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Sloane could barely keep from laughing, but, instead, he pretended to protest. ‘See here, you cannot do this,’
His father bared his teeth. ‘I can and I will!’
Sloane swore at his father and made other protests and threats just to convince his father he’d been severely injured. For his exit, he picked up a decanter of brandy from one of the tables and sent it crashing into the cold fireplace, then he stalked out of the room.
When he reached the outside and was about to remount his horse, David caught up to him.
‘How can I thank you, Uncle?’ The young man extended his hand.
Fearing his father or brother might be watching from a window, Sloane did not accept the handshake. ‘It is I who must thank you, David. You prevented the dishonour of a lady I admire very much. I am proud to know you.’
‘And I you, sir,’ David said.
They stared at each other a long time before Sloane swung himself into the saddle and rode away.
Sloane felt as if he’d been navigating a ship in stormy seas. Rising high on the wave, only to plummet, only to rise again. He felt buoyant now, as if nothing could ever sink him again.
He planned to grab Morgana and drag her to some room with him—his bedchamber, preferably—and keep her there until he finally convinced her to marry him. Re-experiencing his father’s hatred gave an ironic contrast to his feelings towards Morgana. He loved her.
He returned his horse directly to the stables and crossed the mews into his garden, now a fairly respectable showcase of flowers and plants, thanks to Elliot and Lucy. But when he entered Morgana’s garden, flowerbeds were trampled and torn up. Her back door was wide open. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he edged his way to the door.
As stealthily as a cat, Sloane slipped into Morgana’s house. He heard a woman crying in the library. He hurried to the doorway and peered through the crack of the door.
Elliot sat on a chair, Morgana’s butler holding a cloth against his head. Blood stained his face.
Sloane nearly leapt into the room. ‘Good God. What happened?’
On the sofa, Morgana’s maid shrieked. Miss Moore held the weeping girl in her arms. Other servants were scattered around the room.
Cripps looked up. ‘We have been attacked, sir.’
Elliot waved the butler away and held the cloth against his own head. ‘Ruffians broke into the house and abducted the women. I—I tried to stop them, but there were too many—’ He took a ragged breath.
Sloane advanced on him. ‘Who was taken?’ No one answered him at first. ‘Who was taken?’he demanded, his voice rising.
Cripps responded. ‘Miss Hart, and Misses Jenkins, O’Keefe and Green.’
‘Lucy,’ her sister cried. ‘Lucy and Rose and Katy and Miss Hart.’
Morgana. ‘Who took them?’ Good God, he must find her. ‘Who was it?’
Elliot shook his head. ‘Some ruffians. No one I know.’
Sloane ran a ragged hand through his hair. He swung around to the footmen. ‘Where the devil were you when this happened? Are you not supposed to protect them?’
One of the footmen met his challenge. ‘We were doin’ the work of the house, sir. None of us were around the drawing room. I chased after them, but they were too far ahead. I saw the carriage, but I could not catch up to it.’
Sloane said, ‘Would you recognise the vehicle?’
‘The type at least, sir. It were a landaulet I saw, sir. Shabby it was. Might have been a second one as well. I cannot say.’
‘Would you recognise the one you saw?’ Sloane asked.
The footman nodded vigorously. ‘Indeed I would, sir.’
‘Excellent,’ Sloane said. ‘I need you to change out of your livery into clothes that will not get you noticed. We are going to search for that landaulet.’
‘Yes, sir!’ The man hurried out.
Putting his hands on his hips, Sloane looked at the others in the room. ‘Who else knows anything?’
Miss Moore released the maid. ‘I was in the room. Five men rushed in and just grabbed them. They were looking for four girls. “Four, she said”, I heard one of them say.’
‘She?’ Sloane repeated.
‘Yes, I am sure he said “she”.’ Miss Moore gave a vague shake of her head. ‘I wonder if it was Mary they wanted. Not Morgana.’
‘Where is Mary?’ Sloane looked around the room.
‘Mary eloped with Mr Duprey,’ Miss Moore explained, a hint of a smile flashing across her worried face.
With Duprey? Sloane thought. Bravo for her, but who would have guessed Robert Duprey capable of such a thing?
Sloane pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘It must be the glove maker.’
‘Oh, yes, new gloves. Very nice. Very nice indeed,’ said Morgana’s grandmother, rocking in her chair and smiling.
Sloane frowned. ‘We must plan carefully.’
It was a cellar room, a room to store Mrs Rice’s wine—cool, dark, and with walls so thick no one above them could hear a thing. It also had a door with a very big lock on the outside. They had been imprisoned there for hours.
Rose rubbed her arms against the chill. ‘Where are Lucy and Katy, do you suppose?’
Morgana paced the small area back and forth. ‘In the upper rooms, I imagine. I suspect Mrs Rice will be putting them to work tonight. If she put enough fear into both of them, that is.’
Rose wiped a tear from her eye. ‘It sounded like they got a beating.’
Before they’d been locked in the cellar, they’d heard Lucy’s cries and Katy’s string of obscenities. Morgana’s stomach clenched with the memory and with hunger. She and Rose had not been given any food since being dragged through a nearly hidden door underneath the glove shop.
‘Why did they not make us do the work, too?’ asked Rose. ‘I do not understand it.’
‘I convinced them you are a virgin.’ Morgana kept pacing. ‘They knew better of Lucy and Katy.’
Rose looked over at her. ‘But why should that matter? They don’t want me to stay a virgin, not if I am to be made to do what Lucy and Katy are going to do.’
‘There are gentlemen who would pay much to bed a virgin, especially one as pretty as you. I suspect Mrs Rice will be taking bids for you.’
‘Bids?’ Rose shivered. ‘It is too awful.’
Morgana ignored the pain from the bruises on her legs and arms. She touched her cheek. One of the men had hit her hard before Mrs Rice yelled at him for spoiling the merchandise. The spot still stung when she touched it. The pain would not prevent her from putting up another fight. She would not quietly do Mrs Rice’s bidding.
‘I am, you know,’ Rose said.
‘You are what?’ Morgana continued pacing.
‘A virgin.’
She stopped. ‘You are?’ Morgana had always thought Rose came to the courtesan school already ruined, like the others.
Rose nodded.
Morgana was mystified. ‘But why desire to be a courtesan unless you…?’
‘I didn’t,’ Rose said. ‘I never desired to be one of those types of ladies.’
Morgana gaped at her. ‘Why did you come to me, then?’
Rose gave a wan smile. ‘I overheard Katy and Mary talking in the street. I knew they were talking about lessons from a lady, as you are a lady, to be sure. So I thought you would teach me some pretty behaviour, like ladies have, and that is what you have done.’
Morgana still stared. ‘But pretty behaviour for what? Why did you want to learn such things?’
‘Some of the things I did not wish t’learn.’ Rose shook her head. Then her eyes filled with tears. ‘More than anything, I want to be a songstress. The kind who has posters all over town to advertise her singing. The kind Vauxhall or Covent Garden or some such place will pay a lot of money and the newspapers will write pretty things about.’
‘A songstress?’
A tear trickled down her flawlessly perfect cheek. ‘I—I would have had employment, too. I met Mr Hook at Vauxhall and again at the masquerade. He wanted to hire me.’
Morgana was too taken aback to address the girl’s tears. ‘Who is Mr Hook?’
Rose gave a loud sniffle. ‘He is the composer of songs and organist at Vauxhall. Surely everyone knows of Mr Hook.’
Morgana almost smiled. Everyone who had a musician for a father and an aspiration to sing, perhaps. ‘Was he the balding man who attended you at the masquerade?’
Rose nodded again and swiped at her eyes with her fingers.
‘You did not wish to become a courtesan,’ Morgana said it again.
‘No.’ She looked at Morgana with her huge, glistening green eyes. ‘Miss Hart, what will happen to me now?’
Nothing, Morgana thought. ‘We must escape this place.’
‘I—I hoped Mr Sloane or Mr Elliot would come save us,’ Rose said with a shuddering breath.
Sloane. Would he even discover they were taken until it was too late—too late for Rose, and until Lucy and Katy were forced to degrade themselves? And Mr Elliot had been hit so hard. Was he even alive? Sloane would come for them when he could, she believed with all her heart. He would charge in like a one-man avenging army and wipe out all these horrible people, but Morgana could not wait for him. They needed to escape now.
Morgana began pacing again.
She grabbed one of the wine bottles and sat next to Rose on the barrel that lay on its side. ‘I have an idea…’
A few minutes later the sound of crashing glass reached the ears of the man sitting outside the locked door, and screams of ‘Oh, help! Help! Stop her. You must stop her!’
When the locked door opened, Rose was huddled in the corner surrounded by broken glass and spilled wine. She scraped at her wrist with a jagged piece and blood covered her arms.
‘You must stop her!’ Morgana begged the man. ‘Hurry.’
He rushed over to the beautiful girl, squatting down to both reach her and try to pull her up. Morgana followed him. Rose struggled and moaned that she would rather be dead. Such a lovely creature in so much distress would be difficult for any man to resist.
He was no different. While he was distracted by Rose, Morgana came up behind him and hit him hard on the head with one of the bottles of wine.
He fumbled, but did not fall. Instead, he came at her. She swung the bottle as hard as she could and hit him in the stomach, as Sloane had done to the man in the park so long ago. This man doubled over and staggered backwards.
‘I have the key,’ shouted Rose, holding it up in the air.
Morgana grabbed her and pulled her towards the door. She slammed the door shut and leaned on it while Rose turned the key in the lock.
A roar of outrage came from the inside of their cellar prison. Their captor banged loudly on the door, but would not be heard any better than they had been.
‘Are you all right, Morgana?’ Rose asked. She caught Morgana’s hand and looked at the cut Morgana had made to smear blood on Rose’s arms.
Morgana’s hand throbbed, but she said, ‘It is nothing. We must hurry.’
They made their way down the cellar corridor until they came to a staircase. Creeping up each step as softly as they could, they heard the sounds of voices above them.
‘Let us try the other way.’
Morgana led Rose past the wine cellar door where their captor still pounded and swore at the top of his lungs. At the other end they discovered the wooden door leading to the outside. It had a heavy metal bolt. Morgana’s cut hand shot with pain as she forced the bolt sideways and pushed on the door.
They were met by a crisp breeze and freedom. It was night, but the new gas lamps on nearby St James’s Street gave a faint illumination. Rose turned to her.
‘Go,’ Morgana said. ‘Return home. Find Sloane. Tell him to come.’
‘What about you?’ Rose asked.
‘I must go after Lucy and Katy. Please, Rose. Hurry. Bring Sloane.’
Rose gave her a quick hug and, after a look to see if anyone was watching, slipped out of the door into the night.
Morgana hurried back through the cellar to the stairway they’d found before. She heard voices, but she crept up the stairs and into a dark room. A sliver of light shone from under its door. Morgana groped around the room, making her way to the door. She felt something soft on a shelf against the wall.
Gloves.
She picked one up and put it on the hand she had cut with the piece of glass. It helped relieve the sting and the soft kid kept her hand supple. Shrugging, Morgana put on the glove’s mate.
Morgana inched her way to the door. She hoped to find a way to the upper floors where she supposed Lucy and Katy were kept. She opened the door a crack and peered through it. It led to a hallway at the end of which was the stairway to the upper floors. To the left was another room separated by a curtain. Morgana took a deep breath and started to cross towards the stairs.
She heard Mrs Rice’s voice coming from behind the curtain.
‘I do not care how you do it. Dispose of her. She is trouble. Have her put on a ship or something—that would serve her right—or toss her in the Thames. It is of no consequence to me as long as I am rid of her.’
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