by Brenda Joyce
Julianne stood, trembling wildly, her knees almost buckling. Somehow she staggered into the salon. She almost fell down as she reached the sideboard; instead, she clung to the counter. She wept harder now.
The images of the riot and the beatings whirled through her mind, for a long, long time. When her mind finally quieted, when she could hear harsh breathing—her own—instead of her sobs, she was in a heap on the floor.
She curled up and lay there, trying not to think.
But she had one single thought. If she wasn’t so exhausted, if her feet weren’t so blistered, she would go to Dominic.
Instead, she got to her hands and knees and managed to stand. She took the sherry from the sideboard, uncorked it and took a swig. Then, bottle in hand, she stumbled to the stairs. Taking them up to her bedroom was the longest walk of her life.
She put the bottle down on the bedside table and fell onto the bed, beyond exhaustion, and sleep came immediately.
“OPEN UP! JULIANNE GREYSTONE!”
She blinked as she awoke, so tired that she had to drag her eyes open. Then she stared at a night-darkened ceiling she did not recognize. Where was she?
“Open up! Julianne Greystone!”
And instantly she was awake. She remembered that she was in the house Lucas had let from Warlock and recalled the terrible attack upon the convention, the ensuing riot, the beatings.
A man was banging on the front door, shouting angrily for her.
She sat up, horrified.
And she heard the door being forced open, wood splintering as it slammed loudly against the wall.
She had to hide.
The instinct was an animal one. She did not know who was running into the house and up the stairs, but she heard the steps of several pairs of boots!
“Julianne Greystone!”
Julianne dove from the bed onto the floor. Their booted steps were louder now—almost at the top of the stairs. Oh, God! She would never get out of the room in time. She crawled under the bed, in sheer, mindless panic.
And a moment later, she heard them on the threshold of the bedchamber. She saw a small portion of the room become illuminated—someone held a candle. She trembled in terror.
Steps sounded. She saw a hand—and it touched her shoulder. She screamed.
She was seized by her hair and dragged out from her bed. Then she was hauled to stand—and she came face-to-face with a British army officer.
“What do you want?” she gasped.
Two men stood behind him, but they were not in crimson uniforms.
“You are under arrest,” the officer said. “Sedition is a crime against the King.”
CHAPTER TEN
THE GUARD ESCORTING her down the dark stone corridor tightened his grip on her arm. She cried out, but not because he’d hurt her. Her feet hurt terribly. Every step caused pain. But what was even worse was that her hands were manacled behind her back, so if she fell, she could not protect herself.
She was shocked and disbelieving. She had been taken to the Tower of London—as a political prisoner.
Barred cells lined each side of the corridor. Torches glowed from the sconces there. The shadows cast were eerie—but not as eerie as the prisoners they were passing. The men came to the front of their cells to leer at her.
Her heart lurched so forcefully she was sick. “What are you going to do with me?” she gasped.
The guard jerked on her arm, not answering. The officer who had arrested her an hour ago had refused to answer her, as well. She’d been tossed in the back of a carriage and she had been told to remain silent. She had asked about the charges, about proof, about a barrister, but she had been ignored. In shock and more exhaustion, she had collapsed in the corner of the carriage, too frightened to cry. Her breathing had been ragged with fear.
“Cell sixteen—this is for you.”
She saw an empty cell and relief flooded her. At least she would not be incarcerated with other prisoners, all of whom seemed to be male. Five men were in the cell next to hers. They were staring as she and her guard approached her cell door. Julianne looked away.
“Let’s go,” the guard said grimly, opening the cell door and removing her shackles.
Julianne stumbled inside, seizing the bars as she tripped again. “When will I be charged? When will I be able to speak with an attorney?” If she could get word to Tom, he would help her.
The cell door slammed. The lock clicked loudly—ominously. The guard didn’t look at her again as he walked back down the corridor, disappearing from her view. Finally, tears welled.
No one knew where she was. She could be in that cell for weeks, even months, before being charged or tried. She’d heard so many horrifying stories about what happened to prisoners. She began to shake violently. She could not breathe properly.
“Miss Greystone?”
The voice was familiar. She jerked in more disbelief and saw George Nesbitt standing in the adjacent cell, with four men she recognized from the convention. She cried out. Maybe there was hope! She wasn’t alone!
“Are you all right, Miss Greystone?” he asked.
His face was bruised, one eye black-and-blue. “Are you all right?” she gasped in return.
“I’ll live—if we’re only tried for sedition.”
Julianne had been holding so tightly to the bars that her fingers ached. She eased her grip. Comprehension failed her. But then, she was so tired, and at the end of her wits. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Nesbitt?”
“I’m saying that I’ve heard the rumors for months now. It’s Windham, not Pitt,” he said referring to the war secretary, who was notorious for being a very hard-nosed and impatient war hawk. “The Alien Office was his idea. And it’s all about cracking down on sedition, about stalking and arresting radicals like us.”
She swallowed hard. The King had outlawed sedition in May with his Royal Proclamation, and a royal edict was the law. “We are not guilty of sedition, Mr. Nesbitt. And this is a land of laws. Our government cannot stalk its own citizens, much less falsely accuse them.”
“No? So why are we all in here?”
“Laws are ignored all of the time, and especially in times of war,” one of Nesbitt’s cell mates said. He was a tall, thin fellow. He introduced himself as Paul Adams.
She closed her eyes tightly against more fear. Her stomach churned and she thought about the leader of the Reeves men. He had deliberately disrupted their peaceful assembly. When his men had begun to brutalize the attendees, he hadn’t ordered them to stop. He had also taken the registration list—she had seen him. Did he secretly work for the Alien Office? Or had he decided to simply help the Alien Office of his own volition?
Could they actually be charged with sedition? Could they be found guilty?
She shivered, suddenly cold. She was wearing only a summer dress—dirty and bloodstained—and she hadn’t thought to ask if she could bring a shawl. Was he right? “The leader of the Reeves men—who was he?”
“Rob Lawton,” Nesbitt spat. “He’s a fanatic and a reactionary.”
She shivered again. “Have you been charged?”
“No. But I’m wondering if we’ll be charged for sedition—or treason.” He stared at her.
She stared back, her heart slamming. Treason was a hanging offense. “Perhaps it can be argued that our assembly contained seditious speech, but there is a vast difference between treason and sedition, sir.” But then she recalled Jerome Butler and she cringed. He had been advocating treason.
“They might also decide to forget we’re here, until the war is over.” Adams spoke up harshly.
“We have laws,” Julianne managed. “We cannot be detained without being charged. At some point, we must be charged.”
“Men like Windham don’t care about the law. Surely you realize that now?” Adams cried. “They mean to stop the revolution—no matter what it takes.”
Julianne wanted to argue but was too tired to do so now. She was a radical, but she did not beli
eve that men like Pitt and Windham would subvert the rule of law to attain their own ends. They were Englishmen!
“You should not be here, Miss Greystone,” Nesbitt said, suddenly sounding tired. He walked away to sit down on a pallet.
“None of us should be in here. We have done nothing wrong,” Julianne said firmly. But she wanted to cry again. No one knew where she was, or that she was in such dire straits.
This was a terrible mistake! Couldn’t she find a way to convince the authorities to release her, without charging her? God, if only that damned Rob Lawton hadn’t appeared at their convention! Julianne knew that wishing the night had never happened would not solve anything, but she was so exhausted and frightened that it was hard to think clearly. Her mind was spinning uselessly.
There were several pallets in the small cell. She limped over to one, sat down and began removing her shoes. Her blisters were bleeding again. She needed soap and water and bandages. Obviously, no one would bring her any of those things.
She hugged her knees to her chest and gave in to the flood tide of despair. How had this happened? Tears rose up against her closed lids. She fought them. She had to think of a way out of this predicament.
Lucas would arrive home tomorrow. At some point, perhaps late tomorrow night, he would realize that she was missing. He would turn London upside down to find her.
But how would he ever locate her? Had a neighbor seen her being taken from the house in shackles in the middle of the night? Julianne tried to remember exactly what had happened when she had been escorted from the house to the carriage waiting outside, but she couldn’t recall anything. The moment was a blur, filled with panic, disbelief and shock. She prayed someone had seen the episode, but she couldn’t count on it.
Had she left any clues behind? And even if he found her, how would Lucas get her out? Once, hundreds of years ago, the Greystone name was revered and distinguished. But the family was clinging by a thread to respectability now. He didn’t have the means or the power to get her released.
Sebastian Warlock, her uncle whom she hadn’t seen in years, had means. Did he have power? Surely he would help, even if he barely knew her. Hadn’t Amelia said that he and Lucas were fairly close?
Julianne rocked against her knees, sick to her stomach. What was she going to do? If only her headache would go away, if only the fear would abate so she could think clearly!
Power…
Green eyes assailed her mind’s eye.
Julianne sat up, her eyes opening. But she didn’t see her cell or the cell across the corridor. She saw Dominic Paget.
“You saved my life. I owe you… If you are ever in need, Julianne, send word to me.”
Dominic would help her. Somehow, in spite of all that had happened between them, she believed it.
Julianne stood. Barefoot, she ran to the front of her cell. “Guard! Guard!” she cried.
“They won’t answer you,” Adams said.
She looked almost blindly at him. Hope had replaced despair. She had to get word to Dominic! “Guard! Guard!”
But there was no response.
JULIANNE HAD BEEN AFRAID to fall asleep, afraid she would miss the guards bringing the prisoners their breakfast. As a result, she lay on her side on the pallet, hugging herself to ward off the cold, wishing for a blanket, refusing to let her eyes drift closed.
Eventually all conversation died in the gaol. Eventually the only sounds to be heard were snores and the scurrying of rodents. And eventually, the light within her cell began to pale.
Julianne lay still as dawn’s first light filtered into the cell from the small window high above her head. The cell became brighter and brighter. The other prisoners stirred. Conversation began. She heard someone using a chamber pot. She ignored it.
Footsteps sounded, and she heard the sound of rusty wheels.
Julianne sat up as a pair of guards came into view, wheeling a cart filled with bowls. Every cell had small barred windows and these were lifted, the bowls handed over to the eager prisoners. Julianne realized that her cell mates were eating with their fingers. Her stomach churned.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the pretty traitor,” the guard said, pausing by her cell. “Come an’ get it, darling.”
Julianne stood up. “I’m not hungry. I need your help.”
He gave her a lewd look, laughing. “Let me guess. You’ll take care of me if I take care of you?”
She was so tired, at first she did not understand. Then she flushed when he stared directly at her breasts. “I need to get a message to the earl of Bedford. Surely you can bring me a quill and parchment?”
The guard sauntered up to her cell door. “Oh, I will gladly bring you diamonds, yer Highness, if you do me first.” He winked.
She knew that color flooded her face. “I must get word to Bedford. And there will be a handsome reward if you help me! Please!” Surely Dominic would help her reward this man. And if he would not, then she would find another way.
He eyed her rudely. “As if Bedford would have anything to do with the likes of you. But you invite me in, say, tonight, and I will get you a ‘quill and parchment,’ my lady.” He mimicked her genteel manner of speech.
“Tonight?” she gasped. “I can’t wait until tonight. I must get word to Bedford—”
He cut her off. “You want the gruel or not?”
“No!”
He walked past her cell, pausing by Nesbitt’s cell to give the men within their bowls.
Julianne was in disbelief. Then she seized the bars of her cell. “Who is in charge here? Damn it! Bedford will have your head, guard, when he learns how you have spoken to me and that you have refused to help me!” She was becoming enraged now. “Who is in charge? What is your name?”
The guard turned to look at her, scowling. “The constable is in charge of all the prisoners, lady. And I know you’re not an earl’s wife or sister. The earl of Bedford ain’t gonna care. This is a trick!”
“He will care—I am his mistress!” she cried.
A dozen men turned to look at her, including her comrades in the next cell. She inhaled and spoke firmly. “He will care. He will care very much. You can help me now, or you can suffer the consequences of your apathy later. Because eventually Bedford will learn that I am here. And you do not want to be the one he directs his wrath at.”
The guard seemed uncertain now. He looked at the other guard, who was wide-eyed, and said, “Maybe you should get the constable. I’ll finish here.”
Julianne almost sagged against the bars in relief, but she didn’t dare show weakness now. The one guard left. The other continued down the corridor, dispensing bowls. Nesbitt said softly, “You should eat.”
She glanced at him and saw the gray matter in his bowl. She felt fairly certain it contained all kinds of bugs. “I will help you, too.”
He said, “Bedford is a Tory.”
She faced the corridor, grimly.
Time passed with agonizing slowness. Julianne didn’t know if five minutes or fifty passed. But eventually the other guard returned. “What happened?” she cried.
“The constable isn’t in yet.”
Julianne cried, “Then go back and wait for him!”
The guard simply shrugged and walked away, clearly indifferent.
Julianne paced. Surely that guard would speak with the constable when he arrived? But the morning and the afternoon passed with agonizing slowness. The constable did not come. Different guards had brought their noon meals. They had entirely ignored her requests to speak with the constable. Julianne finally fell asleep, choking on fear and tears. When she awoke, it was dark outside the Tower windows.
In a few more hours, she would have been incarcerated for an entire day, she thought miserably. By now, the constable would have left the Tower. She imagined him at his home in a cozy parlor with his wife and children.
“You missed supper,” Nesbitt said.
Julianne tried to smile at him and failed. Her stomach hurt too much f
rom anxiety for her to have an appetite. She paced the cell, slowly.
How many times had Lucas begged her to be careful of voicing her opinions? How many times had he forbidden her from attending radical assemblies? He had only wanted to protect her—and he had been right. It was too dangerous now to be open about her positions and her views. But she hadn’t listened.
Had Lucas returned to London? Was he even now at the house? Was he worried about her? Was he speaking to the neighbors? Even if they had seen her being hustled into that carriage, Lucas wouldn’t have a clue as to where she had been taken.
Maybe, just maybe, he would enlist Paget’s help.
Suddenly a wave of dizziness swept her. Julianne hurried to her pallet to lie down. Once on her back, she simply lay there, fighting how heavy her eyes were, how exhausted her body was. Choking on despair, she curled into a ball, closing her eyes, thinking about her life at Greystone Manor, the affair with Paget and the riot. Eventually, near dawn, sleep claimed her another time.
Bright morning light awoke her. The jail was filled with conversation. She immediately recognized the sound of the wheeled food cart. Julianne sat up slowly, with dread.
She was still in the Tower.
The same two guards were approaching with the food cart. She got up—and a wave of dizziness made her sit back down. She waited for it to pass.
Then she got up more slowly and walked over to the front of her cell. The guard she’d spoken to yesterday looked at her and she said, “The constable never came.”
“He wasn’t here yesterday when I got off duty.”
“Bedford must know that I am here.” She spoke quietly. She did not have the energy to shout or make demands. “You will be rewarded.”
“I’ll see if I can speak to him when I am done in here,” he said. He picked up a bowl and held it near her cell’s food door, lifting it.
There was no dread now. Julianne took the bowl, sat on the pallet and ate the gruel with her fingers. She ignored the black specks she saw in it.
