Gorgeous As Sin

Chapter 27

NOT MORE THAN five hours later, in the dead of night, Rosalind came awake to the sounds of an ax breaking down her door and in due time, learned to her disgust and chagrin that the Duke of Groveland was not in the least kind and considerate.

She barely had time to throw on a dressing robe before her bedchamber was invaded and she was read her arrest warrant by a beefy constable who clearly took pleasure in citing each of the obscenity laws she was accused of violating. It was also plain that he found a woman who wrote erotica repugnant, for he’d look up from time to time as he laboriously read the legal citation and glare at her with contempt.

She unflinchingly met his contempt. The Pitt-Riverston bloodlines preceded the Norman invasion; she could stare down any second-rate functionary.

While the red-faced officer droned on, Edward’s manuscripts were being dragged from the armoire by two of the dozen men who had swarmed into her bedroom, and Rosalind suspected this assault was related to Mr. Edding’s surveillance. But it wasn’t until her unfinished manuscript was plucked from her desk drawer that she experienced alarm. Now she was implicated and any possible hope of evasion was gone.

Once the evidence was in the policemen’s hands, she was allowed only a brief opportunity to dress. Even more mortifying, two constables remained in her bedroom while she changed behind a screen in the corner. It wasn’t until she’d been shoved into a closed police wagon and the door locked behind her, that she had a moment to gather her thoughts.

Or try. Myriad questions raced through her mind: How could she, perhaps along with Mr. Edding, have been exposed? What or whom had first brought him under surveillance? How was the location of Edward’s manuscripts known when Mr. Edding had never been in her apartment?

The police had gone directly to the armoire.

Was it possible Edward had mentioned the location to Mr. Edding? She doubted it. They didn’t appear to be more than acquaintances from what she’d gathered. Had Mr. Edding drawn the attention of the constabulary for some other infraction and she’d simply been dragged in by accident? Had he been arrested tonight as well? Not that the origin or motive behind her arrest particularly mattered now that she was on her way to gaol. Her immediate dilemma was how best to confront the criminal charges against her.

If she had any hope of prevailing against the accusations, the first thing she must do is find a competent barrister and the necessary funds for his services. Groveland’s offer immediately came to mind of course. There was no other way she could secure the large sum required to defend against a case as serious as hers.

Even as she came to the conclusion that Fitz’s offer was her only salvation, a more damning thought insinuated itself into her consciousness. A notion so malevolent, she quickly brushed it aside. But no matter how many times she dismissed the scurrilous idea, her mind refused to be diverted and presently, she was forced to at least entertain the possibility that Fitz might be involved. Because the simple fact was: other than Sofia, no one but Fitz had been in her bedroom since she’d begun writing for Mr. Edding. And clearly, Sofia was not a suspect.

Unwilling to acknowledge Fitz’s infamy, she tried to conceive of some other causative link that might have brought the police to her door. She must have overlooked some other connection, she insisted, not wishing to admit to something so dastardly. Fitz simply couldn’t be so tender and indulgent and then turn on her with such sinister purpose. Unless he was a monster in the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde vein.

At base though, even should diabolical behavior be involved, Fitz’s offer for her store was her only hope. Her parents couldn’t help, and while her brother was perhaps slightly more prosperous, he wasn’t likely to come to her aid when he wanted her to sell her store anyway. So, Fitz’s offer, iniquitous as it might be, was in the way of a last resort.

Not that she didn’t desperately long for some reasonable explanation that would exonerate Fitz. Stupid fool, she thought with a grimace. Half in love with him, she was willing to forgive him anything. Like all the other women he’d known.

Rosalind’s musing was curtailed as the wagon came to a halt at the station house and she was unceremoniously pulled from the wagon and marched to a cell. While Captain Bagley had taken it upon himself to serve the warrant for reasons of personal gain and moral duty, the private warrant also signified an offender of possible gentility-as did the woman’s hauteur, he disgruntledly noted. He decided it might be circumspect to separate her from the rabble in the common holding cell.

Rosalind, unaware of her special treatment, took one look around the small wretched cell and decided she’d remain standing until such a time as she was allowed to see a barrister. The stone floor and walls were damp, small puddles evident in low areas of the floor, the single, barred window too high to reach, although a sliver of moonlight dimly illuminated the area. A plank bed with a stained blanket hung from chains on the wall, and a low sink apparently was meant to function as both a toilet and wash basin. She shuddered.

Never one to be fainthearted, however, she gave herself a bracing talking-to, told herself she would seek justice in the morning, and began to pace. Now, how best to secure a barrister, she reflected, trying to organize a plan of action as well as distract herself from her sordid surroundings.

First, she would not become demoralized or tearful over the necessity of selling her store. She’d simply buy another with what money remained after her trial, she briskly decided. That she might be convicted, she’d not even consider. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t faced serious challenges before in her life. There was no point in bemoaning one’s fate. Right now, she needed solutions.

AN HOUR AFTER the cell door closed on Rosalind, Prosper Hutchinson was wakened by his valet.

“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.

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.