Page 75 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Even Penelope saw the sense in Stokes’s plan. They all nodded and murmured agreement.

Stokes lifted his head. “Right then.” He glanced at his men. “Let’s get this raid underway.”

They followed Stokes out of the wood, into the lane, and, falling into the requested formation, marched through the gates, presently set wide, and up the gravel drive. Violet had to admit it was a stirring moment; the crunch of so many heavy booted feet sounded like a drumbeat—the march of justice.

On reaching the area before the porch, their small party diverged from the rear and took up their appointed positions.

Montague, she saw, fearlessly led the way up the steps. Halting before the front door, he nodded to Stokes, who pulled the dangling chain. Montague waited for a heartbeat, then raised his fist and thundered on the door.

When the door failed to open, at Stokes’s nod, Montague knocked heavily again.

Half a minute passed, then the door eased open.

Up on her toes, Violet could just glimpse the curious manservant as he stood blocking the doorway. His “Yes? Can I help you, sir?” floated over the many burly shoulders between them.

Montague flicked out the letter of authority he held in his hand. “I am empowered by the owner of this property, the late Lady Halstead, to investigate the use of her house.” When the man simply gawped, Montague had no compunction in raising a hand, palm out, and shoving the villain backward; the man staggered back several paces, and Montague seized the opening and strode over the threshold into the front hall.

The door to his left was closed; directly ahead a wide staircase led up to the first floor, while a narrow corridor beside it gave access to the rear rooms of the house. To his right, a pair of doors stood wide, showing a section of what was plainly the drawing room. Pivoting in that direction, Montague strode forward, feeling decidedly more pugnacious than he could recall ever feeling as he took in the two couples beyond the doorway.

They might have been mistaken for guests attending a fashionable soiree if not for the hardness in their eyes and the signs of dissolute living etched in their faces.

Both couples had frozen, their expressions blanking, their eyes widening as their gazes locked on the men at Montague’s back; ignoring the couples, Montague marched into the room and looked down its length.

And saw Walter Camberly, his eyes rounding, his mouth agape, standing alongside a round, raised dais—the sort of thing Montague had seen in dressmaker’s shops. Atop the dais, tears streaking her face, stood a girl of some twenty summers, utterly naked.

Montague finally understood. Walter was auctioning the girls.

“Stokes.”

“Yes. I’ve seen enough.” His gray gaze locked on Walter Camberly, his face the definition of grim, Stokes moved up beside Montague. “I’ll take care of him, you get the girl out of here.”

“Done.” Montague strode forward, shrugging out of his greatcoat as he went, barely registering the other people, men and women both, scattered about the room.

Walter Camberly’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound issued forth. As Stokes reached him and seized him by the arm—ungently—Walter managed to croak, “Here! I say—”

“If you’ve got any brains, you’ll keep your trap shut,” growled a man—well-dressed, but clearly no gentleman—standing a few paces away.

Montague shut his ears to the mounting exchanges of pleasantries as Stokes’s men moved through the room and introduced themselves to Walter’s “guests.” Raising his greatcoat, Montague held it up to screen the poor girl. “Here, my dear. Wrap yourself up, and let’s get you out of here.”

Tentatively, as if hardly daring to believe what was taking place before her very eyes, the girl slowly took possession of the coat; Montague averted his eyes as she slipped properly into it and hugged it about her body.

“Excellent.” Montague held out his hand to assist her down from the dais. “Come along, my dear—you’re entirely safe, and there are ladies waiting outside to help.”

Blinking huge blue eyes, the girl took his hand and, holding the coat tight with her other hand, clambered down. Once she was on her feet, she met Montague’s eyes. “There’s others like me—upstairs.”

Montague nodded, gently urging her forward. “Yes, we know. Others will be bringing them down momentarily.” Shielding her from the jostling of the many bodies—police and their captives—now crowding the room, he guided her out into the front hall. There they found other girls being brought down from upstairs and led outside by solicitous constables. Barnaby had been in charge of that group, all of them older men with daughters of their own.

Remaining with his charge, Montague joined the exodus, escorting her across the porch, helping her over the gravel—although she was barefoot, she seemed unconcerned by the small stones—and then they were on the lawn and he handed her into Violet’s care.

With a smile and a comforting embrace, Violet led the girl to join the others, gathering in a small circle inside the protective cordon of Penelope’s men. The men were all studiously watching the house, showing the scantily clad girls as much courtesy as they could.

As Montague watched, the girl he’d escorted out was welcomed with cries of “Hilda!” Several of the other girls threw their arms around her.

Penelope waited for the hugs and cries to subside, then asked, “Girls, is this all of you?”

There were seven girls in all. They looked around, then Hilda raised her head and nodded, “Yes, miss. There were seven of us they’d caught this month. I heard him as was in charge”—with her chin, she indicated the house—“say as they usually had more, but tonight, this month, there was just us seven.” Hilda’s voice lowered, trembled. “We’re all girls from the country, miss, good girls an’ all. Each of us came down to try to find honest work in the city, but he came along with his lies and his promises of a good place to work that he knew . . . and then he brought us here and locked us up.” Her voice dropped lower. “He were going to sell us for ravishment and worse.”

“Yes, well,” Penelope said, “you can rest assured that he won’t be doing that, or much of anything else, not where he’s going. Those gentlemen over there”—with a wave she indicated the constables marching the arrested “guests” out in a steady stream to the police wagons that had drawn up, having waited down the lane to the priory until they’d been summoned—“are from the police, and they will ensure that those dreadful people get their just deserts, which, trust me, won’t be sweet.” The words and Penelope’s tone combined to help the girls relax just a little, their tension fractionally easing. “Now,” Penelope continued, “do you know where your clothes are? If you’ll give me instructions, I’ll send my husband and Mr. Montague here to fetch what they can find.”