by Cheryl Holt
Her temper flared, and she was unusually incensed. Mrs. Scruggs was correct that a man could do anything to a woman, and her uncle had manipulated her her whole life. Gregory too, but she was finished with their running roughshod over her. She was finished with their making her feel guilty because she was different from other people.
As a child, she’d survived a tragedy. That was it. It wasn’t a crime, but they carried on as if it was.
An asylum? She’d see about that!
“Have you any money, Miss Caroline?” Mrs. Scruggs asked.
Caroline pulled a small purse out of her wardrobe. She opened it so Mrs. Scruggs could peek into it. “I have a good amount. My uncle gives me an allowance, but I never spend any of it.”
Mrs. Scruggs withdrew a wad of money from her own pocket, and she shoved it at Caroline. “Take this too.”
“I couldn’t.”
“London is very expensive. Use it for the necessities.”
Caroline gaped at the money, deliberating. It was wrong to prevail on a servant, but in the end, she accepted it. She hugged Mrs. Scruggs, saying, “You have to be the kindest person I’ve ever known.”
“I shouldn’t admit it, but I’ve never liked your uncle. And I like Mr. Gregory even less. You were right to cry off from your betrothal.”
“I’ll pay you back. I swear.”
“I don’t doubt you will.”
Caroline assisted with the rest of the packing, then they snuck down and out a rear door. A carriage was harnessed and waiting for her, her favorite footman seated in the box.
It was all accomplished in a quick minute. She climbed in and laid on the floor, and they rolled away.
They’d agreed that Mrs. Scruggs would return to Caroline’s bedchamber, tidy up, and relock the door so it would appear as if Caroline had vanished up to Heaven. When her uncle arrived to badger her, he would discover that his prisoner had flown the coop when he wasn’t watching.
Caroline smirked with a grim satisfaction. She had no idea why her uncle was plotting against her, but whatever his scheme, she wasn’t about to blithely succumb. Perhaps now that she was really, really angry, Samson Grey had finally met his match.
He just didn’t realize it yet.
“Must you go so soon?”
“I’m needed at home for supper. I told Sybil I’d be there.”
Janet smiled at Blake and kept her tone light. “Will I ever meet Sybil?”
“Maybe. If you can learn to behave yourself.”
“I always behave myself.”
He chuckled and swatted her on the rear. “Since you are naked and completely ruined, we both know that’s not true.”
“I just asked you to help me run away. I didn’t ask you to seduce me.”
“You didn’t have to ask. Your wicked intentions were clear from the start.”
“Can a woman have wicked intentions?”
Blake scoffed. “The world is full of trollops, so yes, a woman can be very wicked. In fact, they can be more dissolute than men. Once they tumble off the moral wagon, they’re incredibly corrupt.”
“Am I a trollop now? Should I think of myself as one?”
“Well, you have a very debauched character, but you hid it when you were residing under your father’s roof. Since you came to London, you’ve let it fly free. So, yes, you might have become a trollop.”
They were in the bedchamber of the pretty apartment she’d rented. It was located in the theater district, an area filled with musicians, actors, and other artistic types. The people she encountered had odd careers and schedules, so no one thought twice about her living alone.
He’d had to sign the lease—he’d pretended to be her brother—and the ruse had worked. She’d moved in the next day, but after she had, there was nothing brotherly about what had sprung up between them.
They were stretched out on the bed, with him having arrived to surprise her in the middle of the afternoon.
Her fall from grace had been accomplished with very little contemplation or effort. She was no longer a sheltered virgin from a rural estate in the country. She was a modern female in the city who was settling into her new life, while keeping a paramour to amuse her.
It was the exact sort of existence about which she’d fantasized, but her metamorphosis had been too abrupt. She felt dizzy with trying to regain her balance.
She’d wanted to seem very sophisticated to him, and she’d convinced herself that she could bind him with licentious conduct, but with how they’d forged ahead into their carnal affair, she’d been forced to accept that it was a horrendous decision.
She hadn’t bound him in the slightest. She’d simply given him what he never should have had without marrying her first. She didn’t have any friends yet, and she was too nervous to venture out after dark, so the nights were particularly long. She’d sit by the window, yearning for him to visit, but not ever knowing when he would.
He’d agreed to assist her with her flight to town, but with no strings attached. He deemed them to be intimate companions, climbing under the blankets when the mood suited him, and not stopping by when the mood didn’t.
To her great dismay, she wasn’t cut out for such a callous liaison, but if she’d walked an ordinary path with him, she’d never have snagged him for her own. Her father would have refused to arrange a betrothal or, more likely, Blake wouldn’t have been interested in one.
He was a confirmed bachelor, a navy sailor who relished his freedom and his career, and he had no desire to be tied down. There was no spot for Janet in his world, so apparently, she’d made her bed—quite literally—and now she had to lie in it.
He kissed her, then slid away and stood. He was wearing his trousers and boots, but for their quick coupling, he’d shed his shirt. She had a fine view of his bare chest. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, his arms muscled from strenuous endeavor. She never grew tired of looking at him without his clothes.
“What time do you suppose it is?” he asked.
She glanced outside. “I have no idea. Four? Five?”
“Whew! I won’t be late. We’re eating at seven. Sybil has us dine early so she can get to my brother’s club before the crowds are too big.”
“She’s so lucky he employs her there.”
“She’s not an employee. She runs the business for him. If he’d started it without her, he wouldn’t have been half so successful.”
Janet was fascinated by Sybil Jones. Caleb Ralston permitted her to manage his club, and the situation was peculiar and electrifying. She wished she knew a man like Caleb Ralston, one who recognized that a female could handle that kind of responsibility. She would love to be offered such a huge post.
As it was, she was hoping to find a job as a writer’s assistant. She constantly penned letters to the women whose books she’d read. She begged for introductions, begged for recommendations. She was a pupil of their teachings, and she’d grabbed hold of the independence they’d extolled.
So far though, it didn’t feel very fun or liberating. She was alone in the city, with just Blake Ralston as an acquaintance. She hadn’t met any of the radical females who’d tantalized her with their philosophies. She hadn’t met anyone really. She was isolated and afraid over what she’d set in motion.
She’d like to write to Caroline, but she didn’t dare contact her cousin. Her father might intercept the letter, and if he discovered how Janet had ruined herself, she couldn’t predict how he might react. She truly feared he might murder her.
She’d burned her bridges at Grey’s Corner, so she couldn’t go home. Everything about her life had changed, and her new circumstance was so disorienting. After a few months had passed, she was certain she’d be less adrift. But just that moment, when Blake was about to sneak out, and she couldn’t guess when he’d stop by again, it was extremely difficult to be perky.
“We’re having a family supper, by which I mean it’s just the three of us: Sybil, me, and my brother. Then I’ll probably loaf at Caleb’s club.”
“Does he let you gamble there?”
“Definitely not, but he supplies his members with delicious wine and food, so I’ll stand in the corner and indulge myself.”
“I’d like to see the place, but I imagine if a woman ever waltzed in the door, the foundations of the building would collapse.”
“No women allowed. Just Sybil.”
“Will women ever be able to join clubs like that?”
“Why would they want to? When men are wagering, they’re disgusting. Why watch them when they’re being idiots?”
He tugged his shirt on. His coat was next, and shortly, he was dressed and prepared to leave.
“Would you toss me my robe?” she asked. She wasn’t comfortable with her nudity. She’d spent too many years buttoned up from chin to toe.
He didn’t mock her for her modesty, and she appreciated it. He threw her the robe, then he strolled out to the sitting room, giving her a minute of privacy to slip it on. She cinched the belt and went out to tell him goodbye.
Her mind was frantically whirring, trying to devise reasons to delay him. It was always thrilling when he arrived and always depressing when he departed.
He was by the window and staring out. He peered over at her and asked, “Have you had any replies to your letters?”
“Not yet, but it’s early. I’m sure someone will want my help.”
“I can picture you at a rally. You’ll be leading the protesters with cheers and jeers as you deride all men everywhere.”
“You men will deserve it.”
She came over and snuggled herself to his side, inhaling his luscious scent. He draped an arm over her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. He was such a tall fellow, and when she was with him, she felt pretty and petite.
“What will you do this evening?” he inquired.
“I’ll write more letters, and I’ll read the advertisements in the newspaper. I may stumble on a position that appears interesting.”
“You should hire a lawyer too, so you can switch the trustee on your trust fund. You have to have your father removed from the account. I’m worried he’ll cut off your money—I’m amazed he hasn’t already—then you’ll be in big trouble.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Can you suggest a viable candidate? He’d have to agree to deal with a female, and he’d have to promise to listen to me rather than my father.”
“I’ll ask my brother about it.” He halted, then scowled. “No, actually, I’ll ask Sybil. She might have a better notion of who you need.”
He kissed her, then walked to the door. She remained where she was, determined not to rush over and glom onto him, determined not to beg him to stay a bit longer.
“Are you still glad you’re in London?” he asked.
“I’m still glad.”
“It will get easier. You merely have to assimilate.”
“I realize that.”
“I’m proud of you,” he suddenly said.
“Proud? Why would you be?”
“You’ve engaged in a dramatic adventure. You were desperate to change your life, and you did. I’ve never met a woman who was so bold. I like it.”
She yearned to ask when he’d be back, but she swallowed down the question. She would not demean herself by seeming inordinately fond.
He flashed a wicked grin and sauntered out, the sound of his boots fading on the stairs. She gazed down into the street, anxious to watch him as he mounted his horse and rode away, but even though she stared for an eternity, she didn’t see him.
She tarried in the quiet. She could hear her heart beating, could hear a clock ticking in the adjacent apartment, and when she recognized how terribly morose she was being, she shook off her dour mood. This was the existence she’d picked for herself, and she wouldn’t rue and regret. There was no point to it.
Blake Ralston was the man of her dreams, the man she adored, and she could have wept over how she’d misplayed her hand with him. She didn’t want a cold, detached relationship where he visited for an afternoon romp. She wanted a ring on her finger and a home of her own, with Blake as her husband.
She shouldn’t have fallen into the trap she had with him. She grasped that now but, in her own defense, she hadn’t understood how intimate a physical affair would be. How could she have known? And once they’d started in, how could she have resisted him?
He was simply too dashing for words.
She wished she was acquainted with an older woman who could advise her as to what she should do—for she had absolutely no idea.
Finally, she yanked away from the window and went to the table in the corner to peruse the newspaper. There were so many intriguing jobs described in it, but they were all for men. She waded through them anyway, forcing herself to be optimistic.
She sat down and began to read when a personal notice caused her to blanch with surprise: Caroline seeking Janet. I’m in London. Where are you? Please reply as indicated so I can find you. There was a box listed at the newspaper office where a response could be sent.
Was it Caroline? Should Janet answer the query? But why would Caroline be in town? What if it was Janet’s father? What if it was a trick he’d used to locate her? If she was caught by him, he might lock her in a convent for being so reckless. She wouldn’t put it past him.
Her pulse pounded with dread—but with excitement too. She couldn’t decide what was best, and she laid the page aside. She would show it to Blake to garner his opinion, and she would figure out a path from there.
Caroline left the newspaper office, and she dawdled on the sidewalk, debating how to proceed. She’d been checking every morning for a month, but there had been no message from Janet, and she was out of options. There was no guarantee Janet would ever chance upon her advertisement, but other than publishing her appeal, she couldn’t guess how to contact her cousin.
She’d arrived in London with no difficulty. On the mail coach, she’d chatted with a widow who’d offered information about the city and how Caroline should settle in. On her recommendation, Caroline had taken a room at a boarding house that was clean and situated in a safe neighborhood.
But the next month’s rent was due, and Caroline had to pay or move out. She was conflicted over her choices. No alternative seemed to be the right one.
She’d been to London on several occasions, so it wasn’t completely strange to her. So far, she’d spent her days meandering and sightseeing, and she’d spent her nights fretting and fuming.
She wanted to return to Grey’s Corner and confront her uncle. He was intending to inflict grave harm on her for no reason she could discern. She’d always been kind to him, and the only time she’d ever been stubborn was over the wedding. Why had he reacted so cruelly? Why would he be so eager to hurt her?
When she was feeling particularly harassed, she’d wonder about Mrs. Scruggs’s belief that he was planning to have her committed to an asylum. What if Mrs. Scruggs had been mistaken about what the footman had overheard? What if Uncle Samson hadn’t planned any such outrage? If so, she’d fled for nothing. Should she go home?
The instant she pondered the notion, she’d scold herself. Mrs. Scruggs wasn’t prone to fantasy. If she thought Caroline was imperiled, then she was.
She had to find Janet. It was growing ever more imperative. She’d be less anxious once they were reunited. Janet was smart and pragmatic, and she’d provide shrewd counsel as to how Caroline could protect herself.
She started down the block, and at the corner, a crowd had gathered. A newsboy was hawking the latest edition of the paper, and peo
ple were rushing up to buy copies. She stood on the edge of the group, curious as to why everyone was so agitated.
One fellow had purchased his copy, and he muttered, “Look what the dirty dog has done to her!”
“What is it?” Caroline asked him. “What’s happened?”
“This can’t stand, Miss!” he said. “It simply can’t stand!”
He shoved the paper under her nose, and the headline practically leapt off the page: LITTLE HENRIETTA FOUND AT LAST!
“Oh, my goodness,” she murmured.
The Little Henrietta scandal had occurred twenty years earlier. Henrietta had been Lord Roland’s baby daughter, and his crazed ex-wife had absconded with her. Lord Roland had searched for her relentlessly, but to no avail. Because of the tragedy, he was a sympathetic character for whom the masses possessed a great affection.
She continued to read, and under the large headline, there were others that were smaller, but even more shocking: Libby Carstairs, Mystery Girl of the Caribbean, Revealed as Little Henrietta! and Lord Roland Denies His Long-Lost Daughter! and Libby Carstairs Under Arrest! Lord Roland Determined to Hide the Truth!
Caroline gasped. “Libby Carstairs is Little Henrietta? Let me see that!”
She jerked the paper out of the man’s hands, and she raced through the stories. Apparently, Libby was Henrietta, but when she’d announced her identity to Lord Roland, he’d called her a liar and had had her arrested for fraud.
“I know Libby Carstairs,” she told him. “She’s a friend of mine.”
“Why would Lord Roland be so awful to her? You’d think he’d be celebrating.”
“Where would they have taken her?” Caroline asked.
He pointed to a paragraph lower in the article. “It says here Newgate Prison.”
“Newgate!” Caroline huffed with offense. “What is wrong with Lord Roland? Is he insane? Can you give me directions to the prison?”
“I’m going there myself,” he said. “I’ll show you where it is. I predict half the city will be there to protest this infamy. Libby Carstairs is England’s darling! This barbarity can’t be born!”
