And so for two weeks she kept herself exhausted from constant work, so as not to think about him, until she returned home one sunny Monday afternoon to find the sheriff and bailiff’s men come to arrest her.
Chapter 11
Chaos reigned in the scene outside Callista’s home on Bloomsbury Square.
She’d had Meacham drop her and Billy off west of the square, as she’d had to deliver a local book commission and pick up tea from a shop run by an old family friend. Their local tea merchant had cut them off for an overdue account.
She and Billy were chatting about the gossip rags—a new passion Marie had started him on that Callista would have squashed, save the lad was now reading so much he was near fluent—when his worried exclamation brought them to an abrupt halt.
“Miss H.—somethin’s wrong at the house!”
Something was very wrong indeed.
Transfixed, she watched men toss bolts of fabric into an old cart parked in front of their house: fluttering bright blue, crimson stripe, a yellow tartan—all of Marie’s stock, and the last of her friend’s inheritance, landing in the back of a dirty cart. Callista gasped as a precious shimmery gold peau de soie meant for a ball gown fell short of the cart and landed in a puddle in the gutter.
Marie stood on the steps, yelling and grabbing at the arm of the bailiff heaving her lifework out the door. Lady Mildred was in the street, her hair askew, arguing tearfully with a sheriff’s officer, who pushed past her into the house. Mrs. Baines and Margaret were clutching at their aprons, and a growing crowd of neighbors and passersby was gathering to witness the fracas.
Callista picked up her skirts and ran, Billy at her heels.
She arrived at the house, out of breath, as two burly bailiff’s men carried her morning-room dining table out to the cart. “What’s going on here?” she asked of Marie and her great-aunt, gazing around in horror. The two women started talking at once, Marie in French and Lady Mildred with choked sobs. Callista could make out nothing of their story, save confused snippets such as “eviction,” “debtor’s suit,” “the duke,” and “ill repute.”
The men with the table shouldered Callista roughly aside. “Eh! Watch out, there!” Billy cried, steadying her protectively.
“On what grounds and whose authority are you doing this?” she demanded of them.
They jerked a chin at the tall and skinny man in a soiled sheriff’s uniform inside the hall. “Talk t’ Mr. Caldwell,” one muttered, not bothering to stop.
But when she stepped up to the sheriff’s officer, he frowned and pulled her back outside. “None but the authorities are allowed on the premises,” he pronounced officiously. “Be ye the resident of record”—he looked down his nose to consult the sheaf of papers in his hands—“a Miss Higginbotham?”
“Yes, I am she.” Callista had heard of this Mr. Caldwell before and pulled her arm free of the unpleasant man’s grip. They had a neighbor on the square, a doctor of divinity, who’d run up an unfortunately high tab at a gambling den and had been held in the sponge house run by this very sheriff’s officer and his wife until he’d settled up the suit. “I must demand you cease abusing my property immediately! There’s obviously some misunderstanding here. There is no suit against us.” Her debts with the household merchants hadn’t gotten that bad yet.
“On the contrary, miss. The Duke of Bedford is pressing a very serious suit against ye, for failure to pay land rent. He’s seizing yer belongings to distress ’em at sale and pay off wot ye owe. Meanwhile, yer all evicted. We’re to take ye and”—he looked down at his documents again—“Marie Beauvallon and Mildred Willette to my sponge house and hold ye there till the judge can sort it out.”
Billy piped up, looking ready to throw punches. “That’s Lady Mildred! She’s the daughter of the fourth Duke of Galbridge, and yer to treat her with proper respect as yer better!”
“Billy, that’s enough,” said Callista, stepping in front of him to block the officer’s glowering advance. “Mr. Caldwell, whatever are you talking about? I paid the land rent in full last quarter, for the entire upcoming year! There’s no possible basis for arrest!”
As they spoke, one of the bailiffs pulled a small pot of paste from his shoulder satchel and posted an eviction and debtor notice, marked prominently with her name and address, on the gas lamp nearest their steps. Mrs. Watten, the gossip queen of the square, moved over to read it.
It was Callista’s worst fear realized: her family evicted, their furniture thrown into the street, publicly shamed in front of all.
“They all say the same, missy, ‘There must be a mistake!’ ” The sheriff’s officer scoffed indifferently. “My job is to get ye to the judge and let him decide the matter. The Duke of Bedford is a powerful man, and his agent has sworn out a complaint saying yer in violation of yer lease. It says here there’s no record of any rent paid last Lady Day. Do you have a receipt to prove otherwise?”
She flashed to the memory of thrusting Garforth the pound notes for the year’s rent and rushing out of his offices. She’d left before his clerk could write out a receipt!
Caldwell continued. “There’s also a charge here that yer running an unlicensed bawdy house. Now, that’s a serious accusation in a respectable public square.”
“A bawdy house!” Her mouth fell open. She would have laughed had not the horror of the situation been so real. “My young sister lives here! And do you imagine Lady Mildred is a bordello madam? The very idea is preposterous!”
“I imagine,” he said, leering, “the madam part would be more yer job.”
And then she realized shame paled beside a further problem.
“Where is Daphne?” Looking at Marie and glancing around wildly, she realized her sister was nowhere to be seen. Please, God, please let her be at the greengrocer, or visiting one of her friends off the square. But a cold terror struck her at Marie’s next words.
“Don’t worry, chérie—Monsieur Garforth came by when the sheriff’s and bailiff’s men first arrived. Lady Mildred said Daphne shouldn’t have to witness this spectacle, and he offered to take her away. We told him we’d be obliged if he brought her to Lady Beatrice’s home. She’ll be safe there.”
Safe! Callista had never told Marie or Lady Mildred about Garforth’s vile interest in Daphne—the topic was too horrifying to bring up. Now her reticence had handed Daphne over to that devil!
If Callista was locked in custody she wouldn’t be able to get her sister away from him. It would be two or three days before she could explain the situation to the judge and free them all. That would be far too late for Daphne.
It was clear what Garforth’s plan of revenge entailed—he could be hurting her, even now! God help her, she needed to get to her sister! She felt hysteria rising up fast, knew it would do no good, but could barely stop herself from giving in to panic and fear. She clung to a thin edge of rationality.
Think! She needed a plan! Her eyes locked with Billy’s and somehow what she saw there helped her hold on. She gave him the smallest nod and saw him return it with a resolute look.
Thinking quickly, she made her decision. Lady Mildred and Marie would be safe enough in the sponging house. She’d have to sacrifice the two of them to that indignity for the moment.
It was Daphne who needed her now.
She spoke in rapid French to Marie, hoping the sheriff’s officer and his men had none of that tongue. “Marie, Daphne is not safe with Garforth—he’s an evil man. I already paid the rent in full. He’s doing this to get revenge and get his hands on her. I’m going to Garforth’s to fetch her back; do what you can for Lady Mildred.” Callista wasn’t even sure where he’d taken Daphne, but the lodging he’d mentioned around the corner from his office was the only location she could think of.
Caldwell frowned. “Hey, I don’t care for all that babbling. You three ladies,” he said, grabbing Callista’s arm again, “are coming with me. Ye’ll make fine additions to the sponge house—quite lift up Miz Caldwell’s consequence,
ye will.”
Callista began to struggle in earnest against the officer’s tight hold. She was aware of the busybody Mrs. Watten and others from the square looking on. She heard her great-aunt’s distressed sobs and Marie’s French curses as the bailiff loaded them roughly into the cart. But all she could think of was Daphne, her sweet sister, in the grip of that blackguard Garforth.
She took a deep breath, willing her frantically beating heart under control, and then pretended to faint. Although she’d never done anything so weak-willed as swoon before, Caldwell seemed to expect just such an eventuality when she closed her eyes and let her body go limp.
“Eh, boys, we’ve got another swooner,” he called out, laughing to his men. “That’s our second one today.”
Heartless brute, Callista thought, see how you’d feel if it were your home and sister in danger!
When Caldwell relaxed his hold, she pulled abruptly free and scrambled away at a run. “Billy—with me!”
The sheriff’s officer dashed after her and snatched at her skirts, but Billy tripped him into the gutter. The boy grabbed her hand and tugged her into the alley behind the row of town houses as two bailiff’s men began to follow in hot pursuit. “This way, Miss H.! Stick close!”
He pulled her at a fast gallop into a series of twists and turns through back passageways, service gates, delivery lanes, and narrow alleys in the warren of streets in the old section to the east of Bloomsbury. A couple of times they doubled back or ducked into open carriage-house doors to evade the pounding feet and shouts of their pursuers. Callista allowed Billy to lead and concentrated on keeping up, gasping for breath and pushing against the stitch in her corseted side. When the sound of chase finally seemed gone for good, he pulled her into the abandoned side entrance of a boarded-up shop.
“What now, miss?” he panted, bending over with hands on thighs and looking as worried as her.
“We’ve got to get to Garforth’s rooms in Dexter Street, fast! He must have Daphne there. And we’ve got to get her away from him—now!” She rummaged frantically through the reticule still dangling from her arm. “Here, I’ve got just enough for a cab. Where are we?” She risked peering out from the shop entrance into the street.
“Off Red Lion Square. There’s a hackney stand on the north corner. Shall I go get us one?” he asked, straightening.
“No, I’ll go with you. And we’ll need a hansom—they’re faster. Come”—she pulled him back into the street—“we haven’t a moment to lose!”
At Dexter Street, near sick with panic, she tumbled out of the cab and ordered the driver to wait. Billy found the nameplate indicating which door was Garforth’s, and they ran up the steps to bang hard at it.
To her surprise, the door swung open almost right away. Garforth stood within, sporting a leering grin and holding a cocked flintlock pistol.
“Thought you might make your way here,” he said, chuckling darkly. “Gave Caldwell the slip, did you? I knew you were a clever girl.” He looked older and more unkempt, his face florid and his waistcoat stained. She smelled alcohol on his stale breath and dirty linen.
Disgust filled her, and a hatred so pure that she understood the appeal of cold-blooded murder. This man deserved to die.
Ignoring the pistol, she pushed past the worm. “Where’s my sister?” she demanded. Daphne was all she could think of, although Billy had forced her to sketch out a plan in the hansom on the ride over. She’d confided in him about Garforth’s threats against her and Daphne, and he in turn admitted he knew as much from listening at the agent’s door when she’d delivered the rent. They’d taken stock of the resources they had between them: a handful of coins and her page cutter in its leather case tucked in her reticule. It would have to be enough.
“Charming girl, that sister of yours. So fresh and sweet in the first flower of womanhood.” Garforth was chuckling again and weaving drunkenly down the narrow hall. “Come, come”—he beckoned, waving the gun at them over his shoulder—“we’ll sit and talk about what you’re going to do for me. I’m afraid the housekeeper is out for the day, so we’ll have to shift for ourselves. Care for a drink?” He led them into a sitting room, laid down the pistol on a side table, and sloshed gin into a dirty glass.
“Where is my sister?” She ground out the words again, hands clenched at her sides.
“What, do you not see her?” He pointed to a tall-backed armchair, half turned into a dark corner. There, slumped insensible, was Daphne. “We’ve been enjoying a drink together—apparently, gin puts her to sleep.” He chortled again, an ugly sound.
Callista rushed over to her sister. “If you’ve hurt a hair on her head, you cad, I swear to God I’ll slit your throat . . .”
Billy laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Miss H.,” he said soothingly, “Daphne’s all right—see?” The red haze cleared from her vision as she examined her sister, who appeared unharmed.
“Yes, do calm down,” said Garforth, dropping heavily into a chair by the side table. “All we did was chat a bit. I’ve quite enjoyed her company.”
“You got her inebriated, with ill intent!”
“Well, I didn’t have time to get to that part, but now that you’re here, the plot can thicken.” He leaned back in his chair, laughing at his own wit.
She spun away from the odious man. “Billy, take Daphne away! Get her into the cab outside and go to Lady Beatrice at DeBray Hall in Mayfair, where Mr. Garforth”—she cast him a look of pure loathing—“claimed to be taking her in the first place!”
“You are a lively one!” He waved his gin glass at her in salute. “I’ll make you a deal—I’ll let the boy leave with your sister if you stay.” His voice lost its jovial tone and he slammed down his glass, making the flintlock rattle dangerously. “You and I have some business to discuss.”
“Deal,” she replied immediately. She and Billy had agreed rescuing Daphne was their top priority, although the lad hadn’t liked her insistence that she could handle Garforth.
Predictably, Billy spoke up at once. “I can’t leave ye here, Miss H.—not alone with him!”
“Billy, we talked about this. Now, swear to me you’ll see Daphne to safety! I can manage.”
Billy set his mouth mutinously but promised, “I’ll get Miss Daphne to safety.”
She thrust her last coins at him for the cab and helped him lift Daphne to her feet. “Daphne, sweetling, can you walk? You’re leaving now.”
Her sister’s eyelids fluttered and she mumbled indistinctly, but she sank down again when her knees wouldn’t hold her weight.
Billy stepped back. “We’re goin’ to have to get Mr. Garforth to carry her out, Miss H.—she’s too heavy for either of us and she can’t walk on her own.”
Callista turned to him in surprise. “I don’t want that man anywhere near my sister!” she exclaimed. If the boy could haul heavy water buckets up three flights of stairs, surely he could help her get Daphne down the hall.
Billy gave her a steady look and shook his head slightly.
Garforth heaved to his feet. “Oh yes, I insist—it will be my pleasure to carry the little miss,” he chortled foully. “What an armful she’ll make!” The land agent made a great show of arranging Daphne’s limbs and skirts to better advantage before picking her up.
Callista realized the man was aiming to provoke her but still couldn’t keep from shuddering at the sight of him laying hands on her sister. She couldn’t fathom what Billy was about, to allow Garforth to take such liberties.
With Callista slapping at Garforth’s hands and he pausing deliberately to shift Daphne’s weight, he carried the girl from the house. At the hansom door, he blocked Callista’s way with his bulk, taking his time to lay Daphne down on the squabs as Callista pulled at his coattails from the street. “Just tucking her in with the rug, making sure she won’t tumble to the floor,” he said, sniggering.
“Billy, where are you?” Callista called angrily.
Billy came down the steps just as Garforth
pulled his head out of the carriage door. The land agent locked his meaty hand around Callista’s arm in an iron grip and waved the footboy into the cab. “The girl’s all settled, safe and sound, so now we’ll attend to our business.”
“Remember, Billy, to Lady Beatrice’s, and keep Daphne safe!” Callista yelled over her shoulder as Garforth dragged her back inside and the hansom took off.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” she spat at him. “What an immoral beast you are, to abuse a young girl so.”
“You’ll see what a beast one becomes when there’s nothing left to lose.” He pulled her back down the hall to the sitting room and tossed her into a chair opposite his, moving his pistol and picking up his glass.
Callista used the moment to take a deep breath. She couldn’t allow him to let her lose focus. Now that Daphne was safe, such relief coursed through her that she had to forcibly remind herself she sat opposite a depraved man with a loaded pistol. She had a sense, which she hoped was correct, that the more Garforth drank, the more careless he’d become and the easier she could fight him off, if it came to that. She held her reticule on her lap and fingered the leather case of her page cutter through the bag’s tapestry cloth. She kept the cutter’s edges sharp for slitting open the pages of books, many of which came from the binder still uncut. It made a fine stiletto knife, really.
Master of Love Page 16
