League Rule Number 11:
A man should remember from time to time to be a gentleman, even if he thinks he may have forgotten how.
Excerpt from the Quizzing Glass Gazette, April 28, 1821, the Lady Society column:
Lady Society is quite curious about a certain gentleman named Mr. Lawrence Russell. His elder brother, the Marquess of Rochester, is quite infamous indeed as a member of the League of Rogues, but as for Mr. Russell himself…the rumors abound.
Lady Society would like very much to know if he wishes to be married, or will he continue as his brother had and resist matrimony at all odds? If it is the former, Lady Society will endeavor to find him a suitable bride; if it is the latter, Lady Society sees his determined bachelordom as a challenge. A rogue you may be, Mr. Russell, but Lady Society believes you might yet make a good husband. Now who to marry you to?
"You belong to me now."
The whispered words echoed in Zehra Darzi's head as she jolted awake. Somehow in the last twenty—four hours she'd managed to sleep a little inside her gilded prison. Those words that haunted her still made her head throb as a fresh wave of fear swept through her. The man who had spoken them had murdered her parents and kidnapped her from her palace in Persia three weeks ago.
Al—Zahrani. His name was like bitter poison upon her tongue, and she fought the urge to throw up. She'd spent only a few days as his prisoner—listening to him boast of capturing her and his plans of using her as a concubine—before she'd had a chance to flee.
She curled her hands into fists and winced as her nails dug into her palms. Cuts, somewhat healed, still stung from when she'd scaled a low—branched tree near Al—Zahrani's walls to break free. She'd been so close to freedom, had felt it with every step as she stumbled and ran through the desert hills.
Then, after two days without food or water, she'd collapsed on the dunes, lips parched and cracked, eyes burning. She'd glimpsed men upon the horizon, on horseback in dark clothes. At first she'd thought they were her salvation, but she soon learned they were anything but.
Slavers.
Now she was imprisoned in an English brothel thousands of miles from her home.
Zehra's gaze darted around the room for the hundredth time, and she wished the women who had seen to her care, such as it was, had brought a fresh pitcher of water. Her throat was parched and she would have done almost anything for a sip of water. It was dark outside, and she hadn't been visited by anyone since early that morning, when the slavers had sold her to the madam who ran this wretched place. She licked her dry lips and refused to cry.
You are strong. You are the daughter of a shah and an English lady. No one owns you—no matter what happens tonight.
It was the mantra she had spoken again and again as the slavers had mocked her during their long days at sea. She hadn't been the only woman they'd captured, but she'd been one of the few they had left unspoiled. Her father's name had carried weight enough to give her that protection, at least so far as the greed of the men was concerned.
"Sell a Persian princess and turn a tidy profit." She could still hear the sneering voice of the captain as he'd coiled a lock of her hair around his fingers and crushed her breasts with his exploring hands before they'd thrown her in a tiny chamber, where she'd spent the next two weeks of their voyage.
Now Zehra Darzi stared at the locked door that kept her trapped in her new prison. Through the thin walls of the gaudy bedchamber she could hear the sounds of passion, of men grunting and women moaning along with the heavy sounds of furniture moving rhythmically. Bile rose in her mouth again. She tried not to think of how this tiny room was so different from the colorful, open rooms and rose gardens she'd once called home.
At least you escaped Al—Zahrani. He cannot find you here. She hoped that was true. He had bragged during her brief captivity that he engaged in slavery, like many powerful men in the area, and he'd once told her that the Western countries paid handsomely for foreign beauties. He'd assured her that he would never sell her, however, because he wanted the pleasure of breaking her spirit himself.
No man would ever break her spirit.
Zehra glared at the blasted door handle, wishing it would magically unlock, but even then, she knew escape would be impossible. When she'd been escorted to this room, two strong men had stood guard outside, their expressionless faces frightening. She doubted they had moved since.
For the tenth time since she'd been cast into this bedchamber, she eased down on the bed and tried to calm the fear that rolled through her. She couldn't sit still while her life and freedom hung in the balance. Zehra ran through her options. She had attempted bribery, but the madam and her gaggle of whores had laughed when Zehra had promised riches beyond their wildest dreams. She was coldly informed that her only value was the money she would bring at a private auction tonight. When Zehra had told her she was half—English, with relatives in the peerage, they had laughed again, clearly disbelieving. Her skin was too olive in color, her hair raven black, and her features more exotic. She was no English rose in their eyes.
I may be a woman, but I will fight before I surrender to despair.
Her one last hope—a dim, if not impossible one—was to find a gentleman from tonight's auction who would listen to her and believe her when she told him she was here against her will. She could not be a slave, for slavery was outlawed in England. Of course, the madam had reminded her that even the English kept their dark secrets, like slaves, but surely there would be one man tonight who would have mercy and set her free.
The door handle clicked as the lock turned. Zehra braced herself against the bedpost, fingers digging into the wood. She blew out a breath in relief as a woman in a curly blonde wig sauntered inside. The rouge coloring over the white paste on her cheeks matched the beautiful red dress she held.
"The madam says you're ta wear this tonight. I'm ta help ya." The woman set the gown on the bed and placed her hands on her hips. "No funny business, mind. The guards are outside, and they'll catch ya right quick if ya try to run."
Zehra studied the woman's pale face. Her scraggly blonde wig was pulled back into a messy coiffure, and her arms were thin. Her body was slim, but in a sickly sort of way. Zehra was a strong, full—figured woman. It would be easy to overpower her, but not the guards outside.
"I said no funny business," the woman snapped. "I see you lookin' toward the door. Gowan, get on with it." She waved at the dress, which she'd tossed on the bed.
"Very well." Zehra reached for the buttons on the front of her dress and began to slip them out of the little slits. The woman waited until Zehra had stepped out of her pale—blue traveling dress before helping her into the red satin evening gown. It fit well enough on Zehra's curvy figure, but the moment it was on, a wave of nausea overtook her. She closed her eyes, taking slow deep breaths until the sick feeling had passed.
"'At'll do, won't it?" The woman nodded at Zehra.
Zehra studied her reflection in the mirror in the corner by the locked window. The red silk set off the light—olive tint of her skin, but the bodice was scandalously low. She had been raised in a land where women did not dress like this, and she knew from her mother that English women did not wear necklines this low, either.
