The velvet was thin, cheap, the satin tawdry and stained. The bed appeared solid enough, but was old and much scarred. The linen covering the pillows was worn and yellowed, the lace edgings spotted and torn.

All her impressions coalesced into one picture.

Wallace freed her hands.

She spun around, but he stood squarely between her and the door. “Where is this?”

Her voice, at least, was restored, her tone firm and sure.

Wallace was watching her closely. “This establishment is popularly known as Mrs. Miller’s Sanctuary.”

She arched a brow, openly suspicious.

Wallace smiled. “Indeed. Mrs. Miller is an abbess, and this is a sanctuary not for the girls who serve here, but for the gentlemen who visit to indulge their taste for females in various-shall we say esoteric?-ways. For instance, one of the specialties of the house is the deflowering of gently reared virgins. A surprising number fall on hard times, and find themselves here, selling their wares. You, of course, are hardly a pauper, but”-he shrugged-“you are here.”

Pris quelled a shiver. She wasn’t a virgin, but she couldn’t see how that was going to help her. Stepping back, she folded her arms and glanced again at her surroundings. No door but the one beyond Wallace; no window at all.

Dillon would come after her; Rus, too. She knew it in her heart, felt it in her soul. She had to keep safe until they reached her.

She looked at Wallace. “Why here? Why this? As a means of revenging yourself on Dillon and Rus, surely it lacks a certain something? Directness comes to mind.”

Wallace’s almost-smile chilled. “Au contraire, my dear. I flatter myself that the revenge I’ve planned will strike your fiancé and your brother where it will hurt the most-and they’ll be helpless to protect themselves, or you.” He shifted, viewing her, letting his gaze rove over her, not lasciviously but in cold calculation, with no more emotion than if he were assessing a side of beef.

“Consider, if you will”-his eyes rose to trap hers; his were pale, leached of recognizable feeling-“how much your fiancé has now invested in you. His love.” Wallace softly snorted in derision. “His pride, too, the fool. Regardless, you’ve come to mean a great deal to him. As for your brother-he’s not just your brother, he’s your twin. More, you’re his twin sister-his feelings for you have to run deep, have to be a part of how he sees himself. As with Caxton, you’re a part of your brother.”

Wallace’s expression grew gloating. “What do you think it will do to them to know that because of their actions against me, they’ll have brought about your ruination? More, your defilement?”

Pris stared at him and tried to block out his words. There was no point thinking about the pain that would cause Dillon and Rus; if she did, it would paralyze her…perhaps what Wallace was counting on?

Then again, she’d seen no indication that he saw her as anything other than an exceptionally beautiful but otherwise typical young lady. One who would swoon and collapse, rather than fight.

Wallace continued, his voice his smooth drawl; he was in control and knew it. “What I’ve planned for you, my dear, will be an excellent revenge on both Caxton and your brother. It will damage beyond bearing something they hold dear, in a way neither will ever be able to put right. It will haunt them all their days-they’ll carry the guilt to their graves.”

His eyes gleamed; he seemed to taste, to savor, the malice in his words. “Even with the backing of their powerful connections, they’ll be helpless to repair what I’ve arranged to break.” His gaze, cold and hard, fixed on her; his lips curved. “You.”

She inwardly shook, but forced herself to ignore the room about her, to lift her chin defiantly. “What have you planned?”

He seemed amenable to explaining himself, and at some length. The longer he stood speaking with her…

With a wave, he indicated their surroundings. “As I mentioned, this establishment caters to a certain class of gentlemen. Those with money, and thus status. I’ve arranged for you to be the evening’s entertainment for four young and exceedingly difficult to please bloods. Mrs. Miller was quite happy to help-she likes to keep her customers satisfied. And they’ll be excellently well satisfied with the sport you’ll provide them. All four, you see, are aristocrats, vicious young sods partial to the worst of perversions. They’ll have seen you gracing tonnish dance floors, and will have lusted after your body from afar. All will have dreamed of having that luscious body to do with as they please…to night, those dreams are going to come true.”

His smile took on an edge; his eyes glittered. “Do fight them-they’ll enjoy raping you all the more.”

He turned and went to the door; pausing with his hand on the latch, he looked back. “If you survive the night, I’ll make sure Caxton and your brother know where to find you. My only regret is that I dare not dally to witness their soul-tearing grief, but I’m sure you-and they-will understand.”

A coldly triumphant glint in his eye, he swept her a mocking bow. “I’ll bid you a good evening, Lady Priscilla.”

Pris watched him leave; she was trying so hard not to imagine what he’d planned, her mind wouldn’t function-she couldn’t find any words, any more questions to delay him.

The latch clicked shut, and broke the spell. She dragged in a breath, and started toward the door-only to pull up, and step back as the door swung inward again.

Revealing one, then three more gentlemen. As Wallace had warned, they were of her class, with the telltale planes of cheeks, nose, and chin, the heavy-lidded eyes that immediately fixed on her, that roved freely over her figure as she backed; their every stalking movement screamed their self-confidence, their belief that they could seize and have what ever they wished.

All four were expensively but rakishly dressed. Their faces already bore the stamp of dissipation, along with lascivious sneers.

Their expressions openly and lecherously cruel, openly expectant, they moved into the room. She backed until her legs hit the end of the bed. She searched their faces and found no hope there; they’d been drinking but were very far from drunk. Then she looked into their eyes, and saw malice and a species of hate staring back at her.

She knew, then, that they fully intended the next hours to be worse than her worst nightmare.


The hackney driver hauled back on his reins; the carriage slowed.

Dillon was out of the door and on the cobbles before the horses came to a stamping halt. Rus tumbled out behind him.

The street was empty. “Which house?” Dillon looked up at the driver.

With his whip, the driver pointed to a narrow building on the opposite side of the street. “That’s Betsy Miller’s.”

Dillon raced for the door, Rus on his heels.

The black carriage that had followed them from Mayfair passed; it pulled up a little way along. Dillon didn’t spare it a glance. Reaching the door, he pounded on the panels.


Pleading wasn’t going to work. Neither was screaming; as she watched them eyeing her, smiling with anticipation, Pris sensed that they’d like that, that sobbing and crying would only spur them on.

She’d backed as far as she could; there was nowhere she could run. No better place to stand; at least she had space to either side and some support at her back.

They’d closed the door; now they doffed their coats, tossing them onto a rickety chair in a corner. Two of them started to roll up their sleeves.

“Well, now, Lady Priscilla.”

The lout she instinctively knew was the leader-the dominant one, the one most important to distract-approached, weight balanced, ready to catch her should she try to bolt.

Years of wrestling with her brothers came back to her. She shifted her weight, her mind racing, assessing.

Four-at least two too many. But…

“Lovely Lady Priscilla,” the leader sneered.

The others spread out, flanking him-and her. But it was the leader she watched.

He continued, his well-bred accent purring, “With that lovely mouth, and those luscious breasts, and those long, long legs, and that sweet little arse…my how you’re going to entertain us to night.”

His voice changed over the last sentence, giving her a second’s warning.

She braced as he and one other lunged and grabbed her arms; laughing at her attempts to resist, they effortlessly hoisted her up and back onto the bed.

Pris fought like a heathen, kicking and hitting-overconfident, they hadn’t bothered to secure her limbs. The thin coverlet on which they held her down, the reek that came off it, engulfing her like a cloud, acted like a potion; a strength she hadn’t known she possessed flooded her.

They cursed, exerted their strength. She bit one hand, kicked out on the other side-and felt the toe of her shoe sink into her target.

The leader howled, cupped himself, then collapsed. Her struggles shoved him off the bed; he landed with a thump.

The unexpected event transfixed the others for an instant. Pris took aim, and drove her fist up under the aristocratic nose of her second attacker.

He hadn’t seen the blow coming; he took the full brunt, shrieked in pain as blood spurted. He clapped his hand to his face, but immediately pulled it away, stared in horror at his bloodied palm, then his face blanched and his eyes rolled back. He fell-across Pris, pinning her as she struggled to lever up onto her elbows.

The remaining two snarled. Aggression was suddenly thick in the air.

Pris could taste it, feel it choking her as the other two seized her arms-this time holding them down as they clambered up on their knees on the bed, using their weight to subdue her.

She threshed, but they were aided by the body of their insensate comrade. They trapped her arms, trapped her legs, leaning on her to immobilize her before they pushed their unconscious friend away and fell on her.

She gasped, and struggled for all she was worth-shut her ears to their swearing, their lewd promises of what they intended to do-but she was losing the battle, losing her air as they leaned heavily on her, grabbing her legs through her rucked gown, forcing them apart-

Something crashed.

They didn’t hear. They pressed her more cruelly into the bed, their leering faces close-

Then they were gone. Flying through the air.

Pris turned her head in time to see one hit the wall. A similar thump from the opposite side of the room suggested the other had met a like fate.

She blinked, dragged much-needed air into her lungs, struggled up to her elbows, and managed to focus. On Rus, pummeling one of her attackers. She looked the other way, and found Dillon efficiently thrashing the other one.

Wriggling up, hauling her skirts out of the way, she got to her knees, and peered over the edge of the bed. The leader, still sobbing and wheezing, was writhing on the floor. She considered getting down and kicking him again. First, she clambered over to the other side and looked down. The one who’d fainted lay lifeless, still unconscious.

A condition now attained by the other two. Rus straightened as the man he’d been ministering to slid down the wall.

Pris glanced at Dillon; he’d already turned from his crumpled victim, his attention locked on her. His gaze raced over her. “Are you all right?”

She looked at him, saw the raw emotion in his face, in his eyes, and found she couldn’t speak. She nodded.

Then he was there, relief sweeping through him as he swept her into his arms and crushed her to him.

She hugged him back, equally wildly, equally unrestrained. “You got here in time.”

Not at any time had she doubted he would.

“I thought we wouldn’t…” He mumbled the words against her hair.

She heard the fear, nay, terror, in them. “But you did.” She hugged him again, then held out a hand to Rus, grabbed his fingers when they slid into hers. “You both got here in time.”

Rus returned her squeeze, then released her hand and stepped back to look down at the unconscious man by the bed.

A heavy sigh filled the room.

It came from the door.

Rus looked, and froze. Without shifting from his position facing the bed, shielding Pris kneeling on it, Dillon turned his head.

Pris, her arms still wrapped around him, peeked around his arm, ignoring his surreptitious attempts to ease her away.

“It is so difficult to find intelligent help these days.” Wallace stood in the doorway, his gaze burning with hatred, a pistol in one hand. “It appears, Lady Priscilla, that my revenge is to be commendably direct after all.”