“Come now, Lady Rockley,” Goodwin said with a supercilious gesture. “It should be no surprise to you that the magistrate awaits your presence. I’m merely here to see that he gets it. ”
“For what reason?” She inched to the side, eyeing the thug closest to her as a feeling of urgency began to build, and her heart to pound. He couldn’t be as strong as a vampire. Or a Venator. None of them could be. Confidence surged through her. She was also smaller and could slip through the hedge more easily. . . .
“It will do you no good to run, Lady Rockley. You may be quick and strong, but you cannot outrun this. ” He pulled a gun from his pocket.
No, she couldn’t. But the bullet would have to find her first.
Red glazing her vision, she ducked and rushed at the first of the burly men, knocking him into Goodwin. The sharp retort of a pistol shot sounded, and something whistled through the air much too close to her.
Victoria spun and began a mad dash through the hedge—if she made it through, she’d be in sight of the rear windows of the house and there was a chance someone would see her.
Something yanked hard at her cloak, and she flew backward, landing with the jolt of her skull on the ground. Head spinning, heart pounding, veins pumping, she rolled and leaped to her feet. Rage blasted through her, and she kicked out, tearing into the man closest to her. She felt her nails pare the skin from his face and her foot connect with something soft.
Her red-hued world became a cyclone of movement and ferocity in that narrow, dark walkway until suddenly something wafted down over her. It was clingy and heavy and she reali
zed a net had been thrown over her. It wrapped around her legs, restricted her arms, and before she could fight her way out of it, the net tightened and Victoria felt herself falling.
She crashed to the ground, her head slamming onto a rock. Someone shoved her into a spin. She rolled, tangling further in the net, shouting now—hoping that someone—Max, Verbena, Kritanu, someone would hear.
Something dark went over her head, muffling her voice and smothering her gasps for air, and, like a bundle, she was lifted. The heavy cloth tightened over her face, cloistering her nose and mouth, making her struggle for every bit of air. She struggled, bucking and kicking . . . the red of her vision faded, consciousness ebbed, and she knew no more.
When Victoria became aware again, she found herself sitting in a hard wooden chair. Her hands were bound behind her and she slumped forward. The only things preventing her from tumbling off the chair were her arms bent over the top of it. They ached, and her fingers were cold and numb. Her feet were in a similar condition, tied to the rung of the chair.
She wasn’t alone. She kept her eyes closed and listened. It took her only a moment to realize that she’d awakened in the middle of Goodwin’s meeting with the magistrate. Her hearing, such as it were.
Her mind was fuzzy, and she knew little about the workings of the Bow Street Runners and their responsibility to the magistrate. But she did know that there were few honest magistrates. And fewer honest Runners. Which did not ease her anxiety in the least.
“I find your evidence against Lady Rockley compelling, Mr. Goodwin,” intoned a voice, presumably that of the magistrate.
“The woman is exceedingly strong,” now spoke Goodwin himself. “She will have to be transported in chains, and in secrecy. She has some fairly able friends. ”
Victoria’s mouth went dry. Chains? Good God. But surely they would have to bring her to public trial. And by that time, Max, and Sebastian, and Lady Melly—
But did any of them know where she was?
Barth and Oliver would know. They’d still be watching Goodwin. Or they would be able to figure it out.
She lifted her head. Its throbbing was so harsh it had to be audible. “Who brings the charges against me?” she said. Her voice . . . it was not one she recognized. It was . . . dark, heavy, rough. A shiver rattled down her arms and she pulled on her bonds as rage shuddered through her. “Someone must charge me. ”
She knew at least that much about crime and punishment in London. A victim or family member must press charges for a trial to occur. There were no representatives, or prosecutors, for the general public.
“Ah, she is with us again. ” Goodwin’s face came into her view, blurred and clouded with the red haze. His breath smelled of stale ale.
“Who charges me?”
“It is I who bring the charges,” Goodwin replied.
“You?” Victoria blinked rapidly, trying to alleviate the distortion. Her thoughts were scrambled. “Why?”
His face came in front of hers, his long sharp nose shining, eyes dark with loathing. “My brother. You killed my brother. ”
“Your brother? Who is your brother?” Victoria demanded. “I’ve killed no one. ”
A loud crack sounded, a hammer slamming onto a wooden surface. “Take the prisoner to Newgate. I’ll arrange for the trial to be held tomorrow. ” The magistrate’s voice was filled with malice. “The assizes judge is in my debt and will be happy to hurry things along in this case. ”
Tomorrow?
Victoria raised her head to protest, but something hard slapped against her cheek. Her head whipped up and back so hard the chair tottered.