Carla Kelly (12 page)

The broad streets of Mayfair, with its stylish row houses, gave way to the business end of Picadilly. She paid closer attention to her surroundings, knowing she had to watch for the streets that would eventually lead to the Strand and then Fleet Street. The cold clamped down, bringing with it a whiff of sewage from the river. She wished she had not come.

“So help me, Emma Costello, if I have to call your name one more time, I'll leave you here to freeze your Irish bones.”

Surprised, she looked over her shoulder and then back down at the sidewalk.
Calm, calm
, she told herself.
No one knows you in London. It must be a mistake.
She started walking faster.

“Emma!”

There was no mistaking that peremptory voice. She stopped and looked into the street this time.

Lord Ragsdale, wearing a heavy overcoat and sitting under a lap robe, walked his horse and curricle beside her on the street. A tiger, fashionably dressed in the family livery, shivered behind the seat. When his master reined in his horse, the little Negro leaped down and indicated that she should allow him to help her into the curricle.

Emma stared in amazement and then allowed herself to be seated.

The tiger smoothed the lap robe over her too and then resumed his chilly position behind the seat. Lord Ragsdale snapped his whip over the horse, and they entered the stream of traffic again.

They passed several blocks in silence before Emma worked up the courage to speak. “I am going to Newgate, my lord.”

To her further surprise, Lord Ragsdale smiled. “If only they would keep you, Emma,” he murmured, before his voice became firm again. “Hanley told me. Tell me, Emma, and don't be shy. Is your head filled with porridge instead of brains? Have you not a single clue that you were walking into a neighborhood that not even a gypsy is safe in?”

As she listened to his bracing scold, she realized the idiocy of her plan. When he finished, she raised her chin and looked him in the eye.

“I only want information that will help me straighten out your bills and receipts, my lord.” It seemed foolish now, and she stared back down at her hands.

“Your energy continues to astound me, Emma,” he said dryly. “But why on earth did you leave my house with no gloves, no bonnet, and no muffler? I call that silly.”

“I don't have any of those things, my lord,” she replied, trying to keep the embarrassment from her voice. It was his turn to be silent for several blocks.

“Well, you should have waited for warmer weather, then,” he muttered finally. “Those bills have kept this long; they'll keep until warm weather.” He was silent then, his eye on the traffic.

Emma glanced at him, hoping he was not too angry with her.
Somehow I must learn to get along with this man
, she thought as she watched his expert hands on the reins guide his horse through city traffic. She was impressed, despite her suspicion.

He spoke to his horse, pulled back slightly on the reins, and looked over his shoulder. “Are we going back?” she asked.

“Oh, no, Emma,” he replied as he turned the corner onto Bailey. “Actually, I'm looking forward to the opportunity to give David Breedlow a piece of my mind.”

Are you sure you can spare that much?
she thought and smiled in spite of herself.

Lord Ragsdale glanced at her and then pulled his horse to a stop. “I don't know what you find so dashed amusing about a prison, Emma Costello,” he snapped.

She sobered immediately and tugged her cloak over her cold fingers. “There is nothing funny about prison,” she said, her words more distinct than she intended.

He snorted and nodded to the tiger to help her down. “You say that like an expert, Emma Costello.”

She didn't mean to respond, but the words came out anyway.

“I am, Lord Ragsdale,” she replied, then turned to the tiger and took his helping hand.

As Emma waited for Lord Ragsdale to join her on the sidewalk, she looked up at the gray pile before her.
So this is Newgate
, she thought.
I wonder if they are here
. The view blurred over then, and she found herself in tears. Quickly she dabbed at them, intensely aware that Lord Ragsdale was watching her, a quizzical expression on his face. She waited for a jibe or a scold, but instead, he took her arm and steered her toward the entrance.

“It's a sooty neighborhood, Emma,” he said as he pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to her.

He nodded to the porter who stood lounging beside the low entrance. “Mind your head, Emma,” he directed as he ducked his head under the gloomy stone portal.

She followed him in, holding her breath against that first whiff of prison air that she knew was coming. The oak door beyond was open and topped with a row of spikes and transverse bars. She hesitated a moment, fearing all over again the sound of such a door slamming.

Don't be silly, Emma
, she told herself. Another porter stood there, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Lord Ragsdale's elegant clothing and then ogling her own shabbiness. He winked at her, and when she drew back, surprised, he made kissing noises that stopped when Lord Ragsdale turned around and fixed him with a stare that could have melted marble.

“Dreadful place,” Lord Ragsdale said as he waited for her to stand beside him. “I don't know why you couldn't have just asked me to answer your questions, Emma.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide. “Hanley told me that you had no intention of helping me.”

Emma thought he smiled at that, but the antechamber was gloomy with the light of only one lamp, and she could not be sure.

“He is quite right, of course,” Lord Ragsdale said as he motioned the porter forward. “But perhaps I would have given you the information you needed in a day or two.”

She couldn't tell if he was quizzing her, so she made no reply.

The stench of the place was appalling, and she held Lord Ragsdale's handkerchief to her nose, thinking to herself as she did so that British prisons smelled much like Irish ones.
Spoiled food, unwashed bodies, filthy straw
, she thought,
disease rampant, and I wonder, does despair have an odor?
She concluded that it did as she stood next to Lord Ragsdale.

“Tell the governor of this fine old institution that John Staples, the Marquess of Ragsdale, wishes an audience with him,” the marquess was telling the porter. He held his hand to his nose a moment.

The man nodded, backed through a doorway, and vanished. He was back promptly. “It'll be a moment, my lord,” he explained. He looked at Emma. “Is she with you, me lord?” he asked.

“Regrettably, yes.”

The porter smirked at Emma. “Then she'll have to be searched by the warden over there before she goes any farther.”

Emma looked to the left where he pointed and saw a pale, thin woman leaning against a door frame. The woman straightened up and started toward her. Despite herself, Emma found herself crowding closer to Lord Ragsdale.

“A search will hardly be necessary!” the marquess snapped, and he stepped slightly in front of Emma.

“My lord, you'd be amazed what females try to smuggle in here under them skirts,” the porter assured him. “Go with her like a good girl, miss, or I'll have her lift your skirts right here.”

Emma took a deep breath, regretted it instantly, and steeled herself to step forward.
It's not that bad
, she told herself.
You've done this before
, she thought as the female warden gestured to her impatiently.

“I hardly think this is necessary” came Lord Ragsdale's smooth voice. “Emma, be a good girl and open your reticule for the nice lady.”

She did as he said, and he peered inside first. “Hmmm, nothing more dangerous than a tablet, pencil, and what appears to be a letter. Are you satisfied, madam?” he asked the matron.

The woman looked inside too, then stared up at the marquess.

“I'll still have to look under them skirts.”

“I don't think so,” Lord Ragsdale said. “Emma is irritating and three parts lunatic, but I would wager that there is nothing under her skirts beyond a pair of legs.”

The porter tittered behind his hand, and the matron glared at him and cracked him so suddenly on the side of his head that he dropped to his knees. Emma flinched and leaped back against the marquess as the little man howled in pain. Lord Ragsdale put his hand on her shoulder and moved them both out of the reach of the matron.

The woman jerked her hand back to strike again when the door to the governor's office opened suddenly.

“Mrs. Malfrey, remember yourself!” growled the man who stood in the doorway, a napkin tucked under his chin. As he came closer to the marquess, Emma noticed his greasy shirtfront and wondered why he bothered with the nicety of a napkin.

The matron slunk back to her side of the hallway as the governor of Newgate wiped his hand on equally shiny breeches and bowed elaborately to the marquess, who merely nodded at him.

“What can I do for you, my lord?” he asked. “It's a little late for morning callers.” He laughed at his own humor.

“We have a matter of business to discuss with David Breedlow,” Lord Ragsdale said. “He embezzled from me and is awaiting transportation.”

“Breedlow, Breedlow, Breedlow,” said the governor as he motioned them into his office. The remains of a leg of mutton and various pastries were jumbled over his desk, mingling with various papers and what looked like an earlier meal. “Ye caught me at table, my lord,” he apologized. “I always eats in my office, I do.” He leaned forward confidentially. “Do ye know, I was cited by the Lord Mayor himself last year. He called me a model of efficiency, he did.”

“I am sure you are,” Lord Ragsdale murmured, shaking his head when the governor offered him a chair. “We won't disturb you much longer. Show us to David Breedlow, please.”

The governor looked longingly at the mutton again and then laughed. “I'll have to find the bleeder first, won't I?”

“I'm sure he can't have gone far,” Lord Ragsdale said, more to Emma than to the governor, who busied himself with a row of books that looked old enough to have been in William the Conqueror's library, if that notable had been literate. He opened the newest-looking ledger on the row and thumbed through it, muttering, “Breed-low, Breedlow.”

In another moment he stuck his head out into the antechamber and called to the porter. They conversed a moment while Emma stayed close to Lord Ragsdale, who was looking about him in real distaste. Finally, the governor turned back to them, bowed to the marquess, and indicated the door again.

“Follow this bloke. He'll have Breedlow taken to an assembly room.”

“Come, Emma,” Lord Ragsdale said. “Let's see what delights this charming place has for us.”

The governor laughed out loud and then winked at the marquess. “Come back anytime, my lord, anytime.”

“Not if I can possibly help it,” Lord Ragsdale replied as they followed the porter down a narrow hallway, lit, almost as an afterthought it seemed, by candles here and there. “Emma, what did I do to deserve this?”

She thought a moment and then smiled in spite of herself as she hurried to keep up. “Well, you will own, my lord, that you have probably not thought about a drink lately.”

He laughed out loud, and the porter stopped and looked back, startled. The marquess only gazed at him serenely. “That was laughter—a natural eruption of good humor that occurs when people are amused. Do lead on, man. If we stand here much longer, we will use up all the air in this part of this fine old institution, I am sure.”

They continued deeper into the building, winding around in narrow passages that made Emma pray that the porter would not abandon them.
We would never find our way out
, she thought. They passed several gang cells, filled to bursting with men and women jumbled in together. Somewhere she heard a child cry, and her heart sank. She must have sucked in her breath or said something, because the marquess reached behind him and took hold of her hand. She clung to it gratefully.

They stopped finally before another oak door bound with iron, one of many they had passed through.
For all I know, we are back at the entrance
, Emma thought, her sense of direction confused by the gloom and the halls. The porter selected a key from the many that dangled at his waist and opened the door.

“In here,” he said as he swung the door wider. “Breedlow, you have visitors.”

Emma squinted in the gloom as she looked around. There were several other women there, sitting on benches facing a row of prisoners who were chained to the wall by one hand. Most of the men sat on the straw-covered floor, their one chained arm raised over their head as though they had a question.

“That's Breedlow, my lord, standing there on the end.”

“I know him,” the marquess said.

Emma looked at Lord Ragsdale, surprised at the uncertainty in his voice. She glanced at Breedlow, rail thin and pale as parchment, who gradually sank to the floor as though he had not strength to remain upright. His eyes were on the marquess, and in another instant, he started to sob.