He was too late, she realized. They were already coming for her.
Stricken, her gaze searched Felix’s.
The door burst open.
A handful of men stormed over the threshold.
“Johanna McKenna,” one of them said.
Her eyes slid closed, all the fight draining from her. “I will go with you. You need not say anything more.”
“Johanna,” Felix cried.
Rough hands took her by the arms, dragging her from Felix’s comforting embrace. She allowed it, her resistance gone. Like always, the sins of the past had a way of inevitably returning to the present, and it would seem the time had come for her to face her fate.
“Step aside, your Grace,” ordered another of the men. “We are under orders to arrest her on suspicion of conspiracy.”
“By whose authority, damn you?” Felix demanded.
“The Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard,” answered another as manacles were placed on Johanna’s wrists.
They closed with the snap of grim finality.
Chapter Fourteen
Johanna was seatedacross from a detective. After she had been taken from Felix’s home, she had been driven to the Scotland Yard offices where, she had been informed, all Fenian investigations were conducted. She had been handled quite roughly by the men who had taken her into custody despite Felix’s protestations. Her hands had been shackled, and she had been treated much in the manner of a prisoner. Pushed and prodded. Spoken to in short sentences. Reviled.
It only occurred to her as she settled into the small and windowless room where she had been taken to await her fate that she was a prisoner. The questioning was a formality. She would be going to prison.
The realization left her chilled. Almost numb. She attempted to distract herself with details. To forget about what was to come and to protect herself as best she could. For Felix could not save her from the tangled web in which she now found herself. No one could.
The table at which they sat was bare. The chair was stiff-backed and hard. The man facing her was, she judged, ten years or so her senior. Dark whiskers covered his jaw, and he was dour and unsmiling. He possessed the air of a man who had found great disappointment in his life and was determined to make everyone around him pay for his displeasure.
He pinned her with his flinty gaze.
“Miss McKenna,” he said, his tone almost conversational, “I am Mr. Ravenhurst, and quite pleased to make your acquaintance. Would you care for a cup of tea before we begin?”
His query was not what she had expected. But tea was the last thing on her mind. And she recognized the false cheer in his tone for what it was, an attempt to get her to warm to him. A means of facilitating his questions.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I would prefer to face whatever is in store for me rather than delay.”
“A woman of decision,” he observed, flashing her a grim smile. “I admire your eagerness to arrive at the reason for your presence here.”
“Yes,” she agreed, swallowing down a knot of fear.
“You are an actress by trade, are you not, Miss McKenna?” he asked, almost lazily.
“I am.” Her shackles had been removed, and her hands were now in her lap. Belatedly, she realized she was clutching at her gown with such desperation, her fingers were biting into her thighs. Later, she would probably find bruises.
She forced herself to exhale.
“And your name for the stage,” he added. “It is Miss Rose Beaumont. Is that correct?”
“It is,” she acknowledged.
“Do you deny being the sister of Mr. Drummond McKenna?” he asked next.
“No,” she said quietly. “I do not deny that. He is my brother.”
