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.”
Montgomery pulled back and gave her a long, unreadable stare.
Then he held a hand out to Ramsey, who promptly pulled out the checkbook again.
It was potently silent in the office when the duke signed a second check for fifty pounds and ordered Maggie’s release come morning.
Annabelle’s cheeks were burning up. She thought of the Cockney woman, and the impulse to help her, too, wrestled with common sense. Montgomery put an end to her quandary by firmly placing her hand on his arm and marching her from the office.
An unmarked carriage was waiting for them at a back entrance in the pouring rain.
Ramsey tossed the drenched driver a coin. “To Thirty-seven Belgrave Square.”
As the carriage swayed through the night, they sat in silence. With the light and shadow of the passing streetlights playing over his face, Montgomery looked alien, like a stranger, and it made her feel lost.
She had just cost him a hundred pounds, and she wasn’t even his mistress. He had searched the prisons of London to find her after she had told him to stay away. And he was a straightlaced man, so it must have gone against his grain to free her by throwing his weight around. Thank you seemed laughably inadequate for what he had just done.
“Where are we going?” she finally asked.
“Apologies,” he said, “I thought you knew. My residence in Belgravia.”
He wasn’t looking at her. Save for searching her face for signs of mistreatment, he had not looked at her much at all tonight. The realization settled like a boulder on her chest.
“Unless you would prefer to stay at Claridge’s,” he said when she didn’t reply.
“The hotel?” Even she had heard of that illustrious place.
He nodded. “You could use my rooms there. Transport to the train station could be arranged easily tomorrow.”
He sounded so polite. Impersonally polite. It wasn’t just because Ramsey was with them. She could sense the