Rochester pulled out his pocket watch. “Montgomery. You are to open the floor in three minutes’ time.”
Sebastian resisted the reflex to scan the square once more. Annabelle was not his responsibility. She had made it very clear that she didn’t want to be his responsibility. Besides. He had an election to win.
* * *
Parliament Square reminded Annabelle of a beehive—purposeful and abuzz with busy females. The weather was on their side; the sun stood high in the sky and had lifted the usual blanket of wintry fog. Their banner would be well visible from hundreds of yards away.
Lucie pushed past her, a steep frown between her slender brows. “More have come than expected,” she said. “I’d say a thousand more.”
That would explain why there was hardly space to turn around. “Is that a problem?”
The lines between Lucie’s brows did not ease. “No,” she said. “As long as everyone stays civil and calm. Everyone, stay civil and calm.”
“Lucie . . .”
“I have to give the command for the banner,” Lucie said, and vanished.
A minute later, the banner rose above their hats in all its twenty-foot-long glory, drawing a chorus of aahs. Amend the Married Women’s Property Act Now, it demanded in tall letters. No man glancing down into the square from the windows of Westminster could overlook it.
“Oh, that is lovely,” Hattie murmured.
Annabelle nodded, a tight feeling in her chest. The emotions of the women around her were filtering through her like sun rays through water, spiking her pulse and warming her inside and out. Was that why people did it, joining causes?
Big Ben struck a quarter past the hour. Spectators had begun lining the pavement, but if they expected a performance, they would be disappointed. The plan was to be seen, not heard.
At half past the hour, a sudden wave of alertness rippled through the crowd. Warily, Annabelle glanced around. Being taller, she spotted them quickly—a united front of hats with glinting spikes was moving in from the left. A thrill of alarm shot up her spine. The hats belonged to the London Metropolitan Police.
“What is it?” Hattie asked, craning her neck.
“The police.”
“Oh, lord.” Hattie’s complexion turned white as chalk.
Annabelle squeezed her shoulder and realized her friend was trembling. “We will be fine,” she said. “I suppose the crowd is just too large.”
Hattie frantically shook her head. “My father . . . if he finds out . . . and that I ran from Mr. Graves . . .”
“Perhaps take off your sash,” Annabelle said calmly, “and try to look cheerful.”
Looking terrified, Hattie yanked the sash over her head and made to stuff it into her cloak pocket.
“No,” Annabelle said, “give it to me. They mustn’t find it on you.”
The officers had split up and were filtering swiftly through the crowd. They seemed to be trying to break the mass of demonstrators into smaller groups to herd them from the square.
A gray-haired officer with a drooping mustache stopped in front of them. A younger officer was following him, and his oily dark eyes immediately set Annabelle on edge.
“Please follow me, miss,” the older officer said to her. “Ladies, move along.”
Hattie clutched her arm. “What if they take our details?” she whispered.
“They have no reason to do so,” Annabelle murmured, but Hattie’s breathing was coming in alarming little gasps. “Can you get rid of the cloak? Then break away when we pass the pavement. Pretend you are a bystander.”
Hattie slid the conspicuous cloak off her shoulders as she walked, revealing a plain brown servant uniform that hugged her voluptuous figure far too tightly. Somewhere, a kitchen maid was missing a dress.
“Why, you’re a bonnie wench, aren’t you?” The silken voice raised the hair on Annabelle’s nape. Oily Eyes had caught up with them, and his gaze was roaming freely over Hattie as he strolled alongside her. “What’s your name, luv?”
Annabelle’s heart began to pound. That sort of man needed to be managed very, very carefully. Hattie, of course, did what any well-bred lady would do—she turned up her nose and ignored him.
The officer’s expression turned oddly flat. “Oi,” he snarled, “I’m talking to you.”
Annabelle’s gaze jerked to the older officer. He was walking farther ahead, possibly oblivious of what was unfolding behind his back.
“You,” the officer said, “yes, I’m talking to you.”
Hattie kept quiet. Annabelle’s thoughts were racing.
“Uppity bitch,” the man muttered, and Hattie gasped. The officer’s arm had snaked around her waist, hauling Hattie close.
Annabelle didn’t think. She simply stepped into their path. “Sir, don’t do this.” Her own voice sounded through a distant roar in her ears.
The officer halted, surprise in his eyes. Then his gaze traveled over her, slow and slimy like a slug. “Well, who have we here.”
“Sir—”
“Keep walking like a good girl,” he said. “We are occupied.” Without taking his eyes off her, he slid his hand on Hattie’s middle up and clamped it over her breast.
Hattie’s face froze in shock, sickly pale.
The man’s lips stretched into a smile.
A red tide of rage ripped through Annabelle and shot her right fist straight at the man’s grin.
A crunch, a howl, as both his hands flew up to his nose.
“Run,” Annabelle said to Hattie, “run, run.” She gave her friend a shove.
Over his hands clutching his nose, the officer’s eyes fixed on her, glittering with fury.
Holy hell. She must have given him a proper jab.
Now she felt the pain ringing in her knuckles.
A whistle shrieked, and she was gripped from behind as Oily Eyes lunged at her. No. She kicked at him, and her sturdy boot met his knee. His leg buckled. “Damn you!”
She was yanked around and shaken; violence pulsed around her as her body twisted in panic. Fabric ripped, and she stumbled, her knees connecting hard with the cobblestones. She caught a glimpse of her hat, crushed into the dirt beneath the boots stomping around her.
This was not a game. She had hurt one of them.
Her arms were twisted behind her back as she was dragged back upright.
Her impulse was to writhe and claw like a cat in a trap.