The pickpocket hadn’t even raised her head. The blond suffragist was staring at the door, her eyes shining in the dark. “I got no one,” she said. “I got no one to come for me anytime soon.” There was a tinny note of hysterics in her voice. “I got no one,” she repeated, and began rocking back and forth and the cot began to creak.
“Oi. Shut it,” the Cockney girl said.
The girl whimpered, but the creaking continued.
Annabelle dragged herself to her feet. She settled in the vacated spot next to the rocking girl and wordlessly put her arm around her shoulders. The lass slumped against her and cried like a child.
It was approaching ten o’clock when the heavy footfall of a guard approached again.
“Miss Annabelle Archer. Please follow me.”
Her knees cracked when she stood. The girl, Maggie, reached for her hand and gave it a feeble squeeze. Resignation had set in a while ago.
She followed the guard on stiff legs, squinting into the bright light of the corridor.
It had to be Professor Campbell, Earl of Wester Ross. Or it was an interrogation.
Please let it be the earl.
They scaled a long flight of stairs that had her knees aching by the time they reached the top.
The guard halted in front of a solid black door. The director’s office, said the brass sign below the window in the door. A man was inside, standing with his back turned.
As if through fog, she saw the glint of white-blond hair.
Chapter 23
The prison director’s office was an oppressive room, with a low ceiling, dark wall panels, and the dusty smell of old carpets thickening the air.
And Montgomery was here.
Her whole body had turned weak as water. She wanted to fall into his arms, close her eyes, and let him carry her away. Anywhere.
Belatedly, she remembered to curtsy. “Your Grace.”
His expression was strangely blank. His pale eyes traveled over her muddied skirts, the missing buttons . . . She felt herself flush. Self-consciously, she smoothed a hand over her hair.
He reached her with two long strides, bringing with him the smell of rain and damp wool. His gaze searched her face methodically. “Are you hurt?”
The quiet question did what prison had not managed—tears began burning in her nose. She blinked them back rapidly. “I’m fine.”
Montgomery’s attention shifted to the guard behind her, his eyes growing cold like a frozen sea.
“Show me where she was kept.”
A confounded silence filled the office.
“Now.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the guard stammered. “Follow me, please, Your Grace.”
She stared after Montgomery’s retreating back, willing herself to remain calm, calm . . . She startled when someone touched her elbow.
“Ramsey.”
The valet was looking down at her with warm brown eyes. “Miss Archer. It is a pleasure to see you again.” He cast a disapproving glance around. “Albeit under rather unorthodox circumstances.” He guided her to a chair by the wall. “Allow me.”
She sank onto the hardwood seat. Beneath her skirts, her knees were shaking.
“How did he know I was here?” she asked.
Ramsey nodded. “First, let me apologize for the delay. The meeting in Westminster went into overtime, naturally. When His Grace made to leave, three young ladies were lying in wait for him and informed him that you had been apprehended by the London Metropolitan Police. It then took a while to locate the correct, erm, facility.”
Her mind was whirling. Ramsey’s answer raised more questions than it resolved. Why had her friends gone to Montgomery of all people? And, more significantly, why had he come?
Ramsey obviously misinterpreted her troubled silence. “It is all over now, miss,” he soothed. “The director of this . . . place . . . should be here any minute and then we can draw a line under all this unpleasantness.”
Indeed, the prison director arrived before Montgomery returned, looking like a man who had hastily dragged his clothes back on when he had already been settled comfortably by the hearth. He was accompanied by the clerk who had made her sign the ledger, who, judging by his rain-soaked hat, had been sent out to fetch him.
When Montgomery strode back into the office a few minutes later, his eyes were unnaturally bright, and a muscle was ticking faintly in his left cheek.
The prison director quickly moved behind his vast desk.
“The cells here fall short of any standards set by the Home Office,” Montgomery said without preamble. “Too filthy, too cold, and unacceptably overcrowded.”
The director tugged at his cravat. “Regrettably, there has been a shortage of—”
“And on what grounds was she being held?” Montgomery demanded. “Their demonstration had been granted a permit.”
Had they?
The prison director leafed jerkily through the ledger. “Indeed, they had a permit,” he said. “It seems the offenders, I mean, ladies, were held for obstruction and assault.” He looked up uncertainly. “Miss Archer here, ah, bloodied a police officer’s nose.”
There was a brief, incredulous pause.
“A misunderstanding, obviously,” Montgomery said silkily.
The prison director nodded. “Obviously, Your Grace.”
“Hence, her record should be expunged and the sheriff informed that her case has been dropped.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Sebastian motioned for Ramsey without taking his eyes off the prison director. “How much is the bail?”
The director looked surprised; he evidently had expected the duke to simply take his prisoner and walk out again. “The bail is at fifty pounds, Your Grace.”
Annabelle bit back a gasp. That was a staggering amount of money. She felt ill as she watched Ramsey pull a checkbook from his inner coat pocket.
Montgomery signed the check on the director’s desk and wordlessly turned to leave.
Ramsey offered her his arm, but her feet were rooted to the spot.
“Miss?” Ramsey coaxed.
Montgomery turned back, his eyes impatient. His expression turned quizzical when she walked over to him and rose to her toes to whisper into his ear. She didn’t want to be this close to him, she probably reeked of prison, but . . . “There’s another suffragist in the cell,” she said softly, “Maggie. She has no one to fetch her, and she’s terrified.”