The Prisoner (31 page)

The only person who had been relentlessly steadfast and true and faithful to them from the moment she came into their lives was Genevieve.

“Are you going to come back to us?” ventured Jamie.

Haydon hesitated. He wanted to say yes. But the children had suffered enough false hope and feeble promises in their lives. He would make no assurances that he could not keep.

A sudden pounding at the door prevented him from answering.

Oliver cocked a white brow at Haydon. “Shall I answer it?”

Haydon's mind began to race. He didn't think anyone could have heard Rodney's story, made the connection that Maxwell Blake was in fact the marquess of Redmond, and traveled all the way from Glasgow to Inveraray to inform the authorities here. It was within the realm of possibility, but given the time constraints and travel involved, it seemed extremely unlikely.

He nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Give an old man a minute,” Oliver snapped as the banging on the door continued. He shuffled over and opened it a little, grumbling irritably, “What in the name of all the saints can be so important that ye feel ye should be breakin' down my—”

“We're here for the marquess,” snarled an enormous, heavyset police officer with a greasy hank of gray hair leaking out from under his hat. The tarnished buttons of his uniform looked as if they were about to blast from his coat with his next breath of air.

“We know he's in here,” added the stocky police constable next to him. He was an ugly brute, with a battered, flat nose and flared nostrils that made him resemble a pig.

“Let us in and there'll be no trouble.” This dubious assurance came from a skinny young constable with a rat's nest of red hair and a profusion of pimples dotting his pale complexion.

“I dinna ken what ye're blatherin' about.” Oliver idly scratched his head as he blocked their entrance with his scrawny frame. “There's no marquess here. Ye lads must have the wrong—”

“Move aside, ye bloody old fool!” The bear-framed officer heaved his shoulder into the door, sending poor Oliver reeling backward as the constables stormed into the house.

“Oliver!” cried Doreen, watching in horror as he crashed into the hall table and fell to the floor. Blood began to trickle down his forehead.

“Goddamn bastard!” raged Jack. He flew at the beefy policeman and attacked him with his fists.

“Jack—no!” shouted Haydon, bolting forward. “Stop!”

Jack landed a powerful blow squarely in the constable's face before the remaining two officers grabbed him by his shoulders and tore him away. The lad responded by sinking his teeth deep into the wrist of the one with the pig face.

“Help!” the constable squealed, whacking Jack on the shoulders as he tried to disengage his mangled wrist. “Ewan—help!”

“Get off him!” The pimply constable grabbed Jack by his hair and roughly jerked his head back. Once he had pulled him off, he wrenched Jack's arms behind his back. “Are ye all right, Harry?”

“Christ, the pissing little turd bit me like a wild animal!”

“How about you, George?”

“That wee shit broke my nose!” George raged.

“I'm going to rip his goddamn ballocks off!” Harry drew back his fist to pound Jack in the face.

“Take your hands off him,” commanded Haydon savagely, “or I'll smash your friend's skull like a ripe melon.”

Slowly, everyone turned to see Haydon standing in the center of the hallway, brandishing directly over George's head the brass poker that Annabelle had wielded during her swordplay.

“Let the lad go,” Haydon ordered curtly. “Now.”

The two constables holding Jack regarded each other uncertainly.

“For Christ's sake, do as he says!” shouted George, who was cradling his profusely bleeding nose, and had no particular desire to be bleeding from his head as well.

“We'll let him go,” Harry relented, “if ye drop yer weapon.”

“It's useless tryin' to escape,” Ewan added, sensing Haydon's hesitation. “All of Inveraray knows who ye really are, yer lordship,” he drawled sarcastically. “Ye canna get away.”

Haydon felt his grip on his primitive weapon tighten.
It's over,
he realized, not quite able to accept it.

“Don't do it!” Jack was squirming wildly against his captors. “Just go!”

Haydon looked at the frightened faces of the children, who were clearly traumatized by the display of brutality they had just witnessed. All but Jack, who had not yet spent enough time away from the savagery of the streets to be intimidated by it.

No more,
Haydon thought, staring with heartbreaking fondness at Jamie, Annabelle, Grace, Simon, and sweet little Charlotte.
I cannot put them through any more.

“I will have your word,” he began in a low, steady voice, “that if I go with you willingly, you will leave the others here unharmed.”

“No!” Jack pleaded. “Don't do it!”

“Fine,” snapped George, whose hands were now dripping with the blood still pouring from his nose. “Drop yer weapon, and we'll just leave—with you.”

Haydon felt the smooth brass rod in his palm grow warm. He had no choice, he realized grimly. He would have died rather than see harm come to any of his family. He savored the bittersweet taste of near-freedom barely a moment longer.

And then he dropped the poker.

“Got ye,” snarled Harry, pouncing on him like a tiger on its prey. “Come on, Ewan, put the manacles on his wrists so he can't try anything.”

The pimply youth gave Jack's arms a final painful wrench before he shoved him forward. Jack cast him a look of pure loathing, then went and knelt down before Oliver.

“Are you all right?” he demanded anxiously, dabbing at Oliver's bloodied forehead with his sleeve.

“Dinna worry about me, lad.” Oliver's gaze was sober. “'Tis his lordship we need to be worryin' about.”

“I'll be fine.” Haydon forced himself to appear calm as his hands were manacled behind his back.

“Sure ye will,” sneered George, who was holding his arm against his nose in a clumsy effort to stanch the flow of blood. “Fine and dead.”

Eunice gasped and pulled Jamie, Grace, and Charlotte tighter against her, while Doreen held fast to Annabelle and Simon. Charlotte began to cry.

“Shut your mouth,” Haydon intoned softly to George, “or I'll smash in that skull of yours yet.”

“That would be a pretty fancy trick, yer lordship,” said George, sniffing against his sodden sleeve, “since ye're the one wearin' the manacles.”

Haydon regarded him with dark fury, saying nothing.

“For God's sake, George, let's just get him in the carriage and go,” said Harry, who was still nursing his mutilated wrist. “I need a bloody drink.”

“Come on, then.” Ewan shoved Haydon toward the door.

Haydon took one last look at the horror-stricken faces of the family he had come to love. There was much he wanted to say to them, but suddenly there was no time. Beyond that, any words of affection in front of the police would only incriminate them. And so he just gave them a brief, reassuring smile.

Then he turned and permitted himself to be shoved down the stairs and into the carriage waiting for him on the street.

 

B
LACK SMOKE WAFTED IN SOOTY PLUMES ABOVE THE
rooftops, weaving a shadowy veil against the leaden winter sky. The day had suddenly grown cold, and people were trying to ward off the advancing chill by tossing more precious wood and coal onto their fires. Genevieve quickly mounted the steps to her home, anxious to tell Haydon about her meeting with Mr. Humphries, the bank manager.

It had gone exceptionally well. Mr. Humphries was delighted to hear of her husband's good fortune regarding his commission on the sale of Monsieur Boulonnais's work. He was even more elated by the check Genevieve had presented to him. As the money from the sale of her paintings continued to flow in, she would eventually be able to pay off all her loans and use her earnings to support her family. Perhaps she could even afford a few special treats for the children as well. They all could do with new clothes and shoes, and there were a number of books that she wanted to purchase for their studies. She lifted the latch and hurried inside, trying not to think about the unbearable fact that Haydon would be leaving shortly. She did not want that to destroy what little time they had left together.

One look at the raw noses and scarlet-rimmed eyes of Eunice and Doreen told her that something terrible had happened.

“What is it?” she demanded abruptly, fighting to bridle her fear.

“He's gone, lass.” Oliver looked old and defeated as he took her slim hand into his. “We did everythin' we could, but 'twas no use.”

Genevieve stared at him blankly. “Haydon left—without saying good-bye?”

“Poor lad didn't have the chance.” Eunice blew her nose noisily into her handkerchief. “Those nasty constables just shoved their way in here and dragged him out the door.”

No,
she thought, feeling as if her heart had been torn from her chest.
Please, God, no.

“I tried to keep them out, lass.” Oliver's aged face was twisted with remorse. “But I couldna fight the three of them. Like giants, they were, and twice as fierce!”

It was her fault, she realized bleakly. She should have made Haydon leave the minute he had been recognized in Glasgow. She should have threatened to report him to the police herself if he didn't go. Instead she had permitted him to stay with her, had permitted him to lie naked with her at night and accompany her back to Inveraray, because deep in her heart she had not been ready to give him up.

She had been a fool. A selfish, stupid fool.

“Miserable bleedin' buggers,” swore Doreen in a scathing tone. “Pushed poor Oliver to the floor and cracked open his head.”

“Our Jack attacked the lout who done it.” Eunice dabbed at her eyes with her crumpled handkerchief. “Then the three of them started to give the poor lad a thrashing.”

“So Haydon took the poker and vowed to smash the skull of the biggest bugger if they didn't unhand the lad.” Oliver regarded her miserably. “He went with them quietly then, after makin' them promise that they would leave the rest of us be. He didn't want to see any of us hurt.”

No, of course not.
Genevieve remembered how Haydon had fought so valiantly to help Jack the night she had found him lying broken and bleeding in prison. Haydon would never stand by and watch someone else suffer. It didn't matter if it meant he would be beaten nearly to death himself.

Or led away to be hanged.

She grabbed on to the nearest chair, feeling as if she was going to be sick.

“Here, lass, sit down, ye're white as chalk,” said Eunice, pulling Genevieve over to the sofa. “Doreen, be a love and fetch Miss Genevieve a glass of water. I fear the shock is too much for her.”

“I'm fine,” Genevieve murmured. The floor beneath her was roiling and the room had suddenly gone blazingly hot and white. She closed her eyes and sank down onto the sofa, resting her cheek against the chilled wool of her cloak. Gone. Haydon was gone. And now he would be hanged. She had heard horrible tales about how a person suffered when they were hanged. How their bodies wrenched and jerked about as they struggled helplessly for air. About how their faces turned hideous colors. She thought of Haydon, so handsome and strong and powerful, dangling helplessly at the end of a rope, fighting to fill his lungs with air.

An agonized sob escaped her lips.

“Hush, now, take a wee sip of this,” soothed Eunice, easing Genevieve up so that she could drink from the glass of water.

Genevieve obediently sipped at the cool liquid.

“There now, that's better.” Eunice wrapped her plump arm around Genevieve and pulled her head onto the soft pillow of her plentiful bosom. “'Tis just the shock, lass, that's makin' ye feel so ill. Give it a moment and it will pass.”

Genevieve leaned against Eunice, drawing comfort from the warm roundness of her as she held her tight.

“If only he'd had a wee bit more time,” Doreen reflected sadly, “perhaps he might have been able to learn who set those ruffians upon him that night. Then this whole bleedin' mess could have been cleared up.”

Had Constable Drummond and his forces been interested in doing their job, they would have made some effort to find the other men who attacked Haydon, Genevieve reflected bitterly. But because Haydon had not reported the crime himself, he had been condemned as a drunken murderer from the moment of his arrest. The authorities had no interest in trying to unearth the truth. A man was dead, and all they wanted to do was assure the frightened public that they had captured and executed the villain responsible. The scum who assaulted Haydon had failed in their attempt to kill him that night. Now the justice system would finish their work for them.

It wasn't right, she reflected, feeling anger suddenly surge through her. And she was not going to just stand by and let it happen.

“Oliver, please bring the carriage around,” she said, extricating herself from the shelter of Eunice's embrace. “We're going to the prison.”

Oliver regarded her with concern. “Seein' him again is only going to make ye suffer even more than ye already are, lass. I dinna think—”

“Lord Redmond isn't guilty of murder, Oliver,” Genevieve interrupted. “I'm not going to let them hang him for a crime he didn't commit.”

“But how will ye be able to stop them?” asked Eunice. “His sentence has already been passed by the court.”

“I don't believe the court understood all the facts surrounding Haydon's case, because it went to trial so quickly. I shall speak to the judge and ask him to delay the execution on the grounds that we can provide new evidence in Lord Redmond's defense.”