Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2)

The furious man demands that I leave his cab. "I must protest, madam! It was rightfully ours!" Please, please let me have it. Fowlson's sighted us. He's stopped his whistling and quickened his step. He'll be to us in a matter of seconds.

"What seems to be the trouble?" It's Lord Denby's voice.

"This young woman has taken our cab." the man sniffs."And this Indian boy claims she's the Duchess of Kent."

"I say, Father, isn't that Mr. Doyle's former coachman? Why, it is!"

Lord Denby squares his shoulders."Here, now, boy! What is the meaning of this?"

"Should we call for a constable?" Simon asks.

"If you please, miss," the man says imperiously, offering his hand through the window as I struggle to stay out of sight. "You've had your fun. I'll thank you to leave our cab at once."

"Come now, miss," the driver calls."Let's not 'ave all this trouble on such a raw nigh'."

This is the end. Either I shall be found out by Simon and his father and my reputation shattered forever, or Fowlson and Miss McCleethy shall lead me away to who knows what.

My hand's on the door handle when Kartik suddenly jumps about like a madman, singing a jaunty tune and kicking up his heels.

"Is he drunk or mad?" Lord Denby says.

Kartik leans into the cab."You know where to find me."

He throws his hands into the air and brings one down hard, slapping the horse's hide. With a loud whinny, the horse lurches into the street, the driver shouting, "Whoa, 'old there, Tillie!" to no avail. The best he can do is aim the beast away from the clubs and into the flow of traffic leaving Pall Mall. When I steal a last glance behind me, I see that Kartik is still acting the mad fool. A constable's arriving, blowing his whistle. Fowlson and Jackson pull back. They shan't get to Kartik for now. Only Miss McCleethy is nowhere to be seen. She has disappeared like a ghost.

"Where to, miss?" the driver calls down at last. Where can I go? Where can I hide?

"Baker Street," I shout, giving Miss Moore's address. "And hurry, please."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

WE'VE REACHED BAKER STREET IN TIME FOR ME to realize that I have no handbag. I have no means to pay the fare.

" 'Ere you are, miss," the driver says, helping me from the cab.

"Oh, dear," I say. "I seem to have forgotten my handbag. If you will give me your name and address, I'll see that you are paid handsomely. I promise."

"And the Queen's me mum," he says.

"I'm in earnest, sir."

A constable makes his way down the opposite side of the street, the brass buttons of his uniform glinting in the gloom. My blood quickens.

"Tell it to the constable, then," he says."Oi! Bob! Ofer 'ere!"

I make a run for it, the constable's whistle blowing sharply behind me. Quickly, I slip into the shadows of an alley and wait. The snow has turned to sleet. The tiny, hard ice bites at my cheeks, makes my nose run. The houses shimmer in the new sheen of frost and gaslight. Every breath is a painful rasp, a fight for air against the cold. But it is more than that. The magic has begun to wear me down. I'm feeling odd, as if I've a fever.

The constable's steps are sharp and close.

"And then he said she was the Duchess of Kent," the cabbie explains.

I flatten myself against the wall. My heart's thumping hard against my ribs; my breath is locked up tight as a criminal in irons.

"You might do well not to pick up odd women, mate," the constable says.

" 'Ow was I to know she was odd?" the cabbie protests.

Arguing on, they pass within inches of me without so much as a glance in my direction till their footsteps and voices are no more than faint echoes that are finally swallowed by the night. The breath I've been holding back comes out of me in a whoosh. I waste no time. I'm hobbling down the street and to Miss Moore's flat as quickly as I can move in my weakened state. The house is dark. I rap loudly, hoping I can devise a ruse that will get me inside. Mrs. Porter sticks her head out the top window, calling down irritably.

"Whachoo wont, then?"

"Mrs. Porter, I'm terribly sorry to disturb you. I've an urgent message for Miss Moore."

"She's no'a"ome."

Yes, I know, and it's all my fault. I feel I shall faint. My face is numb from the cruel pelting of the sleet. At any moment, the constable could come back. I've got to get inside. I just need a place to hide, to think, to rest.