Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

“Slightly more than a week-ten days actually.”

“You know, darling, he’s not apt to come back. It’s just his way,” her friend added, looking at Rosalind over her wineglass. “He’s a selfish man.”

“I know.” Rosalind smiled faintly. “I’m fine-really. I don’t talk about him with anyone but you. And I’m getting better.”

“You are. I saw you laugh tonight-more than once.”

“The crowd was wonderful, wasn’t it-so engaged and interested, asking questions for such a long time. I think we might have helped those three young women apply for college, too.”

“Indeed we did,” Sofia said with a grin. “You have become our local benefactor, Mrs. St. Vincent of Bruton Street Books.”

Rosalind grimaced. “That reminds me-the word benefactor,” she explained. “My brother sent me another carping letter, reminding me that it was my duty to be the benevolent hand of charity for my family.”

“What he really means is for him,” Sofia grunted out, having met Rosalind’s brother.

“Exactly. In fact, Mother has written to say both she and Father are quite content with whatever I decide. They are in no need of money.” Rosalind smiled. “Which is very sweet of Mother, who has been stretching Father’s meager income for years.”

“Then your brother can go to hell,” Sofia brusquely said, up-to-date on the state of Algernon’s coercive measures.

“I said as much to him in my last letter, although perhaps more diplomatically.”

“I’m not so sure diplomacy works with him. You might have to be blunt or he’ll never give up. He wants that money.”

“Well, he’s not getting it.”

“Nor is Groveland it seems,” Sofia pointed out with a lift of her brows. “He’s not sent over any agents lately, has he? ”

“No. I think he understands my position. I was very plain about my feelings on several occasions.”

“So at least something good came from your friendship. He has ceased making demands.”

“Yes, apparently.” He’s ceased making demands of any kind, unfortunately. “Naturally, I appreciate his kindness and consideration,” Rosalind said, complimenting herself for her maturity and practicality. As if you have a choice, the unhelpful voice inside her head pointed out.

NOT MORE THAN five hours later, in the dead of night, Rosalind came awake to the sounds of an ax breaking down her door and in due time, learned to her disgust and chagrin that the Duke of Groveland was not in the least kind and considerate.

She barely had time to throw on a dressing robe before her bedchamber was invaded and she was read her arrest warrant by a beefy constable who clearly took pleasure in citing each of the obscenity laws she was accused of violating. It was also plain that he found a woman who wrote erotica repugnant, for he’d look up from time to time as he laboriously read the legal citation and glare at her with contempt.

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!”