A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1)
Page 18
She was drunk. He smelled it, the sweet reek of brandy, and knew at once where her courage had come from. Candlelight flashed on her teeth as she grimaced.
“Yes. I see it was.”
No different from his mother. “Goddamn you for a witch.”
Mrs. Caldwell’s head slipped back, lips curving tight over her teeth, her laughter beguiling as much as terrifying. “If I were a witch, do you really believe I’d spend my days cleaning and cooking? I’d be enacting my revenge on those who have wronged me. No, Sargent Shrupp, I’m not a witch. I’m as powerless as a mouse.”
“Hardly. You wield your power like any whore I’ve known.” Archibald leaned over, the gleam of his dagger’s blade leaped in the dark from his boot to his hand. He stood and walked her back.
“I should have you arrested as a spy. I would bring you to his cell, chain you to the wall, and strip you naked.” He pressed her against the wall. The tip of his blade skimmed the corner of her mouth. “For each question of mine he refuses to answer, I’ll carve his useless answers into your flesh. How long do you think it would take him to break? How long do you think you could last?”
She moved her head away from the blade. “What makes you think I’m a spy?”
Goddamn lavender. He crushed the heel of his free hand to a watery eye, grinding the itch that wouldn’t cease.
“You revealed my weakness to the enemy,” he rasped, trying to clear his throat. He swiped his cuff across his nose, pinning her head in place with his splayed hand at her throat. “He left a hundred tiny paper spiders in my bed!”
Her face transformed, eyes glowing with mirth, escalating his anger. She bit her lip coquettishly and purred, “Well, by now, he must be about done with that book.”
Before he could work out her meaning, something heavy hit the floor in the doorway. A shadowy figure stood with glowing eyes. An involuntary shiver rolled through Archibald’s body. The figure advanced, throwing him back with its weight on his chest. His head cracked against the floor, and a set of daggers clamped his throat.
“Sissy! No!”
A growl, low and sustained, ripped the air. The heavy load on his ribs made it difficult to breathe.
“Let him go!” Mrs. Caldwell cried, wrestling with the animal. Her actions made the animal’s grip on his throat constrict, tugging at the tendons and flesh.
Archibald struggled. He still had the dagger in hand, but he couldn’t make a clean jab.
Mrs. Caldwell had her arms around the middle of the animal. “Sissy! Off!”
The bitch’s fangs released. Archibald’s neck was slick, burning in pain from the razor-sharp teeth. His limbs shook with spent adrenaline.
Mrs. Caldwell and the dog were slumped on top of him. Inhaling was impossible, though he wasn’t sure how much was caused by their combined weights versus the effect of the lavender bouquets. She rested her head against the dog’s rump, closing her eyes as if it were she who brushed death.
“How much for his bail?” she moaned.
The dog’s eyes remained fixed on him as if one twitch would set it off.
“You’ll never meet the price.” He clamped a hand on his neck, staunching the blood and pain.
“Name it.”
Archibald was in her debt for saving him. He might as well tell her something. “Twenty pounds.” Even if she found twenty pounds, which he doubted she could, Hardwicke wasn’t going anywhere.
She gave a light, sleepy gasp. “Where?”
“Promise me the bitch won’t attack me again.”
With great effort, she lifted her head and nodded.
“I’ll kill you if she does.”
She nodded again, fluttering a hand at him.
He was skeptical of her promise. It wasn’t clear to him how much control she had over the beast.
“Bedloe’s Island.” He twisted out from under her and the dog and got to his hands and knees.
He had no desire to bed a witch, let alone marry one as Colonel Caldwell had soundly suggested. Caldwell could go hang. She wasn’t worth the trouble. What he needed was a good fight and a good fuck. He left and took himself down to the shipyard in search of the Loggerhead Tavern.
~ ~ ~
Late the next morning, with a crushing headache and a crick in her neck, Henrietta sat at her desk with dry toast and a cup of tea. Sissy slept at her feet. Two hours later, she’d deciphered one paragraph and vomited twice. She might never drink brandy again. Last night reduced itself to flashes of violence, but if she remembered anything, she remembered she needed twenty pounds for Marcus’s bail.
She had no money. Not even a clock to pawn. For a moment, she allowed herself to rest her head in her hands, hoping to contain the throbbing. When she opened her eyes, gold sparkled before her.
She had her wedding band.
Henrietta tapped the tip of her quill against the ink pot, wiping away the excess ink with a cloth. She gathered the letters, her notes, and the one paragraph she’d managed, and locked them in her desk drawer.
Sissy sat up, ears perched forward, head cocked.
“You’re all the protection I need.” She smoothed her fingertips over the dog’s head, finding comfort in the odd grooves of her skull beneath the soft fur. “I’ll come up with a plan. I’ll get him out.”
She owed her life to this dog. “You’re a very special girl.” Sissy panted her appreciation around her rock, drawing the corners of her mouth into a grin.
It gave Henrietta a sense of joy to know it was a female to best Shrupp. “The best girl.”
It would be highly improper for her to travel by herself to Bedloe’s Island. With Sissy, she had protection. If she brought anyone else, there’d be too many explanations to make. Too many chances for her plan, once she hatched one, to fail.
Sissy tensed under her palm, smile fading to an intense concentration with her ears pulled back, listening to the footsteps coming down the stairs.
Henrietta fixed her attention to the arched opening of the study.
Shrupp appeared, his guarded gaze immediately drawing to Sissy’s. Raw bruises colored his face. He had a bandage wrapped at his neck like a poor man’s stock. For a moment, a stab of pity mollified her. Then she remembered the tip of his blade coming toward her, his hand wrapped around her neck.
“I’m leaving on my mission.”
Henrietta nodded. If she said nothing, she’d give him nothing.
He settled his cap on his head, squinting as he did. She hoped he hurt like hell. Worse than she did.
“I am to have Caldwell’s letters when I return.”
Chapter 20
As soon as Shrupp left, Henrietta pulled herself together. She and Sissy rode into Manhattan to the Vly Market near Maiden Lane. The first jeweler offered her too little for her wedding band and refused to haggle. She walked out. This was not the day to push Henrietta Smith around. At the next jeweler, she went in demanding a high price, then willingly settled on twenty-two pounds.
As the rain began to pour, Henrietta lifted the hood of her cloak over her head. She and Sissy took a ferry across to Bedloe’s Island. An hour later, they entered the antechamber of the War Office miserable, wet, and eager to bail Marcus from prison.
Two young clerks faced each other at a set of desks positioned at the center of the room. The clerks were thumbing through ledgers and conversing quietly. In the corner sat a boy, brown as a finch and no older than ten, with basket-making materials scattered at his feet. A fly landed on his lip, took flight, and landed on his brow. The boy drowsily waved the fly away. The sound of Sissy dropping her rock on the wood floor jolted him awake. In a burst, the frame of a basket appeared on his lap. As the clerks looked up, he gathered the spilled splits of wood.
A current of nerves ran through Henrietta. Though she expecte
d this to be a fairly simple process, she also had no experience navigating the legal system. It made her nervous, as if she were the one who had done something wrong. She wanted very much to get this right. If she did, Marcus would come home with her. Then, she’d have to tell him everything, down to the fact that she needed to leave Turtle Bay before long.
“Good day, gentlemen. I’m here to pay bail on one of your prisoners.” Sissy leaned against her side, panting.
The clerk on the left scowled at Sissy. “Which prisoner?”
“Mr. Marcus Hardwicke.”
His finger trailed across the ledger, tapping on the last line inscribed.
“There is no bail set upon him.”
At least Shrupp hadn’t lied about Marcus’s whereabouts, but they were mistaken regarding his bail. “I was told twenty pounds.”
“By whom?” The ledger closed with a thud. The clerk rested his arm atop it.
“Sergeant Archibald Shrupp. I believe he was the soldier to have brought him in.”
The clerks exchanged glances. The other one spoke. “Do you suppose, madam, he meant for you to pay him?”
It hadn’t occurred to her she might pay Shrupp, nor would she have wanted to. Besides, that sounded like blackmail, not bail. “No, I do not.” More than a twinge of annoyance colored the tone of her voice. She could feel herself readying for a fight. Why was this so difficult?
The clerk on the right drummed his fingers against his desk. “Forty pounds.”
Henrietta gasped, hand to her throat. “Pardon me?”
Sissy’s ears pressed back and a low growl emanated from around her rock.
“Madam, settle your cur or leave.”
She laid her hand on Sissy’s head, absorbing her dog’s confidence. “If I cannot pay his bail, I should like to visit him.”
The first clerk leaned back in his chair, sighing deeply as if she bored him. “Let me explain something to you. You seem like quality, despite the mongrel as your companion. When men are brought here without bail, it is because they’ve done something egregious, such as rape or murder. I cannot in good conscience allow you to visit such a prisoner. Not without payment.”
Henrietta clenched her teeth. “I offered.”
The second clerk crossed his arms over his chest, a smugness curling his lips. She couldn’t meet their forty-pound requirement, and they knew it.
Henrietta turned away from them, giving herself a moment to think. She clutched her mother’s ruby brooch pinned to her fichu, thumbing the gilt edge, trying to think her way through an impossible situation. There had to be something she could do. She didn’t have more money, and she also didn’t have Sissy’s physical strength, speed, or fearlessness. She was Henrietta Smith Caldwell. A woman who had lost everything along the way.
Everything, that was, but her name.
She never wanted to trade on it again. But the Caldwells owed her. He owed her. Henrietta drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Turning to face the clerks, Henrietta took the half dozen steps to their desks and waited for their attention to return to her. She didn’t have to wait long.
“Sirs, perhaps you do not know who I am.” Henrietta swallowed down bile. Nothing was as important as getting Marcus out of prison.
Not fifteen minutes later, Henrietta and Sissy stood before Jonesie with a pass in hand. Thankfully, her uncle was aboard a ship in the harbor and couldn’t be reached for comment. The clerks had no choice but to allow her to visit Marcus because they feared her uncle more.
“Stay with me, Sissy,” Henrietta said before the thunderous noises and hideous scents distracted the dog.
Jonesie unlocked the ward and ushered them in.
“Be safe, madam. Don’t trust a one of them. Especially this one.” He pointed a tobacco-stained finger at Asher, wending through the crowd by bracing himself against anyone standing in his path. How could Asher cause trouble? He looked sicker than the day before.
“Asher.” Henrietta rushed to help him. When she put her hands to his flushed face, she couldn’t believe how much heat radiated off of him. “You are still fevering.”
“Aye.” His voice was weak. With his head, he gestured in the direction he’d come. “This way.”
Henrietta and Sissy followed Asher toward the back of the room. Marcus sat on a bed, his bad leg stretched out. His shoes and stockings were gone.
“Hen!” In seeing her, he soared from the bed. There was no time to think. His leg buckled, Henrietta’s heart leaped. She dove between two prisoners, her skirts twisting at her ankles. Then she threw her hands out, caught him under the arms, and steadied him. Both were breathless and panting. Henrietta wanted to bury her face in his chest and cry for holding him. He was here, alive.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was a deep vibration in his chest.
She picked her head up. “I wanted to release you.” Pressing a hand to his unshaven cheek, she felt everything she never wanted to feel again. All the loss and pain, as well as hope and affection. The feelings thrummed through her like pealing bells across a city.
Jonesie blew his whistle. “No touching.”
She stepped back and let Sissy sit between them.
Marcus hugged his dog to his thigh. “You two have made your peace, I see.”
“She’s proven herself as worthy as a knight.” Henrietta stopped herself from saying more. This wasn’t the time or the place to tell him about Shrupp.
“Told you she’s a good girl.”
Before time got away from them, she had to get to the point of her visit. “I wanted to pay your bail, but they said you didn’t have one, and then they doubled the original amount. I had to threaten them with my uncle’s name.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes dancing with enchantment. His hand came up to cradle her face.
Jonesie banged his musket again. “Oi! No touching!”
He dropped his hand but didn’t step away. Leaning in to whisper in her ear, he said, “How much coin do you have?”
“Twenty pounds.”
Marcus wobbled. Henrietta reached to steady him. He batted her hands away. “Where did you get it? Last month you couldn’t afford to have your roof fixed.” It was impossible to tell if he was angry or offended.
“It doesn’t matter,” she retorted.
A smirk twisted Marcus’s lips. He let out a slow, halting laugh as if he’d figured out the punchline to a joke told to him a week ago. “You know,” he said, dimple appearing devilishly on his cheek, “if you were a prostitute—”
“Marcus!” He might as well have slapped her.
She looked around to see who was watching them, besides Jonesie. Only a few prisoners paid them any mind. “Where is your sense of decency?” She dug into her basket and slapped a rolled-up slice of bread and meat into his palm. He tore it in half and handed half to Asher.
“I meant—”
“—If I’d known you’d speak to me this way.” She shook her head, too upset to speak.
His eyes narrowed. “My point, sweeting, was merely that prostitutes come in here and readily visit prisoners, if Jonesie over there is given a taste of her wares first.”
Henrietta’s hand whipped up to smack him. He caught it, grinning. She bared her teeth and held back a growl. “Is that what you think of me? Is that how you think I procured money?”
He turned her hand over and confirmed her missing ring. “Not at all. But twenty pounds would be a lot to old Jonesie. It might oblige him to look the other way for a minute or two.”
“For my wares?” Henrietta wanted to crack him over the head with her basket, but he gripped her so well, she’d have to fantasize.
“Is that what you thought I meant?” he said in all innocence. She was unconvinced. “No, darling girl. To walk.”
Marcus nodded to Asher to join them. “We’re leaving. If I lose my chance with Henrietta because you’re too busy playing Robin Hood, I’m not going to stop your mother from skewering you. Understood?”
Asher nodded, coughing into his shoulder.
Henrietta shook her head, clearing it of the clamorous noise and this ridiculous plan. Leading the way to the guard with Sissy at her side, she fought down her dignity and bellowed, “Jonesie, I have a proposition.”
Chapter 21
With the last of his strength, Marcus stepped under the guttering lamp to knock on Dr. Nealy’s door. His ankle hurt like the devil, throbbing with each heartbeat. It was almost enough to wish his heart would stop entirely.
Henrietta covered her mouth and let out an enormous yawn.
The door opened.
“Mrs. Caldwell?” The observant physician glowered at the group of soaking wet outlaws to the oversized dog. “What is happening?”
“We need your help,” Henrietta said.
Dr. Nealy scowled, but opened the door wider. “Come in.”
Henrietta helped Marcus to the couch before the fire, propping his leg on a chair. The smoke from the fireplace propelled Asher into a coughing fit. Dr. Nealy handed him a cup of water, instructing Henrietta to bring his medical bag from the kitchen.
The couch cushions beside Marcus dipped, waking him from a fragmented dream. The camphor notes of lavender met his nose, and he knew Henrietta was beside him.
A cup pressed to his lips. “Sip this.”
He sniffed. The peaty tell of whiskey. His fingers wrapped around hers on the cup. He opened his mouth, inviting the fiery rush.
“How’s your ankle?” she whispered. The room was quiet but for Asher’s thick, wet breaths and the crackling fire.