Only Scandal Will Do. Jenna JaxonЧитать онлайн книгу.
thoughts and disturbing memories, she peeped out the door. The hallway was still vacant. She sped across the threshold and closed the door with a quiet click.
Rain had fallen since she’d entered this hell house. Shivering, she paused at the back door to raise the hood. With any luck at all, no one here would be able to trace her. Leaving only a trail of small, muddy footprints to melt into the gloomy London night, she slipped out.
4
As she hurried down the dark alleyway beside the House of Pleasure, Kat had no idea where she was. No matter. Rid of kidnappers and purchaser, she drew in an exhilarating breath of damp air to celebrate her freedom. She would find her way home eventually.
Kat crossed a fairly deserted street to avoid two men huddled around a smoldering brazier. The cold cobblestones slick under her bare feet, she tried to keep her balance and squinted in the poor light. Only one lamp lit on the entire block. Despite the need for haste, she had to be careful not to slip and do even more damage to her aching body. Upon reaching the sidewalk opposite, her feet squelched into something soft and slick; an earthy, decaying smell assailed her. A shudder raced up her spine as she tried not to think about what it might have been. Only escape mattered.
At a crossroads, she paused to peer both ways. Her best chance would be to find a more populated area where there might be a night watchman. A glance back the way she came showed no pursuit. Relief washed over her. She was truly free. Now to avoid being accosted by some other man. Pulling the cloak around her tightly–her gown, if seen, would certainly suggest her to be a whore of the first degree–she listened for the din of people. A faint clamor to her left made her pray her luck had turned, and she struck out down the shadowy avenue.
At the end of the street she rounded the corner and stumbled backward. Spread before her in the golden glow of the oil lamps that lined the street, a busy London thoroughfare teemed with life. Street vendors hawked their wares, tempting passersby with bunches of colorful flowers, articles of clothing, and all manner of food. The rich smell of roasted meat wafted over Katarina, and her empty stomach rumbled in protest. Gentlemen in elegant evening attire streamed out of a nearby building, hailing hackney cabs, their brightly garbed companions chatting and clinging to their arms. After the quiet darkness of the previous streets, the bright, bustling scene dazzled her.
One foppishly dressed gentleman on the opposite corner handed a lady into a waiting hack. If only she were that woman. The cab moved off the moment the door shut and there, praise God, on the opposite corner stood two night watchmen. Kat plunged across, disregarding a shouted curse from an oncoming carriage in her haste to find a safe haven.
“Constable! Thank God!” Kat slid to a stop before the men carrying the lanterns and staffs that proclaimed their office. One caught her by the elbow and steadied her before she fell. “Can you please help me?” she panted, overjoyed at the promise of rescue.
The two men, one old enough to be called ancient, the other almost a boy in comparison, measured her with a practiced look. The older one glared and thrust his staff at her. “Get along with you now. Can’t be peddling your wares so brazen in front of us. Take your business ’round the corner.”
All the fear and shame of the evening rushed back. Did everyone tonight think her a harlot? She glared first at one man then the other, but they returned her stare with unwavering condemnation. At the end of her reserve of courage, she collapsed into tears.
“Now, now, dearie. Ain’t no call for all that carryin’ on,” the older man said. “Just move on outta our sight and we won’t bother you no more.”
The younger of the two put a hand on her shoulder, for comfort or to help move her on her way, Kat had no idea, but she broke. No! Not again! She jerked away from the man, drew back her arm and walloped him alongside his head.
“’Ere now! You can’t be ’itting an officer of the watch.” His companion stepped in, still quite spry for his years, grabbed her arms and pinned them behind her back.
Assailed by the memories of the earlier brutality, Kat twisted in his arms. “Nooo! Let me go! Let me go!” Sinewy muscle held her fast, the coarse cloth of the watchman’s homespun shirt scratching her bare arms. Her efforts weakened as her strength reached its limits. Gasping for air, she couldn’t find enough. One last struggle to breathe, and darkness descended.
* * * *
The low crackle of a fire, its warmth flickering along her cheek, brought Kat toward consciousness. With an effort, she opened her eyes to faded yellow walls and dingy white ceiling plaster. A hard settle underneath her, a none-too-clean gray wool blanket covering her. She closed her eyes again and frowned, trying to remember where she was and why. When the events of the evening crashed back, she sat up so abruptly the world wavered into darkness again. Tears of rage and exhaustion trickled slowly across her cheeks. She sank back, drawing the dirty cover up to her chin, a poor shield against the prying eyes of the world.
Before she began to cry in earnest, a door opened. A matronly woman in the dark clothing of a servant entered, bearing a tray with a pot of tea and a cup. “Have you woke up good now, dear?” the woman said, and placed the tray on a nearby table. Her ordinary round smiling face, dark brown eyes and apple red cheeks seemed somehow out of place in this new, nightmarish world.
The cheerful woman poured tea and Kat cautiously sat up. “There you go.” The servant put the cup and saucer into her hands. They shook so badly, however, the woman rescued her cup, then sat down on the settle beside her. “Here, dear. Drink a bit. I put in extra sugar and,” she dropped her voice conspiratorially, “a nice drop of brandy. You looks like you needs something to fortify you.”
The kind matron tipped the cup toward Kat’s mouth and she drank obediently. The hot, sweet tea stole into her empty stomach where the brandy started a pleasant fire. Another good gulp and she found she could hold the cup herself.
“Thank you, ma’am.” She gratefully drained the rest and gazed around the austere room, noting the plain plaster walls and paucity of furniture. “Could you tell me where I am, please?”
The friendly woman nodded. “No wonder you don’t know where you are, dear, you being dead to the world when they carried you in. You’re at Four Bow Street.”
“Bow Street?”
“The magistrate’s office, miss.”
The scene on the corner surfaced and Kat shivered, once again grateful for the generous splash of brandy. “Have they arrested me?” she whispered.
The woman patted her arm. “I’m sure I don’t know, dear. They just told me as you’d had a chill and needed something hot.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” At a loss, she simply sat beside the woman, silent, trying to think of nothing. It seemed safer.
The door opened, interrupting her reverie, to admit the constables of the night watch with another man whose self-assured air attested he was in charge. They came toward her and she shrank back on the settle, clutching the blanket to her chest.
“It’s all right, miss.” The gentleman with the authoritative mein spoke gently. “My name is Reginald Matthews, one of Sir John Fielding’s Runners. No one means you any harm.”
The man appeared quite distinguished, perhaps thirty-five, with dark blond hair neatly clubbed back. His kind blue eyes exuded concern while his conservative dress, in gray coat and waistcoat, invited trust. He tempted Kat to try her story again.
“Can you please help me?” She searched his handsome face for some speck of understanding. “Two men kidnapped me earlier this evening from a carriage carrying me and my brother, the earl of Manning, to Lady Beaufort’s masquerade ball.”
The absolute shock on Matthews’s face made Kat want to laugh until he responded, “Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam?”
Her jaw dropped. “You know who I am?”
Matthews blinked at her in astonishment. “We’ve