by Anne Barton
The pistol was still there.
Rose had never held one, but she’d witnessed a gun’s powerful effects. She swallowed hard. With one irreversible pull of the trigger, Papa had taken his life, leaving her, Olivia, and Owen essentially orphaned and very much alone.
Since the day that she and Olivia had found him lying on the floor of his study in a pool of blood and brains, she’d had a revulsion for guns. A disgust for them that affected her on a physical level, turning her stomach and plucking at the memories of that horrid day. This pistol, dainty as it was, struck her as all the more abhorrent. Even its elegant scrollwork and pearl handle couldn’t fool her, couldn’t disguise the evil it could do.
But there was no time to debate the moral implications of what she was about to do or all the spectacular ways in which her plan could fail.
Carefully, she removed the pistol from the cabinet and held it near the light of the lamp. Cool and heavy in her hands, it glowed ominously. She tucked the pistol into her bodice between her breasts, shivering at the foreign sensation of iron against her skin.
Now for ammunition. She reached behind the letters and ornate boxes and found a velvet pouch. She loosened the drawstring, peered inside at the small lead spheres, and released the breath she’d been holding. Part of her wished the bullets hadn’t been there. But they were, and she knew what she must do if she wanted to rescue Charles. The pistol, the bullets—they were just a last resort, to be used if all other measures failed.
She pulled the drawstring tight and tucked the pouch into her pocket. It weighed down her skirt and bumped against her thigh, clunking softly as she moved. As quickly and quietly as she could manage it, she returned the library to order and made her way back upstairs to her bedchamber.
Audrey was there, removing a gown from the armoire and hastily folding it before placing it in Rose’s portmanteau on her bed. “I believe that’s the last of your things,” the maid said. “Lady Bonneville’s eager to leave. Are you ready?”
With a gulp, Rose nodded. “I’m ready.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Upper Assembly Rooms sparkled with silk gowns, dazzling jewels, and crystal glasses. The guests had braved the unusually cold evening in order to dance and be merry… or, in Lady Bonneville’s case, to make a point.
“Though I enjoy a holiday respite in Bath,” she was telling another matriarch, “its entertainments simply cannot compare to London’s. Rose insisted we stay for the ball tonight, but we shall return to Town tomorrow.”
Rose smiled dutifully at the viscountess, who sat in a plush chair, her feet propped on her red stool. “Thank you for agreeing to come tonight,” Rose said, for the benefit of Lady Bonneville’s friend.
The frail, gray-haired woman waggled white brows. “You and Lord Stanton make a striking couple.”
Rose lowered her eyes demurely. “That’s kind of you to say.” She had felt obliged to dance with him but couldn’t wait for the music to end. He’d held her a little too tightly, spoken too familiarly. After he’d returned her to Lady Bonneville’s side, he’d asked Lady Yardley to dance. Now that she thought on it, Rose thought them rather well suited. She wouldn’t miss either of them when she returned to London.
If she returned to London.
She cast a surreptitious look at the grandfather clock beside the door, and her heartbeat kicked into a gallop. It was time. “Would you ladies please excuse me while I freshen up?”
“Oh, of course.” The gray-haired woman waved a bejeweled hand. “Never fear, we shall keep an eye on Lord Stanton for you.”
The viscountess raised a brow as Rose headed in the general direction of the water closet. But once she was out of Lady Bonneville’s sight, she changed course and located Audrey sitting on the other side of the room with another maid. Each woman stood ready to fetch anything her mistress might need, whether it be a glass of champagne, a fan, or a peacock feather to adorn her turban.
“Lady Rose,” Audrey said with some surprise. “May I help you?”
“No, thank you. I only wanted to let you know that I’ve a bit of a headache and am returning to the hotel. Lady Bonneville says she wishes to remain for another hour or two.”
“You poor dear,” Audrey exclaimed. “Let me retrieve your cloak.”
“No need,” Rose said, amazed by her ability to spout one lie after the other. “I’ve already asked a footman to fetch it and escort me to the coach. He’s probably waiting just outside the ballroom as we speak.”
The maid frowned. “Very well. Try to rest. I can’t imagine the viscountess will want to stay much longer.”
“Oh, but she’s having a grand time over there. We mustn’t spoil her last evening in Bath. In fact, it’s best if she puts me out of her mind and enjoys the company of her friends.”
“If you’re certain.”
“I am,” Rose said firmly. “Now I’m off to the hotel—and my bed.”
“Sleep well, Lady Rose.”
Rose glided out of the ballroom and down the stairway. In the Lower Rooms she intercepted a maid, who went in search of her cloak. It seemed an eternity before the woman returned but it was more likely three minutes. Rose slipped her arms into the sleeves and pulled the fur-lined hood over her head not only to keep her warm, but also to conceal her identity.
She stepped into the frigid night, walking purposefully past the fancy coaches waiting by the curb. Escaping the ballroom had been shockingly easy, but her most daunting challenges still lay ahead.
The ground beneath her delicate heels was icy and slick. With each step she took away from the Assembly Rooms, the street grew darker and the air grew colder. She navigated the slippery walkway down the block and rounded the corner where she prayed that Edward and Shirley waited with the wagon.
When she reached their arranged meeting spot, however, she saw nothing but shadows and darkened storefronts. Perhaps they hadn’t received the note or hadn’t been able to leave Yardley Manor. Perhaps they’d simply—and wisely—decided that helping Charles wasn’t worth the risk of losing their jobs.
Rose huddled against a stone wall, pulled her cloak more tightly around her, and waited. She kept a wary eye on the occasional passersby, taking comfort in the heavy reticule dangling from her wrist. She possessed the means to defend herself—but hoped to God it wouldn’t be necessary.
At last, she heard the creaking wheels of a wagon approaching. When it passed beneath a street lantern, she saw Shirley and Edward bundled on the front seat. The moment Edward pulled the horses to a stop, Rose gathered up her skirts and climbed inelegantly onto the back of the wagon.
Edward turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. “I’m sorry we’re late. The roads are still a bit difficult to travel.”
“I’m just glad you’re here,” Rose said. “Let’s be on our way.”
“The items you requested are in a satchel beneath the blanket,” Shirley said.
“Thank you.” Rose pulled the blanket over her lap and placed the satchel at her side. It contained everything she and Charles would need.
Everything, that is, but luck. They’d need quite a lot to see her plan through.
Charles had used all his paper. Most of the sheets were covered in sentences he’d transcribed from his book of Grimms’ fairy tales, but not the one he now held between ink-stained fingers.
No, this last page was filled with nothing but Rose’s name. Rose Sherbourne. He hadn’t even been aware when he’d first begun writing it… over and over. But just the look of the letters on the parchment and the sound of them in his head made him think of her and gave him comfort. He folded it and stuck it deep into the pocket of his trousers.
The floor was quiet this evening. Half of the prisoners were already asleep. The loudest one, an old man named Howard who claimed the devil routinely visited his cell and stole his drawers, had been literally carted off to Bedlam that afternoon. He’d seemed harmless to Charles, but the guards had grown weary of his constant shouting and deci
ded he was better suited for the asylum than their jail.
Which meant that the prison was eerily silent, with nothing to distract Charles from the what ifs that haunted him. What if his plan to escape early tomorrow morning failed? What if the morning guard arrived for duty less inebriated than usual? What if the key ring on his belt didn’t hold the key to the side door that Charles intended to slip out of? What if he was destined to spend the rest of his life within these stone walls and ended up like poor old Howard—stark raving mad?
Shaking off the thought, he put away his ink and pen, dropped to the floor, and did push-ups until sweat beaded on his forehead and his arms trembled from the exertion. When he collapsed onto the floor, spent, the night guard, Wescott, snorted but shot him a look of grudging admiration.
Charles felt in control once more. His plan would succeed. It had to.
Using the water in a small, cracked basin, he washed up the best he could. He was about to remove his boots when a commotion from the staircase outside the main door brought him and every other prisoner who was awake to his feet. Grasping the iron bars at the front of his cell, he craned his neck for a better look at the door.
Instantly alert, Wescott drew his gun and took aim at the door, waiting. With his left hand, he reached for the club on the table beside him and clenched the handle in his large fist.
Several of the prisoners, delighted at the prospect of violence, let out whoops of excitement.
“Shut up,” the guard growled.
But then the door swung open, slowly, revealing a woman in a cloak.
Charles knew that cloak. And he knew that woman.
What on God’s sweet earth was she doing there?
Wescott dropped the baton and fumbled the gun.
Charles slammed into the iron bars in a wholly futile attempt to protect Rose from the guard’s carelessness. “Rose!” he shouted.
Rose stepped back, and the guard set down his weapons, recovering his wits if not his manners. “What in the bloody hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
She pushed the hood off her head, revealing a crown of gleaming auburn hair, adorned with a sparkling silver ribbon. Beneath her black velvet cloak, she appeared to be wearing a glittering ball gown, of all things. She looked like a princess—strikingly beautiful against the stark, grim backdrop of the prison.
“Jesus,” muttered one of the jailed men. Several others made lewd comments—the kind that made Charles want to break someone’s nose.
Ignoring their taunts, she shot the guard a confident, dazzling smile. “Allow me to introduce myself.” In spite of her bravado, Charles detected a slight tremor in her voice. “I’m Lady Rose Sherbourne, sister to the Duke of Huntford.”
Wescott frowned, skeptical. “If that’s true, I can only conclude you’re lost.”
“I assure you that I am the duke’s sister and that I’m exactly where I intend to be.” She cast a brief, indecipherable glance at Charles, then devoted her full attention to the guard.
“Do you mind if I sit, Mr.… ?”
“Wescott.” He hastily cleared a spot at the table and dragged a chair over. “Be my guest.” His tone, however, suggested he was less than thrilled at the prospect of entertaining anyone—especially a gorgeous young woman who could disrupt his orderly jail floor.
Rose lowered herself onto the wooden chair gracefully, as though she were in an elegant drawing room and not a squalid jail. “Mr. Wescott, I can see that you are a busy man with an important job to do, keeping our citizens safe.”
“How did you manage to make it up here?” the guard asked.
“I simply explained my business to your colleagues, and they graciously allowed me to pass.”
Wescott grunted. “I know my colleagues. They’re more likely to be persuaded by bribes than by reason.”
Rose inclined her head. “But you are not, are you? I respect a man with integrity. I regret to inform you that one of your prisoners, a Mr. Holland, has been unjustly imprisoned. The Duke of Huntford has requested that you release him to his custody.”
Good God. What was she doing?
The guard made a great show of looking over and around Rose. “I don’t see a duke anywhere.” Bastard.
“I should hope not,” Rose retorted. “I’m afraid my brother has been detained by business in London and simply could not come himself. That is why he’s sent me.”
“I don’t care if your brother is the prince regent,” Wescott spat. “Mr. Holland isn’t stepping foot outside of his cell until it’s time for him to go before the magistrate.”
Rose flinched but quickly masked her fear. “I admire your adherence to the established procedures. I find that there’s an appalling tendency in today’s society to flout the rules. Your commitment to upholding them is… refreshing.”
“And yet terribly inconvenient for you,” the guard quipped.
Charles’s grip on the iron bars tightened. Wescott would pay for his insolence.
“That is true,” she said. “You must grant that there are some cases—and this is one of them—in which the rules must be bent in order to prevent a greater injustice. My brother, the duke, is prepared to vouch for Mr. Holland’s character. He will ensure that your superiors know that you released the prisoner at his request and see that you do not suffer any negative repercussions.”
Wescott glared at her, his mouth open in disbelief.
“I am sure,” Rose continued, “that you could make excellent use of the cell Mr. Holland vacates. There must be true criminals out there—”
“Lady Rose,” the guard interrupted, “I can see that you are convinced of Mr. Holland’s innocence and passionate about his defense. However, it would be irresponsible and reckless of me to release him into your custody.”
“The charges against him are false,” she said.
The guard raised his brows. “Be that as it may, I cannot take the chance that you will be his next victim.”
Her face flushed, and her eyes fairly sparked with anger.
“Rose,” Charles warned, wishing she wasn’t halfway across the room. “Wescott is right. You shouldn’t be here.”
Ignoring him, she addressed the guard. “I had thought to appeal to your sense of justice, but perhaps you prefer monetary compensation, after all. I am prepared to pay handsomely for Mr. Holland’s release, and no one else ever need know about it.”
“I’ll know about it,” cried the toothless prisoner catty corner from Charles.
“Yes, but no one will believe your sorry arse, Higgins,” retorted his neighbor.
Apparently oblivious to the ruckus, Rose cleared her throat, jingled her reticule, and reached inside. “Name your price, Mr. Wescott.”
Dear God, what in the devil was she doing, risking her reputation in coming here and bribing his prison guard? Actually, it would have worked splendidly on the morning guard. But not Wescott.
Fuming, the guard pressed his lips together and drew himself to his full height. “I cannot be bought, Lady Rose. Just as I cannot be charmed, blackmailed, or strong-armed. Mr. Holland will not be leaving his cell tonight—not as long as I’m alive.”
Rose stood and held her chin high. “That is a shame.” She turned as though to leave, then whirled around to face the guard. She pulled a pistol from her reticule, cocked it, and aimed it squarely at Wescott’s chest.
“I’m going to need the keys,” she said smoothly. “Now.”
From his cell, Charles begged Rose to lower the pistol.
“Shit.” Wescott held out his hands and took a cautious step toward the table, where he’d placed his own gun and his club.
“Stop right there,” she warned the guard. She flicked her gaze to the large ring of keys that hung from his belt. “Walk slowly to Mr. Holland’s cell and unlock it.”
“Like hell I will.” Wescott jerked his head toward Charles. “He’d snap my neck on his way out.”
“No,” Rose assured him. “We only want to slip out quietly. If you’d
prefer the hard way…”
“Damn it.” As the guard shuffled toward Charles, his gaze darted everywhere, looking for a way out or for help from some quarter.
An older, stooped man banged his tin cup on the iron bars of his cell. “Let me out while you’re at it.”
“Shut yer toothless mouth, Higgins,” called another prisoner. “The princess didn’t come to save ye.”
Rose kept a razor-like focus on the guard and concentrated on keeping her arms from shaking uncontrollably, which was harder than she’d imagined.
Wescott unhooked the ring of keys from his belt, stopped several feet from Charles’s cell, and turned to Rose. “Tell him to back away from the door.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Wescott,” Charles said evenly. “Not unless you try to hurt her.”
Rose looked at Charles, the guard, and Charles again.
Wescott clenched his jaw. “I don’t unlock the door unless he steps to the back wall.”
She nodded. “Do as he asks, Charles. Please.” As the guard glanced at the pistol she held, she deliberately placed her finger on the trigger. Charles took three steps back but stood with his muscles tensed, ready to pounce.
The jeers of the other prisoners suddenly stopped, and the entire floor fell silent, but for the clinking of Wescott’s keys. Swallowing, he placed one in the lock on Charles’s door.
Rose took her eyes off him, just for second, to watch as he turned the key. Only he didn’t. He let the key ring drop to the floor and lunged for her. She fell backward, landing on her bottom. The pistol slipped from her hands and slid across the floor.
As she and the guard watched it glide beneath the table, Charles sprang forward. His torso slammed into the iron bars, and he reached through, grabbing a fistful of the guard’s shirt. With a grunt, he hauled Wescott closer and pinned his back against the bars. Through gritted teeth, he said, “I’ll hold him until you get away. Leave now, Rose.”
No. No. Didn’t he understand? “I’m not leaving this prison without you.” Dodging Wescott’s flailing limbs, she scooped the keys off the floor. “I don’t know which one it is.”