After burying her father and settling his affairs, she’d come to London to find employment in the city and had filed with a servant registry office two days ago. At least, she thought it had been two days. Events had been a blur since then.
Soon after that, everything had gone wrong. The drug she’d been slipped at the boarding house that the registry office had recommended made days and nights slide together, and she wasn’t certain how much time had passed or when she’d been taken to the brothel. The realization that even if she managed to escape, her journey to safety was far from over had her blinking back tears. But they would have to wait until she’d made good her escape.
“Please come, Mary. We can do this.” Beatrice gestured for the other woman to join her.
“No. I won’t do it.” Mary scrambled farther back on the bed, shaking her head again. “Finch will catch us. He’ll beat us.”
He’d beat them whether they ran or not, according to another of the prostitutes Beatrice had passed in the corridor. But she couldn’t waste time arguing with Mary any longer.
“God be with you.” Beatrice turned the knob, knees weak with relief when the door opened. She’d jammed a sliver of wood from the floor into the lock mechanism earlier when a maid had delivered their evening gruel and drugged ale, which Beatrice had dumped through the floorboard along the wall.
With one last glance at Mary, Beatrice glanced up and down the dark hall then shut the door quietly behind her. A faint light at the top of the stairs drew her, much like a moth to a flame. She halted at the sound of noises from below, flattening herself against the wall, her chest heaving with panic.
Only then did it occur to her to find the backstairs the servants used. Those would be safer. Her mind wasn’t working properly, still clouded from the drug. She would be caught if she didn’t take better care.
Heart racing, she crept along the edge of the hallway in the opposite direction and arrived at the rear stairs. These weren’t lit, so she grasped the handrail and made her way steadily down, listening carefully. Her stomach growled with hunger, and she pressed a hand against it. The idea of being caught because of hunger pangs had her covering her mouth with her other hand to hold back a hysterical sob.
The stairs led her to a darkened kitchen, a soft glow from the banked fire enough to reveal the limited furnishings. Her nostrils twitched but no aromatic smells from baking bread or roasted meat lingered in the air. Though tempted to search for food as she knew she wouldn’t make it long without a decent meal, fear kept her moving.
An odd shape became visible as she neared the door. She frowned, trying to think of what it could be when a snore reached her startled ears. A guard slumped in the chair directly beside the door, sleeping at his post.
Beatrice held her breath, her fingernails biting into the palm of her hand as she forced herself closer to him. The stench of stale sweat stung her nose as she eased closer, his uneven snore causing her to shiver with fear once again. Why did he have to be so close to the door?
The knob held tight under her hand, refusing to turn. Fighting her sluggish thoughts, she realized it must be locked. She bent low, found the lock, and slid it down. The quiet click echoed in the kitchen, causing the guard to shift on his perch. She froze, tensed to fling open the door and run, but his breathing evened. With careful movements, she turned the knob and slowly opened the door.
The cool night air greeted her as she shut the door quietly behind her, expecting the guard to shout the alarm at any moment. She kept moving, drawing a deep breath to help keep her panic at bay, up the few steps to the pavement, only to slide in the muck that coated the pavement.
She shoved aside her disgust at whatever was seeping between her toes and glanced back and forth. Which way to go? The night was dark, disorienting, and her fear and confusion spiked.
Then she berated herself. It didn’t matter which way she went. She had no idea where she was, nor did she know the city. It only mattered that she get as far away as possible, lest she be tossed back in the room with Mary.
With a glance over her shoulder to make certain she wasn’t yet being followed, Beatrice ran as quickly as she dared. Her white gown would make her easy to spot. The sooner she was out of sight of the brothel, the better.
She turned at the first corner and then again at the next. The crooked streets were baffling, and she paused to catch her breath, praying she hadn’t somehow taken too many turns and returned to the street where the brothel was located.
Shouts filled the night air. Though she didn’t know if they were from pursuers, she ran as fast as her feet could carry her. Down one street. Left at the next, ignoring the sharp pain on her feet as she stepped on rocks and other debris. A painful hitch in her side slowed her progress, and she pressed a hand against her ribs to try to ease the ache.
“Where ye goin’ in such a hurry?”
With a gasp, she spun to see a man approaching her. Did she dare explain her situation and ask for help?
“Come here, pretty one.” His demand and extended hand were all it took to have her running again, ignoring his shouts to halt.
Was there no one in this city she could trust? No one who would give her aid? Hopelessness filled her
