by Hart, Amelia
“Not a chance!” she said fiercely, emerging from James’ arms with a scowl on her face.
He took one look at her expression. “She’s coming. Water Lane, though I don’t know the number. Jack Pritchard’s the man.”
He flicked his whip over the horses, which sprang readily into action, and they bowled away down the street. The horsemen flanked them to start with, and then outpaced them, though not by much. James took the corners at a speed that made her gasp in fright.
Down Fleet Street they wove in and out of the traffic, whoops and catcalls rising from the pavements as the Runners cantered past. Melissa barely saw the early morning crowds of vendors and pedestrians, her attention all on the carts that impeded their way, traders with wagons piled high and the hustle and bustle of London commerce beginning its day.
People recognised the Runners in their distinctive dark coats and top hats, stopping and making way for them where they could. James followed close behind, passing between obstructions with inches to spare, displaying a control and finesse that would have amazed her at any other time.
Not now though, not now when every thought was a drumming in her head that urged them onwards, faster and faster.
They took the main roads and in less than a quarter of the hour the Runners were making a turn into a smaller street signposted Water Lane, still passably wide and respectable enough in appearance. She saw shingles out advertising a lawyer, a printshop and a moneylender. There, yes! A legend was inscribed over the door: ‘Mr. J. A. Pritchard, Sums of Exchange.’
“There!” she hissed, grabbing James’ arm and pointing with her free hand.
“I see it.” So had the Runners, for they pulled up and dismounted in a businesslike way that did much to reassure her. She stood and made ready to climb down without waiting for assistance, but James forestalled her.
“Wait here,” he commanded, gripping her upper arm in turn.
“What? I will not! That is my brother–”
“And you have done all you can for him, leading us here. Let us take care of the rest.”
“But you will not recognise him. Nor yet Black Jack.”
“We shall manage. If the man’s the desperate character you think him, I’ll not have you getting in the way and becoming a hostage or a target. Stay here and hold the horses. I shall return as swiftly as I may. With this force of arms we should be done quickly enough. Do not keep me longer by arguing. There’s no time for it!”
Seeing the implacably grim look on his face she gave up her protests, intending to wait only until he was inside before following at his heels. But when she saw him pull a pistol from a space under his seat, check the powder in the pan then put it in his pocket, she bit her lip.
A grave situation indeed. Dangerous to come upon him from behind by surprise.
As he jumped down and ran into the building after the Runners she waited, joggling up and down, undecided. But the tension became too much. She looped the reins and tied them fast, caught up her skirt, uncaring for decency, and climbed down.
With her feet on the pavement her attention was caught by three figures, emerging with stealth from a byway some four or five buildings away down the street. Her distracted brain was just a moment too slow to recognise them and turn away to conceal her face.
She saw a malevolent smile break out across one man’s features and turned in a panic to flee. But her slender skirt was a hobble, tangling her legs in their petticoats and preventing any sort of real stride. In moments she felt a firm grip take hold of her shoulder and spin her around before a heavy clout on the jaw shook her skull and knocked her from consciousness.
Chapter Twenty-One
Inside the building there was a proper looking waiting room with some seats and a small fire lit in the grate. Beyond lay an office with a polished desk and two chairs drawn up in front of it; all quite professional. Nothing to cause a qualm in the breast of a man seeking a loan from a respectable source.
He could hear the clatter of feet on the stairs as the Runners went up, so he checked to the rear of the building and found a couple of small service rooms and a back doorway for deliveries. Seeing this he muttered a curse under his breath. An easy escape then, for anyone who might have been on the ground floor when they arrived. If only they had come with more stealth. He should have known better.
He heard a shout from upstairs and hurried to the base of the stairs to peer upwards, hoping the villain had been trapped there. Seeing nothing he carried on, taking the steps in great bounds. Up one flight and then a second, and three of the four Runners were there in the hallway, peering through a door to the room where the last of them was untying a blonde-haired boy who had been strapped into a heavy armchair and gagged.
“Is this the lad you was after?” asked the Runner who knelt by the boy as James strode into the room. James took the boy’s hands in his, chafing them gently to restore circulation, and looked full in his face. There was a bruise darkening one eye and faint tear tracks on his cheeks above the gag, but he had a strong look of his sister about him, a chiselled beauty that became more evident once James flicked open a pocket knife and cut the gag away.
“Peter?” he asked, to confirm what he already knew, and received a wide-eyed nod in return.
“I’m here with your sister.”
“Melissa?” the boy murmured, and James’ eyes narrowed to hear the name, the same she had given him on their first night together. So she was Melissa Spencer, then, and Catherine Merry a fabrication.
“She’s just outside, She’s been worried sick about you, my lad. But I think you’ve had your punishment for your escapade. Come, let her know you’re here and unharmed.” He pulled Peter to his feet, waited while the boy stamped his feet to get the blood flowing, and then led the way out.
“The house looks to be deserted, sir,” said one of the runners, a ginger-haired man with grand mustachios and a bulbous nose. The rascal must have escaped. There’s a back way in.”
“Yes, I saw it,” replied James, running his hand through his hair in frustration. “Or he may not have been here at all this morning. This looks to me like a business front. It’s where the boy came as it’s all he knew, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the man keeps his centre of operations elsewhere.” The place was too neat, too scantily furnished to be a den of thieves of the sort Melissa had described.
“Likely so. Likely so indeed,” the man agreed gravely. “Well sir, we’ll pay some of the local urchins to keep an eye out and see if there’s any comings and goings, but I think we’ve missed him. Still, you’ve got the important thing back, eh?” he clapped Peter on the shoulder with an avuncular nod.
“Yes, quite,” agreed James, reading the downcast look on Peter’s face. He guessed it to mean despondency about his sister’s money, now undoubtedly lost. Certainly the boy was not purely happy to be rescued.
James led the way back out of the house. As he took the single step from the door out onto the street he looked up, expecting to see a joyous smile break out across that beautiful face. But the carriage was empty. A boy stood at the horses’ heads, holding them still, though they tossed their heads about restively at the unfamiliar touch.
“Is you looking for the lady, Guv?” called the unknown lad loudly, as James stood urgently scanning up and down the street.
“The lady?” He stepped forward, all his focus now on the shabbily dressed boy, ready to grab him by the collar and shake out any information he had. “Yes, yes I am. Do you know where she’s gone?”
“They’ve taken her. Bashed her on the head an taken her. Like that.” He let go of the reins and mimed a fist flying at his own head, then spun and pretended to fall, catching his balance at the last moment. The horses shied and James reached out and snatched the headstall of the nearer. “Pow. Down she went. Then they picks her up on the big one’s shoulder an hurries off. That way, Guv. Three of them. That way. Catch em quick!”
“Thank you! You’re a good man. Up, Peter!” Peter swa
rmed up into the phaeton while James found a coin and flicked it to the boy, who caught it with a grin and whoop. The red-headed Runner standing next to them had heard it all.
“My word, what a scoundrel! We’ll have him, we will. You go; go sir. I’ll catch up.”
He ran back to the building to shout to his comrades inside while James flicked his whip over the horses. He must have hauled too hard on the reins for they half reared in the traces before finding their feet and pulling away. With a deliberate effort he loosened his grip, giving them their heads.
His heart was racing. He could see her falling, the boy’s theatrics conjuring the blow all too vividly. She was unconscious, at the mercy of those rogues. He breathed a huff of anguished frustration at the pedestrians in his path, nearly running one down.
“Ware!” called out Peter to them. “Ware the horses! Ware.”
From the superior vantage point of the phaeton he could see all the way down Water Lane to the Thames. There was no sign of a blonde woman carried on the shoulder of a man. Still he urged the horses on, slowing at the tiny alleys they passed, calling out to people at the side of the road: “Have you seen three men, one carrying a woman?” But heads were shaken. No one had seen them.
James felt insane with desperation. Again and again in his mind he saw her lifeless body, limply hauled away; remembered her terror at the name of Black Jack; remembered his promise to protect her.
He turned right, taking the road towards the temple. Still no sign. They might as well have evaporated. The Runner was alongside them now, calling out to individuals he knew, a man of the streets, of the fetid byways of the great city. Had anyone seen the trio with their burden? Still no.
James swore long and loud, blistering the air. They had her, and they had escaped.
“I sent the others back to Bow with the name Black Jack,” said the runner. “We’ll have the day officers on now, and the Night Watch will’ve come off duty and been questioned too. Someone will know sir. We keeps our ears open. We hears plenty, an people tells us more. Someone’s sure to know where the man operates.”
“There’s no time to waste,” said James, his hands clenched into fists on the reins.
“No, sir. That there’s not. We’ll keep looking here, but my men will find us if there’s more to tell. We’ll soon track her down.”
But James had said much the same thing to Melissa only minutes ago, and well he knew how uncertain he had felt, even while doing his best to seem calm and confident for her sake. Looking at the anguish on that precious face, he had to say something. And he’d been right. Miraculously right. Now he measured the officer’s expression and was sure he read doubt behind those earnest eyes.
It made him crazy. It made him long to take hold of something and beat it into a pulp. It made him want to offer the boy up in trade, for surely such a miracle could not occur twice? Surely having lost her, he would not now find her safe and whole as he had found Peter.
Not that he ever would trade Peter, no matter how crazed he felt. He had seen how much he meant to Melissa. The boy would be kept safe at all costs. And Melissa would be found.
He tamped down his rage, knowing it would not serve her.
“We will find her. I swear it to you,” he said to her brother, heart aching as he looked into those clear blue-grey eyes, the mirror of hers.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I’d like to slit her throat for her, the jade. I’ll make her smile from ear to ear.”
“Lord luv yer I know, but then there’s the corpse to think of, Guv. An she’ll fetch summat alive, so hold off, sez I.”
“Hold your tongue,” snarled Black Jack.
“Yes, Guv. Right you are.”
“In there. Throw her in there. And lock the door.”
Melissa felt the world whirl sickly as she was hauled from the beefy shoulder and tossed down. It was an effort to stay limp, to take the pain of the fall and lie still and quiet as if still unconscious, eyes slitted open to take in any little detail she could.
The floor was hard and bare, rough hewn boards under her cheek, rubbed almost smooth on top by the passage of generations of feet but still splintery in the wide spaces between. There was a flash of darkness as a tired leather boot obscured her vision for a moment, then passed away with its owner out the door and down the hall. The door slammed and she heard the key turn in the lock.
For a long moment she remained still, ears pricked for any sound from the room itself. There were voices outside, talking, shouting, roaring with laughter. Mostly men, though she heard a woman also, somewhere downstairs. Nearby everything was quiet.
The event she had most dreaded had come to pass: both she and Peter were taken. Now, strangely, all fear was gone. This was the moment for decisive action. She was calm, thinking clearly as the fog receded. She must act this very second. With a jerk she pushed up from the floor, gritting her teeth as her head immediately protested with a fierce pounding, radiating outwards from the point where that ham-sized fist had made contact. She ignored the pain and the dragging wooziness. She’d had worse.
With a stern will she pushed all the way to her feet, turning in a staggering circle and finding herself alone.
There was a sagging bed against the wall, rotted red hangings in tatters above it. A single slat-backed chair. One window with cheap, thickly distorted glass leaded in little squares.
A chair and a window. She needed nothing else. Even standing on the chair she could barely see out of the window, thanks to the wavering of the glass, but she was certainly at least one storey up; though she already knew that from the walk up the stairs which had jostled her awake.
At least one storey. Possibly many more.
She took hold of the back of the chair, lifting it over one shoulder and swinging it experimentally. It was not strong. She felt it flex in her hand. One solid blow. She only had one anyway. Repeated crashes were sure to alert someone, whereas just one could be dismissed.
Perhaps. She prayed.
Otherwise she might shortly see Black Jack again, even further incensed by an attempted escape and ready this time to kill.
She took a better grip and then did it before she had further time to think. To her ears the sound was immense and unmistakeable. The grating screech and crack of wood hitting leaded windows, then the faint tinkle as glass shattered on the ground below.
The window was a little high to see out of unassisted and now the chair was useless, reduced to kindling, a single stave still in her hands. She set it down quietly and considered the bed. She might be able to move it but the dragging sound would be loud and continuous. Someone was certain to come.
Pulling off the blanket she wadded it in her hand so she could safely remove the shards of glass remaining in the lower edge of the frame. When she thought she had them all she folded the blanket into a single wide strip and tossed it up so it lay right over the windowsill.
She tied her skirts into a knot about her waist, leaving her bare legs unimpeded. Then she took as firm a grip as she could of the outside of the windowsill and tried to lever against her own arms to walk up the wall.
It was the third try before she managed it. It was so painful she longed to give up. But that was simply not an option. She was not going to remain and find out the details of Black Jacks plans for her.
With elbows gripping the edge of the sill she leaned over and took her first look down. It was three storeys up. She might make it if she jumped. The ground below looked like thick mud, heavily churned. Of course she had just seeded it liberally with shards of glass, but then they would probably sink beneath her, and the dress would absorb most of the rest of their thrust. Probably.
A child ran by down below.
“Hssst,” she called out. She had to call a second time, louder, before the child stood still and looked around for the source of the noise.
“Hsst. Up here.” The little face turned up towards her, pale and smudged and wary; a half-starved feral child, sex indetermina
te, ragged and unlovely but as beautiful as a summer flower to Melissa at that moment.
“I need help. Please get help,” she hissed. The urchin shook its head and started to back away.
“I’ll get you food. If you help me get out you can have as much food as you can eat.” Motion stopped as the child considered this suspiciously.
“Gimme the food now,” it demanded, too loudly.
“Hush, hush. You must be quiet. I don’t have the food, but my friends do. If you bring them to me they will reward you.”
“Sez who?”
“I say it. I swear it’s true. As much food as you can eat. Cakes and bread and sausages and stew. Food all this week and the next. Food all month.”
“What do you want?”
“My friend is with the Bow Street Runners. Fetch one of them here and they’ll set me free –”
But with the mention of the Runners, the child’s eyes widened in fright and it took to its heels.
“Then I’ll feed you. Please, come back. Help me, please. I beg you.” But the child was gone.
Melissa lowered her head to her forearms in despair.
Then the sound of a window sash pulled her head up in frantic haste. A window was sliding up across the alley, directly opposite her. The face at the window was clean but hollow-cheeked, weary and hopeful.
“Food?” said the young woman who owned it, her eyes desperate.
“Yes. I swear it. You have only to find a watchman or constable or one of the Runners and fetch them here. Please go as quickly as you can. I will have been missed. I’m sure they will be searching for me.”
She knew James would be searching; was certain of it. He was not a man to let another fall by the wayside. He would be looking for her. He would come. The Runners too, no doubt. But it was James’ face she longed to see, his arms the refuge she wanted most.
The woman nodded, pulled the window down. Melissa hated to see her go and waited in an agony of impatience for her to re-emerge outside. It seemed to take eons before a little door creaked open at the ground level and a hunched figure came out. She was bent over, clutching a rag-wrapped bundle protectively to her chest. A baby, Melissa was sure. The woman looked up at Melissa, who nodded and smiled in reassurance.
