The Countess' Lucky Charm (33 page)

Put to death? Me?

Moisture trickled down her thighs; her armpits grew wet. A roaring filled her ears. Her knees buckled and she sat down, hard, on the bench in the prisoner’s dock.

Put to death.

By hanging.

The object of ridicule for the hundreds of people who came by to watch the spectacle at the gallows in front of the prison each and every Monday morning at the hour of 8:00 a.m.

Sometimes she had trolled the fringe of the crowds gathered to watch the poor unfortunates taking their last breaths in sight of the jeering mob. She had never watched, instead had taken the public executions only as an opportunity to make some easy money. She hadn’t given much thought to the lives that ended so brutally, assuming they deserved their fate.

Now her life was to be snuffed. Her life and the life of the babe within her womb. Aye, she had stolen but only for good purpose, to feed herself and others in the workhouse. For that she would die?

Perhaps she deserved it, with her flippant ways and cocksure attitude. But the innocent baby within her did not deserve that fate.

Rough hands grabbed her and dragged her away, toward the dismal passageway leading to the holding area.

“You cannot hang me,” she shouted over her shoulder, digging in her heels in a vain attempt to slow her removal from the courtroom. “I’m with child.”

“Unhand her.”

A stern voice boomed through the court.

Astonishment rippled through the room; the grip on her loosened and Simone took the opportunity to pull herself free.

All heads, including that of Simone, turned to see a dark, imposing figure push his way through the benches of spectators.

Temple
.

Incredulous, she watched as he limped toward the magistrate’s raised bench. A slight, stooped man carrying a leather folder followed him.

“That woman is my wife, the Countess of Leavenby.” Temple raised his voice against the murmurs. “Unhand her, I say, she is innocent of any and all charges against her.”

Disbelief mingled with hope coursed through her. Temple had found her. Temple would put things right.

A grey mist rolled through her mind and in a dead faint, she toppled over.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Thin, painfully thin, even more so than the evening she had stowed away in his trunk. Concern filled him—she weighed nothing on his lap, a wisp of skin and bones and once again, rags. Her hair was a tangled, matted mass and great black shadows hung below her eyes; her cheeks were hollow smudges. She smelled of grease, perspiration and urine, an odour born of the deep seated fear that stains one’s clothing and stains one’s soul.

Newgate had not been kind to her.

He tucked the blanket around her shoulders as if, by doing so, he could tuck away the horrors she must have endured. With gentle fingers, Temple traced the contours of her gaunt face. Each time the carriage hit a bump, a groan trickled from her lips. His heart squeezed at the sound and he pulled her close against his chest as if he could stop her pain by sucking it through his own skin.

He lifted his gaze and let it wander out the window, looking without seeing the gas lamps that patterned the interior of the carriage with shadows as the drove past.

“Temple?”

He looked down; her eyes were closed. It must have been his imagination. He looked away again.

“Temple?”

This time he knew she had spoken. Elation filled him and he leaned over to kiss her nose.

“Hush, I’m here,” he murmured against her pallid brow. He relished the feel of her in his arms. A shiver crept along his spine at the realization of how much he had missed her and how close he had come to losing her forever.

“Are you cold?” she whispered through chapped lips. She must have felt him shiver.

“Nay, I’m not cold.” A smile twisted his lips. “I have you on my lap, how could I be cold?” He meant it as a jest and relieved, he saw the corners of her mouth lift slightly.

“Am I so very warm?”

“Yes.” He brushed away a stray wisp of hair that clung to her forehead.

The exertion of speaking even a few words cost her for she closed her eyes again and lapsed into silence. The shudders started then, great, wracking convulsions distorting her face and jerking her arms and legs about. He gathered her close, holding her tight so she could not hurt herself. It must have helped, for the convulsions subsided to tremors.

“Hurry!” He rapped on the wall and shouted to the driver. “Hurry!”

The horses picked up their pace and the coach swayed and bumped on the cobblestones. After what seemed an eternity, they pulled up with a jerk. The screech of the brakes must have alerted Tedham, for the door swung open as Temple galloped up the stairs carrying his listless burden.

“Send for the doctor!” Temple barked to the surprised butler. “Have the maids bring hot water, soap and towels to my bed chamber.”

He carried a limp Simone upstairs. Tenderly, he laid her on his bed. He stripped off her clothing down to her shift, inspecting the bloodied skirt with narrowed eyes. Her blood? If not hers, then from whom?

A knock sounded. “My lord, we are here with the water.”

“Enter.” He shouted and even to his ears, his voice sounded harsh. “Over there.” He waved to the washstand. “Anna, fetch a clean night gown.”

“Of course, my lord.” The maid dropped her stack of linens and scooted off.

The door closed behind the parade of chamber maids, leaving behind pails of steaming water and an assortment of scented soaps. He searched through them until he found the scent he sought. Lemon verbena. He held it close to his nose and inhaled. Lemon verbena. And sunshine and smiles.

He began to wash her, dabbing at the pale skin time and again. Her eyelids fluttered but her eyes remained closed.

A knock sounded again. “My lord, I have the night gown.” He stalked to the door, yanking it open and grabbing the gown from the hand of a very startled Anna.

By the time he had washed Simone and slipped on her night gown, Dr Simon burst through the door.

“Forgive me for not knocking, Lord Wellington, however Tedham impressed upon me the urgency of the situation.”

“It’s my wife,” a grim-faced Temple said. “She needs medical attention. A very unfortunate set of circumstances landed her in Newgate and I fear for her health.”

Before he had even finished speaking, the unperturbed doctor had set his bag beside his patient and begun his examination.

Temple
sagged against the foot of the bed, swiping a hand against his sweat prickled forehead, wincing at Simone’s every moan or twitch as the doctor poked and prodded.

“She’s fine.” Dr Simon pronounced at length, turning to face him.

“The tremors? It’s not gaol fever?”

“Oh no,” the doctor declared. “The tremors are simply the result of stress. Hunger, too, I would wager.”

“She should make a full recovery?”

“Oh yes.” Dr Arthur nodded head confidently. “One thing, however. I should be the first to congratulate you on your impending fatherhood.”

“I beg your pardon?” Temple gaped at the smiling face.

“Your wife is with child. Due in about seven months, I would say. Not that we have anything to do with that. It rests entirely with the whims of the baby.” He rummaged about in his bag and pulled forth a small bottle. “A spoonful in the morning and evening of this tonic should help her regain her strength. Start her with a hearty broth for a day or two. After that, make sure she eats plenty of fish and red meat.”

“Of—of course,” stammered a stunned Temple. He moved to sit down beside Simone, not noticing as the doctor excused himself and quit the room.

A father. He was to be a father. A new life, created by him and Simone. A smile spread across his face; laughter burst from his throat.

A father.

* * *

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t open her eyes. Her eyelids refused to obey, as if lead weights sat on them. She puzzled on this a moment or two before lifting one hand to brush the weights away. To her surprise, a warm hand caught hers. Something soft brushed against her fingers, something like … lips?

“Simone? Are you awake?” The whispered query battered her brain.

Awake? What was awake?

“Simone, open your eyes.” The whisper became authoritarian and rebellion rose within her. She would open her eyes when she was good and ready to open her eyes.

“Simone, please open your eyes.” The tone changed, becoming more pleading. It caught her attention.

Oh, very well, she thought crossly, if only to stop you from pestering me.

Eye lids quivering with effort, she tried to open her eyes. She wanted to give up. But something in the voice compelled her to try again. Slowly, her eye lids obeyed her.

She blinked against the light. A very tired, very bedraggled, very unshaven Temple came into focus.

“Where am I?” Her voice was scratchy, her lips wooden. She tried to look around the room but he loomed over her, restricting her view.

“Home. In my bed. In our bed,” he corrected himself.

“I’m not in Newgate? This isn’t a cruel joke, is it?”

“Not a joke.” He shook his head. His dark hair was tousled, as if he had run his hands through it time and again.

“I am sorry,” she whispered, “for causing you so much trouble.”

“See that it doesn’t happen again, young lady,” he said with mock severity.

“Not to worry.” A ghost of a smile crossed her face. “I have had more than enough of prison.” Her eyelids drifted shut then fluttered open. “You searched for me?”

“Yes. I would have found you sooner but the constable who visited Newgate inquired for Lady Simone Wellington, Countess of Leavenby, not Mona Dougherty. I, distraught as I was over your disappearance, didn’t think of it at the time. ” He dragged his free hand through his hair. “I am sorry.”

He had looked for her! Joy bubbled within her at the realization. “How did you persuade the magistrate to release me?”

“In the end, it was easy enough. I simply explained to him you had been dressed for a masquerade ball, we had a tiff and you ran off. You were picked up in a case of mistaken identity. He was a bit suspicious of the blood on your skirt, though.” He paused and looked at her sharply. “How did you get blood on your skirt?”

“Oh that.” She paused to think. “It is your blood. From the warehouse. We found you and I stayed with you while Gentry Ted went for a cart to bring you home.”

The shadows in his memory parted and he remembered. “It was you? You were my angel?” He lifted her hand again, turning it over to place a feather light kiss in her palm. “I never believed angels existed,” he murmured against her palm before lowering it. “Now I do.”

The warmth in his voice embarrassed her. An angel. He thought her an angel. Before she could consider the implications of that, Temple spoke again.

“Gentry Ted tipped me off on your whereabouts. It puzzled him that you had run off without him.”

“He didn’t come back.” A sigh escaped her lips. “I waited for him but I was almost discovered by Mortimer-Rae’s henchmen. It scared me and I realized it was up to me to save you.” A lone tear trickled down her cheek. “I was on my way to Joanna. I didn’t know I would run into Constable Carstairs or I would have been more cautious.” She wiped away the tear with her sleeve.

“Rotten luck,” Temple growled through clenched teeth. His fingers twitched. “I should like nothing better than to wring the constable’s neck.”

 
“The prison was horrid,” Simone whispered. “The noise, the stench, the dreadful people.” She stopped to swallow hard.

“You must not think about it,” he soothed. “You are safe now and forever with me.”

She nodded. “It is wonderful, you know.” He gave her a quizzical look. “To be warm and clean,” she explained. “I had not realized how lovely that really is.”

He chuckled. “That’s quite a come around from the day I met you,” he teased gently.

 
He still held her hand in his and she relished the feel of his fingers clasped about hers. A small touch, really, but it a touch promising sanctuary and it warmed her all the way to her toes.

Her eyelids drifted shut
. The baby. I must tell him about the baby.
She jerked them open. “Temple? There is something I must tell you.”

He shook his head. “Rest,” he said, placing a finger against her lips. “We’ll talk later.” Reluctantly, he loosed his grip and laid her hand across her chest.

They would talk later, he thought, there was still much to say and unfinished business between them. He leaned back in his chair and watched her innocent face as she slept.

* * *

The windows were dull, the sky pewter grey, when Simone next awoke. A cheery fire flickered in the grate, casting its glow onto the oak panelled walls and its warmth into the room.