“Have you proof of this claim?”
Nick reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the marriage lines, pressing out the wrinkles and displaying them for all to see. The signature of the curate, together with the bishop’s name, provided proof of the marriage.
“Where is my wife?” he demanded.
The leader peered at the paper and then into Nick’s eyes. “Could be a trick.”
Nick reached into his vest once more and pulled out a large, golden coin. He held it out to the man. “It is my likeness, commissioned by my father on my twenty-fifth birthday for the dorrian, the coin of Santadorra.”
The man studied the dorrian and then Nick’s face. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
“One hopes not,” Nick answered, putting the coin back into his pocket, “but it couldn’t hurt your cause with the Almighty if you’d tell me the whereabouts of my wife.”
“She’s with the others,” the youngest man offered, his face now pale. “The magistrate ordered her especially taken straight to London. Said she had betrayed the ruling classes, just like her mad father before her. They’ll clap her in Newgate until she’s hanged or transported for sedition.”
Nick stiffened. “Not if I have any say in the matter.”
THE INNKEEPER insisted that Nick be given the fastest horse in the stable. Nick clasped the man’s hand and could only offer his thanks. The touch of the innkeeper’s roughened grasp humbled him. Lucy had opened his eyes, just as she had wagered him she would in an alleyway somewhere between Mayfair and Spitalfields.
Lucy. The horse’s hooves beat a rapid tattoo on the London road, but they were no match for the furious hammering of Nick’s heart or the ache that filled every corner of his being. She’d involved him in everything he’d sworn against—wagers, heroism—and he’d been redeemed. But at what price?
He could not lose her. He would not lose her. For if he did, he would truly be as worthless as his father had always said. No, Lucy Charming had changed him, despite his resolve to remain unaffected. One mere wisp of a girl, a curly-headed hoyden in heartbreakingly snug breeches, had worked her way so far underneath his skin there was no getting her out. Truth be told, her hold on him was far more than skin deep, for the moment he’d slid inside her body, she’d become embedded in his soul.
By Jove, this time he would rescue her. Nick grasped the reins more tightly. Failure would not be countenanced. He would remove her from Newgate and after that . . . well, there was no use thinking about that. Santadorra it would be. Dwelling on the inevitable would not change the course of events that must follow.
He pushed his mount hard until both horse and rider were drenched with sweat. After a long night in the saddle, he reached the outskirts of the city and then turned the horse toward Mayfair.
NICK HAD always kept his bachelor’s establishment small, not merely because of his meager purse but also to keep his father at a distance. The Cromwell Hotel was barely respectable, but it was considerably cheaper than the Pultney or the Grillon, and the landlady was most forgiving when he was late with the rent. At the entrance to the hotel, a fresh-faced young tiger took his horse, and Nick flipped him his last coin, the golden dorrian. The tiger looked at it curiously and then bit it before shrugging and slipping it into his pocket. Nick passed through the empty lobby, pounded up the stairs, and walked briskly to his rooms, for he hadn’t a moment to waste.
The door to his apartments stood ajar, and a frisson of wariness prickled along his spine. Nick stopped just outside the threshold and listened. Perhaps it was only the maidservant changing the linen, except that he had not been at home for several days, and there was no linen to be changed. With a soft touch, Nick pushed against the door until it swung open.
“I say, Nick, you’ve been gone a devil of a long time with no word to anybody.”
Crispin lounged in Nick’s favorite chair, a book in one hand and a brandy in the other. His immaculately polished hessians gleamed in the light that streamed through the window. “Your father’s called twice today, and I was at a loss for any further explanations to account for your whereabouts.”
With an oath, Nick entered the room, shut the door behind him, and wasted no time in hastening to his bedchamber beyond. “My father deserves no explanations,” he called over his shoulder, pulling off the vest and smock as he went. He flung the garments in a corner and opened the small wardrobe. With impatient hands, he pulled out a well-made but shabby coat.
Crispin came to stand in the doorway. “Shall I summon your man?”
Nick shook his head. He intended to be gone before they could fetch the valet from his favorite tavern. “No time.” His fingers stumbled in his haste, and he let out another oath.
Crispin frowned. “Would you care to enlighten me?”
“Lucy’s in Newgate,” he blurted out as he pulled on a clean shirt. He looked up to find that Crispin had gone as white as the shirt. “I’ve been in Nottingham with Lucy. There was a reform rally, and the king’s men and local militia routed the people.”
Crispin stepped inside the room, his brow furrowed. “Yes. The papers are filled with the news.”
“Lucy was arrested.”
Crispin slapped the doorframe. “Arrested? How in the name of all that’s holy could you let her be arrested, Nick? For God’s sake, you’re a bloody prince!”
“I wasn’t with her at the time.” Nick jerked a neck-cloth from the drawer. “There was a mob. I’d stopped to help a woman, but none of that matters.” He managed to settle the linen properly around his neck. “She’s being held on charges of sedition.” His frantic fingers made a mess of the knot, creasing the linen.
“Here.” Crispin shoved his hands away and, with precise expertise, began crafting a splendid mathematical knot. “I’ll tie, you talk.”
“She was arrested with the Selkirks.”
“Who are they?”
“Former servants of her father’s. The father and son are heavily involved in reform. We were married in their house.”
Crispin looked as if he’d been shot. “Married?” There was a moment of silence, and then Cris chuckled. “Well, perhaps I’ve not lost my touch after all.”
“You will most definitely have lost your touch if my bride ends up hanged before I can get to her.” Nick motioned impatiently toward the cravat. Crispin finished off the knot, straightened it, and stepped back.
“There. You appear every inch the prince.” The look of satisfaction on Crispin’s face nettled Nick. Crispin sensed his friend’s prickliness. “They won’t hang her overnight. You’ve time to concoct a scheme. How do you mean to retrieve her from the prison?”
Nick had an idea, but it was complicated. He tugged at the sleeves of his jacket and straightened his cuffs. “I have a plan, but I need help.”
Crispin nodded. “You know, of course, that I’m entirely at your disposal, and I’m sure your father will assist you in any way he can.”
Nick froze. “I have no intention of going to my father.”
“Why ever not?” Crispin looked perplexed. “Pride is one thing, Nick, but a wife is another matter altogether.”
“The last thing we need is the royal carriage driving up in state to Newgate. Lucy is my wife. I will see to her safety.”
“And was she under your care when she was arrested?”
Nick ignored Crispin’s gibe. Instead, he brushed past his friend, snagging a beaver hat and cane from a stand just inside the sitting room door. “Are you coming with me, then?”
Crispin grabbed his own hat and stick. “Of course. We’d best stop at the banker’s on the way. You’re going to need pots of money as a start.”
Nick froze. Bribes in Newgate required gold, and he had none until his next quarter’s allowance. “Cris?” He did not have to speak the plea. The one word and a mutual look of understanding were all that was required.
“After you, Your Highness.”
Nick turned and held out his hand. “You have ever been my frien
d.”
Crispin clasped his hand for a brief moment and then stepped away. “Yes, well, it can’t hurt to have a prince in one’s debt.”
Together, the pair clambered down the stairs and out onto the street.
LUCY HAD HEARD of the horrible conditions of the women and children confined to Newgate Prison. She had even contributed some of her pin money to the work of the women who were taking the leadership of prison reform. But for all that she had known her involvement in such projects might prove risky, she had never expected to find herself on the receiving end of her own charity.
She glanced down at the blanket on which she sat in a corner of a cramped common room. The matted straw beneath the ratty wool was as old as tyranny, but she had no money for fresh bedding. The regular ration for each prisoner was one small loaf of bread a day. Lucy’s bread had been snatched from her fingers that morning almost before it had touched her outstretched hand. Her stomach growled, a persistent reminder that she’d not eaten since leaving Nick in the bedchamber of the inn at Nottingham. Nick. The thought of him brought a fresh wave of pain.
She crossed her arms across her empty middle and refused to cry. Two days was not so long, really, to go without food. The next time she would be much quicker, and far more territorial, when the gaoler appeared with the rations.
Even in the far corner of the room, there was no privacy. The cold stone walls ran with water, and the smell of the chamber pots sometimes forced her to cover her mouth and nose with a corner of the musty blanket. Despair lurked at the edges of her thoughts, but Lucy refused to acknowledge it.
“Here, love.” An older woman sat a few feet away on a similar blanket. She twisted her small loaf in half and extended a portion to Lucy. “You need some bit of comfort, don’t ye? ‘Tis always hardest on the young ones.”
Lucy stared numbly at the bread and at the dirty fingers curled around it. Her eyes returned to the woman. A moment ago, Lucy would have sworn she was quite elderly, but a closer study revealed that above the missing teeth and deep crow’s feet, the stranger’s eyes shone with the strength of a woman not much above thirty.
“Thank you, but I could not deprive you of your ration.” Lucy’s situation was dire, but it was not without hope. This woman, though . . .
“It’s all right, love. I won’t be needing it. I’m called to the dock on Sunday.”
“The dock?”
“Aye. In the chapel, to hear the condemned sermon.”
The woman’s words struck Lucy with the force of a blow. “You’re to be hanged?”
Her short cackle of laughter brimmed with amusement. “What dock did you think I meant? Portsmouth?” The woman laughed again, and Lucy shifted uneasily. The other woman seemed not to notice her discomfort. “I pinched a petticoat. Fancy dying for a petticoat.” Since Lucy had refused the bread, the woman tore off a bite, stuffing it in her mouth. “If I’d known I’d swing for it, I would have taken the pantalets as well.”
Other women, in the area joined in the dark humor.
“‘Twould have been a bit smarter, Anne, if you’d waited until your mistress wasn’t wearing the garment to filch it.”
“Lor’, and they won’t even let you wear it when you hang,” another added. “At least then you’d leave ‘em with a dainty view of your legs swinging amid that fine linen cloth.”
Lucy’s stomach revolted. She turned toward the wall and let the silent spasms rack her body. If they would hang a woman for a petticoat, then Lucy was sure to swing for sedition.
Just then, the clank of the heavy bolt on the door of the cell rang out. Lucy heard a murmur and the rustle of feet in the straw.
“Get back, you!” The gaoler, a burly, ham-fisted man, did not hesitate to strike any woman or child in his path. Lucy had quickly learned that much. “Get back! This here’s quality, and not for the likes of you.”
An excited murmur rose from the women in the room, and two of the children shrieked. Footsteps sounded, coming closer to Lucy. The cluster of females in front of her parted, and Lucy looked up into the appalled faces of her stepmother, stepsisters, and Mr. Whippet. Relief flooded her body, so intense she thought she might die from its effects.
“I might have known.” The duchess’s sharp features tightened as she curled her lip in distaste at the sight of Lucy. “I had hoped it was idle rumor, but such lunacy is in the blood.” She turned to the vicar. “I told you, did I not, Mr. Whippet? ‘Tis a madness, passed to each generation by the one before.”
Lucy scrambled to her feet, weak with relief. Her stepmother might berate her as much as she chose, but Lucy did not care. She only cared about escaping this hell on earth.
The gaoler marshaled the other prisoners toward the other end of the long room, out of earshot, leaving her face-to-face with her betrothed and her family. Mr. Whippet surveyed her from head to toe, lips pursed in an expression of fastidious distaste. Bertha appeared bored. Esmie had the grace to appear uncomfortable, and her stepmother eyed her with triumph.
“Yes, indeed,” the duchess said to no one in particular, “blood will tell, however blue it may be.”
Lucy opened her mouth to defend herself, but Mr. Whippet spoke first. “Clearly, Your Grace, she is mad,” he said, addressing her stepmother as if Lucy were not even in the room. “There can be no other explanation for it, and consequently the betrothal cannot stand.”
The duchess smirked. “Of course the betrothal will stand, you fool. It will stand until she is either hanged or transported, at which time we will petition the Crown for her marriage portion and divide it equally; I as her mother and you as her betrothed.” The vicar opened his mouth to protest, but the duchess dismissed his arguments with a wave of her calfskin-gloved hand. Her gaze returned to Lucy. “You look hopeful, my dear, but let me set your mind at ease. We have not come to rescue you.” The words were icy, meant to chill, and they had the desired effect on Lucy. The brief flicker of hope that had ignited at the sight of her family abruptly died.
“Then why have you come?” Lucy fought back tears. She refused to cry. Refused to give her stepmother the satisfaction. “Merely to say good-bye?”
Her stepmother looked over her shoulder to where the gaoler had corralled the other prisoners at the far end of the room. Then she moved forward, lowering her voice. Her words were thick with the malice she normally disguised. “I came to be certain it was you, my dear. I came to ensure there was no mistake. You have never been anything but a trial and a vexation, a curse upon me. First, you were your father’s favorite. Then your beauty outshone my girls’. But weak blood will always tell, and you have certainly proven yourself a Charming.”
Lucy stiffened. “If I have proven myself to be my father’s daughter, then my efforts will not have been in vain.” She refused to be cowed.
“You are as mad as he was,” the duchess hissed. “But even more so, you are a fool.” One set of clawlike fingers reached out and grasped Lucy’s neck. Her first instinct was to slap them away, but she willed herself to be still. The duchess made no further move, merely rested her hand lightly around the column of Lucy’s throat. “You could have married a prince. You might have paid back some of the forbearance I’ve extended to you over the years.” The fingers began to squeeze slightly. Lucy’s heart pounded. “Yet you threw away my girls’ futures for a few knitters and some filthy animals like the Selkirks.”
“The Selkirks are not animals!” Lucy’s head snapped up, and she grasped her stepmother’s wrist. With one quick movement, Lucy pushed the bony hand away.
“They live in a cave, do they not?” Her stepmother smiled, an evil expression, and the duchess let her hand drop to her side. “Like the animals they are.”
“They are fortunate to live anywhere after you turned them off the estate.”
“They are criminals and deserve to swing alongside you.” The duchess reached into her reticule for a perfumed handkerchief and held it to her nose, inhaling deeply.
“How did you find me?”
<
br /> The duchess lowered the handkerchief. “Tom Selkirk reached London this morning.”
“Tom? He is not in the prison?” Hope rose within her.
“He was not then, but I insisted that the footmen restrain him until the authorities could be summoned.” She waved a hand toward the door. “He is here now somewhere, I suppose, with the other felons and miscreants.”
Lucy had not known a heart might break more than once. Hers felt as if it had been shattered, the tiny shards piercing her with each breath she drew. “Why? Why would you revenge yourself on Tom Selkirk?”
The duchess sniffed. “Because I despise you.”
“Simply because my father loved me?”
“Because he did not love me,” she hissed.
“If my father had loved me, then he would never—”
Her stepmother’s smile now bared crooked teeth. “So, you believe the story as well. How delicious. I only wish I’d known of your doubts all along. I could have enjoyed tormenting you in a much more thorough and delightful manner.”
“Then . . . he did not . . .”
“Kill himself? Of course not.” The duchess inhaled the perfume of her handkerchief again. “Though he was shot.”
Lucy’s jaw sagged with disbelief. “By whom?”
The duchess laughed and then cast a cautious glance over her shoulder. “By Mr. Whippet, my dear, but then, the vicar was only defending his property, weren’t you, good sir?” She cast a sidelong glance at the clergyman. “He had an interest to preserve, given his investment in the knitting frames the Luddites were smashing. Your father was a threat to those interests, to all of our interests.”
Lucy felt numb. “I don’t understand.”
Her stepmother snorted. “Your demented father was not merely sympathetic to the Luddites, my dear. He was preparing to introduce a bill into the House of Lords that would have been even more effective at dismantling the frames than hammers and clubs. With his influence, he might have even been able to ensure its passage.”
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