by Ruby Duvall
“No, but Moses is upstairs still searching.”
The distinct sound of a slap on someone’s cheek turned both their heads to the before-silent kitchen in the rear of the house. A whimper followed. His throat seized up, and it was a race between him and the constable to the back of the house. Ryder won and burst into the kitchen.
Mrs. Hayes stood over a shaking maid, who held her cheek and huddled against the cabinets. It was the servant who had collected his clothes from Samantha’s cell, and she had obviously suffered other blows if the discoloration on her face was any testament. Blood trickled from her nose.
Mrs. Hayes turned at the noise of their entrance, wide-eyed and retreating. A fresh cut on her lip was still bleeding.
“I had to do it,” she stammered. “You would’ve taken her.”
“Did I not warn you of the consequences? Would that Mr. Hull were here to watch,” he growled. He stalked toward her.
“Mr. West,” Bainbridge shouted. Mrs. Hayes cried out and threw her hands up to cover her face. With less satisfaction than he would’ve preferred, Ryder clamped on to her plump arm and pulled her to the hallway door. He then shoved her at the constable, who caught her with some surprise.
“Your bawd.” He approached the maid and knelt. “What’s your name?”
“Mary Powlett,” she said shakily.
“Where’s Samantha, Mary?” She shook her head and fresh tears seeped from her eyes. “It’s all right. You can say what happened. The constable needs to hear it.”
A few deep breaths and Mary had control of her voice. “After Mrs. Hayes had you cast out, she prepared to receive the…” She looked at Hayes and the constable. “The duke. I had to ready the room and another cleaned up Miss Samantha. They were in there together when the constables came.”
Ryder hissed softly and closed his eyes. His chin dropped to his chest.
“She didn’t want to be in there, but she had no choice,” Mary insisted. “When the constables arrived, I went upstairs through the servants’ stairs and saw Mrs. Hayes go into the room. She screamed at Miss Samantha and I heard them fight. Then Miss Samantha came out and I took her downstairs. She left through that door,” Mary said as she pointed at the back door of the kitchen, “but I don’t know where she is now. Mr. Hull—he came through looking for her and he threw me against the wall.” Her sobs threatened to garble her words, but she swallowed them to say, “When I woke up, Mrs. Hayes was over me, scolding me and hitting me.”
“Where is this Mr. Hull?” Bainbridge asked of Mrs. Hayes.
“He’s not here. I don’t know,” she said stiffly. “And you, Mary. You’re no longer in my employ.”
“I can’t lie to a constable,” Mary pleaded. “They know what kind of house this is.”
“I have the means to prosecute to the fullest extent of the law, Mrs. Hayes,” Ryder said as he pulled Mary to her feet, “and quite fortuitously, I have need of a maid.”
Mary looked at him with wide eyes. “You do, sir?”
“With your permission, constable, I’ll have my man convey Miss Powlett to my apartment. If you need more testimony from her, you may contact me.”
Bainbridge nodded and steered Mrs. Hayes to the front of the house. “That’ll be satisfactory. The justice of the peace won’t be sitting until morning.” The second constable, Moses, descended the stairs ahead of them along with a sickly blonde mademoiselle who was coughing into a fine white kerchief.
“All right then?” Henry asked.
“No one else upstairs,” Moses confirmed.
Ryder could lose no more time. Samantha was hurt and likely quite frightened. After Mrs. Hayes and the blonde woman were deposited into the salon to await a wagon, Ryder gave each constable their payment and his address. “I must beg your leave, sirs, if you’ll excuse me.”
Just as he turned to scour the streets for Samantha, the bulky Mr. Hull stepped into the house with a paunchy watchman. Mr. Hull had the audacity to smirk at him.
“You were too late. His Grace already plugged her.”
“You bastard,” Ryder spat. He caught Mr. Hull by surprise with a jab to the stomach, knocking the wind and the smugness out of him. Hull doubled over, but before Ryder could bring his knee up to test the strength of Hull’s jaw, Bainbridge restrained him while the other constable stood between him and Mr. Hull.
“Yield, Mr. West,” Bainbridge grunted.
“Where is she?” Ryder demanded.
Hull was sucking in air, nearly on his knees. “Where she belongs.”
“The half-naked woman?” the watchman asked. “Tall? Red hair?”
Ryder didn’t want to guess at how naked Samantha had been. He relaxed enough for Henry to release him. “Yes, where?”
“Another took her to the watch-house, sir.”
“Which one?”
“He’s a watchman of St. Giles, sir, and we’d patrol a couple of streets together, but he said his watch-house is full up. I don’t know if she’d be there.”
It was enough. Ryder gently took Mary by the arm and led her outside. A quick explanation to Oliver left her in the coachman’s care and Ryder mounted his horse.
He had to find her before the law took over.
* * * * *
The watchman’s grip around her arm was tight, though not to keep her from running away. She could barely stand and stumbled along the dirty streets, her bare feet burning with pain and her head lolling about her neck. A migraine was stabbing through her head, her cheek was swollen, and she was fighting to keep the remaining contents of her stomach. Though the watchman held aloft a lantern, she couldn’t see much of the surrounding buildings unless one boasted a candle at its door. The criminal and the homeless skittered along the shadows in the alleys, avoiding the light of the watchman’s lantern.
“Where are we going now?” The St. Giles parish watch-house had been full and the beadle had turned her away, though not before scolding the watchman for bringing in criminals from the wrong parish, having learned that she’d been picked up in Covent Garden. He had taken her to that watch-house, but it was also full.
Sam didn’t know how far they had walked in total. Just staying upright and conscious was all the effort she could muster.
“St. Martin’s is the closest.”
“What’ll happen to me?” She couldn’t speak without slurring but she was scared. Maybe the one to judge her would be lenient, but Sam’s luck hadn’t been good the last couple of days.
“You’ll be off my hands, God be good.”
Sam thought of Ryder and if he even knew what had happened to her, or if he had gone home to forget about her. She worried about Mary being hurt, and what Mary had said about being caught in another cage. Would she ever see her again?
“What’s this now?” a man asked and Sam realized they were approaching the double doors of the watch-house. Another watchman was leaving and held up his lantern to see her better. She undoubtedly was a wreck.
The one holding her arm pulled her inside the building and the well-lit public room was full of activity. Other watchmen were sitting about on benches or at tables, eating or resting between patrols. Extra lanterns, rattlers and clubs were gathered near the door where some watchmen had hung their coats. One of the side doors was likely a privy and a solid oak door at the back obviously led to the watch-house cells.
A man dressed a little better than his fellow watchmen sat at a desk where many sheafs of paper and a large bound logbook sat, as well as the necessary inkwell and quill. A young boy, no more than ten years old, was being questioned by the seated man, who wrote down answers in the log.
Sam weaved on her feet while they awaited the beadle, grateful that the watchman with her had kept his hand on her arm. “Steady yourself, girl.”
Some of the watchmen glanced at her, but most didn’t spare her a look. She kept her coat clutched around her throat, fiercely protective of the locket that Mary had so adamantly said was “her life”. They couldn’t take it from her or she�
��d never get it back.
“Step up then,” the beadle called. Sam’s arresting watchman guided her to the desk from which the beadle glared sourly.
“Which parish are you from, watchman?”
“St. Giles. Found this one in Covent Garden but both watch-houses are full up.”
“Your name, girl?”
Sam briefly wondered if she should provide an alias, but those accusing her knew her real name already and if anyone else were trying to track her down, using her real name would help them find her faster. “Samantha Reed, sir.” The beadle made a contemplative noise and wrote her name on a new line in the logbook.
“I’ve not seen you in here before. You seen her about, watchman?”
“No sir. Not this one.” More notes.
“What are her crimes?”
“Assaulted a woman in her house on Bow Street and stole the underthings she’s wearing beneath her coat, a corset and shift. She says the clothes there are her own and the accuser didn’t argue.” The watchman pointed at the bundle of modern clothes Sam held in her other hand.
Sam wanted to argue, but none of the charges were untrue. She had pretty much done all those things. She would’ve interrupted with the circumstances, but the beadle wasn’t the one to hear it as she had learned after trying to explain herself at the other watch-houses. Neither of them had cared about her side of the story.
“We’re nearly full ourselves, but the justice will be sitting in a few hours. You’ll be held until then, girl. Take her back, watchman, and have her return the stolen articles,” the beadle pronounced.
Her heart sank. She didn’t know what she expected but the prospect of being crammed into a cell with other criminals was daunting.
The watchman tugged her around the beadle’s desk and toward the solid oak door in the back. Tears stung her eyes. Another watchman unlocked and opened the door to lead them inside. The cell area was dark and the air was stale. It stank of sweat and urine. The watchman’s lantern lit up about six cell doors and she was steered to the right toward the second-to-last one.
“You have two minutes to change and I’ll be expecting the stolen clothes to come back through this door. Understand?” Sam nodded, unable to talk past the lump in her throat. The cell door was unlocked and she was pushed inside. Six women were already crammed into the tiny cell. Two slept on the single bench, another on the open floor, and the other three sat against the stone walls. Only a couple turned at the light.
The door shut, leaving them all in darkness, and Sam ripped apart the bundle of clothes. She tossed down her coat, put on her pants and then tugged loose the laces of the corset to slip it off. Only a second after shucking the chemise and pulling on her blouse, a knock sounded on the door and it opened again. The watchman took the stolen clothes from her and the door shut again. The sound of a lock turning made her eyes sting.
“Got any food?” a voice whispered in the darkness.
She was too choked up to answer. She hugged the rest of her clothes to her chest, crammed herself against the wall, and cried.
* * * * *
Ryder didn’t wait for Oliver to open the coach door and jumped to the street. His driver had caught him up just as he was leaving the St. Giles watch-house and together they had gone to the watch-house in Covent Garden, to which the St. Giles beadle had directed them. Samantha hadn’t been there either and dawn was soon approaching. The Covent Garden beadle had recalled the red-haired woman, having suggested to the watchman that had brought her to try either of two other watch-houses, for both were close and had larger cells for the holding of criminals awaiting a justice of the peace.
Not knowing to which one the watchman had led her, Ryder had first gone to a third watch-house in St. Clement Danes, only to be told that no one by that description had been brought. The watch-house in St. Martin’s parish was his last hope, and he was near to screaming with anxiety as he strode to the door of the watch-house. If Samantha wasn’t here, he wasn’t likely to find her.
He barged into the watch-house and stormed up to the beadle’s desk where the beadle was in the middle of processing a young man with a bloody nose.
“Have you a Samantha Reed in your cells?”
“You’ll wait your turn, sir, or I’ll have you tossed out,” the beadle barked. Ryder heard men shifting behind him, preparing to do just that.
“Tall, red hair. She was picked up in Covent Garden by a watchman of St. Giles parish.” Ryder felt a leap of hope at the beadle’s hesitation and the spark of remembrance on his face. The seated man pressed his lips together and looked down at his logbook. He turned back a page and ran his finger down the entries.
“Yes, Samantha Reed. Assaulted a woman in her house and therein stole two items of clothing.”
Ryder leaned over his hand on the desk and lowered his voice. “I would ask that you release her into my custody.”
“I can’t do that,” the beadle squawked. “I’m not some midnight magistrate.”
“The woman was forced into a brothel that I am now prosecuting, sir. She was fleeing an abusive bawd who attacked her first. She’s not been in trouble with the watch before and I ask for your leniency.”
The beadle stroked the frown on his lips and was quiet a moment. His eyes looked to the bloody-nosed man and another watchman waiting to hand over a sullen woman. With a sigh, he wrote additional notes in Samantha’s entry.
“We’re already to the brim here. I’ll need your name and address, sir.”
Ryder gladly gave it. A watchman escorted him to the cells in the back. The stench had him covering his nose. None of the doors had a window through which to allow air and he wondered at the condition of the prisoners. A cell door was unlocked and the watchman had difficulty at first opening it.
“Move it,” he ordered. “Door’s opening up.” When the door opened, Ryder nearly shoved the watchman aside. Samantha blinked at him from her seat next to the wall just inches from the swing of the door. She lifted her hand to shade her eyes. Clear streaks cut through the dirt on her face. Her other arm was wrapped around her legs and she was wearing her men’s clothes again. Her bare feet were raw and covered in filth.
“Ryder?”
He offered his hand to her and the watchman gestured that she stand. “Come on out of there, girl. You’re to leave with this man.”
She sighed with relief but was frowning as she accepted Ryder’s hand. He pulled her to her feet and into the hall of the holding area. While the watchman locked up, Ryder couldn’t stop himself from embracing her. It had been only four hours since he had been carried out of her room at the brothel, but so much had happened in the interim. Samantha was stiff in his arms.
No doubt the rotund gentleman who had staggered from the bawdy house had been “the duke”, and Mary had said that he and Sam were together.
His blood boiled at the thought. He tightened his arms around her, willing it not to be true. He regretted treating Mrs. Hayes so gently. He wanted to pound Hull’s head into the ground until it was as mangled as a butcher’s scraps.
“After you, sir,” the watchman said. Ryder released Samantha and they returned to the main room of the watch-house. She stepped carefully on her bare feet, wincing and limping. His jaw tightened. The beadle only looked at them briefly before returning to his logbook.
At the door, she moved to put on a pair of strange brown shoes before leaving the watch-house, but Ryder lifted her into his arms. Would that it was for the same reason as the last time he had done so. She hugged her only possessions and looked away from him. Ryder shouldered through the door.
The light of dawn had brightened the streets. Oliver stood ready. Upon seeing him, his driver opened the door of the coach and lowered the steps. He then removed his hat when Ryder neared with Samantha. After depositing her inside, he grabbed the frame of the door to pull himself in.
“Heading back now, sir?” his driver asked.
“Yes, Oliver.” He sat with relief on the rear-facing seat. St
ill holding his hat, Oliver folded up the stairs and shut the door with a click.
“Sir?”
He looked tiredly at his driver. “What is it?”
Oliver looked at Samantha, who was staring silently at her fingers. “I just wanted to say that I understand now, sir.”
Ryder nodded. When the coach was in motion, he stared at the woman across from him. Now that he had found her, he wasn’t sure what to do next. He wished to comfort her, but she hadn’t returned his embrace in the watch-house and had been prepared to walk out on injured feet. He searched his coat pocket for a kerchief to offer her, but realized he had not brought one when changing clothes.
“How fare you? Do you need a doctor?”
“No.” She only held his eyes for a second. “I think.”
He glanced down at her bare toes peeking out from the hem of her breeches. “And your feet?”
“I…I don’t know yet.”
“Your cheek? Did Hull hit you?”
She nodded and he clenched his hand, the slight ache in his knuckles a reminder of the punch he had landed in the bully cock’s stomach.
He knew the question he really wanted to ask, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Had the duke…?
“What now?” she asked her lap. “Am I yours?”
When it was put so bluntly, Ryder balked at the notion of anyone belonging to him.
“I’ll not pretend that I will not see you as a lover,” he said with hesitance, “but I’ve considered the offer you extended earlier this evening. I’ve ledgers for you to study regarding my brother’s dealings. I need to understand the type of cargo he smuggled. Who his buyers are, who his contacts are on the Continent, his margin of profit.”
For the first time since leaving the watch-house cell, she looked at him fully. He wondered if a bruise would flower on her swollen cheek.
“I can accept that,” she said.
“I’ve also extended employment to Mary, if that is all right with you. I know she was the one who led you out of the house.” Samantha covered her mouth and her eyebrows turned up. “I can certainly place her elsewhere if you do not wish her as your personal maid, but I’ve no manservant and I know next to nothing of womanly things.”