Sari Robins (22 page)

“So public perception is the deciding factor?” Her tone was incredulous.

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Don’t think you can tell me what I can and cannot do!”

Bills raised his hands in entreaty. “Can we discuss this
after
we see Tess cleared of murder charges?”

The silence was loaded with tension as Heath glared at Tess, willing her to see reason. But she lifted her chin, refusing to meet his gaze.

Obstinate girl. Couldn’t she see that he was only trying to protect her?

Bernard sniffed. “Mr. Smith is right. First things first. Lady Golding will have no opportunity to spy if she is swinging from the gallows.”

The image of Tess hanging from a noose materialized in Heath’s mind, and his chest constricted with horror.

Tess’s hand lifted to her neck, and fear flashed in her eyes. Her gaze sought Heath’s.

Swallowing, Heath squeezed her shoulder. “We have enough battles at the moment, we needn’t fight each other.” For now. He wasn’t about to let her keep up with this dangerous spying business.

Tess nodded, clearly unconvinced, but concerned with more pressing matters as well.

“The critical thing, as I see it,” Bernard said, “is if this Mr. Wheaton will make himself and your connection known. Will he?”

Exhaling a shaky breath, Tess bit her lip. “Wheaton is…well, he’s quite Machiavellian. But I think he will. He’s out of town at the moment, though. Mr. Reynolds is filling in.”

Bridging his hands before him, Bernard nodded.
“Two men who know about your work with the Foreign Office. This is getting better and better. I confess, at first I wondered if it was a domestic squabble or a quarrel over pay. But this is far better.”

“Not for Fiona,” Tess interjected, her features a mask of grief. “I want to know who killed my friend and I want to see him pay. We have a murderer running about scot-free, and that, I cannot allow.”

“Hear, hear,” Heath murmured, filled with admiration for Tess and her desire for justice.

She shot him a grateful glance. “Will you help me?”

“I’ll be the first in the hunting party.”

Reaching over, she grasped his hand, and he was filled with a sense of affinity. No matter the conflicts between them, when things got bad, they would stand by each other.

Bernard scratched his chin. “So how do we find these Foreign Office fellows?”

Tess’s gaze moved to Bernard. “Downing Street. I have no idea where Wheaton went, but Reynolds will know. Still, he can confirm everything I told you is true.”

“Excellent. I will speak with this Reynolds chap,” Bernard said, rising. “Get him to step forward.”

Heath stood. “I’m going with you to the Foreign Office.” Tess’s fate was too important for him to sit idly by.

“Count me in, too,” Bills added.

Looking up at the men, Tess’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “I’m a very lucky lady.”

Scratching his cheek, Bills shook his head. “I don’t know many other women sitting in Newgate Prison who’d say the same.”

Pride and a possessive feeling that Heath couldn’t identify surged through him. “Tess is no ordinary woman.”

“Y
ou lying bastard!” Furious, Heath grabbed Reynolds by the lapels. But the wiry man was much stronger than he appeared and shoved Heath off and moved behind the desk in mere seconds.

Reaching into a drawer, Reynolds pulled out a short sword and pointed it directly at Heath’s chest. “You’ll take your leave now and not bother me with your imaginary theories.”

“If you’re a secretary, I’m a proper seamstress,” Bills growled, stepping to Heath’s side.

Bernard held up his hands. “There’s no call for violence, now, my good man. All we need is to speak with your superior.”

“Mr. Wheaton’s not here,” scoffed the secretary, who no doubt had never seen this side of a quill. Reynolds was a reedy thing with a pointy face and a high, nasally voice. When the man had first called for them to enter his office, Heath had thought that the man seemed harmless enough, with his short stature and slender frame. But with the blade unwavering in
his hands, matched only by his pitiless gaze, Heath suddenly knew that the bloke would kill without hesitation. How could Tess have worked with such a man? Well, it had to stop.

“Where is Mr. Wheaton?” Bernard inquired.

Like that of any vermin with a predator nearby, Reynolds’s dull brown gaze did not leave Heath. “Out of town. But don’t bother trying to reach him; he’ll be even less patient with your wild accusations about us working with some trollop than me.”

“Trollop!” Heath raised a fist.

“We’re not accusing anyone of anything,” Bernard countered, shooting Heath a quelling glance. “We’re simply here at Lady Golding’s behest.”

Reynolds’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t know her, except by
reputation
, of course,” he sneered. “I hear she’s quite free with her favors.”

“You son of a bitch!” Heath stepped forward.

The short sword jerked, aiming for his chest.

Bills laid a hand on Heath’s arm, pulling him back. “You’ll do Tess no good if you’re in a grave or a prison.”

Reynolds smirked. “You’re mighty heroic when you know you can’t do a thing. Feeling a bit
impotent
, are you?”

“The man’s cracked,” Bills whispered in Heath’s ear. “And there’s more than one way to bake a cake, my friend. Tess needs your help and this is not the way to do it.”

Torn, Heath didn’t budge. Reynolds was a double-dealing snake. And his insults went beyond the pale.

He knew that Tess wasn’t lying. It simply wasn’t her style. She might not tell the whole truth but she was not an out-and-out fabricator. Moreover, the facts were incriminating enough to be wholly against her interests. And she knew that they would be checked.

Why was Reynolds being such an ass? Afraid of scandal? Afraid of the
ton
taking up arms about being investigated? Concern over society putting pressure on the Foreign Office to cease some of its operations? Governmental rivalries?

No matter what possibility came to mind, Heath sensed that Reynolds’s actions were directed against Tess. They had to be, to desert a woman when she faced hanging.

Bills tugged on Heath’s arm. “We’re getting nowhere here. And when you hit a wall…”

Dig a tunnel
, was what they’d always said when they’d run into difficulty at the Inns of Court.

“You’re a bug in need of squashing,” Heath bit out, turning his back on the son of a bitch and heading toward the door. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. “Try it,” he dared over his shoulder. “And you’ll swing before the end of the week.”

Bernard put his hat on his head. “Obviously we were mistaken, Mr. Reynolds. We’re sorry to have disturbed you.”

The three men silently filed out of the room.

Once on the pavement, Bills spoke, “Don’t those fellows have some sort of code about not leaving a man behind on the field?”

Bernard adjusted his sleeves. “Apparently not, if what Lady Golding says is true.”

“She’s not lying.” Heath’s glare was matched only by Bills’s.

“The Cat and Bagpipes is around the corner,” Bernard offered. “I suggest we repair there to consider our tactics.”

The men silently traversed the narrow streets and alleys, passing muck-scented livery stables and dilapidated lodging houses. The sounds of carriage wheels, horses’ hooves, and hawkers plying their wares filled the air.

The Cat and Bagpipes was half empty as the men took a table near the front entrance by the door. They each ordered ale, but when it arrived, Bernard was the only one to drink.

Bernard leaned forward, his tone affable. “I heard that some of the public houses around here were hostels of old for pilgrims seeking the shrine of Edward the Confessor at Westminster Abbey.”

Heath shrugged, his mind filled with Tess and her troubles.

“Still reading history, are you?” Bills made a face. “Well we have a lady’s future to consider, if you don’t mind.”

Bernard sniffed.

Running his hand through his hair, Heath swallowed his frustration. “We need to find Wheaton.”

Bernard snorted. “Why? So we can hit another dead end? I’m not a Bow Street Runner and neither are you.”

“Mayhap Wheaton has a bit more honor than that nasty Reynolds bugger,” Bills countered.

Shaking his head, Bernard sipped from his drink. “If you do find this Wheaton fellow, which will be difficult enough to do, you’ll likely get the same response as Reynolds. I say we find another course. One more suitable to keeping our eyes on the real target—getting Lady Golding out of Newgate.”

Heath had never admired the snippity barrister more than he did at that moment. Leaving Tess at Newgate that afternoon had been one of the hardest things Heath had ever done.

Heath peered out the window, wondering what she was doing. It was growing late, and his last hopes of clearing Tess so she wouldn’t have to spend the night at Newgate were fading with the darkening sky. A night in such a place…

Curling his fists, Heath pushed aside the anxiety, refusing to give in to the phantoms. She’d be fine. She was inside the warden’s residence. Warden Newman had given his word that she’d be perfectly safe. Anna was there, too.

Instead of allowing his fears to strangle him, Heath would use the anxiety to propel him forward to chase down whatever avenue would see her free and safe and in his arms once more. “So what do you propose we do, Bernard? I am open to any suggestions.”

Belching, Bernard waved a hand. “First we bring up the fact that Lady Golding works for the Foreign Office, then we substantiate that claim by showing
that she received funds from the Foreign Office. Then we float a few possible theories of what could have happened to Miss Reed and create reasonable doubt.”

“Not bad.” Heath nodded.

“But if we can’t make the link ring true, then we may be able to use the Foreign Office claim as part of an insanity plea.”

Heath wondered if he’d heard correctly. “Tess will not assume any responsibility for a crime she didn’t commit. Besides, no jury would rule Tess insane.”

Bernard shrugged. “I’m simply considering all of the possibilities. I do what it takes to get the job done.”

“But a woman is dead, and there’s a murderer running free!”

“Not my problem at the moment.” Bernard coughed into his fist. “I keep my focus fixed and leave the investigative work to the Bow Street Runners. I suggest you do the same.”

Heath banged the table with his fist, drawing stares from the other customers. He lowered his voice. “I can’t. I cannot sit by while Tess is being blamed for some else’s crime. It goes against the very code I’ve sworn to uphold.” Not to mention that Tess was in danger as long as the murderer was roaming free. “You trace the money, and don’t you dare go for the insanity plea without checking with Tess first. I’ll find Wheaton.”

Tapping his finger on the table, Heath had a sudden idea. “I want you to do something for me, Bernard.”

“Yes?”

“Can you have your lackeys set up a watch at Downing Street?”

Bernard nodded. “We’ll know if Wheaton shows up. And when he does?”

“Send word to me. I don’t care where I am or what I’m doing, track me down and let me know.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Narrowing his eyes, Bills pursed his lips. “I may have an idea for how to find Wheaton, and it could be a lot faster than waiting for him to surface.”

Hope rose in Heath’s chest, and now more than ever he was grateful for Bills’s friendship. “How?”

“We need to go to the society. I must speak with Lady Blankett.”

Heath frowned. “Lady Blankett? Why?”

Bills’s eyes twinkled. “She has a friend she told me about, an old chap named Sir Lee Devane.”

“How can he help?”

“It seems he used to work at the Foreign Office. She claims he used to be pretty high up, a knight with connections, she says.”

“Capital! He can give us a lead on where we can go or who we can ask to find Wheaton.” But as quickly as his elation came, it suddenly died, and Heath frowned.

“What is it?”

“I don’t think Tess wants anyone in the society to know about her work with the Foreign Office.”

Bills scratched his cheek. “I don’t know that we have much choice.”

“I’ll dash to Newgate and see what she says and meet you back at the society.”

“You’re worried about her.” It wasn’t a question. Bills understood.

Heath was already setting his hat on his head and heading for the door, intent on hailing a hackney. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“I
t’s too damned cold in here,” Tess muttered to herself, pulling her shabby work shawl tighter around her and leaning closer to the low-burning hearth. Removing her useless gloves, she rubbed her hands together, trying to get the blood flowing in the frozen sticks that used to be her fingers. Her feet were so cold they were almost numb, no matter than she wore three pairs of wool stockings.

It was almost as if the very air was too thin, and laced with a cold that nipped at your bones. Tess had visited prisons many times, but she’d always gone back to her nice cozy house; never had she had a taste of real confinement. Never had she felt so dreadfully alone.

While Anna was there, Tess had put on a brave face. But now, alone with the shadows, real and imagined, Tess couldn’t decide which was worse, the sorrow or the terror. She vacillated between wanting to lie down and cry, and jumping at every noise, a fireside poker raised in her hand.

Tess once more checked the small glass clock she’d brought from her bedroom. Only three minutes had passed since she’d last checked? It couldn’t be. Mayhap it was broken? Holding the clock to her ear, she listened for the clicks. Deliberate and steady. Closing her eyes, she sighed. The clock was perfectly fine; it was she who felt as if time had sputtered to a stop.

The wind howled outside, and she shuddered, anxiety interlacing her every shortened breath.

I’m a prisoner in Newgate!

Setting aside the clock, she stood and paced, trying to dampen the fear splintering her flesh and twisting her insides into knots. Once more she checked the open doorway, even though it was too soon for Anna to be back.

She was glad she’d sent Anna to the house to get some more clothing. Anna shouldn’t have to suffer through this internment a moment longer than she needed to. The girl was too young to face this kind of environment, too sweet to be exposed to this other world.

Tess understood that she was far better off than any of the other prisoners, and counted herself blessed. Still, the fear gnawed at her composure and quickened her heartbeat to a racing canter. She was alone, a prisoner, surrounded by convicts and rapists and murderers…

“And guards,” she reminded herself, taking another turn. Still, fear ate at her like a parasite, shooing all positive thought from her mind and leaving her with only hulking shadows. Her heels echoed loudly
in the empty chamber as she crossed the small space before the hearth once more. How many other prisoners had trod this path with worry? How many of those prisoners had swung from the courtyard gallows below?

She ran her hand through her hair, loosening the coil and allowing it to fall around her shoulders.

“Could I be any more pitiful?” she muttered to the flickering candles. “Arrested for murder…”

Her steps slowed as grief overwhelmed. “Fiona…” A tear rolled down her cheek, one of the many that had fallen since she’d heard the news.

A crash erupted down the hallway. Tess started, holding her breath and eyeing the distance to the poker. Warden Newman had promised that she’d be safe, but her nerves found little comfort in those words.

When no other sound came and disaster did not fall, Tess exhaled. “Dear God, I have to stop doing this or I’ll go mad.” Either that or turn gray.

“Would Heath still like me if I’m a gray-haired Nervous Nelly?” She attempted a lame jest to the empty room.

Heath.

A small swell of joy trickled through the knot in her middle, loosening some of her fear.

Heath was out there, working for her release, fighting on her behalf…

If anyone could see her freed, it was Heath.

He believed in her, accepting that she was innocent. He took her word as truth, without doubt. He was the only man she’d ever met who’d really understood the
truth of all she’d faced. The thought comforted her deeply.

And he wasn’t upset about her work with the Foreign Office. A tiny thrill shot through her. She’d never shown that side of herself to anyone. And astonishingly, he accepted her. All of her.

He had grasped what happened with Lord Berber and Quentin with amazing shrewdness. He acknowledged her mistake with George Belington, and now her work with the Foreign Office. He knew it all and cared for her still.

A sense of awe and well-being blanketed her. She hadn’t thought that a man existed who could accept her and the mistakes and the choices she’d made. But one did.

Heath.

The image of his handsome face surrounded by those ribbons of dark hair lifted her leaden lips into a smile. Thinking of his lean, smooth body and the wickedly delicious things she’d done and still wanted to do with him stirred a warmth deep inside her to which no fire could compare. Closing her eyes, she imagined the sensation of his brawny arms around her and how he made her feel safe and cherished.

Wrapping her arms about her body, she hugged herself close, rocking gently to the sounds of the window latch bumping in the whipping wind.

The room was three stories up, so there was no need for bars, thank heavens, but Warden Newman insisted that the shutters remain closed. Not a bad thought considering the chilly temperatures outside.

Still wrapped in her arms, she spun for another turn. She needed to stop thinking about her pitiful state and start focusing on how she was going to get free. She wondered how Heath had fared with Reynolds. How did Reynolds react to the news that she was in prison? Tess frowned. Probably with irritation. He had little patience when things didn’t go exactly as he wished.

Lord, how she hoped Wheaton was back in Town. The man might be a viper, but he was on her side and wouldn’t forsake her.

Or would he?

She stopped mid-step. Wheaton was the kind of man who cut his losses without a backward glance. Was she too much of a danger to him now that she could be exposed?

Tess swallowed, then shook her head. No, she’d done a lot for Wheaton, and was still of use, for the moment, at least.

She began pacing once more. Oh, how Tess wished she’d gotten more intelligence on the countess!

Could the countess be behind Fiona’s murder? Why? What threat could Fiona pose?

Fiona. What had she meant by what she’d said in her letter?

More importantly,
to whom did Fiona write that letter?

Tess’s paced quickened. Who was the “sir” who’d told Fiona that Tess was not as she appeared? Who was the mystery man that Fiona had wanted to meet? Had that meeting occurred? If so, perhaps it was
that
man who had harmed Fiona?

And what terrible thing had Fiona wanted to share?
What did I do to inspire such condemnation?

Guilt and shame and frustration warred within Tess.

Why should I feel guilty? What have I done?

Fiona had to have seen something upsetting. But what? Informing on people? It just didn’t seem as horrific as Fiona’s words conveyed.

Aggravated, Tess grabbed one of the pieces of wood from the pile she’d been rationing. She suddenly had no patience for being practical.

She knelt before the grate, hammering the poker into the wood, trying to position the lumber, her motions jerky, her anger steeping.
What have I done to turn a woman that I care about, one whom I trusted, into a snitch?

Tess did recall that Fiona had said that she was doing as the man asked out of concern for Tess’s safety. But still, Fiona was telling this “sir” any and all matters pertaining to Tess. It was despicable. No matter that Tess had informed on people, she’d always been circumspect about what she’d shared.

Tess stabbed at the wood as the fire crackled.

“Where’s yer mistress?” a deep voice called.

Tess started. As she turned, her breath caught. A hefty man with dark curly hair tied back with a bit of rope and a black beard stood near the closed door. He wore rough street clothes and scuffed brown leather boots that had seen better days.

“You frightened me.” Pressing her hand to her chest, she tried to calm her racing heart.

“Where’s yer mistress?”

He thought she was a servant. And no wonder, she wore her serviceable work gown, an old shawl, and was kneeling before the grate.

Still holding the poker, Tess stood, suddenly glad for his mistake; every hair on her body was raised in alarm.

The man’s meaty fists curled and uncurled as if he was nervous, and his eyes darted about the room and behind his back, as if fearful that someone might be coming.

Her heart began to pound so loudly, her ears roared. She hadn’t heard a peep from the guard outside. Anna was gone. It was just she and this man, alone in a scary place where a scream wouldn’t seem so out of place.

She swallowed, feeling as if tiny needles pricked her skin with terror.

She needed to start using her head and the opening that God had given her. Her hand tightened on the poker.

Clutching her shawl around her with one hand, she lifted her chin and mimicked Anna’s mother, “Me mistress went ta see the warden. And what’s yer business with her anyway?”

Holding her breath, Tess waited as her pretense hung in the air between them.

After the longest moment, the man’s lip curled and frustration flashed in his dark gaze. “I’ve a message for her.”

Tess swallowed. “I’ll pass it along if ye like.”

“It’s just fer her.”

Licking her dry lips, Tess nodded. “Suit yerself. But she’s not here.”

“That I can see.”

The silence grew thick.

So what’s it to be? It’s your move.

Her palms grew sweaty and the scents of metal and sweat filled the air.

Finally he snarled, “I’ll be back.”

Tess nodded, involuntarily taking a step backward.

As her skirts swooshed about her feet, the man’s eyes flickered to her expensive kidskin shoes.

Tess’s heart skipped a beat.

His smile was full of malicious intent. “Ta the warden’s, eh?” Never taking his eyes from her, he reached behind him and closed the door.

Raising the poker, Tess ran to the shuttered window screaming, “Help me!”

The brute charged across the room.

Tess lifted the poker but he swatted it out of her sweaty fingers as if it were a feather.

Screaming, she ran behind the table and tossed a chair down in his path. He stomped the chair as if it were made of sticks, his meaty hands reaching for her, grabbing her curls and yanking her back and off her feet. She landed hard on her back, knocking the wind out of her.

Slamming his knee into her chest, he pinned her down on the floor. She scratched at his arms and kicked at his legs.

He punched her in the face. Pain speared her jaw, and she saw stars, tasting blood. She pushed away the pain, raising her fists and fighting him.

He yanked off the twine tying his hair and looped it around her neck. The rope tightened, slicing into her throat, cutting off her air. She gagged. Her hands scratched at the cord, catching nothing but her own flesh. Gurgling sounds spewed from her mouth, and inside her head she heard screams.