There was a rattling in Phil’s head and a grinding noise that hurt her ears. Someone should close the window. The noise woke her. Lily, close the window.
She felt sick, all this swaying and the noise and her stomach heaving with every move.
Then it stopped. Just like that.
A door opened, a nasty smell, brackish like Brighton at low tide, trash in summer … She bolted upright, started to flail, before her senses caught up to her instincts.
Someone dragged her out of the . . taxi? No, she had gotten out of the taxi … was about to cross the street to the Plaza.… A big black auto …
She swung out her arms; hit something hard; heard an “oof.”
Open your eyes, fight for your life. They were going to kill her.
Her eyes snapped open, though they didn’t want to stay that way, they wanted to close, she wanted to sleep like before the carriage woke—
“There is no carriage!” she screamed, though no words came out. They were just in her head. A taxi. A big black automobile. Just a Friend running. You’ve been kidnapped.
She was being dragged down a street or an alley. Why did no one stop them? Think. Use your faculties.
Her faculties seemed to be sleeping.
Her eyes had closed again against the jarring of her teeth as her feet bounced over … cobblestones. No … bricks, the street. Narrow, buildings on each side. An alley?
Don’t close your eyes. The sound of a foghorn. London. No. New York. Freezing salt air. The docks. Tommy Green’s body.
They stopped. Two men held her up. Another one bent over a door. Three men.
The door creaked inward. Inward. Remember that; it could be important.
Dragged across the floor and thrown onto a long … cot. At least not the floor. She’d just bought this coat.
Think.
“Now what do we do?”
“Wait. He’ll be here soon.”
He. So, the leader was coming.
That would be important. She tried to straighten. She couldn’t move her hands.
“Where is he? She’s coming round.”
“You better give her another dose.”
Play dead. Childhood games. Nanny can’t find us.
This was not a game. But Phil didn’t flinch at the realization. She didn’t move; she couldn’t afford not to stay alert, and who knew what they’d given her or how long it had lasted.
And was there anyone who had missed her yet?
Just a Friend running toward the car. She’d seen him through the passenger window. Surely he’d run to the hotel for help. But would they believe him? Preswick would, but by that time it would be too late. How could they find her in this huge city?
She carefully slid her hands under the fold of her coat, tried to separate them. They had tied her hands.
And her feet?
She rolled her ankles, felt no constraints. Her feet were free; now, if only her legs would work when the time came. She tightened her muscles; they seemed to respond, but it was hard to tell how much in her state of fog.
Two hard knocks at the door.
The three men jumped so violently that they didn’t see Phil do the same.
She watched the door through half-closed eyes, and saw the shape of the man who entered before she recognized the man himself.
Fireplug.
She’d wandered into something way over her head. And where the hell was Mr. X when she needed him?
Waves of panic tumbled through her thoughts. Stop it. She would either die or get herself out of this unacceptable situation. And it would be up to her.
Becker didn’t say anything, just took a step toward the cot. He moved, then his shadow moved.
That wasn’t right. Phil squinted into the darkness. The only light in the room seemed to be above her, making it impossible for her to identify any of them.
Clever, but not so clever. She’d recognized Becker. Then she understood what that meant. It didn’t matter if she saw him, because they weren’t planning to let her live.
He stopped about four feet away. His shadow moved to the side. Not a shadow, a second man. Who was he?
Now there were five of them. Not very good odds, as her racing friends would say. But not the worst, either. Not that she thought she had any chance against them physically. Where was her purse? Surely they’d relieved her of it, and of her pistol. She didn’t dare look.
But she’d be damned if she’d die lying down.
She sat up. Brushed at her skirts and saw her purse tucked under them. How thoughtful. Now, if she could only reach it … and do what? Shoot an officer of the law?
He didn’t bother to take off his overcoat or that stupid hat. Honestly, she was developing an outright antipathy toward bowlers, even though Preswick still wore one in keeping with his status as butler.
She took a breath. There. Remember, you are a countess, and this ghoul is … well, better not to think about that.
“I’m sorry I can’t offer you tea, Sergeant.” Her voice almost sounded countess-like.
“Don’t mess with me. I don’t care if you’re the Queen of Sheba, if you get in my way, I’ll be inclined to remove you. Lucky for you, you’re needed for the charity ball.”
Was he being sarcastic?
“You mean, there are certain wives who would make their husbands’ lives hell if I wasn’t available to lead off the dance … and after all this publicity.”
He cast what she knew must be a reactive glance over his shoulder. His shadow shifted. Who was standing there in the dark? Why didn’t he show himself?
Becker snarled, actually snarled, his mouth moving like a ventriloquist’s dummy. “But there’s nothing to prevent you from having an accident on your way home from the ball.”
She wouldn’t remind him that the ball was being held at the Plaza and her home was upstairs.
“So back off or face the consequences.”
He’d seen her talking to Mrs. Toscana. Had that been the catalyst? But what did the brothel owner have to do with the Black Hand—or Tommy Green?
What had she stumbled into?
“I’m trying to decide if even that’s worth the delay.”
Phil sighed. “And I’ve had a sensational gown shipped from Paris just for the occasion.”
“Don’t get smart with me. You may be full of pomp, but that lovely little maid and that old stick of a butler won’t be spared, either.” Becker turned his back, and she strained against the ropes that bound her hands. She had the most overwhelming desire to break his neck with her bare fingers. If they would even fit about that bloated sausage of muscle.
He turned back. “And don’t bother buying a Christmas present for that sniveling little newsboy—he will be taken care of, too.” A villainous sneer right out of one of Lily’s dime novels. Phil couldn’t think of anyone she despised more at the moment.
“I don’t put up with uppity women who poke their noses into where they ain’t wanted. Do I make myself clear? Your highness?”
Really, why was it so hard for Americans to get titles right?
She nodded. She knew what Becker did with people who crossed him. Fireplug, she reminded herself. He’s just a fireplug. A vicious, murderous fireplug.
“Do you plan to make this look like another Black Hand murder?”
He lunged so swiftly, Phil was sure he had read her thoughts. His bulk shut out the light from the one lamp burning ominously above her, turning everything to shadow but him, his arms spread like the harbinger of death.
He grabbed her arms, lifting her off the cot, held her trapped in the air. Then he shoved her away. She dropped back to the cot, banging her head on the brick wall. For a moment she was afraid she was going to pass out as tiny black dots filled her vision. But Phil was a Hathaway and the Hathaway women were made of sterner stuff.
“Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” she managed.
“And don’t bother to go whining to your friend Atkins. His days are already numbered.” He was so close, she could have scratched his eyes out, if her arms would only move.
He stepped back for his final coup de grâce. “This is my town—you’d do best not to forget that. Stay out of my way or else.”
The sound of a door opening and closing. Becker was gone. But his shadow was still there. She could hear his footsteps on the floor. She could sense him. A second of mumbling. Then, “Kill her,” and he, too, was gone.
The second lantern was relit, and Phil could see the three men, two standing facing her, one leaning against the door, not to keep her in, she realized, but as if he could keep whatever had just left out.
The three men looked from one to the other, then to Phil.
“I ain’t killing no woman,” one said.
“Then kiss your arse goodbye,” said the other.
The third said nothing at all.
“Okay. Let’s just dump her in the river. Nobody could survive in those clothes in this temperature.”
Phil was shaking violently. She was the Countess of Dunbridge. It simply wouldn’t do.
Somewhere deep inside her, pinned beneath a trash heap of fear, a spark of something flashed. Don’t be bullied. Find a way out. Don’t stop. Don’t be cowed.
When her father force-marched her down the aisle, she’d withstood her fear. When the earl came to her bed, she’d bit her lip until it bled, but she didn’t succumb to the fear. When he raised his fists, called her names, paraded his mistresses for the world to see, she’d lifted her chin, faced the world, and took her own lovers.
She’d be damned if she’d let some bent cop in a bowler hat be her downfall. She knew how to survive, and she’d make certain that those she cared about would be safe. If she could just get out of here.
She ran her tongue over dry lips.
“How long are you keeping me here?”
The men jumped as if they’d been goosed.
She eased her wrists apart, but it only made the knots tighter. If they would just leave her, she could use her teeth, but all three just stood at the far side of the room and stared.
Probably working up the courage to dump her in the river.
She had to get out. She glanced toward the one window, so grimy no one could possibly see through it, if they were even looking.
Was that a face she saw?
No. It was nothing. Fear was slipping ghosts of false hope into her mind. It was up to her. Thank God none of them had been willing to tie her feet. Modesty among thieves.
If she survived this, she would never scoff at old-fashioned prudery again. No, better not to make bargains she knew she could never keep.
Three of them, one of her—with tied hands. She needed a plan, but she couldn’t seem to think past the first step. Her thirst was distracting, as was the tumult in her stomach, caused, no doubt, by whatever drug they’d used to subdue her.
One of the men turned over a bucket; liquid splashed on his feet, and he swore an oath before moving it aside, placing it on the floor, and sitting down on it.
Perhaps she wasn’t the first prisoner they’d brought here. She tried not to wonder about the others.
The room was larger than she’d thought at first, the size of her parlor at the Plaza, but worlds away in décor. Brick walls. A virtual prison. A high window, a basement? She didn’t remember bouncing down steps, just straight down an alley.
Not that that helped.
She strained to hear any sounds from outside. Faint knocks, footsteps? She couldn’t tell what was real and what she imagined.
She might yell, but even if someone outside did hear her, which she doubted considering the walls, her captors would have subdued her, possibly killed her, before help could be summoned.
She fingered the ropes at her wrists, careful not to struggle, which would only tighten the knots. She managed to find a free end and used her finger and thumb to push the end toward the knot.
But even if she managed to free her hands, how could she possibly outmaneuver three crime-hardened thugs?
If she did survive, lessons in self-defense would be put into practice immediately for all three of them.
Two loud knocks sounded on the door.
Once again, all three men jumped, and so did Phil.
“He’s back,” one blurted, his fear palpable.
This was going to be her end, and she’d just gotten to America.
The one closest to the door pulled back the bolt.
To hell with subterfuge. Phil lifted her wrists to her mouth and took the knot between her teeth. Just as the knot gave way, the door slammed open, driving the first thug up against the wall. The other two were overrun by a score of young boys.
Just a Friend stood in the doorway. “Lady, hurry!”
Phil grabbed her bag and hobbled over to the door. Her legs were slow to respond. But she was buoyed up by Just a Friend and an older, larger boy. They fairly dragged her down the alley toward the street.
Phil couldn’t help but look over her shoulder, waiting for shouts, running footsteps, gunshots, but when the thugs finally appeared, two newsies who had been hiding on either side of the door bent down in a game of leapfrog, upending the assailants, who were then jumped on by the others.
Phil and her escorts stumbled along the last few feet of bricks until they reached the street, now dark but for the lampposts that spread cones of light on the ground. They skidded around the corner and ran straight into a large man coming their way.
The boys fell back. The man grabbed Phil, holding her so tight she couldn’t even struggle.
“Let me go,” she said, without much hope. She hoped the boys had run away, saved themselves.
“If I do, you’ll probably fall down.”
Her ears buzzed. She recognized that voice: not the Fireplug’s. Felt a familiar chest, though she’d never actually been this close to it before.
“Detective Sergeant,” she said superfluously. “How—?”
“All in good time, but you can thank your news friend for sounding the alarm.”
“But how—?”
“As I said, all in good time. Right now, let’s get you home.”
She realized she was still balanced against his chest. She moved away.
“Pardon me for a second.” She hurried over to the curb and proceeded to expel several glasses worth of the New York Times’s excellent punch.
A white handkerchief appeared before her downturned face. She took it gratefully, wiped her face, and stood up.
“Thank you. I’ve been wanting to do that for the last several hours.”
“Okay now?”
“I think so,” she said, letting him help her into a waiting police auto. “Nothing a nice cup of tea and a gin martini won’t cure.”
He shook his head.
“But what about the boys?”
“They are being handsomely recompensed.”
“By the police department?”
“By me. Now get in.”
She waved to the young men, close to a dozen, who were happily counting their largesse, and sat back to the comfort of the padded seat.
“You, too, Jimmy.” Atkins motioned Just a Friend over.
“Jimmy? His name is Jimmy?” Phil asked as Just a Friend reluctantly came to the automobile.
“Aw, ’Tective Atkins, you blew my cover.”
“Sorry, what is your code name?”
Just a Friend looked shyly at Phil. Shuffled his feet. “Just a Friend.”
The detective sergeant’s lips twitched. “Well, Just a Friend, how would you like to ride back to the Plaza in an automobile?”
“Would I?” He clambered onto the seat between them. “Making sure you mind your manners,” he told Atkins with a cheeky grin.
Atkins threw the traveling blanket over the three of them, and the auto headed uptown, followed by an entourage of cheering, cavorting newsboys.
They dispersed when they reached the corner, back to their lives on the streets, maybe with enough in their pockets to buy something extra for the holidays.
“Where will they spend Christmas?” Phil asked.
“The boys? The ones who don’t have homes will be provided for. A warm meal, a little entertainment. New Yorkers can be generous on the odd holiday.”
For an embarrassing moment, a knot twisted in Phil’s throat. She’d showed some concern for Just a Friend, but it had been Preswick who had actually seen that he’d received a new coat, hat, and gloves.
Phil would have to do more. Those children—though she imagined they considered themselves men, and they’d proven they were today—had saved her bacon. She didn’t know how, but Just a Friend had managed it.
“I have a million questions,” she said over Just a Friend’s head.
“I’m sure you do, and I’ll answer as many as I can once you’re safe at home.”
“Then just one,” she said. And of the millions of questions—like How did he find her? How did Just a Friend find her? Were they going after the ruffians who kidnapped her?—the one she asked was:
“Detective Sergeant, do you have children?”