Gorgeous As Sin

She unflinchingly met his contempt. The Pitt-Riverston bloodlines preceded the Norman invasion; she could stare down any second-rate functionary.

While the red-faced officer droned on, Edward’s manuscripts were being dragged from the armoire by two of the dozen men who had swarmed into her bedroom, and Rosalind suspected this assault was related to Mr. Edding’s surveillance. But it wasn’t until her unfinished manuscript was plucked from her desk drawer that she experienced alarm. Now she was implicated and any possible hope of evasion was gone.

Once the evidence was in the policemen’s hands, she was allowed only a brief opportunity to dress. Even more mortifying, two constables remained in her bedroom while she changed behind a screen in the corner. It wasn’t until she’d been shoved into a closed police wagon and the door locked behind her, that she had a moment to gather her thoughts.

Or try. Myriad questions raced through her mind: How could she, perhaps along with Mr. Edding, have been exposed? What or whom had first brought him under surveillance? How was the location of Edward’s manuscripts known when Mr. Edding had never been in her apartment?

The police had gone directly to the armoire.

Was it possible Edward had mentioned the location to Mr. Edding? She doubted it. They didn’t appear to be more than acquaintances from what she’d gathered. Had Mr. Edding drawn the attention of the constabulary for some other infraction and she’d simply been dragged in by accident? Had he been arrested tonight as well? Not that the origin or motive behind her arrest particularly mattered now that she was on her way to gaol. Her immediate dilemma was how best to confront the criminal charges against her.

If she had any hope of prevailing against the accusations, the first thing she must do is find a competent barrister and the necessary funds for his services. Groveland’s offer immediately came to mind of course. There was no other way she could secure the large sum required to defend against a case as serious as hers.

Even as she came to the conclusion that Fitz’s offer was her only salvation, a more damning thought insinuated itself into her consciousness. A notion so malevolent, she quickly brushed it aside. But no matter how many times she dismissed the scurrilous idea, her mind refused to be diverted and presently, she was forced to at least entertain the possibility that Fitz might be involved. Because the simple fact was: other than Sofia, no one but Fitz had been in her bedroom since she’d begun writing for Mr. Edding. And clearly, Sofia was not a suspect.

Unwilling to acknowledge Fitz’s infamy, she tried to conceive of some other causative link that might have brought the police to her door. She must have overlooked some other connection, she insisted, not wishing to admit to something so dastardly. Fitz simply couldn’t be so tender and indulgent and then turn on her with such sinister purpose. Unless he was a monster in the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde vein.

At base though, even should diabolical behavior be involved, Fitz’s offer for her store was her only hope. Her parents couldn’t help, and while her brother was perhaps slightly more prosperous, he wasn’t likely to come to her aid when he wanted her to sell her store anyway. So, Fitz’s offer, iniquitous as it might be, was in the way of a last resort.

Not that she didn’t desperately long for some reasonable explanation that would exonerate Fitz. Stupid fool, she thought with a grimace. Half in love with him, she was willing to forgive him anything. Like all the other women he’d known.

Rosalind’s musing was curtailed as the wagon came to a halt at the station house and she was unceremoniously pulled from the wagon and marched to a cell. While Captain Bagley had taken it upon himself to serve the warrant for reasons of personal gain and moral duty, the private warrant also signified an offender of possible gentility-as did the woman’s hauteur, he disgruntledly noted. He decided it might be circumspect to separate her from the rabble in the common holding cell.

Rosalind, unaware of her special treatment, took one look around the small wretched cell and decided she’d remain standing until such a time as she was allowed to see a barrister. The stone floor and walls were damp, small puddles evident in low areas of the floor, the single, barred window too high to reach, although a sliver of moonlight dimly illuminated the area. A plank bed with a stained blanket hung from chains on the wall, and a low sink apparently was meant to function as both a toilet and wash basin. She shuddered.

Never one to be fainthearted, however, she gave herself a bracing talking-to, told herself she would seek justice in the morning, and began to pace. Now, how best to secure a barrister, she reflected, trying to organize a plan of action as well as distract herself from her sordid surroundings.

First, she would not become demoralized or tearful over the necessity of selling her store. She’d simply buy another with what money remained after her trial, she briskly decided. That she might be convicted, she’d not even consider. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t faced serious challenges before in her life. There was no point in bemoaning one’s fate. Right now, she needed solutions.

AN HOUR AFTER the cell door closed on Rosalind, Prosper Hutchinson was wakened by his valet.

“A message, sir. I was told to see that you received it immediately.”

Under the light of the kerosene lamp in his valet’s hand, Hutchinson read the note, crumpled it in his hand, and immediately abandoned his bed. “Don’t wake up, dear,” he said as his wife turned over and gazed at him with drowsy eyes. “I’ll be back by breakfast.”

As he swiftly dressed, he asked for details on who’d delivered the note and when. Damned idiot in Brewster’s office, but at least the clerk had the good sense to alert me. Then he swore roundly, consigning all the incompetents in the bureaucracy to hell. “Sorry, Philip,” he muttered, “but this is going to be one helluva mess. Have the carriage brought round.”

“I have already, sir.” The elderly man spoke with the immutable calm of an experienced retainer. “It’s beginning to rain out. You’d best wear your mackintosh,” he added holding out the coat.

Five minutes later, swearing under his breath, Prosper was being driven across town to the police station near Bruton Street. A short time later, after accosting the stout, obstinate constable who was captain on the night shift, Prosper’s curses were decidedly more forceful.

“I done my duty, sar, and that’s that,” Captain Bagley said, his mouth and jaw set firmly. He didn’t approve of taking the Lord’s name in vain. “That female prisoner ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Hutchinson glared at the heavyset man behind the desk. “Who authorized her arrest, dammit! There were distinct orders to hold the warrant until further notice!”

“It ain’t right, sar, to ignore criminal activity, no matter what. The law’s the law fer you and me and everyone,” the captain stubbornly declared, a pious fanatic against all forms of what he perceived as vice.

“Who’s your superior, you imbecile!” Hutchinson shouted. “You had no right to serve that warrant!”

“I don’t rightly know that it’s any of your business, sar,” the constable pugnaciously replied. “I’m in charge here tonight.”

“Damn right it’s my business, and when I’ve gotten to the bottom of this fiasco, you’ll be out of a job, you cretin!”

“That may be, but I doubt it. Ain’t right fer anyone to athwart the law,” Captain Bagley muttered belligerently. “The prisoner is guilty as sin,” he added with a sneer. “We found all the evidence we need right there in her house- no mistake.”

Short of shooting the stupid oaf where he sat, Prosper had no recourse but to return to his carriage and hie himself to the home of one of the judges he knew who owed him a favor.

Even there, he was foiled.

“Once the lady is jailed, she passes into one of Her Majesty’s prisons to await trial at Clerkenwell or Central Criminal Court.”

“I know that, dammit! I also know she won’t stand trial for at least a month.”

“I’m sorry, Prosper, but I can’t simply override an arrest warrant”-Judge Hillard shot his friend a jaundiced look as they sat in opposing chairs in his study-“that you yourself instituted by the way.”

“It was on hold until final approval.” Prosper’s hands were clenching and unclenching on the leather chair arms. “How the hell it made it’s way to Bruton Street Station is an issue I’ll deal with later. I want her out- now!”

“I wish I could help you, but my hands are tied. And unfortunately, Captain Bagley is known to have a crusading zeal when it comes to enforcing the obscenity laws.”