by Joanna Lloyd
Beyond Innocence
Joanna Lloyd
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2012 by Joanne Elizabeth Duncan ISBN 10: 1-4405-5823-X
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5823-8
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5824-8
eISBN 13: 978-1-44055824-5
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
Acknowledgments
I want to thank my precious friend, Trish, and my loving mum who, before this story was anything but a raw, unedited draft, read every chapter and asked for more. Thanks also goes to Kassey who sat up until the early hours of the morning creating character and plot grids, proofreading and assuring me I was still her “hero.” And my amazing critique partner, Tamara Gill, who sugar-coated her invaluable feedback and patiently dealt with my technophobia. Thanks to my dear friends, Denise and Jill, who helped me devise many of the adventures; Bruce, who detailed how a true Australian bushman would get his horses across a flooding river and Lyle, who toured me through a functioning replica of the sailing ships of the early nineteenth century. As no friend or family member within a global radius has escaped my enthusiasm and writing obsession — thank you all for acting like you cared.
For my mother, who loved me into believing I could do anything.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
About the Author
Also Available
Prologue
London, April 1819
“Ma’am! Wake up! It’s the runners. They say there’s a warrant.”
The panic in her maid’s voice snatched Electra from her deep predawn sleep. Her eyes flew open to a sputtering candle, inches from her face. She blinked, groggy and disoriented, and pushed the hand holding the candle back. For a moment she could not remember whether she was in her bedroom at Gascombe Manor or in the London townhouse. A flash of deep gold velvet draped over a screen brought back the memory of last night’s soirée. London.
Aggie grabbed her arm and pulled. “Please ma’am, get up. Tell them it’s a mistake.”
Electra stumbled from her bed and threaded her arms through the sleeves of the robe held open by her maid. A blast of icy air made her clutch the warm garment close to her shivering body. She dug her toes into the cosy, woolen richness of the Persian carpet next to her bed before wriggling into her slippers.
“Now what nonsense are you speaking, Aggie? Who has come? And who are they taking away?” The girl was too agitated to answer. Electra frowned, flicked her thick plait of sleep-matted hair from her shoulder and strode to the door. As she pulled it open, raised voices drifted up the stairs.
“How dare you suggest that of Miss Shipley!”
“Is that Bolger I can hear?” she asked.
“Y-yes, ma’am. Mr. Bolger’s dealin’ with them what’s at the door.”
Her initial annoyance was now tinged with intrigue and a growing anxiety. She hesitated on the top step and peered down into the foyer. By the flickering glow of the rushlight, she made out the shape of Bolger arguing with two figures, shrouded by the night shadows. She glanced back at Aggie, who nodded her encouragement. Electra began to descend; with her father gone, the responsibility of the household was now hers.
Of course she was quite capable of running the London townhouse, and the country manor for that matter. She had done it for years, but her father had always been there beside her and his absence was still unbearable.
With a gentle touch on Bolger’s arm, she moved the butler aside, ready to deal briskly with the mischief-makers on her doorstep. Her mouth snapped shut when she recognised the scarlet waistcoat of a Bow Street Runner.
“Please excuse the interruption, ma’am, we are looking for Miss Electra Shipley,” said the officer.
“I am Miss Shipley. What seems to be the problem, sir? Has something happened?” Her heart pounded and she clenched her clammy hands. These were no mischief-makers and it was her they sought. Dread churned her belly in anticipation of the news that could not wait until morning.
The young man shuffled his feet nervously and refused to meet her gaze. He thrust a piece of paper at her and spoke quickly. “This is a magistrate’s warrant. I’m afraid you are under arrest, Miss Shipley.”
Her hand flew to her throat. “There must be some mistake,” she whispered. Aggie whimpered, clutching her mistress’s robe as Bolger sputtered his indignation. Normally cool and level-headed, Electra could make no sense of his words and found herself in a state of confusion.
The runner, aware of the shock and anger his words had provoked, spread his legs across the doorway. As if she might make a run for it.
“No mistake, madam. You are charged with the felony of theft. Charges laid by Viscount Gascombe. You will need to get dressed immediately and accompany us to Bow Street.”
• • •
Three hours later, frustrated and exhausted, Electra blinked at the heavy-jowled officer across the desk from her and wondered when they would come to their senses. She hugged her body and shivered as a draft of cold air rattled the windows behind her. In her haste to dress, she had chosen too light a gown for the cold. And the thin shawl Aggie had thrown around her shoulders as the officer hustled her out the door provided little warmth. To make matters worse, the room smelt of unwashed males and stale tobacco. With each breath the odor and filth permeated her body.
Her eyes wandered from her interrogator to the smattering of desks, mostly unmanned at this hour, which filled the grey, musty room. A chill ran up her spine as her gaze stopped at a short, stocky man who watched from the far corner. She flinched at the unmistakable glint of excitement in his eyes. Like a hunter, waiting for a trap to spring.
“Well? Have you anything else to say?” asked the impatient officer.
Unsettled, she turned back to the officer. “I am innocent. I have done nothing. You can keep me here for another three hours and you will still get the same answers. My uncle, Viscount Gascombe is the criminal, not I.” She cursed herself for underestimating her uncle. Of course, he would need to dispense with her after she made threats to expose his dishonesty. Even though she had hated and mistrusted him since she was a small child — she shuddered at a memory and pushed it aside — her mind could not have imagined the extent of his revenge.
The officer’s eyes were skeptical as he raised a bushy eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest. “Viscount Gascombe warned us you would make such a statement. However, our evidence suggests differently.” His eyes swept the room until he ca
ught the attention of the other man. He gave a small nod and the man approached.
“Take her away, shall I, sir?” he urged.
Her heart hammered her chest and, despite the cold, beads of sweat stung her eyes. She clung to the sides of the chair, an edge of panic in her voice. “No. You can’t take me anywhere. Lord Rann will be coming for me. He will set this right. Have you sent a man to fetch him?”
The officer gave an exaggerated sigh and scratched the top of his head. He brushed the resultant shower of dry skin from his coat before responding. “A man has been sent and has come back alone. There is nothing more we can do. Lord Rann is in obvious agreement with Viscount Gascombe.”
That could not be. Edward had always agreed with her about Uncle Carlton’s sly nature. In fact, Edward had been very annoyed when her uncle cut her allowance in half after her father’s death. Her eyes darted from one man to the other as the cold reality of her predicament wrapped its claws around her heart and squeezed. She tried to breathe but could only manage short gasps as they lifted her from the chair and hustled her out the door.
• • •
The grey edifice of Newgate loomed ahead and the symbols of Liberty, Peace, Security, and Plenty kept their stony vigil as Electra stumbled through the archway. The dank, stale air caught in her throat and the hellish noises that echoed down the narrow hallways sent shivers up her spine. She stopped, paralysed with terror, as she finally understood she was to be incarcerated in the notorious Newgate Prison. She barely registered an order to move.
A savage poke in the back restored her senses, as a man with an oversized belly and a small, bald head strutted into the room. The turnkey’s eyes, as they raked her from head to toe, did not miss a detail of her satin slippers, expensive gown, manicured hands, and proud bearing. The nasty snigger told her he had also not missed the barely concealed tremble in her body or her terrified, tearstained face.
“Thought you could steal from the Viscount, did you, girlie? It’s a good job His Lordship had his wits about him, eh?” She swallowed nervously but would not defend herself to the arrogant warden.
A nod to his left galvanized a waiting toady into action. With the hint of a smile on his lips throughout, the man conducted a humiliating body search. His lecherous fingers crawled over her breasts and up her legs as he patted and poked over and under her garments. She closed her eyes and swallowed the bitter taste of bile as her last meal threatened to vacate her body. Electra determined they would not witness this degradation.
“Well now, ain’t you goin’ to fit in well here, my beauty?” the turnkey said, his laugh turning into a hacking cough. He spat into a grimy handkerchief, scrunched it into his trouser pocket, and held out his hand. “Where’s me fee for takin’ you in then?”
Her eyes flashed on his, astounded by his ridiculous question. “What do you mean? This is madness, sir. You seem to suggest I made the choice to be here.”
He gripped her arm and hissed hot spittle against her cheek. “Yer pays to get in and yer pays to get out. Else yer can just take yer chances alone in the passageway at night.”
Electra shuddered at his threat and resisted an almost unbearable urge to scrub at her cheek. She was at his mercy. This was his domain and no one would question his actions.
She looked him squarely in the eye with a confidence she did not feel. “You have searched my person and know I have no money with me.”
His lip curled in a sneer. “Ah, yer a feisty one an’ all but you needn’t be worryin’ just yet me lovely. Yer fancy man has paid yer fee … an’ for a room all yer own. So you’ll be followin’ along with me to yer quarters eh?”
Fancy man? Oh Lord, could he mean Edward? Had Edward actually paid for her cell? The thought was preposterous. That would mean he knew. She had hoped when a man had been sent for him and come back alone that he had simply been out. But this made no sense; if he knew, why wasn’t he here to take her home? She desperately needed him to hold and protect her and to make all this go away.
A shudder of despair shook her body and she turned to beg the man for more information. But before she could question him further, he opened a heavy door and pushed her into the passageway. The words stuck in her throat.
The hellish screams she had heard earlier blasted her eardrums and jangled every nerve. She took a deep breath to calm her pounding heartbeat but this only served to sharpen the nausea. Cells packed with emaciated men, women, and even children surrounded her on both sides. She gasped as a childish whimper was met with a hard slap followed by a string of curses directed at the pitiless turnkey.
To her horror, desperate hands scrabbled through the bars, grabbed at her sleeve, and pleaded for food. Other prisoners stared silently with vacant eyes. Electra crossed her arms tight against her chest to escape their touch and focused her eyes on the turnkey’s stained brown coat.
The worst was the smell. She tried to suck the stagnant air through her mouth in short pants but still it assaulted her nostrils and defiled her mouth. It was the smell of death and decay, and it clung to her hair, her clothes, and her skin.
Then noises, not human, drew her eyes to a skeletal wretch manacled with chains stapled to the floor. She bit back a sob of pity for the desperate soul and hurried to keep up with the turnkey.
The bestial noises followed them until they moved through two locked doors and into a quieter area. But the putrid stench of the dead and dying still oozed from the walls.
“No profit to be made from that section of the prison,” he snarled as he slammed the second door.
Did he say profit? Oh Lord, the man is a monster. As she was dragged forward into another passageway, Electra caught a glimpse of the large common room. The turnkey stopped outside an empty cell and jerked his thumb at the open door.
The room was small with a bed in the corner and three windowless walls. Next to the bed was a scarred wooden table with a jug and basin in the centre. A wooden chair with the rungs missing from the upright and a bucket for her needs completed the furnishings.
“See? Yer fancy man has paid for all yer home comforts.” He smirked at her. “Generosity ain’t his strong point though. Come next week yer’ll be back down the way with some o’ them pretty fellers we just passed, if me palm ain’t crossed with summat worthwhile.”
Her breath caught in her throat as she asked, “Is Lord Rann coming to see me? How long will I be held here?”
The man scratched lazily at a layer of belly that overlapped his groin and sucked food from his teeth. “Well, let’s see. Hmm. Answers to questions cost money, girlie.”
She struggled for the last remnants of strength and sanity. But how was she to make sense of it all? This was a world unimaginable to her only hours before. A foul, depraved place where none of the old rules applied; where money was the only language they understood. This is a game, she told herself. Nothing but a game and I have to play by the rules to survive.
She straightened her shoulders and glared at the sneering creature. “You are well aware I have no money. However, I will be asking Lord Rann just how much you have already been paid and we shall see if it’s enough to answer my questions.”
His eyes darted to the far side of the cell. “Ah well, yer see, Lord Rann don’t give me no schedule of his movements. As to yer second question, yer hearin’ ain’t ’til end of May and after that only the good Lord knows how long you’ll be here.”
He spat into the corner of her cell and smirked at her horrified face. Then he heaved the cell door closed with a hard clang and retreated down the passageway. The sounds of his mirthless cackle bounced off the stone walls and chilled her blood.
Electra sank onto the small cot in the corner of the cell. The end of May, he said. But that was more than a month away. Oh God, where was Edward? What could have happened to detain him? Because he would come if it were at all possible … wouldn’t he?
• • •
Electra woke with a start as an iron rod rattled against the bars of her cell
. When her heart finally slowed, she gingerly stretched her aching body and sat upright.
“Visitor for yer. Warden’s bringin’ him down.”
Before she could enquire as to who her visitor might be, the man had gone.
It had been a full week since she first entered Newgate and this was her first visitor. It had to be Edward and she must look a fright. She patted her unwashed hair, straightened her gown, and stopped. A sense of desolation surged through her as she remembered his actions. And then, to her surprise, she hoped it was not Edward after all. Somehow, she would find it hard to look at him or to feel a shred of her former emotion for a man who could abandon her to such a fate.
An uncomfortable feeling in her bladder reminded her she must use the bucket and was mortified at the thought of being caught in this act by anyone. No, she could not risk it.
Just as she made the decision, a key sounded in the lock and the door was thrown open to reveal a tall, thin stranger. The man leaned in to the doorway, introduced himself as Winston Liddell, and then awkwardly drew the rest of his body into the cell. Confused, she stared vacantly at the man.
He cleared his throat. “May I ascertain if you are indeed Miss Shipley, madam?”
She nodded and gestured for him to take a seat on the rickety chair. Liddell tried to fit his gangly frame onto it, lost his balance and almost toppled to the floor.
A moment later, perched on the edge of the table, he explained the purpose of his visit. “Lord Rann is quite concerned for your welfare, Miss Shipley. He has engaged my legal expertise to present your case in court.” Liddell tilted his head and smiled as if all her problems were now solved.
She did not rise from the cot nor did she take his outstretched hand when offered. Her calm exterior hid a rising anger that Edward had not had the courage to accompany the lawyer. She found it impossible to be gracious to the poor man.
“And why has he not been to see me, Mr. Liddell?”
“Er, terribly busy my dear. Parliament’s been sitting, social engagements. Sends his regards of course.”