“Hence my first words, about the limitations of discretion,” Mrs. Ludlow said sadly. “I would be sorry to lose you, Miss Belvoir. Most sorry. However, those pamphlets must be locked away, so the girls cannot see them. And you must obtain my permission before leaving the school in the future, and explain your purpose in doing so, lest I get more letters.”
Padua bit her tongue. Of course she could not tell Mrs. Ludlow that she intended to leave again tomorrow, to bring food and clothing to her father in prison. If Mrs. Ludlow learned of his situation, she would surely send Padua packing by morning. She would have no choice.
Padua did not argue. She excused herself and retired to her chamber. Jennie waited for her there.
“Did she let you go?” Honest concern showed in Jennie’s blue eyes. A young widow of good birth, Jennie was as dependent as Padua on her situation at Mrs. Ludlow’s. Handsome, blond, and well-bred, she taught the girls comportment and etiquette. Her relatives may not give her a penny, but Mrs. Ludlow liked dropping their names to parents of prospective students.
“No. She said she does not want to either.” But she would, if necessary. Padua knew that.
“Then you must not do this again. Where did you go?”
Jennie was the closest thing to a friend that Padua had, but they were not so close that she would admit to Jennie that her father was in prison. “I thought I knew where to find my father, so I might see him.”
Jennie shook her head sadly. “He avoids you so he does not have to give you any money, Padua. I have told you that.”
It was why Jennie’s family avoided her, so she assumed it was a rule that governed all lives. “I know he has nothing to give. Anyway, I had to try.”
Jennie turned to the door. “I must go. I am going to tell those girls not to sneak in here tonight, for those extra lessons. You do not want to risk forcing Mrs. Ludlow into making a choice, Padua.”
“Skipping a night or so might be wise.”
After Jennie left, Padua knelt beside her bed. She reached under it for a valise she stored there. Opening it, she removed a little purse that held her money.
These coins had a purpose, but she doubted now that she would ever save enough to pay for her passage to Italy, and to her namesake city, where her mother had studied and her parents had met. Not when these coins were required to pay for the lawyers to help her father now, and to procure him what little comfort she could while he lived in his current abode.
She had saved almost enough once before, when she was younger and teaching at the school in Birmingham that she had attended as a student herself. After three years of scrimping, she had the passage. Then she had met Nicholas and fallen in love. Beautiful, glorious love. The kind of love her mother and father had known, and about which poems are written. She had loved totally, freely, and without guilt or worry.
Three months later Nicholas was gone, with her money in his pocket.
She stared at the coins. Her father had been cold to her for ten years, ever since her mother had died when Padua was fifteen. He had sent her away to that school then, at a time when she wanted to be with what family she had left. She had only seen him a few times a year since then, even after she moved to London in order to be closer to him.
He did not want her help. He did not even want her company. She should just leave, and go to Padua and apply to the university and make her mark if she still could. Papa might even respect her then.
Her mother’s voice came to her, frail and trembling from the consumption taking her life. He is like a child, Padua. You must promise me you will watch over him, as much as he will allow. For a man who has traveled extensively and read the great books, he knows almost nothing about surviving in the world.
A long sigh escaped her. Oh, Mama, what a promise to demand—to care for a man who did not love her. To demand a place in his life when he would prefer she had none.
She thumbed fifteen shillings aside, then returned the rest to the valise.
* * *
Given a choice, most lawyers would never sully themselves with criminal law. The result was those who did usually were the lawyers who could not find something more lucrative to do.
Ives was a rarity, a lawyer who argued criminal cases out of a sense of duty. There was no criminal bar, and his colleagues in the endeavor consisted of a motley assortment of lawyers whose primary work involved other courts and pleadings. Like him, only on occasion did they arrive in regalia at the Old Bailey or other criminal courtrooms to lend their eloquence and legal knowledge to the deliberations therein. Solicitors, sergeants—there was no limitation on who appeared to defend.
If one saw a trained barrister in the Old Bailey or Newgate Prison, most likely he served as prosecutor, either one hired by the victims or by the state. Some judges now allowed the accused to have lawyers, too, but not all did. In many cases judges held to the tradition that a defendant could provide his own defense by simply speaking the truth.
Today Ives entered Newgate by way of a door through which most of those other lawyers were never received—that of the house of the gaoler, Mr. Brown. Being Lord Ywain had its privileges. Within minutes he was sitting in Mr. Brown’s office, explaining his purpose.
“Belvoir is being held here, while further investigations are pursued,” Mr. Brown confirmed. “He has been here going on four weeks.”
“If charges have been laid or are imminent, I would like to know what they are.”
“Coining, it was. It will be the noose for him, or at best a life on the hulks.”
Ives was not sure what he had thought the crime would be. Something political he supposed. As an intellectual, to hear his daughter describe him, Mr. Belvoir was the sort to take to radical ideas and company, and get swept into some misstep against the laws in place to control that sort of thing now.
“What is the evidence?” Coining, or counterfeiting money, was among the most serious offenses. Counterfeiting undermined the health of the economy, and was viewed as a type of treason.
“Caught him red-handed, is how I hear it,” Brown said. “Found the bad money in those rooms he keeps on Wigmore Street.”
This was not looking good for Hadrian Belvoir. Ives expected he would dispatch the entire trial in less than an hour. “What has he said for himself?”
“Well, now, that is the rub. He hasn’t said anything. Magistrates and others keep asking him, and he refuses to cooperate. Unwise of him, isn’t it? He might garner some mercy if he turned on his colleagues in crime. You know how that works, sir.”
He did indeed. Criminals laying down information about other criminals was the oil that made the wheels of the criminal courts turn.
“We even showed him the old press in the yard, to frighten him. Usually the mere threat of torture works wonders,” Brown said. “With this strange one, nothing. If anything he became more stubborn.”
“Strange, you call him. Is he perhaps demented?”
“I wouldn’t say so. As for strange, well, come see for yourself.”
The gaoler rose. Together they walked into the prison proper and its long corridors of cells, or wards.
Enough of a breeze penetrated through the small windows today so it did not smell as bad as it might. Still, when hundreds of people crammed damp cells, the mere odors of humanity’s existence became concentrated and offensive. The smell of human waste alone overwhelmed the senses. Add to that the effects of unwashed bodies, rotting food, and the almost sweet odor of illness, and it produced a mix strong enough to leave men retching.
As they approached a crossway in the corridors, a woman sped past on the other path. Padua Belvoir, tall and proud, walked with determination toward the exit, a handkerchief to her nose. She headed down past wards holding women, some of whom mocked her with lewd calls and cackles. Ives paused in the crossway and watched her run the gauntlet.
“That is his daughter, or so she says,” Brown commented. “Showed up yesterday, asking to see him. She brought him some food, clothes, a
nd books today. Them that care about Belvoir’s case were very interested in this woman’s sudden appearance after all this time. I expect they are hoping she was sent by those he worked for.”
“She really is his daughter.” Ives spoke with more authority than he could claim. He hardly had proof of the fact. Yet there had been very little dissembling, and considerable concern, in the woman who intruded on his evening. Should she cajole her father into cooperating, it would be a good thing. That she had now attracted the attention of the authorities alarmed him, however.
After a few more turns, Brown stopped in front of a cell. Like many of the others, it held at least twenty men, all of whom lived, slept, ate, and wasted away in it. For a price a man could have better lodgings. The wretches here could not afford it.
“That is him, in the corner.”
Ives did not need the gaoler’s direction. The man in the corner stood out from all the others. Although he sat against the wall, with his manacled ankles pulled close to his body, one could tell he was very tall and very thin. He wore a waistcoat and frock coat that, while disgusting and dirty now, had once been those of a gentleman. Presumably there had been no beard when he entered that cell, and his steely gray hair had been better groomed too.
The most notable thing about him, however, was not his appearance, but rather his activity. In his corner, beside his hip, stood a little stack of books. Belvoir read one so intently that he did not notice the gaoler and Ives peering through the door’s iron grate.
Beside the books rested a wrapped package, and a small basket of fruit. The other men in the cell eyed the last item with lust. Ives assumed Belvoir would soon be relieved of the fruit, and perhaps the package of clothing. No one would want the books.
“When he first came, and I took down his information, he identified his occupations as teacher, scholar, gentleman, and mathematician.” Brown found it amusing. “Funny how they never say forger, coiner, murderer, or thief.”
Ives looked at those books. Hadrian Belvoir would not even notice his surroundings until they were all read, he guessed. Then read again, if no new ones were brought by his daughter.
“That daughter, if she is a daughter, wanted to buy him a better place,” Brown said. “She had the coin for it. I said I would check to see if that is allowed. My guess is they want him here, and as uncomfortable as possible.”
Ives did not think it would matter now. Anyone who saw him could tell that Hadrian Belvoir had entered a different world from the one in which he sat. His mind had been freed even if his body still suffered.
* * *
Padua pushed through the crowd waiting to hear the news from the Old Bailey’s trials. She found a spot near the end of the building, where she could pause and compose herself.
She would never grow accustomed to seeing her father in that place, but his condition was not what agitated her. Rather she carried a deep anger away from her meeting. She had brought him some items to relieve his suffering, at notable cost to herself, only to have him once more reject her help. Oh, he had taken the food and books, but there had not been one word of thanks, and he had once again ordered her not to return.
The only reason she had not lost her temper and upbraided him was the way he looked at those books, and then at her. His relief had been palpable and his eagerness visible. When his gaze rose to hers again, she discerned some gratitude, and also embarrassment. Then he had flipped through them hungrily, and almost smiled when he found the paper and pencil secreted inside one of them.
Other than that vague expression in his eyes, had he acknowledged her love and concern, though? Not at all. And his words had been cruel and sharp. I said not to come here again. Do not disobey me this time as I say it again.
“Miss Belvoir.” The call came from the other end of the building, from beyond the line of people waiting to petition to see their relatives. Her gaze snapped to a waving hat, and a man on horseback. Ives. He had given her leave to think of him by that name, and she had taken to doing so most of the time.
He trotted toward her, and the line split like the Red Sea to permit him to pass. Fifty yards from her he dismounted, and approached on foot with his steed in tow.
Decked out like the wealthy aristocrat he was, Ives proved quite a sight. In the sunlight his face proved no less impressive, but the raking illumination showed the fine lines on either side of his eyes and mouth. Laugh lines they were called, yet they made him appear less friendly not more so, and gave his classic beauty a hard edge that the soft haze of candles had not revealed.
“Miss Belvoir, it is fortunate to find you here.” He made a little bow. “I have learned a few things that you should know. Walk with me, and I will tell you all.”
Of course she walked with him. Together they strolled along the edge of the square.
“You visited him again today,” he said. “Did you learn anything?”
“If I had, it would be unwise to tell you.”
“Anything he says in his own defense will aid him. The Crown is not without mercy.”
“Do you have reason to think he will need mercy?”
He stopped walking and faced her. “I regret that I do. It is worse than I thought, and I think worse than you feared. The pending charge is for coining. It is very serious, and the evidence is solid.”
Coining? Her father? Hadrian Belvoir? She could not keep a laugh from emerging. “That is ridiculous. He has no sense of money, and little use for it except to buy paper and books. Anyone who knows him would know—”
“The counterfeit money was found in his home. They have him dead to rights. He is only in prison, instead of tried and convicted, because they hope to get him to reveal the rest of the scheme. No one counterfeits on his own. It is a complicated procedure that requires specialized skills.”
“If there was bad money in his possession, he probably received it from some shop and was not aware it was bad.”
The less friendly aspects of his handsome face hardened. “Do not assume the law is upheld by fools. A few pounds do not a counterfeit charge make. If they have him in prison, a good amount was found in his possession, Miss Belvoir.” His expression softened. “You must prepare yourself.”
Prepare yourself. It was the kind of thing said to relatives of the dying. She stared at this man who would be the agent of her father’s destruction. Fury at her father collided with fury at him.
“How kind of you. How sympathetic. You lower your voice and pretend concern, but when his trial opens you will be there in your wig and robes and convince the jury to convict him and the judge to damn him. His life will be over for a small crime barely worth noting.”
His countenance turned very hard indeed. “Miss Belvoir, I am truly sorry for you, but not for him. Counterfeiting is not a minor crime. It is never small. It is normally undertaken on a large scale, because it requires significant skill and investment. If your father did this, as it appears he did, I will indeed convince the jury to convict him. My sympathy is for you, as it is for all relatives of criminals, but to expect sympathy for the criminals themselves is expecting too much from me or anyone else.”
His words sliced like so many lashes from a whip, inflicting pain the way uncompromising reality can. She glimpsed a terrible future for her father, and an ignoble end. Her dismay must have showed, because he stepped closer to her. His hand came to rest on her shoulder in a gesture of comfort that dismayed her all the more.
“The gaoler said that you wanted to see him moved to a better ward. One with some privacy and less damp. I will see what I can do about that if you want.”
What a voice he had when he spoke like this. Low and resonant, the tone alone seduced one to listen and want to hear more. That and his proximity tempted her to pretend the gesture of comfort came from a friend. It would be blissful to have someone share the burden if only for a few minutes.
She sniffed back the tears threatening to fall. “First kind, then cruel, then kind again. What kind of man are you? I do no
t want to be indebted to your whimsies of generosity. I want to be free to hate you.”
His hand fell away. “I will look into it anyway. You will owe me no thanks.”
She did not think her composure would hold. Without another word she hurried away, so she did not have to acknowledge his offer.
CHAPTER 3
Padua did not ask the most likely man to refer her to a solicitor. While Ives no doubt knew the best of them, she could not count on his impartiality. A different option occurred to her as she blindly walked the streets near Newgate after leaving Ives. Before returning home she visited the gaoler’s office again, and requested names of him.
“You cannot count on the judge allowing it,” Mr. Brown said. However, he provided three names of solicitors whom he thought to be honest and smart. Two days later she again slipped away from the school and made her way to the Inns of Court to call on one of them.
Mr. Notley listened to her tale of woe, his sharp, dark eyes peering at her over his broad, empty desk. She suspected him to be one of those people who required exacting order in his life if he managed his affairs with so little evidence of industry. His attention to his dress gave her heart. Unlike Ives in his midnight banyan, Mr. Notley indeed wore black coats of perfect fit and had a clerk nearby taking notes.
His face indicated he was not a young man, but his hair remained as black as his eyes. Padua wondered if he did something to encourage the color. She found herself eyeing his collar, looking for dust or stains from dye.
“You say Lord Ywain will prosecute?” Mr. Notley found that detail of great interest. “That is, I am afraid to say, not good news.”
“I am so accustomed to bad news that I find I greet your observation with surprising equanimity.”
“He is very good, but that is not my concern. Due to his birth he has the highest connections, including a friendship with the prince regent.”
“I had no idea.”
“His father was the Duke of Aylesbury, Miss Belvoir, and his brother is the current one. He is asked to prosecute when the government has a particular interest in a case. We would prefer it did not have too much interest in this one.”
Tall, Dark, and Wicked (Wicked Trilogy) Page 3