Tory stared at him. “He’s not a thief.”
Miller gave her a look of indulgence, stepping closer to the bars. “My dear Victoria. Where, precisely, do you believe he went on all of those late night business meetings?”
Tory’s head spun at Miller’s words. Had her uncle been trafficking in stolen goods? Had he somehow implicated her in the crime?
“No,” she whispered, settling down on the cot as her legs grew wobbly. “That can’t be.”
“But I’m afraid it is,” Miller said. “Pity your husband had to learn of it, though.”
“Y-you’ve seen Patrick?” she asked, unable to keep the eagerness from her voice. “Oh, where is he?”
Miller’s face twisted into a mockery of a smile. “You’ve been a very naughty girl, Victoria,” he sneered. “I made your uncle an offer—not entirely honorable, but an offer nonetheless—and instead of coming to me you ran off with Latham.”
She narrowed her eyes at Miller’s gall. “I love Patrick,” she said, standing up. “And he loves me. We are man and wife.”
“You won’t remain so, I daresay,” Miller predicted.
“Wh-what?”
“Latham,” Miller paused, another hideous smile curving his lips. “Or perhaps I should refer to him as ‘Lord Latham.’”
Lord Latham? Patrick was a nobleman?
Miller laughed, a glint of triumph in his eyes. “He didn’t deem it necessary to tell you that he possessed the title of baron, did he my dear?”
Tory could only move her mouth, no sounds coming forth.
“No, he didn’t,” Miller continued. “You gave yourself to him and to appease your delicate sensibilities he pretended to marry you. Capital idea. I wish the thought had occurred to me first!”
Miller turned on his heels and took quick steps away from her cell. Tory crumpled back onto the cot, her hands wrapped around her middle. Patrick hadn’t married her? He’d lied to her! He’d merely used her for the pleasure she so freely—so foolishly—gave him.
A sharp pain pierced her heart. “Oh Patrick, how could you?” she sobbed into the mattress. “How could you?”
CHAPTER 20
Patrick peered out the window of his carriage at the forbidding site of Millbank Penitentiary. His stomach churned when he thought of his wife, his Tory, imprisoned behind its thick stone walls.
Upon leaving the office on Bow Street, he and Tony had sought to glean any information they could on the prison. Together, they visited White’s, questioning several titled gentlemen who worked closely with Parliament. He’d been somewhat mollified to learn that certain reforms had taken place since the Holford Committee had taken up examination of prison conditions in 1811. His wife would occupy a cell by herself, which was surely a blessing. Tory was far too sweet and sheltered to manage sharing a chamber with prostitutes and thieves. And there was a large staff of clergy and health officials and the like to see to the prisoners. But all of this newfound knowledge did little to assuage his guilt.
He’d always been suspicious of her uncle’s late night business transactions. It was obvious now that Elliot had indeed sold items obtained illegally. If only Patrick had bothered to investigate Elliot’s so-called late night business meetings, so that he could have protected Tory. No doubt, Miller had some nefarious connection to all of this. But was he just the “concerned citizen” who had made the accusations or was he more involved? Patrick vowed to find out. First he had to make sure Tory was all right. Lord, but he wished he could simply storm the walls and take her home with him.
His carriage passed through an arched gate set into the high wall, rolling to a stop in the prison yard. The yard was eerily quiet and Patrick wondered briefly if the inmates were busy at one task or another inside the massive structure. He stepped out of the carriage and instructed his driver to wait for him. He donned his hat—it felt odd to him, as he’d never been given to wearing one—and straightened his fine clothes.
He and Tony had agreed that it was wise for him to appear as the titled gentleman he was, for that would only serve to aid his cause. Thus, he wore a jacket of dark green paired with a brown waistcoat. His breeches were tan and his brown boots shined. He adjusted his intricately-tied white cravat and entered the prison. His footsteps echoed across the floor of the cavernous entry. The air was still and cold despite the temperate weather outside.
A tired-looking man sitting behind a high desk greeted him. He ran his eyes over Patrick and quickly sat up straight. “What can I do for you, my lord?” the man asked with deference.
“I’ve come to visit one of your . . . prisoners,” Patrick said, nearly choking on the word. “Victoria Elliot.”
The man came to his feet and rang a little bell. A boy came to stand behind the desk and took a piece of paper on which the man had hastily scribbled a note. The lad was scruffy and it was impossible to guess his age. Dull, lank hair hung over his brow but his face appeared eager. Patrick reasoned that maybe the boy belonged to one of the jailers. Perhaps this was part of the prison’s “progressive” operations.
It seemed forever to Patrick before the boy returned, a slovenly overweight man lumbering along behind him.
“You here to see Elliot?” the fat man barked.
Patrick nodded and followed along behind the big jailer. The man said nothing to him as they made their way down one corridor after another. The air smelled strongly of lye, and Patrick had little doubt that the place was clean. It was a newer facility, and he couldn’t help but wonder how long this condition would last. He wouldn’t think about just what they cleaned away. Tory was stuck here, and the thought of vermin or disease running through the place terrified him.
The only light came from the few lamps along the corridor and the small windows in each cell. Patrick glanced into a few of those cells, his fears growing as he glimpsed the women within. They looked haggard and jaded and more than one gazed at him in open invitation.
“You be a pretty gent,” he heard one call.
“You lookin’ for a new mistress, love?” another shouted. “I be willin’ to warm your bed.”
Laughter followed, hollow and humorless. The sound chilled him.
“The lady’s cell be down this corridor,” the jailer said at last, sarcasm in his voice.
Patrick threw him a glance, sensing the meanness in the man. Upon closer inspection, he saw that aside from the man’s belly, his bulk was mostly muscle. His eyes were cold, and Patrick doubted the jailer was the least bit sensitive to the women’s plights. Tory was directly under this man’s control? She must be terrified.
The jailer stopped abruptly and Patrick halted his step. Without a word to him the big man turned and walked away, leaving him standing there. In the cell before him was a woman, scarcely older than the boy who had brought the fat jailer to assist him. Her eyes ran over him, one brow cocked.
“You be fancier than the last gent what come here,” she said, brushing her hair over one shoulder.
Patrick saw that her appearance was surprisingly tidy and well-kept. He couldn’t help but question the manner in which she was attended. Did the jailer see that she was kept in moderate comfort as long as she saw to his other needs? That thought turned his stomach.
“Miss,” he began, “do you know where I may find . . . ”
“You be lookin’ for the pretty little dove, I wager,” she cut in, pointing a finger over his left shoulder. “She’s right there.”
Patrick turned sharply to find what appeared to be an empty cell. Upon closer inspection he saw a small form huddled on the cot set against the far wall. The auburn hair was tangled. A dress of some rough cloth loosely covered the slender back.
“My God,” he murmured. “Tory.”
The figure on the cot stirred, turning her face to him. He pulled in a breath at the dull gray eyes staring at him mutely.
“Tory!” he called to her, wrapping his hands around the cold metal bars.
He watched as Tory slowly came to a sitting positi
on on the cot. She brushed a heavy tangled curtain of hair back from her face and he ran his gaze hungrily over her. He was relieved to find her beloved face unmarked by any cuts or bruises for, although he knew in his mind that the prisoners here were not treated inhumanely, he sensed in his bones that a defenseless woman was often an unwilling target of other inmates or jailers. Again, he thought of the massive man who saw to Tory’s care and shuddered.
“My God, love,” he said, his throat tight. “Are you all right?”
Tory let out a harsh laugh, the sound unlike any he’d ever heard issued from her lips.
“All right?” she mimicked, her voice strangely clipped. “Am I all right? I’m in jail, Patrick. Or perhaps I should address you by your title, Baron?”
Patrick stiffened at the callousness in her voice. She knew of his title? He put that thought aside for the moment, the far more pressing matter of her well-being taking precedence.
“Tory, I’ve been so worried about you.”
Tory waved a grimy hand through the air and stood, straightening the dress that was far too big for her. His eyes followed as her gaze wandered over him, seeing that she took in his own excellent clothing. Her pale lips pursed in a show of distaste.
“You have no need to concern yourself any longer, Baron Latham,” she stated. “You must be relieved that our marriage is not binding.”
Patrick stared at her for a moment, certain that he’d not heard her correctly.
“What are you saying?”
Her lower lip trembled ever so slightly and he was seized by an urge to tear down the barred wall, to hold her to him and assure her that everything would be all right.
“You must be pleased that you’re not truly tied to a criminal,” she said with a sniffle, her eyes on his clothing once more. “You appear quite comfortable in your role as an unencumbered titled gentleman.”
She turned away from him, her shoulders slumping.
“Tory,” he beseeched. “What are you saying? We are truly married.”
She whirled on him, her eyes alight with anger. He was vastly relieved to see the dullness gone, although he would have preferred evidence of a far more tender emotion in her beautiful silver eyes.
“You lied to me, Patrick,” she said. “You kept the knowledge of your title from me. You told me nothing of your position, no doubt due to your utter embarrassment over your involvement with someone of such low birth as myself.”
“No!” he shouted. The sound echoed in his ears. He leaned toward the bars and lowered his voice. “I love you, Tory. I married you because I love you.”
Tory shook her head and crossed her arms, as though she were protecting herself from him. His heart tore at her bedraggled yet defiant stance.
“How can you say we’re married?” she countered with a tilt of her chin. “I married Patrick Latham, a gentleman who doesn’t exist. The finely dressed dandy standing before me bears no resemblance to the man who took me to Gretna Green.”
Patrick clenched his hands into fists at his side, anger and despair warring in his breast.
“You married Patrick Latham Stafford,” he told her. “Baron Latham.” She stared at him in disbelief. “My title means nothing to me, Tory. I didn’t believe that it would matter to you.”
Tory blinked at him, her gray eyes shimmering with tears.
“Stafford? You are connected to that sad, pretty lady. No matter. You didn’t tell me the truth of who you were.” She began to tremble and all he wanted to do was comfort her. “When the constables questioned me, I told them I was married to you. But they didn’t believe me. They said there was no record of our marriage. Patrick Latham doesn’t exist.” Her tears were flowing freely now and she swiped at them and turned away from him. “Go!” she cried. “It’s obvious I’m of no consequence to you.”
“You’re my wife,” he said. “You told me that you love me!”
She straightened her shoulders but did not turn around. “How can I love you, my lord?” she said in a choked voice. “I don’t even know you. Don’t come back here again.” She returned to her cot and turned away from him.
Anguish nearly crumpled Patrick as he worked his mind around her words. “Tory,” he coaxed, reaching for her between the bars. “Tory, please listen to me!”
The jailer appeared at his side. Patrick was startled that such a large man could move so quickly and quietly.
“There’s no shouting here,” he said.
He beckoned Patrick to follow and turned to lumber down the corridor. Patrick glanced again at the huddled form on the narrow cot.
“Tory,” he said softly, gaining no response.
Muttering a curse, he turned to follow the jailer down the corridor. When they arrived at the entrance of the prison, the man turned to face Patrick again. His small eyes took a measuring glance at Patrick’s clothes and quirked a brow at him.
“You be paying garnish for the lady?” the big man asked. “To keep her in necessities?”
“What?” Patrick asked absently. He suddenly thought of the well-kept girl in the cell opposite Tory’s and idly wondered if someone paid her garnish. “Yes, yes,” he rushed out. “I’ll pay for anything she needs.”
Patrick placed several pound notes into the jailer’s hand. At least he was able to take care of her physical welfare. Her emotional well-being was another matter entirely.
“What is your name sir, so that I may know my wife’s jailer?”
“Simms”
His shoulders slumped as he boarded his carriage. He ran his hands over his face and his gaze fell on his jacket sleeve. Regarding his clothing closely, he suddenly saw himself as Tory must have. He did look like a bloody dandy. In his attempt to appear like the privileged gentleman he was, he’d effectively divided himself from the one person whose opinion he valued most.
He removed his hat and threw it onto the seat opposite. Damn hats. They represented everything he hated. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, raking his fingers through his hair.
“Mr. Latham?” the driver queried. “Your destination, sir?”
Patrick thought of something then, a person who could perhaps aid his cause.
“Wait for me,” he told the driver. “I’m afraid my business here is far from concluded.”
* * *
Tory stretched out on her cot, her eyes staring dully at the low ceiling above her. How could she have been so wrong about Patrick? She’d thought he was completely different from Paul, and that horrible Mr. Miller, and those leering customers who frequented Elliot’s Fineries.
Then again, only a few months ago, she believed Paul to be a gentle caring man before he’d proven her wrong. Had she been just as foolish in her judgment of the man she’d married, the man she’d fallen deeply in love with?
Her mind kept replaying Patrick’s visit over and over again . . . When he’d said her name, when his beloved voice had reached her, she’d thought she was dreaming. But when she’d turned to face him, seeing him wearing those fine clothes, her anger and pain were too much to bear. He’d always been well dressed, but she’d never beheld him looking so elegant. So aristocratic.
Why had he dressed that way? Had he been on his way to a formal dinner or a ball? Oh, the thought of it made her nauseous. He’d lied to her. He’d kept his true identity from her, as though she wasn’t worthy of knowing who he was. And the authorities didn’t believe her. Of course, why would they? There was no record of their marriage. The constable had assumed she was lying about everything, including the charges laid before her. But she hadn’t lied. No, the only liar had been Patrick. Had he lied about his feelings as well? No matter. She rubbed her eyes to wipe the clinging tears from her lashes.
Whether or not she’d married a baron or a commoner no longer mattered. She was behind bars and he was free to resume his life. He’d gotten what he wanted. To bed her. Although why he’d shown up at Millbank, she had no idea. Did he feel guilty perhaps? Did he still want her in his bed? How could she believe his declarat
ion of love when he hadn’t even trusted her to tell her the truth about himself? Oh, her mind was in complete turmoil . . .
“You have more than one fancy gentlemen at your disposal,” the jailer jeered, startling her out of her reverie.
Tory turned her head to find him staring intently at her from between the bars. A glance down at herself showed her that the loose-fitting dress had gotten twisted about her body and the rough fabric now clung to her, outlining her breasts and legs. She sat up quickly and readjusted the dress until she was once again hidden in its folds.
“’Tis a pity the gentleman paid garnish for you,” he grumbled.
Tory trembled in response to his words. The man rattled the keys in the lock and entered the cell. To her utter surprise he carried a tray laden with cold meat and cheese and fresh bread. Her stomach rumbled and the man snorted in disgust. He left the tray and she was again locked in her solitude. She consumed her lunch with nary a thought to the man who had provided it. Let Patrick assuage his guilt, she mused as she savagely bit into the delicious roasted beef. At least she wouldn’t go hungry.
“Thank you, Baron Latham,” she said, her voice bitter to her ears.
“I had me a fancy man once,” the girl in the cell across the way said a few minutes later. Her voice cracked a bit. “I’m here because of him now.”
Tory set aside her tray and stood, crossing to the bars to face her fellow prisoner. “How can that be?”
She shrugged. “I was a maid in his house, you see. Oh, he had sweet words for me every time we was together. ‘You’re the prettiest girl, Daisy,’ he’d say to me.”
“Your name is Daisy? I’m Victoria.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance,” Daisy said with a curtsy.
Tory found a small smile. It was clear Daisy had some spark left, but for how long would that condition continue?
She thought about Posy, the maid at her uncle’s house. Daisy couldn’t be much older than Posy, perhaps seventeen at most. The girl’s wistful voice touched her. Hadn’t she believed every sweet word Patrick had uttered?
That Determined Mister Latham Page 20
