Susan Carroll (43 page)

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 remanded 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.

His kiss braced her, warmed her and comforted
her more than the most potent of brandies could have done. He drew
back, and even in the fading light she could see the tender shadow
of his smile.

“Faith, my dear,” he said huskily. “And to
think I have always believed Hastings to be a most superior sort of
footman. You perform services that make his devoted polishing of
the silver pale by comparison.”