Chapter 33
As day turned to night, Stormy’s cramps grew stronger and lasted longer. She longed for a breath of fresh, cool air. She was sick of being chained like a chicken-killing dog, and tired of hoping that every time Peabody came upstairs, she’d be set free.
This morning he’d made her sign her name on a slip of blue paper. He’d said it would prove she was alive.
Bah! He didn’t care about her life. She was just a pawn in his quest for riches.
Clutching her belly, she hobbled from the chamber bucket back to her cot. She lay down and pulled the moth-eaten quilt over her shivering limbs.
She’d never fevered during her womanly times, as Brownie called them, or felt like her body was trying to expel her womb.
Too soon, a new contraction began. The relentless hum in her ears morphed into fearsome, jabbering voices. She stuffed the corner of the quilt into her mouth to keep from screaming.
Someone shook her shoulder. Probably Peabody, pestering her to swallow more terrible tea. When the wave of pain finally subsided, she forced open her eyes. Waited for the room to stop spinning.
Impossibly, Jonathan Vance bent over her, his thin lips set in a grim line. He didn’t look happy to see her.
He turned, sprang at Peabody, and slammed the investigator against the attic door. “What did you do to her? I promised her father I’d bring her back in good condition.”
The investigator blanched. “The apothecary said she’d suffer only minor discomfort while the remedy worked.”
“For what ailment?”
“Motherhood.”
“Is that why she’s wearing next to nothing? Did you pimp her out as a whore?”
“No! That’s how she was dressed when I found her.” Peabody pushed free and tugged down his shirt. “She’s young. She’ll recover. This way you’ll be sure she’s not carrying Blade Master’s child.”
Vance glanced with disgust at the newspaper-topped bucket in the corner. “Our deal is off. I expected her to be ready to travel back to Prosperity. Obviously, she’s not.”
“But, I’ve taken a huge risk,” Peabody sputtered. “I’ve incurred expenses.”
“You miscalculated.”
Stormy trembled under the thin, stained quilt. Vance had come to take her home. Oh, that was where she wanted to be. She opened her dry, cracked lips and mustered a cry.
The sound she made was more croak than call, but he approached again and touched her chin. She reached for his hand, and squeezed her ice-cold fingers around his warm ones, seeking comfort. Her belly cramped again, and she fought to stay alert.
Stone-faced, Vance pried open her feeble grip. He slipped off Blade’s emerald and ruby engagement ring and walked up to Peabody. “In the morning, I’ll bring clothes for traveling. She’d best be alive when I get here.”
~ ~ ~
To calm his nerves as he paced in front of Candace Masters’ rooming house door, Edward Peabody lit a slender rum cigar.
Things were not going well. The apothecary, whom he’d known for years, swore his herbal concoction worked quick and inflicted only mild pains. Candace Masters was acting like a spoiled heiress. Vance had arrived a day early and refused to pay him a dime.
To live the high life in New Orleans, he’d have to act fast.
If his hired messenger delivered the time-and-place instructions to the Masters’ mansion before dawn, he could collect his money and hightail it for the docks. His bags were already aboard the steamer, Nellie Parsons.
He didn’t care who arrived at the attic first, Vance or Blade Masters. Either man could carry Miss Hawkins down the three flights of stairs. She’d lost weight, so the job would be easier than hauling her up unconscious.
Candace wouldn’t reveal where he’d gone. Any information would implicate her. But, as insurance, he’d penned a confession that detailed how she’d come to him with the kidnapping plan. He noted that she’d doctored the apothecary’s tea. She was the mastermind, and Blade Master’s beggar man was a witness.
He’d leave the tell-all in the attic. By the time Candace was tried and convicted, the coppers wouldn’t bother looking for him. She’d be enough.
Cheered by his revised plan, Peabody pinched off his cigar and returned to the attic. After checking that his hostage still breathed, he gathered his things, set the key to her chain on the table by the chair, and closed the door behind him.
Twelve hours from now, he’d be sipping champagne on the first-class deck of the Nellie Parsons, steaming south.