Chapter Text
London, England
1890
Elain Archeron
London’s Victoria Station greeted its new visitor with a cacophony of noise, chaos and excitement. Clutching the instructions and the address that she received from the stern and cold Mrs. Amren, who was the organiser of this wild scheme, Elain Archeron attempted to follow the directions inside the clamour of the train station, though it was proving to be difficult.
She’s never been to London before and now, the place terrified her. She was pushed and shoved without consideration for her gentler sex, those around her were shrieking, yelling, and shouting something all the time. There were people, whole families, whose skin tones were different from her own, whose fashions and outfits were odd and contradictory. There were people of different religions as well–she could tell Jews and Hindus and Muslims. She was educated and well-read, so she was not surprised to see those who came from Africa, and India, or even the Chinese, and scarf-clad women from Poland, or maybe Russia–but seeing them all in the flesh was overwhelming. She never imagined that people of so many various colours, sizes and shapes existed.
She continued her walk through the station, jerked off her feet by the blaring claxons from the train, clutching her travel satchel close to her chest. It had her only possessions inside–her two dresses, her unmentionables, stockings, another pair of boots, hair ribbons and pins, her spare corset, and toiletries.
Her walk was interrupted constantly, men offering rides and calling out “Miss! Miss!” to her. But she kept her eyes down and shouldered her way to the massive doors of the station.
She must be mad.
Mad.
It had to be that!
To be doing this, she couldn’t be normal.
She was here, in London of all places, alone, to meet with some mysterious man.
What if he was Jack the Ripper?
She’s read the papers–Jack the Ripper was rampaging on the streets of Whitechapel and what if Mrs. Amren was his co-conspirator? What if she lured unsuspecting country girls to London, and into the clutches of Jack the Ripper?
Elain’s read and enjoyed the tales of Sherlock Holmes, that wiley intriguing detective, who solved crimes–but if she thought about it more, why was there so much crime in London? People stole and abused and murdered others. It was horrifying.
Where she was from, St. Margaret’s Bay, the biggest crime last year was Ollie Oswald stealing Mr. Clarence’s goat, and Maggie May becoming pregnant out of wedlock. That thought sobered her right up, though still, Maggie’s out-of-wedlock babe was hardly the same thing as a mad serial killer running around the streets of London and slaughtering women of ill repute.
Elain finally existed the station and stood on the street, all her senses assaulted by even more noise, the stench of manure, hordes of jostling people who were all rushing somewhere, paper boys who were announcing the latest headlines – another Ripper murder, apparently – vendors peddling food and all sorts of items, handsome soldiers, and every spoken language imaginable. Elain recognised everything from French and Italian, to some dialects that she was unfamiliar with, Slavic, German and even Scandinavian speech. She had a knack for languages, and having spent time in Dover, with her father’s ships, she’d seen sailors, merchants and visitors from every part of the world. Stupidly, she thought that Dover was a busy city. It had nothing on this monstrosity.
She walked over to where the cabs were parked awaiting passengers.
“Good mornin’ Miss, in need of a ride?” one of the drivers asked.
“Yes, this is the address,” she handed him the paper that Mrs. Amren had given her, which had the address and all the instructions. Mrs. Amren had also given her ten pounds, which was more money than Elain’s seen in a long, long time.
She could buy so much for ten pounds! Dresses and a pair of shoes, meat pies, maybe even a pastry, tea, lodging…Her whole family survived on four-five pounds a month, and here she was, with ten pounds, six shillings and 3 pence in her pocket. Mrs. Amren told her that the tenner had come from the gentleman who took care of her travel accommodations and spending money.
Once she was situated in the carriage, they took off, the driver navigating the streets and the chaos of other cabs and pedestrians with expert precisions. Elain knew that they were going to Westminster, and she wished to see the cathedral, and the abbey, but she did not, though she was pleased that they’d be staying far away from Whitechapel.
“ Dog and Hound , Miss,” the driver announced and then opened the door for her.
It was a public house and also offered lodgings and once Elain exited the cab, she thought that it looked presentable and clean. The facade of the building was well-kept, brick, with garlands of wisteria wrapping around the lower part of the building and the very large bay window. Once she paid the driver, she walked inside–she’s been to public houses and taverns before–but this one looked very well kept, with a beautiful walnut bar, all sorts of hunting pictures and engravings on the walls, and burgundy and green seats. There were not many patrons milling around, but it was also only 10:30 am.
Elain approached the proprietor, just like Mrs. Amren told her to do and said, “Good morning. I am here to see Mr. Arthur Johnson.”
The man straightened at the mention of the name, and then quickly and accommodatingly told her, “Follow me, Miss.”
“Where are we going?” Elain whispered, baulking at the invitation.
“Mr. Johnson is waiting for you Miss. My understanding is that he wished to have a conversation with you in private.”
Elain’s never been with a man in private, let alone in an unfamiliar city, but what choice did she have? She already felt like she signed her life away, when she was meeting with Mrs. Amren. The woman had a heap of papers and documents for Elain to sign, mostly about confidentiality and non-disclosure of any information that she was to learn. There were financial papers as well, but Mrs. Amren told her that they would be finalised should the contract be signed.
They stopped at one of the doors and the proprietor knocked. A man’s voice answered promptly.
“Enter.”
“You may proceed, Miss,” he told Elain and then stepped aside.
This is where I die , was her only thought.
It was definitely Jack the Ripper. There have been whispers that he came from the upper classes, maybe even nobility, and she was going to meet him right now and he was going to skin her alive. And then her body would be baked into meat pies, just like Sweeney Todd did it. They said that the mad barber did not exist, but Elain begged to differ. Stories like that didn’t just happen to be written due to someone’s fevered imagination. He must have existed.
So she would be abused, killed and then will end up in a pie.
He sat in a wingback chair.
That’s all she saw when she finally dared to enter the room. The man. The gentleman .
A very tall man by the looks of it, considering how far his long legs stretched. He was dressed in all black, elegantly, in a way Elain wasn’t used to seeing men dressed on a Thursday morning. His jacket was stylishly tailored and his boots were perfectly polished. However, it was the man’s face that gave Elain pause. He was handsome to an unusual degree, the panes of his face sharp and sensual at once. Large, slightly slanted eyes of a peculiar colour regarded her with detachment and mild scrutiny. When he licked his full lower lip, Elain couldn't help but notice the movement and she balled her hands at her sides, suddenly feeling tense and hot. He had the look of a foreigner about him–dark bronze skin, thick black hair cut unusually long on top, and those strange light hazel eyes.
“Elain Archeron, I presume,” he asked at last, and his voice was deep, low and just as sensual as the rest of him. Like a whisper of black silk in the wind. The accent was unfailingly upper crust.
“I am, my lord,” she confirmed and curtsied.
“Please sit,” he gestured to the sofa across from his chair.
She did as she was told and noticed that he held a photograph of her in his fingers. His hands were large, with long, strong fingers, but surprisingly, the hands were covered in thick scars–burn scars from what Elain could gauge. Mrs. Amren said that the photograph was a requirement and Elain was forced to travel to Dover to have her photograph taken. It was expensive, and she needed to sit in the same position, unmoving and silent, for almost seven minutes. In the end, she didn’t even think that the photograph looked like her. But following her handing the photograph off to Mrs. Amren, she received an invitation to travel to London–-she supposed that it did the trick.
“How was your journey?” he asked politely.
“Very nice, thank you, my lord.”
“I wished to have our conversation first, if you don’t mind, and then you may rest.”
“Of course,” she agreed. Her fingers were shaking and she attempted to hide them in the folds of her skirt, though she was sure that he noticed it.
His tone was light when he assured her, “there is no need to be nervous. I believe we ought to have a talk first and you aren’t obligated to anything, and neither am I.”
She nodded and allowed him to talk, because it was just easier. Her throat was tight and her mouth dry. Her dress felt itchy against her skin and the collar borderline was suffocating.
He stood up and she had to crane her neck to take in his full height–he was probably six and a half feet tall, and when he moved to pour water into a glass, she definitely noticed how thickly muscled his arms and shoulders were, and how slender he was otherwise, trim and lean and strong. He handed her the glass and then leaned against the desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and drumming his fingers on the surface.
“I am Azriel, Lord Night, the Duke of Velaris,” he announced simply.
Elain’s hand stopped mid-way to her lips, as she stared at him wordlessly.
She’d assumed that he would be a nobleman, perhaps a baron, maybe a count, but a duke? The Velaris family was well-known: it was said that they came to Britain all the way back with William the Conqueror. It couldn’t possibly be the same Velaris? Could it?
“I am sorry, my lord,” Elain said softly. “You are the Duke of Velaris?”
He nodded, “the very same”.
“But…” she bit her lip, “I was under the impression that you were married, my lord? To Lady Morrigan?”
The lovely Lady Morrigan, Countess of Hewn, was renowned for her beauty. Elain had seen her in newspapers and other publications. The Velaris-Hewn nuptials was the society wedding of the year just a couple of years back.
“I am,” he confirmed calmly. “And since you are bound by our confidentiality agreement, I will disclose that my lady wife had suffered a grave incident last year. She was thrown by her horse, and had broken her spine. Unfortunately, she suffered a brain bleed from her injuries as well. She is my wife and will remain so until she or I die. But alas, she is bed-bound and without sense or consciousness. Now, you must understand that her condition is not known to anyone, other than my most trusted servants and her nurses. It must remain so until I produce an heir. The child must be mine, and upon the birth, we shall announce that Lady Morrigan suffered compilation in labour.”
Elain sighed and murmured, “I am sorry, my lord. For you and your lady wife. It is truly tragic and I am…just sorry.”
He cocked his head and regarded her quietly for a while.
She’d only known him for about fifteen minutes, but she could already see how observant he was, methodical even. There was a calmness about him, an almost predatory stillness, and she sensed that he dwelled in some dark places inside his head. Perhaps it was the sorrow resulting from his wife’s condition, or maybe something in his past, but this was a man of secrets and unanswered questions.
“May I ask some questions of you?” he inquired at last.
Elain sipped her water and nodded once.
He didn't use any props, not notes or correspondence, when he said,
“Elain Archeron, twenty-one years old, the middle of three sisters. Tell me, why are you, of all people, responded to my advertisement?”
“We need the money, my lord,” she admitted plainly.
“There are other ways to get money,” he noted, his dark brow raised. “You are a maid of gentle breeding based on your family’s history–a merchant father, a mother who was from a well-to-do family. Surely you can think of other ways to…” he stopped and scrubbed his scarred hand over his chin, before continuing, “tell me, why?”
“My father has lost his fortune,” Elain explained, her voice quiet. “My younger sister has a disease of the stomach that makes her vomit and she is frail and weak. She needs medicines, which we cannot afford. My older sister is a proud woman and…” her voice trailed. How could she explain Nesta? She couldn’t. Nesta was smart, even cunning, but she was better suited for running an estate or even a business. Haughty, proud and demanding is what Nesta was. But she was not one for sacrifices. “And that leaves me. I…well, I answered the advertisement in The Times, and was contacted by Mrs. Amren. We met and discussed the offer…and,” she swallowed, “I am interested.”
“What do you understand of the offer and the proposal?” he asked seriously.
She tugged on her skirt and peered down, looking at the floor.
Quietly, she answered,
“A gentleman requires the services of a female to produce a child, an heir. The gentleman is willing to pay ten thousand pounds for the child and…well, would pay all throughout the pregnancy…That is all.”
He sighed and turned, his movements measured and languid, as he walked to the window and clasped his hands behind his back, as he looked out on the busy Vincent Street.
“I fear, Miss Archeron, that you are underestimating the commitment that this ordeal would require of you,” he said, almost to himself.
Elain’s heart dropped.
He wasn’t interested.
He did ot find her comely or appealing or satisfactory. Perhaps he liked her photograph, but seeing her in person made him change his mind.
Ten thousand pounds was an astronomical amount of money.
It was enormous. At the height of their success, the Archeron family wealth was estimated at about fifteen thousand pounds, which made Elain and her sisters very appealing on the marriage market. To have a large portion of that fortune come back to them would guarantee a bright future for all–they could all marry well, they could cure Feyre’s illness, they could operate on their father’s mangled leg and send him to Italy or France to recuperate. They could have fine homes and wardrobes and servants.
Currently, they existed on about four pounds a month, for the four of them. If they were lucky.
“I don’t think that I am, my lord,” Elain found it in herself to answer boldly and firmly. “I understand what is required.”
“You understand that you must lie with me,” he was still not looking at her, and therefore couldn’t see her flaming cheeks, “and have relations with me as if I were your husband. You would be required to do so at my beckoning and pleasure, for at least six months,”
“What happens after six months?” she interrupted him, confused.
He turned his head and explained,
“I am willing to allot six months for the conception to take place. Children are usually not made in a day…it may take time, and I realise that. I feel that six months is an adequate amount of time for you to conceive. If you don’t, then we will part ways, since clearly we would not be compatible enough to create a child together.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek and then asked,
“And if I don't…conceive that is? What happens then?”
He shrugged,
“You will be paid five hundred pounds for your troubles and you will leave. Naturally, you will be bound by the non-disclosure agreement for the rest of your life. That extends to me as well, Miss Archeron. If we proceed with this…arrangement…whatever the outcome is, your name will not be mentioned or besmirched, so that you have a chance at a successful marriage with a man of your choosing.”
“I appreciate that, my lord,” she said sincerely.
He went back to the desk and gathered a stack of papers in his hands, though he did not give them to her yet. He was clearly still deciding on something, his brow furrowed. At last, he said,
“These are the financial terms of the arrangement, Miss Archeron. If we proceed, you will sign and retain a copy for yourself.
“Again, I urge you to consider everything with utmost seriousness,” he pressed. “This is not a trivial matter. Your involvement with me may last up to a year and a half. It is quite a long time for a woman of your age to dedicate to a…male. One who will not marry you in the end, and whom you shan’t see again.
“Furthermore, if there is a child, it will be wholly mine.”
A shudder ran through Elain and she suddenly became cold. When he put it like that, it did give her pause. Because in exchange for the money, she would be required to give up her baby. Theoretically she understood that–when she began corresponding with Mrs. Amren, and when they finally met, this was thoroughly discussed. But seeing this man in the flesh, even briefly imagining that there would be…coital relations involved, though Elain wasn’t quite sure precisely what it all entailed, and then there would potentially be a pregnancy, which was something that was often fraught with dangers, only to end in a painful labour, and then…the separation. Permanent separation from a baby that she’d give birth to. From the man too. Yes, he was strikingly handsome–to her great relief–but she knew that she was in danger of developing feelings for him, which he surely would never reciprocate. He had his poor wife and was devoted to her, and was only after an heir to carry his name and his legacy. Elain would be left without love, without companionship, without her babe, but with money. She supposed that she could have more children, but the idea of giving up her son or daughter seemed terrifying. Her firstborn.
Azriel looked up at her and watched the warring emotions that danced on her face.
“Would you like me to read out the terms?” he asked at last, his expression slightly softened, even kinder.
She swallowed and nodded.
He glanced at the first page and began reading.
“The female in the arrangement is expected to be an unmarried and unbetrothed maid, of good moral standing and a virgin. She is to be free of diseases and for the duration of the arrangement she may not be seen with a male or engage in any manner of relations with a male other than the Requestor.
She would enter into the arrangement willingly and would be required to have sexual intercourse with the Requestor at his bidding. The Requestor shall not physically hurt, slap, hit, abuse or force the female, and will not verbally insult or berate her. If the female is unwilling or unable to have sexual relations with the Requestor, she is to notify him immediately and provide an explanation as to the cause. Relations are not required from the female when she has her monthly flow.
The female is expected to live on premises of the Requestor’s abode and accompany him upon his travels. She shall have her private room(s) at the dwellings. She is not expected to sleep with the Requestor or share his private quarters. The female is required to maintain her decorum at all times, and may not fraternise with the help. The female is not to divulge any part of the agreement to anyone, including her family. The female will not occupy a place at the servants’ quarters and will not partake in meals with them. The female will have a maid of her own to assist her with personal matters.
Upon conception, the female is to remain at the Requestor’s home, under the care of his physicians. She is to maintain a healthy lifestyle, to ensure a successful pregnancy. She will be assisted during her labour by a midwife, a doula, nurses and physicians. Upon delivery of the child, the female will be allowed to bond and nurse the infant for up to one week (if she wishes to do so). After one week of recovery, the child will be removed from the female’s care and presence. At that time, the arrangement would be considered fulfilled and would be terminated.
The Requestor guarantees the following payments:
£1000 for taking the female’s virginity
£50 weekly stipend, for up to six months of service
£50 weekly stipend for the duration of the pregnancy
£1000 for labour and delivery
£10,000 for the birth of a live child
All legal fees, room and board, wardrobe allowance, personal and beauty treatments, transportation, et cetera would be provided by the Requestor.
The female may be allowed to spend Christmas with her family (up to one week), as well as one week of her choosing as a personal holiday.”
He did not ask whether she was agreeable to the contract, but simply handed it to her and said,
“Read this over and be thorough. Any questions, you should ask me.”
Elain didn't answer for a while, but he didn’t seem impatient, and wasn’t put off by the awkward silence between them. Instead, he went over to a sideboard upon which stood a decanter and some glasses and poured himself a drink of whatever it was.
She finally broke the silence and said,
“This is much more than ten thousand.”
It seemed that she took him by surprise with her comment and he looked at her with expectation.
“The contract was for ten…this is closer to twenty,” she pushed.
“Is that a problem?” he queried.
“I just…” she blushed, “I don’t want to be unfair. I was fine with ten. Why a thousand for the virginity?”
He sat back in the wing chair and sipped his drink, before saying,
“Seems only fair. I would be taking something that doesn’t belong to me and isn’t intended for me to take. You ought to be compensated for that.”
Theoretically, what he was saying made sense to her, but it seemed so…transactional. And, of course, it was a transaction. There were no feelings involved.
Craning his head side to side, he added after a pause,
“The pleasure is free, if that makes you feel better. I won’t be charging for it, and I won’t be paying for it either. You can enjoy it free and clear.”
If that meant to be a lighthearted comment of some sort, it didn’t land, because Elain looked at him, perplexed and said. “What pleasure?”
He chuckled softly, “Sexual pleasure, Miss Archeron.”
“There is no pleasure in relations such as those,” she argued primly.
He leaned back in his chair, relaxing into the leather and smiled at her, though the curve of his beautiful mouth was both challenging and sinister.
“And you are an expert then?”
Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and she couldn’t even believe that she was discussing this with a man she didn’t know.
“I am no expert, my lord,” she told him, “but what pleasure could there be? It is an act designed to propagate the species.”
He propped his head on his fist, crossing his long, muscular legs and swaying his boot-clad foot casually. A lock of his silky black hair fell on his forehead and Elain had the insane urge to go and fix it for him. His handsomeness didn’t help. Elain had feared that the man would be old and paunchy, sweaty and balding. Why else would one need to contract for a woman to give him a child? She figured maybe he was missing limbs, or had distorted features, or perhaps some unappealing trait…but she definitely, definitely did not expect Lord Night. She had some parameters that she had set for herself in regards to the arrangement–if the gentleman seemed brutish, if his looks made her squeamish, if he had a visible disease or if his visage repelled her, she would not have gone along with the scheme. As much as she needed the money, she also knew that she wouldn’t have a child with someone cruel or unappealing. She wanted her baby to live in a loving environment and with a parent who’d want them and care for them.
The problem was that Lord Night’s appearance quickly overrode her good sense. It wasn’t something that she ever considered–that he would be so handsome and so titled that she’d forget all her common sense and all the expectations that she had prior to meeting him.
Stumbling a bit over her own tongue, she asked at last,
“What sort of pleasure is there?”
“Ahhmm Miss Archeron,” he smiled at her, “why do you think people have lost their minds and morals through the centuries over love?”
It was an excellent question, to which Elain did not have an answer. Why indeed?
“Well, perhaps, you will have the chance to find out,” he got up and straightened his jacket.
“I do not want love, my lord,” Elain insisted brusquely.
He nodded slowly,
“Yes, yes. I know. You need the money.”
“I do.”
“Then don’t fall in love, Miss Archeron,” he suggested.
But why did it sound like a challenge.
“Take the rest of the day to think about everything,” he told her. “These rooms are yours for the night. You may order food and drink. St. John’s Gardens are not far–should you wish to take a stroll.
“I will call upon you tomorrow, at 10 am, and I expect an answer.”
* UK £10,000.00 in 1890 would be equivalent to £1,644,035.82 in 2023, an absolute change of £1,634,035.82 and a cumulative change of 16,340.36%.