Free A Mad, Wicked Folly by Sharon Biggs Waller Page A

his head at Catchpole. “Take her in.”
Lucy shot me one more warning look and then went off
with Catchpole. She looked so tiny and vulnerable walking
alongside the burly constable, but her back was straight
and her stride unfaltering.
The judge turned his attention back to me. “What’s
your name?”
I held my breath. If I said Darling, he’d probably ask if I
was related to Darling & Son Sanitary Company, and then,
I was sure, one thing would lead to the next and my father
would be in the know. “It’s . . . Victoria. Victoria Smith.”
Fletcher glanced at me and frowned. What in heaven’s
name was his problem?
“Well, Miss Smith,” the judge said. “Most suffragettes
are fighting to get into jail, not out of it. So I’m inclined to
believe your story. But if I see you here again, I won’t be so
generous. I’m releasing you to PC Fletcher, who will escort
you home. You’re lucky the missus has sausage plait and
plum duff on for tea, or I might not be so generous. Off you
go, then. Make sure she gets home, Fletcher.”
“Yes, governor.” PC Fletcher took my elbow and led me
out of the room.
Once we were out of the judge’s sight, I yanked my arm
out of his grasp.
He held his hands up. “Sorry.”
I strode in front of him and out into the rain. I had no
umbrella but I didn’t care.
“Wait a mo’.” PC Fletcher popped into the station and
came out with an umbrella. “No sense catching a chill.” He
snapped it up, holding it over both our heads. I stepped out
of the umbrella’s shelter. I didn’t want to stand so close to
him. I was too angry.
He sighed. “I won’t bite.”
The rain fell harder. He stepped closer; this time I did
not move away. I shivered. It was cold, and my silk coat
was not lined. I could almost feel the warmth radiating
from him. He smelled lovely, like wool and green grass.
And despite my anger, I could not help but feel pulled
toward him. I didn’t understand how I could feel angry
and attracted to him at the same time. Maybe it was
because I yearned to draw him. When the Pre-Raphaelite
artist Rossetti first laid eyes on Lizzie Siddal, he became
obsessed with painting her. Maybe this was what one felt
when one met a potential muse.
“Well, where do you live?”
I hesitated. Potential muse or not, I had to work out
what to do with PC Fletcher at the present moment. And
then I realized how I could prevent another scandal from
reaching my parents’ ears. “With my brother and his wife
in Pimlico.” The lie tripped easily from my mouth.
“Pimlico?” He sounded doubtful.
“Yes, Pimlico! What’s so odd about that?”
He looked at me with that hard expression again, as
if he couldn’t bear to be standing next to me. “Right then,
Victoria Smith from Pimlico.” He said the words with a
sharp beat. “Best be on our way.”
“If you don’t mind, I wish to go back to Parliament first.”
“I do mind, actually.”
“Fine then, I’ll go on my own.” I made to leave, but he
grabbed my arm.
“Oh, no you don’t. I have my orders to take you home,
and home is where you’re going.”
I tried to twist my arm away, but his fingers were
locked on.
“Who is to know?”
“I’ll know!”
“P.C. Bumptious.” I whispered the insult under my
breath but made sure he heard it.
“Bumptious?” he said, his voice rising. “I’d rather be
bumptious than a liar.”
Anger swelled inside me. “Who’s a liar?”
“You are.”
“Me? A liar? That’s rich. You’re the liar. You could have
told the truth right away and let me loose. But no!” The
words bubbled out of me in a stream of rage. There was
no holding back. “You’re just like that Catchpole, aren’t
you? Treating women like objects . . . things to be pulled
about from pillar to post.” I took a shaking breath.
“For your information, I couldn’t have let you go,” he
said. “That’s for the judge to decide. And believe me, you’re
not worth me getting the sack.”
“I don’t care. I’m going back to