Fate's Victim by Roxane Beaufort

Author:Roxane Beaufort
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: spanking, fantasy, erotic, chimera, sexual, discipline, Slave, wealth, corporal punishment, obedience, fiction, master, rich, poor, BDSM, ebook, dark, domination, S&M, mistress, damsel in distress, submission, bondage, victorian, historical, wild
ISBN: 9781907753800
Publisher: Andrews UK Limited
Published: 2010-06-30T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Without pausing to think or change her mind, Angela packed her bag. It was dark by now but she did not care. She had to get away from Arthur. Putting on her coat and hat she opened the door, picked up her valise and peered nervously into the passage. He was nowhere to be seen, so she crept down the stairs and let herself into the side alley via the back way.

She could hardly believe that she had been so lucky, anticipating trouble with Arthur, but either he had taken himself off to the nearest public house or was slumped at the kitchen table with a bottle of whiskey. Either way she did not give a hoot, just as long as she escaped him. She contemplated leaving a note for Jacob, then decided that she would post one, making sure it did not fall into the wrong hands and that he received it on his return. She had formulated a plan and walked swiftly, head held high, seeking her destination – Friggle Lane.

London by night was daunting, particularly for a female. There were still a number of people about, returning from work or setting out, doing late shopping or making their way to the taverns or music halls. Angela remembered that Friggle Lane was not too far from the Bunch of Grapes. She was pinning her hopes on Tilly, who had seemed good-natured enough, but she was not so sure about Doreen. In any case she had little choice, apart from returning to Aidan, and the very idea appalled her. She feared her own weakness where he was concerned. It would be fatally easy to succumb, sink herself into him and lose her self-esteem, her independence, even her very soul.

She passed on the other side of the road to the inn. It was noisy, filled with loud voices and raucous laughter and it frightened her. She recalled Tilly pointing down the street and went that way, coming to a narrow alley with a lop-sided sign that she could just about read in the flickering streetlamp. Friggle Lane. This was it. There was no turning back. She straightened her spine and set off into the gloom.

The smell was disgusting, that of damp and bad drains. She lifted her skirt, trying to keep the hem out of the mud. There were several doors on either side and she finally came to a dead end, facing another door which, when pulled open, gave access to a shadowy hallway that led to a staircase. She mounted it, thankful for the pallid gaslight. On reaching the top she was faced with more doors. From inside one of them came the strains of a popular song.

She knocked and, ‘’Oo the bloody ’ell’s that?’ came a voice recognisable as Doreen’s. ‘You expectin’ anyone, Tilly?’

‘Nah! Open up, you lazy mare,’ was Tilly’s instant response. ‘An’ put that bloody phonogram off! Gets on my nerves, it does.’

‘Oh, fuck you!’ Doreen growled, and there was a sickening scrape as the needle was dragged across the record, followed by silence.

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