by Cheryl Holt
His opinion was shared by many. A mob marched down the street together, keeping on for quite a distance. As they neared the facility, the walls were visible, and the crowd had swelled to an enormous size. There was loud chanting of, Let her out! Let her out!
With all of Caroline’s recent troubles, she’d forgotten to seek out Libby. Now Libby was in jail, and Caroline had to talk to her. There had to be a way to aid her.
Caroline wound into the throng and to the gate. There were guards positioned in front of it, and they warily assessed the spectators, as if expecting them to storm the barricades and rescue Libby. They were holding clubs, and they looked as if they’d be delighted to use them.
Despite their angry glowers, she approached the man in the middle and asked to visit Libby.
He laughed snidely. “Allow me to guess. You’re her only sibling. Or you’re her business partner. Or are you her theater manager? What excuse will you provide?”
“I’m probably her oldest friend. How can I be admitted inside?”
“Several dozen fools have already demanded an audience. They’ve all told me sob stories.”
“Well, my story is true. I’m Caroline Grey. I’m one of the Mystery Girls too. Libby is like my very own sister.”
“That’s a novel one I haven’t heard yet, so I’ll credit you with having a very vivid imagination.”
“I am Caroline Grey. I am a Mystery Girl. May I see her?”
“No, you may not.” He nodded to another guard. “Harry, would you get this woman out of here? She’s annoying me.” The fellow, Harry, grabbed her, and the first guard said, “She tells me she’s a bloody Mystery Girl of the Caribbean, just like Miss Carstairs, so treat her with all the respect she deserves.”
Her identity was declared loudly and rudely, and the other guards snickered. Then Harry dragged her away. She struggled to free herself, and he said, “Don’t come back, Miss. We have a situation brewing, and there’s no time to deal with nonsense like this.”
“I have to be sure Libby is all right.”
“The entire citizenry wants to be sure about Miss Carstairs,” he said, “and schemers like you will never be permitted to bother her.”
He tossed her away, and she lost her balance, then fell to the ground. Her bonnet went flying, her shawl too. She scraped her palms and tore her skirt. The area was packed with protesters, and they were wedged shoulder to shoulder. She curled into a ball, terrified she’d be stepped on and trampled.
Suddenly, her reticule was yanked off her wrist.
She shouted and reached for it, but there was too much noise, so her cry of alarm wasn’t noted. She glared into a forest of legs and saw a pair of shoes dashing away. Her purse—and all her money—was gone.
She staggered about and climbed to her knees as a man leaned down and lifted her up.
“Are you hurt, Miss?”
“My purse!” she wailed. “Someone stole my purse!”
“Oh, no.”
He frowned, as if he’d chase after the interloper, but the crowd was milling, shifting, heaving. They were immediately separated, and she was worried she might be crushed in the melee.
She ducked and moved in the direction of those felonious feet. Eventually, she was spit out onto the edge of the mob. She peered about, expecting to espy a miscreant running down the block with her reticule tucked under his arm.
But there was no sign of the fiend. There were just teeming, livid people bellowing for Libby’s release, and no one noticed Caroline at all.
Caroline was hovered outside the prison, yearning to talk to Libby in a manner that was almost manic in its intensity. Over the past few days, she’d visited several times, but she still hadn’t been admitted into the facility.
When she’d initially arrived in the city, she’d believed herself lucky and shrewd, but she’d been a fool to think she knew what she was doing. Women constantly moved to London, and the kingdom was rife with horror stories about the disasters that befell them when they behaved so rashly.
Janet hadn’t replied to any of her advertisements, and Caroline’s money had been stolen. She’d run through her nights of lodging at the boarding house and hadn’t been able to pay for more of them. While she’d been visiting the newspaper office, the proprietor had set her portmanteau out on the porch. It had been stolen too, so the possessions she’d brought with her to London were gone.
She was out of options, and she had to return to Grey’s Corner. What choice did she have? She simply had to swallow her pride, beg her uncle’s forgiveness, then prepare to endure whatever punishment he inflicted. She was feeling that beleaguered and distraught.
The only problem was that she hadn’t the funds to buy a ticket on the mail coach. If she went home, she’d have to walk. She’d have to ask teamsters and farmers for rides in their wagons, but there was great risk involved in traveling that way.
There were always stories too about women, usually younger ones, who accepted rides from strangers, then they vanished.
She’d decided to make a last attempt to speak to Libby, then she had to get out of the city. Her situation was too dire, and she couldn’t dawdle.
The crowd had grown to an enormous size, and there was a new energy in the air. Rumor had it that Libby was about to be released. Her bail had been posted, and shortly, she would emerge from the front gate.
Caroline was wedging herself toward it, but she was so petite, and many of the protesters were large, angry men. She was jostled and stepped on and once even pushed to the ground again.
She looked a sight. Her palms were scraped and bleeding, her face smudged with dirt. Her hair was drooping down her back.
Finally, she neared the gate. A pink carriage was parked next to it. Suddenly, the gate was flung open. A phalanx of guards marched out, and they were swinging clubs, creating a path to the carriage.
Then the spectators parted and. . . ?
There she was! Dear Libby! Her oldest friend. Libby, the fearless companion who had haunted her dreams for two decades. Libby, the lone female in all the world who could comprehend the challenging life Caroline had led after their terrible ordeal in the Caribbean.
She recollected Libby being very pretty, but she was even more beautiful now. Her adult years had added drama and elegance to her features so she could have been a princess trapped in a tower.
She was being hustled along and wasn’t focused on any of the unruly bystanders. She didn’t so much as peek at Caroline, and why would she have? Caroline was filthy, and with her hand extended, she might have been a beggar, pleading for alms.
“Libby!” she shouted, but the noise was overwhelming. “Libby! It’s me! It’s Caroline Grey! Do you remember me? You can’t have forgotten!”
Libby was lifted into the vehicle, the horses pulling her away so swiftly she might never have been there at all. Caroline’s shoulders slumped with defeat, and she was about to stagger away when she noticed a wealthy gentleman staring at Libby’s retreating coach. His desire to be inside it with her was blatantly apparent.
She brazenly said to him, “Pardon me, sir, but you were gazing at Miss Carstairs so fondly. Do you know her?”
“Yes, I know her.”
“I know her too.”
“Good for you,” he muttered, clearly not wanting to be bothered.
“I called to her, but she couldn’t hear me.”
“Yes, it’s been very loud.”
He tried to skirt by her, but she clasped his arm. “Can you tell me where she went? Are you going there now?”
“No, I’m not going there.”
“Where does she live? How would I find her lodging?”
He assessed her deteriorated condition, and it was obvious he deemed her to be a tad deranged.
“I can’t tell you any of that,” he said.
“When you talk to her,
will you inform her you spoke to Caroline Grey? I’ve been searching for her.”
“Yes, I’ll be sure to apprise her for you.”
His snooty tone indicated he didn’t mean it. He circled by her and kept on, and she said, “It’s Caroline Grey! Little Caro! Don’t forget! I’ve missed her desperately!”
She hollered other comments, yearning for him to believe she wasn’t a lunatic making up stories, but he was anxious to get away from her. He was swallowed up, and she couldn’t see him. She breathed out a heavy sigh.
Could she possibly suffer one more calamity? What hadn’t happened to her? What other disasters might happen before Fate was through with her?
She had to head to Grey’s Corner. She had to confess to Mrs. Scruggs that she’d lost her money. Then she had to throw herself on her uncle’s mercy and hope he’d let her in the door. If he wouldn’t, she supposed she’d end up in the poor house.
She started walking, and ultimately, she was far away from the prison and the commotion that had erupted there. She was hungry, thirty, and miserable, and she wondered if she could be directed to a rescue mission so she could have something to eat.
She began to cry, and people noted her deteriorated state, but no one asked what was wrong. No one asked if she could use some help. They rushed by her, as if—whatever her issue—it might be catching.
She shouldn’t have fled Grey’s Corner at Mrs. Scruggs’s urging. She should have stayed in her small, isolated bedroom and allowed her uncle to implement his scheme. Despite the plot he’d cooked up with Gregory, she doubted he’d have let her starve.
Eventually, she glanced around, finding herself on a busy thoroughfare. Commerce was brisk. Wagons, carriages, and hansom cabs rolled by. Vendors hawked wares from carts. Pedestrians hurried to their destinations.
She gazed up at the building next to her. There was a sign over the door, and as she read it, she gasped with surprise. It couldn’t be. Could it?
“Ralston’s. . .” she murmured, and a shiver ran down her spine. What were the odds?
It had to be Caleb Ralston’s gambling club, didn’t it? Dare she inquire? Dare she request the chance to chat with him?
He’d aid her; she just knew he would. He wouldn’t permit Uncle Samson to lock her in an asylum. He simply wouldn’t!
Why hadn’t she sought him out earlier? As he’d departed Grey’s Corner, he’d encouraged her to contact him if she ever needed his help. She’d assumed she’d be too proud to ever consider it, but pride was the main casualty of her current position. She had none remaining.
It hadn’t occurred to her to pester him. After all, they were barely acquainted, and it would have seemed presumptuous to have him intervene in her problems, but at the notion that he’d assist her, she was so relieved that her knees buckled. She staggered and had to fight to keep her balance.
There were three steps that led to the entrance. She marched over, climbed them, and briskly knocked.
Caleb was sitting in Sybil’s office. She was conferring with a deliveryman, then they would go home for a few hours. They’d return later, when the crowds arrived.
For a brief moment, his temper flared, and he reveled in it. He’d been born and raised in Jamaica and had spent much of his life out on the water, but now, he was stuck inside. With his business thriving, he’d likely never escape England. It was galling, and the unfairness nibbled away at him, but he tamped it down.
He was an adult who was free to pick his own path. He’d chosen to accept the blame for Blake’s mischief in the navy, so he’d had to retire. He’d chosen to tarry in London rather than sail to the Caribbean. He’d chosen to buy a house and settle down. He’d chosen to open a gambling club with Sybil.
No one had held a gun to his head, and his decisions meant he was very rich. What kind of idiot would complain about it?
A footman knocked and peeked in. “A young lady has asked for you. Should I claim you’ve left? What’s your preference?”
He bristled, figuring it would be a wife or sister of a member. She’d beg him for mercy and would perhaps even offer salacious favors so he’d cancel a debt. He never cancelled any of them though, and once a member reached the spot where his female kin were bothering Caleb, the fellow was kicked out.
“Did she mention who her relative is?” he asked. “On whose behalf am I being petitioned?”
“She didn’t tell me.”
“I don’t have the patience for it today. Have her come back tomorrow afternoon—and talk to Sybil.”
“I hate to send her away, Mr. Ralston. She looks as if she’s experienced some difficulties. She could probably use a hot meal. Could I take her to the kitchen and feed her?”
“That’s fine, but escort her out the minute she’s finished.”
“And. . . ah. . . she told me—in case you were reluctant—to remind you that you invited her to contact you if she was ever in trouble. She asked me to add that she hoped you were serious.”
Caleb scowled, struggling to remember any woman to whom he might have tendered such a vow. “What’s her name?”
“It’s Caroline Grey, sir. Miss Caroline Grey? From Grey’s Corner?”
Had he heard that correctly? “Caroline is here?”
“Yes, Mr. Ralston, and I’m afraid she’s—”
Before the man could complete his sentence, Caleb had leapt up and rushed by him. He ran down the hall to the foyer, and he skidded to a halt, feeling as if he was hallucinating.
There was Caro! Standing in his lobby! She was filthy and bedraggled, her hair hanging down, her skirt ripped, her face smudged, but he’d never observed a more glorious sight.
In the past few weeks, he’d nearly saddled a horse and ridden to Grey’s Corner on a hundred different occasions. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her, and he’d been anxious over her plight, as if she might need him. Apparently, his intuition was working quite well. Since he’d last been with her, she’d definitely suffered a catastrophe.
“Caro,” he said tentatively, as if she were a wild animal that might bolt. “Is it really you?”
She spun toward him in a sort of slow motion that was thrilling and peculiar. It seemed as if the entire universe was noting the encounter.
“Oh, Caleb! Am I glad to see you!”
“What happened?”
“I’ve been having the worst time of it.”
She burst into tears, and he hurried over and pulled her into his arms. She wrapped herself around him, holding on as if they were floating in the middle of the ocean and—should he release her—she’d sink to the bottom.
He began kissing her, and instantly, he was in too deep. He’d forgotten how intensely connected they’d been. He’d forgotten the sparks they generated, the joy she induced.
He couldn’t guess how long they continued. He was vaguely aware of members gaping and servants staring. It was Sybil who penetrated the fog of elation that had enveloped him.
“Caleb,” she said, “I have to point out that you’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
He drew away from Caro. She hadn’t loosened her grip on him, and he wondered if she’d ever calm down enough to let go.
“Everything will be all right now,” he murmured to her.
“I know.”
“At the first sign of trouble, you should have come to me. Who put you in this condition? Was it Gregory? Was it your uncle?”
Caro might have expounded, but Sybil bustled over, saying, “We shouldn’t dither over it here. It’s clear she’s too distraught to explain.”
“You’re correct, as always,” Caleb said.
Sybil focused her wily gaze on Caro and said, “Will you introduce me, Caleb?”
“This is Miss Caroline Grey. I told you about her.”
Sybil snorted with amusement. “You told me about her, but obviously, you didn�
�t tell me.”
“We met when I was in the country.” He smiled at Caro. “Caro, this is my friend and business partner, Sybil Jones.”
“Hello, Miss Jones.” Caro was trembling slightly, tears still dripping down her cheeks as if there were so many she couldn’t keep them at bay.
Sybil wedged herself between them, deftly separating her from Caleb. “I’m sorry for your dilemma, Miss Grey. Will you permit us to tend you for a bit? We’ll have you improved in no time at all.”
Sybil led her through the gaming room, through the kitchens, and out to the alley, where their carriage was parked. They’d been about to head off, so the horses were harnessed and waiting for them.
Caro seemed to have deflated. Sybil was practically carrying her, as if every ounce of Caro’s energy had evaporated.
Several footmen had tagged after them, and they appeared stricken over her plight. The carriage door was opened, and two of them stepped forward and lifted her in. She was limp as a ragdoll, so it was easy for them to manhandle her.
Sybil climbed in, then Caleb followed. Sybil slid onto the seat across from Caro, but Caleb sat next to her and tugged her onto his lap. She nestled herself to his chest and wept quietly all the way home.
Caleb lurked in the hall outside the guest bedchamber where Sybil had sequestered Caro after they’d arrived at their London house. The minute they’d entered, Sybil had begun shouting orders. Caro had been whisked up the stairs, and Sybil had locked them in, with their female servants mobilized to offer assistance.
He’d been relegated to the status of observer and hadn’t been allowed into the room. He’d cooled his heels, trying to keep his impatience in check, as they fussed over her.
It was evening already, the lamps and fires lit. She’d been bathed and fed, her cuts washed and bandaged. The servants had left, but Sybil was still with her. The hum of their voices was audible, but he couldn’t discern any words, and he couldn’t imagine what they were discussing.
