Page 3 of Anastasia and the Duke
His grip was strong, too strong for Hannah to even contemplate trying to fight him.
She was doomed for Newgate, she thought with despair. She would hang for this, there was no doubt about it, and Nancy--poor Nancy--would be left to fend for herself alone.
Hopelessness threatened to overwhelm her, but Hannah's spirit fought against it. She was no fainting miss whom the duke could bully into submission. She was not the type of woman he was accustomed to dealing with, she realised with a smile. He probably thought her--and all ladies--milksops, in need of smelling salts and molly-coddling. Incapable of defending themselves against a man.
Life had not blessed Hannah with many advantages, so when she recognised one, she usually grabbed it with both hands. And what, she thought with a grin, could be more advantageous than the element of surprise?
With a plaintive sigh, Hannah allowed herself to go weak in Hawkfield's arms. She slumped against him, as though fainted, and as the duke staggered against her weight, Hannah lifted her knee and brought it squarely into contact with his most unmentionable area.
Hawkfield staggered in pain, releasing his grip on her. Hannah had caused him so much agony that he did not even cry out, he merely emitted a low moan of agony.
A twinge of remorse pricked Hannah's conscience for causing pain to another, but the duke's temporary discomfort was nothing in comparison to what she might have suffered within a Newgate cell.
Quietly and quickly, Hannah made for the door, opening it a small crack. Light spilled in from the hallway and she could not resist casting a glance back at the man who had unwittingly been her first kiss.
Hawkfield was doubled over in pain, but as the light fell upon him, he looked up and his eyes met with Hannah's.
Blue eyes, Hannah realised with a start, before she tore her gaze away. The duke's eyes were beautiful, but they were narrowed in distinct dislike at that particular moment--and Hannah could not blame him.
Pulling her mobcap low over her brow, Hannah fled from the room, down the hallway towards the servant's stairs. She took the runners two at a time, until she reached the kitchens, which were brimming with activity.
Footmen dashed, this way and that, carrying trays loaded with canapés and glasses of wine. Scullery maids attended to the used dishes returned from the ballroom, scraping the leftovers--a scandalous amount--into a slop bucket by the sink.
Hannah swept quickly through the kitchen, adopting the flustered but determined look of those around her.
"I'll empty that," she offered helpfully to the young woman who stood at the sink, with her elbows deep in suds.
"Thank you," the maid replied, without even turning her head to look at Hannah.
Sidney had been right; as he always was, in the midst of the hustle and bustle of a ball, no one noticed one extra maid.
Hannah hoisted the bucket up by the handle and made for the back door, which had been left open to allow the cool, spring air permeate the hot kitchen. She walked calmly and confidently into the kitchen garden, which was screened off from the main house by an ivy-covered fence. The sky was clouded, the darkness offering her some protection as she slipped down the garden path toward the gate, which had been left unlocked to allow for the endless deliveries for the ball.
Hannah hid the bucket away, before escaping through the gate to the laneway beyond, where the mews stables and servants' quarters lay. With her head down, Hannah hurried along the cobbled lane, until she reached Berkley Square. She cast one last glance back at number thirty-eight, which was lit up as bright as a beacon, before she took off at a quick pace to meet Sidney at their prearranged spot.
As she walked, her head was not filled with thoughts of the jewels in her pockets, but rather thoughts of Hawkfield. Her first kiss had been stolen from her, quite ironic for a thief such as she, but Hannah could not quite regret it. There were not many ladies who could say they had shared their first kiss with a duke, she thought with a smile--especially not one as handsome as Hawkfield. What a pity that he would not recall it with the same fondness as she...
Hannah kept her counsel for the entirety of the journey from Berkley Square to St Giles', but once she and Sidney were alone--bar Nan--inside the kitchen of the boarding house on Henrietta Street, she let loose her tongue.
"I was almost caught," Hannah hissed, as she emptied her pockets out onto the wooden table, "A gentleman entered Lady Jersey's bedchamber as I was trying to exit and he sought to apprehend me."
"He was not successful," Sidney stated, his eyes not on Hannah but on the jewels.
"Only for my quick thinking," Hannah retorted, put out by his lack of concern.
"Which is why I send you and not one of my girls from the Rookery; you are clever, Hannah, and quick," Sid replied, offering her a Spanish Coin in the hope that it might placate her.
It did not.
"I won't do it again," Hannah stated boldly, though Sidney ignored her.
Determined to get his attention, Hannah slammed her hand down upon the table, shielding the jewels from view with her arm.
"Did you hear me?" she growled, as Sidney finally glanced her way, "I shall not be doing this again, Sid. I have no intention of rotting in a jail cell or swinging from Tyburn's Tree to make your pockets fat."
As the air in the room grew tense, Nan began to giggle nervously under her breath whilst patting absently at the mob-cap which covered her blonde-grey curls. Hannah cast her a concerned glance; Nan had always been fragile, and any kind of confrontation might upset her for days.
Luckily, Sidney did not seem inclined to use anger as a weapon tonight, opting instead for guilt.
