Chapter Sixteen
"'Ere, you let me go, I ain’t done nuffin’! You dirty crock, I’m respectable, I am!”
“Of course you are, now shut up.”
Margaret winced at the volley of vulgarities the underdressed woman unleashed at the poor officer who had deposited her into the cell.
A very rough-looking, buxom woman next to her snorted loudly. “Respectable me arse,” she muttered. “Mollie Grover ain’t a respectable nuffin ‘cepting a pain in the royal…” She looked over at Margaret with a knowing nod, and Margaret swallowed, not entirely sure where she was going with the expression, but also not wanting to know.
She had been here for a couple of hours, and only recently had she actually been interviewed by one of the officers. There weren’t very many of them who seemed capable and intelligent, let alone appearing to have authority. The building appeared to be a house from the exterior, but once within, it could not be more different.
There were large cells with bars, not unlike pictures she had seen of prisons, and there was cheap, uncomfortable furniture within, as each cell had space for several people. Each room in the house was a cell or two, and there were guards at every turn, large and silent men who looked as dangerous as the room of men she had glimpsed upon her arrival. She did have to admit, the eyes of the guards were not as frightening as those men had been, who had eyed her with a very dark sort of appreciation, while the guards only viewed her as an irritation.
She’d learned that this was an operation of the Bow Street Runners, who were obviously spread far too thin and ought to be dealing with more serious issues than picking up stray females from the street. But she suspected that now was not the time to inform anyone of her opinions on the subject.
Her interview with one of the better dressed men in the building, a stern but kind-looking gentleman with manners and an expression that told her he had been in this position far too long. He listened to her very brief story, and her name had sparked a flicker of recognition, but then he’d returned her to the cell with an apology, as he had nothing else to offer her, and until he checked into her story, he could not make other arrangements for her.
It was the only apology she’d received, and one more than she had expected.
Once or twice it had occurred to her to lie, to give them a false name and story, but lying had never been Margaret’s strong suit. Even with her parents, she had never been able to manage it convincingly. A stranger might possibly believe her lies, but without any sort of plan, or assurances that her deceptions might work, she couldn’t manage anything conceivable in her mind. She hadn’t mentioned Miss Ritson or any of the troubles she’d faced, as no one would want to hear that sordid tale, but she’d had the fortitude to tell him to contact her aunt when asked if there was someone he could contact for her.
Perhaps she could resolve something of this situation after all.
She sighed a little to herself, forgetting that she was in a room filled with ill-mannered women who were no better dressed than she had been yesterday.
The one next to her was covered enough, but only just, and certainly not politely. Two others were rail thin, the rest all excessively buxom, which led her to believe all wore corsets far too tight for their natural figures. All were over-painted, over-trimmed, and overly familiar with the guards, the male cell occupants across the hall, and each other.
The language was crass, but with the exception of Mollie, none of them had any airs.
One across the room was watching her with a tilt of her head, her filthy, matted hair slowly unraveling. “What are you doing in ‘ere, poppet?” she asked, lifting her chin at her. “Yer not one of us.”
Margaret wrapped her shawl around her as tightly as she could. “No,” she said in a small voice. “I was brought in by mistake.”
A dark-haired woman with pox scars laughed in a low, throaty voice. “Tha’s what we all say, dearie.”
The blonde one threw a dark look at her. “Bessie, bite yer tongue. She’s proper, look at her, she’s tellin’ the truth!”
Bessie rolled her eyes. “Anyone can see that, Rose. I’m jus’ sayin’ we all say it.”
Another brunette in the corner snorted. “I said it meself this morning. Can’t a gel walk a decent street without the toffs suspecting somefink of her?”
“Not when it’s you, Fern.”
Most of the women laughed, but Margaret only retreated further into herself, biting her lip and trying not to whimper. She’d lost all of her bravery without Rafe, and what she wanted above all else was to go home.
“Polly, shut yer gob. You ain’t had a man in so long it’s a wonder ye still call yourself a whore.”
“I’ve ‘ad more than you, Annie Wells, and at least I’ve ‘ad no babies from ‘em.”
The women in the cell tittered and laughed, and Margaret wanted to clap her hands over her ears.
“Oh, stop it, gels,” Rose said with a wave of her hand. “Yer frightening the thing.”
“Serves ‘er right for not ‘aving a proper escort.”
“It’s a pity the Gent weren’t about to save ‘er. He’s the best at protecting reputations.”
At least three of the women sighed loudly, and Margaret lifted her head to look around with interest, in spite of herself.
The largest woman in the room was fanning herself. “Oh, the Gent could save me any day o’ the week, and twice on a Sunday.”
“He’d need to save you twice on Sundays, Millie.”
Millie cackled and winked, which made the others laugh.
Margaret looked around at the women, wondering how any of them knew Rafe, or how well. She knew Rafe was a bit of a hero, as evidenced by his saving of her before he knew her identity, but had he saved these women?
Bessie caught her interest and smiled indulgently. “Oh, you know him, do you? I’m not surprised at all. Did he play the errant knight?” She chuckled and sat back with a sigh. “He’s very good at it. More than one young lady has found herself swoony over those dark eyes of his.”
“No, it’s his strength that gets them. Lifts them with such ease,” Rose argued, shaking her head.
Polly snorted. “No, no, you imbecile, it’s his sense of adventure. Captivating it is.”
Millie folded her arms and gave Polly a withering look. “Oh, and what adventures has he taken you on lately?”
Margaret watched and listened as the rest added in things about the Gent, different aspects of his nature and behavior, all of which she had witnessed. They really had interacted with him, probably more than once, based on their descriptions. She could see Rafe doing everything they described, all manners and politeness, treating these women as properly as fine ladies, but with a smile and a wink.
Her cheeks began to heat and she wished she could unhear what she had heard, forget what she now knew, and go back to her ignorance. Humiliation coursed through her, burning and twisting her up in knots. Why should hearing about his good deeds hurt so much?
Because it meant she wasn’t special. He would have done the same for anyone else, and had done. What if she had imagined the special treatment all for her? What if she was just another female that he could save?
What if she wasn’t as different as he’d said?
These women around her were worldly, experienced women. They had no reputation to ruin, no family to care, nothing left in the world to surprise them. They could just as easily be a woman that he could love, and would more easily be a woman he could be with.
Had any of them gone to see Suds? Or visited a gypsy camp? Had they spent a night under the stars with him?
Suddenly, she didn’t know anything at all.
What if she’d imagined Rafe and all his glory, and he was only a figment of her romantic imaginations? What if he was just like every other man she had ever known, only interested in what he could gain and the entertainment to be had by it? What if…? What if…?
“Don’t let them bother you, sweet,” said the woman beside her, her scratching voice matching her expression perfectly. She patted her hand with surprising gentleness. “I’ve known the Gent for years, and there’s not a better man in the world. I should know. I’ve met most of them.” She chuckled with an understanding that made Margaret want to recoil, but there was a degree of warmth in her eyes that settled her. “What are you here for, dearie? Don’t get your kind here.”
Margaret’s eyes filled with tears and she bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she sniffed. “I don’t know what happened. I was just… standing there, just waiting, and they took me…”
At least two of the women clucked sympathetically, the rest still going on about the Gent’s virtues.
“Aggie, give her your kerchief!” one of them suggested.
Aggie shushed her, giving Margaret a half smile. “I would, poppet, but trust me, you don’t want to dab your pretty eyes with my kerchief.”
Margaret managed a smile. “Thank you for the offer all the same.”
Aggie nodded, giving her a serious look. “Where did they take you from, then?”
Tears burned again as Margaret shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know where I was or where I am, I don’t know anything…” She paused for a surprisingly dry sob, then looked at Aggie with pleading eyes. “But he’ll come for me… won’t he?”
The large woman sighed heavily, taking her hand again. “I don’t think so, love. He can’t come ‘round here, he’d be caught.”
“Caught?” Margaret choked. It had never occurred to her that Rafe… or was he just the Gent?… could ever be any kind of criminal, or ever have to avoid something for his own safety.
“Oh, there’s a great many people who wants him,” Aggie said with a sage nod. “No one comes here who hasn’t been caught for something or someone.”
“I’d like to catch the Gent,” Polly mused in a dark tone that made Margaret shudder.
“Shut it, Polly!” three women said at once, as if the Gent somehow belonged to them.
Aggie clucked her tongue, shaking her head. “No, dearie, he must stay far away from here. Least of all to keep away from them.” She lifted her chin in the direction of the others, who couldn’t hear her. She snorted and shook her greying hair. “He can’t come here, not even for a fair maiden like yerself. It would be the end of him.”
Margaret had felt that, wondered it, but now it seemed to sink in. And oh, how it hurt. “But he saved me before…” she protested weakly.
“I’m sure he did,” Aggie said with another pat to her hand. “He saves a lot of people. He may play the knight, but deep down he is just as human as the rest of us. Self-preservation reigns supreme, even in the best. No, my dear, best to forget him. You’re on your own now.”
She was on her own. She had run away from her chaperone. She had spent the night in a gypsy camp with a complete stranger. She was ruined, absolutely and completely. Worse than that, her heart was broken, ruined, and she had nothing to cling to now. She put her face in her hands and cried.
“Oh, love, don’t take on so,” Aggie soothed, rubbing her back gently. “Aggie’ll look out for you, see if I won’t.”
Two of the girls came over to Margaret’s other side, and tried to settle her, telling her more stories of the Gent to try and entertain her.
They had no idea they were only making things infinitely worse.
In the end, the Runners did not contact her aunt at all, but Miss Ritson. It seemed that Miss Ritson had filed her complaint with their main office, and they were to contact her when Margaret was found again, despite any protest Margaret might have made. As she was Margaret’s chaperone, and had been entrusted with her care, they agreed to it.
What was the point of a young woman reaching her majority if no one considered her any sort of responsible adult?
All told, it was much worse than she thought it would be when she saw Miss Ritson again. Margaret had been taken from the cell, waved farewell to Aggie and the rest, and was escorted out of the building to a waiting carriage. Inside, unwilling to come into the building at all, was Miss Ritson. She gave Margaret a cold look, taking in her appearance from head to toe, without any change in her expression. No false claims of relief or concern, no raging exclamations of fear or distress, and no hint of warmth. She merely tilted her chin at Margaret to indicate she should be seated, then nodded at the escort to close the door, and they were off.
She said nothing as they drove on but stared at Margaret as though she could turn her to ice.
Margaret squirmed under the steady, haughty gaze. Her instincts told her to apologize for her behavior, but her emotions and pride bristled at the very thought. She settled for avoiding looking at her chaperone and being sullen and cross.
Miss Ritson demanded no explanation, asked no questions, and left no doubt in Margaret’s mind that her life was about to get even more miserable. Various scenarios formed in her mind, and each was more horrifying than the last. Miss Ritson didn’t even have to say anything, Margaret was taking care of terrifying herself into a panic all on her own.
When they arrived at the house, Miss Ritson exited and led Margaret inside, and it took only a moment for Margaret to realize that something was different.
She looked around the house, and then back at her chaperone. “Where are the maids?”
Miss Ritson raised one thin brow imperiously. “They are working, of course. Elsewhere. I did not think any of them should come to greet you, as you have behaved without respect or decency. And until you prove that you are capable of making your own decisions, you will not be permitted to do so.”
Margaret folded her arms, looking at the other woman in disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”
Miss Ritson blinked slowly. “It is about time you did.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“Yes, your tone implied such, but I am choosing to put you in a better light than you deserve.” She cleared her throat and clasped her hands before her. “You are to be restricted to your room. You will have no callers or social occasions but what I dictate, and you will have no correspondence, not even to your parents. You will be permitted meals, naturally, but portions will be diminished, as we had been doing previously to help your figure. We will be visiting your aunt Campbell tomorrow, and you will behave with perfection. I have no idea what folly persuaded you to behave in such a way as you did yesterday, but I attribute it to a lack of discipline and a want of propriety, and no doubt it is the influence of that Miss Arden. She is not to be welcomed here, and you will be very fortunate to ever see her again.”
Margaret stared at Miss Ritson in horror. “Rosalind is a perfectly behaved woman.”
“Then she would be appalled to be seen with you as it is.”
Margaret looked back at the front door, wondering if it would be possible for her to return out into the streets. Then she considered the layout of her room and wondered if she were daring enough to risk escape through her window.
“Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Miss Easton,” the older woman said in the coldest, most chilling voice Margaret had ever heard. “Should you attempt any sort of escape again, I will see to it that not only will you leave England, but you will have absolutely no ties or associations to allow you back to these shores in any sort of polite company.” Her face was set as if in stone, and the sharp angles somehow looked more pronounced and stark with the fury radiating off of her.
Margaret stared at the woman in horror.
“And just in case you think the middle of the night might be an easy time for it,” Miss Ritson continued, “I have a footman posted at your door at all times. And not one of yours, as they would all be far too loyal, but of my own. You see, in their haste to be gone to Europe, your parents allowed me to staff the house with any additional servants I thought were necessary, should the need arise. Well, it has arisen, so your footmen are no longer with us, I am sorry to say. And neither is your maid. You will have someone to dress your hair when it is called for, but I shall determine that.” She tilted her head as if considering Margaret with kindness. “Is that understood?”
Margaret’s mouth worked on an answer, and several new words she had learned in the Bounty that day were springing to mind, but nothing seemed willing to come out.
“Very good,” Miss Ritson said with a nod, as if that were answer enough. “Go upstairs now, you need a bath. Dinner will be brought to you when it is appropriate, and the upstairs maids will see to the bath.”
Summarily dismissed, Margaret turned and slowly made her way up the stairs, fearing that she had been all too hasty in her desire for home.
Several hours later, Margaret was dejected and forlorn, but clean.
She had thought of everything she could possibly think of to get out of her situation, had tried to convince the maids to have a letter delivered to Helen, but they had all been threatened with sacking, and they knew that Margaret’s family was a very fortunate situation for them, no matter how horrid Miss Ritson was for the time being.
Her dinner had been sparse, her supper palatable, but she could honestly say she had barely tasted it. Her guard at the door for the moment was Horace, who looked exactly like a man with that name should, and the livery was ill-suited to him. He was clearly loyal to Miss Ritson, and therefore no friend of hers.
She was trapped. And even as her heart yearned for Rafe to come find her, to rescue her, she wished him far away. She couldn’t believe in the man she had met and spent so little time with, by all accounts. He was a delightful imagination, but how could she trust in him? He could save her, but he could destroy her.
And Lord help her, she was not sure she was brave enough to risk it.
But he would never see her again, unless they managed a ten second moment the next time they saw Aunt Ada. Even then, she was not inclined to look.
Had any of it been real? The night before seemed like a lifetime ago, when they had danced beneath the stars with their gypsy friends, celebrating life and happiness, no worries or concerns to plague them. She’d come alive under his tutelage, and opened herself to him completely. She trusted him so easily, thought that somehow they knew each other despite their lack of verbal communication.
He had never been hers, he belonged to every woman. Any woman. Oh, he was the perfect gentleman, it was true. No one would ever accuse him of taking advantage of her or being any sort of scoundrel. But his solicitation was less sweet when it was shared among many.
Margaret moved to the window, which she had opened earlier to let in fresh air, and now the night sky beckoned her. The stars twinkled just as brightly as they had the night before, but there was much less magic now. They seemed to be dim, distant, and cold. She shivered and recalled the almost unbearable warmth from the night before, with the fire they danced around and the fire within her, rising and burning the closer Rafe had been, and when he had kissed her… She moaned softly at the memory.
That, at least, had felt real.
But she was an innocent, and he a man of the world. He acted for a living, in a way, and she had no deception about her.
She would be the easiest woman in the world to fool.
Silly, stupid fool.
She ought to have known better, playing with fire when her heart was so vulnerable.
She sighed as she closed her eyes, letting the memories flood her.
And then came the tears. Soft, painful tears that slowly moved down her cheeks. No frenzy, no sobs, just silent agony that leaked through every tear.
“Don’t cry, pet,” begged a warm voice, breaking through her reminiscing.
She jerked with a sniff and looked down in the darkness.
Rafe stepped into a sliver of light under her window, tilting his face up to her, looking earnest.
She bristled and hissed at the slash of pain she felt. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
His face turned incredulous. “Seeing you, of course. Step back, I’m coming up.”
Margaret stared down in shock. There was no way he could possibly do such a thing. “No, don’t…” she protested, but he was already on his way up.
He easily navigated the nooks and crannies of the walls, somehow finding a way up with ease.
Against her better judgment, she stepped back and let him come.
He climbed into the room and grinned rakishly in her direction, at which point she turned away, arms folded.
How could he be here? How could he do this to her? Couldn’t he see she was not another woman for him to play with?
It was all she could do to avoid bursting into angry, painful tears.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, coming over.
She sniffed in disbelief. “What’s the matter?” she repeated. “What is the matter?” She whirled to face him, fury rising rapidly. “Where were you?”
He fell back a step, hands raised. “What do you mean where was I? I was looking for you!”
She laughed harshly. “Can’t have looked very hard. I was easy enough for others to find.”
Rafe shook his head, apparently confused. “I have been searching all day for you!” he insisted, taking her arms. “I have been frantic, all day. Then I found out Bow Street had taken you to the Bounty, and I felt…”
“Don’t talk to me about that place!” she cried, turning away. “Do you have any idea what that was like for me? To be sitting like a criminal in a place filled with ruffians and whores, to be treated like a common woman of no influence or standing, to be patronized by people who wouldn’t be able to go two hours without a strong drink! To be forced to wait for someone to fetch me home like a disobedient child, knowing they would bring me back to her and her plans for me… I have never been so humiliated! Or so frightened.” Her resistance crumbled and she burst into those tears, gripping her bedpost and leaning against it for support.
“Oh, pet,” he said in a rough voice, coming towards her. “Sweet love, I am so…”
“Stop.” She turned back to him, shaking and furious through her tears. “Do not play the knight with me, Gent. I’ll not be another one of your ladies to fall at your feet.”
He stilled and his brows rose slowly at her words, and she saw his jaw tighten at the name she used. “Excuse me?”
She strode towards him with fire in her step. “What a fool I was to think a man like you was real. That I was special.”
His eyes widened. “You are.”
“No more lying!” she cried. “I know about the others! Aggie and Rose and Bessie, Millie and Polly and Annie… That is what happened at the Bounty, I learned all about you. How you play the knight and show grand adventures, how you make all women fall in love with you at an impossible speed, but how in your heart you care only for yourself.”
“I…”
Margaret shook her head frantically, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You left me there! Alone! And now I am to be trapped in this room until she decides I am fit to come out, at which time I shall probably be forced to marry Sir Vincent because my parents will be told all the lies! And then you’ll have your wish, Gent, I shall remain in England, and you may comfort yourself with the knowledge that I shall hate you more and more every day of my life.”
“It’s Rafe,” he pleaded softly. “Margaret…”
She fought tears, and shook her head. “Get out.”
He stared at her in agony, his hand outstretched.
“Get out,” she said again, the words catching on a sob.
Slowly he lowered his hand. “I love you,” he murmured.
She closed her eyes, tears leaking out, even as her heart fluttered. “Get out.”
She heard him murmur his love again, then she heard the sounds of him climbing back out of the window, the faint scraping as he started down the wall, and then nothing at all. She opened her eyes, saw the empty room, and moved to the window to close it, taking care not to look down and see if he remained.
And then, after all of that, she sank to the floor and buried her head in her knees, sobbing silently.