CHAPTER 217: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN

The day bled into a long, cold evening. Augusta ran until her lungs burned and her legs, unaccustomed to such desperate exertion, felt so heavy. She had ran into the mazy alleys of Albion, leaving her life of silk and silver far behind, and now found herself in the commoner’s part of the kingdom. The part of the world she had only ever looked down upon from the window of a fast-moving carriage.

The streets here were narrow, choked with mud and refuse. The air was thick with the smell of coal smoke, boiled cabbage, and grotty environment. Loud, rough laughter spilled from the open doors of low cost taverns, and the buildings here themselves seemed to lean against each other for support, their windows like tired, vacant eyes.

Tired, hungry, and shivering in the chilly night air, she sought refuge. In a dark, forgotten corner where two alleys met, sat an abandoned carriage. It was a sad, skeletal thing, its wheels broken, its paint peeling, and its seats torn and spilling their stuffing. With the last of her strength, she pulled open the creaking door and collapsed inside.

The iron manacles on her wrists bit deep into her raw skin with every movement. She curled into a corner, pulling her torn dress around her for a warmth it could not provide, and closed her eyes, resting for a moment in the musty darkness. The sounds of the city were a low, threatening hum outside her wretched sanctuary.

She must have drifted off, because the sound of approaching footsteps startled her awake. They were slow, steady steps, crunching on the gravel and refuse of the alley. Augusta’s eyes snapped open, her body instantly tense. She was a cornered animal, ready to unleash its claws, ready to fight.

The footsteps stopped beside the carriage. A figure appeared in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the faint light of a distant gas lamp. The person peeped inside, and she could see their shadow fall over her. The figure hesitated for a while, as if unsure of what they were seeing, before giving the rotting wood of the door a small, hesitant knock.

She quickly sat up, a snarl forming on her lips, ready to attack. But as the figure leaned in closer, the faint light caught his face. It was Fredrick.

Augusta’s defensive posture melted into one of pure, irritated disdain. She glared at him, her expression a mixture of annoyance and humiliation at being found in such a state.

Fredrick looked her over, his eyes taking in the torn dress, the disheveled hair, the bloody wound on her forehead, and the heavy manacles on her wrists. A slow, cynical smile spread across his face. "Well, well," he said, his voice a low, amused rumble. "What are you doing in this humble quarters, looking like a common thief, Augusta?"

"I am just going through a minor setback," she replied, her voice cold and proud, completely at odds with her pathetic appearance.

Fredrick’s smile widened. He leaned against the doorframe, a picture of casual confidence. "A minor setback?" he echoed, his gaze lingering on the iron cuffs. "It looks a bit more serious than that to me." He shifted the small paper bag he was holding in his hand. "Are you even going to be able to pay me for that job you wanted me to do? Or should I just send the bill to Newgate Prison?"

"Don’t insult me," she snapped, the fire returning to her eyes. She pushed herself out of the carriage, stumbling slightly as her feet hit the ground. She straightened up, trying to gather the tattered remnants of her dignity. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to a shabby-looking tenement house just down the alley. "My house is over there," he replied simply. "I just went to the baker to buy something to eat for dinner."

Augusta’s eyes darted to the paper bag in his hands. Through the thin paper, she could see the shape of a small loaf of bread and a jar of jam. Her stomach churned with a hunger so sharp it was painful. She looked away, her pride warring with her desperation.

"If you get me out of these," she said, her voice dropping to a low tone as she held up her manacled hands, "I’ll pay you more. Double what we discussed."

Fredrick just looked at her, a strange expression on his face. She was still so arrogant, even now. A fugitive in rags, offering promises of gold as if she were still sitting in her grand drawing room. He thought to himself that some people never truly change, no matter how far they fall. But money was money, and he was a practical man.

He sighed and set his dinner on the ground. "Hold still," he said. He reached up and deftly pulled a long, sturdy pin from the back of her messy hairstyle. He knelt before her and inserted the tip of the pin into the keyhole of the manacles. In seconds, with a series of tiny movements and a soft click, the first manacle fell open. He repeated the process on the other. It, too, fell to the floor with a heavy clank.

Augusta let out a sigh of pure relief, rubbing her raw, chafed wrists. She kicked the manacles with her foot, sending them skittering into the darkness under the abandoned carriage. She then faced Fredrick, who was still kneeling, and stretched out her hand in an arrogant, expectant manner.

He looked at her outstretched hand, confused. "What?"

She let out a frustrated sigh, as if dealing with a particularly slow-witted child. "The key to your house," she said, her tone dripping with impatience. Without waiting for him to respond, she reached down, plunged her hand into his coat pocket, and pulled out a single, simple iron key. She then snatched the paper bag with his dinner from the ground.

She turned to leave, staggering with every step, her body weak with exhaustion and hunger.

"It’s the first house on your left," Fredrick called after her, still kneeling on the ground, a look of pure bewilderment on his face.

Augusta didn’t look back. She didn’t even answer. She just continued her slow, unsteady walk down the alley. He watched her as she fumbled with the key, opened the door to his home, and disappeared inside. He was left alone in the dark alley, without his house key and without his dinner.

"What in heaven’s name," he murmured to the empty air, "happened to the untouchable Augusta Ellington?"

Just as he was about to get up and leave, to find somewhere else to spend the night, he saw it. At the far end of the alley, where it opened onto the street, a fine, dark carriage was waiting. It was silent and unlit, but it was unmistakably the carriage of a nobleman. The window was down, and in the dim light, he could see the silhouette of a man inside, watching him.

It was the Duke. The same young man who had visited him when he came out of prison. He wasn’t just looking for Augusta anymore. He was waiting for him.