Suzanne Robinson by The Rescue Read Free Book Online

her through the doors, she realized that his civility was limited to Featherstone.
    “Bath and clothes,” he snapped. “You’ll have to make do yourself. No lady’s maids around here. Don’t take long. We’re leaving quick.”
    As she stared at him, he closed the door and locked it. Prim gaped at the place where he’d been. All at once she burst into motion. Rushing across what had to be a sitting room, she thrust aside blue silk curtains and searched for the lock to the tall windows that formed one wall of the room. Then she stopped, for beyond the glass, the windows had been fitted with decorative wrought-iron grillwork. She hurried into the bedroom and found the windows the same.
    Pounding her fist on the sill, Prim sank down on a bench beneath the window. It was some time before she could master her frustration and renewed fears, but when she noticed her surroundings, she was again surprised. The room was free of dust and looked as if some great lady was in residence. It boasted an antique bed of state, complete with a carved gilt canopy and blue silk damask upholstery.
    She rose and walked to the bed. On it lay a traveling dress of a shining bronze fabric with braided trim andmatching jacket. There were a bonnet, gloves, and underthings. Prim noticed gaslight coming from another room and found a bath prepared in what had once been a robing room. Steam from the water rose and beaded the surface of a mirror sitting on an eighteenth-century vanity. Prim glanced from the bath to the traveling dress on the bed. The ruffian had not only broken into the house but stolen clothes from the owners as well.
    Her gaze drifted back to the bath. It, too, was stolen. She would be stealing if she used it. But her entire body felt caked with soot, and her arms and legs were sore from running and struggling with Mr. Nightshade. Nightshade! What if he were to come in while she bathed? Prim went to the door between the bedroom and the bathing room and closed it. There was a key in the lock. She turned it and faced the steaming bath. If she was going to be killed, at least she would spend her last hours clean.
    The bath felt as good as it looked. Sitting in the tub with the steam rising all around her, Prim’s weary mind drifted away from thoughts of danger and death. This house was the kind of place to which she was accustomed. She had been born to a life in such houses. The past hadn’t prepared her for Whitechapel or the black-haired ruffian, for her parents had been Lord William Harold and Lady Frances Dane.
    Prim would be the first to admit that her birth had been a disappointment. She could hardly miss the fact, since her mother talked of it often. There was a memory of being seven years old and allowed the privilege of coming downstairs when her mother’sfriends called. Prim, who spent most of her time with her nanny, was escorted into the drawing room to make her curtsey.
    Lady Frances turned to her dear friend Lady Sarah with a lament Prim had overheard before. “I shall consider myself a failure until I have a son.”
    The declaration had little effect on Prim. She was used to hearing it from time to time. The first occasion had been when she was five. Until that day, she had thought herself the center of her little world. That one sentence had sent her crashing into the depths of bewildered misery. Her birth had been a misfortune, unwelcome, a disappointment.
    When she was eleven, John Harold had come along, and the entire household rejoiced. All at once, her mother was jubilant. She held her head high and beamed her pride for all to see. At first Prim could see no reason to celebrate. All John Harold did was eat, sleep, and squall like a cat in a sack. Later she became acquainted with this little intruder and fell in love with his chubby face and golden curls. He would go for walks with her, his little hand clasped trustingly in hers. He came to her when he fell and bumped his head. He depended upon her to teach him how