The Rogue (28 page)

The
nurse had ordered her carried to a room occupied by a fireplace and a
number of crude iron tubs. There Jane was stripped and forcefully
bathed despite the fact that she was already cleaner than the scummy
water she was thrown into. She'd fought the nurse until the woman had
threatened to leave the bathing to the guard.

Quailing
from such a fate, Jane cursed herself for her own girlish weakness.
She wished she were stronger, or faster, or more persuasive. Yet many
large men were incarcerated in Bedlam—who was to say they did
not wish the same?

Finally
Jane decided she was simply going to have to be resilient and sturdy
instead. She was no Augusta, who had never been so much as chilled in
her life. She had survived Northumbria winters with little food and
no coal. She'd managed to keep her mother in some dignity and comfort
despite their poverty.

She
could survive Bedlam.

For
a while.

As
Maywell's carriage rumbled back into Mayfair, Ethan pressed both
hands to his head, trying to shut put the memory of that choir of
madness. He had to think!

He
had to rescue Jane from that place. The thought that she had already
spent hours there made him ill.

He
could go to the Liars—

In
his mind he saw Etheridge's cool expression as he talked about
sacrificing someone he could not trust. What if the spymaster decided
that Jane could not be trusted? What if he ordered Ethan to leave her
where she was? Which of course, Ethan would disobey—thus
setting himself against the Liars. He cared little for the danger to
himself, but what would happen to Jane? Her uncle was a traitor. She
would likely already be guilty in Etheridge's cold-as-marble
estimation.

He
could go to Collis. Collis owed him—

"I'm
a Liar, Ethan. My loyalties lie here."

Right,
then. He was on his own. But how could he get her out of there?
Nausea roiled through Ethan at the thought of Jane caged like a
beast. Getting her out of there was all that mattered. To hell with
the Liars and their ridiculous intentions for him.

To
hell with Maywell's plans and national security.

He
had to undo what he'd done to her.

Think
!
Anyone could get into Bedlam. There had been a sign at the entrance
demanding an admission fee. Pay a penny a head to see the animals in
the zoo.

The
problem was not how to get in.

The
puzzle was—how to leave in the middle of the day with a woman
at his side?

Unless…
unless he went in with one…

He
rapped on the ceiling. The small trapdoor opened and the driver
looked down at him. "Yes, sir?"

"I've
had a long night," Ethan said casually. "I'm in need of a
bit of relaxation. Take me to Mrs. Blythe's House of Pleasure."

Jane
sat on the floor of her cell, in the corner farthest from its door.
It helped a little to think of it as a cell, and not as a cage. Less
degrading somehow. A prison cell implied a crime committed. A crime
committed implied a person of some dangerous capacity. A criminal
might be strong and fearsome, not helpless and cowering.

She
was a prisoner, a dangerous one who must be kept contained in a cell
for fear of her criminal nature. She took a deep breath and tried to
feel dangerous.

It
was a silly game, but it helped. A bit.

She
needed something to keep her calm for she must think. How could she
get out of here?

Ethan
will come.

He
hadn't wanted to leave her here last night, she was sure of that. She
had heard him calling her name. She took a breath. Ethan
might
come. Then again, he might not.

She'd
already examined every inch of the ca—the cell. The door was
hinged on the other side, in the direction in which it swung. The
padlock was large and crude. Jane had heard of locks being picked by
hairpins, but she had none. Her entire net worth consisted of a cheap
flannel dress, soft felt slippers, a much dented tin chamber pot that
didn't bear touching, and a worn blanket that she'd confined to the
other corner of the cell when she'd spotted the wildlife present in
it. Better to sleep on the bare bench.

Nothing
to use for a key. Nothing to use for a weapon. She didn't want to
hurt anyone—with the possible exception of the crude male
attendant—but she would use a weapon if she had to. If she'd
had one.

A
bit of string tied her simple braid at the end. Jane untied it and
examined it closely. It was useless, being only ten inches long. She
sighed, wrapped it twice about her wrist, then experimented with
pulling her long hair over her face to hide from observation.

A
useful disguise perhaps, but she did not like it. She might be in
Bedlam, but she would retain herself for as long as she could—she
simply was not the sort of woman who let her hair hang in her eyes.

She
rebraided it neatly and used the string to tie it up again.

After
what seemed a thousand hours, an elderly woman came past the cages,
pushing a cart. The cart contained loaves of dark bread and tin cups
of watery soup.

Jane
made no attempt to be dainty about the coarse fare. She'd eaten worse
and much less of it. It was important to maintain her health and
strength against the filth all around her. She drained the cup before
handing it back to the woman and took her hunk of dry bread back to
her corner.

The
meal seemed to revive the woman to Jane's right, although the limp
form to her left had her worried. The first woman stirred to glare at
Jane through rheumy eyes.

"Gimme
yer bread!" A grimy hand reached through the bars.

Jane
started and cringed, then remembered—
dangerous
.
She slapped the woman's hand hard until it withdrew. When the
sanctity of her cell was restored, Jane gave the creature an even
stare. "If I've hurt you, I apologize. If I have more than I
need, I will be happy to share. But if you put your hand in here
uninvited again, I cannot promise that you'll get it back."

The
woman blinked, then gave a rusty chuckle. "Yer a canny lass.
You'll do all right, for a while. Not like 'er." She indicated
the too-still inhabitant of the far cell, then shrugged. "At
least the stupid cow stopped 'er singin'. Near to drove me mad."

The
woman went back to her bread, chuckling at her own joke. Jane eyed
the other cage with pity. The feeding nurse had taken the cup of soup
away, but the hunk of bread still lay on the floor, not six inches
away from the woman's limp hand. Jane saw the woman on the far side
reaching for it with one scrawny arm. She would have protested, but
the other inhabitant hadn't a chance of reaching it. Jane could, but
not even her own survival would induce her to steal. That thought
settled firmly within her, comfortable from long use.

She
would not fall from her own set of standards, no matter what. She'd
survived without falling before, she could do it again. At least this
time she had no one to look after but herself.

When
the relative amusement of eating the bread had been drawn out as long
as it could, and not even a crumb was left, Jane began to have
trouble ignoring the clamor about her. The voices rose and fell, and
had been never-ending even in the dark of night. The incessant
banging on the bars began to chip away at Jane's reserve of cool
rationality. She leaned both elbows on her knees and pressed her
hands over her ears.

She
shut her eyes and prepared to wait out the rest of the day.

That
morning, Ethan appeared at his appointed time at Lord Maywell's
freshly bathed and apparently at his ease.

Maywell
eyed him carefully as Simms let him into the study. Ethan bowed
genially. "Good morning, your lordship."

Maywell
nodded, then waved Ethan to a seat. Ethan sat with a well-satisfied
sigh. He knew his lordship's driver would have reported on the
midnight visit to Mrs. Blythe's. In fact, he was counting on it.

"I
hear you had an enjoyable evening after—"

Ethan
would have laughed if he hadn't been so consumed with cold,
calculating fury. Lord Maywell couldn't even bring himself to speak
of what he had done, the hypocritical bounder.

"Yes,
I did. Your niece was safely ensconced in the hospital and I felt the
need for a bit of company. Should I not have used your carriage?"

"No—no,
that was quite all right. You sent it back in good time."

Ethan
could see that Maywell was wondering if he'd underestimated Ethan.
Ethan wasn't feeling particularly charitable. Let the old schemer
wonder.

Maywell
cleared his throat, placing his folded hands before him on the desk.
"Damont, I believe in rewarding loyalty. You've showed that,
true enough. I know it wasn't easy for you to take my niece Jane to
Bethlehem Hospital. I know you're partial to her."

Ethan
nodded slowly, thinking of Lady Jane Pennington climbing into his lap
last night. His cravat seemed to tighten.
Partial
—that
was a bit of an understatement.

Lord
Maywell leaned back in his chair, watching Ethan through narrowed
eyes. "I've an offer for you, son." He smiled slightly.
"You don't mind me calling you that, do you, my boy?"

Son.
Ethan hadn't heard the word in a very long time. Part of him, long
buried along with any hope of hearing that word so fondly spoken
again, responded. Maywell would know that about him. He shook his
head silently.
Twisty
old bastard
.

"I've
a passel of daughters, but the fates never saw fit to give me a son,"
Lord Maywell mused aloud. "It's a real lack for a man to have no
son."

Ethan
cleared his throat. "I wouldn't know, my lord."

"I'll
be blunt, Damont. I want a man inside the Liar's Club. I know they
sent you to me, hoping I would recruit you. They thought you would
make a superior double spy."

Ethan
swallowed. This man was very frightening sometimes. "I've told
you, my lord. I don't frequent—"

"The
Liar's Club. Yes, I know you have. Simply listen to what I have to
propose."

He
leaned forward, white whiskers bristling earnestly. "I'd like
for you to go back to the Liars, carrying certain information that I
have prepared. It will be true—at least, for the most part.
True enough to convince them that you have been successful. In
return, they will give you misinformation to feed me, I'm sure. It is
what I would do. Bring it to me anyway, for sometimes it can be as
useful to know what the opposition is trying not to hide as it is to
know what they are trying
to
hide."

Ethan
frowned. "How very… intricate. If I were to do this—which
I could not, for I don't frequent the Liar's Club—but if I
were, what makes you so sure that I would choose to heed your orders
and not theirs? How could one leader ever be sure of a double spy?"

Maywell
didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and
drew on his cheroot and focused a narrow gaze on him. Ethan tried to
match it with a level one of his own, but he feared the man saw
inside him all too well.

For
what it was worth, Ethan knew Maywell understood what it was like to
be the unwanted son, to feel the scorn of the family, to long for
their acceptance and to finally realize that there was no reprieve
but to try to establish a dynasty of his own.

"I
think it's time you took a wife," Maywell said lightly, as if he
were not reading Ethan's very thoughts. "I think you've shown
your worth to me. I care nothing for this matter of rank and title. I
follow good old Napoleon's creed, that a man is who he proves himself
to be. A man of constancy and honor—now that man is as good as
a lord in my book." He took a deep pull on his cheroot. The
smoke swirled between them, hiding his lordship's eyes from Ethan's
view. The haze seemed to take shape in his imagination until Ethan
could almost see his future in that writhing air.

Maywell
continued, his voice as low and soft as a mesmerizer's. "As good
as a lord—good enough to wed a lady… Would you like
that, Damont? Would you like to wed Jane, to stand proudly by her
side, welcomed by her relations, defended by my standing against
whatever Society may want to say about it?"