Ria awoke in bed. Her first thought was that it was not her own. She wondered if it was everyone'snatural inclination to orient themselves to their surroundings first, then wonder how they had come to be there second. It was far easier for her to answer the latter question. She had a clear memory of being sick all over Mr. Jonathan Beckwith, as well as being thrown to the floor of the carriage afterward. The governor had made certain she knew he was fastidious about his person. There was nowhere for her to go that she could avoid the sharp jabs of his satin pumps. The defense of a hedgehog was all that was left to her.

She stretched gingerly, feeling the ache in her shoulder, hip, and back, and knowing it could be much worse. The taste in her mouth made her want to wretch again. Drawing her legs up to her chest and rolling onto her side, Ria fought the urge.

The first she knew she was not alone in the room was when a cool glass of water was pressed at a somewhat awkward angle to her lips.

"Drink this, Miss Ashby."

Ria did not grasp the glass; rather, she reached for the hands that held it. The tears that blurred her vision were of no importance because the voice was precisely as she remembered it. "Jane," she whispered.

"Dear, sweet Jane."

Chapter Fifteen.

At Jane's insistence, Ria drank. When the glass was removed, she pushed herself upright and caught Jane's arm as the girl started to rise. "No, don't go. I've been so worried. I need to-"

Jane gently pulled away from Ria's light grasp and stood. "It's all right, Miss Ashby. I'm only going to light a candle so you can see for yourself that I'm all of a piece." She set the glass on the washstand, picked up a candlestick, and used the embers in the fireplace to light the wick. When she returned to the bed, she carried the candle so its light bathed her face, but once she was at Ria's side, she held it out to make her own inspection.

"Did he hit you, miss?" she asked. "Your lip's swollen."

Ria touched her fingers to her mouth. Her lower lip was indeed tender. "I don't remember being hit." She used the tip of her tongue to trace the line and tasted a hint of blood. The memory of Beckwith's mouth on hers was suddenly clear enough to make her blanch. "He kissed me."

Jane merely nodded, then pointed to Ria's shoulder. "He didn't put his mouth on you there."

Glancing down, Ria examined the curve of her bare shoulder. The skin was already faintly discolored in preparation of what would be a livid bruise. What bothered her more than this evidence of injury was the realization that she was no longer wearing her gown, or even her own chemise. The shift she had on was of so fine a batiste as to be virtually transparent.

"Where are my clothes?" Ria asked. "Gone."

"Gone? I don't understand. Did you take them?"

Jane shook her head. She placed the candlestick on the edge of the washstand, then soaked a flannel in the porcelain basin. Droplets of water splashed the front of her own batiste shift, making it cling to her skin until she plucked it away. "You won't need your clothes. We all wear shifts here."

Ria let her head drop back as Jane pressed the cool, damp cloth to her brow. The girl's self-possession was disconcerting. There were no tears. No hysterics. No sense of relief of any kind. Indeed, Jane showed little in the way of emotion. Ria took up holding the cloth in place as Jane's fingers slipped away.

"Are you well, Jane?" she asked softly.

"Yes."

It did not escape Ria that Jane did not meet her eyes. "Who is we? " she asked. "You said that we all wear these here. Who is we? "

Jane shrugged.

"Are you not permitted to say? Is that it, Jane? Mr. Beckwith has perhaps instructed you not to talk to me." When no reply was forthcoming, Ria tried another tack. "Is this Sir Alex's house?"

"No, miss. Or rather it is not just his house."

Ria had to strain to hear Jane's answer. "Will you not speak up?" When Jane said nothing, Ria understood it was all the response she would receive. Her own voice dropped to a mere whisper. "Are we in London?"

"Yes."

Ria removed the flannel from her forehead and pressed it briefly to her bottom lip. Her eyes darted about the sparsely furnished room. There was nothing that was not serviceable present in the chamber.

No figurines rested on the mantelpiece. There was no gilt-edged clock. No paintings adorned the darkly paneled walls. A cheval glass stood in the corner near the door, and a washstand was situated close to the bed. There were no dressers or trunks. No cupboard for linens. The floor was also bare. On the same wall as the fireplace was a panel door. Ria lifted her chin in the direction of it and asked the question with only her eyes.

"For taking visitors," Jane said.

This answer initially surprised Ria, then frightened her as she considered the fuller meaning Jane meant to convey. "I do not know this place," she whispered. "Mr. Beckwith said it would be familiar to me."

Jane took the flannel from Ria's hands. "I don't know about that. Shall I dampen this again for you?"

"No." She watched Jane carefully fold the flannel in quarters and place it on the edge of the basin. The girl's fingers trembled slightly, the only outward sign that her composure was on a very tight leash. The movement riveted Ria's attention to the slender, golden bracelets that circled each of Jane's wrists. Her eyes immediately went to her own wrists to see if the same bands had been placed around her. When she saw they remained unadorned, she also knew it would not always be so. "Can you remove them?" Jane retracted her outstretched hands quickly. She brought them to her lap and tried to cover her wrists.

Her fingers were inadequate to the task and when Ria laid a hand over hers, she stopped fidgeting and let them lie still. She bent her head, eyes downcast, unable to look anywhere but at her lap. "They were made for me, Miss Ashby."

Ria leaned away from the bedhead and raised one of Jane's hands to examine the bracelet. The girl's wrists were small and delicate and the gold circlet was a close fit. Ria tentatively tried to move it up to the fleshy ball of Jane's hand. It would go that far and no farther. Looking for a clasp, Ria turned the bracelet and found only a small, raised nub on the surface to show where it had been forged closed. The bracelets had been indeed made for Jane.

"Has there been occasion to use them?" she asked carefully. The small shiver that went through Jane's hunched figure was answer enough. Ria let the blankets fall away and scrambled to her knees. She put her arms around Jane's narrow shoulders and hugged the girl to her breast. There were still no tears; Ria expected none now. Jane seemed too wounded to cry, or perhaps too afraid. She shuddered in the embrace but made no sound, and Ria noticed she never allowed herself the luxury of collapse. She remained stiff and unyielding in the arms that were meant to comfort her.

Ria eased her arms away and permitted Jane to straighten. She touched the girl's cap of silky blond hair with her fingertips, separating some tangled strands at her nape. "Can you say nothing at all to me, Jane?"

She felt the small, negative shake of Jane's head and did not press.

Ignoring the ache in her shoulders and back, Ria left the bed. She bathed her face at the basin, then rinsed her mouth a second time. The floor was wretchedly cold beneath her feet, but she took it as a good sign that she was not numb to it and resolutely finished her ablutions. Aware that Jane was watching her, Ria began to explore the small room. Save for a skylight, there were no windows. The skylight did not lend itself to escape, but seemed put there of a purpose to tease one with the possibility. Ria saw immediately that it could not be reached. Standing on the bed would not raise her sufficiently to grasp its latch, and there were no chairs she might stack. There were no tools on the fireplace apron to extend her reach, and nothing to be gained by breaking the glass.

Walking the perimeter of the room did not prove particularly useful. She found the panel door was tightly closed, and her attempts to open it failed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Jane did not stir from the bed. It was a certainty that she knew the door could not be opened, Ria thought.

Had it been otherwise she might have tried to prevent it. On either side of the fireplace, an iron hook was set into the wall. Ria assumed they were there in aid of supporting a lantern and gave them no more thought. When she turned and saw still more set into the other walls at different heights, she understood they had a far less benign purpose. Glancing at Jane again, she saw the girl was turning one of the bracelets in something that might have been agitation, but might also have been a communication.

Ria moved on quickly and made a cursory attempt to open the room's other door, knowing full well it would offer no exit. She returned again to the fireplace and stood in front of it, trying to warm herself. "Is there no wood?" she asked. "If I could poke at it, perhaps I could make this log give up more heat."

"You must come back to bed," Jane said. "I will fetch wood, but you must sit here first."

Ria complied because she was curious. Shivering now, she sat down and tucked the blankets all around her. Jane, she noticed, seemed almost immune to the room's pervasive chill. The girl rose and crossed the room to the panel door. She made two sharp raps with her knuckles. A moment later, the door openedand she disappeared through it. Ria could not get out of bed fast enough to follow. Her attempt left her with one foot on the floor and the other still tangled in the sheets. Frustrated, she dropped back onto the bed.

Several minutes passed before the door swung open again. Jane entered, carrying several logs on her extended forearms. She was followed into the room by Jonathan Beckwith. Jane dropped to her knees in front of the fireplace and angled her arms so the logs rolled out and onto the apron. Beckwith closed the door but stayed there until she had added the logs. Ria did not see the iron poker he carried until he lifted it away from his thigh. He pressed the tip of it against Jane's shoulder, moving her aside, then he stirred the embers until one of the logs crackled and caught. Beckoning to Jane with the crook of his finger, he bid her rise, then indicated the hook on the left side of the mantelpiece.

Ria's mouth went dry as Jane walked calmly to the place Beckwith pointed out, raised both arms above her head, and affixed herself to the wall anchor by her gold bracelets. This required that she stand slightly on tiptoe, a position that most certainly caused her discomfort, yet Ria could not see that Jane was bothered in the least by it. Features that Ria recalled as animated and lively were virtually without expression now.

"It is a good position for her," Beckwith said, leaning the poker against the fireplace. "Do you not think so, Miss Ashby?"

Ria had no idea how she was meant to respond to his outrageous statement, even if she'd had the wherewithal to do so.

Beckwith turned over his palm to indicate Jane's slender form. His eyes, however, never wandered from Ria's. "You can observe how it extends the length of her so beautifully? She has lovely breasts. This position causes them to be lifted at just the right angle of offering. The chill has a purpose, do you see?"

He sighed. "I suppose that the warmth we have just added to the room will make those particular puckering charms disappear. More's the pity." At Ria's continued silence, Beckwith was moved to approach the bed. He stopped within a few feet of it and regarded her closely. "Will you take a drink?

Something more suitable to the palate, perhaps, than water. There is wine. Sherry. Brandy. Indeed, I am certain there is nothing you could request that is not available." He paused, considering that promise.

"Except ratafia. That we do not serve."

"Wine."

"Of course." He picked up the poker on his way out, smiling with certain significance as he did so. "I should not like to feel this laid sharply across my skull, and I suspect you would like nothing more than an opportunity to do so. Is that right, Miss Ashby?"

Ria did not deny it.

"Just so." Beckwith left the room.

Disengaging herself from the blankets, Ria hurried to where Jane stood. "Will you not come away from there? Oh, please, do not avert your eyes. Look at me, and tell me what power he has to make you do this to yourself." When Jane said nothing, Ria stood on tiptoe herself and tried to lift the bracelets from the hook. Without Jane's cooperation, it was impossible. The girl's own weight held her in place until she could be lifted free. Jane pointedly refused to offer assistance and Ria's strength was not enough to manage the thing on her own, not when she comprehended that Jane would struggle against her efforts. Ria's voice dropped to a whisper. "We must help each other if we are to leave this place, Jane. You cannot be resolved to do nothing. I will-" She broke off and stepped away quickly when she heard movement at the door. There was too little time to return to the bed and perhaps even less sense in doing so. Ria was almost certain that she and Jane were being observed.

Ria stood in the middle of the room, her hands at her sides, as the door opened. She did not look away as Beckwith made a complete study of her person in the near-transparent gown. He could only shame her, she thought, if she allowed him to do so. She was careful not to appear insolent or challenging, knowing full well how these attitudes raised Beckwith's immoderate temper.

"Your wine," he said, nudging the door closed with the tip of his shoe. When it clicked in place, he carried the drink to her. "I believe you will find this to your liking."

Ria accepted the glass and moved closer to the fire. She sipped the wine carefully, gauging the taste of it for anything unfamiliar.

"It is only wine," Beckwith told her.

She thought he seemed amused by her suspicions. "Where am I?" she asked. "You said I would know this place."

Beckwith pointed to the fireplace. "Have a care you did not stray too close, Miss Ashby. A single popping ember will ignite the fabric of your gown. Jane can tell you the truth of that. Like a candlewick, it goes."

Ria glanced at Jane, but she stared fixedly at a point on the far side of the room. Had it happened to Jane? she wondered. Or had she witnessed that event? Ria drank more deeply of her wine.

"Will you not sit down, Miss Ashby?"

It occurred to Ria that this invitation was really more in way of an order. She decided not to test it. She sat on the edge of the bed, hooked her heels on the frame, and drew a blanket across her lap.

Beckwith shook his head. "You may not use the blanket in my presence. Indeed, you must not cover yourself in any manner save for the gown you've been given. Do you understand?"

"But it is still so very cold in-"

Ignoring her, Beckwith turned on his heel and closed the distance to Jane. He took the puckered tip of her right breast between the knuckles of his index and middle finger and twisted hard. Jane cried out, but Ria's cry was louder.

Throwing off the blanket, Ria jumped to her feet. "Release her!" The demand was unnecessary, for Beckwith let his hand fall away as soon as she discarded the blanket.

"Sit down, Miss Ashby." There was a biting emphasis given to each word. He turned away from Jane.

"Cause and effect," he said simply. "Mayhap it is clearer to you now."

Ria nodded slowly. She made no attempt to reach for the blanket. It would not have prevented the shiver that coursed her spine and raised the hair at the back of her neck. "Good," Beckwith said. "You are a quick study, though I expected nothing less. The girls generally do not have benefit of your age and experience to guide them in such matters, and it can take longer for the connection to be made clearly in their minds. Jane is just such a case." He glanced back at Jane. "You may speak, dear. Tell Miss Ashby how many stripes I raised on Sylvia's back and bottom before you learned proper obedience."

"Four stripes, Miss Ashby."

Beckwith patted the girl's cheek lightly. "And now you are very well disciplined." He let his hand fall back, but his fingertips grazed her throat and passed lightly over the tip of the breast he'd pinched so viciously minutes earlier. Turning away, he regarded Ria again. "We are in London," he said. "That was your question, was it not?"

"Where in London?"

"Number 48 Whittington. Does knowing so much relieve your mind? I am never certain why anyone wants such useless information, but everyone demands to have it. Do you find that peculiar, Miss Ashby?"

Ria didn't answer. Before she understood what was happening, Beckwith had turned back to Jane and slapped her smartly across the cheek. "Why did you do that? I didn't-"

"You didn't answer my question."

For a moment Ria could not think what he had asked. Her stomach clenched as she thought he might strike Jane again because she was too slow with her response. "No," she said as it came to her. "No, I don't find it peculiar. I suppose each of us wants to place ourselves somewhere. And, yes, it relieves my mind."

He smiled. "But you don't know Whittington Street, do you?"

"No."

"And you have no idea what part of London we're in."

"No."

Beckwith just shook his head, still mystified by the importance each new visitor to this house placed on knowing where they were. It was not as if they could leave of their own accord. "You will want to know why you are here, of course."

"I think I understand that."

He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose you do. At least some measure of it." He reached into the pocket of his frock coat and removed a length of ribbon. "Hold out your hands, Miss Ashby."

Ria did as he instructed. The struggle was to keep them steady as he used the ribbon to measure each of her wrists. He made a sharp crease in the satin to mark the circumference. Ria wanted to look away and could not; the image of herself wearing the bracelets was too powerfully real.

"Come with me," Beckwith said. It did not matter that she was no longer certain her legs would support her. She stood quickly and waited to see if she would remain so.

"This way."

She knew better than to hesitate as he turned toward the door, but she was still compelled to ask, "What about Jane?"

"Jane is exactly as she must be." He paused a beat in anticipation of Ria making some response. When she didn't, he merely smiled approvingly, perfectly satisfied with her silence. "This way." He rapped sharply on the door and it opened for him. He stepped through, held it open for her, then gestured for her to follow.

Ria stood on the edge of the threshold but could not cross it. She knew this place, just as Mr. Beckwith had told her she would. At once familiar, yet alien. It was exactly so.

The chaise longue was sapphire blue. The heavy velvet drapes were the color of rubies. Lighted sconces caused the jewel tones of the fabrics to be reflected darkly in the polished walnut walls. It was the room she had seen in the painting of India Parr. It was the same chaise that Sir Alex had been sitting on for his portrait.

It was, in fact, Sir Alex who was sitting upon the chaise now, his cobalt-blue eyes sharply assessing her.

Surrounding him was the entire board of governors of Miss Weaver's Academy, save for the newest of their number.

Ria did not know if it was better or worse for her that the Duke of Westphal was not among those gathered for this hellish welcome.

West was the last to arrive. It was immediately obvious to the others that he had not slept. He no longer wore the formal attire from the previous evening's affair, but he appeared to have been a reluctant and impatient recipient of his valet's attentions. Proof that Finch had drawn him a bath was there in the damp copper locks at his collar, but there was no evidence that he had found his soak in any way a useful respite. To all of those present in the colonel's home, West looked as if he might simply come out of his skin.

It was his very stillness that was alarming. They knew him too well to suppose that his calm was anything but affected. He took up the seat they had left for him in the colonel's favorite wing chair, stretching out in the most casual manner. He closed his eyes for a moment, his head back, his hands clasped in his lap.