“I want him cashiered,” Prosper said coldly, leaning back in his chair and meeting the judge’s gaze with an icy stare.
“In due time, my friend. It’s certainly not going to happen tonight. If I might be so bold as to ask, why this raging urgency at this ungodly hour? Is the lady a friend of yours?” he slyly inquired. “And more to the point,” the judge added with roguish smile, “does she indeed write lewd stories? ”
“Judas Priest, William. I have neither the time nor the inclination for adultery or any interest in satisfying your salacious queries. If you must know, the lady is a special friend of an important client.”
The judge’s gaze narrowed. “How important? ”
“Important enough for you to make sure the lady is freed in the morning. I don’t care what you have to do, just do it.” Prosper smiled thinly. “My client will reward you generously.”
“Christ, Prosper, you’re asking too much. I’m not sure I can do it. The court views these cases of moral depravity harshly. I can’t guarantee her release.”
“He’s a duke.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you,” Prosper crisply replied and rose to his feet. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”
But he dared not wait to notify the duke, and to that end, he had himself driven to a telegraph office where he sent Groveland the unhappy news. Since Prosper handled his business affairs, Fitz generally left word of his destination on leaving the city.
EARLY THE NEXT morning, at the same time Rosalind was watching a tin plate of unappetizing porridge being slid through a slot at the base of her cell door, Hutchinson’s telegram was delivered to Fitz’s dressing room where he was being shaved.
For a moment his heart seemed to stop.
“Have a mount saddled,” Fitz barked, frightening a servant who was carrying away his breakfast tray with the rough fury in his voice. “Now!” he shouted at the terrified man. “Give me that,” he growled, swiping the razor from Darby’s grasp and lunging to his feet. “Rosalind’s been arrested, damn someone’s stupidity.” Striding to the mirror, he proceeded to shave himself with rough, quick strokes.
Wiping the lather from his face, he dropped the towel, grabbed the shirt Darby held out, and shoved his arms into the sleeves. “Follow me later. I’ll commandeer whatever train’s in the station, so you’ll have to take the next one.” He wrenched his trousers from Darby’s grasp and jerked them on. Three minutes later, dressed and booted, he was taking the stairs at a run.
Reaching the drive a few moments later, he leaped into the saddle, waved off the groom, and spurred his mount.
He rode to Aberdeen like a man possessed, using whip and spur, his racer gallantly responding. The Thoroughbred was lathered and winded by the time they reached the station. Tossing the reins and two guineas to a street boy, Fitz shouted directions to his hunting lodge as he ran toward the platforms. Fortunately, the stationmaster knew him, his consequence and fortune, and quickly accommodated his wishes. Conductors were sent through the station, warning travelers of the imminent departure, and short minutes later, the engine pulled out of the station an hour early.
Fitz had much too much time on the journey south to reflect on all that had gone wrong. He was to blame of course. There was no excusing his orders to have an arrest warrant drawn up. Not that it was supposed to have been served without his permission. Yet, regardless the reason for the blunder, it was he who had agreed to the scheme. Calling himself every kind of blackguard and villain, he stared blankly out the train window, the image of Rosalind suffering in some revolting cell looping through his brain, torturing him, consuming him.
What had seemed a perfectly reasonable expedient-good business, in fact-only brief days ago had turned to disaster. Rosalind was in gross danger in the terrifying stew of humanity inhabiting a prison, exposed and defenseless against the scandal ensuing from her arrest as well, at risk of complete ruin.
Thanks to him.
He was in agony, tormented by visions of her vulnerable and alone in the noisome environs of a jail, and in his anguish he no longer questioned what she meant to him. He cared for her in untold ways distinct from lust and passion. In ways so baffling and unorthodox he could neither identify nor put a name to his feelings. Not that he’d admit to something so binding and heartfelt as love. Old habits die hard.
But he couldn’t avoid his feelings, whatever they were.
Now, whether he’d be able to repair the damage wrought by this botched affair was another question.
Christ-Rosalind took issue over something as simple as him sending over a doctor. He rather doubted she’d be quick to forgive him after having been thrown in jail.
But do something he must, although he’d not come up with any useful redress by the time he stepped from the train.
Hutchinson was waiting for him on the platform, the stationmaster in Aberdeen having telegraphed ahead with the duke’s arrival time.
“A major fuck-up it seems,” Fitz murmured as Hutchinson quickly fell in line beside him. “Is she out? ”
“No, I’m sorry to say, Your Grace. It was the most egregious error, and no one seems capable of setting it right.”
“We’ll take care of it now.” Crisp authority in every syllable.
Hutchinson was feeling considerably less assured after having called in a great number of markers today to no avail. “I feel I should warn you, Your Grace. The law courts can be extremely uncompromising when it comes to obscenity cases such as this. I’ve talked to more than a dozen people today with little result.”
“Tell me what’s transpired on our drive to the station,” Fitz said, lengthening his stride.
Hutchinson started running.
Once they were in the carriage, the barrister explained as best he knew, all that had occurred. First, a clerk’s error had mistakenly sent the envelope with the arrest warrant from the judge’s chambers to the Bruton Street Station. Second, even though the envelope had been clearly marked
“After failing to persuade Captain Bagley to release Mrs. St. Vincent, I attempted to find a judge who could free her from gaol. I spoke to several, Your Grace, but I was told by each that there are strict procedures that can’t be altered. A hearing before the court is required.”
“Like hell,” Fitz muttered. “But thank you for trying, Hutchinson,” he added, offering Hutchinson a kindly smile. “Once we reach the station, I’ll do the talking.”
“As you wish, Your Grace, but I must caution you about expecting too much. I’ve been working on this all day with nothing to show for my efforts.”
Fitz flashed his barrister a smile. “Don’t worry, Hutchinson. All will be well.” And as he spoke, an idea leaped into his mind, without reason, quite illogical in fact, but the more he thought about it, he warmed to the notion, damned if he didn’t.
Fitz chatted on the remainder of the drive to the police station, his cheerfulness and good humor causing Hutchinson a certain unease. Had the duke taken leave of his senses when faced with the chaos and confusion of the situation? Was he overcompensating somehow for his plans having gone awry? Or was he drunk and not showing it?
But on arriving at the station, Fitz gracefully leaped from the carriage without any sign of stumbling or awkwardness, and Hutchinson was forced to relinquish his drunkenness theory. He wasn’t yet willing to discount the other impairments, however.
He was soon dissuaded of the duke’s possible derangement, though, for the moment they stood before the superintendent in charge of the station on the day shift, the duke said crisply, “I’m Groveland. I’ve come for my wife. I believe she was mistakenly arrested last night. If she is released immediately, I won’t be inclined to sue.”
Then the duke smiled, Hutchinson noted, with the most benign sweetness and added, “I understand perfectly how mistakes can be made.”
