made her giddy and for a moment she had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Leaning heavily against the wall, she then gave way to raspy sobs of despair. Shaking, Olivia crept out into the hall.

She stood, staring down at the tiny infant sleeping against her breast. Now what was she to do with it? Knowing the baby would be killed if she left it behind, she staggered into the kitchen. With no place to go and no clear idea of where she even was, at least she would not be escaping this Hell alone.

There was a pair of muddy shoes by the servant’s yard door. Though at least two sizes too large, they were better than nothing--particularly when Olivia opened the door and saw the snow falling with blinding fury just outside.

In all likelihood, they would both freeze before morning. Olivia stood in the open doorway for several minutes, nude but for a quilt and a stolen pair of too-big shoes, and then she slipped outside. The cold air made her lungs burn, and her feet slipped and stumbled through the snow with a complete lack of coordination, but she ran down the long, twisting road, away from the house, and did not stop until the Baron’s estate had disappeared behind her.

* * * * *

Baron Saville stood on the top of the front steps, leaning heavily upon his cane and holding a cloth to his throbbing head. He glared at the snow that blanketed everything beneath at least a foot of unblemished white. His head ached worse than the worst hangover he’d ever felt, and when he spoke to Sparra, his tone was barely more than a growl. "Find her and bring her back. She’ll regret her defiance before I’m finished with her."

Standing at the bottom of the steps with snow nearly up to his knees, Sparra One-Eye studied the winter landscape. "If she went out in this, m’lord, she didn’t survive the night."

Saville’s face darkened even more. "Then find her body and bring that back."

The manservant hunched his shoulders against the cold. "Could’ve found a place to ‘ole up, I suppose. Lor’, what if she made it back to London? Be bloody impossible to find ‘er then."

"She’s an American," Saville snarled. "All she has to do is ask for directions and she’ll be noticed." The Baron took the bloody cloth from his forehead, looked at it and then again at Sparra. Very calmly, he repeated. "You will find her and you will bring her back here to me." His grey eyes swept the landscape one last time. "And bury the baby. I want no trace of it coming back to me."

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