A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(33)

Alexandre offered the brunette his hand. Silently she took it, and let herself be led away.



Maisie found herself propelled out of the toff’s front door by the toff’s foot on her arse, and landed facedown in the snow. A moment later her dress came flying out of the same door, and landed on top of her. She hadn’t even got so far as taking off her shoes when he’d—Oh! The filthy bastard! What he’d wanted!

She’d whirled and told him where he could stick his wants, and the next thing she discovered, he had picked her up, carried her to the door, and kicked her out. Literally kicked her out. Into the snow. Without getting paid.

The door slammed, and there was the decided clack of the lock being turned.

She scrambled to her feet, so furious she didn’t even feel the cold. “Yer roight barstard!” she screamed, and unleashed a stream of profanity learned from a short lifetime of walking the streets. She continued to shriek curses as she pulled her dress on, wondering—hoping even—that a copper would come along and take notice of the row, or the neighbors would start looking out their windows. She might be helpless to do anything else against him, but embarrassing him in front of his neighbors would be partial revenge. She could just picture their avid, hypocritical faces. Cor, luvvie! Toff brought ’ome a trollop! On Christmas, if yew can believe!

But nobody came along. And not a single light appeared at any of the windows.

Her fury redoubled. All the way from the East End, and for what? Nothing! It had been a wretched night—she should have known better than to go out on Christmas Bloody Eve—and she’d thought her luck had turned when Alf pulled up in a hansom with two girls she knew vaguely from around the pubs. They’d had a jolly old ride out to . . . wherever this was. She was sorry now she hadn’t paid attention, but Alf had had a bottle of gin with him and a girl needed to keep warm, right? Then there’d been the pleasant surprise of the cozy, posh flat, and the second waiting bottle, and when that toff had shown up at the door, she’d thought, cor, this’ll be an easy night!

The ones that wanted girls that looked like her, usually they wanted her to at least play at being an innocent . . . maybe they’d like a little struggle, a bit of make-believe rape. Faint calls for help, and lots of “oh, no, sir, no, I bain’t loike that.” She’d feigned reluctance as he ordered her to undress, watching her avidly, hungrily. But then he’d grabbed her bum and whispered in her ear what he wanted and how she was supposed to—

“Yer roight pervert! At least gimme back me coat!”

The door opened long enough for her coat to smack her in the face. It slammed again. She screamed some more.

Nothing. No coppers. No neighbors. Not even the lights from the flat upstairs came on.

There was no sign of outrage or even disturbance from the buildings around. And now she realized that the faint cooking smells still lingering around here were fish and cabbage . . .

So the neighborhood wasn’t nearly as posh as the flat had been, and probably people were used to the bloody bastard kicking his whores out in the middle of the night when they wouldn’t—

Another stream of invective poured out of her mouth in an incoherent scream and she gathered herself and prepared to charge up the stairs to the door, planning to beat on it until he had to pay attention and he’d at least pay her off to go away.

Now engulfed in a white-hot rage, she charged through the snow to the dark rectangle that was at the top of the stairs, intending to hit it full force, maybe with luck break it in, and if not, pound on it with every bit of her strength.

She barely had a chance to gasp in shock as her arms disappeared into a black void . . . and her body followed.

And then there was silence.



Alexandre rose late Christmas morning, mollified by the fact that Alf had sent the much-more-compliant blond to him when his first choice had turned into a harridan at the mere mention of what he wanted from her. Harpy. She’s a whore, she’d better get used to doing what the customer wants, or she’ll find herself starving, he thought, still more than a bit irritated at her attitude. She’d screamed all the way out of the house and probably had stood there half-naked in the snow screaming for a good long while before she gave up and went away. She’d probably still be there screaming if it had been spring or summer. Well, he figured the snow would cool her temper pretty damn quickly.

Serve her right if her feet freeze and fall off, he thought vindictively. Fortunately the bedrooms were at the back of the flat, and once the blond had turned up, he wasn’t listening to anything anyway. The other two were sane, sane enough he’d let them stay the rest of the night. Girls who pleased him got that special treatment. Alf knew to feed them as well as pay them in the morning, and come dawn, they could make their way back to wherever he’d found them.

Though he did his best never to be a repeat customer. That was on Alf’s advice. “Ye treats ’em noice once, they’re obligin’ an’ don’ make no fuss. But come to ’em agin, they ’spect better the second time. An’ th’ third! Loik queens, they think they be! Nivir be a whore’s reg’lar, guv, unless yer got a arrangement w’ a brothel.” And Alf was probably right. When it came to strumpets, he generally was.

He had awakened alone, which meant the girl was already gone, or—hmm. He listened, and thought he heard laughter.