It took only a second to decide on a name. “Well, Lady Macbeth. I have an affinity for strong, ruthless, ambitious women. A hope, really.” she said. Gabby admired the character’s place in literary history. Her powerful personality and ambition to be more than what others believed of her. Infusing a shocking jolt in a few of the intolerable societal highbrows was an added advantage.
She clutched the shivering puppy against her bodice once more and hurried in through the servants’ entrance. She ordered a bath for her new companion and dashed up a back stairwell to her bedchamber.
Handling the care of the dog gave the dog time to adjust to Gabby, just as Gabby had opted for Dinah. She wrapped the shivering Lady Macbeth in a heated linen and sat next to the fire until the dog had calmed and fell into a restful snooze.
Brita entered the chamber with a box filled with old linens.
“They’re clean?” Gabby asked her softly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Excellent.” Taking on the task of Lady Macbeth herself had also afforded Gabby time to think. Too much time perhaps as Antonia’s revelations continued to pound Gabby. How she had three older sisters, and none had seen fit to prepare her for her wedding night. Tears blurred the blazing fire. What a sad plight to realize how little her family regarded her. She truly was on her own.
Another, more critical comprehension stole over her. Her husband had deserted her.
Well, then. At least this was something of which she had control. Decision made, she rose and set Lady Macbeth atop the box and clean linens then addressed Brita. “I’m off to Dorchester. Pull together a bag for me. I don’t require much.” Just enough to get me there. She had plenty of clothes at the Ryleigh family homestead. They couldn’t be that much out of fashion.
~~~
The stench of war and rotting bodies stewing in sewage were what finally had James’s eyelids flickering. He lay on his side and took a moment to take stock of his surroundings. Rays of light tried forcing their way through grimy windows atop one wall, meaning his location afforded nothing more than shadows.
He rolled over and found his wrists bound at his back. Wincing, he attempted to sit. His body complied but came with the price of throbbing temples. Panting heavily revealed a problem with his ribcage. He leaned against the wall and wriggled his toes within the cheap boots of his disguise—at least he still had boots—and thankfully, all ten toes responded to command. The same was not so for his fingers, however. They were numb. He dropped his head back and hit naked brick. Stars mingled with wavering shades of black and sparkles behind his closed eyes.
Suffering through a few difficult breaths to regather his bearings made it less difficult to fathom his general locale. He was near the docks. The noxious smell was the sludge of the Thames where many a body had been dropped and never recovered. That meant he was somewhere upstream from Vauxhall. Vauxhall. Welton. Welton, Liverpool’s ignorant protégé was dead. The man was as inept as he’d always believed.
James blocked out the vision as he’d long ago trained himself. How long had he been unconscious? How long had he been in this hellhole? It couldn’t have been long, he decided. He was hungry but he’d been hungry before. The real danger lay in his need of water.
He tested his bindings and found the minutest amount of slack. It was enough. He worked patiently. Ten minutes later he was free. Assessing his resolve, through pain, and compressed lips, he came to his feet. Using the wall as a guide, he managed his way to a closed door. His foot brushed against something metal. A vessel. He lifted it to his nose. Ale. Desperation called for disgusting measures. He didn’t hesitate and tossed back the vile contents of which was but a third full. Nausea hit full force. He fought it by squeezing the metal mug he still gripped. He set his forehead against the door. After a moment, he turned his ear to listen, but that proved his biggest mistake.
A thud jarred the wood, sending another blast of pain through his head. He was too weak to hold off the assault and landed on his back on the hard wood floor.
“Fuck ye, ye blasted nob.”
Grunting, James rolled from the blur hurling toward him. A dagger stuck in the floor where he laid a second before. He shot out a foot and caught the bastard in the thigh, and sent him stumbling to land on his arse.
A flurry of unintelligible epitaphs sputtered from him. James snagged the dagger and aimed it in the miscreant’s direction, blinking through the threat of black edging in.
“’And it over, guv, or Finch’ll take it out on yer ladywife.” The man’s voice shook with fear.
Wife. Gabriella. He was married. The memories of his horrid treatment of her crashed over him. His hands trembled. Fear, hunger, anger. He ached for that life with her. Hadn’t he been thrilled when he’d spotted her at Faulk’s? Just because she’d initiated the chase and not he… what did it matter how they’d ended up together? She’d been in his dreams for seven years.
The small hesitation, that miniscule lack of focus, was all the advantage his opponent required. He attacked.
When James next regained consciousness, he was propped in his previous place against the wall, miles from the door, hands bound with no give this time, and again at his back. More light stole through the dirty windows. He squinted through swollen eyes to see bits of straw and trash about. Nothing remotely helpful for his current predicament. He wondered at why he hadn’t been tossed into the Thames as so many others. He thought about that a moment. His ties to the Crown? He’d just secured his nuptials to a powerful duke’s sister.
And, then there was the Prime Minister—but James pushed that reason away almost immediately. Liverpool might be an abject annoyance, but there was no greater proponent for England.
The door crashed back, and his nemesis tossed in another prisoner.
James’s breath hitched. His new cellmate was a woman.
Part Two
Four
Dear Rebecca. Miss Darby is now comfortably ensconced in Doncaster. She will never have to fear for her life again. This notion of yours is brilliant. By the bye, I don’t wish to be a countess after all. I’m to Dorchester and I insist you visit. Yrs. Gabs
One month later
