“Sometimes a man will say whatever he thinks a girl wants to hear,” Tory said softly.
Daisy pushed her shining hair back over one narrow shoulder. “I thought he loved me.” Her large eyes were shiny with tears. “He liked me well enough, I think. But he liked cards better.”
“Cards?” Tory leaned toward her in curiosity. “He gambled?”
Daisy nodded. “He never had a lick of luck, though. Took from his mum and lost it all.
The truth of it struck Tory then. “He blamed you for the missing money.”
Daisy sniffled. “Yeah, he did. His mother called the Constable and now I’m in here.”
“How long have you been in here, Daisy?”
“Two months.”
Tory gasped. “All that time.”
Daisy nodded. “It’s not so bad.” She ran her hands over her clean clothes. “The jailer keeps me in clean clothes and food.”
“But you have to give into his demands,” Tory pointed out gently.
“And what of you? Seems to me you’re eating well tonight.”
“The jailer said someone paid my garnish, so I suppose I have my husband—oh, he isn’t even that, is he?—to thank.”
Daisy nodded sagely. “Be grateful for that while it lasts.”
Tory heaved a great sigh. “I wish I’d never left Cornwall.”
“Cornwall?” Daisy brightened. “I’m from Devonshire, near Cornwall.”
Tory found a smile. “I’m from St. Ives.” She sighed. “I miss the ocean.”
“I grew up on the ocean,” Daisy said. “Too many mouths to feed in my parents’ house, so I went into service.”
“You can’t have been in service very long before . . .” Tory didn’t finish her thought.
“For two years,” Daisy said. “I wish I was still there. Not for him that left me to the wolves. I did like taking care of myself.”
Tory nodded. “Maybe you can go back into service when you get out of here.”
Daisy sniffled again. “No one would want a thief in their home, would they?”
Tory realized she, too, was painted as a thief now. Her life was as bleak as Daisy’s. She met the other girl’s eyes and slowly shook her head. “I suppose not.”
* * *
Patrick walked down the dark corridor, mentally ticking off the differences he found between this space and the one he’d so recently visited. He raked his fingers through his hair—he’d left the objectionable hat in his carriage—and continued in the wake of the elderly jailer. This man was slight of build, which Patrick had at first found puzzling. The condition of the men behind the many cells soon set that confusion from him.
These prisoners appeared ill to Patrick, their eyes blank in their hollow-cheeked faces. The cells weren’t as clean as they were in the women’s section. No concerned relations paid garnish here, nor could these inmates tempt their jailers to pay garnish in other ways.
The slight man stopped before a cell and Patrick followed suit. A shuffling was heard within the dark space and Patrick peered more intently through the bars. The tall man in the cell unfolded his frame and took tentative steps toward the bars.
“Latham?” J. B. Elliot asked incredulously. “What . . . what are you doing here?”
Patrick waited for the old jailer to make his slow progress down the corridor away from him before giving Tory’s uncle an answer.
“Did you do it, Elliot?” he asked pointedly.
Elliot’s dark eyes widened slightly in response, then shifted nervously about the cell. His long fingers fiddled with the rough shirt he wore. “I may have sold one or two items whose origins were less than pristine,” he muttered.
Patrick shook the bars, rage rushing through him. “You greedy son-of-a-bitch!” he growled. “Because of you Victoria’s in a cell.”
Elliot’s face blanched. “That can’t be! Victoria never had anything to do with my business, other than her work in the store.”
“She’s been implicated in your illegal dealings,” Patrick stated, taking a breath. “Upon our return from Gretna Green she was arrested.”
“No,” Elliot said, shaking his head . . . And then a small smile curved a corner of the man’s mouth. “You married Victoria?”
“Yes,” Patrick answered, straightening his shoulders. “She’s my wife, but I can’t do anything to get her released.”
“But you must be able to do something,” Elliot insisted. “She’s an innocent.”
Patrick spat out a curse. “You planned to sell her to Miller,” he said, his voice low.
“That bastard was making threats . . .” Elliot’s intent gaze settled on Patrick’s face. “He’d learned of several dealings of mine . . .”
“And you offered your own niece as payment for his silence?” Patrick shouted in outrage. “What kind of a man are you?” he went on. “You’re no better than Miller.”
Tory’s uncle shook his head and ran shaky fingers through his graying hair. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
Disgust roiling in his belly, Patrick spun on his heel and strode away from the man’s cell.
“You must free her, Latham!” Patrick heard him shout. “Do all you can!”
Patrick snorted. As if he needed Elliot’s foolish insistence! He climbed aboard his carriage and settled against the back, his eyes closed as he pondered his next course of action.
His visit had confirmed Elliot’s connection to Miller and the entire sordid reason behind making Tory the “sacrificial lamb”. But was there more to Miller’s blackmail? How had that bastard made his fortune? Patrick vowed to investigate after he had Tory released from Millbank.
Patrick had known in his heart that Tory was innocent of all charges. The many weeks that had passed since first meeting her attested to her purity of heart. That purity was what first had drawn him to her. His coming to know her more deeply during their all-too-short honeymoon only served to confirm that fundamental facet of her character. J. B. Elliot’s imprudent actions—both concerning his business dealings and Miller’s dishonorable offer—gave him little sympathy for that man’s current state of affairs. Patrick dismissed the fool from his thoughts as easily as he’d taken himself from his presence.
He passed the ride from Westminster to his rooms with his mind working around the new dilemma that faced him. No longer was he merely concerned with finding a way to get Tory out of jail. He had to find a way to win her heart again.
How could she believe that he was ashamed of her? Ever since they’d met he’d been damn certain that she deserved far more than the man he could ever hope to be. He knew she was hurting because he hadn’t told her the truth about his title or his past. Damn his stupidity!
She was in shock. That was why she’d reacted so coldly to him. He thanked the Lord they were already married. He would prove to her that he was a worthy husband. He would do everything in his power to save her. His wife. His beloved.
“She loves me,” he muttered to himself. “I know she does.” And if he had to move heaven and earth to make her see that, so be it.
CHAPTER 21
The jailer woke Tory very early the next morning, and informed her that she would be put to labor. In the laundry, he’d said. She greedily consumed the very palatable breakfast she was given and saw to her morning routine despite the lack of privacy the cell provided her. She could do no more than attempt to put her hair in some order, the thick waves resisting the gentle and insistent pull of her fingers. She sighed and gathered her tangled hair away from her face, securing it with a length of fabric she’d torn from the ample hem of her drab dress. Grateful that she had no mirror in the little cell, she sat to await the jailer’s return.
Ready when the jailer came for her, she followed him and Daisy and the other women from her corridor and went down to the laundry. She fell into step with Daisy.
“That handsome gent that visited you yesterday,” Daisy said, regarding her. “I know he hurt you, but if he’s truly your husband, he can he
lp you, can’t he?”
Tory mused over the girl’s question for a long moment. She shook her head firmly in answer. “I’m nothing to him,” she replied flatly. And then with a slight smile at the younger girl she added, “When I get out of here I shall return to Cornwall.”
The girl nodded in understanding, returning her small smile. The two young women continued to walk in silence and Tory was relieved she wouldn’t have to endure any more questions about Patrick. She just couldn’t bear to think about him.
The women were herded into the laundry, which was set beneath the ground level of the prison. There were no windows to speak of, just small openings near the ceiling that were woefully inadequate at their task of keeping the air fresh. Steam clouded Tory’s vision. The harsh smell of lye soap stung her eyes. The large room was hot and crowded and noisy, and she was vastly relieved to see that both the nature of the work and the din within the laundry left little opportunity for conversation with the other, more hardened, women.
Upon her return to her little cell late that afternoon, she noted that a number of changes had taken place in her absence. Someone had cleaned the cell, she saw, and emptied the chamber pot. A washstand—with clean water in its basin—now stood in the corner, and an assortment of toiletries sat atop. She felt a smile curve her lips as she walked toward the washstand. She splashed the cool water on her face and lathered her hands and arms with the thin bar of soap. It didn’t smell of lavender or any other scent she might have preferred, but it effectively cleansed the grime from her skin. She picked up the thin rough cloth accompanying the soap and, working beneath her oversized dress, managed to wash her body.
She changed into a fresh dress, noting it was just as ill-fitting as the last. A brush sat on the washstand as well, and she put it to use to finally rid her hair of its tangles. She sighed with the pleasure the simple action sent through her, her scalp tingling from her gentle pulling. Lord, but she nearly felt whole again.
When the jailer delivered her generous evening meal he stood in her cell a bit longer than she deemed necessary, running his eyes over her before giving her a slow nod.
“All that dirt and hair was hiding a jewel,” he said slyly. “I be hopin’ your fancy man keeps payin’ your garnish.” He grinned. “Or mayhap I don’t!”
Tory shivered with apprehension. She caught the action and crossed her arms in front of her in a show of irritated indifference, suspecting that it was most dangerous to show any weakness in front of this hulk of a man. Thankfully, the jailer muttered a curse and left her to her meal.
The nooning meal provided at the laundry had been short and less than satisfying, the large amount of work leaving no time for rest. She now eyed the hot chicken and vegetables on her tray and nearly swooned from the savory scents reaching her nostrils. She reached for the warm roll accompanying her meal, stopping suddenly as her hand caught her gaze. She turned her hands over, studying the palms, the fingers. Her hands were clean, but red and rough from her day of work in the laundry. They seemed to her like those of a stranger, not the perfumed hands that had so recently cared for the fine items in her uncle’s shop. Were those items indeed stolen as the constable had insisted?
She lifted the roll to her mouth and bit into it, chewing thoughtfully. Had her uncle been lying to her as Patrick had? Had he permitted her to sell those stolen goods to unsuspecting customers? She wondered about the lovely brooch Patrick had given her, the brooch whose whereabouts should no longer concern her. She’d left it with her other belongings to Patrick’s care upon their return to London. Had he already gifted another girl with the beautiful piece?
The memories came to her then, accompanied by an uninvited rush of emotion: the sweet memory of Patrick professing that none other than she should wear the brooch, the incredible lovemaking that had followed so closely on the heels of his gift, the remarkable words of love that had come from his lips after their wedding.
She squeezed her eyes shut as tears threatened. Was their marriage a farce as Miller had told her? Had everything been a ruse to get her in his bed? If Patrick had lied to her about his title and birthright perhaps he’d lied to her about the marriage and his love for her? Her heart wrenched at the thought.
She’d given her heart to him. She’d given her body and soul to a man she didn’t even know. She could no longer hold back her tears; they stung her eyes and wet her cheeks. She swiped at them as she continued her meal. She ate every bit and stretched out on her cot. The laundry work and the stress of the last few days had exhausted her and she swiftly found slumber, escaping her troubled thoughts over Patrick.
A jangle of metal against metal awoke her from her sound sleep. She opened her eyes, but nothing other than darkness greeted her vision. The sound came again. Keys! The rattle grew louder and she turned wide, unseeing eyes toward the corridor.
“Time for me to collect my payment, little dove,” the jailer said, his voice low.
Tory shook with fear. Had Patrick refrained from paying her garnish after all? Would the jailer force himself on her? The murmured answer she heard in response to his words caused relief to flood through her. He wasn’t letting himself into her chamber. He was paying a visit to Daisy in the other cell.
Her relief soon turned to disgust as sounds of the big man taking his pleasure reached her. He grunted and groaned and called the girl filthy names in harsh whispers. Tory heard the sobs then, soft sobs that chilled her to her bones.
“Quit your bawlin’,” Tory heard the man growl, his breathing hitched. “I ain’t hurtin’ ya.”
The weeping didn’t abate.
“Leave her alone!” Tory cried.
That sly laugh reached her from across the corridor. “Watch your tongue, missy. You ain’t too far from dun territory yourself.”
Tory’s lungs seized. She knew his meaning then. If Patrick’s payments ceased, she could be prey to this man as much as Daisy was.
Daisy was crying louder now, and Tory’s heart ached for her. The sharp sound of a slap resounded across the empty corridor and the crying ceased. Tory held her hands over her ears as the man’s groans grew louder until he found his release. Her stomach churned with nausea as she heard the keys jangle once more. He locked the girl’s cell behind him and left without another word. The weeping began again, the sound low and soft and heart wrenching.
“Are you hurt, Daisy?” Tory called.
“Not much,” Daisy answered on a hiccup. “I’ll be okay. I always am.”
Tory wished she could reach across and give the girl comfort. “Get some sleep. Dream about the ocean.”
Daisy made a soft sob, hitching in a ragged breath. “I will.”
Tory fell asleep, crying tears for Daisy, and for herself as she burrowed beneath the scratchy blanket.
* * *
Patrick paced about his dimly-lit rooms, his gait unsteady. Three days had passed since he’d seen Tory. Every time he recalled the disgust in her eyes, every time the sound of her angry voice echoed in his brain, his heart clenched. He lifted the brandy bottle. The contents were nearly depleted, he saw through bleary eyes. He set it back down and resumed his clumsy pacing.
He’d purposely stayed away from her these past days. He couldn’t bear to see her beloved face twisted with such abhorrence. How would he regain her love? How would he convince her that he hadn’t kept his title from her due to any embarrassment or shame? And now she sat there in that cold little cell, hating him with all of her heart, that heart that had so recently welcomed him.
He’d spent the past three days engaging a barrister to find out what could be done. He was told that he could do nothing, since the judge had already decreed Victoria would remain at Millbank until her trial was set. In the meantime, Patrick told the barrister everything that had happened, and had returned with him to Elliot’s cell to get a sworn statement that Victoria had nothing to do with the man’s nefarious dealings.
He’d also tracked down Nan and Mrs. Floss and obtained sworn statements
from them regarding Victoria’s good character and innocence.
Both women were beside themselves with worry for Tory. The two loyal friends had vowed to testify on Tory’s behalf and inquired if they could visit her at Millbank. Patrick had considered it for a moment, but decided that Tory would be too distraught by their visit. He reassured them that he would do all that he could to make sure that Tory would be found innocent of all charges.
Shame was his constant companion. He was plagued by a desire to gaze upon her to assure himself of her well-being. But knowing how angry she was, he couldn’t bring himself to see her. He didn’t want to add to her distress. No. He wouldn’t go to her in Millbank again. Not until he could bring her home to live with him forever.
He’d left the fat jailer, Simms, with plenty of money for Tory’s care, but who knew just how long those funds would last? He needed to make sure that rotten Simms had plenty of garnish so that Victoria would be safe from his mauling.
Impatient, he rang for a servant. A slight young man appeared, one who often helped the gentlemen in residence. He was neatly dressed, though his clothes were somewhat wrinkled.
“Yes, sir?” the man asked.
Patrick went over to the armchair where he’d draped his jacket. He’d given his valet time off to visit his family, not wishing to be bothered as he conducted his investigations. He withdrew a twenty-pound note and pressed it into the young man’s hands.
“Go to Millbank Penitentiary. I need you to see that this is paid as garnish for a prisoner.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Prisoner?”
Patrick bit back a curse. “Yes, a prisoner. Her name is Victoria Elliot. The twenty pounds is to be paid for her.” He gave him a few shillings. “And this is for your trouble.”
The man swallowed, and then nodded. “Will do, sir.”
“Make sure you give it to the portly guard named Simms. Tell him it’s for Victoria Elliot.”
That Determined Mister Latham Page 21
