Free Willing by Michaela Wright

heart ached at this news. “What happened to the girl?”
    “She were taken in. Better off for her, prolly.”
    “Probably.”
    Octavia went on, barely pausing to breathe. “And then Gilly. You remember Gilly, ae?”
    Constance nodded. Gillian was a young Irish girl with wild red hair that had been in the brothel six months earlier, lasting less than a month before she hightailed it to greener pastures.
    “She went with that fancy lad of yours, there, too.”
    Constance furrowed her brow. “Gilly went with the same driver?”
    “She went with the really fancy one. The one with the fancy hair.”
    Alisdair.
    “You’ve seen Alisdair here before?”
    “Is that ‘is name? Dark haired? Gilly went with him one night, and she never come back, either. Just like Saiorse.”
    “Why are you telling me this?”
    “Because I don’t want you to up and disappear, Connie. I don’t trust that lad. Just think, they never caught the Ripper. Now you say he’s killin again - t’isn’t safe for girls like us, especially out there.”
    “Oh, come on, Tavi. You can’t think a man like Alisdair is the Ripper -”
    “- And the way Berty went on after you left that first time, I swear I didn’t think you were coming back either.”
    Constance frowned. “What? How did she act?”
    “Like she were at a bloody funeral. She were sulking upstairs in your room, packin all your things up. When you came back, she were shocked.”
    Constance remembered Berty’s strange demeanor that night. She swallowed, her stomach churning in something far from hunger.
    “I just don’t think you should go again, alright?”
    Constance paused. She had to think. Octavia was a younger girl, an excitable girl. Arguing wasn’t the best course of action when she had her hackles up like this, surely. “Alright. I’ll remember that.”
    “You promise?”
    Constance pictured Alisdair’s stern, but warm eyes over hers, watching her face, coaxing her to enjoy the touch of half a dozen high born men as he caressed her cheek. Despite the fear of that circle, of the strange words they chanted over the sounds of her being pleasured, Alisdair did not inspire fear. He inspired curiosity, caution, and perhaps even affection, but not fear. Could such a man be responsible for these murdered girls?
    “I don’t know, Octavia. I’ll think about it.”
    “Damn it, I’m telling you -”
    “Ladies care to join me downstairs?”
    Constance and Octavia both jumped at the sound of Berty’s voice, speaking sternly from the bedroom door. She hadn’t knocked.
    Octavia hopped up like a child caught in the larder and Constance slid out of bed, pulling her robe about her.
    “No, Constance. You’ll want to get dressed.”
    Constance raised an eyebrow. “It’s still early, what am I to be doing?”
    “You’ve been summoned, again.”
    She tied the robe and surged past Berty down the hallway, coming to stand on the landing overlooking the bar. She met the eyes of Gregory, the carriage driver, standing in the middle of the room, hands locked behind his back. His hair was wiry and wild, but combed into a middle part, flattened by the absent hat’s long wear. This was the first time she’d laid eyes on him without it.
    “Your company has been requested by his Lordship.”
    “But I was just there last night!”
    Constance stepped aside to let Berty by, hustling down the stairs to properly greet the man. He gave her a curt nod.
    “Yes, and he would have Miss return this evening.”
    Octavia was at her shoulder, but Constance did not meet her gaze. It was as though Constance could feel Octavia’s concern surging behind her, like blood from an open vein. She shot Berty a questioning look.
    “I – my bodyguard isn’t available this morning.”
    “That really isn’t necessary, Mum.”
    Both Berty and Constance turned to look at Gregory. Berty spoke first. “I’ll return in a moment – with Roger.”
    Constance watched Berty, confused. “But I thought -”
    Berty