by Merry Farmer
“I’m here, Alex,” Marigold said, calmer, even though there was a catch in her voice. “I’m right here with you. I’m not going to leave you.”
“I should fetch clean water and bandages, if we have any,” Mr. Phillips said. “Dr. Pearson will need them when he arrives.”
“You do that,” Lord Malcolm said. He stayed where he was as Mr. Phillips left the room, but after a few minutes, when Marigold didn’t even look at him, let alone speak to him, he too left.
It was a strange sort of relief to be alone with Alex, as dire as his condition was. At last, Marigold felt as though she could weep freely and clutch his hand, kissing it the way he’d kissed hers when she lay in bed with a fever, her body broken after the carriage wreck. She prayed that Alex would recover, that they were experiencing all of the sorrow of their lives at once, right at the beginning of their days together, and that the rest of their lives would be blue skies and calm seas.
“I don’t know what I would do without you,” she whispered, leaning closer to kiss his sweaty, blood-speckled cheek. “I love you, Alex. I do. You can’t leave me now.”
She bowed her head, afraid to rest it against his chest, but wanting to hug him all the same. Her heart felt as though it was in danger of shattering if Alex was grievously injured. She hadn’t realized it was possible to love someone so much. The agony she felt now made the scintillating infatuation she felt in the spring pale into nothingness.
And then he raised his left hand, resting it on her side. Marigold gasped, lifting enough to look at his face. His eyes opened just a crack before closing again, but that was all she needed. Alex was alive, and he was fighting.
She wasn’t sure how long it was before another commotion started downstairs. She heard steps coming upstairs, then Dr. Pearson burst through the door, medical bag in hand.
“How is he?” he asked.
Marigold pushed away from Alex and stood. “He’s alive.” She blinked and swallowed. “Do you treat men as well as women?”
Dr. Pearson sent her a sideways look as he reached Alex’s bedside. “We are all trained in the basics before studying our special tracks.”
It was all the explanation Marigold felt she was going to get, but it was enough. She stepped back, watching with wide, horrified eyes as Dr. Pearson cut Alex’s shirt and Mr. Phillips’s makeshift bandage away to assess the damage. He was silent as he worked, leaving Marigold to guess at the extent of Alex’s injuries, but the fact that he left the wound in Alex’s arm and head in favor of focusing on the bullet in his side was enough to indicate even to Marigold’s uneducated eyes where the real problem was.
Mr. Phillips entered the room less than a minute later, his arms filled with linen and a steaming pitcher. “We have some carbolic acid in the scullery, if you don’t have enough.”
“What I have should be fine,” Dr. Pearson answered him. “The bullet isn’t lodged deep. Whoever fired this one must have been standing farther away. I should be able to extract it.”
Marigold took another step back as Mr. Phillips brought his things to the bedside and climbed around to where he could assist Dr. Pearson. She watched for as long as she could, until Dr. Pearson took what looked like a long, thin pair of tongs from his bag. A flash of ice-cold poured through her, along with unaccountable fear. Her mind grasped futilely at another memory, one she could barely recall of writhing in pain as she lay on her back, Dr. Miller hovering over her. A wave of nausea hit her, and she rushed into the hall.
There wasn’t much in the way of fresh air in the hall, but it was enough to steady her stomach and her nerves. She marched a few steps, then leaned her back against the wall to catch her breath.
The sound of raised voices downstairs pulled her out of her attempts to calm herself.
“…never listen to me, even though I’m right,” Lady Stanhope shouted.
“You’re a bloody fool for thinking you’re right all the time,” Lord Malcolm answered her.
“I have to think I’m right all the time,” Lady Stanhope argued on. “Do you know what happens to women if they don’t demand what’s theirs?”
“Yes, they live happy, peaceful lives!”
“They get plowed under with the rest of the refuse that men like you think they don’t need.”
Marigold pushed away from the wall, her face burning. As curious as she’d always been about Lady Stanhope and Lord Malcolm’s past, a sudden, towering rage filled her. She charged down the stairs and across the hall to the parlor, where they stood face-to-face, toe-to-toe, glowering at each other.
“If you had listened to me,” Lady Stanhope continued, “none of us would be in this mess.”
“Listening to you was what started this mess in the first place,” Lord Malcolm shouted back. “You and your bloody wedding present. You knew as well as I did Alex would run off half-cocked to bring Turpin down on his own. You’re always causing trouble, always instigating disasters because you can’t stand how dull your life has become.”
“How was I to know—”
“Stop!” Marigold shouted, holding up her hands.
Lady Stanhope and Lord Malcolm jumped apart, radiating fury as they turned to Marigold. Marigold balled her hands into fists as she continued to hold her arms up.
“My husband is upstairs fighting for his life,” she flung at them. “My son has been kidnapped by notorious men who have already tried to kill us once, and who have caused irreparable damage. I will not stand here listening to some foolish lover’s quarrel.”
As soon as her speech was finished, she gasped at her own audacity. Lady Stanhope, on the other hand, sent her a quick grin of approval.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Croydon,” Lord Malcolm said, darting a vicious sidelong look to Lady Stanhope. “Alex and James are our first priorities.”
“Are they?” Marigold lowered her arms at last. Her hands and her gown, the same dusty gown she’d been wearing since dressing at Winterberry Park that morning, what felt like a lifetime away, were dotted with dried blood. “What do you propose to do about them, then?”
Lord Malcolm stepped toward her. “Our first attempt might have failed, but Turpin is bound to contact us with his demands before dawn.”
“He has already contacted us with his demands,” Marigold said. It took all of her willpower not to shout. She felt as though she’d reached the end of her tether, and there was nothing but anger and determination left in her. “He wants us to put an end to all of the rumors about Ruby and to restore his good name.”
“But he hasn’t yet said how or when he’ll return James,” Lord Malcolm added, softening his voice. “There will be more demands to come.”
“And he’ll move James,” Lady Stanhope added. “Now that he is aware we tracked him the first time, he’ll move James somewhere he thinks we can’t track him.”
“Are there such places?” Marigold asked.
Reluctantly, Lady Stanhope nodded. “They’re not the sort of places you would want any child.”
“Then we have to stop him.” Marigold glanced between Lady Stanhope and Lord Malcolm. “Would I be right to assume that if we wait too long and James is slipped out from under either of your web of spies, we would have no choice but to play along with Turpin and to give him what he wants?”
Lady Stanhope and Lord Malcolm exchanged a look. It was the first look of accord Marigold had seen pass between them, but it wasn’t comforting.
Lady Stanhope stepped toward her. “If Turpin’s men steal James away to a place we aren’t aware of, yes, it would complicate matters. If Lord Shayles is involved, which I am absolutely certain he is, it could present an even greater set of dangers.” She paused, pressing her lips together gingerly as if debating sharing something even more horrible. At last, she said in a cryptic rush, “Shayles has no scruples at all and would seek to profit off of whatever assets he thinks he has.”
Marigold swallowed, though all moisture had left her throat. She couldn’t quite piece together why Lady Stanhope’s wor
ds frightened and horrified her so much, but she remembered the terrified young woman she’d seen in the window of the Black Strap Club just after her marriage. She didn’t want to know why her fear was suddenly doubled, she only wanted to take action.
“What can we do?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“As soon as we know where James is being held, if they’ve moved him or if he’s still at Bethnal Green, we move in to extract him the same way he was taken from you,” Lady Stanhope said.
Marigold blinked and shook her head. “We kidnap him from the kidnappers?”
“We use stealth and cunning instead of announcing ourselves with a full, frontal assault,” Lady Stanhope answered, sending a dismissive glance in Lord Malcolm’s direction.
“How the devil do you expect to use stealth to best a man who prides himself on being one step ahead of everyone else?” Lord Malcolm growled, narrowing his eyes at Lady Stanhope.
She didn’t have a chance to answer. The front door flew open once again, letting in the first rays of dawn, and Ruby with them. The pink-faced maid rushed into the parlor, a hand clasped to her chest. She gulped for air, then announced, “They’ve loaded him in a carriage and are taking him to the Club.”
Chapter 21
Marigold clasped a hand to her chest, her heart aching with fear. But behind the fear, a new determination was growing.
“We have to go to him,” she said, starting across the room to prove her point.
“You can’t rush into a confrontation as if we’re in a Wild West show,” Lady Stanhope said, stopping her.
Marigold whipped around to face her friend and mentor. “What do you suggest we do, then? Let Turpin or Shayles or whoever it is who has my son captive do what they’d like to him?”
Lady Stanhope pursed her lips and let out an impatient breath through her nose. “Of course not. But they far outnumber and out-power us. We cannot hope to rescue James with a direct attack.”
“Then what?” Marigold balled her fists, feeling the heat of desperation pulse through her.
A stilted silence followed her words, then Lord Malcolm let out a breath and stepped toward Marigold. “If we act fast, there’s a slim chance we might be able to get to the Black Strap Club before James arrives. If we had someone on the inside, someone already in place, it might simply be a matter of waiting until they let their guard down.
“They never let their guard down there,” Ruby spoke up from the doorway, where she still stood, pale and rigid. Her eyes had a glassy, terrified look.
A spark of inspiration lit Lord Malcolm’s face. “You’ve lived there.” He broke away from Marigold and Lady Stanhope to approach her. “You know your way around the house.”
“What are you saying?” Lady Stanhope followed him, glaring at Lord Malcolm as though he were the enemy.
“I’m saying that Ruby should sneak into the house and wait,” Lord Malcolm snapped, seemingly irritated that Lady Stanhope would question him.
“Oh, no.” Ruby shook her head and backed into the hall.
“You can’t send her in there,” Lady Stanhope said at the same time, her voice rising. “After what I assume happened to her there? What kind of a cruel tyrant are you?”
“We need someone who can slip in unnoticed, who knows the house, and who has escaped once before,” Lord Malcolm raised his voice as well.
“I couldn’t,” Ruby wept. “Please don’t make me go back there.”
“It’s the best chance we have of ending this swiftly and effectively,” Lord Malcolm said, addressing Lady Stanhope without looking at Ruby.
“Malcolm, she’s obviously too terrified to even think of it.” Lady Stanhope threw out an arm at Ruby, glaring at Lord Malcolm. “It’s about time you pulled your head out of your arse and considered the feelings of others above your own machinations for a change.”
“I could say the same about you,” Lord Malcolm said, taking a step toward her in what appeared to be an attempt to tower over her.
“I’ll do it,” Marigold shouted, if only to stop the whirlwind of tension between the two from spinning out of control.
Lady Stanhope and Lord Malcolm jerked away from each other and faced her. Lord Malcolm blinked, incredulous. Lady Stanhope narrowed her eyes as if considering the plan.
“I’ll go,” Marigold repeated. “I don’t care how dangerous it is. Dress me as a maid, and I can slip into the house.”
“You don’t know the house’s layout,” Lord Malcolm argued.
Marigold swallowed, thinking fast. “Bring Ruby some paper and a pencil. She can draw a map of the rooms for me.”
Ruby gasped, but the fear in her eyes turned to a frantic sort of agreement. “There’s not too many places they’d keep a young boy,” she said. “Not in the dungeon, and not in any of the rooms. They’d most likely put him somewhere quieter, out of the way.”
Marigold had no wish to know what Ruby meant by “dungeon” or “rooms”, but she crossed to Ruby, putting a hand on her arm. “Anything you can remember and draw, anything at all, would be helpful.”
“This is madness,” Lord Malcolm interrupted. “You can’t go into a situation like this, Mrs. Croydon. You have no training, no experience with these sorts of things. It would be like sending a lamb to the slaughter.”
“A lamb has already been sent to the slaughter,” Lady Stanhope interrupted. “James. And if we don’t hurry, everything will become far, far more complicated.”
“So you agree with this daft plan, do you?” Lord Malcolm rounded on her.
“No,” Lady Stanhope replied, incredulous. “But we don’t have any better plans or options.” She turned to Marigold. “I have several sets of eyes and ears inside and outside of the Black Strap Club.”
“You do?” Ruby blinked, shaking her head. “Where? Who?”
Lady Stanhope let out an impatient breath. “Yes, dear. I do. How do you think you were able to escape in the first place?”
Ruby clapped a hand to her heart. Marigold’s brow shot up, and her awe of Lady Stanhope doubled.
“As to who, the fewer people who know the better.” She turned back to Marigold. “There isn’t time to contact my girls on the inside, but every one of them is smart as a whip, and if they sense what you’re there to do, they’ll help, I’m sure of it.”
Lord Malcolm made a scoffing noise.
“Oh, and the brute force will be waiting outside to bungle everything a second time if you should need help,” Lady Stanhope went on, dripping with sarcasm.
Marigold nodded, turning to Ruby. “Do you have a uniform I could borrow?”
“If I don’t, I’m sure Mrs. Clifford does.”
With Lord Malcolm still grumbling in protest, they jumped into action. Ruby took Marigold downstairs to the servant’s hall, where she quickly changed her worn and dusty dress for a simple, ill-fitting maid’s uniform.
“It’s not the same as the maids at the Club,” Ruby said as she helped Marigold do up the buttons, “but it’s black, and that’s what counts.”
By the time they were done dressing and Ruby had undone Marigold’s elaborate hairstyle to braid her hair and fasten it in a bun at the back of her head, Lady Stanhope had called her carriage and driver around to the front door. Ruby had sketched out a map while Marigold dressed and thrust it into her hands.
“Are you ready?” Lady Stanhope asked as she handed Marigold up into the carriage.
“No,” Marigold answered truthfully.
“I’m going with you,” Lord Malcolm announced as Marigold rushed out the front door into the spreading dawn light.
“And I’m staying here,” Lady Stanhope said, sending Lord Malcolm a peevish look. “There are things I can do from afar that I wouldn’t be able to do right there at the Club.”
Marigold wasn’t sure what she meant, but she didn’t have time to consider it. The moment she was secure in the carriage with Lord Malcolm, the driver set off.
“This is madness,” Lord Malcolm muttered as they rolled al
ong. “If I had time to educate you, show you how to use a weapon, that would be one thing.” He shook his head. “You’re far too good and innocent for a mission like this.”
“I will do anything to rescue my son,” Marigold said, staring at him with steely determination.
“He’s not—” He snapped his mouth shut and let out a breath through his nose, gaze stony. “Make yourself as small as possible,” he told her. “Walk normally, not too fast. Carry yourself as though you’re supposed to be there, but keep your face down. It’s early, but the other servants will be at work already. They have a steady stream of new servants coming in and out, especially maids, so it might not be as unusual as all that for a new maid to be wandering the halls. But whatever you do, do not let Mrs. Black see you.”
“Mrs. Black?” Marigold asked, her voice trembling.
“The housekeeper. She’ll know you aren’t meant to be there.”
“But how will I know which one she is?”
“The same way you know in any house, by how she’s dressed.”
The carriage rolled on, and Lord Malcolm continued to load Marigold down with advice and cautions. By the time they came to a stop at the end of the lane that contained the Black Strap Club’s mews, her head was spinning. She hadn’t slept in far too long, she hadn’t eaten more than a mouthful since her hurried supper before leaving Winterberry Park the day before. Her nerves were frayed, and she knew full well she wasn’t thinking clearly enough to do what she needed to do. But she climbed down from the carriage when Lord Malcolm said it was safe.
Marigold hadn’t had time to memorize the map Ruby had drawn for her, so as she hurried along the narrow mews toward the Black Strap Club, she took the folded bit of paper from her apron and scanned it. The house that adjoined the Club itself had been built on the same design as a hundred other houses in London, so navigating it wouldn’t be the hard part. Finding James without being seen was where things would get tricky. At least she was able to locate which kitchen door belonged to the Club, based on both Ruby’s and Lord Malcolm’s descriptions.
