Page 24 of The Damsel
Seemingly resigned to his fate, he lay beneath her with tears in his eyes, shuddering and whimpering as fear began to truly set in.
“You must be terrified,” she crooned, smiling down at him once she’d sliced his shirt open to bare the rest of his abdomen. “Trying to figure out what I’m going to do to you. I wonder if the poor maid you cornered during that house party felt such fear. And the ones before her ... do you think they were as afraid as you are right now?”
It took a moment for him to understand, but once he did, he grew louder, his lips moving as he seemed to try to plead his case through the wad of linen in his mouth. She pressed her knife against his lips.
“Shh … hush now. You are a big, strong man, are you not? A titled lord with all the power and privilege in the world. What have you to cry about? Oh, I see … you are worried that I’m going to hurt you like you hurt that poor maid—like you’ve harmed countless others?”
He issued a garbled sob as he nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. Cassandra laughed, the sound as hard and harsh as the heart beating inside her chest. She had no pity for this man, no care for his tears or the blood he would shed by the time she had finished.
“Do not worry, Mr. Barlow. That limp waste of flesh between your thighs is of no interest to me. No, I am interested in something else altogether.” “What?”
The single word was almost indecipherable, but she understood it through the linen sucking all the moisture out of his mouth. Positioning her dagger against his chest, she braced herself with one hand upon the ground.
“Ensuring that bastards like you never assault another woman ever again.”
Then, she began to cut. She made long, deep gouges through his skin, watching with savage satisfaction as his blood welled up in the neat lines and curves. Barlow’s eyes widened until she thought they might fall free of their orbits, his face going purple as he bellowed through his gag. She was quick and efficient, realizing she only had so much time before someone heard and came to investigate, or the city watch found their way down the alley.
When she had finished, she used his own cravat to wipe away the blood pooling over his chest and running in messy rivulets down his body. He had gone silent and pale, light whimpers the only sign that he was still alive. Resigned to his fate, just like the others she had done this to … accepting of his punishment.
The crimson gore wiped away to reveal the word she’d carved into his chest with painstaking care.
DEFILER.
BY THE FOLLOWING EVENING,Cassandra had arrived at what was now her new home. Randall had been waiting for her in the mews as promised, and had conveyed her out of the city with the dark blanket of night still over them. They’d traveled until the sun broke the horizon, then found a small inn at which to rest the horses, take a meal, and relax for a short time. She had changed back into her finery in the back of the vehicle, earning her the best treatment when coming face to face with the innkeeper. She’d been offered a room in which to wash her hands and face and sleep for a bit. A hot meal had was sent up for her, and she’d been assured that Randall and her horses were well taken care of. By afternoon, they were ready to set out again, Randall driving them at a maddening pace on her command.
Now that she no longer lived in London, she could not abide remaining there any longer than necessary. Uncle Rupert had played a large role in helping her escape Penrose House, where he lived with her mother and youngest sister. She was grateful for it, for him and his understanding and affection. He was not her dearly departed papa, and no one could replace the former duke, but he was one of the few allies she had left—the only one in her family who did not blame her for the things Lord Bertram Fairchild had done to her, and the resulting scandal that had ensued when she’d revealed it all.
“You deserve to be happy,” he’d said when pulling her into his study and informing her that he’d purchased Easton Park. “I can see that remaining in London, among all the people who look down on you with such pious judgment, will only wear on you more and more over time.”
It hadn’t been fair, the way thetonhad turned on her once she and Bertram’s other victims had bound together to expose and prosecute him. But then, she’d always known it would be this way. She was a spinster, after all, five-and-twenty years of age, unwed, unwanted, and unpopular. Even as she’d lain all her secrets bare to the world, testifying about the horrors of being lured into solitude and robbed of her maidenhead in the most brutal of ways, they'd judged her and found her wanting. Thetonrefused to see her as anything other than a desperate chit who'd gotten herself ravaged while trying to get him off alone to lay a marriage trap. What would a handsome, well-liked lord like him want with a plain-faced spinster like her?
And so, they shunned her. They warned their sons to stay out of her path, and used her plight as a cautionary tale for their daughters. The men leered at her as if she were fair game now that she was ruined, and the women held their skirts aloft to keep from brushing against her when they walked past.
London had become a miserable place for her as a result, even as she used it as a means to gather information and exact her revenge. She had taken Uncle Rupert up on his offer, demanding the inheritance that was her due now that she'd reached her majority. He’d given it up freely, urging her to take it and be happy, living however she saw fit.
Little did he know, she saw fit to become the avenging demon who lurked in the night, punishing unsuspecting lords for their abuse of women. Bertram had been allowed to prey upon debutantes for years, unchecked. Cassandra had been only one in a long line of victims, his wealth and powerful father proving enough to get him out of trouble each time an angry papa turned up on his doorstep demanding things be made right.
No more.
Never again would men like Bertram be able to do as they pleased without consequences. Not as long as she drew breath and was able-bodied. Wherever she heard whispers of ungentlemanly behavior, she followed the gossip to the truth, and meted out the sort of justice she had been denied following her own rape.
As she descended from her carriage and swept up the front walkway of her home, she hoped sleep would come easier to her knowing that another defiler of innocents had received his comeuppance.
The dower house at Easton Park had been referred to as a cottage, but did not fit the picture of a small and quaint dwelling such a word called to mind. Two stories high, the wide front of the house boasted picturesque windows, ivy vines crawling up the brick facade, and pointed peaks covered in stone tiles for a roof. The hedges lining the path to the front door had been wild and overgrown upon her uncle's purchase of Easton Park, but his money and an army of both indoor and outdoor servants had set that, and many other neglected things, to rights. The neat hedges now guided her on a perfect path to a front door that had been painted a bright white and boasted an ornate brass door-knocker.
Inside were two drawing rooms—a small one for her personal use, and a larger one for entertaining if she so chose—an elegantly appointed dining room, a small study lined with bookshelves, a water closet on the first floor, a kitchen, four bedrooms, and a circular veranda one could access through a set of doors in the large drawing room. Beyond it lay a small garden, which had been overrun with weeds, but was now almost bare in preparation for the new plants she’d sent for. In a small corner, her housekeeper—who also functioned as a cook—had begun cultivating vegetables and herbs.
Aside from the housekeeper, there was a single footman, a chambermaid who practiced at being a lady’s maid when Cassandra needed her, Randall the driver who kept her horses and looked after Leon, a stable boy in training, and a scullion who assisted in the kitchen.
The footman opened the front door for her and welcomed her home before accepting her cloak. The housekeeper bustled in from the kitchen to ask if she would take dinner. Cassandra asked for it to be sent to her bedchamber, along with the tub and hot water for a bath. Then, she carried her weary body up the stairs to seek out solitude.
Once alone, she sat on the small, cushioned bench before her vanity and mirror and began plucking the pins from her hair. As she watched the unruly curls fall to frame her face lock by lock, a memory came floating back to her.
Robert lying under her, his bright blue eyes boring into her with curiosity, perception, even a bit of fear. That gaze tracing her every feature, caressing each curl as she’d freed it for him, much like she did now.
Your hair … will you take it down?
Avoiding her own reflection, she focused on the clink of the pins inside the little porcelain pot where she stored them, trying to get a grip on her wandering mind.
