It was Sara who caught him, blocking his way. “Where are you going, Mandell?”
“To Newgate,” he snapped. “Don't you understand what has happened?”
“Yes, this lady friend of yours has been arrested, but it will do you no good charging off in this agitated state.”
Hastings spoke up. “Indeed, my lord, I fear Mrs. Drummond is right. Firken said that the countess had done all that she could to secure her sister's release.”
“They do not let one leave Newgate for the asking,” Sara said.
“I didn't say I was going to ask.” Mandell started forward again, but Sara splayed her hands against his chest to stop him. He tried to thrust her aside, but she clung to him with a stubborn desperation.
“There will be nothing that you can do, Mandell. It is not as if they will take this Anne out and hang her at once. There will be inquiries, a trial.”
Mandell gave a harsh laugh. “And what sort of trial will it be with a dozen servants being forced to say they saw Anne standing over Lucien with a pistol? Or perhaps you think the Hook will step gallantly forward and confess, place his own neck in a noose to save her?”
His sardonic suggestion seemed to strike Sara forcibly. The blood was driven from her cheeks. “No. That would be most foolish of the Hook. And yet it is the sort of gesture a certain gallant sort of rogue might make, a man bent on throwing his life away.”
“The Hook is more interesting in taking lives. But he'll not sacrifice Anne's.” Mandell shook her off savagely. He did not bolt out the study door as he had intended, realizing himself that he must strive for some measure of calm. He would do Anne no good if he rushed out behaving like a madman.
He paced to the window, drawing in cleansing breaths, struggling to find his customary cool logic. But he sought in vain. Pressing his palm against the glass, he peered out into the sun-dappled street and thought of the house at the end of the square, of Norrie waking sobbing and frightened to find her mama gone, of Anne cut off from the sunlight, thrust into some dank, dark cell, prey to vermin, prison fever, and God knew what other horrors. He thought of Anne wrenched out of that same cell, only to be displayed in the dock, his Lady Sorrow exposed to the rabble's pitiless gaze. And the most dread thought of all, he imagined a rough hemp rope being fitted about her slender neck, over that warm delicate pulse he had so often placed his lips against when making love.
No! He could not even imagine such a thing, or he would go mad. If Anne were to die, he would die as well. Even if he continued to draw breath, his heart and soul would be lost. Because his heart was lost already. He had left it in Anne's gentle hands last night when he had bid good-bye to her. That thought stunned him with a truth he had been afraid to acknowledge for so long, even to himself. He stepped back from the window, shrinking from the sunlight as he suddenly realized just how much of a fool he had been.
Yet he felt strangely calmer as he turned to face Sara and Hastings. With an iron edge in his voice he said, “I will have Anne out of Newgate by sunset today, no matter what it takes. Bullying, bribery, even if I have to break down the gates.”
“Perhaps you had better get dressed first,” Sara said drily.
Mandell flushed, but before he could do anything, Sara sprang into action and began issuing commands to the footman.
“Tell the marquis's valet to lay out his most expensive and ostentatious suit of clothes. His lordship will also need a small pistol, and then, Hastings, you must go to Newgate and make some subtle inquiries. Find out exactly where Lady Fairhaven is being kept. Given her rank, she will likely be held in the prison portion of the warder's own residence. If she has not been shackled, getting her out could prove easier than you would suppose.”
Hastings nodded in eager agreement. But recollecting himself, he turned toward Mandell, as if questioning whether Sara's commands were to be obeyed. Mandell frowned at Sara.
“What do you think you are doing?” he demanded.
“Helping you,” Sara said calmly. “I have decided you are right. It is best that you fetch Lady Fairhaven out of prison as soon as possible. Newgate is not impregnable. Escapes are arranged all the time. The trick is to know the way to go about escaping and to keep from being recaptured once you have done so.”
“If I find the way to get Anne out of that accursed hellhole,” Mandell said fiercely, “I shall permit no one to drag her back again.”
“I believe I can show you the way, if you have the boldness to carry out my plan, which no doubt you do.”
“You possess some passing strange knowledge for a respectable widow from Yorkshire, Mrs. Drummond.”
“I am acquainted with some passing strange people,” Sara murmured.
Mandell folded his arms across his chest, not certain he trusted her, this sudden eagerness to come to his aide. “Why would you offer to help?” he asked.
“It holds no risk for me. I don't intend to assist you in the actual escape attempt, only give you my expert advice on the best means of rescuing this lady.”
“But Anne is nothing to you. You don't even know her.”
“Perhaps I have a curiosity to meet the woman who could inspire the haughty marquis of Mandell into storming Newgate clad in little more than his dressing gown.”
But Mandell was not to be put off with this flippant answer. “Why, Sara?” he persisted. “What is your real reason for involving yourself in this matter?”
She cast her eyes downward and Mandell detected a shading of some emotion he could not read. But then she glanced up and met his gaze with her customary boldness.
“I will help you because I feel I owe you a debt, my lord. A payment due from one very clever person to another.”
She flashed him a brilliant smile. Mandell was not sure he was entirely satisfied, but there was enough honesty in her answer that he was able to quell his suspicions. He turned to Hastings to give him leave to follow Sara's instructions. But he discovered the footman had already gone.
The prison room was small and cramped, with little furnishings beyond the narrow cot. The Countess Sumner had paid dearly for a few extra luxuries for Anne; a thin comforter, a washstand with pitcher and basin, a generous supply of fuel for the coal burner. Anne knew that there were far worse places she could have been lodged at Newgate than this chamber in the warder's own house.
But the fact remained that when she turned the knob on the door, it did not yield. It was irrevocably locked, dispelling any illusions. She was as much a prisoner as any of the miserable beings who crowded the common cells, her future as precarious as any desperate pickpocket, thief, or murderer.
Shivering, she rubbed her arms. Despite the heat that emanated from the coal burner, she did not seem able to get warm. Perhaps because the chill had its origin in the despair to be found in her own heart.
Glancing out the room's single window, she saw late afternoon shadows slanting across the yard below. The distant figures of prisoners less fortunate than herself shuffled along, weighted down by the irons shackling their arms and legs. They struggled to drink in what air and sunlight they could before being herded back to the dark confines of their cells.
Those were the condemned, the turnkey who guarded Anne's quarters in the state side of the prison had confided. Already tried and convicted, they would soon be taken to the transport ships to be conveyed off to some distant penal colony. Some would face a much shorter journey, traveling only as far as Newgate s front gate where the hangman awaited.
Anne stepped back, shrinking from the sight of those wretched souls who only served as a reminder of the grim possibilities of her own fate.
“But I am innocent,” she reminded herself over and over again. “I have done nothing wrong.” The protestation had become like a monotonous litany that she chanted in her mind, one that began to have little meaning.
What did it matter if she was innocent if no one would believe her, not the servants, or the constable who had taken her into custody, or the magistrate who had remande
d her to be held for trial. Not even her own sister.
“Why did you do it, Anne?” Lily had wailed. “And if you had to shoot that scoundrel, not that I blame you, why couldn't you have told me first? I could have arranged the matter more discreetly, buried his remains beneath the begonias.”
The servants, from Firken to the youngest footman, in their efforts to be loyal, had declared Sir Lucien a proper villain who more than deserved whatever Lady Anne had done to him. What they failed to realize was that their indignant protestations only served to damn Anne further.
Despite the nightmare into which she had descended, Anne might have been tempted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, especially Lily's remarks. Except that her sister's distress had been far too real. When Anne had been hustled away by the constables, Lily had collapsed.
Yet she had turned up at the prison first thing that morning, paying out an exorbitant fee to make sure that Anne was given the best of accommodations and treatment that Newgate offered. Her sister had looked drawn and pale, for the first time making Anne aware of the span of years that separated them. Lily declared it was simply because she had misplaced her rouge, and although Anne had begged her to go home and rest, Lily had insisted upon setting out to engage for Anne the best solicitor in London.
Anne feared it would take a clever lawyer indeed to help her explain away such suspicious circumstances as her being alone in the garden with Lucien at midnight, being found with the pistol in her hand, and Lucien's dying accusation. But Anne had kept her terrors and her growing sense of hopelessness to herself. Lily was distraught enough already without Anne giving voice to the doubts that gnawed at them both.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since Anne had been incarcerated at Newgate. But she found herself already marking the time, pacing the small confines of her cell. She occupied her mind by fretting over the most foolish things; wondering if Lily had found her rouge pot, if Bettine had remembered to mend the tear in Norrie's pink muslin, if Norrie would take the time to finish her lessons before she settled down to have a tea party with her dolls.
It had been so remiss of her not to have engaged a new governess for Norrie, Anne thought ruefully. A good, caring governess would have been of great use just now. She would have kept Norrie busy and distracted. She would have found a gentle way to explain to the little girl Anne's absence. Anne dreaded what gossip Norrie might pick up from the servants. A good governess would have prevented that. She might even have been able to soothe Norrie's grief if the worst should happen and no trace of that sinister phantom was ever found, if Anne stood trial for the murder of Lucien and was found guilty.
Anne sank down upon her bed and buried her face in her hands. Those were the things she must not think about if she were to survive this madness. Far better to worry whether Bettine would remember to drape a shawl about Norrie's shoulders when she took the little girl for her afternoon walk. Anne pressed the heels of her hands against her brow as though by so doing she could blot out more terrifying concerns.
She remained in this posture until she heard the chink of the key in the lock. The door eased open and the scrawny figure of the turnkey slipped into the room.
Mr. Griffiths was a cheerful little man with hair like damp straw and a bright red nose that suggested his fondness for rum. But he was obsequiously respectful to Anne and dipped into a deep bow that would have done credit to an equerry at a monarch's court.
“Pardon to disturb, m'lady.” He beamed. “But you have a visitor.”
A faint protest rose to Anne's lips. She feared it must be Lily again and she was feeling strangely protective of her older sister. She did not want Lily to keep coming to see her in this place. But before Anne could say anything, the individual hovering in the hall outside impatiently thrust his way into the room.
Anne stifled a glad cry. The vision that appeared before her was one that she had not dared to conjure up, even to comfort herself during these past frightening lonely hours. She stared at the tall dark man.
Was it just that she yearned after the sight of him, or did Mandell indeed look more magnificent than she had ever seen him? His dark cloak with the many capes draped lightly over his shoulders, he wore a blue frock coat and tight-fitting cream breeches, his feet encased in gleaming black Hessians. He swept in with all the hauteur of a king.
Anne trembled, rising to her feet. She had never expected he would come to her. They had severed their relationship, said their final farewells last night. But she also remembered something else Mandell had said to her.
If you should ever need me for anything, you know you have only to send for me.
Her heart swelled with a joy and renewed hope. If there was one man in London who would believe in her innocence, she knew it was Mandell.
It was all she could do not to cast herself into his arms. She was restrained by the presence of the turnkey and by Mandell's own manner. He bowed over her hand with as much studied elegance as though he greeted her at teatime in Lily's parlor.
“Good afternoon, my lady,” he said. “Your sister commissioned me to bring you the shawl that you requested.”
Shawl? Anne could not recollect requesting any such thing, but she was too dazed by Mandell's unexpected appearance to do any more than murmur her thanks. Mandell dropped a paper-wrapped parcel on her bed Anne started to open it, but Mandell prevented her doing so.
His casual aspect was belied by the way he gripped her hand. He crushed her fingers within his own as though he meant never to let her go, his eyes filled with dark shadings of a nightmare only she could understand.
“They have not harmed you?” he asked tersely.
“No,” Anne was quick to reassure him. She sensed a tension in him that she had not at first perceived, a subtle hinting of danger that she began to find alarming.
Mr. Griffiths piped up indignantly, “Of course, 'er ladyship 'as not been 'armed. She 'as been treated well, as befitting a female of 'er station with a sister as what possesses such a gen'rous purse. You can see, m'lord, the lady 'as not even been shackled.”
“So she has not been,” Mandell murmured, glancing down at Anne's wrists. The smile that touched his lips struck Anne as being etched with a strange sort of satisfaction. Her inexplicable feeling of apprehension deepened.
“This is the room where the marquis of Sligo was kept before 'is trial,” the turnkey continued eagerly.
“You don't say,” Mandell drawled.
“Aye, just look at all the extra comforts.”
“Indeed, most excellent accommodations, but the lady will not be staying.”
“Eh? Beg yer pardon, m’lord?”
By way of reply, Mandell eased a pistol from beneath the folds of his cloak. Anne gasped, but Mandell's lips were still curved in that hard smile. His eyes glinted with a reckless light as he leveled his weapon at Griffiths's scrawny chest.
“Dear God, Mandell! What are you doing?” Anne cried.
“Rescuing you from this vile place.” He arched one brow as though surprised that she could even ask such a thing.
“Oh, no. You must not. Please, put that pistol away.”
“Aye, do, m'lord and I'll just forget I ever saw you had it,” Griffiths quavered. “It is mightily against the law to help a prisoner escape.”
“Is it indeed?” Mandell mocked. “How remiss of me to forget that fact.”
“Mandell, please listen to him,” Anne begged. “You could be imprisoned yourself for attempting such a thing.”
“Neither of us shall be imprisoned if you make haste and do what I say, Anne.” Mandell jerked his head toward the parcel upon the bed, “In that package is a suit of masculine garb, my footman's livery. I will request Mt Griffiths to kindly avert his gaze while you put it on.”
“No, Mandell. I cannot allow you to put yourself in such peril for me.”
“Damn it, Anne. Will you stop arguing and do as I say?”
She stubbornly shook her head, her heart already pounding with fear
for him. He shifted to glare at her and in the split second Mandell's attention wavered, Griffiths bolted toward the door.
He started to shout for aid, but Mandell moved with lightning swiftness. Raising the butt end of the pistol, he clipped the turnkey alongside the head, cutting him off in mid-shout.
Griffiths collapsed in a heap.
“The bloody fool,” Mandell swore.
A fleeting regret clouded his features as Mandell bent over the turnkey's inert form. Then he glanced up at Anne who stood frozen with horror. The determined light came back into his eyes as he said, “1 trust this puts an end to any further argument, milady.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The house stood in decaying splendor near the banks of the Thames, a private palace abandoned by time and the changing whims of fashion. It was an impressive collection of gables and projecting bays, although the magnificent stonework had been rendered a dingy grey by layers of coal smoke, and many of the windows on the west wing had been boarded over. What glass remained at the front of the house caught the rays of the dying sun, the latticed panes glinting red like fire-toned jewels.
The mansion's gates opened onto the Strand, a cobblestone thoroughfare now cluttered with coffeehouses, shops, and more modest dwellings whose occupants took little notice of this last relic of ancient grandeur left in their midst. The front of the manor was so overgrown with weeds, shrubbery, and untrimmed trees that no one from the street could even see the two strange figures that crept toward the house's stone porch—a nobleman in a flowing cloak closely followed by a slender servant clad in ill-fitting black and silver livery.
It was fortunate that no one observed their movements, for anyone watching would have been scandalized to see the tall man draw his footman into the shadows of the porch, and seize the lad into his arms for a long hard kiss.
The low-crowned hat which had covered Anne's head tumbled to the ground, her hair spilling about her shoulders as Mandell strained her close. For a moment the nightmare of the past hours, the nerve-racking escape from Newgate all faded to insignificance. Nothing was real except for Mandell, the heat of his lips against hers, the shelter of his embrace.
Susan Carroll Page 32