by Merry Farmer
Anxiety prickled down her back as she approached the back of the house. A wagon waited on the cobblestones just behind the house, its horse still harnessed, hinting that it must have just arrived. There was no guarantee that it was the wagon that had brought James from Bethnal Green, but Marigold chose to think it was. Which meant James was already in the house but not deeply settled yet. She prayed it was true.
Lord Malcolm was right about the servants already being up and hard at work. A maid walked out the kitchen door carrying a bucket of slops, which she disposed of in a trough-like drain. A second maid walked swiftly out of an out-building with a basket of what looked like eggs. Marigold glanced between the kitchen door and the out-building, then dashed into the latter.
The building was some sort of storehouse, with a thick padlock hanging open from the clasp that would normally keep it sealed tight. A woman dressed all in black stood with her back to the door, a clipboard in hand, staring at one of the shelves.
“Only two pounds of butter today,” she said without turning to look at Marigold. “Cook has been shamefully lax lately, and I’m not standing for it anymore.”
Marigold swallowed her gasp. Between the clipboard, the way the woman spoke, and the ring of keys hanging from her belt, she had to be Mrs. Black. Marigold had run into the one person she needed to stay clear of the moment she set foot on the Club’s property. The only thing she could think to do was to silently grab a slab of butter from one of the shelves, then turn and flee the room.
“Send Lotty in for salt,” the housekeeper called after her.
Marigold rushed toward the kitchen door, praying Mrs. Black hadn’t turned around, or if she had, she had mistaken her for a maid who was supposed to be there. As soon as she darted into the house, she deposited the butter on a counter just inside the kitchen door, picked up a dustpan and brush that sat nearby, and marched deeper into the house. If anyone asked, she could tell them she was off to clean something.
But no one asked. No one seemed to be of a mind to ask anyone else anything. The maids Marigold crossed paths with kept their faces downcast. Every one of them looked miserable and trapped, like threadbare rabbits in a cage who knew they would be supper soon. The hall-boy she met on her way up the servant’s stairs was painfully thin and stunted. A deep sense of foreboding shivered down Marigold’s spine.
There were fewer servants on the upper floors. As much as she wanted to reach for the map in her apron to orient herself, there wasn’t time. She poked her head into as many rooms as she could instead, listening intently for any sign of James.
She searched through the entire house, finding nothing. The dread that had been spreading through her filled her stomach with acid and left her heart beating too fast. The urge to cry was far too powerful. She blamed it on her lack of sleep and the madness of what she was doing, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. She was trapped in the lion’s den, the lion’s mouth, even, with no sign of James.
The only thing that kept her from giving up was when she stumbled across a door that opened onto a much longer corridor, stretching into the adjacent house. Marigold swallowed hard before stepping into the corridor. While drawing the map, Ruby had mentioned that part of the house was where the women, girls, and young boys who served the Black Strap Club’s clients were kept and where they did their business. She hadn’t thought there would be any need to travel into that part of the house. She was wrong.
Gathering as much courage as she had left, and gripping the handles of the brush and dustpan as though they were weapons, Marigold moved quickly along the hall. Instinct told her not to open every door in this part of the house, but she listened at each one as best she could. There were sounds everywhere, even though morning had barely broken. Strange sounds that filled her with revulsion and fear.
At one door, she was certain she heard the soft, plaintive cry of a child. She shifted the broom and dustpan to her left hand and turned the door handle with her right, cracking it just enough to see in. The sight that met her was a woman who couldn’t have been even Lavinia’s age, on her knees on the bed, her hips in the air, her hands tied behind her, some sort of large gag in her mouth, as a swarthy man slammed into her.
Marigold stifled a scream and jerked away, shutting the door as quickly as she could. She couldn’t stop the tears from falling then. What kind of a horrible place had they taken James to? She wanted to run as fast as she could, to flee the terrible place, but not without James, not without saving her boy.
She hurried down the hall, trying to listen and not listen at the same time. Exhaustion and horror were turning her brain to mush at the time when she needed to be most on top of things. It didn’t help to hear screams and pleas for mercy coming from a room at the end of the hall. Marigold clapped the back of her hand to her mouth and ran up the stairs, desperate to get away.
Fear made her careless, though, and as she shot out into the hall one floor up, she came face to face with two burly men in worker’s clothes.
“You’re not allowed up here,” one of them told her in a rough voice. “Get gone.”
Marigold froze to her spot, gaping at the two men, her imagination filling with everything they might do to her.
“Are ye daft, girl? Get!” the rough man said, gesturing for her to go.
“Hang on,” the second man said. “I think I know her.”
Panic took over, making Marigold dizzy. “No, you don’t,” she said.
It was a terrible mistake. Her voice and her accent were too refined for any maid. The moment the words were out of her mouth, the men knew she was an imposter.
“That’s Croydon’s wife,” the second man announced, the light of recognition in his eyes.
Somehow, Marigold managed to lift her feet to turn and run, dropping the dustpan and brush as she did, but she was no match for two toughs. She didn’t make it three steps before the rough man grabbed her, yanking her off her feet. She screamed, but screams seemed to be a common thing in that house.
“Get her in the room with the brat,” the second man said as the rough one dragged her farther down the hall.
Marigold was too stunned to struggle, and when the two men pulled her into a small bedroom, its curtains drawn, she spotted James lying unconscious on the bed.
“James!” she shouted.
James didn’t move. His face was pale and his eyes were closed, although he seemed too still for sleep. Marigold broke away from the man holding her, her fear for herself eclipsed by fear for James. The men didn’t try to stop her as she rushed to him, grabbing him and hugging him. James didn’t wake up, but he didn’t have any injuries that she could see.
“What did you do to him?” Marigold demanded.
“Shut him up,” the second man answered, rubbing his hands together. “Just like we’ll do with you if you’re not a good girl.”
For a split-second, Marigold remembered what Ruby said about James being given laudanum. That thought vanished as the second man stalked closer to her, licking his lips.
“Shayles wouldn’t like it,” the rough man warned him.
Marigold wouldn’t like it either. She leapt away from the bed, dashing toward the window. The woman she’d seen all those months ago. She’d tried to signal for help. Marigold could do the same. She threw back the curtains, banging on the glass even as she searched for a way to open the window. Someone below, Lord Malcolm or anyone on the street, had to notice her, had to send help.
“Help!” she cried, unable to tell if anyone on the street had seen her. “Help! He—”
A hand closed over her mouth and an arm went around her waist. But rather than simply suffocating and silencing her, the hand held a cloth from which a strange medicinal smell emanated. Panicked, she breathed it in. Within seconds, the world swam away into blackness.
For a moment, Alex thought he was back in the field hospital in Sebastopol. His side ached, and his head and arm stung. He knew battle wounds when he felt them.
But as he opened hi
s eyes, the sunlight pouring through the window illuminated the room where he lay. His bedroom. In London. Everything was exactly as it should be…and yet not.
“You’re awake, sir.”
Phillips jumped up from somewhere nearby, rushing toward him. The young man’s face was a mask of worry.
Alex pushed himself to a sitting position, the throbbing and stinging increasing. “What happened?”
“You should rest, sir,” Phillips said. “You’ve been injured.”
That much was obvious. Alex winced, but continued to muscle himself to sit with his back against the pillows behind him. Someone had removed his clothes and dressed him in a nightshirt, but they hadn’t been as careful with the bed. The coverlet was irreparably stained with dried, dark red spots of blood. Mrs. Clifford would be beside herself. Marigold would be upset as well.
He snapped his head up. “Where’s Marigold?”
A moment later, Armand strode into the room. “You’re awake?” he asked.
“Evidently,” Alex answered. He shifted his position, gingerly testing his side. “I was shot.”
“And lucky for you, they nearly missed,” Armand said.
“Nearly,” Alex snorted.
“The bullet in your side didn’t go deep, and it failed to hit anything other than muscle.”
“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Alex teased his friend, grunting and grimacing as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Where’s Marigold?”
“Sir, you shouldn’t get up,” Phillips insisted, reaching out as if he would tuck Alex into bed like a child. “You lost quite a bit of blood.”
Alex frowned. He didn’t need to be told things he already knew. “Where’s Marigold?” he repeated, beginning to have the sense his friends were hiding something from him.
“She and Malcolm went after James,” Katya said, stepping into the room as if she’d been hovering just outside the door.
“Katya,” Armand scolded her.
Phillips glared in her direction.
“What?” Katya shrugged, her outwardly calm demeanor failing to hide the anxiety Alex could see in her eyes. “He was going to find out soon enough.”
Alex pushed himself to stand, grabbing the bedside table to steady himself as his head swam. “Whose idiotic idea was it for Marigold to get involved with this?” he hissed.
“Marigold’s,” Katya answered. “Malcolm tried to stop her. He wanted to send Ruby into the Club instead, but as I reminded him—”
“What?” Alex roared, cutting her off.
In a move that was as rare as an eclipse, Katya bowed her head, looking guilty and sheepish. “We concluded that the best way to rescue your son was to attempt to extricate him from Turpin and Shayles’s grasp before they had a chance to move him somewhere out of our reach. Ruby scouted the house in Bethnal Green and discovered they were taking James to the Black Strap Club, so that is where Marigold and Malcolm went.”
Alex raised a hand to his forehead to fight the pain gathering there. “She can’t go into a place like that. She doesn’t know. It would terrify her.”
“She was determined to rescue James,” Katya said. “Malcolm is with her. She’ll be all right.”
“Since when have you had faith in Malcolm Campbell?” Alex growled.
“Since always,” Katya answered, staring at him, unflinching. The depth of her faith and her love was unquestionable.
Alex shook his pounding head, moving gingerly away from the bed and toward his wardrobe. “I’m going after her.”
“Sir, you can’t,” Phillips said.
“You haven’t even begun to recover from your wounds,” Armand said at the same time. He followed Alex, grabbing his arm to stop him.
Alex used Armand’s arm to steady himself, picking up his pace. “I’m up, aren’t I? If I can walk, I can go after her.”
“You’re not ready,” Armand argued. “You won’t be for some time.”
“I’m going after her,” Alex repeated, determination making him stronger. He would probably pay for it and then some later, but for the time being, nothing would get in his way.
“This is foolishness,” Armand continued. “As your physician, I cannot condone any sort of madness that would put you in greater danger.”
Alex yanked open the wardrobe door and turned to him. “You specialize in treating women’s complaints. I’m not a woman.”
“No, but you’re acting—”
“Don’t you dare equate being a woman with foolishness or weakness,” Katya interrupted, voice raised. “Marigold walked into danger to save your son, with nothing other than courage and the love of a mother. She has more strength in her than the lot of you.”
Alex’s brow shot up. He wasn’t about to argue with passion like that. In fact, he agreed with it, which was why he was so desperate to come to Marigold’s aid.
“My wife needs me,” he told Armand. “I almost lost her once. I’m not about to lose her again.”
“Then I’m going with you,” Armand sighed, reaching into the wardrobe to pull out suitable clothes for Alex.
“I’m coming too,” Phillips seconded.
Alex nodded to him.
“You’ll need me along as well,” Katya said, heading for the door. “I’ll fetch the carriage.”
Alex watched her leave, uncertain whether he should applaud the madwoman’s bravado or rue the day he first called her a friend. He was lucky she was on his side, that much was certain.
“If I’m only able to sit in the carriage and watch while the two of you go in after Marigold, then so be it,” he said. “I’ll not leave her in over her head, though.”
“All right,” Armand said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We’ll do what needs to be done.”
Phillips nodded silently, looking as angry about the situation as he did determined to help.
“Good,” Alex said. “Then help me get dressed.”
Chapter 22
Everything was dark when Marigold clawed her way out of the groggy sleep she’d fallen into so suddenly. She’d never been dosed with chloroform before and hoped she never would be again. Her father had described the sensation to her after a minor surgery, but he hadn’t told her that blindness was an after-effect.
“…can’t keep her here,” a peevish voice said somewhere nearby. It wasn’t either of the men who had attacked her just as she’d found James, although something about the voice held a hint of familiarity.
“Why not? It’s the perfect solution. She’s pretty, nubile, and I can think of half a dozen men who would pay whatever you asked to fuck the wife of a political nuisance like Croydon.”
Marigold would have gasped if the chloroform hadn’t left her so hazy. Turpin. Turpin was the one talking now. She would know his voice anywhere, even in the dark.
Although it wasn’t dark. She was blindfolded and gagged, and had her hands bound behind her back. Her feet were bound as well, and she lay on her side on something hard.
“It’s too dangerous,” the voice she didn’t recognize argued. “She’s too well known, not just as Croydon’s wife, but as Percy Bellowes’s daughter too.”
Turpin grumbled wordlessly before saying, “That jumped-up cockney has his fingers in too many pots. Our fathers were fools not to put a stop to the degenerate classes getting above themselves.”
The unrecognized man snorted. “Why Daniel, I had no idea you were such a snob.” To Marigold’s ears—the only part of her that seemed to be functioning adequately—the unrecognized man sounded as though he were laughing at Turpin.
Turpin didn’t seem to catch on. “Quite right I am, if being a snob means I believe God set His creation in a natural order, and it’s blasphemy to go against that.”
The unrecognized man laughed outright. “Don’t tell me you still believe in childish fantasies and fairytales like God.”
“Well…I…um….”
“Believe what you want,” the unrecognized man went on. “In the meantime, we need to take care of
our little problem.”
Two sets of footsteps moved closer to where Marigold lay. She kept as still as possible, forcing herself to regulate her breathing, as though she were still asleep. The chloroform had dulled her fear, leaving her with just enough presence of mind to try to figure out the situation she was in.
“We can’t leave her here,” the unrecognized man repeated. “There’s too much activity, too great a chance someone might wander off where they aren’t supposed to be and discover her and the boy.”
“So what do we do?” Turpin asked. “Kill her? Toss her body down a well? We only need the boy.”
Marigold bit down hard on her gag to stop herself from screaming. She couldn’t keep as still as she knew she needed to.
Until the unrecognized man snorted in derision. “Really, Daniel. Have you no sense of subtlety? Not to mention the value a man places on his woman.”
“But we would make it look as though she was attacked on the way home from an illicit assignation,” Turpin argued. “We could humiliate Croydon the way he’s humiliated me.”
“No.” The unrecognized man was clearly out of patience, and Marigold was out of time. “She’s awake,” he announced.
“What?” Turpin panicked. “She knows who I am. She can’t see me. I can’t be incriminated in this.”
Hasty footsteps followed as Turpin rushed out of the room. The remaining man sighed and leaned closer to Marigold. “Take care with who you throw your lot in with, my dear. You may find yourself saddled with more of a burden than an asset.”
Marigold whimpered as something tugged at the back of her head, but it was only the man untying her blindfold. It sagged free, letting rays of late-afternoon light in at the corners of her vision, then was pulled away entirely. Marigold blinked and squinted, trying to work moisture into her mouth in spite of the gag. She was lying on the floor in the same bedroom where she’d been rendered unconscious. James was still limp and pale on the bed across from her. But it was little comfort.
