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H er sister half-dragged and half-shoved Emma along the path to the small cottage.

The contrast in their living conditions spoke loudly of the reason behind the animosity Miss Babbington bore against Emma.

Once inside, she was dragged to a pantry, shoved inside the small space, and the key in the lock was turned.

Though her sister likely had expected a protest, Emma did not open her mouth.

She simply lowered her body to sit upon the floor and listened.

The rain of only a few moments earlier had been barely a drizzle as they had rushed to reach the cottage’s entrance. Even so, there was a heavy stillness in its place, and the air in the small, closed storage area was stuffy.

Emma could barely control her tiredness, for she had slept little last evening because of the intruders and had been awake since before eight this morning.

She leaned back against the shelves to ponder how this mystery would end.

For a half hour or so, all she could hear was her sister’s rants and crashing pottery, and even items being ripped from the wall.

“I do not know which I would prefer,” her sister screamed as she pounded with her fists against the door behind which Emma was imprisoned, “selling you to Lord Davidson or to Lord Orson.”

Emma knew which she would prefer, but she would not have a choice, at least, not initially.

Eventually, the commotion played itself out, and everything was quiet.

Emma did not know which was worse—the sound of her sister’s anger or the woman’s silence.

Unable to respond and with barely enough room even to sit, she decided to place her head on her folded arms and rest. A confrontation was obviously forthcoming, and to survive, she must claim time to recover and refocus.

She brought forth an image of Lord Orson and permitted her heavy eyelids to lead her into another version of a recurring dream.

A bit of moonlight crept beneath the door, but Emma did not see it.

All she viewed was the smile on Lord Orson’s lips when she finally accepted his latest proposal.

How long she had been asleep Emma did not know, but it surely was not long enough.

She was jolted from awake by the sound of raised voices.

Sharply alert, she cautiously unfolded her limbs so she might stand.

Her legs tingled from inactivity, but the walls of the pantry were close enough to support her to her feet.

On the other side of the door, shouting was intermixed with the sound of furniture breaking.

“I told you to permit me to handle this!” a male voice growled.

“She is my sister!” Emma could hear Miss Babbington’s retort.

It was odd, Emma had never permitted herself to call the girl by her given name, though she knew it to be the same as their mother’s.

Perhaps, such was the reason. Her mother had presented her first daughter with the name “Maria,” whereas, the name was not even one of Emma’s middle names.

“Do you want her or not? If not, there are others who do!”

“Do you not understand, the chit is of age. All Lady Emma must do is refuse and no legitimate cleric would pronounce the vows!” the man charged.

Emma whispered, “Lord Davidson.”

“Surely you may find a cleric who has poor hearing,” her sister argued. “Or are you settled on Lady Shannon?”

“Lady Shannon?” Davidson asked. “What tick do you have in your head, girl, to think I’d choose Lady Shannon?”

Emma could hear the anger gather in her sister’s tone when she said, “Lady Emma said...” Miss Babbington paused and something hit the pantry door hard. Emma jumped, but she kept her wits about her; she did not cry out. “Then I shall wait for Lord Orson to arrive and negotiate with him.”

Davidson growled. “You led Orson to this house? Do you have no sense, you stupid girl? They’ll see you hanging from the gallows! You kidnapped a peer. That is a hanging offense!”

Davidson evidently meant to leave, but Miss Babbington called, “You have forgotten the matter of my payment, my lord!”

“Payment?” Davidson expelling in what could only be described as a roar.

“You expect me to pay you for spoiled goods? I told you so when you and that stupid father brought her to me, beaten and battered!” His lordship’s voice was closer than a few moments earlier, and the shadow under the door said someone was standing close to Emma’s prison.

“We had an agreement, my lord,” her sister continued to argue.

“Agreement, is it?” Davidson’s voice exploded, and Emma jumped back against the shelves, knocking a variety of items to the floor, but no one on the other side heard, for the door rattled over and over again.

“I cleaned up your last mess!” Davidson hissed.

“Your father and I dropped Lady Emma off in Covent Garden after you had struck her repeatedly for searching those stupid flowers for some cheap sapphire! Not even a blue one!” Her sister called Lord Davidson a curse word as accusations and blows and more pottery were thrown between the two.

Although it would sound odd to say the words aloud, Emma could not only hear the foul things the two called each other, but she could feel the blows Lord Davidson exacted against Miss Babbington.

Her sister was being knocked about again and again and pounded against the wooden door, so hard the wood splintered on Emma’s side of the door.

Eventually, the argument moved to the other side of the room, and, at length, everything went silent.

Emma slowly lowered her hands from her ears. Chilly damp air had crept under the door. Her sister’s shadow was no longer present. Panic arrived. She had to reach her sister. No matter how much she feared the girl, Emma did not want her to die, especially not so violently.

Forcing herself to move, her hand reached for the door latch.

It gave, for the crack in the door was near the latch, and she carefully edged the door open, just a smidgeon, first, to listen, and then to breathe in a bit of fresh air, but it was as though the air she breathed had been shared with someone else.

“My sister or Lord Davidson?” her mind asked.

After an elongated moment of silence, she lifted up on the door and moved it outward, inch by inch, until she stood alone in its portal.

The front door of the house remained open also, and Emma would have preferred to close it and keep out the damp chill, but she still might require a quick escape.

Her eyes quickly became accustomed to the darkness, though there was enough moonlight to delineate the pieces of overturned and broken furniture.

Carefully choosing where she stepped, Emma began to search the house for her sister.

As she turned the corner where the stairs cut sharply upward, she was surrounded by impenetrable darkness.

She reached out tentatively, her hand trembling, as she felt the cap of the newel post for the staircase.

She eased forward and tripped over something on the floor.

Holding onto the cap, she managed to maintain her balance.

“Emma,” a female voice murmured, and Emma edged slowly towards the tiny beam of moonlight to pull the drapery aside so she might see better.

Turning back to the stairs, she found Maria Babbington lying across two of the bottom stairs.

A groan of pain had Emma rushing to the girl’s side.

She could see bits of the white cloth ripped from the young woman’s shirt and wrapped about Maria’s neck.

Moreover, what appeared to be blood oozed from her sister’s mouth, creeping slowly across the white shape of the girl’s face.

Emma felt as if there was a great thrashing of shadows still seeking a place to settle in the room’s corners, but she realized such was only her nervousness.

Maria Babbington opened her eyes slowly to look up at Emma.

“I... am... not... sorry.” Her hand caught at Emma’s and her nails dug into the back of Emma’s hand.

Even so, Maria made a gurgling sound, as if she were swallowing her own blood.

“Go... or... you... die.” Her eyes grew wider, filled with white horror.

She lifted her hand limply as if to strike Emma, but the girl’s body twitched once.

A second time, and then convulsively for a matter of a handful of seconds.

Then she was silent. Emma would never hear her sister’s vile accusations again.

She gathered a cloth from the table and draped it over Maria’s body.

Emma took a second look about her and found the small cape Maria had worn earlier.

It would not keep Emma warm, but it might keep out some of the dampness.

There were a few houses along the road, and she would seek assistance there.

She was nearly to the front door when a man stepped out of the shadows of the frame to fill the opening.

He wore a dark suit and a black cape lined with red satin.

The wind fluttered the cape about his shoulders.

It was not Lord Davidson, as she had expected, but, nevertheless, she knew the man had been one of those she had encountered in Covent Garden.

A memory flashed before her eyes, momentarily blinding her.

This man had forcibly thrown her into a carriage to leave her in Covent Garden.

He had not struck her, but he had dragged her to a waiting carriage and, later, deposited her on the street beyond the theatre area.

He took her shoes. Cut the reticule from her wrist and turned her over to another man: Lord Davidson.