Prisoner of the Seraglio

Prisoner of the Seraglio

A Cordelia Delacourt Adventure

Chapter 19 La Retour

“My gawd, it is him; the bastard.” Liz exclaimed.

“Caught by the rain, just like we were,” the Count commented. “Only he could not match our speed and so we caught him.”

Liz stepped back and let Cordelia peer through the powerful telescope that was mounted in the control room of La Tortue. A mile away a long column of men was winding its way up a steep slope. To the naked eye they appeared no bigger than ants, but the telescope revealed a well-organized expedition. Cordelia swung the telescope along the column until she reached the front and the figure of the lone white man. Burton was facing directly toward her, and he looked worried, as well he should with a machine the size of a house lumbering toward him.

“What do you plan to do when we reach his position?” Cordelia asked the Count.

“I’d cut off his knackers,” Liz interjected.

“Whatever you wish, cherie,” the Count replied, ignoring Liz’s suggestion. “I am sure no punishment is too severe for the man who sold my lover into slavery.”

“But Burton and his men are armed. I have seen no weapons aboard La Tortue.”

The Count smiled. “But that does not mean that there are no weapons. Let us just see how this English cochon reacts when we reach him. Force may not even be necessary.”

Cordelia supposed that it would not. The sight of a several hundred ton smoke-belching monster was likely to make any man see reason; even a man as arrogant and self-assured as Burton.

By the time La Tortue ground up the slope to the summit of the hill where Burton and his retinue waited all of the porters had fled, leaving their burdens scattered along their line of march. Cordelia could not resist a smile. It must have galled Burton to see the gold he had traded two of his countrywomen for simply thrown aside.

To give her countryman his due, Burton did not flee. He stood and waited, his elephant gun cradled in his arms, while around him stood his hired guns. There was no sign of fear on his face although his escort clearly looked shaken. They were used to dealing with relatively poorly armed African tribes, not a gigantic technological wonder that was beyond their comprehension. Most of them looked as if they would run at the first opportunity.

It was Cordelia who greeted Burton, slamming back the hatch in the control room and boldly exposing herself . It was hard not to gloat as for the first time she saw Burton struck speechless. “Good afternoon, Mr. Burton. Have you sold any more trusting young women into sexual slavery lately?”

Burton opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. “What is the matter, Mr. Burton?” Cordelia continued, her voice dripping scorn. “Did you think that you were rid of me? That your vile deed would never be discovered? You sold me to serve as some stranger’s whore for the basest of motives.”

“Whore is a harsh term, Miss Delacourt,” Burton responded, finding his voice at last. “I intended that you be the Emperor’s consort.”

“Without a doubt, that is one of the biggest lies I have ever heard. But now you are going to pay for your betrayal. I am going to take from you that which you value the most, your ill-gotten gold.”

Burton leveled his rifle, although what good he thought it might do against several inches of plate iron Cordelia had no idea. Just to be safe, however, she prudently ducked back into the control room, leaving it up to the Count to handle the situation.

The Count made the most of the opportunity. Cordelia hadn’t realized just how much the French scientist would enjoy humiliating the English adventurer. She also had not realized that the Count spoke English, and spoke it well from the way he castigated Burton. Eventually the verbal tirade became too much for the English explorer and he angrily raised his rifle. With a grin the Count dropped back into the control room. “Now I will have a chance to demonstrate to the English pig, just how hopeless his situation is.”

At the look on Cordelia’s face he immediately apologized. “Pardon me, cherie; I forgot myself. It is difficult to forget what happened at Waterloo.”

“I don’t want him killed, Antoine,” Cordelia said. “I want no blood on my conscience.”

“Do not worry, cherie,” the Count smiled. “I will just dampen his spirit a little.” He stepped to a platform raised about a foot above the floor of the control room. Cordelia had noticed it before, but had not thought to ask about it. There were a number of levers and valves set into a console. The Count turned one of the valves and from the front of La Tortue there came a grinding sound as of something moving.

“Join me, mademoiselles,” the Count invited. Cordelia and Liz stepped up beside him, and saw that there were two metal tubes projecting from the front of La Tortue, each resembling the nozzle of a fire hose. On the control panel were two levers, one marked in green and the other in red.

“One of the nozzles projects live steam at over a thousand degrees Centigrade,” the Count explained. “The other high-pressure cold water. The direction of each nozzle is control by these levers here. Would you like to do the honours?”

“Which one is the steam?” Liz asked.

“The one in red,” the Count answered. “The one with the locking device on it. I don’t think you want that one.”

“Why not,” asked Liz. “He’s got it coming.”

“Perhaps he has,” the Count said sympathetically. “But would you want the memory of boiling a man alive on your conscience. Not to mention that you would kill a number of his escort.”

“I suppose not,” Liz replied. “It would be pretty horrible.”

“Quite so,” said the Count. “What say we just give him a blast of cold water?”

“I just pull this lever?” Liz asked with a grin.

“Yes,” the Count answered, moving a couple of the knobs on the panel. “Let me just aim it for you.”

He signaled that he was ready and Liz pulled the lever. The girl let out a yip of delight. “Cor that got ‘im. Knocked ‘im right off ‘is bloomin’ feet.”

Cordelia noted that Liz had a tendency to revert to her lower class accent when she was excited. But she could not help laughing out loud at the sight of the pompous Burton sitting on his backside, soaking wet, a look of startled confusion and complete chagrin on his face.

It didn’t take any more than that for Burton and his men to beat a hasty retreat. With all opposition gone the Count dispatched his crew to retrieve the packs the porters had hurled aside. It took more than two hours to load all the gold aboard La Tortue. The Count estimated that there were at least five thousands kilos of the yellow metal, worth close to a million pounds.

“A king’s ransom,” said Cordelia,

“Actually your ransom,” the Count commented. “Did you not tell me that you and Mademoiselle Brown were traded by Burton to the emperor as a part of the contemptible transaction he concluded in order to get the gold?”

Cordelia nodded her agreement. It was something she was trying to blot from her memory. Being bought and sold as if she were no more than an animal or piece of property was a humiliation that she did not want to repeat or even think about.

The Count seemed to guess her thoughts. He took her hand. “It is alright, cherie, you are safe with me now.”

“Yes I am,” thought Cordelia, “but for how long?”

“This is as far as I take La Tortue,” the Count said. “From here we go on foot.”

“We, mon cher?” Cordelia asked.

“Of course,” the Count smiled. “I could not allow you to go home unescorted. There is still the small matter of finding out who had you kidnapped and dealing with him before it happens again.”

“You are right,” Cordelia conceded, “but what about your quest for the Nile?”

“It will still be here when I return. Besides Jules is quite capable of finding it without me. I have arranged to have him meet me here in six months.”

By way of reply Cordelia kissed him on the mouth. “Home.” The thought of seeing her father again was almost overwhelming. “I’ll get Liz,” she said. “The sooner we leave the better.”

Bartholomew Bishop tossed down the morning paper with a growl of disgust. He turned to his manservant. “Get me Janessic and get him fast.” Still fuming he returned to his chair and picked up the paper. “Who would have thought that the little bitch would find her way back? And she returns a heroine no less. This won’t do. It just won’t do at all.”

He swept his hand over his bullet head, in an unconscious nervous gesture. He was sweating in spite of the fact that it was not warm in the room. Outside a thin winter drizzle beaded the panes of the dining room. “I should have known DesLaurier would make a right mess of it. If you want something done you’ve got to do it yourself.” He picked up the paper again. According to the details Miss Delacourt was attending a public function where she would present the manuscript of her adventures to her publisher. Perhaps it would be interesting if he had a look at her in person.

There was a large crowd by the time Bishop arrived. He had hidden inside his carriage and then gone on foot for the last few blocks. As usual he was muffled in his silk scarf and he kept his collar pulled up, and hat pulled down. His mode of dress, although unusual, would attract little attention in the damp London weather. Nevertheless, he was a little nervous as he walked past a member of the London constabulary. If anyone recognized him he doubted that he would be transported to Australia this time. He breathed a sigh of relief as he merged with the large crowd that had assembled in front of the Explorer’s Club.

It was a rare occasion. As far as anyone could remember no woman had ever been admitted to the sacred precincts of the club. Miss Delacourt’s triumphal return, complete with a detailed account of her adventures had all of England in a tizzy. For the last few weeks she had been accorded honours normally reminiscent of the triumphs given to Roman generals, or so it seemed.

She had already been granted an audience with the queen and Prince Albert, a visit that had turned into an all-day event as the young adventuress had recounted her odyssey. The fact that she had arrived in London, manuscript in hand had, of course, greatly added to her fame.

Bishop put on a thick pair of spectacles. To the casual observer he would appear extremely nearsighted, but in actual fact they were mini-binoculars and gave him a view of the platform that had been set up for Miss Delacourt’s appearance. He was just in time to see a closed carriage pull up. Three people got out. Bishop’s eyes narrowed with hate as Justice William Delacourt mounted the platform. “Bastard,” he thought. He had sought to punish him by stealing his daughter from him, but the plan had backfired badly with the girl’s triumphant return.

A second man got out. He was in his mid-thirties and of medium height and handsome appearance. He was well-dressed and carried a sword-cane. He oozed self-assurance and Bishop supposed that this was the man rumoured to be Miss Delacourt’s lover.

Finally Miss Delacourt appeared, helped down from the carriage by the Frenchman. She was dressed in a conservative green dress which went well with her auburn hair and brilliant green eyes. A second young woman exited the carriage as well. She also was quite attractive, but there was no doubting which of the two was Miss Delacourt. Her height alone would have given her away, but she was also clearly the younger of the two in spite of an air of complete self assurance.

However, most of these minor details were eclipsed by the fact that the girl was one of the greatest beauties he had ever seen. Miss Delacourt’s trials seemed to have improved her appearance. She was no longer a girl, but was now an extremely desirable young woman. For a few seconds he was completely mesmerized and then he forced himself to break his concentration. Slowly he disentangled himself from the crowd. The sight of Miss Delacourt in person had confirmed his decision. He would take care of the young woman personally. Very personally.

Cordelia breathed a sigh of relief as she entered the room she shared with Liz. She could have had a room of her own, but it was judged better that she had a companion in view of the fact that the people who had abducted her were still at large and completely unknown. It was still a much larger than the room she had before and much more secure.

Her father had insisted that she take one of the larger bedrooms in his home, one usually set aside for guests. It had a separate bath, a large sitting room, a morning room overlooking the garden, and a bedroom with a lockable door. It had been decided that a guard would be posted in the hallway and her maidservant, Mary would sleep in the outer room. For even greater security Liz shared the bedroom with her.

The arrangements were more than suitable except for one thing. Neither she nor Liz was able to share a bed with their lovers, but Cordelia could hardly tell her father that she was no longer a blushing virgin. In the book she had written she had carefully avoided any mention of her sexual escapades or her relationship with the Count. She had, however, written an uncensored version of her adventures for her personal records; one that she fully intended one day to release for publication, once she no longer feared scandal.

The book had been Liz’s idea. It had been a long journey back to civilization and Cordelia and Liz had found themselves with considerable time on their hands. It had been a simple matter to use the writing materials provided by the Count to put together a most impressive journal. By the time they reached London it consisted of over a thousand hand-written pages. In the sensation caused by her unexpected return she had been besieged by publishers eager to turn her crude manuscript into a proper account of her adventures, censored though it was.

She looked at herself in the mirror. A vision of loveliness looked back. It was strange how quickly she had gotten used to wearing the multiple layers of clothing that Victorian society deemed necessary for female propriety. At first she had felt smothered after so many months of wearing clothing more suited to men, or in the case of the harems, almost nothing, but now she had fallen into her old habits. Perhaps it was the climate. The cold, rainy winter of southern England seemed to require that she wore the equivalent of five dresses. It was, however, a real trial when it came to getting dressed. Without her maid she could not have coped.

She looked away from the mirror as Liz came in. “So far so good,” Cordelia commented.

“Thanks to you,” Liz replied. “But I have to really watch myself. It is sort of like acting, pretending to be a lady.”

“You have always been a lady, Liz. It is just that no one would give you any credit for it until you spoke like one.”

Liz smiled her pleasure at the compliment. She had really worked on her accent and could now pass herself off as one of the upper class. So far the story that she was the daughter of a missionary who had died of fever in Africa was holding up and she was almost accorded the same status as Cordelia. However, there was one thing Cordelia had that Liz didn’t and it was something the girl could not fake. Cordelia had been well-educated by mid-eighteenth century standards; Liz was illiterate. It was a condition she and Liz were now working to overcome, but it would take time and effort. There was only one impediment to Liz’s further education.

“Do you think all this is necessary?” she asked, looking dubiously at the children’s book Cordelia had ready for her. “After all, Pierre likes me just the way I am.”

“True enough,” Cordelia agreed. “It is up to you. If Pierre prefers a woman who is completely uneducated then he can certainly have one.”

Liz frowned. “My we certainly have turned sarcastic haven’t we? Are you missing the Count that badly?”

“I miss him so much that I ache just thinking about him.”

“I’m not going to ask where you ache,” Liz said, archly, “but I can guess.”

“That’s not very ladylike, Liz. That remark would not go over well in polite company.”

“To hell with polite company. A bunch of boring old farts if you ask me.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Cordelia said in mock horror. Secretly, however, she had to agree. Except for the joyous reunion with her father, her return from the wilds of Africa had not been what she had hoped. London stank of coal smoke, the streets were littered with filth, and she found the constraints of so called ‘polite society’ to be stultifying. She found herself wishing more and more for the freedom she had enjoyed as a member of the crew of La Tortue.

And then there was the matter of her relationship with the Count. She loved him passionately, but the Count had made no mention of marriage. She didn’t see how she could give him up, but she had no desire to embarrass her father by living with him in a relationship that most of her father’s friends would think of as little better a kept woman. Having his daughter labeled a “whore” would devastate her father. It was something that she could not do to him.

She placed her hands on either side of her temples. “Oh god, Liz,” she moaned. “Worrying about all these complications has given me a headache. I’m going to bed.”

“It’s been a busy week,” Liz commiserated. “I’m surprised that you can tolerate all this middle class morality without going quite mad.”

Cordelia sighed. “Please ask Mary to come in. I need help getting this mountain of clothing off.” She sat down and waited for the maid to appear. “At least we’re safe. That’s something at least.”

Liz placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “Yes,” she agreed. “Things could certainly be much worse.”

“The house is like a fortress,” Janessic said. “I won’t be able to get her out of there again, however, there is one weakness. It should be possible to ambush the carriage. Thanks to the newspapers we have a complete itinerary of Miss Delacourt’s movements over the next few days. We just have to choose a suitable location.”

“I leave that to you,” Bishop replied. “Just make sure that she is not harmed, and if possible see if you can abduct her companion, Miss Brown, as well. And try to keep it discreet. I don’t want all of England looking for her.”

“I doubt that I can kidnap someone as famous as Miss Delacourt without creating a stir,” Janessic replied. “But I will try not to create too great a disturbance.”

“See that you do not,” Bishop replied. “I am not paying you to act like an amateur.”

Janessic nodded and left. He always felt distinctly uncomfortable around Bishop, and the arch-criminal’s choice of hiding places did not make him feel any better. The sooner he got out of the damp darkness he would feel a great deal better.

It took him several minutes to negotiate the twists and turns of the underground lair. He suspected that there was a much easier way in that Bishop used, but he had never been allowed to explore the strange criminal’s den to determine where it was. “One day,” he muttered, “I’m going to take the time to find out where the other entrance is.” It might be well worth his while to find out.

It was a short walk to the docks from the entrance. From there he was able to find a cab to take him to the posh hotel he called home. He would have to move fast. According to the Daily Mail, Miss Delacourt was scheduled for another public meeting, this time at the Royal Geographical Society. Upon reaching his hotel room he had one of his hirelings begin to round up the men he would need to pull off the caper he had planned. He regretted that he had so little time. It would have been nice to have been able to rehearse the abduction, but he would just have to hope that the element of surprise and his knowledge of the city would enable him to pull it off.

Janessic waited impatiently while his men arrived. He had called them in from other jobs, but that didn’t matter. Bishop was paying him well, and no one argued with the mysterious master criminal. It occurred to him that in all the time he had known Bishop he had never actually seen the man’s face. It was another disturbing fact in a long list concerning the bizarre villain, but right now there was little he could do about it. He had work to do.

With a dozen men he took to the streets, heading for the narrow intersection where he planned to make his move. With any luck inside of two hours he and Miss Delacourt would renew their acquaintance. This time he was determined to get to know her better.

Cordelia stifled a yawn. The whirlwind of activity surrounding her return was beginning to tell on her. After it was over she and Liz would have to have a nice long rest. Perhaps also she and the Count could find some time to steal away. It was damned hard pretending that he was just her gallant rescuer and nothing else. She did not, however, want to hurt her father. One of the great joys in her life was the look on his face just before she threw herself into his arms upon her return to London. She didn’t want to do anything to disturb their newly reestablished relationship.

The carriage swayed from side to side as it bumped over the cobblestones. This part of London was full of narrow winding streets that needed repair, but in another half hour they would be at their destination. Across from her, Liz gave her a smile as if to reassure her. Cordelia smiled back.

“What are you two up to?” the Count asked, his tone of voice indicating mild amusement. “You’re grinning like a pair of cats who have just caught a mouse.”

“Nothing Antoine,” Cordelia answered. “We’re just a couple of silly girls.”

The Count was sitting next to her. Her father had decided that the man who had rescued her and returned her to England was a suitable escort, provided Liz went along as chaperone. The idea that a former London street girl was now regarded as a guardian of her virtue was quite amusing, but Cordelia had no intention of telling her father anything different. The Count shook his head and smiled. Placing his hand on her knee he grinned. “Just what are you up to, ma cherie?”

Cordelia never got the chance to answer as at that moment the carriage lurched to a shuddering halt, stopping so suddenly that Cordelia and the Count were dumped onto the floor. There was a great deal of shouting and then the door of the carriage was yanked open. A man who looked like a farmer stood there whip in hand.

“Blast it!” the man yelled. “Your driver has run over my son!”

The Count, got to his feet. Offering his arm, he helped Cordelia to her seat. “Leave this to me,” he said, stepping from the carriage.

Confused and concerned, Cordelia clung Liz. “Are you all right?” she asked. She never answered. At that moment the other door of the carriage was wrenched open. Before anyone could react several powerfully built men reached in through the door and grabbed both her and Liz. Cordelia heard her Liz cry out in outrage and then several pairs of hands seized her.

She forgot every trick she had ever learned about self defense. Panicking, she lashed out at the men who held her but there were far too many. Within seconds her arms had been pulled behind her back and her wrists tied. She opened her mouth to scream and had a thick wad of cloth stuffed into it. She had a confused vision of Liz kicking one of the men who held her in the shins and then she too was trussed up. Cordelia was seized by a man on either side of her and pulled across the cobblestones. Waiting a few yards away was another carriage, its windows closed by blinds. The door opened as she neared it and she was thrust inside. She had time for just one quick look over her shoulder. She saw what appeared to be the body of the Count lying face down in the street. The sight sent a wave of horror through her and then she and Liz were inside the carriage and the door was slammed behind her.

“We meet again,” Miss Delacourt. “And you too Miss Brown. This time I think we will become a bit better acquainted.”

Cordelia had to use every bit of her weakening self-control to keep from wetting herself. There was no light in the carriage, but enough leaked in around the window blinds to show her that she and Liz were alone with the man who had started their nightmare almost a year ago. Bound and gagged they could not fight back and could not cry for help.

“Before you get any foolish ideas I should point out that the carriage doors are locked from the outside so please do not damage the interior of the carriage by trying to kick them open. I assure you that there is no escape.” As he finished speaking Janessic lifted Liz onto the seat and then taking a length of cord, bound her legs, wrapping the cord around her legs, dress and all, just above the knees. “That should hold you, Liz. I am looking forward to enjoying your charms once more, but first I think Miss Delacourt and I are going to enjoy a more intimate relationship.”

“No!” Cordelia cried or rather tried to, the gag muffled any sound she tried to make. She could only struggle helplessly as Janessic began the terrifying and lengthy process of removing her clothing. Foremost in her mind, however, was the fate of her father and the Count. For all she knew Janessic had killed them during the kidnapping, or they might be prisoners as well. Fear that her lover might have been killed had her close to hysterics. But she tried to remain calm in spite of what was happening to her. Panic would get her nothing and would probably add to Janessic’s sadistic pleasure.

It took him a considerable length of time to remove her dress and the numerous petticoats beneath it. But Janessic appeared to be in no hurry. As he explained: “We have a bit of a ride ahead of us, Miss Delacourt. There is more than enough time for me to enjoy your charms.”

It was, unfortunately impossible to remove her clothing, without destroying it. Janessic used his knife to cut through the material of the sleeves so that he could pull the clothing from her body without untying her. It was a terrifying experience as the sharp blade of the knife grazed her skin upon the removal of her last petticoat, leaving her clad only in her chemise and drawers. She was breathing heavily and straining at her bonds as Janessic pressed her down into the seat. Nothing remained of her once elaborate clothing except a thin shirt that buttoned up the front and her thin cotton drawers.

“Now let’s see what we have,” Janessic mused, putting away his knife. He was still fully dressed, but Cordelia doubted he would stay that way for long. As he began to unbutton the front of her chemise her body began to tremble.

“Relax, Miss Delacourt. I am not going to do anything to you that has not already been done. Or are you still a blushing virgin?” He unbuttoned the first three buttons and opened her chemise.

“What the hell…? I guess that answers my question about your virginity.” He stroked the lion paw brand just above her left nipple. “Someone certainly put his mark on you. That is a story I would like to hear. Unfortunately I dare not remove that gag, so your story will have to wait.”

Cordelia’s chest heaved as Janessic stroked her nipple. “Exquisite,” he murmured as he took the copper teat between his teeth and then gently sucked it erect. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to bite hard. Someone else wants you after me.”

Janessic’s last comment was far from reassuring news. As he opened her chemise wide and squeezed her breasts with both hands, Cordelia fought to escape, but her struggles only served to excite her brutal captor. Holding her with one hand, he used the other to pull down her drawers and then while she watched wide-eyed, her body thrashing desperately, he unbuttoned his trousers and revealed his fully erect penis.

“Someone really did do a job on you,” Janessic commented as he stroked the almost hairless region between her legs. “I should see if Bishop will sell you to me after he is through with you.”

The fact that Janessic had revealed the name of his employer was lost on Cordelia as he spread her legs. She clamped her thighs against his in a vain effort to hold him back. Janessic laughed, teasing her by touching the tip of his phallus to the lips of her vulva and then pulling back only to touch his member there once again, this time easing slightly into her. He repeated the torment, each time penetrating her a little more until the glans of his penis was fully within her and then with a taunting laugh he thrust fully into her.

“Mmmpph, you’re a tight bitch,” he grunted. “You’d think you’d never had a man before. But perhaps you haven’t. That Frenchy probably isn’t any bigger than a monkey.”

Cordelia screamed into her gag as he took her. Without foreplay the penetration was both difficult and painful. Janessic took care not to bruise any visible part of her body, but he had no inhibitions when it came to forcing himself deep within her. His powerful body straining, he thrust into his victim’s sweating body for over an hour before finally releasing into her. Still bound and gagged, Cordelia lay panting helplessly; her eyes streaming tears of pain, rage, and mortification as Janessic finally heaved himself off her.

Unfortunately, Janessic was not quite finished. Turning to Liz he began to remove her clothing in the same way he had removed Cordelia’s. “Time to renew our acquaintance, Liz,” he sneered.

During all this time the carriage continued to wind its way through the streets of London. Cordelia realized that wherever they were being taken it was a long way off. Either that or Janessic had deliberately ordered the carriage to take the most roundabout route possible in order to further his lust.

His erection spent, Janessic amused himself with Liz by sexually torturing her. He started by squeezing and twisting her breasts. Beneath her gag, Liz screamed as he bit her nipples and then began to force his fingers into her. Cordelia would not have believed that it was possible for a man to get his fist inside a woman. But as Liz writhed in agony he showed her that it was. Almost sick to her stomach, Cordelia closed her eyes, unable to watch the brutalization of her companion, but she could not shut out the sound of Liz’s agonized moans or Janessic’s cruel taunts. As the carriage ride to hell continued, her body shuddered with sobs.

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