Chasing Benedict (The Gentleman Courtesans #5) - Victoria Vale Page 0,1

was allowed when immersed in her art. She would often pause in the midst of her work and smile at him, lighting up the entire room.

“Come and help me?” she would ask, inclining her head to beckon him over.

Her tinkling laughter always made him smile as she used her smock to wipe the paint splatter from his chin.

“You’re a work of art all on your own,” she would croon, kissing his nose. “You need no enhancement.”

Benedict stiffened at the sound of scuffling, trying to determine if he heard footsteps or the scurry of mice. Or perhaps it was one of his roommates going to use the chamber pot. Both assumptions were proven wrong when the blankets were snatched away, exposing him to the cold and dark. Benedict thrashed and swung his fists, determined to fight off the hands that accosted him. There were multiple boys, strong fingers tightening around arms and legs to stretch him taut as something coarse and heavy fell over his head. His breath came in panicked gasps, this form of darkness far more frightening than that of the room itself. It suffocated him, making it difficult to fight as he rolled off the bed and crashed to the rough floorboards.

Jerked to his feet, his wrists were bound behind his back even as he struggled fruitlessly. Then, a kick in his rear propelled him forward. Chuckles and low, boyish whispers came muffled through what he assumed was a gunny sack.

Benedict had no choice but to go along with whatever prank was being played. He knew from experience that calling for Dame Culpepper—the old shrew—would only get him a verbal tongue lashing before the guilty parties cornered him at an opportune moment to deliver retaliation. Whatever this might be about, it was best to go along with it and let the other lads have a laugh at his expense.

The pounding of several pairs of boots would have been enough to wake the dead, though everyone knew the dame wouldn’t stir if the entire house fell down around them. Her love of gin ensured she went jug-bitten to her bed every night. Benedict’s stockinged, frozen toes ached with every step, and the clench of the binding around his wrists made his fingers throb.

He visualized each part of the house as they passed through it—the corridor and stairs, the entrance hall, then out the front door. The air outside was only slightly worse than in his room, but the ground was damp from this afternoon’s rain, soaking through Benedict’s stockings. His abductors became rowdier the farther they drew from the house, laughing and joking in voices he could hardly tell apart.

“Where are you taking me?” he demanded.

An elbow jabbed him in the ribs as he renewed his struggles, causing him to trip and stub his toe on a stone.

“Don’t worry, Benny,” a voice taunted in his left ear. “Nothing to worry about. We have a nice surprise waiting for you.”

“Yes … a nice … warm and wet surprise,” another boy quipped, producing more laughter.

“Come along, Benny-boy!” someone said from his right. “Step lightly! Jolly Jemima won’t wait for you all night!”

Dread curled low in Benedict’s gut as he realized what was happening. “Jolly” Jemima Thacker was the daughter of a local tavern owner, notorious among the boys of Eton. By day and early evening, she worked as a barmaid in her father’s establishment, but when the old man had turned in for the night, and all within the village went quiet, she plied a different trade. Having just passed his fourteenth birthday, it was Benedict’s turn to have a taste of Jolly Jemima—courtesy of the other boys who had already drank from that coveted, overused well.

The stench of horses and manure infiltrated his senses, and the prick of hay through his stockings told him they’d entered a stable. Shivering and seething, he was brought to an abrupt halt, then the sack was yanked away. Benedict blinked against the sudden burst of light from a lantern hanging on a nail. He stood in a—thankfully clean—stall surrounded by mounds of hay.

There was much murmuring and jostling as the other boys fought for a clear view. Benedict’s eyes flared wide at the sight of Jemima Thacker, hands braced on her hips as she stood before him wearing nothing but a thin chemise, stockings, and a pair of worn shoes.

“’Bout time you lot showed up,” she grumbled while hitching up her hem. “I’m freezing my bloody dugs off. But you’ll make me nice an’