Bringing Down the Duke

by Evie Dunmore

  Sebastian gave him a cold stare. “Assembling in a public place is the right of every British citizen.”

  “For something like this?” Rochester said. “Only if they have been granted a permit.”

  “They have a permit,” Sebastian said.

  “That’s impossible.” Hartford sounded annoyed. “On what grounds? Any council would have denied it; they endanger the peace of the public.”

  “It appears the council had no such concerns.”

  Rochester and Hartford frowned but did not question him. He was known to know things they didn’t.

  On the square, the women linked arms, forming human chains as if safety could be had in numbers.

  Was she down there?

  Probably. When had Annabelle ever heeded his advice not to do something?

  “Unnatural creatures,” Rochester muttered under his breath. He was usually a bone-dry man, but now his face was pinched with some ugly emotion.

  Sebastian had known it for a while now, but it had never been so glaringly obvious that his party, the party of rational interests, was not rational at all. There were Disraeli’s visions of an endless empire, of people wanting glory over bread. Rochester and Hartford, ready to see women harmed for their ideas. At the end of the day, their party was steered by emotions as much as the socialist who wanted to crush the aristocracy. It made him feel as though his skin were too tight for his body, and he shifted on his feet, not unlike Apollo when he was ready to bolt.

  Rochester pulled out his pocket watch. “Montgomery. You are to open the floor in three minutes’ time.”

  Sebastian resisted the reflex to scan the square once more. Annabelle was not his responsibility. She had made it very clear that she didn’t want to be his responsibility. Besides. He had an election to win.

  * * *

  Parliament Square reminded Annabelle of a beehive—purposeful and abuzz with busy females. The weather was on their side; the sun stood high in the sky and had lifted the usual blanket of wintry fog. Their banner would be well visible from hundreds of yards away.

  Lucie pushed past her, a steep frown between her slender brows. “More have come than expected,” she said. “I’d say a thousand more.”

  That would explain why there was hardly space to turn around. “Is that a problem?”

  The lines between Lucie’s brows did not ease. “No,” she said. “As long as everyone stays civil and calm. Everyone, stay civil and calm.”

  “Lucie . . .”

  “I have to give the command for the banner,” Lucie said, and vanished.

  A minute later, the banner rose above their hats in all its twenty-foot-long glory, drawing a chorus of aahs. Amend the Married Women’s Property Act Now, it demanded in tall letters. No man glancing down into the square from the windows of Westminster could overlook it.

  “Oh, that is lovely,” Hattie murmured.

  Annabelle nodded, a tight feeling in her chest. The emotions of the women around her were filtering through her like sun rays through water, spiking her pulse and warming her inside and out. Was that why people did it, joining causes?

  Big Ben struck a quarter past the hour. Spectators had begun lining the pavement, but if they expected a performance, they would be disappointed. The plan was to be seen, not heard.

  At half past the hour, a sudden wave of alertness rippled through the crowd. Warily, Annabelle glanced around. Being taller, she spotted them quickly—a united front of hats with glinting spikes was moving in from the left. A thrill of alarm shot up her spine. The hats belonged to the London Metropolitan Police.

  “What is it?” Hattie asked, craning her neck.

  “The police.”

  “Oh, lord.” Hattie’s complexion turned white as chalk.

  Annabelle squeezed her shoulder and realized her friend was trembling. “We will be fine,” she said. “I suppose the crowd is just too large.”

  Hattie frantically shook her head. “My father . . . if he finds out . . . and that I ran from Mr. Graves . . .”

  “Perhaps take off your sash,” Annabelle said calmly, “and try to look cheerful.”

  Looking terrified, Hattie yanked the sash over her head and made to stuff it into her cloak pocket.

  “No,” Annabelle said, “give it to me. They mustn’t find it on you.”

  The officers had split up and were filtering swiftly through the crowd. They seemed to be trying to break the mass of demonstrators into smaller groups to herd them from the square.

  A gray-haired officer with a drooping mustache stopped in front of them. A younger officer was following him, and his oily dark eyes immediately set Annabelle on edge.

  “Please follow me, miss,” the older officer said to her. “Ladies, move along.”

  Hattie clutched her arm. “What if they take our details?” she whispered.

  “They have no reason to do so,” Annabelle murmured, but Hattie’s breathing was coming in alarming little gasps. “Can you get rid of the cloak? Then break away when we pass the pavement. Pretend you are a bystander.”

  Hattie slid the conspicuous cloak off her shoulders as she walked, revealing a plain brown servant uniform that hugged her voluptuous figure far too tightly. Somewhere, a kitchen maid was missing a dress.

  “Why, you’re a bonnie wench, aren’t you?” The silken voice raised the hair on Annabelle’s nape. Oily Eyes had caught up with them, and his gaze was roaming freely over Hattie as he strolled alongside her. “What’s your name, luv?”

  Annabelle’s heart began to pound. That sort of man needed to be managed very, very carefully. Hattie, of course, did what any well-bred lady would do—she turned up her nose and ignored him.

  The officer’s expression turned oddly flat. “Oi,” he snarled, “I’m talking to you.”

  Annabelle’s gaze jerked to the older officer. He was walking farther ahead, possibly oblivious of what was unfolding behind his back.

  “You,” the officer said, “yes, I’m talking to you.”

  Hattie kept quiet. Annabelle’s thoughts were racing.

  “Uppity bitch,” the man muttered, and Hattie gasped. The officer’s arm had snaked around her waist, hauling Hattie close.

  Annabelle didn’t think. She simply stepped into their path. “Sir, don’t do this.” Her own voice sounded through a distant roar in her ears.

  The officer halted, surprise in his eyes. Then his gaze traveled over her, slow and slimy like a slug. “Well, who have we here.”

  “Sir—”

  “Keep walking like a good girl,” he said. “We are occupied.” Without taking his eyes off her, he slid his hand on Hattie’s middle up and clamped it over her breast.

  Hattie’s face froze in shock, sickly pale.

  The man’s lips stretched into a smile.

  A red tide of rage ripped through Annabelle and shot her right fist straight at the man’s grin.

  A crunch, a howl, as both his hands flew up to his nose.

  “Run,” Annabelle said to Hattie, “run, run.” She gave her friend a shove.

  Over his hands clutching his nose, the officer’s eyes fixed on her, glittering with fury.

  Holy hell. She must have given him a proper jab.

  Now she felt the pain ringing in her knuckles.

  A whistle shrieked, and she was gripped from behind as Oily Eyes lunged at her. No. She kicked at him, and her sturdy boot met his knee. His leg buckled. “Damn you!”

  She was yanked around and shaken; violence pulsed around her as her body twisted in panic. Fabric ripped, and she stumbled, her knees connecting hard with the cobblestones. She caught a glimpse of her hat, crushed into the dirt beneath the boots stomping around her.

  This was not a game. She had hurt one of them.

  Her arms were twisted behind her back as she was dragged back upright.

 
Her impulse was to writhe and claw like a cat in a trap.

  But the dull ache in her knees cut through the haze in her head. No matter what, they would win. So she went limp.

  * * *

  They bundled her into a nearby police cart and slammed the door shut.

  She sat up, pushed her hair back from her face, and cast a wild glance around.

  Pale faces stared back at her. Women. Three of them, seated on the benches along the walls.

  She struggled to her feet and winced as her knees protested against holding her up.

  “Here, sit down, luv.” One of the women, hardly older than herself, patted the edge of the wooden bench to her left.

  Annabelle sank onto the seat, trying to control the tremor in her limbs. The enraged, nasal voice of the officer she had punched was still blaring through the carriage walls.

  “What is happening?” she asked, sounding dazed to her own ears.

  Before anyone could reply, the carriage door swung open again and an officer climbed aboard.

  Thank God, not the one she had hit.

  The cart lurched into motion, nearly toppling her off the bench again.

  “Sir,” she said hoarsely, “where are you taking us?”

  The young officer avoided her eyes. “Please, no talking, miss.”

  She stared at him, and he stared just as stubbornly ahead.

  “They’re taking us to prison, luv,” said the woman next to her.

  Prison?

  “I must ask you to be quiet,” said the officer, more sharply now, and he placed his truncheon across his knees. On the bench across, a small blond woman in a crumpled green sash began to sob.

  Barely fifteen minutes later, the cart halted in front of an imposing building. The iron letters above the entrance gate told Annabelle exactly where she was: Millbank Penitentiary.

  * * *

  They were made to wait for an hour in a musty antechamber. At the sound of a bell, she was marched into a musty office. The clerk at the desk did not as much as glance at her when she took her seat. His eyes were on the voluminous ledger before him, his pen at the ready.

  With a flat voice, he asked for her name and place of residence, and told her to turn in her reticule.

  Then he moved the ledger toward her.

  Next to her name, it said Obstruction and assault on a public servant.

  Annabelle scrawled a shaky signature. “Sir. What is going to happen now?”

  The man didn’t even look up, only reached for the bell on his desk.

  “Sir,” she said pleadingly. He glanced at her then, and then he squinted, as if he had unexpectedly looked into bright light. His hand lowered back onto the desk.

  “Well, miss,” he said, “you’ll know more tomorrow.”

  Panic rose like bile in her throat. “I’m to stay here overnight?”

  “A normal procedure, miss. Unless someone fetches you beforehand and posts bail.”

  “Bail,” she whispered. She had no money to post bail. No one even knew where she was.

  The clerk picked up the bell.

  She leaned toward him imploringly. “Sir, could you have a message sent for me?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head regretfully. “I’m afraid not today, miss.”

  “Please, one message. To Lady Catriona Campbell.”

  “A lady?” The sympathy faded from his eyes and was replaced with suspicion.

  Of course. She didn’t look as though ladies would keep her company. She had lost her hat; the buttons of her coat had been torn off; her bodice, too, was missing buttons; and God knew what her hair looked like. If she bandied the name of the Earl of Wester Ross himself around, they might send her straight to Bedlam.

  She sank back into the chair. “Never mind.”

  * * *

  She was reunited with the women from the cart in a cell. There was a single window high in the wall, a wooden stool, and a narrow cot on the left. The fetid stench of filth and desperation welled from the cracks in the old floorboards.

  The woman with the northern accent who had offered her a seat in the cart flung herself onto the dirty cot. The blond girl timidly sat down beside her and clutched her arms around her slim frame. “Why are we here?” she whimpered.

  “Me?” The northerner stretched her legs. “Obstructing an officer in his attempt to pinch me breasts.”

  The girl still standing next to Annabelle cackled. “Yous are riskin’ Millbank o’er a li’l slap an’ tickle?” she said. The heavy Cockney made Annabelle look at her properly for the first time.

  Hard eyes glared back at her from a hard face.

  “What are ye looking at,” the girl snarled.

  “You’re not a suffragist,” Annabelle said.

  The girl’s expression turned derisive. “Nah. Me, I was picking pockets there, they say.” She sniggered. “Had nuthin’ on me, thank the Lord, or else—” She drew a finger across her scrawny neck.

  Annabelle sagged against the wall and slowly slid to the floor.

  She was in prison. Sharing a cell with real criminals.

  But she had made a police officer bleed, so that probably made her a criminal, too.

  The room began to spin.

  She’d be prosecuted. She’d be imprisoned. She’d lose her place at Oxford . . . her life had just been blown off a cliff, and her stomach lurched as if she were falling.

  She pressed her forehead against her knees. Cold seeped into her back from the naked stone wall. There were other aches: in her breasts, her wrists, her scalp, her knees, everywhere she had been grabbed or pulled.

  The man’s leering grin flashed before her eyes, and a shiver of disgust racked her. He had looked so pleased, knowing that he could hurt and humiliate Hattie, and that there was nothing they could do.

  She flexed her sore fingers. She had done something. Even Aunt May wouldn’t have gone so far as to say her impulsiveness would land her in prison one day.

  Time crept, thickening the shadows in the cell into murky darkness. Every quarter of an hour, the chime of Big Ben came through the windowpane.

  Sometime after seven, the cell door swung back and a prison guard appeared.

  “Anne Hartly.”

  The northern suffragist girl rose from the cot. “Sir?”

  “Your brother is here.”

  “About time,” muttered Anne Hartly. “Good luck,” she said over her shoulder, all but stumbling over the hem of her narrow skirts as she hurried out the door.

  The pickpocket hadn’t even raised her head. The blond suffragist was staring at the door, her eyes shining in the dark. “I got no one,” she said. “I got no one to come for me anytime soon.” There was a tinny note of hysterics in her voice. “I got no one,” she repeated, and began rocking back and forth and the cot began to creak.

  “Oi. Shut it,” the Cockney girl said.

  The girl whimpered, but the creaking continued.

  Annabelle dragged herself to her feet. She settled in the vacated spot next to the rocking girl and wordlessly put her arm around her shoulders. The lass slumped against her and cried like a child.

  It was approaching ten o’clock when the heavy footfall of a guard approached again.

  “Miss Annabelle Archer. Please follow me.”

  Her knees cracked when she stood. The girl, Maggie, reached for her hand and gave it a feeble squeeze. Resignation had set in a while ago.

  She followed the guard on stiff legs, squinting into the bright light of the corridor.

  It had to be Professor Campbell, Earl of Wester Ross. Or it was an interrogation.

  Please let it be the earl.

  They scaled a long flight of stairs that had her knees aching by the time they reached the top.

  The guard halted in front of a solid black door. The director’s off
ice, said the brass sign below the window in the door. A man was inside, standing with his back turned.

  As if through fog, she saw the glint of white-blond hair.

  Chapter 23

  The prison director’s office was an oppressive room, with a low ceiling, dark wall panels, and the dusty smell of old carpets thickening the air.

  And Montgomery was here.

  Her whole body had turned weak as water. She wanted to fall into his arms, close her eyes, and let him carry her away. Anywhere.

  Belatedly, she remembered to curtsy. “Your Grace.”

  His expression was strangely blank. His pale eyes traveled over her muddied skirts, the missing buttons . . . She felt herself flush. Self-consciously, she smoothed a hand over her hair.

  He reached her with two long strides, bringing with him the smell of rain and damp wool. His gaze searched her face methodically. “Are you hurt?”

  The quiet question did what prison had not managed—tears began burning in her nose. She blinked them back rapidly. “I’m fine.”

  Montgomery’s attention shifted to the guard behind her, his eyes growing cold like a frozen sea.

  “Show me where she was kept.”

  A confounded silence filled the office.

  “Now.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” the guard stammered. “Follow me, please, Your Grace.”

  She stared after Montgomery’s retreating back, willing herself to remain calm, calm . . . She startled when someone touched her elbow.

  “Ramsey.”

  The valet was looking down at her with warm brown eyes. “Miss Archer. It is a pleasure to see you again.” He cast a disapproving glance around. “Albeit under rather unorthodox circumstances.” He guided her to a chair by the wall. “Allow me.”

  She sank onto the hardwood seat. Beneath her skirts, her knees were shaking.

  “How did he know I was here?” she asked.

  Ramsey nodded. “First, let me apologize for the delay. The meeting in Westminster went into overtime, naturally. When His Grace made to leave, three young ladies were lying in wait for him and informed him that you had been apprehended by the London Metropolitan Police. It then took a while to locate the correct, erm, facility.”