The Undoing Of A Lady

task he was all too aware was of far greater difficulty and complexity.

As Nat approached Fortune Hall he wished that he had not been away for quite so long. He had felt uncomfortable leaving Lizzie to make the arrangements for Sir Montague’s funeral on her own-for Tom would hardly have put himself out to help-and he felt even less happy at leaving her at Tom’s mercy. As he rode up to the house his fear for Lizzie increased, for he could see the main door flung wide and the candles blazing in every room. Something was clearly afoot. Shadowy figures moved behind the windows. Nat wondered for a moment whether Tom’s finances were so parlous that the bailiffs had already moved in to take everything, and then he heard the music and voices and laughter and realized that this was no house clearance and nor was it a wake for Sir Montague, either. It was a party. Tom was celebrating his brother’s death and his inheritance of the baronetcy and the estate. Tom, the ultimate hedonist, was dancing on his brother’s grave.

Lizzie. Nat’s heart contracted. He could hardly bear to think how Lizzie would fare alone and unprotected whilst her brother caroused with his drinking cronies. God knew, Tom Fortune was capable of any degraded and degrading thing imaginable, but would he involve his own sister in his amoral games? Perhaps he would if the price was right…

Nat dug his heels into the horse’s side and galloped the remainder of the way up the drive. He swung down out of the saddle and strode into the hallway, almost stumbling over one drunkard who lay insensible and muttering to himself in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. There was a goblet lying near him on the flagstones and red wine spilling out of it across the floor. Remembering Sir Montague’s attachment to his wine cellars, Nat wondered whether there was anything left or if it was all gone already.

Where was Lizzie?

The anxiety tightened within him.

In the great hall he found even more bacchanalian pleasures and the remains of a feast scattered over both the table and the floor, empty bottles rolling, and one of Lizzie’s dogs in a corner gnawing on a chicken carcass. A couple were fornicating noisily on the shiny surface of the long dinner table, the man’s boots gouging deep scratches into the wood, and in front of the window a rowdy group of men were enthusiastically taking turns with a woman who was spread-eagled over the back of a sofa. Her breasts had escaped from her loose bodice; her skirts and petticoats were hitched up to reveal a pink garter, rounded thighs and plump buttocks. Nat paused, recognizing Ethel, the barmaid at the Morris Clown Inn, though he had never seen her in quite this position before. No, he thought, after a moment as he took in her dizzily blissful expression, Ethel did not require his aid in any shape or form. She was having as good a time as her partners.

Another man took his turn with Ethel, tumbling her over so that he could take her a different way and the girl screamed in pleasure. Nat moved on, stepping over the prone bodies of yet more drunks, avoiding a man who was being sick in the fireplace, looking for Tom, looking for Lizzie…

The fear he felt for her transcended every other emotion. This was like a scene from hell, so much worse than anything he had imagined. How could he have left her with this?

He went out into the hall again and caught a glimpse of a blond woman whisking through a doorway and out of sight. She was patting into place a sky-blue gown and the back of her head looked vaguely familiar. Dismissing the thought, Nat opened the door of the room she had vacated and found Tom Fortune in his brother’s study, lying back in a chair, booted feet up on the desk, pantaloons unfastened, a wine bottle in one hand, papers and books scattered about him. He had evidently been enjoying both the attentions of the woman and the contents of the bottle very recently. He raised the wine to his lips, took a long swallow and then wiped his mouth carelessly on his sleeve. His gaze was both inebriated and insolent as it rested on Nat.

“Delicious,” he drawled. There was humor deep in his eyes. “You have no idea, Waterhouse…”

“Where’s Lizzie?” Nat demanded, grabbing Tom by his cravat and pulling him up out of the chair. “Where is she?”

“What do you want with her?” Tom slurred. “My property, my business.”

“I’ve come to take her away,” Nat said. “I’m going to marry her.” He watched Tom’s face crumple with shock and anger.

“You?” Tom said. “Damned if you will. You won’t cheat me out of her money.” His eyes narrowed. “Lizzie is not yet one and twenty and I’m her guardian. Rich, isn’t it?” Suddenly he laughed uproariously. “She cannot wed without my permission and I refuse it.”

“I thought of that,” Nat said steadily. He patted his pocket. “Gregory Scarlet supersedes you. I have his written agreement. No one will quarrel with that, I think.”

Tom’s face twisted into a mask of malice and hatred. “Bastard!” he hissed. “I’ll see you damned. If you don’t pay me-”

“You’ll get your blackmail money,” Nat said, “as soon as I can borrow on the promise of Lizzie’s fortune.”

For a moment he thought Tom was going to hit him, but then Tom shrugged, reaching for the bottle again. “Take her, then,” he said indifferently. “What’s left of her.” He glanced at the clock. “Thought I’d let some of my friends have a turn with her. They were hot to bed her and I thought it was a good idea. Thought that no one was likely to want to wed her after they had all ploughed her, so I’d get to keep all her money. Even you might think twice, Waterhouse.” Once again his gaze was a narrow, malicious gleam. “Other men’s leavings…How much do you want that money?”

Nat threw him violently back into his chair but Tom’s laughter followed him out of the room. Terror gripped Nat’s heart. He took the stairs two at a time, slipping on the uneven oak treads, praying that he was not too late. He turned a dark corner and tripped over an entwined pair of lovers on the floor. Another blond woman…Not Lizzie, thank God.

“Lizzie!” he yelled. Someone swore at him.

“Lizzie!” He could hear the ragged fear in his own voice.

He tried a door. It was locked. He hammered on it. Several voices howled at him to go away. He steadied himself to break it down and then-

“Nat.” Lizzie’s voice, behind him. He turned and saw her standing in the pool of light from her bedroom. She was in her nightgown and the light shone through the transparent lawn of the material and illuminated her, hollows, curves and shadows, in a gentle glow. Her auburn hair was down and flamed in the candlelight. Nat’s mouth dried at the sight. He thought that if any of those jaded libertines even caught a glimpse of her they would die to have her.

“Tally ho!” Sir Wilfred Hooper, the magistrate from the next parish, was galloping down the landing brandishing a hunting crop as he chased a couple of squealing women. He paused when he saw Lizzie and his mouth dropped open. “I say!” he spluttered.

Nat grabbed Lizzie’s arm and bundled her into her bedroom, locking the door behind them.

“I say, Waterhouse,” Sir Wilfred said plaintively, banging on the other side of the thick oak panels, “share and share alike!”

“I’m sorry,” Lizzie was saying, grabbing a robe from the bed and flinging it about her shoulders, “I did not hear you calling me, Nat. If I had known you were here I would have let you in sooner.”

She scrambled back onto the bed and tucked her feet under the covers. Perched there in her swansdown- trimmed robe, with her hair falling loose about her shoulders she looked young, like a child in a fairy tale. Nat started to wonder if he was in a dream rather than an orgy. Everything that was happening seemed so unreal. Then he saw the pistol on Lizzie’s nightstand and saw that she was shivering and shaking like a dog left out in the rain. It was real enough; hateful, intolerable for her to be subjected to Tom’s loathsome whims like this.

Lizzie followed his gaze. “I judged it better to be safe than sorry,” she said. “I thought that if anyone tried to break in and rape me-” For a moment she looked so lost that Nat’s heart seemed to skip a beat. She turned her head and in the candlelight he saw the marks of tears on her cheeks.

“Lizzie,” he said. He sat down on the end of the bed. “What happened?”

She shrugged her slight shoulders under the robe. “Tonight? Just one of Tom’s orgies.” She met his gaze and sighed. “He did not come back until an hour ago. I had already retired.” She gestured to her nightclothes. “As you see.”

“Have you been locked in here all the time?” Nat asked. He tried to keep a grip on his temper. Every primitive impulse he had was directed on going back downstairs and tearing Tom Fortune apart, but every protective one he possessed forced him to stay with Lizzie.

“I went down to speak to Tom when he first returned,” Lizzie said. Her head was bent, her hair falling forward