The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (26 page)

Elizabeth's mind raced. Tom had taken Rand's place at the duel. Unless Walter was totally absentminded, which he wasn't, he damn well remembered where he'd seen Tom.

“If you mean that young croupier, he resembles John Turpin.” She feigned a shudder. “He frightens me, my lord.”

“Don't fret, dearest. Your highwayman will not despoil you again, and that's a promise.”

A promise you'll never keep,
she vowed.

At the faro table, Tom swiftly turned over several cards. Then, unaccountably, he dropped the deck, which scattered on the table and floor.

“What a nervous lad,” Stafford scoffed.

Once again, Elizabeth retreated. The very sight of Tom was too painful, and with Walter shadowing her, too dangerous.

Inside the second room, amid much laughter, wine, and bantering, the prince and his friends were playing faro. All of them had turned their coats inside out in a ritual designed to generate good luck, but tonight the ritual had proven worthless. The prince, especially, had racked up heavy losses.

Walter took his place at the hazard table, while Elizabeth stood numbly by his side. Suddenly, she realized that she was surrounded by dozens of people. What was to prevent her from just walking away? It might be feasible, especially since Walter appeared increasingly distracted. Sometimes he left her alone and disappeared into the adjoining room for long periods of time. His indifference was unsettling. Elizabeth wondered if she dare take advantage of his preoccupation, but concluded that Walter was conducting some sort of test. Should she call his bluff, he might spring an appropriately diabolical trap.

What could be more diabolical than the rape that awaited her? She didn't know, but she didn't care to find out. Passivity was the answer. Passivity before, during, and after. She would endure because she had no choice. She would survive because Rand would want her to survive.
I love you, Bess. I always have and I always will.

Aye. This time she would survive.

This time?
The familiar fist knotted inside her belly, then rose to her throat. Lady Jane was invading her mind again.

While Walter continued his erratic behavior, George played faro. Occasionally, he stared at Elizabeth. Although she didn't dare ignore him, she returned his attention with a distant smile.

“My dear!” George beckoned. “Would you assist me? You look like the piece of luck I so desperately need.”

Obeying, Elizabeth wondered whether an opportunity had just presented itself. Perhaps she could figure out a way to exploit the prince's weakness for women.

“What is your name, my pet?” he asked.

“Elizabeth Wyndham, sire.” She curtsied low, giving George an eyeful of her décolletage.

“Why have I not seen you about London before? Such a lovely lady should not be kept hidden.”

At that moment, Walter returned. Looking both pleased and alarmed by George's attention, he edged over to Elizabeth's side.

In a flash, she conceived her plan. Would it work? It had to. “I don't go out very much, sire. Lord Stafford keeps me busy at home. 'Tis a full job being a man's mistress.”

Walter's face turned puce. Several ladies tittered behind their fans. George's eyes widened in surprise, but he recovered quickly. “I trust it is a full-time job, if done laudably. May I say, Mistress Wyndham, that Lord Stafford is a very lucky man.”

“I surmise that you are also lucky.” She felt Walter's anger, battering her in invisible waves. “I could bring you luck, sire, not only at the gaming table but in other areas as well.”

His eyes appraised her. “I'm sure you could, my pet.”

She leaned closer. “I wouldn't require much. I'm a daughter of the quill, an authoress. If I had a small house in the country and a meager allowance until I sell my next novel… well, all I ask is that you do not beat me.”

“I would never harm one so lovely as you, my beauty.”

“Let us discover whether I can bring you luck at faro,” Elizabeth said, as she placed her hand atop George's and helped him push all his counters to the center of the table. Purposefully, she allowed her breast to touch his chest, a strand of perfumed hair to brush his chin.

Walter mopped his brow with his handkerchief, then clenched his fist as if to strike her. Surrounded as she was, however, Elizabeth knew he wouldn't make a violent scene.

Several turns had already been taken until only three cards remained under the winning one. Around the table, bets were placed on the order in which the three would appear. Twice, George called the turn correctly, his arm snaking around Elizabeth's waist, his warm hand squeezing her stays after each successful call. When the croupier turned over the final card—a nine of spades, just as George had predicted—the table erupted with delighted shouts.

The prince cradled Elizabeth's chin and kissed her on the lips. “You did bring me luck, my sweet,” he exulted.

“I could bring you something better than luck,” she said softly. “If you take me home with you tonight, I'll initiate you into delights you cannot imagine.” Delights she could not imagine either, though she included Charles James Fox in her provocative smile. “Both you and My Lord Fox, if 'twould please you.”

George exchanged glances with Fox, who grinned and nodded.

“It would please us both mightily. Why don't we leave right now? We might even begin our delights inside my carriage. Does that please
you,
my pet?”

“It does, sire. I'll retrieve my cloak.” She walked past Walter, who glared helplessly after her.

Elizabeth almost floated from the room. In a few moments she'd stroll out of Shepherd's under the protection of the Prince of Wales. Somehow, before she had to deliver her “delights,” she'd shed herself of both George and Fox. Then, after pawning the jewels she wore, she'd maintain a furtive existence until she could contact Billy Turnbull, who'd know Rand's whereabouts.

She had traveled the deserted hallway only a short distance before somebody behind her said, “Don't turn around.”

She made an about-face. Dressed as a croupier in makeup, wig, white neck cloth, and velvet jacket, Rand looked nearly identical to his cousin.

“As obedient as ever, aren't you Bess?” His voice teased, but his expression was deadly serious. “Listen to me carefully, we don't have much time. After we enter the front room, we simply walk to the swinging doors located at the far end. On the other side of the doors, a narrow hall leads to the kitchen, but there's a side door, unlocked, which leads to an alley.”

“How…?”

“Tom gave over his table to another, met me outside, and we traded places. By the way, I just witnessed your performance.”

“I was so frightened, but it was the only method I could think of to extricate myself from Walter. Was I good? Did you believe me? Did I miss my calling as an actress?”

“You were wise to stick to writing.” Rand hurried her along the hallway. “I detected a note of insincerity, at least I hope I did.”

“You did. Fortunately, the prince and Walter did not.” Rand's hand around her waist felt both familiar and safe. How had she ever endured without him? “Every day I expected Walter to crow about your capture, Rand. I was afraid you'd try to rescue me, and even more afraid you'd fled London, and I would nev… never see you again.” She forced back her tears. Later she'd have a good cry.

Rand escorted her through the room, then the swinging doors. “Tom's outside in the alley with two horses,” he said, halting momentarily to hug her. “I can't wait to get you alone so that you can exhibit all the
delights
you promised the prince.”

“How on earth did you know I'd be here tonight?”

“Stafford isn't the only one who has spies.”

“Of course.” She pictured Billy, his muscles rending his livery.

“Come along, Bess. Here's the door.”

Elizabeth followed Rand outside. Surrounded by tall buildings, the alley was especially dark, and stank to high heaven from the numerous heaps of garbage.

Tom waited with the horses. “I must get back to the tables before I'm missed,” he said, handing Rand the reins.

Rand helped Elizabeth mount, not an easy task considering the bulk of her skirts. Then he leaped atop a somewhat skittish horse, whose hooves scattered the trash and a pair of white cats. “Thank you,” Rand said, glancing over his shoulder. “I swear you'll be rewarded well.”

“Never mind that, cousin.” Tom hesitated in the doorway. “We all do what we have to do.”

Tom's expression was hidden, but Elizabeth caught the strain in his voice. He had risked much by helping them. If their plan was discovered, Tom himself might face the hangman. She remembered her original feeling of distrust when they had conversed atop Westminster Bridge. She had misjudged him, and someday, when she had more time, she'd apologize.

Leading the way, Rand trailed the cats' path. Clouds had obliterated the moon and they were surrounded by darkness—a darkness that was not unlike the watchers who had surrounded Barbara Wyndham's corpse. Elizabeth experienced an almost palpable disquietude. Was the somber darkness a haven or an omen?

Their horses' hooves rustled the garbage, intensifying the odor, while the cold night air cloaked her bare shoulders and penetrated the silk material of her gown.

From out of the gloom, a rider materialized, blocking the alley's exit. “Hold, sir!” he shouted, his pistol extended.

“Damn,” Rand swore. “Another bounty hunter.”

“John Randolph Remington, alias John Turpin, you are under arrest, by order of the crown!”

Elizabeth gasped. The armed man was no ordinary thief taker, but a magistrate. The area behind him teemed with other men, holding aloft torches that illuminated their weapons.

Walter, who had exited the alley door, approached from behind. “You bloody bastard, I've got you now!” He leveled his pistol at Rand. “I've waited a long time for this moment. You were smarter than Zak Turnbull, but not smart enough. With his generous reward, your cousin will be able to buy into a first-rate gaming establishment.”

“I don't believe you, Stafford. Tom would never betray me.”

“Your first mistake was in allowing your cousin to take your place at the duel. Once we became acquainted, I conceived the plan to flush you out, then persuaded the Duke of Newcastle to increase the reward. The rest was simple. Money can make whores of the most sanctified. Remember Ranelagh, Elizabeth? I told you there were more Judases than saints.”

His jaunty attitude abruptly altered. “I hate you,” he said, his voice shaking. “You nearly ruined my life, you bitch, and most certainly my reputation. Thanks to your performance with the prince, I'll be the butt of hundreds of jokes.”

“You've always been the butt of mine, and you could never loathe me as much as I loathe you,” she replied.

“Bess, hush!”

“No, Rand.” The defeat of their escape overwhelmed her fear. Chin raised high, she gave Walter a rebellious glare. “I'd rather face the gallows than spend one more moment in
your company
.
The mere thought of being your wife…” She clenched her fist. “God's teeth, I'd rather hang!”

“Good. Because that's precisely what's going to happen to you.” Stafford nodded toward the magistrate. “Take them both to Newgate Prison.”

December 1787–March 1788

From her research, Elizabeth was aware that Newgate Prison had been built on a site dating back to the twelfth century. During the Gordon Riots of 1780, much of Newgate had been burned down, and while the recently completed prison looked outwardly impressive, she had read that conditions inside remained as appalling as ever. Since its present-day status didn't affect her Gothic romances, she hadn't analyzed particulars.

Now she wished she had.

Upon stepping from their iron-barred carriage, she and Rand were met by Newgate's Keeper, William Huggins.

“My, aren't we privileged,” Rand muttered. He appeared to have regained some of his equanimity, shaken by Tom's betrayal.

“Lord Stafford bade me to personally make you feel at home,” Huggins said, seemingly without sarcasm. He was a short fellow whose girth implied a prodigious appetite, and whose left eye contained a cast. His wigless head, which seemed lodged on his shoulders without benefit of a neck, had been shaved. That, along with his eye, added to his unsavory appearance. If he had worn a cowl or cassock, thought Elizabeth, he'd have resembled every lusty, avaricious clergyman she had ever penned.

“I'll escort you to your quarters.” Ignoring Rand, Huggins spoke directly to Elizabeth. “You'll be housed in the Castle, which is reserved for our most influential guests. I hope your stay will prove as enjoyable as circumstances allow.” He either winked or blinked, she couldn't tell which. “You're to be tried in York, not here. However, so long as you're with us, you need but ask and I'll do my best to accommodate you.”

“How kind of you, sir.” She attempted a smile. Her heart felt as if it had been subjected to repeated blows, yet the Keeper's loquacious manner provided at least one small measure of comfort.

Raising his lantern high, Huggins led them across the cobblestones to Newgate's entrance. “Lord Stafford gave very explicit instructions regarding your welfare. I've known him from his time as a Bow Street Runner, and one of the best he was. Relentless. I wasn't a bit surprised when he switched to the more rewarding aspects of the criminal business and became a first-rate prig napper.”

“The criminal business can indeed be lucrative, Bess,” Rand muttered. “Keepers pay a large fee to become head of a prison, which is an unpaid position. But they derive enormous profits from the sale of gin and other spirits. Prisoners pay for candles, food, water, even their ineffective sea-coal fires. Add to that various other fees, fines, and bribes, and keepers inevitably become wealthy men.”

“Just like first-rate bounty hunters,” she said. “Wouldn't it be a fine jest if Walter was ever gaoled alongside the very felons he's captured?”

“A fine jest indeed. He wouldn't live long. Remember the carrion crows at Shotover Hill? Picture the birds as prisoners—”

“Ripping apart Walter's flesh,” she finished, a shudder coursing through her.

Inside Newgate proper, Huggins's lantern jolted the darkness, casting bizarre patterns. The light bobbed and shadows leapt as they maneuvered the first set of stairs.

“The Castle is located on the third floor,” said Huggins. “Tread carefully, Miss Wyndham. I don't want anything to happen to you.”

What else could happen? Why not just hang me and get it over with?

Elizabeth knew that incarceration would be torture. Until she had foolishly allowed Walter to court her, her freedom had never been curtailed. She remembered her wild rides across the moors and swallowed a sob. Even her restrictive bedroom, with Patience as her gaoler, had been lavish. There, she had food, drink, light, warmth… and hope.

Newgate was asleep, silent as a church, but Elizabeth sensed the pain and suffering, the centuries of horror swirling beyond the stairway. The darkness that camouflaged Newgate's evil was as tangible as its stone walls. Newgate's stench was also unmistakable. Before they reached the first landing, she choked on the fumes which seemed to thicken the very air. Her struggles for breath, hindered by her corset, only drew the dampness deeper into her lungs and fueled her panic. To steady herself, she grabbed Rand's arm.

Behind her, the guards halted, waiting until she regained her composure.

Huggins turned. Shadows swooped from his lantern like bats deserting their perches. “Are you all right?” His voice echoed. “Don't worry. You'll soon get used to the smell. 'Tis not near so bad as during the times of gaol fever when even I can't stand it. Once we reach the Castle, the air should be kinder.”

“No need to be afraid, Bess,” Rand soothed, swinging his arm around her waist. “We've been through worse.”

“We have?”

“I managed to bribe a guard. In a few short hours, Billy should be here with enough money to provide us with everything we need. At Newgate, money is the ultimate king.”

“Put yer 'ands back where they belong, Captain Queernabs,” a turnkey jeered. “Unless ye'd 'ave me cuff ye.”

“Captain Queernabs?” Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Whatever does he mean?”

“My croupier's garb,” Rand explained, withdrawing his arm. “I don't imagine many prisoners show up clothed in blue velvet coats and pristine white neck bands. Do you feel better now, love?”

“Yes.” She pretended to be consoled, even though she considered Rand's faith in his cousin absurd.

With some difficulty, they continued the climb. Elizabeth was tempted to hike up her cumbersome skirts but she didn't want the guards to glimpse her petticoats, or even worse, her ankles. She almost laughed out loud at her sudden modesty. Trapped inside Newgate, wearing a gown whose décolletage was daring to say the least, why was she fretting over a bit of exposed ankle?

Beyond the lantern light, the darkness pooled upon the stairs so that Elizabeth had to grope her way. She recalled her careful descent down the Beresford staircase when the world had been vibrant, alive. No, it hadn't. She had been consumed with thoughts of her black-haired knight, and she hadn't met Rand.

Never forget, Bess! Without Rand, the world is bleak and you feel more dead than alive, just like Janey without her Ranulf. Keep that in mind and you can endure.

“Newgate is divided into sections,” Huggins said, his voice still echoing. “The Master Debtors' side, the Common Debtors' side, and the Master Felons'. You'll be lodged in a place all your own, across from the Master Debtors, which is a stroke of luck. Newgate's always overcrowded, and if you haven't got the money to pay the garnish, it will go hard on you.” He twisted around and stared at Elizabeth. “That's a fine sapphire bracelet, Miss Wyndham. I've always been partial to sapphires.”

“Which means he intends to have your bracelet before the night's out,” Rand whispered.

“My Aunt Lilith gave it to me,” she whispered back, touching in turn her sapphire bracelet, necklace, earbobs, and her diamond tiara. “But then, I planned to pawn all my jewels, so what's the bloody difference? Anyway, I'll soon kick the bucket, just like your aunt Franny.”

“Have faith, Bess. We'll be out of here in no time.”

They began the final flight of stairs.

“What was I saying? Oh, yes, garnish.” Huggins puffed from the exertion of simultaneously talking and climbing. “Penniless arrivals are stripped of their clothes and booted into a common ward.”

If Huggins was trying to scare her, he was succeeding. Had Walter given explicit instructions about that, too? His
I hate you
reverberated off the walls and pounded inside Elizabeth's head.

“The Stone Hold, for example. Since it's belowground, there's no natural light.” Huggins might have been discussing the weather. “'Tis paved with stone, but prisoners sleep on straw, if they can get it.”

“The poorest of the poor are relegated to Stone Hold, where the mice become their closest companions.” Rand's voice possessed the same sad, acrimonious tone he had used while talking about Zak and the prison ship.

“How do you know so much about Newgate?” she asked.

“This isn't my first visit.”

Elizabeth managed to control her gasp. Why was she surprised by Rand's revelation? After all this time, she should know better.

“A wench'll sell her body for a scrap of bread,” Huggins continued cheerfully. “A condemned wench'll do the same for naught. Should the creature have the good fortune to become with child, she'll escape the gallows, at least temporarily.”

Having delivered this last pertinent information, Huggins escorted them into a moderately large room. With equal portions of dismay and relief, Elizabeth saw a partition, wooden floors, a fireplace, one chair, and two beds.

The turnkeys prodded Rand toward an iron plate, bolted to the floor. Chains were attached to a thick ring located at the center of the plate. “I want to pay for easement of my chains,” Rand said.

Huggins shook his bald pate. “Can't do it. Orders from Lord Stafford. You're not allowed the privilege. No matter how much you offer, he'll give me double to keep you fettered.”

Rand shrugged, as if being chained was a matter of minor importance. Watching the turnkeys remove his coat and padlock him, Elizabeth blinked back tears.
We've brought ourselves to a sorry pass, and we've only ourselves to blame.

Newgate's darkness was momentarily broken by her vivid image of snaking torch lights and the monks who marched down Green Hill—the monks who carried their grisly trophy. There had been no turning back from that act of betrayal, but perhaps history would not repeat itself. Perhaps she and Rand still had a future to chart, although she couldn't fathom how a future was possible. She only knew that Rand had said they would get out and she trusted him implicitly. He could have been free, safe, yet his undying love for her had led to his capture.

Undying love.
She would clutch at those two words like a talisman.

Huggins approached her. “You will not be subjected to the indignity of irons, Miss Wyndham. Your sapphire bracelet should cover all customary fees. I'm not greedy, my dear. You may keep your other jewels until such time as they are needed.”

The lantern oscillated, casting the keeper's bull-like head in half light, half shadow, and Elizabeth imagined Huggins as one of the devil's minions.

“I'll have a proper fire laid,” he continued, “and you'll be allowed to move freely about the prison, which is a privilege afforded a lucky few.”

About to ask why Lord Stafford allowed the privilege, she held her tongue. Perhaps Huggins himself had stretched the rules. Perhaps he felt compassion for a woman who would soon have her neck stretched. Unfastening the clasp, Elizabeth handed him Lilith's bracelet.

“For your diamond tiara, I'll throw in two, no, three blankets, and some fresh bread and water on the morrow.”

“Cheap at twice, no, three times the price,” she said, fumbling at her tiara.

After Huggins left, Elizabeth listened to the crack of the outer door as it locked, the scraping of the exterior bolts, and the clink of Rand's chains when he shifted position. She unfolded the three thin blankets and shook them vigorously, as if to redeem them from their foulness. Then she stretched out on one of the reed-thin mattress and stared at a patch of night, framed in the barred window opposite the bed.

When Walter took her to trial, it would be as an accessory. He had never alluded to the bounty hunter's death, which meant he didn't know anything about it. Or the bounty hunter hadn't died.
I should not have embarrassed Walter in front of the prince,
she thought.
If I had not punctured Walter's vanity, he might have spared me Newgate.

I wish I could have punctured more than his vanity!

She squeezed her eyes shut. She had once considered Walter a trifling fiddle-faddle of a man. She had even prevented Rand from shooting him. And yet, had she been spared Newgate, her reward would have been rape, a brutal, almost unimaginable violation of her body and her mind.

“I prefer Newgate,” she whispered fiercely, trying to bolster her courage and control the unbidden tears that trickled warmly down her cheeks, veered toward her icy ears, and dampened her tangled hair.

According to Huggins, Stafford had orchestrated her incarceration. She wondered why he had gaoled her with Rand.

She contemplated joining Rand, but she needed time to regain her emotional strength. She must show him that she could be as brave as he, as brave as Zak, as brave as a man.

Finally, with the dawn, she rose from the bed and walked toward him.

“Such a dismal countenance,” he chided.

“Please don't tease.”

“If I don't tease, I'll weep. For you.”

“If you weep, I'll weep.”

“Then I won't shed one tear.” He stared up at her. “You must be damned uncomfortable, my love. If I'm Captain Queernabs, you're Mistress Tight Corset.”

“I'm Mistress Can't Breathe. Are the guards watching us?”

Rand shook his head.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“I didn't know if they had apertures, or something equally odious.”

“Bess, we are located above the prison gate. By Newgate's standards, we have luxurious quarters, but the Castle is also the most impregnable, so the guards have no need to watch us.”

“All right.” She threw off her gown, unfastened the tapes of her whalebone pannier, and dropped it to the floor. Feeling exposed in her chemise and petticoat, she reached behind her for the laces on her corset.

“I wish I could play ladies' maid,” Rand said, rattling his chains.

“No need. If I can just manage this damn knot.” Her arms and shoulders began to ache from her twisted position. “Why the bloody hell don't they make corsets that tie in front? There! I've done it!” She took one deep breath, then another. Finally, she divested herself of the corset and shrugged her gown back on. “A long time ago, a lifetime ago, someone told me that wigs were the biggest fashion nuisances ever created, but I disagree.”