at Oxford . . . her life had just been blown off a cliff, and her stomach lurched as if she were falling.
She pressed her forehead against her knees. Cold seeped into her back from the naked stone wall. There were other aches: in her breasts, her wrists, her scalp, her knees, everywhere she had been grabbed or pulled.
The man’s leering grin flashed before her eyes, and a shiver of disgust racked her. He had looked so pleased, knowing that he could hurt and humiliate Hattie, and that there was nothing they could do.
She flexed her sore fingers. She had done something. Even Aunt May wouldn’t have gone so far as to say her impulsiveness would land her in prison one day.
Time crept, thickening the shadows in the cell into murky darkness. Every quarter of an hour, the chime of Big Ben came through the windowpane.
Sometime after seven, the cell door swung back and a prison guard appeared.
“Anne Hartly.”
The northern suffragist girl rose from the cot. “Sir?”
“Your brother is here.”
“About time,” muttered Anne Hartly. “Good luck,” she said over her shoulder, all but stumbling over the hem of her narrow skirts as she hurried out the door.
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.”