“Thank you.” Arista dropped the fake accent and left the room.
No one saw her, and she slipped into the laundry room easily. Huge tubs lined one wall, and the sharp scent of lye filled the air, burning her lungs. A rope was strung from one corner to the other, and clothes were pinned along it.
It took no time at all to find a shirt, jacket, and trousers that looked about the right size. All were rough and patched, probably belonging to the stable boy. She’d never been comfortable stealing, much less from someone in her own situation, so she made a silent pledge to put them back as soon as she returned.
The stairwell was dark and empty and Arista hurried up it. She pushed through the door and immediately stopped. In her haste to get back to her room, she’d exited on the wrong floor. These were the working rooms. Before she could duck back inside the stairwell, a door opened just three away from her.
“A pleasure as always, my dear.” The man’s words were slurred, and he stumbled as he backed out the door. A throaty giggle followed his retreat. The door closed and the man straightened, put his hat on his head, and tapped it into place, though it still sat very crookedly.
Arista didn’t dare move. Go the other way.
He turned, as if he’d heard her thoughts, and walked right toward her.
“Well, what do we have here? You’re a new one—I haven’t seen you before.” The man’s eyes widened and then narrowed as he focused on her. He took several stumbling steps down the hall. Arista backed up, the stolen clothes clutched to her chest. She didn’t miss the way he leered at her. Bile rose in her throat. Run. The command from her brain would not reach her frozen feet. She smelled the bourbon on his breath before he stopped in front of her. Without the benefit of either of her disguises, the boy or Lady A, Arista felt naked. Powerless. Her mind would not work at all.
“My, you’re a pretty one. Where have you been hiding?” He ran a finger down her cheek and Arista pursed her lips tightly together. Still holding the clothes with one hand, she reached down with her other hand and inched the fabric of her dress up.
She needed her knife.
He must have sensed her movements, because a wide grin curled his mouth. “Eager, are you?” He leaned into her, pressing himself along the length of her body with only the rough cloth between them. His hot breath washed over her ear. “I like that.” He reached down and covered her hand with his, easing her skirt up more. The weight of his body pressed her harder against the door, and she couldn’t move. There was no room to lift her knee or drive her fist into his nose. Nothing Nic had taught her would work now.
One of the man’s fingers trailed along her leg. Arista bit down on her lip so hard that she tasted blood. A vise tightened around her wrist and he held her hand firmly at her waist, her entire leg now exposed. She could not beat him with physical strength.
With a soft sigh, Arista forced her body to go limp. He wasn’t expecting that, and lost his grip and balance at the same time. Drunks were unpredictable, except when it came to coordination. Arista had the tip of her blade pressed against his temple before he could blink. Arista, perhaps, wasn’t experienced at dealing with men like him, but Lady A was. Something inside of her shifted. The debilitating fear was gone now.
“Leave now or I’ll sink this blade right through your skull,” she hissed. Becky would be proud of how cultured Arista sounded.
“What the hell are you doing? Do you know who I am? I practically funded this entire place. I own you, whore.” The man reared back, but his glance flicked to the knife and he hesitated.
This situation she could control.
“They tell me that I like to play with knives a little too much,” she said softly, running the blade down his cheek until it stopped, right on the throbbing pulse in his neck. “But some men like that.” The man swallowed loudly. “Do you still want to play with me, my lord?” Arista pushed the blade against the man’s soft middle and he blanched. Men like him liked to pretend they owned the world, but underneath they were cowards. Especially when confronted with their own mortality.
“You’re crazy,” he spat. Hatred blazed from his bloodshot eyes.
“So I’ve been told,” she answered with a cold smile. “Now get away from me.”
The man stumbled back a few feet and stopped. Without the knife at his throat, a bit of bravado returned. He brushed off the front of his jacket and straightened his hat. “I’ll see that you’re thrown out on the street with nothing, girl,” he sneered.