by Laura Martin
The rooms were dark with no sign of a candle burning behind the curtains, but Francesca hammered on the door all the same. It was opened almost immediately by a severe-looking woman who ushered Francesca inside and closed the door quietly behind her.
‘What do you want?’ the woman asked, looking Francesca up and down with irritation.
‘I’m looking for Mr Crawford,’ she said.
‘You and half of the magistrates in London,’ the woman grumbled. ‘This is a respectable establishment with a good reputation, or it was before one of my rooms was ransacked and a guest dragged out in chains.’
Francesca knew the woman was exaggerating, but felt the panic well up inside her.
‘Where have they taken him?’ she asked.
‘And he still owes this month’s rent.’
‘Where have they taken him?’ Francesca repeated.
‘Prison. To await trial, no doubt. Apparently he’s a thief. Stole from some hoity-toity lord.’
‘Which prison?’ Francesca asked, her patience wearing thin.
‘How am I supposed to know?’
Without another word Francesca turned and reached for the door handle.
‘Giltspur Street Compter,’ a soft voice called out as Francesca opened the door.
‘Quiet,’ the severe-looking woman said, shushing the young maid.
‘Mr Crawford was a good man,’ the maid said defiantly. ‘He’ll likely have been taken to the Giltspur Street Compter, that’s the closest.’
‘Thank you,’ Francesca said, giving a nod of gratitude to the young maid.
‘Good luck.’
She was out through the door and rushing back towards the carriage within seconds and instructed the coachman to take her to the prison.
* * *
Pacing up and down the small room, Francesca tried not to panic. The walls were dank and the smell from the cells wafted in through the open window when the wind blew in the right direction. When that happened she felt nauseous and wondered how the men coped being kept in such foul conditions.
She had arrived at the prison a little over half an hour ago and demanded to see Ben. There had been a scuffle among the guards as they realised they were talking to a lady of wealth and influence, but eventually someone had agreed to fetch the prison warden who in turn had listened to her story and sent a guard to find the magistrate.
Now she waited, wondering how Ben was coping being locked up in a place like this again. He was a strong man, with reserves that even he wasn’t aware of, but being falsely accused of a crime he didn’t commit again, and being taken to a place like this, must be dredging up some painful memories.
‘Good evening,’ a tall thin man said as he entered the room. ‘I’m Mr Poole.’
‘Good evening, Mr Poole. I’m Lady Somersham.’ She noted the look of confusion that crossed his face, but pressed on. ‘I think there has been some mix up with Mr Crawford. I understand he has been accused of stealing from my father.’
‘Forgive me, Lady Somersham, but I am finding it a little difficult to take this all in. I met a Lady Somersham, a Lady Francesca Somersham, at Lord Pottersdown’s house earlier today.’
‘You met an imposter,’ Francesca said. She wondered if he would believe her, wondered if he would dismiss her as the imposter instead, but was relieved to see understanding dawning on his face.
‘An imposter?’ he asked.
Francesca wondered who he had used. Perhaps Lilly the maid, who might be able to fit into Francesca’s clothes, but her speech was pure working class.
‘My father locked me in an empty servant’s room this morning and kept me there ever since. I assume he paid someone to pretend to be me when you visited.’
‘Is that so?’ Mr Poole asked. ‘And why would an upstanding gentleman like Lord Pottersdown do that?’
Francesca tried not to snort. Upstanding was not a word she’d used to describe her father for a very long time.
‘Mr Crawford played a game of cards against my father. He won and my father could not honour the wager between them. Knowing of Mr Crawford’s lower station in life, he thought to save himself the humiliation of losing his house to pay the debt by accusing Mr Crawford of stealing some items.’
‘I’m finding it hard to believe...’
‘That a man of his station would sink so low?’ Francesca asked, shaking her head. ‘He has the most to lose.’
‘I understand you have a close personal relationship with Mr Crawford.’
‘I do. We are engaged to be married.’
‘And do you know anything of Mr Crawford’s villainous past?’
Francesca laughed grimly, ‘Of course, if you could call it that. Again my father planted evidence and accused Mr Crawford of stealing from him, when in fact nothing had been taken.’
‘There was evidence, I understand.’
‘A locket. My locket. That I’d given him as a token of our friendship.’
Mr Poole leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together as if contemplating the information Francesca had provided.
‘You want me to believe that Mr Crawford has been set up, twice, to be accused of crimes he did not commit, by your own father.’
‘It’s the truth.’
Francesca could see some small part of the magistrate believed her. There must have been something he hadn’t been happy with during his investigation, some doubt that niggled at him.
‘I need to look into one or two things,’ he said. ‘Would you care to wait, Lady Somersham?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll see about having some refreshment sent up.’
Mr Poole stood and made his way to the door, pausing before he opened it.
‘You understand these are serious allegations against your father,’ he said quietly.
‘I understand.’
Francesca knew that, although bearing false testimony was a crime, her father would never have to stand up in court and answer for his actions. He was too well protected by his title and the family name.
* * *
She waited for well over an hour, wondering exactly what Mr Poole was doing with the time and hoping that he was astute enough to uncover the truth now he had more of the facts available to him. A guard with questionable personal hygiene brought her a dirty cup of water which Francesca smiled her thanks for, then left untouched on the small table. Even if it had been the finest wine she wouldn’t have been able to touch it, her stomach was roiling inside her as she wondered what the next few hours would bring.
When the door opened again she felt a mixture of hope and dread as she saw Mr Poole enter.
‘Thank you for your patience, Lady Somersham,’ he said, ‘I would like to extend my apologies for taking so long to verify your story. I hope you understand my need to check all the facts.’
‘Of course,’ Francesca murmured.
‘I have spoken to your father...’ Mr Poole grimaced ‘...or attempted to. He was a little the worse for wear.’
Francesca held her breath in the hope that in his drunken stupor her father had revealed the extent of his crimes against Ben.
‘And I spoke to various members of your household. Their accounts have led me to believe that Mr Crawford was charged in error.’
Francesca felt the relief crash over her at his words.
‘I have asked a guard to bring Mr Crawford up here and I will arrange the necessary documents for his release.’
‘Thank you,’ Francesca said quietly, knowing that Mr Poole had been more than conscientious. Many magistrates did not bother investigating the crimes they were supposed to look into, instead enjoying the privileges of the title without doing any real work. They were lucky that Mr Poole seemed to take his job seriously and wanted to see justice, not just make his own life easy.
‘I am s
orry for any inconvenience caused.’
‘Thank you,’ she repeated again.
Feeling her heart pound in her chest as the door opened, she watched as the warden entered the room and whispered in the magistrate’s ear. She peered out into the darkness, half-expecting to see Ben in the shadows, waiting to be escorted into the room, but there were just two nervous-looking guards.
‘What do you mean you can’t find him?’ the magistrate asked quietly, but not so quietly Francesca didn’t hear every word.
‘It would seem...er...that the prisoner has escaped.’
Francesca frowned. She was pretty certain they were talking about Ben.
‘Where is Mr Crawford?’ she asked in her haughtiest voice. Sometimes the years of mixing with only the most entitled people became useful, now she was a woman not to be refused an answer.
‘Have you checked everywhere?’ the magistrate asked.
‘Yes, sir, everywhere. Twice.’
‘Lady Somersham,’ the magistrate said, ‘it would appear your fiancé has escaped from prison.’
‘Shall I send out the hue and cry? Gather the guards for a manhunt?’ the warden said, a gleam of excitement replacing the embarrassment that had been in his eyes.
Mr Poole considered for a moment.
‘For an innocent man?’ Francesca interjected quickly.
‘A man who has escaped our custody,’ the magistrate corrected her.
‘A man you were just about to release,’ she shot back.
‘Stand your men down,’ Mr Poole said after a long pause. ‘Mr Crawford is no longer under arrest. Although I would like to speak to him,’ he said, directing his last comment at Francesca. ‘Please ask him to present himself so we can get this mattered cleared up for good.’
Francesca nodded, knowing persuading Ben to voluntarily step into a room with anyone official would be a hard task. He was probably booking a passage back to Australia right now, eager to leave the country that had nearly falsely convicted him for a second time.
‘I will take my leave, gentlemen,’ Francesca said, feeling a mounting panic. She didn’t know where to find Ben, but she did know she only had a limited time. He would still think he was a wanted man, a man who had to flee the country immediately. She knew he wouldn’t want to leave her behind, but he might not have a choice.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ben paced across the drawing room, covering the space within five seconds before turning back and heading in the opposite direction.
‘You boys and your dramas,’ Lady Winston murmured from her position on the sofa.
After escaping the prison in the dead of night he’d been whisked away by Fitzgerald to his aunt’s house, with his friend reasoning that the connection with Lady Winston would not be known by the warden or magistrate, and in any case they would think twice about storming into the house of a woman of his aunt’s status.
‘I need to go to her. I need to find her,’ Ben said. Ever since his escape he hadn’t been able to think of anything but Francesca.
‘You need to lay low until the ship sails at dawn,’ Fitzgerald said.
‘The boy isn’t going to go without his love,’ Lady Winston said, directing an admonishing glance at her nephew. ‘So you might as well stop trying to persuade him and find Lady Somersham.’
‘If they catch you...’ Fitzgerald said.
‘They won’t catch me. They probably don’t even know I’ve escaped. They had no reason to check the cells.’
‘Where might she be?’ Fitzgerald asked, bowing to the pressure to stop trying to persuade Ben to leave with or without Francesca.
‘There hasn’t been enough time for her father to take her to the country, so he’s most likely got her locked up in his town house somewhere.’
‘You want to pay him a visit?’
‘I can’t see any other way,’ Ben said, knowing it might result in him being captured, but unable to think of another way to get Francesca.
‘You’re mad,’ Fitzgerald murmured.
‘Are you coming?’
‘Of course I’m coming. I’m not going to let you roam the streets on your own, you lovesick fool.’
Lady Winston cackled and smacked her hand on the arm of the chair. ‘Wonderful. You go get your girl. And don’t get caught.’
Ben gave a nod, then strode from the room, not needing to turn to know Fitzgerald was right there beside him.
Lord Pottersdown’s town house was only a few streets away, but they took the carriage all the same just in case they needed to make a speedy exit. Ben sat flicking the curtain back and peering out of the window, all the time hoping to catch a glimpse of Francesca, even though he knew she had no reason to be wandering the streets.
‘So I take it you’ll be returning to Australia, then?’ Fitzgerald asked as they weaved through the empty streets.
‘My hand has been forced,’ Ben murmured. He hadn’t been able to decide where he had wanted to build his life with Francesca. In Australia he had his home, his farms, his livelihood and his friends, but in England he had his family. Now it looked as though that decision had been taken from him. Even if he somehow managed to clear his name, he wouldn’t be able to stay here. Twice he’d been arrested for crimes he didn’t commit. He wouldn’t ever be able to live a life here without always looking over his shoulder, without wondering when he might next be hauled in by a magistrate.
‘Perhaps it is for the best,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘A new start for you and Francesca.’
Ben nodded. It might be easier for Francesca away from the eyes of society. They could be together without the judgement of the people she had spent her life socialising with. This way they would be free to build their life together without worrying what anyone else thought.
Before Ben could answer, they pulled up outside Lord Pottersdown’s town house and both men looked out uneasily.
‘How are we going to do this?’ Fitzgerald asked.
‘Storm the house, find Francesca, get her out and make a dash for the docks.’
‘You make it sound so simple.’
Ben shrugged. He didn’t know what they would do if Francesca wasn’t being kept somewhere in the house.
‘Let’s go.’
They jumped down from the carriage and approached the door, Fitzgerald knocking and Ben standing to one side so he wouldn’t immediately be seen by whoever answered the door.
A maid opened the door, peering out through a little crack, and giving Fitzgerald a suspicious look.
‘Mr George Fitzgerald,’ he said, holding out a card, ‘Sorry about the late hour, but I had a message from Lord Pottersdown.’
The maid opened the door a little wider to accept the card and at that moment Ben stepped forward, planting his foot in the way of the door so it couldn’t be closed.
‘Good evening,’ he said, slipping inside before the maid even had chance to blink.
‘Quiet,’ a woman’s voice hissed from the end of the hallway. For a moment Ben thought it might be Francesca and his heart soared, but then he realised the silhouette was too petite, the voice not quite the right tone.
‘Where’s Francesca?’ he demanded, watching as Felicity hurried forward and closed the door behind them, dismissing the maid with a scowl.
‘Isn’t she with you?’ she asked, sending a bolt of dread through Ben’s stomach. ‘Father locked her up in one of the upstairs rooms. I let her out when he passed out a couple of hours ago. She left to go and tell the magistrate the charges against you were false.’
There was a loud snore from one of the downstairs rooms and they all jumped, but the snores continued and Ben cautiously stepped forward to peer in the room. Lord Pottersdown was fast asleep, his head lolling back at an uncomfortable angle. Quietly Ben closed the door, holding the handle to minimise the click.
‘I need to find her,�
�� Ben said, feeling increasingly desperate with each passing minute.
‘Did they release you before she arrived?’ Felicity asked.
‘They didn’t release him,’ Fitzgerald explained, watching Ben closely as he prowled up and down the hallway.
‘You escaped?’
‘I’ve had dealings with the English justice system before,’ Ben said. ‘I wasn’t going to put my faith in it a second time.’ He paused, then made a decision. ‘We need to trace the route between here and the prison. Francesca has to be somewhere on it.’
‘I hope you find her,’ Felicity said, a sad little smile on her face. Ben realised that the woman in front of him knew she might never see her sister again, but she still wanted him to succeed none the less. ‘I’ll stay here and keep Father distracted if he wakes up.’
‘Thank you.’
* * *
Francesca felt as though time was running out. She’d first checked Ben’s rooms, but of course he hadn’t been foolish enough to return there after his escape from prison. Next she’d headed for Lady Winston’s town house, knowing Ben might have sought refuge with the aunt of his friend. Lady Winston had flung open the door herself when Francesca had knocked and quickly sent her on, telling her that Ben had gone to find her at her father’s house. Now she was nearly back to where she had started, but was dreading what she might find if her father had woken to find Ben barging into the house.
Just as she rounded the corner into her street, she saw a familiar silhouette bounding down the steps in front of her father’s house. Inside her chest her heart skipped a beat and she felt a rush of relief suffusing through her.
‘Ben,’ she called, not caring it was the middle of the night and they might wake the neighbours.