Page 8 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
The flesh on Graciela’s back rippled. Thin and supple, this cane was not meant to support a woman, but to break a girl. And this time, with Lord Kingsley wielding the switch, it would be no minor swatting.
“Get out,” Kingsley shouted at Francisca.
Francisca could take a beating, that Graciela knew. She’d seen the marks from something long, long ago, before Francisca came to serve Mama.
A ship captain’s daughter could survive also. Had she not seen a man flogged when Papa’d had no other choice? She’d sneaked up on deck to watch, biting back her own terror, amazed at the rebellious sailor’s refusal to scream. Had he screamed, surely the lashes would have been less, would have hurt less—Papa was not like this cousin of his, taking pleasure in giving pain.
She hugged Francisca tightly and set her lips to her ear. “Get Juan. Save the child. Go to the Lord’s house right now. I will join you.” Neither Kingsley or his lady had any Spanish, yet she whispered.
Francisca had seen the cane, and she balked.
Kingsley pulled back his fist and Graciela dodged in front of the maid. The blow glanced over her jaw, sending her into the dressing table. Brushes and bottles flew to the floor, lavender scent wafting up in a cloud.
“Not in the face,” Lady Kingsley squawked.
“For all that is holy, go before he tries to kill you all,” Graciela shouted in rapid Spanish. “You know what to do. I must give them their pound of flesh. Do not turn back. Do not ask the neighbors for help. Do not let yourselves be taken. Save the child.”
Francisca’s mouth firmed and she nodded.
Her guardian crowded closer, his gaze bouncing from the maid to Graciela, his thick scowl darkening. He probably thought she was cursing him.
Lady Kingsley grabbed her husband’s arm and tugged him back, and Francisca was gone.
She fisted her hands and fought for a breath. She must buy the maid time to convince Juan, gather the child, and get away. She must not scream, else Juan would want to barge in.
She rubbed her cheek where the blow had struck. Whether it would bruise, she did not know. She hoped it would, enough so that none of Lady Kingsley’s paint would cover it. Then she would not have to go to their stupid parties.
“Shall I remove the dressing gown for my next beating?” she asked.
“You spoiled, spiteful, disrespectful girl. My husband took you in when no one else would.”
“Are you not the head of the Kingsley family, Lord Kingsley? My papa told me it is what heads of families are supposed to do. He told me it would be no trouble as he would provide you with money for my care.”
“And that is what his lordship is doing. Arranging a good marriage for you.”
“My papa promised I would never be forced to marry against my will. And I do not wish to marry that man.”
Lord Kingsley snatched the cane from his wife’s hand. “You will marry Gregory Carvelle.” He slapped the wood against his palm.
She drew in a long breath. “There are men in my country who beat their wives and the children entrusted to their care.” And their servants, but she would not mention that. No need to put ideas into their heads, not until Francisca got away.
“This is your country now.”
This cold, disdainful place? Never. “But my papa did not respect those men. He sometimes had to beat one of his crew. But beating a woman, he said, is the work of a coward.”
His lordship advanced, and she stepped behind a chair.
“I must say this, Lord Kingsley, so we know where we stand. My papa, when he returns—”
“He’s dead,” Lady Kingsley said. “Captain Llewellyn has made port in Falmouth and will—”
“Shut up, Blanche,” Kingsley said.
She caught her breath, hope stirring, as Lady Kingsley spluttered.
“Your father is most assuredly dead,” Kingsley said.
She stood taller. “No one has found a body, have they? When my papa returns, when he learns of your beatings, he will not resort to lawsuits or legal proceedings. He will take that cane and use it on you, my lord.”
