“A message, sir. I was told to see that you received it immediately.”
Under the light of the kerosene lamp in his valet’s hand, Hutchinson read the note, crumpled it in his hand, and immediately abandoned his bed. “Don’t wake up, dear,” he said as his wife turned over and gazed at him with drowsy eyes. “I’ll be back by breakfast.”
As he swiftly dressed, he asked for details on who’d delivered the note and when. Damned idiot in Brewster’s office, but at least the clerk had the good sense to alert me. Then he swore roundly, consigning all the incompetents in the bureaucracy to hell. “Sorry, Philip,” he muttered, “but this is going to be one helluva mess. Have the carriage brought round.”
“I have already, sir.” The elderly man spoke with the immutable calm of an experienced retainer. “It’s beginning to rain out. You’d best wear your mackintosh,” he added holding out the coat.
Five minutes later, swearing under his breath, Prosper was being driven across town to the police station near Bruton Street. A short time later, after accosting the stout, obstinate constable who was captain on the night shift, Prosper’s curses were decidedly more forceful.
“I done my duty, sar, and that’s that,” Captain Bagley said, his mouth and jaw set firmly. He didn’t approve of taking the Lord’s name in vain. “That female prisoner ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Hutchinson glared at the heavyset man behind the desk. “Who authorized her arrest, dammit! There were distinct orders to hold the warrant until further notice!”
“It ain’t right, sar, to ignore criminal activity, no matter what. The law’s the law fer you and me and everyone,” the captain stubbornly declared, a pious fanatic against all forms of what he perceived as vice.
“Who’s your superior, you imbecile!” Hutchinson shouted. “You had no right to serve that warrant!”
“I don’t rightly know that it’s any of your business, sar,” the constable pugnaciously replied. “I’m in charge here tonight.”
“Damn right it’s my business, and when I’ve gotten to the bottom of this fiasco, you’ll be out of a job, you cretin!”
“That may be, but I doubt it. Ain’t right fer anyone to athwart the law,” Captain Bagley muttered belligerently. “The prisoner is guilty as sin,” he added with a sneer. “We found all the evidence we need right there in her house-no mistake.”
Short of shooting the stupid oaf where he sat, Prosper had no recourse but to return to his carriage and hie himself to the home of one of the judges he knew who owed him a favor.
Even there, he was foiled.
“Once the lady is jailed, she passes into one of Her Majesty’s prisons to await trial at Clerkenwell or Central Criminal Court.”
“I know that, dammit! I also know she won’t stand trial for at least a month.”
“I’m sorry, Prosper, but I can’t simply override an arrest warrant”-Judge Hillard shot his friend a jaundiced look as they sat in opposing chairs in his study-“that you yourself instituted by the way.”
“It was on hold until final approval.” Prosper’s hands were clenching and unclenching on the leather chair arms. “How the hell it made it’s way to Bruton Street Station is an issue I’ll deal with later. I want her out-now!”
“I wish I could help you, but my hands are tied. And unfortunately, Captain Bagley is known to have a crusading zeal when it comes to enforcing the obscenity laws.”
“I want him cashiered,” Prosper said coldly, leaning back in his chair and meeting the judge’s gaze with an icy stare.
“In due time, my friend. It’s certainly not going to happen tonight. If I might be so bold as to ask, why this raging urgency at this ungodly hour? Is the lady a friend of yours?” he slyly inquired. “And more to the point,” the judge added with roguish smile, “does she indeed write lewd stories? ”
“Judas Priest, William. I have neither the time nor the inclination for adultery or any interest in satisfying your salacious queries. If you must know, the lady is a special friend of an important client.”
The judge’s gaze narrowed. “How important? ”
“Important enough for you to make sure the lady is freed in the morning. I don’t care what you have to do, just do it.” Prosper smiled thinly. “My client will reward you generously.”
“Christ, Prosper, you’re asking too much. I’m not sure I can do it. The court views these cases of moral depravity harshly. I can’t guarantee her release.”
“He’s a duke.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you,” Prosper crisply replied and rose to his feet. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”
But he dared not wait to notify the duke, and to that end, he had himself driven to a telegraph office where he sent Groveland the unhappy news. Since Prosper handled his business affairs, Fitz generally left word of his destination on leaving the city.
EARLY THE NEXT morning, at the same time Rosalind was watching a tin plate of unappetizing porridge being slid through a slot at the base of her cell door, Hutchinson’s telegram was delivered to Fitz’s dressing room where he was being shaved.
For a moment his heart seemed to stop.
“Have a mount saddled,” Fitz barked, frightening a servant who was carrying away his breakfast tray with the rough fury in his voice. “Now!” he shouted at the terrified man. “Give me that,” he growled, swiping the razor from Darby’s grasp and lunging to his feet. “Rosalind’s been arrested, damn someone’s stupidity.” Striding to the mirror, he proceeded to shave himself with rough, quick strokes.
Wiping the lather from his face, he dropped the towel, grabbed the shirt Darby held out, and shoved his arms into the sleeves. “Follow me later. I’ll commandeer whatever train’s in the station, so you’ll have to take the next one.” He wrenched his trousers from Darby’s grasp and jerked them on. Three minutes later, dressed and booted, he was taking the stairs at a run.
Reaching the drive a few moments later, he leaped into the saddle, waved off the groom, and spurred his mount.
He rode to Aberdeen like a man possessed, using whip and spur, his racer gallantly responding. The Thoroughbred was lathered and winded by the time they reached the station. Tossing the reins and two guineas to a street boy, Fitz shouted directions to his hunting lodge as he ran toward the platforms. Fortunately, the stationmaster knew him, his consequence and fortune, and quickly accommodated his wishes. Conductors were sent through the station, warning travelers of the imminent departure, and short minutes later, the engine pulled out of the station an hour early.
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.