Page 29 of Benefactor to the Baroness (The Seductive Sleuths #3)
I f someone had asked Rosemary what she’d expected to be doing in Halifax when they’d been on the steamship, the answer would most certainly not have been ‘attending a ball.’ Yet that was exactly where she found herself, standing next to a window in Mr. Prue’s ballroom, dressed in a hideous yellow-and-orange-printed cotton dress. The boning in the bodice dug into her stomach and the hem was several inches too short, but the manner with which Mrs. Feather had delivered the garment to her room that afternoon had implied that it was not a generous gift from Mr. Prue, but a requirement to be allowed to attend. Considering what Fontaine had told her, that he’d threatened the twins and demanded Rosemary return to London on the next available transport, she’d decided not to fight him on a simple matter of wardrobe.
She’d argued with Fontaine about how easily she’d given up, but Mr. Prue’s threats seemed to have broken something inside Fontaine. In contrast, Rosemary was more determined than ever to spend the little time she had before Mr. Prue sent her away trying to find a way to stop him.
She clung to the shadows, her gaze never leaving Fontaine. If the difference in their social status had been obvious before, now it was glaring. Fontaine’s golden, silk gown sparkled in the gaslight, and the string of pearls that wound about her neck emphasized the swell of her bosom. She laughed, causing the tiny, artful curls around her face to bounce.
This might not have been the world Fontaine had been born into, but it was obvious that she belonged. Mr. Prue stood at her side, beaming at the crowd. It reminded Rosemary of a thought she’d had weeks ago, that Fontaine would have made a remarkable politician, if she were only a man. The force of her personality drew people to her, as did her empathy. But when Rosemary looked closer, a different story became apparent. Fontaine held a flute of champagne that she had not sipped from once, clutched Mr. Prue’s arm in a crushing grip, and darted her gaze around the crowd every few minutes.
As reluctant as Rosemary was to leave Fontaine to the mercy of Mr. Prue and his guests, she had not suffered the awful choice of attire to stand like a wallflower all night. With Fontaine serving as a distraction, it was Rosemary’s turn to search their host’s office. Convincing him to release Peter and Quinn was no longer enough. They needed proof they could bring to the authorities in Halifax to have Mr. Prue arrested. Well, that was what Fontaine wanted. Rosemary was practical enough to know they stood little chance of getting anyone in Halifax to take them seriously.
Regardless, they needed leverage, and she had some idea of where she might find it. Mr. Prue now kept the door to his office locked. But she’d learned several tricks from Saffron since her niece had married. The viscountess had laughingly refused to disclose who had taught her but had convinced Rosemary of the value of such a skill after she had lost the key to her favorite jewelry box. When she reached the door, she removed two hairpins from her coiffure and knelt. It took longer than expected, and with every second that passed, she expected a footman or maid to appear and ask what she was doing.
Click.
She turned the doorknob, slipped inside, and collapsed on the ground. She had never felt so alive in her life. No wonder Saffron had embraced adventure. The heady rush of excitement had her breathless to the point of dizziness. When she no longer felt on the verge of fainting, she struggled to her feet and searched for the shape of a desk in the darkness. The curtains were drawn tight and she soon smacked her knee on a table. She limped over to the windows and pulled a curtain open so that a bright rectangle of moonlight bloomed over Mr. Prue’s desk. There was no one outside to see her, but she would do her search quickly. She didn’t want Mr. Prue noticing that she was missing.
She tugged open the first drawer to reveal a disorganized collection of documents, which she removed and placed on top of the desk. To her dismay, the papers didn’t seem to be in any semblance of order. There were jotted notes about the staff, lists of books that Mr. Prue presumably wanted to purchase, and a sketch of two women performing a licentious act that she mentally jotted down for the future to try.
She finished the stack and returned it to the drawer in the same order. There had to be something they could use. She wouldn’t leave his office empty-handed.
The sound of voices came from the hallway. She rushed over to the window and tugged the curtain back in place, then scurried beneath the desk.
“Mr. Prue is very particular about who cleans this room,” Mrs. Feather said in her usual clipped tones. Some of the tightness in Rosemary’s shoulders eased. Having Mrs. Feather find her sneaking about Mr. Prue’s office was not nearly as bad as being caught by their host or a guest. As stern as Mrs. Feather acted, Rosemary was confident that she wasn’t immune to bribery, if it came to that.
“Yes, Mrs. Feather,” a second voice said, and Rosemary almost gave herself away with a laugh. It was Annie. Of course. Annie must have seen the housekeeper about to enter Mr. Prue’s room and involved herself to avoid Rosemary being caught.
Rosemary peered through a slit in the desk as Mrs. Feather lit several candles, then briskly showed Annie the cleaning that Mr. Prue expected. As they approached her hiding space, the dizziness that had struck Rosemary earlier returned. She tensed all of her muscles and closed her eyes, waiting for a gasp or scream or some other sign that she’d been found.
Instead, Mrs. Feather stopped on the other side of the desk. “And we do not touch Mr. Prue’s desk. Not even to dust. Do you understand that, girl?”
“Yes,” Annie said meekly. “May I clean now, Mrs. Feather?”
The housekeeper mumbled something. Then there was the creak of the door opening and closing, followed by a giggle.
Rosemary rose from her spot to find Annie dutifully dusting the shelves of Mr. Prue’s bookcase.
“I accidentally dropped a stack of plates,” Annie said. “Mrs. Feather’s punishment was to make me clean this room. Most of the servants refuse to come in here. Mr. Prue has a rather bad habit of sacking anyone who moves even a single item out of place.” She thwacked her feather duster against the spines of the books that were carefully arranged on the shelves, scattering dust everywhere. “I guess Mrs. Feather didn’t train me that well.”
Rosemary winced. “One shouldn’t take one’s anger out on inanimate objects, Annie.”
The girl dropped the duster. “Fine. What’re you looking for, then? Can I help? Being a maid is boring.”
“You can help by locking the door.”
As the girl did as she’d been told, Rosemary returned to her searching. She checked another drawer and dug through the contents until she’d reached an indent in the bottom that felt out of place.
“What is it?” Annie asked, from over Rosemary’s shoulder. “Did you find something?”
“I’m not sure,” Rosemary said. “I think there might…” She reached deeper into the drawer until her fingertips touched something smooth. “There it is.” She withdrew her arm, pulled out the upper drawer, and held it above her head. A thin book bound in red leather was slotted into a clever groove. She removed the book and opened it at random.
Annie took one look at the thin, slanted writing and scowled. “Scribbles.”
“Not quite,” Rosemary said. She flipped a page and read the first two rows aloud. “‘ Gilly, 14, Borrington factory, fifty cents a week. Mark, 12, Gradero mine, three dollars a week. ’”
“Names, ages, where he’s sent them, and how much he’s getting for their work,” Annie said. She tapped her finger on the opposite page. “But what’s these marks, then?”
As Rosemary looked at the cross-hatched lines Annie had pointed to, a shiver went down her back. She couldn’t be certain, but it looked as if Mr. Prue had not only kept a meticulous record of every child he had leased, but also the ones who had died.
A shout came from the hallway. Rosemary shoved the small book into her pocket. It wasn’t definitive proof, but it would have to be enough, as they had run out of time.
They rushed toward the door, only to have it open in front of them. Mr. Prue blocked their path with a key in his hand and a wicked smile on his face.
She felt as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been dropped over her.
“What a coincidence, Mrs. Summersby,” he said. “I was just looking for you.” He turned his head toward Annie and raised his eyebrows. “What is your name, girl?”
Annie ducked her head. “Margaret, sir. I wasn’t helping Mrs. Summersby, sir, I swear. I was just doing the cleaning Mrs. Feather assigned.”
Mr. Prue clucked his tongue. “Another clever liar. Lady Kerry must be quite fond of you. What good fortune catching you both at the same time.”
Annie took a step away from Rosemary. “Not a liar, sir. My mom always said I had a good heart and was never to be lying to my employers.” She kept moving, and Rosemary realized with a start that Annie was forcing Mr. Prue to choose. With no other servants to assist him—the hallway behind him was empty—he couldn’t corner both of them.
“Stop moving, girl,” Mr. Prue said. He jerked his head back and forth between Annie and Rosemary. Soon, he would decide which of them he wanted more, and the odds were good it wouldn’t be Annie.
Rosemary’s throat tightened. She could either leave Annie, who seemed determined to handle Mr. Prue on her own, or become involved and risk both of them being captured. Would Fontaine be angry with her if she abandoned Annie to save herself?
Of course she would. It was exactly the opposite of what Fontaine would’ve done.
That realization made her decision much easier.
She brought her heel down on Mr. Prue’s foot. Even with his sturdy boots, he howled and fell to the floor. Rosemary grabbed Annie’s hand and ran.
“Which way do we go?” Annie asked as they turned down a servants’ hallway. “The front entrance, or the rear?”
“Neither,” Rosemary said. “We aren’t leaving without the others.”
As irrational as it was to risk their freedom, and as much as Fontaine would have told them to escape without her, Rosemary understood now why Fontaine had been unable to leave the sickly Quinn in the workhouse. It wasn’t just that Rosemary had formed an emotional connection to each member of their small group, but she knew that her heart would grow cold if she allowed rationality to make every choice for her. She never wanted to return to being the kind of person who scoffed at the idea of supporting a charity for reasons other than being fashionable and had looked the other way when Mr. Blake had assaulted Lady Mason. Neither would she commit herself to the wellbeing of others as wholly as Fontaine did, to the point of self-sacrifice. She would always be the benefactor to the baroness, helping Fontaine achieve her goals in any way possible.
Annie grinned. “I was hoping you would say that. I know where Mr. Prue stashed Quinn and Peter. Follow me.”
Rosemary’s lungs burned with exertion, and her thighs would be aching for days, but she kept up with Annie as the girl turned a corner to a narrow staircase and descended the steps three at a time. The sound of shouting reached them, with Mr. Prue’s voice clear among them.
They went all the way to the basement, where the floors were damp stone and the foggy windows were lined with bars. The sound of many people walking above them suggested they were beneath the ballroom, but it could also have been the kitchen. In the chaos of escaping Mr. Prue, she had lost all sense of direction.
“Here,” Annie said, slapping a hand on a door, which was shackled with a padlock. Rosemary started to remove her hairpins when Annie grabbed a brick from the ground and smashed it against the lock. Sparks flew as she hammered until the still-engaged padlock and the flimsy, broken shackle fell to the floor. She kicked the fragments, sending them spinning into the corner.
“Clever trick,” Rosemary said.
Annie grinned. “Locks are no good without proper housing, and Mr. Prue’s a cheap bastard.” Then she grasped the door and heaved it open. It made a terrible sound as it scraped against the floor, but when it opened, Quinn and Peter were indeed inside. Except they weren’t cowering on the soggy cots on the floor or running toward Rosemary with their arms outstretched. Peter was holding Quinn up as he squirmed between the bars of a broken window. If Quinn’s rapidly disappearing legs were any sign, the boys had nearly freed themselves from the basement with no assistance.
Annie cleared her throat, and Peter spun around, raising his hands as if to fight. When he saw Rosemary, his snarling expression transformed into one of shock. He reached up and tugged his brother’s foot, the only part of the boy that remained inside the room.
“Quinn didn’t believe me,” Peter said, scrubbing the tears from his face. “I told him Lady Kerry would never leave us down here.”
Rosemary scoffed. “Only Lady Kerry?”
Peter launched himself at her. She caught his skinny body and squeezed him while Annie ran to the window.
“Thank you,” Peter whispered. Then he pushed away and put his hands on his hips. “Now, what’re we going to do to get back at Mr. Prue?”
“ We aren’t doing anything,” she said. “You, Annie, and Oliver are going to get far away from this place.” She held up a hand as he started to protest. “No excuses.” Then she removed the slim, red book from her pocket and pressed it into Peter’s hands. “I need you to keep this safe until I see you again. Can you do that?”
Peter clutched the book to his chest and frowned. “What about you?”
She looked out the open door to the dank hall. Water dripped from the ceiling and formed puddles on the floor, and the sound of pounding above them had increased. Mr. Prue was likely searching the house for them.
“I’m going back for Lady Kerry.”