The Wild Princess (17 page)

“Oh no, look there!” Amanda reached out and grasped Louise's hand.

Louise turned and saw a line of police officers file into the park. She frowned. “This is a peaceful rally. I'm sure the police haven't been instructed to interfere.” At least, not today, or so she hoped.

There had been a backlash against the police after they'd stormed a recent women's rally. Each side had accused the other of brutal physical assaults. Only a few journalists claimed the women had provoked the attack by hurling stones at the police. Many more newspapers carried sketches and cartoons, showing women being knocked to the pavement and clubbed by bobbies the artists depicted as monstrous ogres. The public had been outraged. It seemed unlikely, so soon after such a large dose of bad press, the police would dare repeat their error.

“No, not the police.” Amanda's voice shook and her grip on Louise's hand tightened painfully. “On the far side of the stage. Oh, God, it's
him
!”

“Who?” Louise scanned the crowd, unable to pick out a familiar face.

“Darvey. The pimp who . . . Don't you remember? I hope he doesn't see me.”

It took Louise a moment to recall why that name should be important. But the sheer terror in Amanda's eyes soon brought it back to her. Roger Darvey—the bawd under whose fist Amanda had labored before she'd escaped to a better life.

“Surely he won't recognize you now. Dressed as you are and all these years later.”

“I pray not. Oh please no, he's coming this way.” Amanda danced in place, wild with agitation, hemmed in by the packed crowd but ready to bolt.

Louise held her firm, hoping to calm her. Running through this mob of women, standing shoulder to shoulder as they cheered Mrs. Fawcett, would be impossible. And the disturbance created by Amanda's frantic dash would only draw the pimp's attention to her, if he hadn't already seen her.

“He can't have noticed you from this far away, among all these other women. Anyway, why would he still be looking for you? Or even care where you've gone.”

Amanda's pretty face contorted, her eyes fever bright with frenzy. “He punishes those who cross him,” she hissed. “I seen him kick a woman to death.”

“Amanda, please listen—”

“His pride, don't you see?” her friend whispered urgently, lips an inch from Louise's ear. “I was the girl who got away. Makes him look bad.” When Louise pulled away to look in Amanda's eyes, tears had filled them.

“Quiet now,” Louise soothed. “Be brave. Keep your head down. He'll pass by and be gone soon.” She watched the man move slowly through the crowd, shoulders hunched, head lowered, as if intent on private thoughts. He wasn't even looking their way.

Some of the tension in Amanda's face smoothed away. But her gaze never left the man in the patched jacket and battered top hat. She let out a breath, relaxed her death grip on Louise. “Thank you,” she whispered. “How many girls on the street find a princess to befriend them? To dig them out of the gutters. That's why we're here. So girls like me won't have to—”

“Hush!” Louise warned.

At first it seemed to her that Darvey was rudely cutting through the middle of the crowd, solely to display his annoyance with the women's presence. She'd seen similar behavior from men who ordinarily had better manners. Darvey's downturned eyes were hard and angry and spiteful, as if he resented every single female standing there and demanding what, by right, ought to be hers. Moving faster now, he shoved one woman after another out of his way, making no attempt to excuse himself.

Louise felt her lips begin to turn up in a relieved smile, believing he'd missed them entirely, but then his ground-anchored gaze flicked upward, just once, directly at Amanda. She saw the shadow of a leer on his pulpy lips.

“Come this way,” Louise said. There was no time for explanation.

Amanda followed her glance to where Darvey was pressing forward, more quickly now, his trajectory having shifted directly toward them. A deathlike rigor seized Amanda's lovely features. She let out a terrified shriek.

Hand in hand, they squeezed through a dense knot of women in dark-colored, severe dresses. They might have moved faster through a vat of molasses, whereas Darvey had the advantage of his size and willingness to knock to the ground anyone who stood in his way.

Louise looked back over her shoulder. He was gaining on them.

She cast around frantically for the bobbies she'd seen earlier. But if they were still anywhere within this part of the park, she could no longer see them through the wall of bodies. As they left Hyde Park by way of Cumberland Gate and burst into Oxford Street, Louise glanced around at the gated houses and shops with their
CLOSED
signs. They'd all locked down, in case things got out of hand and the ladies should suddenly take it into their heads to loot a butcher shop or hattery. She hastily calculated distances to safe havens. Neither Buckingham nor Kensington Palace were close enough to reach before Darvey fell upon them.

Amanda must have been thinking the same thing. She gasped, “My house. Run!”

They dropped hands and tore down Oxford Street, turning left then left again, into narrower uphill streets with smaller, less fashionable houses. Louise stopped paying attention to street names, trusting Amanda to lead them on the shortest route. She kept an eye open for anyone they might run to for help, but the police seemed nowhere around. Skirts lifted with one hand, hats secured with the other—they raced toward sanctuary.

Their shoes slapped and slid over rounded cobbles, skidding on spots slick with sewage and wash water. Wrenching her knee as she cornered yet again, Louise fought the pain and ran for her life. Ran until her lungs ached, pleading for air.

Dizziness threatened to send her reeling into a brick storefront. But the muscles in her legs, as if recalling childhood romps with Bertie and Arthur, miraculously carried her forward.

From behind her came the beastly shouts of the man pursuing them. Like an ogre from a childhood nightmare he shouted his awful threats, tormenting Amanda with disgusting promises of what he'd do to her when he caught her.

Lord, help us.

Ahead in the shadows of a narrowing street, Louise glimpsed a precarious stack of crates left behind after market day. Even from this distance she smelled the rotting fruit. Its sickly sweet, cloying odor fouled the warm air. Saved, no doubt, to be used as animal fodder.

Amanda was two long strides ahead of her. Louise saw her adjust her path to avoid the crates.

Louise gritted her teeth and angled her body toward the narrow space between the grocer's wall and the boxes. Lowering one shoulder she plunged ahead. Aimed for the third box from the top, chest high. Braced herself for impact.

Pain shot up through her shoulder, into her neck. “Ah!” she cried. But her strategy was effective. The entire stack tumbled over with a splintering crash.

Behind her Louise heard the grunt of their pursuer. The squelching sounds of trodden fruit. The thud of a body hitting paving stones. Enormously gratified with the results of her tactic, she lifted her skirts higher, lost her hat to the wind, but ran on after Amanda, who seemed unaware of the calamity they'd left in their wake.

Louise didn't dare slow down. She'd bought them only a little time.

Too soon, the pounding of iron-pegged boots returned, accompanied by snarls of vengeance. She snapped her head around to peer behind her, but in taking her attention from the uneven road felt her toe catch the front edge of a paver.

The street rushed up at her, a solid gritty brown, muck-puddled wave.
Don't fall. Can't fall!
He'd be on her in a second.

Still pitching forward, she jammed a foot down, regained her balance, and stumbled up the incline.

Louise recognized where they were now—the last few blocks before Amanda's house on Highgate Hill. There, at the street's pinnacle, loomed a stark, coal-blackened stone church with its single tower. And next to it—Park House, the women's shelter. The good Dr. Locock's brownstone waited just beyond.

Blessed safety.

Mere steps ahead of her, Amanda flew past the church, rounded a corner, and threw herself at the front door. She grasped Louise by the arm, as if afraid she wasn't moving fast enough, and dragged her inside before slamming the door behind them with a deafening bang.

Both women dove for the bolt and shoved it home.

Outside, a body crashed into the heavy wooden planks. A barrage of muffled curses assaulted them through the door.

“Is that Beelzebub himself chasing you girls home?” a cheery voice asked. “Or just one of your antisuffrage adversaries?”

Panting, clutching her sides as she tried to catch her breath, Louise turned to face the tall, elegantly mustached man who observed them from the kitchen doorway.

“Thank God you're here, Henry,” Amanda cried, throwing herself into her startled husband's arms. “It's that terrible m—” Her words were cut off by another volley of curses from the far side of the door, followed by a thunderous pounding of fists. This time the words were clear, as if Darvey pressed his mouth to the door.

“Fuckin' bitch! Y'ain't gettin' away again.”

Henry Locock froze, his expression grim. “Is that
the man
?”

“Go away, Darvey,” Amanda shouted. “I'm no more yours to use.”

“Nah, you's gonna pay, all right. Two more o' me girls ran off 'cause a you.”

Louise knew Henry Locock had long ago learned of his wife's tragic past. He had made it plain to all that he didn't blame her for the desperate situation in which she'd found herself. If he ever got his hands on the man who'd so abused and debased her, he'd put aside his vow as a physician to “do no harm.” But now that she'd actually witnessed Darvey's violence, Louise feared as much for her friend's husband as for Amanda herself.

To her horror, Henry took a step toward the door.

Before Louise could say anything, Amanda threw herself between the door and her husband. “No!” she screamed. “He'll
kill
you. You don't know what he's capable of. Please, Henry, for our children's sake, don't.” Her eyes darted toward the back room where her son must have somehow slept through the commotion. “He'll go away.”

Henry turned to Louise for confirmation.

She'd seen enough of Roger Darvey to convince her. She gave Henry a bleak look and shook her head.

“As I thought.” Turning on his heel Henry disappeared into his examination room. Seconds later, he returned with his hunting rifle. “He won't come visiting again, if he knows what's good for him.”

Brushing his wife aside, Henry unbolted the door, flung it wide, snapped the butt of the gun to his shoulder, and curled his finger around the trigger.

Surprised in the midst of his attack on the door, Darvey froze, fists raised above his head. Momentum carried him forward, propelling him into the gun's muzzle. It took him a moment to shift his murderous gaze from the face of the man in front of him to the weapon between them, its business end jammed below his ribs.

Darvey's expression switched in a flash from fury to shock. Then he was backpedaling as if on an invisible velocipede. He tripped off the curb and tumbled to the ground.

“You will never,
ever
, come to my house again,” Henry shouted, advancing on him, thrusting his weapon's muzzle toward the man's face. “Neither will you approach or speak to my wife. Is that clear, sir?”

Darvey said nothing, but he cringed and let out a mongrel's whimper when Henry leveled the gun's barrel at the center of his forehead. He looked past the gun, past the doctor, toward the house, as if still contemplating a devious means of carrying out his revenge. But a second later, he was scrambling to his feet and off at a run.

“Good job, Henry.” Louise patted him on the shoulder when he'd stepped back inside and shut the door. But his eyes were all for his wife.

Amanda threw herself into his arms, weeping.

Henry handed the rifle to Louise. He wrapped his long arms around his wife.

“I doubt the rogue will bother any of us again,” he said, looking puffed up with pride at the reaction he'd got from Darvey.

“You were so brave. So very brave, my darling,” Amanda sobbed. “Thank you.”

“Even an educated gentleman, sometimes, can summon up a bit of the bully in him when necessary.” He winked at Louise, over his wife's shoulder. “Now, now, dear girl. It's all right. The monster is gone for good. Enough tears.”

Louise smiled nervously as she leaned the rifle against the wall beside the front door. Something in the way Darvey had glowered at them, his tail not quite between his legs, made her doubt they'd seen the last of him.

Now she wished she hadn't been so eager to avoid Stephen Byrne's attempts to protect her. Had the Raven been with them at the rally today, they would have been safe.

She wasn't sure why she knew this—that Byrne would stand between her and danger, no matter the cost to him. But she felt it in every fiber of her body. She had a protector—a knight, though not one in shining armor. A knight in a dirty brown duster and Stetson hat.