by Cheryl Holt
TAP! Tap! Tap!
At first, Rose didn’t realize that the noise was anything special. She imagined it was tree branches scraping the house, and she was too enraged to pay attention. During her imprisonment, with that sneaky Lydia delivering her food, Rose had planned the revenge she’d have once her brothers returned, but she’d confessed every indignity, and they wouldn’t listen.
They never listened.
The noise came again.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
She walked over to the window and threw it open. The night was very dark, so it was difficult to see.
“Who is it?” she asked. “Who’s there?”
To her surprise, Amelia stepped out of the shadows, and when Rose almost called out to her, she pressed a finger to her lips, indicating Rose should be silent.
Let me in! Amelia mouthed.
Rose pointed to the servants’ entrance, and she raced down the rear stairs. In a matter of minutes, they were in her room, with no one the wiser as to Amelia’s arrival.
They huddled on the floor in Rose’s closet, behind her rows and rows of dresses, and on studying her friend, Rose bristled with temper.
Amelia’s face and hands were dirty, her shoes scuffed, her hair straggly. Her stockings were torn at the knees, as if she’d fallen.
“Where are your sisters?” Rose whispered.
“You won’t believe what happened to us!”
“Yes, I will.”
As Amelia recounted her tale of treachery and arrest, Rose was so furious that she thought she might explode.
“We can’t let Maud get away with this!” Rose said.
“No, we can’t.”
“What should we do?”
“I was hoping we could talk to Captain Odell or Lord Hastings.”
“I already tried. They ignored me.”
At the news, Amelia looked deflated and very near to tears.
“I’m supposed to meet Miss Dudley very soon,” Amelia mentioned. “What will I tell her?”
“You’ll tell her Captain Odell is a cruel blowhard and that he won’t help us. She’ll understand.”
“She’ll know where Helen and Jane are, though. Perhaps we could rescue them ourselves!”
“Yes, perhaps we could.”
Rose stood and grabbed a shawl, and she made a sort of sack and started stuffing various items into it.
“What are you doing?” Amelia inquired.
“I’m running away. I’m going to live with you and Miss Dudley.”
“We don’t have a home for you.”
“Then we’ll live on the streets, but we’ll be together. I hate it here, and I refuse to remain another second. Maud will never lock me in again.”
She tugged Amelia to her feet, and they riffled through Rose’s clothes and pulled out her two warmest cloaks. They drew them on, then tiptoed to the door and peeked out. It was late and very quiet.
“We can sneak out the kitchen,” Rose murmured. “We’ll take some food with us.”
“We should bring extra. Miss Dudley will be hungry.”
Holding hands, they crept to the stairs.
TRISTAN sat at his desk in the library. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes.
Everyone was in bed, and he should have been, too, but he kept thinking about Helen and where she might have gone. There must have been a detail he’d missed, some hint of where to begin his search.
He picked up the folder he’d been perusing, scrutinized it again, then dropped it onto the polished wood. It contained the original letter sent over from Mrs. Ford’s employment agency when Helen had come for her interview.
Helen Hamilton, age twenty-four, proficient in French, Italian, pianoforte, geography mathematics. Especially good with comportment and social graces.
He’d read the lines a hundred times, as if the paltry narrative could offer a clue as to where she was.
In the morning, he’d visit Mrs. Ford, as well as the decrepit boardinghouse where Helen had previously stayed. He’d even call on her despicable relatives.
Someone, somewhere, had to know what had happened to her.
He was so engrossed in his miserable musings that when a commotion commenced out in the drive, he couldn’t make sense of what it was.
Gradually, it dawned on him that a man was shouting, raising a ruckus.
“Odell, you bloody fool! Answer your bloody door!”
Tristan frowned, trying to place the voice, trying to remember who he might have enraged sufficiently that the person would seek him out in the middle of the night. He hadn’t been in London in weeks. Who could it be?
He couldn’t have the oaf waking the entire neighborhood, and he’d just risen to tell him so, when a sleepy footman beat him to it.
“Is there a problem, sir?” the fellow said. His tone was sarcastic, but who could blame him? It was one o’clock in the morning.
“Yes, there’s a problem!” From the stomping of feet, it was clear the man had blustered his way into the foyer. “Where is Odell?”
“Really, sir, you can’t—”
“Odell, you bastard! Get your ass down here!”
Would the crazed maniac race through the mansion? Would he search the bedchambers? What sort of lunatic had arrived?
Tristan went over and peered down the long hallway; as he recognized the interloper, he blanched with disgust.
“Phillip Dudley?” Tristan groused as Dudley barked, “Odell!”
Without invitation, Dudley marched toward him, the footman hot on his heels.
“Sir! Sir!”
The footman grabbed at Dudley’s coat, but was unable to slow him, and Dudley approached until they were toe-to-toe.
“Where is my sister?”
“Your... sister? Who is your sister, and why would I know where she is?”
Tristan glared at Dudley as if he was a madman, and he was close to throwing him—bodily—out into the yard, but the footman was all ears, and if there was a brawl, the gossip would be all over town the next day.
“I won’t need you anymore this evening,” Tristan told the servant, who bowed and disappeared. Tristan pointed into the library and gestured to Dudley. “In here. Now.”
Tristan walked over and sat down behind the desk, as Dudley pulled up the chair across from him.
“Mr. Dudley, I will ask this once, and I expect you to be brief. What the hell are you thinking?”
“I’m taking my sister out of this accursed place.”
“This place being the dwelling in which we’re currently located?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Odell. I won’t have her fraternizing with you people.”
“You seem to be laboring under the strangest impression that I’m acquainted with your sister and that I’ve given her shelter.”
“Are you claiming you’re unaware of this?”
Dudley tossed a letter onto the desktop, and Tristan picked it up, learning that Dudley’s sister—one Clarinda Dudley—had traveled to London with Helen.
“Ah, I see,” Tristan mumbled.
“She’s not an unprotected female like poor Miss Hamilton. Clarinda has me to speak up for her. If you’ve laid a finger on her, we’ll be having a quick wedding first thing tomorrow.”
A muscle ticked in Tristan’s cheek. In a smattering of sentences, so many insults had been hurled that he couldn’t tabulate them all.
“Are you a drinking man, Dudley?”
“Yes, why?”
“I believe we’d better have a whiskey.”
“If you imagine you can ply me with alcohol so you can—”
“You make my head pound with your complaints. Be silent.”
Tristan proceeded to the sideboard and poured two stout glasses. He handed one to Dudley. Dudley kicked his back in a single swallow, shuddered, then licked his lips.
“Not bad,” he said. “Now, where is my sister?”
“If she was with Helen, they’ve vanished.”
“What?”
“Helen stopped by here while I was away. She packed her belongings and left in a rented cab with Jane and Amelia.”
“What was her destination?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Was Clarinda with her?”
“If she was, I haven’t been informed.”
The exchange eased some of Dudley’s bluster.
“Well... shit,” he muttered.
“My feelings exactly.”
Dudley rose and helped himself to another whiskey. He downed it as he had the first: in one gulp. Then he started for the door.
“Where are you going?” Tristan asked.
“There’s no reason to hang about, begging for answers when you obviously don’t have any.”
Tristan was correct: The man was insane.
“What if your sister shows up?”
“She won’t.”
“Humor me, though. What if I see her?”
“Tell her I’m in London. She’ll know where I’m staying.”
He kept on, and Tristan suffered from the most peculiar urge to stop him. Dudley had a confidence and brusque edge that—Tristan was mortified to admit—reminded him of himself. If he had to launch a massive search for Helen, Dudley would be a great asset.
“How well do you know Miss Hamilton?” Tristan queried.
“I crawled into her bed every night, you wretch. How well do you think?”
“Would you be serious? I’m trying to learn if she has a friend in London who might have taken her in. I was hoping she might have said something to you.”
“In all the times you tumbled her, you never bothered to inquire about her background? Her people?” Dudley studied him, his disdain clear. “I guess a man of your station would have been too busy. You’d have been focused on other... things.”
Tristan flushed with embarrassment. He’d never probed for details about Helen because he’d simply assumed she would always be with him. He’d never looked down the road to the day when she might leave, and at being confronted with more of his failings toward her—by Dudley, no less!—he blazed with temper.
“Watch your rude tongue, Dudley,” he quietly warned. “I won’t have you slandering her.”
“That’s fine talk from the scoundrel who ruined her.”
There was nothing Tristan could say in his defense, for he had ruined her. Any denial of an affair would be a betrayal, and any acknowledgment of it would be wrong and further damage her reputation.
Hadn’t Tristan done enough?
“I just want to find her,” he said. “I want to bring her home.”
“It better be because you’ve come to your senses and decided to marry her.”
“It is.”
“About bloody time,” Dudley snorted. “Miss Hamilton drank my Spinster’s Cure potion ages ago. What took you so long to make up your mind?”
“Don’t drag your blasted potion into this.”
“Why shouldn’t I? It works.”
It was Tristan’s turn to snort. “Will you help me hunt for her?”
“No, but if I stumble on her, I’ll let you know.”
He marched out, and once again, Tristan was unaccountably dismayed to see him go. Like a buffoon, he chased after the man.
“If I need to get ahold of you,” Tristan inquired, “where will you be?”
“I can’t imagine why you’d have to contact me.”
“If you locate your sister, I want to ask her about Helen.”
“When I locate my sister, if she has any pertinent information, I’ll send you a note.”
He paused, scowling at Tristan with what seemed close to an evil eye.
“Marry that girl, would you?” Dudley pressed. “Don’t be an idiot.”
With that, he left, and Tristan loitered on the stoop as he vanished into the night. Dudley hadn’t taken a dozen steps when he halted and murmured, “Well, well, what have we here?”
Dudley glanced at Tristan over his shoulder. “Come have a look.”
“At what?”
“Just come. You won’t believe it.”
Tristan pushed away from the door and went down into the street.
There, outlined in the shadows, were Amelia, Rose, and a dark-haired woman whom he didn’t know.
“Miss Dudley, I presume?” Tristan said.
“Yes, Captain.”
“Where the devil have you been?” Dudley snapped at her.
“If you’re going to take that tone with me,” she replied, “then it’s none of your business.”
Dudley and Clarinda engaged in a staring match, while Tristan frowned at Amelia and Rose. He assessed their warm cloaks, the sack Rose had slung over her back. Amelia was carrying some bread and cheese. Were they running away?
At the prospect, he was aghast.
“Rose, are you leaving me?” Tristan demanded, wanting to appear stern rather than terrified by her rash behavior.
“I’m going to live with Amelia,” she announced.
“I assume you have a good explanation for your devision.”
“Not that you’d ever listen to it.”
Tristan nodded, evaluating her furious stance, her mutinous expression. Earlier in the evening, she’d been so angry, but he’d discounted her rage. He hadn’t a clue how to care for a child, and where she was concerned, he was always making stupid choices.
He’d let Maud convince him that Rose’s upset wasn’t important. He’d been exhausted and worried about Helen, so he’d ignored Rose when she’d desperately needed him. How many times would he fail her? How was he to regain her trust?
“I’m listening now, Rose,” he told her.
Miss Dudley stepped forward. “There’s something you should know. Something bad.”
Tristan’s heart fluttered with panic. “Helen’s not... not... dead, is she?”
“Physically, she’s fine, but it’s still bad.” Miss Dudley gestured to the door. “May we come in?”
“Yes, of course. Please.”
He led the way into the mansion, the odd group trailing after him like ducks in a row.
Chapter 23
“WE’VE come to retrieve Miss Helen Hamilton and Miss Jane Hamilton. We won’t leave without them.”
“I realize that you are anxious over their fate, but I’ve scanned the list three times. There are no women here by that name.”
“Look again,” Tristan said.
He stepped nearer to Warden Bromley so as to intimidate him with his greater size, and he tapped his riding crop on his thigh. The incessant snap was a curt reminder that he could just as easily slap it across Bromley’s leg as his own.
With trembling hands, the smaller man searched for a misspelling or a clerical error that would indicate their identities had been incorrectly logged.
A clerk rushed in and spread even more pages on the desk.
“This is a file of yesterday’s arrivals.” Bromley ran a finger down the lengthy columns. “There was no Helen or Jane Hamilton brought in. Are you sure they were delivered to this institution?”
“We have an eyewitness who saw the gate clang shut behind them.”
Michael was sitting in a chair, and so far, he’d been silent. He was dressed to the nines, wearing his most expensive coat, his most intricate cravat, and presenting himself as a bored, pompous aristocrat.
They hadn’t known what type of welcome they’d receive at the prison, hadn’t known if—short of engaging in a lengthy legal process—they’d be able to walk out with Helen and Jane. As insurance, they’d decided to use Michael’s position as leverage.
He flicked at the lace on his cuff. “I’ve heard that there is graft in the prisons. I’ve even heard that bribery is common.”
“Not in my facility,” Bromley huffed, but he appeared nervous.
“I don’t suppose money could have been paid to make them vanish.”
“Certainly not,” Bromley insisted.
“Because if I ever found out that had happened”—Michael flashed a leth
al grin—“I would be extremely angry.” He glanced around the tidy office. “Yours seems a rather good job. I would hate to have you lose it over such a trivial matter.”
Bromley gulped. Michael was one of the most influential men in the land. If he chose to wield his power, he could have Bromley fired in an instant.
“Who is Mr. Rafferty?” Tristan asked.
“I’ve told you, Captain,” Bromley complained, “I don’t know. Perhaps we could question some of the guards.”
“Yes, let’s do.”
Michael stood. “While we wait for you to assemble them, I would like a tom.”
“A tour?” Bromley was horrified.
“I’m about to begin my duties in parliament, so a visit would be highly informational.”
“Lord Hastings, I really don’t think you ought to—”
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t explore? If I didn’t know better, I might imagine that you didn’t want me to see the condition of the place.”
“It’s not that. It’s just... just...”
“Just what?” Michael snapped, his impatience clear.
Boots sounded in the hall, and Tristan whipped around as the door was flung open. A ruffian was pushed into the room, and Phillip Dudley followed him in.
“Meet Mr. Rafferty,” Dudley said without preamble.
“How did you locate him?”
“I bribed a guard.”
Michael and Tristan turned to glare at Bromley, and he protested, “I can’t fathom how that would be possible.”
“I just bet you can’t,” Tristan seethed.
“He’s a local reprobate,” Dudley explained, “known to every criminal in the area.” He whacked Rafferty in the back. “Tell the captain what you told me.”
“They’re here. I brought them in myself.”
“On what grounds?”
“Theft. What else? Why are you raising such a fuss? I was acting on your orders.”
Tristan frowned. “My orders?”
Rafferty pulled some papers from his coat and Tristan snatched them out of his hand. As he perused them, his temper boiled over.
“What do they say?” Michael asked.
“It’s an affidavit,” Rafferty responded, “that accuses the ladies of stealing a valuable emerald ring and a pouch of gold coins. It was sworn to by the captain. His signature is there, plain as day.”