Martha was a bit wiser in her handling of the melancholy girl. She had Charlie all to herself for once, and used the time to offer endless distractions. In the mornings, it was Martha who burst in to wake her, Martha directing her maid to fluff, style, girdle, and paint her little protégé, Martha who had each day fully mapped out for them.
Charlie let her have her way, trying to smile, trying to keep up. She kept quiet, she didn’t curse. There was plenty to distract her: shows, restaurants, shopping, museums… it never ended. It was only at night, sitting in the parlor after dinner, that Charlie had a moment’s peace. Three days of it; three long days of trying to be the socialite—a dim flicker next to Martha’s bright flame—had done its job. Charlie hardly had time to think on Matthew.
Everywhere they went, Beaumont’s men were near. If Charlie sneezed, half the room came out of the woodwork to see if she needed a hanky. The morning of the so-called ‘small’ bridal shower, Charlie found the entire restaurant booked, flowers everywhere. Every woman of influence in the city was in attendance. Complete strangers wished her happiness in marriage, offered opulent gifts, and embraced her as if they had been friends for life. The entire thing was absolutely ridiculous.
It was as Martha said, business, a required show—a necessary way for Martha to build bridges and establish who was loyal. Charlie paid attention, watched the subtle communications amongst the females, marveling at just what was really going on. A lifetime with men had left her with hardly a clue as to how women managed in groups. In one day it was clear females were territorial, far more than the men were, and social events forged alliances and defined boundaries.
Mrs. Radcliffe was a powerful woman.
Reporters arrived and shot photos of the blushing bride for the front page, Martha at her side like a mother hen, offering direction on how to manage the crowd, and answering the press’ questions effortlessly and elusively before shooing them away.
Cake, covered in cream and piles of strawberries, was rolled in amidst the clapping and soft awes of Martha’s guests. It was good, as was all the champagne waiters kept pouring into Charlie’s glass. By the time the event ended, it was late evening. Tipsy, full of sweet things, Charlie was ordered home.
Beaumont’s men were at the door, Martha waving goodbye so she might stay behind and see all the gifts packed properly in another car.
For a moment everything seemed like it was going to be okay. Charlie even smiled as she stumbled into the back seat of the fancy ride prepared to take her back to the Radcliffe estate.
It wasn’t until the door closed, until the car lurched, that Charlie even realized someone sat beside her. A cloth soaked with chloroform was shoved at her face, Charlie able to do little more than claw Tommy’s arm all the long seconds it took for everything to go dark.
Chapter 17
It was the taste of something awful that woke Charlie. Smacking her lips, vision blurry, vertigo almost emptied her belly right there on the grubby floor her cheek smushed against.
Half her body was pins and needles, her fingers twitching and useless from how tightly her hands had been tied behind her back.
“Well, sleeping beauty looks like she’s starting to wake.”
That cocky drawl and Charlie forced her eyes open. The room may have spun when she rolled on her bound arms to see him, but that didn’t stop her from glaring at the cause of her discomfort.
Tommy Kennedy. The handsome man smiled down, crouched over her; he even had the nerve to brush a stray hair out of her eyes. “I gotta admit, Blackbird. I am a little disappointed. Snatching you was… easy.” One manicured finger traced the slope of her cheek, Tommy pulling back when she ineptly tried to bite. “Well, I guess no one lives up to their reputation these days.”
“What the fuck, Tommy?”
All at once that masculine beauty was marred by a sneer. “Fuck is exactly what this is. You… you, Blackbird, are one huge FUCK. As in the fucking way. You had your chance to make this easy—to have your pretty little life, with your pretty little place in it. Had you done as you were told, you might have even been content as my wife—once the rules were established, of course.” He pressed his thumb to the scar on her lower lip. “But no, you bitched to Radcliffe and fucked with my place in the gang. You fucked the redneck. Then you fucking killed the men I hired to fix the problem. They were only going to rough you up a little, nothing a whore’s daughter wouldn’t be able to shake off. I was even going to be the one to save you. Wouldn’t that have been nice?”
Nauseous, Charlie tried to push up from the ground. When hands came to help her, she was unsure what was worse: Lying vulnerable, or squatting on her knees so Tommy might tidy her dress to cover her thighs. “So you’re gonna crow, then kill me? Ain’t that cliché?”
“Oh no, Lottie. You’ve got value. All that press today… You’re a hit in Chicago, kid. Little Miss Charlotte Elliot, niece of Beaumont Radcliffe, preparing to walk down the aisle.”
How did any of it matter when it was clear torture was on the menu? Victims were not dragged to warehouses so pleasant conversation might take place. They weren’t stuck in rooms where no one might hear them scream. “And the two burly strangers standing at your back?”
That charming smile was back, Tommy winking. “They’re going to hurt you.”
Charlie knew full well what was coming. “It’d be smarter to shoot me outright.” She smiled coldly. “Cause I swear to God, if I walk out of this room, I’ll slit your throat.”
Patting her on the head as if she were some cute pet, Tommy pretended she had not spoken at all. “Beaumont was an interesting boss—artistic. I
learned a lot from the son of a bitch over the years. But imagine my surprise when I discovered that little Blackbird, his favorite runt of a scampering servant, was this woman kneeling pretty before me.” He took her neck, gripped her chin, and squeezed just enough to stop breath. “And then to find he was giving that scrawny little bastard of a whore recognition as his kin. He surprised me.” Tommy tutted when her face bloomed red and Charlie fought the rope at her wrists. “Not many men can surprise me these days.”
Showing teeth, Charlie exhausted the last of her breath to hiss, “That’s because you’re too fucking stupid to know what’s going on half the time.”
A backhand rocked her hard enough that Charlie crashed hard against cold ground. A foreign laugh sounded—the men in bad suits waiting by the door finding the show rather funny. They stared right back at her when she contorted her neck to measure their approach, both smiling at the sad picture she made splayed and struggling.
It was about to begin, but Charlie was not going down without one last jab. “You know why Beau wanted me to marry you, Tommy? He knew you couldn’t cut it—wanted me to take the reins.”
Standing over her, his shoe right by her skull, Tommy tapped her reddened cheek with his toe. “I’m sure that’s what he told you. You would have been a convenient little leash. But the truth is, Beaumont’s an old fool. Though I got to give it to him, he did have the right idea about one thing.”
“Oh, yeah? And what would that be?”