Fitz had much too much time on the journey south to reflect on all that had gone wrong. He was to blame of course. There was no excusing his orders to have an arrest warrant drawn up. Not that it was supposed to have been served without his permission. Yet, regardless the reason for the blunder, it was he who had agreed to the scheme. Calling himself every kind of blackguard and villain, he stared blankly out the train window, the image of Rosalind suffering in some revolting cell looping through his brain, torturing him, consuming him.
What had seemed a perfectly reasonable expedient-good business, in fact-only brief days ago had turned to disaster. Rosalind was in gross danger in the terrifying stew of humanity inhabiting a prison, exposed and defenseless against the scandal ensuing from her arrest as well, at risk of complete ruin.
Thanks to him.
He was in agony, tormented by visions of her vulnerable and alone in the noisome environs of a jail, and in his anguish he no longer questioned what she meant to him. He cared for her in untold ways distinct from lust and passion. In ways so baffling and unorthodox he could neither identify nor put a name to his feelings. Not that he’d admit to something so binding and heartfelt as love. Old habits die hard.
But he couldn’t avoid his feelings, whatever they were.
You can run, but you can’t hide, he decided with a rueful smile, reflecting on his wretchedly unhappy sojourn in Scotland.
Now, whether he’d be able to repair the damage wrought by this botched affair was another question.
Christ-Rosalind took issue over something as simple as him sending over a doctor. He rather doubted she’d be quick to forgive him after having been thrown in jail.
But do something he must, although he’d not come up with any useful redress by the time he stepped from the train.
Hutchinson was waiting for him on the platform, the stationmaster in Aberdeen having telegraphed ahead with the duke’s arrival time.
“A major fuck-up it seems,” Fitz murmured as Hutchinson quickly fell in line beside him. “Is she out? ”
“No, I’m sorry to say, Your Grace. It was the most egregious error, and no one seems capable of setting it right.”
“We’ll take care of it now.” Crisp authority in every syllable.
Hutchinson was feeling considerably less assured after having called in a great number of markers today to no avail. “I feel I should warn you, Your Grace. The law courts can be extremely uncompromising when it comes to obscenity cases such as this. I’ve talked to more than a dozen people today with little result.”
“Tell me what’s transpired on our drive to the station,” Fitz said, lengthening his stride.
Hutchinson started running.
Once they were in the carriage, the barrister explained as best he knew, all that had occurred. First, a clerk’s error had mistakenly sent the envelope with the arrest warrant from the judge’s chambers to the Bruton Street Station. Second, even though the envelope had been clearly marked Private; Hold, Captain Bagley had taken it upon himself to open the superintendent’s mail and then took it upon himself to save the world from what he had characterized as foul smut and depravity.
“After failing to persuade Captain Bagley to release Mrs. St. Vincent, I attempted to find a judge who could free her from gaol. I spoke to several, Your Grace, but I was told by each that there are strict procedures that can’t be altered. A hearing before the court is required.”
“Like hell,” Fitz muttered. “But thank you for trying, Hutchinson,” he added, offering Hutchinson a kindly smile. “Once we reach the station, I’ll do the talking.”
“As you wish, Your Grace, but I must caution you about expecting too much. I’ve been working on this all day with nothing to show for my efforts.”
Fitz flashed his barrister a smile. “Don’t worry, Hutchinson. All will be well.” And as he spoke, an idea leaped into his mind, without reason, quite illogical in fact, but the more he thought about it, he warmed to the notion, damned if he didn’t.
Fitz chatted on the remainder of the drive to the police station, his cheerfulness and good humor causing Hutchinson a certain unease. Had the duke taken leave of his senses when faced with the chaos and confusion of the situation? Was he overcompensating somehow for his plans having gone awry? Or was he drunk and not showing it?
But on arriving at the station, Fitz gracefully leaped from the carriage without any sign of stumbling or awkwardness, and Hutchinson was forced to relinquish his drunkenness theory. He wasn’t yet willing to discount the other impairments, however.
He was soon dissuaded of the duke’s possible derangement, though, for the moment they stood before the superintendent in charge of the station on the day shift, the duke said crisply, “I’m Groveland. I’ve come for my wife. I believe she was mistakenly arrested last night. If she is released immediately, I won’t be inclined to sue.”
Then the duke smiled, Hutchinson noted, with the most benign sweetness and added, “I understand perfectly how mistakes can be made.”
When the superintendent exhibited a modicum of suspicion and failed to move, Fitz said, “Come, my good man. If you have a wife, surely you understand Lady Groveland must be fit to be tied by now. I shall be obliged to pay handsomely for this mistake, regardless of whose error it was.” He smiled faintly. “But the little ladies are worth all the trouble, are they not? Can’t live without ’em, although,” he said with a wink, “I’d trade the next few hours with you if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, sar, the wife does go on a tear at times,” the superintendent cautiously replied, weighing the illustriousness of the man standing before him. There were nobles and there were nobles. “The thing is, sar, the lady isn’t Lady Groveland, but a Mrs. St. Vincent,” he submitted. “Said so right on the warrant it did.”
“Yes, I know.” Fitz offered the superintendent a long-suffering sigh. “I’m afraid my wife has fallen under the spell of the suffrage movement and uses her maiden name at times. A most curious group of women if you ask me-those suffragettes-forever petitioning Parliament and chaining themselves to fences about town. But Lady Groveland wishes to play the role of a modern woman, so naturally, I’m willing to indulge her-to a point,” he gruffly added. “I’ve financed a small bookstore for her so she may pretend to be a businesswoman. The store is Lady Groveland’s version of Marie Antoinette’s little hamlet-you recall… where the queen played at being a milkmaid.” A lift of his brows. “It all comes down to the need for domestic tranquility, my good man. I’m sure you have occasion to indulge your wife’s whims as well. Not that the genders are born to agree, but there it is.”
“Mrs. Wilton has taken up tennis, sar, so I do know what you mean. Sweaty business, that. Although, there’s another bit of business, sar. A right lot of bawdy books were found in the lady’s bedroom.”
“Ah, yes… those are mine. Lady Groveland is quite innocent of such matters as naturally a woman should be.” Fitz smiled. “She prefers poetry-sunny skies and flower-filled fields… that sort of thing. Like most women, I suppose.”
“The books are yours? You’d swear to that? ”
“Indeed I would. Feel free to fine me for the infraction; most men indulge in an earthy story from time to time as you no doubt know. Although, I understand that your subordinate took it upon himself to open an envelope marked Private. Perhaps it would be best not to have that brought up in court.”
Superintendent Wilton flushed, then frowned. “Unfortunately, Captain Bagley’s a lay preacher in a fire-and-brimstone street church. He sees sin around every corner. Personally, I’m Church of England-a sensible church that. In charge of the religious holidays and pomp-and-circumstance occasions, otherwise it stays out of your life. And rightly so.”
“I couldn’t agree more. As a duke, naturally, I have responsibilities in the various parishes on my estates, but my clerics have instructions not to interfere in my villagers’ lives.”
The superintendent’s eyes widened. If this man was a duke, the
lady in his jail was a duchess and all hell would break loose if word got out that he’d arrested a duchess. He couldn’t afford to be sacked. “Bagley was out of line, Your Grace, no doubt about it. I’ll see that Lady Groveland is released immediately.” Before word of her arrest leaked out.
“Excellent, thank you. Why don’t you get Mrs. Wilton some little trifle,” Fitz murmured, pulling a bill from his pocket and placing it on the superintendent’s desk. “Purely a charitable contribution,” he added with a smile.
The constable’s eyes popped on seeing the thousand-pound banknote.
The money, together with the fact that a duke was in fact, if not theory, above the law, and that the woman in jail was Lady Groveland, was more than any underpaid government employee could overlook with impunity. “I’ll have Lady Groveland fetched right quick, Your Grace. And may I offer my apologies for the misunderstanding.”
“I’ll come with you,” Fitz said, wanting to personally apprise Rosalind of her new status. He wasn’t altogether certain she would agree with his story unless he was there to prompt her.
Chapter 28
TH E CELL DOOR opened, and Rosalind turned around to find a uniformed policeman with Fitz standing behind him, a finger to his lips.
Her first impulse was to fly at him screaming in rage.
Her second more practical reaction was to quietly wait for events to unfold. Time enough for vengeance. Although Fitz’s appearance probably meant that hiring a barrister wouldn’t be required-which also meant she could keep her store. That in itself qualified as revenge.
Fitz took note of her smug smile and inwardly winced.
Not that he didn’t deserve her displeasure, but he wasn’t looking forward to the coming row. He had no experience with truckling.
“Lady Groveland, allow me to apologize for the shocking miscarriage of justice,” the superintendent said with a stiff bow and a nervous smile. “You have been most grossly served by Captain Bagley. I assure you he will be severely punished for his conduct.” Red faced, the superintendent swallowed hard and putting a finger to the brim of his hat, bobbed another awkward bow. “My apologies again, my lady. You’re quite free to go.”
Rosalind dipped her head with ducal grace. “Your apologies are accepted, sir.” She smiled. “It was rather an adventure. And I’m quite unscathed. Hello, my dear,” she said, turning a bland gaze on Fitz. “Thank you for arriving so swiftly.”
“I would have come sooner had I not been in Scotland shooting. Naturally, I apologize for my tardiness.”
“No need. I was indisposed for a very short time.”
The superintendent stepped aside so Rosalind could exit the cell, his concern only that the duke and duchess be gone from his station as quickly as possible and more important, that no scandal accrue to him.
Fitz held out his arm as Rosalind entered the corridor.
She looked up and held his gaze for a potent moment before placing her fingers on his forearm. “How was the shooting? ”
“It could have been better,” he said, moving down the hallway.
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Not as sorry as I was to hear of your difficulties.”
“Pshaw, it was nothing. Don’t give it another thought.”
Her fingers were digging into his arm, and if looks could kill, he would have been dead. But she carried off her role with aplomb, even while they were in the carriage with Hutchinson. It was only when they deposited the barrister at his home that she turned on Fitz, her eyes flashing with anger.
“Aren’t you going to say it wasn’t you?” she demanded acidly.
“Would it do any good? ”
“Not in the least.” Quickly rising, she shifted to the opposite seat where Hutchinson had been sitting and coldly said, “Take me home.”
“Just for the record I didn’t order the arrest. It was a mistake.” He knew better than to offer the most bland demur. He had no real defense in any event.
“But a mistake you had a hand in,” she snapped. “You were the one who told them where to find the manuscripts, weren’t you? ”
“No.” A literal if not complete truth.
“You bloody liar,” she hissed. “No one else has been in my bedroom.”
This wasn’t the time to take heart at such news, but nevertheless he did, pleased that he alone had breached the citadel. Equally pleased after his lamentable time in Scotland that she was within reach, regardless her temper. “I’d like to make amends if you’d let me,” he quietly said. “You need but tell me what to do.”
She stared at him. “You’re unbelievable! You think this some mild outrage that can be smoothed over with a bloody apology? You think my arrest is some mere bagatelle that won’t cause a ripple in my life, that I can put this humiliation behind me with ease!” Her voice had risen, a flush colored her cheeks. “How dare you make light of this!”
“I’m not,” he muttered, willing to play the penitent for the wrong done Rosalind. “I understand the delicacy of the situation.”
“Delicacy! We’re not talking about some social gaffe! My door broken down and police swarming into my store is not a delicate situation!”
“I understand,” he said, submitting with grace. “I’ll make it up to you. Tell me what you want.”
She glared at him. “How typical. Everyone’s for sale, aren’t they, you bastard? Maybe in your world they are, but not in mine. Do me a favor,” she spat out. “From now on stay away from me and my store.”
“What if I don’t? Are you going to call the police? ” He was struggling to control his temper. Groveling wasn’t his strong suit. Nor did women ordinarily scream at him.
“Good Lord, Groveland,” Rosalind waspishly said, “surely you have any number of other ladies you can harass. Kindly acquit me of your attentions.”
“I don’t recall you being particularly discontent with my attentions in the past,” he drawled. Scotland had been disagreeable and unsatisfactory from every angle. He hadn’t slept much in over a week. And Rosalind’s damned arrest hadn’t been his fault exclusively or at all, he churlishly decided, since he’d never actually given the order to proceed.
“You’d be surprised what an arrest and a night in a foul jail can do to a sexual relationship,” she derisively noted. “You might want to think about excising that little subtlety from your future seductions.”
Bitch, he thought, although he couldn’t fault her logic. “Look,” he softly said, making a conscious effort to reduce the heated rhetoric, “none of this should have happened. I’m sorry it did. And I understand you’re angry”-he paused at her indignant snort, counted quickly to ten, then continued in a purposefully mild tone-“but I’m quite willing to do anything to atone for the wrong that’s been done you. I won’t press you anymore to sell your store. How would that be? ” It was a huge concession, a very expensive one.
“Don’t do me any bloody favors. For your information, I wouldn’t sell to you if I was penniless and starving. Now, I’m done talking,” she tartly added. “Take me home.”
“And if I don’t? ” Equally frustrated, unequipped as well to deal with resistance when he’d encountered little to none since assuming the title at seventeen, he reverted to type. “What are you going to do about it? ”
“I’ll jump from this carriage and walk home. Now give your driver directions or I’ll jump.”
Reaching out, he smoothly locked both doors, then leaned back in his seat. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
Her nostrils flared. “This is exactly why we don’t suit. I don’t take orders either.”
“Sometimes you do.”
She braced her hands on the seat and lifted her chin in defiance. “I am vastly uninterested in sex with you, you ruthless bastard! If you dare touch me, I’ll fight you to my last breath.”
Astonished at the bitterness in her voice, he took pause. While he’d never yet been unable to talk his way into a lady’s good graces, he’d never had a woman thrown in jail be
fore. He had to admit, it was an extreme event; perhaps different skills were required. “Relax,” he calmly said. “I’m not looking for a fight.”
“I’m relieved.” Sarcasm dripped from every icy syllable.
Reaching up, he rapped on the carriage roof. “Bruton Street Books,” he called out.
The remainder of the journey passed in silence.
Seated in the corner, her scowling gaze focused on the scene outside, Rosalind stewed and silently condemned Fitz to the everlasting fires of hell.
Lounging in the opposite corner, Fitz closed his eyes and dozed off.
Damn him, she fumed, even more furious on hearing his soft snores. Isn’t that just like the shameless, arrogant autocrat. Nothing fazes him because he is untouchable. The world bends to his will.
The world well might, but she never would. Never, never, never, she vowed.
As the carriage stopped at her bookstore, Fitz came awake and sliding upright, unlocked the door. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call,” he offered, all well-mannered grace-as if she’d not spent the previous night in a filthy jail cell because of him, as if they hadn’t just quarreled, as if she’d not coldly repudiated his attempts to apologize.
“Don’t hold your breath,” she snapped.
“As you wish,” he murmured, not saying more since the driver had jumped down, opened the door, lowered the step, and was waiting to help her alight.
Rosalind shot him a last irate look, stepped from the carriage, and was immediately overcome by a fresh wave of rage. Her shattered front door had been replaced, the new door the very image of the former, down to the yellow paint and brass hinges. Damn Fitz and his money and minions who jumped to do his bidding. Had the man ever once been gainsaid in his entire life?
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