Page 43 of Anastasia and the Duke
"Imagine how insulted I was to find you'd called back to St Giles' and hadn't thought to call in on old Sid."
Hannah froze as she spotted Sidney, lounging against the garden gate. His posture was nonchalant, as he cleaned under his nails with a pocketknife which glinted menacingly under the spring sun.
"I just wanted to see Nan," Hannah answered, refusing to sound afraid, for he might infer her fear to be guilt.
"Really?" Sid smiled, though his smile looked more like a dog barring its teeth, "I was afraid that you thought yourself too good to call in on me, now that you're making calf-eyes at a duke. Handsome fellow, but a bit too high up the pecking order to be fraternising with someone like you."
"What do you want, Sid?" Hannah asked, her stomach sick at having to hear her own self-doubts spoken aloud. Disgusted that her tender moment with Hawkfield was now sullied by the knowledge that it had played out under Sid's leering gaze.
"I want my money, girl."
Sid lunged and grabbed for Hannah, pulling her backwards against his chest. He held her tight with one arm, while with his free hand he brought the blade of his pocketknife against the soft skin of her neck.
"You're getting ideas above your station, missy," he whispered, his breath hot and rancid against Hannah's face, "You think you can renege on our agreement just because some top-lofty duke wants to take a tumble with you?"
"It's not like that," Hannah protested, hot tears stinging her eyes.
"I think it is," Sid pressed the knife harder against her flesh, so hard that Hannah dared not even gasp, "But you're forgetting your roots, my girl. You think he wants you for a wife? He won't even want you for a mistress when he learns that you're the brat of a light-skirt silly enough to catch the pox from one of her punters."
"That's not true," Hannah protested, closing her eyes to try and will his words away.
"Course it is," he grunted, "Why do you think poor Nancy won't tell you where you come from? She knows you'd die of the shame of it, but I think a little shame might remind you of your place in life."
"As your lackey," Hannah laughed bitterly.
"Tut-tut," Sidney drawled, "My partner in business, m'dear, not my lackey. But as a partner, you're not pulling your weight--you need to take on some risk, just like I do. So here's my proposal; you bring me the jewels by week's end, or I chop off all of Nancy's fingers."
"You wretch," Hannah cried, as she struggled to get away from him.
"Watch your tongue, or I'll have it out," Sid snarled, pressing the point of his knife into her neck so that he drew blood.
Hannah froze in terror, wondering how she might get away from him before he lost control completely. Luckily, from behind the garden gate there came the sound of sniffing and whining, which soon turned into frenzied barks.
Bonbon; the pampered poodle had come to her rescue.
"Go," Sidney pushed her away from him, casting a wary eye about the alleyway, "But remember what I said. You have a week."
With that, Sidney took off, and Hannah hurriedly let herself in through the gate to safety. She fell upon Bonbon, kissing his fluffy-white head in gratitude for rescuing her. But as her heartbeat returned to its usual rate, Hannah realised that she was not safe at all.
If she didn't do as Sidney asked, both she and Nan would suffer. And she could not rely on Hawkfield to save her, not now that she knew the truth of her origins.
Chapter Twelve
In order to push Miss Blackmore, and the passionate kiss they had shared the previous day, from his mind, Oliver decided to dedicate his afternoon to the business of managing his estates.
As nothing dampened a man's desire quite like discussing agricultural yields, his plan worked, and when Gilmour, his butler, knocked to announce that a Mr Adams had called for him, Oliver momentarily drew a blank.
"Adams?" he repeated, placing his quill down, "Never heard of the man. Tell him to contact my man of business if it's urgent."
"Yes, your Grace," Gilmour answered, his expression impassive as ever as he withdrew. The door had just clicked shut behind him, when Oliver remembered who Mr Adams was and why he might be calling, and he let out a roar.
"Gilmour!"
"Yes, your Grace?" the butler asked when he reappeared.
"Idohave business with Mr Adams," Oliver admitted, slightly abashed, "Send him in."
"Yes, your Grace," Gilmour nodded, and went to fetch him.
