Parlor Games by Leda Swann Page A

herself on one of the sofas and waited politely until, with another growl, he sat down next to her.
    “You see,” she said, with a delicate dab at her nose with a lace-edged handkerchief, “I have another offer for the girl. He wants her from midnight tonight. Which is,” she consulted her watch, “approximately twenty minutes from now. Unless,” and she gave a gentle cough, “you would be interested in extending your payment for another month. I always like to give the incumbent the right to edge out their competition and extend their terms if they please. It’s good for business.”
    “Another month?” He shook his head. Paying for another month would make a serious inroad into his ready money. He was not so besotted with the wench as to beggar himself on her account. “Out of the question.”
    Mrs. Erskine gave a gentle sigh. “Then I am afraid I will have to accept the other gentleman’s offer.” She rose from the sofa and dismissed him with a wave of one heavily bejeweled hand. “You have fifteen minutes left on the clock. May I suggest you make the most of them?”
    Fifteen goddamn minutes. Tom scowled heavily as he raced for the stairs. So much for his plans to spirit Sarah away and keep her to himself for the entire evening. If he didn’t find her soon, he would not even have the time to bid her farewell.
    Fifteen minutes to find her before she belonged to another man—to Sir Richard Etheridge, he would wager. He could not look on as she was claimed by the disgusting Sir Richard. Bah—he was more like a squat, fat toad than a man.
    He took the stairs two at a time, stopping briefly at the top of the stairs to glance around the sitting room.
    The sound of giggling came from behind the piano in the far corner.
    He strode over and peered behind it.
    A number of seminaked bodies were entwined in the small space between the piano and the wall. One of the girls spotted him looking. “Come, you have found us,” she cried, holding out her arms to him. “You have to join us.”
    Sarah was not among them. Ignoring the girl’s outstretched arms, he turned away and strode off toward the hall corridor.
    One by one he opened the doors to the bedrooms and looked inside. He found a green room, a yellow room, and any number of pink rooms, but no blue room. Most of the rooms were occupied, but he ignored all invitations to join in the games that were going on. His time was running out.
    He had just opened the door on yet another orgiastic scene when a terrified scream rang out from the end of the hall corridor.
    Sarah’s voice—he would know it anywhere.
    Taking off at a run, he followed the sound of the screaming, until he burst in on a scene that made him sick to his stomach.
    Sarah lay spread-eagled on her bed, screaming wildly. Her arms were pinned down by a monster in petticoats, while Sir Richard, damn every bone in his filthy body, cock in hand, prepared to thrust into her sweet body.
    Tom grabbed the first thing that came to hand, an iron candlestick holder from the dressing table, and cracked Sir Richard viciously over the pate.
    Sir Richard looked up, astonished, for a moment, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor. The monster in petticoats took one horrified look at Sir Richard, lying senseless on the floor, and ran for her life.
    Sarah was weeping now, curled up on her bed with her face buried in the blankets as if she wanted to hide away from the world.
    He took her gently into his arms. “Sarah, my love, don’t cry.” There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say, that would take away the last few minutes. All he could offer her was his sympathy and his understanding, and the certain knowledge that she was safe in his embrace.
    Her weeping eventually subsided into hiccuping sobs. “He hit me. He was going to rape me.”
    He cradled her in his arms, stroking her hair as if she were a small child. “It’s over, sweetheart. He won’t hurt you again. I won’t