Patrick would deal with Miller later. The bastard seemed to know far too much about Elliot’s business dealings and these allegedly stolen goods. With Elliot missing it was paramount that he get to Bow Street to find out how he could get Tory released.
* * *
Tory’s stomach rebelled as the large carriage rocked back and forth on its journey into Westminster. The hunger that had assailed her since waking that morning had slowly turned to nausea as the hours passed, and the rocking of the vehicle did nothing to improve that condition.
She peered out the narrow window of the carriage as they approached Millbank Penitentiary. The building was set not far from the river, and surrounded by a high wall of stone, which was encircled in turn by an iron fence. The building was four or five stories high and the walls were arranged at right angles, that she could see from her particular perspective. Rounded towers bracketed each corner, topped by a conical roof and set with narrow windows. Small square windows dotted the façade. Tendrils of white smoke snaked out of the many short chimneys set atop the building.
Tory knew that the penitentiary had been completed scarcely five years earlier—and she had to admit—it wasn’t an unpleasant building to look upon. That is, for a prison . . .
Good Lord, I must be losing my senses.
What was she thinking? She didn’t want to end up as an inmate at Millbank, even it if had marble floors and doors made of gold.
She soon found herself being ushered down one long corridor. The building was quiet, she was surprised to note after the bustle of the office on Bow Street, the air still and lightly smelling of lye. The jailers here, however, were vastly different than those busy runners she’d seen in that office.
These men were quite frightening to her, with rugged faces and sour looks. The one serving as her escort was an especially frightening specimen. A large man wearing a forbidding uniform of dark rough cloth, he seemed decidedly ill-tempered. Grumbling and complaining as he took long strides, he forced her to practically run to keep abreast of him.
Numerous cells lined the corridor, and she glimpsed sparse but neat chambers beyond their metal bars. More than one poor woman stared back at her, their gazes holding a touch of curiosity mixed with the stamp of misery on their faces. Tory quickly averted her eyes from the pitiful souls to the spotless floor beneath her feet. Would she end up like these women? Miserable and lost to the world? She fervently prayed for Patrick to save her . . . and soon.
She followed along behind the man lumbering in front of her, brushing her loose hair impatiently back from her face. After her unceremonious meeting with the constable that morning, she’d been afforded a modicum of privacy after being directed to remove her clothing and change into a drab, scratchy gown. The brown cloth of the dress was clean but smelled musty to her, and the dress dragged a bit beneath her feet. Had it been only yesterday morning that she’d reveled in the luxurious fabrics and fine clothing Patrick purchased for her on their honeymoon?
The big oaf accompanying her, came to such a sudden halt that she ran directly into his wide back, her breath whooshing out of her as she stumbled. He snickered and turned to her, letting his protruding belly rub against her breasts. She swiftly backed away from him in disgust.
“Here be your lodgings, Miss,” he sneered.
Tory peered around the man’s imposing form to take in the dismal cell. At least the mattress on the small cot in this place was far cleaner than the one in the tiny holding room on Bow Street. There was a lack of privacy here, however. No door to close, no screen behind which to change. And was that a chamber pot, there in the corner?
She gulped and stepped into the cell. The jailer seemed to take tremendous pleasure in slamming the wide, barred gate that now made up one wall of her new home. Tory flinched as the iron scraped into place, locking with a stark finality that chilled her to her bones.
Her jailer’s deep chortle caused her to turn, her hands on her hips. She glared up at him, immediately regretting that motion. One glance into his beady dark eyes peering at her through the barred entry was enough to cause her heart to sink to her very toes. His eyes ran over her slowly, burning with undisguised lust.
“I be the one you be payin’ garnish, dove,” he drawled.
She had no idea what he was talking about. She stared at him blankly, spurring another rumble of laughter to erupt from the mountain of flesh.
“You be payin’ me for all o’ your . . . needs,” he explained with a leering look. “Clothes, soap, clean water . . .”
“Clean water?” Tory cut in, incredulous. “Do you mean I have to pay you for basic necessities?”
He stared at her and Tory somehow managed to suppress a shudder of revulsion.
“Aye, in coin,” he answered. His tongue licked over his thick lips. “Or we could come to another arrangement.”
Tory trembled and backed up a step.
He leaned in closer and puckered his fishy lips at her, making disgusting sucking noises. At her horrified reaction, he burst into a loud guffaw. Then he turned and lumbered back down the corridor, his laughter echoing behind him.
She slumped down on the cot, the heavy weight of fear and despair making her legs shake. Her stomach rumbled again and she couldn’t help but feel a hunger that went beyond the simple need for nourishment.
Patrick had teased her about her growling stomach on more than one occasion, she recalled with a slight smile. He’d told her that he was always aware of her every need. Would he sense that she needed him now?
The memories of her days passed with Patrick flooded her senses: his gallantry toward her as they left her uncle’s home so swiftly, their hurried but beautiful wedding ceremony, his declaration of love that came on the heels of the most marvelous moment of passion . . .
“It ain’t so bad,” a small voice said from the other side of the corridor.
Tory stood and walked a few steps toward the barred wall. Peering out at her from the cell across the corridor was a slight girl, most likely a few years younger than Tory. Her eyes were huge in her pale face, tired and sad.
“Excuse me?” Tory asked.
The girl shook her head, a wan smile on her face. Tory saw then that the girl’s brown hair shone from frequent brushings. Her clothing was as plain as Tory’s but crisp and clean. Her cheeks were full of color and no hunger seemed evident to Tory’s gaze. But the robustness didn’t seem to reach the girl’s eyes.
“He gets a bit rough,” she confided to Tory in a whisper. “But he’s good about bringin’ food and sweets and soap and other such treats.”
Tory gasped as the girl’s words penetrated.
“You give yourself to th-that vile man?” she stammered. “You permit that, that . . .”
The girl laughed, the harsh sound at odds with her petite appearance.
“I might be charged as a thief but I ain’t simple,” she shrugged. “Ain’t no one goin’ to pay him garnish on my behalf.” The girl’s eyes, so worldly in her otherwise childlike face, ran over Tory. “You got yourself someone on the outside to see to your needs?”
Tory nodded absently and turned away. She returned to the cot and slowly sat down, numb.
Surely Patrick would pay to keep the man from her, to keep her in proper food and the like. But how could she bear the shame of it?
CHAPTER 19
Patrick tapped his booted foot impatiently against the scuffed floorboards in the Bow Street office. Had it not been for Tony, he would surely be of more interest to these lawmen. No doubt he would be firmly behind bars for strangling Miller. Patrick had been fit to be constrained after his encounter with Miller in front of Elliot’s Fineries. That his salvation had come in the unlikely steadfastness of his carefree friend was startling.
He snorted with exasperation and looked about the cramped room. The office was a bustling center of lawmen and miscreants. The former had no time to impart, the latter no information. “This is bloody ridiculous,” he muttered to Tony. “These men will tel
l us nothing.”
Tony shrugged, his shoulder brushing against Patrick’s. They shared one of the hard narrow benches that lined the walls of the front room, their long legs stretched out in front of them as far as they could manage. Patrick continued to tap his foot, the rhythmic sound barely slicing through the cacophony.
“You need to try a different tack, my lord,” Tony told him in a low voice.
Patrick glanced at him and glimpsed the intent brightening Tony’s eyes. He cursed softly and nodded his head in agreement. When the two had first arrived at Bow Street, Patrick’s first impulse was to storm the men behind the large front desk in the office despite Tony’s clutching hand on his sleeve. Every question posed had been met with officious disdain.
These men saw to the processing of accused criminals with an air of efficiency that chilled Patrick. How had Tory borne it? He knew she’d been here, just knew it in his bones. He would play the card dealt to him at birth, he decided as he saw the import of Tony’s suggestion. He would use his privilege to wring information out of these cold-hearted men.
“Of course, damn it to hell. You’re right,” he told Tony, gaining a nod of approval.
Patrick stood and crossed to the desk once more, straightening to his full, impressive height and fixing upon his face the cool look of disdain he’d glimpsed quite often on the faces of the titled gentlemen with whom he chose to never intermingle. He stood before the desk, facing an official he hadn’t yet managed to question.
“I have need of some information,” he said to the lanky man behind the counter.
The man turned to face him. The look of irritation Patrick glimpsed swiftly left the man’s tired gaze.
“How can I help you?” he said.
Patrick hid his smile. No doubt it was rare indeed that someone with an ounce of despised gentility would grace these environs with their presence, he thought wryly. He arched a brow in what he hoped was an exact mimic of his father’s most imposing expression.
“I am Baron Latham. I have need of information regarding a female person brought into this office last evening,” he went on with a sniff. “I’m certain that an error was made, and I’ve come to rectify it.”
The man stared at him dumbly. He finally cleared his throat and gave a shake of his head.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but I can’t divulge any information about such a person,” he said, his voice cracking with nervousness.
Patrick closed his eyes, willing away the helplessness that threatened to swamp him. He opened his eyes to glare at the man.
“Listen closely,” he began, “I have reason to believe that my wife was brought here last evening and I demand to know her whereabouts.”
The lanky man blinked his thick eyelids. “We don’t usually see women of quality come through this office, sir,” he stammered. “I would have to check with my—”
“What’s this, Simmons?” a voice called from behind Patrick.
A thin man dressed in a scarlet coat slowly approached the desk, an ugly smile on his ashen face.
“This gentleman is looking for someone, Constable,” the man at the desk rushed out.
Patrick took in the constable’s appearance. This man had a distinct air of authority about him, along with a decided coldness. Did the constable know where Tory was? Had he been the one to spirit her away from her uncle’s home?
He met the reedy man’s gaze evenly. “I’ve come to learn the whereabouts of my wife,” he stated. “Victoria Stafford, Lady Latham.”
God, but it felt good to use Tory’s full, legal name, he realized.
“Latham?” The Constable’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Latham?”
Patrick withdrew the marriage license from his pocket and showed it to the man.
“Yes, I am,” he said. “And you’ll see that I married Victoria Elliot in Gretna Green not five days ago.”
The sharp eyes of the constable scanned the document. “The girl was telling the truth.” He returned his gaze to Patrick. “I’m afraid, Lord Latham, that your wife has run afoul of the law,” he stated with a definitive nod.
“What law, pray tell?” Patrick countered. “Of what crime have you accused my wife?”
“It seems that she and her uncle have been involved in a most unseemly business,” the constable replied. “We have it on good authority that J. B. Elliot has been trafficking in stolen goods and that his niece assisted him in the selling of such merchandise.”
Patrick’s mind fought to process the constable’s ridiculous statement. If the man had stated that Tory had stolen the Crown Jewels, Patrick wouldn’t have been more surprised. His wife was no thief, he knew without question. She possessed an innate goodness and honesty that even his jaded eyes had seen when he first met her.
“That’s nonsense!” Patrick exclaimed. “From where did you receive this information?”
“I’m afraid I can’t divulge the identity of the concerned citizen,” he replied coolly. “Information was given against both J. B Elliot and his niece. It’s not my place to decide the validity of that information,” the constable went on. “That’s for the court to determine.”
“Miller,” Patrick muttered with certainty.
The constable merely shrugged in answer.
“Where is my wife now?” Patrick had to know. “Is she being held here?”
“Your wife has been taken to Millbank.”
“The penitentiary?” Patrick asked, his heart pounding. “Why the devil was she taken there?”
“The magistrate heard her case and wishes for her to be held there until the court convenes in the Michaelmas term.”
Patrick cursed aloud. “You can’t keep her there,” he protested. “She has done nothing wrong!”
The man shrugged again and Patrick itched to wrap his fingers around the skinny man’s neck.
“I’ve fulfilled my duties,” he said. “I no longer have anything to do with your wife’s case.”
Despair threatened to drown Patrick as sure as the great waves along Tory’s beloved coast of Cornwall. Patrick left the Bow Street office, Tony trailing in his wake. “We’ll go to Millbank,” he said as the two of them boarded the carriage.
Tony blinked at him in surprise. “And what, pray, will that accomplish?”
Patrick was at a loss. What would that accomplish, indeed? Never before in his life had he given thought to any serious pursuits, to any noble actions. He had no true notion of the workings of the law, let alone the manner in which to go about freeing an innocent person incarcerated on the false words of a vindictive man. He instructed the driver to take them to his rooms and settled on the seat across from his friend.
“Tell me what to do, Tony,” he muttered. “My God, tell me what to do for I am truly at a loss.”
Tony pursed his lips in thought for a moment, suddenly giving a chuckle.
Patrick glared at his friend, the frustration of the day’s events fueling his anger. “And what, pray, do you find so humorous?” he snapped.
“You were the very picture of a privileged peer back there,” Tony said with a grin. “My God, I nearly jumped off the bench to do your bidding myself.”
Patrick barked out a short laugh as Tony’s words had their desired effect. “I admit it was immensely satisfying to see that poor chap behind the desk cower in fear.” He blew out a shaky breath. “I regret the odious constable wasn’t so easily swayed.”
Tony nodded his head in sympathy.
“What’s our next step?” he asked Patrick.
For a moment Patrick studied his friend, a gentleman who had formerly been as carefree and careless as he himself had been before giving his heart to Tory. Tony seemed most steadfast and dedicated, and the affection he obviously shared with Emmy was certainly at least partially to blame. That he would fight beside Patrick in any endeavor was suddenly clear to him.
“There may be hope for the both of us yet, Tony,” he said.
* * *
Tory sat on her cot in her lonely cell
, her head held in her hands. Hunger no longer plagued her, although her meal was the furthest thing from appetizing as she’d ever had. Served on a scarred wooden tray, the bland, watery soup had been cold in its metal bowl, the small chunk of bread, stale. Despite that, she’d eaten it all, every last bite.
The mouth-watering aroma of some sort of gravy had wafted toward her, no doubt from the cells of women accustomed to paying garnish in one fashion or another. She shuddered to think of the big jailer using the slight girl in the cell across the corridor from hers. Although the girl’s cheeks were rounded and her skin rosy, the memory of the sad resignation in her eyes chilled Tory even now.
She still had no word from Patrick. Did he know where she was? Was he looking for her?
“Victoria Elliot,” Tory heard the jailer call out from somewhere beyond her little cell.
“Victoria Latham,” she whispered in correction. “Yes?” she answered, raising her voice a bit.
The fat jailer stopped before her cell, leering at her through the window.
“There be a gentleman to see you,” he said. “Looks to be a rich toff, too.”
Tory felt her heart pound as she jumped to her feet. Patrick! Her hopes dashed to the stone floor beneath her feet when she glimpsed her visitor’s identity. That hope was swiftly replaced with dismay.
“Mr. Miller!” she exclaimed.
“Hello, Victoria,” Miller said smoothly.
The jailer eyed Miller for along moment, finally turning his smirking face toward Tory.
“I be getting my garnish one way or another,” he put in with a sly smile.
Tory put the jailer out of her mind and faced Miller. “How did you know that I was here?” she rushed out. “Have you spoken to my uncle? Where is he?”
“Easy, my dear,” Miller chuckled. “Let us take one matter at a time.”
Tory wrung her hands and forced herself to be calm. “Where is my uncle, Mr. Miller?”
Miller sighed dramatically, running his hands over the fine sleeve of his dark green jacket. “I’m afraid his accommodations are not nearly as agreeable as yours,” he told her. “But then, he’s the one who brought you to these depths, is he not?”
That Determined Mister Latham Page 19
