Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO part 3

John and Molly Fibbins drew stealthily up the staircase, pulling themselves behind the shadowed slats reflected now upon the broad avenue of corridor. Where should they start their search for Lord Seyton Clover? As they shooed past the doors, it seemed as though there were almost too many rooms to search through. Should they stop here, try the handle and peer inside? 

No, that door would not give. And this one! Yes, it flew noiselessly back. But the interior was devoid of human life. 

Molly’s eyes took in admiringly the rows of dresses which hung from the opened wall closets, the piles of sumptuous fabrics slumped over the floor and on chairs. They eased the door tight closed behind them, hastening their footsteps. 

Ah, a small black wooden staircase, spiraling from the base of this floor. Should they try it? Why not, up and speed be with you. A richly refurbished corridor, canopied and hung about with red velvets and brocades, small crimson flames coming from the stubs of candles, expiring in golden fretworked holders bouquetted along the walls. Their passing profiles reflected by the banks of mirrors lining the small corridor. There! Three doors: one at the apex and flanked by one on either side. 

Fibbins motioned that his sister try the right-hand one: he would try the middle. No luck! The right-hand one was locked. The middle one. He pulled Molly by the sleeve, his eyes speaking with telepathic lucidity at his amazement. They had located Madame de Esprit’s sleeping chamber. Everything was white: wall coverings, drapes, furniture. An oil painting took up the length of one wall. A young woman with high colour in her cheeks and glorious blue-black hair, the pale blue of the eyes shining with youthful optimism and candour. Everything pristine, ordered, not a fold of coverlet out of position. Silver urns of antique design and proportions holding sprays of silver and white blossoms. 

With tentative steps, Molly whispered her way over the fur rugs, her eyes and hands alighting on strings of pearls and other priceless baubles which scattered in profusion beneath the opened lids of white ivory caskets. She recoiled, for as she touched a diamond heart shaped pendant, big as a duck egg, she imagined that she had been burnt by an icy fire. She did not like this room. It belonged to an ice queen. 

Casting her eyes about the place, she assured herself that her missing Lordship was not in this room. She rejoined her brother, who had stood sentinel, transfixed, by the opened door. Tagging him urgently upon the arm, Molly gestured that they should open the remaining door. The door gave easily, the suggestion of a groan from the hinges. There, by the pale light stealing into the room was the recumbent form of a man. “Pray to God ’tis him!” 

John Fibbins muttered under his breath. With three strides he was into the density of the sober room and was shaking Lord Seyton Clover hard, trying to bring him around from what level of unconsciousness he was sentenced to. He slapped him across the cheeks, silently asking forgiveness for his actions. He heard a slight moan. Looking around, he spied the still half empty goblet and the black pitcher. Going forward he sniffed it and wrinkled his nose up in disdain. He did not care overall for what he had encountered. 

Not knowing why he did it, with a jerk the pitcher lay broken in three pieces upon the floor. Water, surely there must be water somewhere to hand? He left his kneeling position beside Lord Seyton Clover and made his wants known to Molly. She searched amidst the débris of edibles left upon a table. Some uncanny instinct drew her to look beneath the shrouding tablecloth. 

There indeed was a pitcher, filled with water. A little stale, but she considered that it would suffice. She passed it to her brother and at length, the water achieved what John Fibbins’ hands had been unable to do. His Lordship, Seyton Clover, was brought to his senses. 

Whilst Molly had been searching for the water, John Fibbins, noticing the state of disarray concerning his master’s breeches, indicated this fact to his master. With mercurial fingers he was repaired to his proper state of dress. Wasting not their breath with words, Molly and John Fibbins helped His Lordship from the black room and out into the main corridor. 

He was staggering slightly, shaking his head as though he were trying to clear cobwebs from his mind. With a jerk of his head, Fibbins indicated noises percolating down to where they dragged themselves through the corridor. With surprising agility, both of mind and body, Lord Seyton Clover was hunting for an empty chamber. 

Ascertaining his indication, Fibbins both clasped His Lordship by the arm and seized his sister’s and hurried them to the empty chamber they had found earlier. 

The sound of screaming and oaths was getting nearer now. Lord Seyton Clover, head pressed against the door, his hand upon the sword he had worn as part of his evening attire by his side. He inched the door open a fraction, tight flushed behind him was Fibbins and Molly behind her brother. She was even then fingering the knives about her gartered thighs. Shivering suddenly, a thought crossed her mind and whilst it seemed improbable that they should be called into action immediately, she picked through some of the garments cast down upon the floor. Good! This gown would do her. She threw it over the flimsy panels of her service apparel. Fibbins felt Lord Seyton Clover’s body tighten. He joined him on the other side of the door jamb.  

Footsteps, soft but hard at the same time, were nearing them. A flash of vermilion, the light gleam of a haloed head, the breasts heaving and spilling over the torn stuff of her neckline: Charity! Three men were chasing her in hot pursuit, whooping and screaming in bawdy raucousness. They had caught her and, with wanton abandon, they held her between them, searching for a bed chamber. It became obvious, as their laughter and Charity’s screams became less audible, that they had located what they were looking for. 

“Ready, my man?”   

“Ready, Your Lordship!” 

John Fibbins flexed his arm muscles, his hand forking to his waistband. He took out the miniature pistol and cocked it, noting Lord Seyton’s surprise. He added proudly: “Me own design, Your Lordship.” 

Charity was helpless, held spread-eagled on a bed, one of the men even then hard and ready for his act of rape. 

“They have their hands and eyes full, Fibbins! At them, man!” 

Uttering a war-cry, the duo were upon the Frenchmen, Molly taking careful aim from her position against a wall. One man turned, aghast. Too late, Lord Seyton Clover had him on the point of his sword: Fibbins muffled his shot into the meaty, half-naked back of another. Molly’s knife homed into the debauché’s heart. The only survivor, a sobbing Charity, even then trying to straighten her petticoats. 

“How tender a scene!” 

The voice was unmistakable: “And how charmingly you comfort, my dear Seyton, dear cousin!” Lord Rispian smiled suavely, “No, no. There is no point in reaching for your sword. You are at the end of my pistol now.” 

He stood in dishevelment, a bloody mark over his eye, in the doorway. Beside him were flanked his two henchmen, both armed and ready to act. “Hand Charity over here, will you, dear fellow? I do believe it’s turning most nippy this bright morn and I need a little something to keep me warm! Come, come, Seyton: a little bit faster, if you please!” 

Lord Seyton Clover handed the ruffled and sobbing girl reluctantly over. He would have all but lunged at his cousin had not Fibbins restrained him. “Ah, thank you. Tie them u,p Hinches, Jarvis, ’til I am rested and have thought out their fates!” He turned in the doorway, already running his hands up and down Charity’s heaving body, he yawned then said: “Rather an eventful few hours doncha think. Farewell until later.” 

He spun the girl to him, their figures outlined in the doorway. He began hungrily to devour her wet but unwilling lips. With a mocking laugh, he pulled her away and out of sight.