Breathless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 2): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series

by Nicola Claire

  “Fine enough to be in possession of five quid?”

  The telegraph supervisor shifted nervously, his eyes darting about the room. He didn’t hesitate when his gaze slid over Henry Tempest, but his unease was obvious.

  “They receive tips, Your Honour. ’Tis not inconceivable that one such as David would earn an extra shilling or two.”

  “I say again, sir. Five pounds?”

  The overseer swallowed thickly.

  “I have seen it a time or two.”

  “Indeed. It would seem the profession of telegraphy is a lucrative one.” A tittering of laughter filled the gallery as if choreographed to do so. I shifted in my seat, my eyes watching Tempest with curiosity. Why would he be interested in a mugging? Or, perhaps, in the bribing of a telegraph employee?

  It made little sense. But the man himself made little sense to me. I needed to know more about him; I made a mental note to follow up on his activities of the past few years. I was fairly certain Anna had mentioned he had been travelling.

  My eyes narrowed as the judge droned on, the crowd’s heightened excitement pushing all air from the room and making my skin too tight to fit about me. Most court cases garnered a little public attention. More often than not, those of a more serious nature, resulting in confinement in Newgate, were the most popular. But it seemed petty thievery was of note, too, nowadays.

  I did not buy it. The crowd was either here for the boy. Or for the judge.

  I forced my gaze from Tempest and took in Justice Blackborough. I’d not had occasion to sit in his court before today. He appeared learned and of an age to have earned his position on that bench, but his nervous disposition raised alarm bells. He controlled the courtroom with a mere glance, but those glances were interspersed with a fine sheen of sweat and shifting of his body.

  I scanned the crowded room, not recognising those up in the public gallery. A sergeant from S Division sat across the lower space, reading notes from his booklet, ignoring the happenings in the room. A reporter I recognised sat several seats down from where I did, his hawk-eyed glare upon the judge and not the accused. Gentlemen from the Temple School of Law sat taking notes in the centre of the room. Their attention on both the judge and young Grimes; the supposed garroter.

  There were no women present. Even the public gallery was devoid of the fairer sex. Although their absence was not uncommon in the lower, more professional area of the courtroom, their missing form above was intriguing.

  Had young Grimes no mother? Sister? Wife or girlfriend, to offer moral support? A hard working lad such as he surely earned the extra shillings for some reason. And more often than not, I have found that reason to be a lady.

  The judge was winding up, the sun slanting through the window at a lower angle. His urgency to be done with the case was obvious, but he still took the time to cite law and ensure we knew his knowledge was exemplary.

  The gentleman Grimes had reportedly mugged was injured and lying in St Bart’s. The lad hadn’t a chance in hell of escaping Newgate.

  And then Justice Blackborough went and abolished that theory by granting bail swiftly.

  I sat forward. The reporter I was familiar with did the same.

  And then the judge was up and leaving the room, and the crowd was cheering, and the bailiff was removing the accused, and Henry Tempest was slipping through a door across the way that led undoubtedly to the judge’s chambers.

  I rushed to follow, bumping shoulders with the reporter. I glanced down at the notebook in his hand; saw one word written only and underscored thrice.

  Bribery.

  Then I was through the door behind Tempest and Blackborough and navigating the bowels of the Bailey.

  I found them at a corner of the darkened corridor. The judge, wig removed, bald head gleaming despite the lack of illumination, face blotchy and red with rage.

  “I will not countenance it, sir! Have a care. Your uncle expects too much.”

  “My uncle would like to remind you, Justice Blackborough, that he is an old friend and has on occasion provided favours.”

  “At Eton! We were children!”

  “And you would have been expelled.”

  “You think that scares me, Mr Tempest? You think a peer of the realm with such a secret from my past is what keeps me awake at night? You are ignorant of life’s harshest cruelties, sir. I have a far greater task master than the Marquess of Londonderry.”

  Tempest bristled. “You will pay heed, sir. For my uncle is a man of influence.”

  “Your threat is futile. I care not what his mines are harbouring, and neither does the law.”

  “Be that as it may, sir, my uncle does care to escape persecution in such matters.”

  “Don’t we all!”

  “The fee will be deposited in your account by day’s end. The necessary documents will be provided by dawn tomorrow. Are we clear?”

  “I have no choice in the matter?”

  “You have dug your own grave, sir. Think you not that we are aware of your…predilections?”

  The judge scoffed indignantly, his face becoming redder still.

  “Tomorrow at dawn.” Then Tempest swung away, heading in my direction, forcing me to take refuge in an empty room at my side. I waited as his shoes tapped out a jaunty rhythm on the floorboards, the cane he carried beating an accompaniment that grated on my nerves. His shadow was merely a darker hue beneath the door that hid me, but the movement enough to show his progress.

  Justice Blackborough stood still for several seconds longer after Tempest’s departure and then retreated to his chambers further down the corridor, slamming the door. I crept out of my hiding place and sucked in a deep breath of musty air, letting the words of the past few moments wash over me.

  Bribery. Tempest was bribing the judge, whom it appeared, had accepted bribes in the past. Perhaps even as recently as today. That courtroom had been a mockery of the legal system; bail should not have been awarded for the type of crime committed and on display.

  Who was David Grimes to warrant such a reprieve?

  What was the Marquess of Londonderry hiding in his mines?

  And how did it all fit together?

  I had a sudden frantic urge to reach Anna. To protect her from Tempest’s regard and soothe the fears that plagued me. Fears for her cousin. Fears for the missing children.

  And fears for Anna.

  I’m Coming With You

  Anna

  I found Emily in the powder room, reclining on a chaise and looking pale. I was sure I looked much the same. I walked stiffly across the plush carpet, my wobbling feet sinking into the woollen weave. Straightening my back and lifting my chin, I perched on the edge of her seat.

  “Good heavens, Dr Cassidy. You appear as awful as I feel.”

  I attempted a smile, but in truth, I was shaken by my meeting with my supposed admirer.

  “Are you still unwell, dear one?” I asked.

  “Frightfully ill, I’m afraid. Have you caught the wretched bug, too?”

  I shook my head, feeling like my innards were about to attempt an escape up to my oesophagus. Leaning over, I placed the back of my hand against her forehead, having removed my glove before attempting to gauge the temperature of her glistening skin.

  “You’re hot, Emily. Terribly so. You need your bed.”

  “I agree. Our outing will have to be delayed for another day. I am sorry.”

  “No need for apology, sweeting. You are ill and must retire immediately. I shall arrange for your carriage to be made ready.”

  I made to move just as Emily reached out and gripped my wrist.

  “What ails you, friend?” she asked, eyes big pools of worried blue.

  “Nothing of import,” I murmured, offering a small smile, and then making my way to arrange our escape from the building. Suddenly Dorothy’s did not seem as vibrant and alluring.

  My gaze searched the assembled women, several prominent suffragette voices rising above the clatter of cutlery. I skirted t
he edge of the crowd, listening with only half an ear to the ladies’ words.

  “The NSWS is the start of a new era,” Mrs Pankhurst was saying. “We must not, however, rest on our laurels. The National Society for Women’s Suffrage is but one step toward our ultimate goal. With the government, under the pressure of men with votes, increasing punishment for organised gatherings, we must take care to work our agenda more surreptitiously.

  “The breaking of windows as a political protest is to cease. We have lost several women to Her Majesty’s Gaols. Four and six months imprisonment! It is unconscionable that our plight should meet such a fate. Take heed, ladies. We fight the good fight. But we do so with care and attention to detail.”

  “Hear! Hear!”

  “We are not without assets, however,” Mrs Garret Fawcett added, standing as she was to Mrs Pankhurst’s side at the front of the room. “Husbands who may be converted to our cause. Brothers who may offer support. Sons who can be directed to our suffering. All manner of gentlemen in all manner of professions. But take heed, ladies. Soldiers are off the menu in our pursuit of equality.”

  “Half our husbands have served Her Majesty!” a woman called out.

  “Then let them be,” Mrs Pankhurst replied immediately. The united front the women presented was appealing, and the gathering quietened suitably. “For it has come to our attention, that inciting soldiers to disobey orders, such as attending a protest rally on Parliament’s steps in support of their wives’ liberties, is a much more serious crime. A felony! And such a crime in the eyes of our government is punishable by penal servitude.”

  Gasps of horror sounded out in the crowded room, a chill washed down my spine. I swiped a hand over my brow and ducked out of the restaurant, approaching the maître d’hôtel to organise Emily’s carriage.

  I didn’t believe in the more aggressive approach some of my fellow suffragettes had taken to recently. Riots in New York had broken out; Seneca Falls was a long time past and the mood had shifted from one of optimism to one of oppression. Hull House in Chicago, however, was a shining light on women’s education for the rest of us. But London, I feared, was much darker. The loss of Mr John Stuart Mill, MP, was devastating. And as yet, no other member of parliament had taken up the banner to which we marched beneath. With little progress to reward them, the female population of Great Britain had taken to more drastic measures to make themselves heard.

  I did not envy the likes of Emmeline Pankhurst or Millicent Garret Fawcett. And yet, I too had my battles coming.

  Returning to Emily, I helped her to her feet, listening to her increasingly slurred speech with great alarm. We emerged onto Mortimer Street just as Emily swooned. Her driver stepped forward immediately and lifted her up in his bulging arms. Swinging her body toward the carriage as though it were merely a falling leaf, he deposited her on the bench seat within, covering her form with a rug.

  He seemed rather familiar with the action.

  I blinked at him as he exited, holding the door open for me to enter. I stared at the man in his livery, noting he would not look me in the eyes.

  “Does she do this often?” I asked quietly.

  “’Tis not for me to say, miss.”

  “I’m a doctor. My patient’s history is pertinent, I assure you.”

  He did look down his nose at me then and sniffed haughtily. “Dr Tempest is well enough to look to herself, miss.”

  I took that to mean this was a regular occurrence. Nodding my head, I entered the dim interior of the carriage and took a seat across the way from Emily.

  “Charles,” she called out.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “To Temple Bar first, I think.”

  “No, sweeting. I can hire a conveyance from your house,” I argued immediately.

  “Nonsense. I won't hear of it.” And then she promptly fell asleep.

  Charles for his part didn't seem remotely concerned. He shut the door to the carriage and climbed onto the driver’s seat, snapping the reins with a loud whistle, making the vehicle lurch forward.

  I stared across the small space at my fragile looking friend. Emily had taken more than her fair share of days off from school over the past half year. I had thought nothing of it; regrettably too caught up in my own harried studies and Mina’s constant wandering. I wondered now if there was more to be concerned about.

  She’d seemed in relatively good health. This was the first time I had seen her truly peaky. It might well have been an infection as Emily had alluded to, but I couldn't help thinking her brother’s tight leash was cause for her ailment.

  A nervous stomach would not be unheard of for one in such a position.

  But then there was the temperature.

  I slipped my glove off, laying it on the bench seat beside me. And then timing my movement so as not to fall upon my friend, I leant across as the vehicle slowed at a corner, and pressed the back of my hand to her forehead.

  Cool. Not clammy. And definitely not febrile. I frowned and sat back, just as the carriage lurched forward again. My rear meeting the bench seat with an almighty thump, pushing my skirts up and around my shoulders most ignominiously.

  I fussed with the copious amounts of fabric, catching Emily’s half-lidded gaze.

  “Fashion,” she muttered, attempting to sit upright. “A woman’s bane, is it not?”

  “Absolutely.” I hesitated, gnawing on my lower lip, and then asked, “Are you feeling better now?”

  “Marginally, yes. I do believe it is a mere stomach upset and not something nasty.”

  “Too many cream buns at tea.”

  She grinned across the carriage at me, my body relaxing at her renewed vigour.

  “Ah,” she announced, peering out of the window. “There he is.”

  “Who is, sweeting?” I looked out the same window and took in the familiar shape of the inspector’s broad shoulders, as he stood on the steps to Mrs Pugh’s boarding house, handing over a shilling to a telegraph boy.

  “What a fine specimen of manhood,” Emily said enthusiastically. Her cheeks flushed with excitement or perhaps something akin to female appreciation.

  Where had the stomach ailment disappeared to?

  “Nothing like a handsome chap to set you right,” she said happily.

  “You, Dr Tempest, are incorrigible.”

  “Pish!” she murmured studying the inspector keenly. “I’m merely jealous.”

  “Jealous?”

  Her shining blue eyes swept across the space to me.

  “His heart belongs to you, does it not?” she enquired sweetly.

  “I hold no such thing,” I automatically replied.

  “Pity. It would be such a waste.”

  “What would be a waste?” I demanded as the vehicle stopped outside the boarding house.

  “All that masculinity!”

  I shook my head as Emily chuckled gaily; clearly feeling very much better.

  “Say hello from me, won't you, Dr Cassidy,” Emily urged as Charles opened the door beside me. “If I were feeling better, I’d accompany you. I know how my brother would have kittens if he saw your gentleman waiting so patiently. Do be a good girl and misbehave accordingly.”

  “You have changed your tune,” I muttered, alighting the carriage, but turning to look back inside at my mercurial friend. “Are you sure you are well enough to travel alone, Emily?”

  Emily smiled. “Don’t lose your courage now, Anna. He’s waiting.” My lips parted in surprise. “Come on, Charles,” she called regally. “Henry will be looking for me.”

  I shook my head at her audacity as the driver shut the door and climbed aboard the conveyance. Emily lounged back on her seat and offered a wave of her hand through the window. I clutched my hands together, realising I’d left my glove inside on the bench where I’d been sitting. And watched as the Tempest coat of arms caught a lowering sunbeam and rolled out of sight.

  I turned to find the inspector watching me; his lips thin, his frame rigid, his eyes darkened to
a storm-tossed sea.

  “You disapprove of my friend, Inspector?” I enquired politely.

  “I’m sure I do not know her well enough to form an opinion.”

  “Then perhaps it is the Tempest coat of arms that has you scowling so.”

  “I do not scowl, madam.”

  I smiled, then started to move past him, uncaring for a showdown now when Emily’s changeable behaviour had left me feeling so dizzy.

  “Anna,” Inspector Kelly said, catching my arm as I made to move past his towering frame. My heart skipped a beat; my breath caught in my bosom. Where he touched me, heat unfurled and raced throughout my body.

  I lifted my eyes to him, noting - rather bemusedly - that he gritted his teeth at the contact.

  “Yes, Andrew?” I enquired mildly, not moving out of his grip.

  His fingers released, as if reluctantly, and he cleared his throat, shifting his head on his neck uncomfortably.

  If I had that much of an effect on the man, then why did he continue, again and again, against his better judgement I was sure, to reach out and touch me?

  His eyes darted down to the telegram he still held in his hand.

  My heart stilled completely.

  It wasn't touching me that left him uncomfortable. It was what he was about to reveal.

  “What is it?” I asked, stepping closer, needing his strength and warmth when suddenly my knees felt weak, and a chill had invaded my body.

  “Anna,” he said; a wealth of agony in that one utterance.

  I snatched the telegram from his hand and began to read.

  INSPECTOR KELLY -(STOP)-

  ANOTHER MURDER -(STOP)- SAME METHOD -(STOP)- MATCHES YOUR MISSING GIRL -(STOP)-

  SUPERINTENDENT COX -(STOP)- L DIVISION -(STOP)- 4:17 PM

  An address in Lambeth was listed below the typewritten words.

  “It does not mean…” Andrew started.

  “I’m coming with you.” My hand crushed the telegram in my fist, my body trembling.

  “Of course,” he said, shocking me. “I shall require your expertise.”

  Oh, how I loved him. For he refused to believe the poor girl found by Cox was Wilhelmina. But Andrew Kelly was not one for fanciful notions, so his slip of character now seemed momentous.