Catherine leapt from the bottom rungs and landed heavily on the grass. She smoothed her skirt and looked about her. Leaving through the front gates would be far too dangerous. Through the enormous windows in the parlor, it was easy to see who was coming and going. There was a side gate, she knew, that led from the garden out into the alleyway beside the manor. Catherine made her way toward it, staying close to the trees in order to remain hidden.
She eyed the gate. The key was protruding from the lock, as always. She hurried toward it and turned the key, slipping through it into the alley. She pulled the gate closed behind her, leaving it unlocked.
I hope the gardener doesn’t see fit to check the gate today. I’ll need to come back into the house this way later.
With a final glance over her shoulder, she darted down the alley. Out she went into the streets of Chelsea, then out into the heart of the city. How wrong it felt. How sinful. And how strangely liberating.
It was a long walk to the prison, but Catherine felt as though she were brimming with energy. Around her the city heaved and groaned; a smoky chaos of rattling carriages and street vendors, theater goers and business men.
There were eyes on her, of course. Questioning looks from ladies and sly glances from men.
She could almost read their thoughts.
“Who does she think she is, roaming these streets alone?”
But Catherine had become used to having eyes on her. Such a thing, she was beginning to realize, lost its power the moment you ceased to care about it.
Let them watch me. Let them judge me. Let them guess at my story, my crimes. Let them call me what they like.
And suddenly her thoughts were silenced. Because she was standing outside St. Bride’s church. And there was Patrick Connolly.
Chapter 13
Catherine had been unsure what expect when she had appeared on Lord Ramshay’s doorstep the night before. Yes, if Edmund was to be believed, the Baron had feelings for her. But she had not been sure whether such a thing would equate to him being pleased to see her when she turned up under such questionable circumstances.
She had been overcome with gratitude when he had agreed to secure the permit for her. She had had to hold herself back from flinging her arms around him and squeezing him tightly. Patrick Connolly, she was beginning to see, was far more than just a light-hearted joker. There was a depth to him that his friends did not give him credit for. A depth that a part of her longed to explore.
She walked toward him shyly, half expecting him not to recognize her in her colorless servant’s clothes.
But his face broke into a smile. “I’m glad you made it here safely,” he told her. “Did you have trouble finding the church?”
She shook her head. “I’ve been to St. Bride’s before. With my father.”
“I wish you’d let me accompany you.”
She shook her head. “I’ve asked enough of you. I can only imagine what our dear friends at St. Matthew’s would say if they saw me climbing into a cab with you without a chaperone.”
Lord Ramshay gave a faint smile. He dug into his pocket and handed her the visitor’s permit.
Catherine’s eyes moved over it. “Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you so much. Was it difficult to get?”
He shook his head. “As I said, it’s no bother.” He offered her his arm. “But I must insist on seeing you to Newgate, Miss Barnet. It is not the most pleasant part of the city.”
Catherine nodded, gratefully accepting his arm. The moment she had felt the permit between her fingers, her stomach had begun to roll.
She was really doing this. She was really going to walk into Newgate Prison. She felt her fingers dig a little tighter into Lord Ramshay’s arm. The solidity of him was steadying.
They walked quickly toward the jail, stopping to stare up at the imposing brick building. It stretched the length of the block and rose several stories into the cloudy sky. Red-coated guards stood at attention on each corner. The sight of the place sent a bolt of fear down Catherine’s spine.
But she needed to be here. She needed to see Robert.
“Where do I go?” she asked Lord Ramshay uncertainly.
“Show your permit at the visitor’s entrance,” he told her. “This way. I’ll take you.”
“No,” Catherine said, too quickly. “I can’t ask that of you. I can’t expect you to involve yourself in my family’s troubles any more than you have already.”
Lord Ramshay fixed his dark eyes on hers. “Miss Barnet,” he said gently. “I never would have helped you if I didn’t wish to do so.”
She gave him a faint smile, then shook her head emphatically. She slid her hand from his arm. As she did so, her fingers trailed over his wrist as though they had a mind of their own. “Thank you,” she said. “Truly. But this is something I need to do alone.”
* * *
Patrick watched from the opposite side of the road as Catherine disappeared into the looming expanse of the jail.
He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly cold.
He hated this place. The sight of it reminded him of who his father had truly been.
If his father had not succumbed to a sudden bout of scarlet fever, would he too have ended up rotting in a Newgate cell?
Perhaps I wouldn’t have minded such a thing.
Patrick shoved the thought away. He reached into his pocket. Touched the delicate paper of the second visitor’s permit.
Patrick had known nothing of Harry Penwith when his father was alive. The man had pulled him aside the day of the Baron’s burial.
“I was an associate of your father’s,” Penwith had told Patrick. “I was a clerk at his accountant’s. I’m very sorry to hear of his passing.”
Patrick had given a nod of thanks, expecting no more from the man than obligatory sympathies. But Penwith had taken a step closer and clamped a hand to the back of Patrick’s neck. “I know things are beginning to come to light with regards to your father’s…dealings,” he said. “I’d like to discuss them with you further.”
Hesitantly, Patrick had agreed to meet with him at the townhouse the following day.
Penwith had been rattled, terrified that his own exploits into illegal gambling might spill free with the Baron’s death. Patrick had assured the man that his name had appeared nowhere in relation to his father’s debts. He had assured him further that he had no desire to bother himself with the man’s past.
“Leave my house,” he’d told Penwith, “and we need not have anything to do with each other ever again.”
But when Penwith had emerged from the townhouse, he had stepped straight into the waiting hands of the authorities. Patrick had been as shocked as anyone to see a scuffle between Penwith and the soldiers unfolding in the street outside his home. And yet Penwith had been certain Patrick had set him up.
He glanced down at the permit again. Penwith had been held in Newgate for the past two and a half years. Patrick had assumed he would never see the man again. But there had been far too many questionable characters appearing on his doorstep of late. He no longer felt safe in his own home. He needed answers. Answers that Harry Penwith might be able to provide.
And so when he had arrived at the Lord Mayor’s office to secure the permit for Catherine, he had found himself requesting one for himself.
He straightened his shoulders and marched toward the jail entrance.
Harry Penwith, it seemed, had taken to good behavior during his time in prison. Patrick was permitted to meet with him in the recreation room, a drab stone building with long wooden tables stretching down the middle. Men sat huddled together playing cards, others were hunched over books. One prisoner sat beside the doorway, blowing clouds of pipe smoke at everybody who passed.
Patrick sat opposite Penwith at the table. Penwith’s face was gaunt and covered in gray bristles. His eyes were dull. He had seemed a forgettable man up until the point he had accused Patrick of conspiring to have him arrested.
Penwith had
obviously not forgotten Patrick either. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair.
“Lord Ramshay,” he said slowly. “What brings you to this fine establishment?”
“Have you ever met a man named George Thorne?” Patrick asked.
Penwith scratched his beard. “You’re after my help, are you? I must say, you’ve quite a nerve.”
The back of Patrick’s neck prickled. “Just answer the question,” he hissed.
Penwith sniffed. Didn’t reply. When Patrick moved to stand, he said: “Thorne…Doesn’t sound familiar.”
Patrick clenched his jaw.
This man is a liar. He holds a grudge against me for something he was never able to prove. Why have I even bothered to speak to him?
“Short, stocky man,” he told Penwith. “Said he knew my father. I need to know more about him.”
Penwith shook his head. “Don’t know the man. Sorry.” He gave Patrick a leering smile. “Wish I could be more help, My Lord. I truly do.”
* * *
Robert’s nobility had saved him from the dungeons of Newgate, but his plethora of crimes, Catherine learned, kept him from using the chapel and recreation rooms.
She walked close to the guard as he led her down the narrow stone walkway. Cells lined either side. There was a violent stench of human waste and unwashed skin, a constant hum of murmurs and cries and cursing. Catherine felt her stomach turn as they passed a particularly putrid-smelling cell. A quick sideways glance told her there were at least five men inside. She pressed a hand over her nose and mouth to try and stop herself from gagging.
The prisoners pressed themselves against the bars of the cells as she passed, hissing and calling. Grimy hands reached toward her. One caught hold of her skirts, making her yelp in surprise. The guard swung around and swatting the offending fingers with the stock of his rifle. Catherine pulled her cloak tighter around her body and walked with her eyes on her feet, staying close behind the guard.
Her stomach was turning over at the thought of seeing Robert. In spite of everything, she missed him dearly. Though she saw his mistakes, of course, her love for her brother had never wavered. But how would it feel to see him in this place, crammed in among these thieves and liars? She felt sure the sight of such a thing might cause her to crumble.
The thought of Lord Ramshay waiting for her outside was vaguely reassuring.
The guard stopped outside a cell and unlocked the door. For a moment, Catherine stood motionless. She barely recognized her brother. His once lustrous brown hair had been cut close to his head, making his face look narrow and his ears prominent. Dark shadows underlined his eyes and his skin looked pale and lifeless. A grimy shirt hung loose on his body. His feet were bare.
“Catherine.” Robert stood in the center of the cell, his shoulders pressed back and his chin lifted, despite his filthy appearance. “You’re here.” The surprise was evident in his voice.
Catherine swallowed heavily and stepped inside, feeling a jolt inside her at the sound of the guard locking it behind her.
“You’ve ten minutes,” he told her. She nodded, then dared to look back at her brother.
“Of course I’m here,” she told him curtly. “You wished it.”
“I did. I just thought…”
You didn’t think I had it in me to do such a thing…
Her eyes darted around the tiny cell. A thin sleeping pallet lay against one wall, covered in a threadbare grey blanket. A tin bucket sat beside it. Catherine turned away. The thought of her brother wasting away in this dreadful place made tears prick her eyes. She blinked them away hurriedly.
She needed to be strong.
I need to show him there’s more strength in me that he thinks.
She looked back at Robert. Beneath his thin thatch of hair, she could see a deep red gash. Bruising marked the edge of his temple. She reached out tentatively.
“What happened to you? Did someone—”
He slapped her hand away. “It’s nothing. Guards like to rough up the men a little is all.”
“The guards did this?” Catherine’s voice was little more than a whisper. The knot in her stomach tightened.
Robert took a step away from her, as though he did not like how closely she was looking at him. “Did you come alone?” he asked, his voice clipped.
Catherine hesitated. Would he be angrier to hear she had come to the prison unaccompanied, or to know she was strutting though the city on Lord Ramshay’s arm? Either way, her being seen would cause something of a scandal.
In the end, she gave a short nod. “Yes. I came alone.”
“Good.”
He looked up and down at her coarse woolen skirts. “Why are you dressed like the help?” He spat the words out as though they were poison.
Catherine felt a stabbing pain in her throat. “I had to sneak out of the house,” she said softly. “I didn’t want Aunt Cornelia to…” She faded out. “No one saw me,” she assured him. “No one recognized me.”
Robert nodded wordlessly.
They stood in stilted silence for a moment, staring each other down.
Why has he asked me here? Surely it is not just because he misses his sister…
Trying to goad him into conversation, she asked: “Are you well?” The words felt foolish. “I mean, apart from the guards and…”
He gave a snort of laughter. “I’m as well as can be expected.” He fixed her with hard eyes. “The house. It’s gone?”
Catherine nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s been sold,” she said, feeling the sting of the words. “It’s been bought by a family new to London. A duke, I believe.”
She felt as though it were her fault. She had been the one on the outside, the one who had watched the staff pack their trunks and disappear. The one who had walked the empty halls and turned the key in the lock for the last time.
In her rational mind, she knew there was nothing she could have done. But with her brother’s eyes searing into her, she felt inexplicably guilty.
And what of Robert himself? Ought she have done more to protect him?
She remembered the words of the ladies in the churchyard:
“How could anyone have lived under the same roof as the man and not known what he was up to?”
She had been blind and naïve. She had not wanted to dig too deep into what went on beneath the surface of her brother’s life. And look where her naivety had led them.
She felt her shoulders hunch. She looked down at her feet, down at her patched gray kitchen maid’s skirts.
“I’m sorry,” she found herself saying. “I’m sorry I didn’t do more.”
Robert didn’t reply at once. “The lands in Sussex,” he said. “They need to be managed properly. I can’t do it from in here. I need you to find someone to do that. Speak to Edmund about it if you must.”
The pain in Catherine’s throat sharpened. She shook her head. “The lands in Sussex have been sold, Robert.”
His eyes flashed. “What?”
“Everything is gone. I told you. I’m sorry.”
He jabbed a grimy finger toward her. “No. You told me the house had been sold. You didn’t tell me they’d taken the lands as well.” His eyes were wide and angry. “How could you let this happen?” he demanded.
Catherine lowered her eyes, unable to look at him. “I’m sorry, Robert. There was nothing I could do. The lawyers, they—”
“The lawyers are just after money,” he hissed. “That’s all they’ve ever been after. It’s in their best interest to sell the lands.” He began to pace back and forth, his bare feet sighing against the stone floor. “What are we supposed to live on now? Charity?”
Catherine pressed her back against the bars. Her brother looked like an incensed animal, pacing back and forth across the cell. Something in his eyes terrified her. She had seen that same wildness in his face the night he had torn from the house to be caught by the soldiers.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled again. �
�I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it.”
Robert didn’t look at her. “Sorry is not going to bring those lands back, Catherine. Sorry is not going to see us out of poverty.”
She swallowed hard.
“Leave,” Robert spat.
“What?”
He glared at her. “You heard me. You’re no use to me. You might as well leave before someone sees you in this place. Guard!” he called sharply. “Let my sister out. We are finished here.”
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 8
