CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It was a bluff, pure and simple. Velvet knew it and so did Litchfield. The evidence they had was questionable at best: the word of a serving maid who was only a child at the time, a murderer’s sworn statement, a financial agreement tying the duke of Carlyle to the countess of Brookhurst, the sort of document that might mean any number of things, even the price of an expensive mistress.

It wasn’t enough and both of them knew it. Still, along with the barrister they had hired, the Honorable Winston Parmenter, they made their way into a private chamber where they would face the six magistrates who sat as Crown court judges in cases involving a sentence of death. It was a large oak-paneled room, well lit by tall mullioned windows. The judges, fully robed and wearing long white periwigs, sat at a narrow wooden table while Jason sat alone at a table across from them, his face battered and bruised, one eye swollen nearly shut.

He didn’t turn to face her when she walked in, just kept his vision trained straight ahead, looking neither right nor left. Velvet bit hard on her lip to keep the tears in her throat locked up inside, to keep from crying his name. She knew how much he needed her, though from his carefully controlled facade, no one else would know. Perhaps he didn’t even know himself.

Dressed in an austere gray silk gown trimmed with black, she tore her gaze away from his battered face and took a seat at a table next to Litchfield and the barrister. Parmenter, a tall, imposing man in his late thirties with brown hair graying at the temples and a brow that seemed furrowed a good deal of the time, took a moment to review his notes, then glanced up at her and gave her a confident smile.

The usual formalities were observed, then Thomas Randall, acting as chief magistrate, came straight to the point. “Let me start by reminding you all this is simply a hearing, a presentation of heretofore unknown evidence in a crime that was tried eight years ago. The charges in this matter are grave ones. Accusations made against a man as prominent as the duke of Carlyle are serious indeed. Coming from anyone other than a member of the nobility, a man whose reputation is as sterling as that of the marquess of Litchfield, they would not be given the slightest amount of credence.”

He shuffled the sheaf of papers sitting on the heavy oak desk in front of him. “On the opposite end of the spectrum, the duke of Carlyle has accused his brother not only of the murder of his father, for which the prisoner has already been found guilty, but also the murder of the countess of Brookhurst.”

Velvet gasped. Jason made a guttural sound in his throat. Beside her Litchfield tensed.

Good sweet God. Anger mixed with the fear coursing through her, making her almost dizzy. She didn’t dare look at Jason, but turned instead to the marquess, who reached over and squeezed her hand.

The barrister came to his feet. “Charging my client with the murder of Lady Brookhurst is ridiculous, my lord. There are absolutely no grounds to believe the man who killed Celia Rollins was Jason Sinclair.”

“According to the duke, there is. It seems there was a witness who saw the murderer leaving the countess’s residence. He has asked that the lady be sworn in, that she give us a description of the man she saw leaving the scene of the murder.”

Oh, dear God, they were speaking of her! Velvet thought she might actually faint.

“Surely you aren’t referring to my client’s wife,” said the barrister, aware that Velvet’s presence that day at the countess’s mansion was a matter of record.

Avery spoke up from the corner, where he and the barrister who represented him had quietly taken a seat. “I am indeed referring to my brother’s wife—if a wife is in truth what she is.”

The implication was clear. Litchfield slammed his hand down on the table. Murmurs arose in the chamber, and the magistrate rapped his gavel.

“Here, here!”

“Your lordship, there is no reason to malign the lady’s integrity,” the barrister said calmly, which was apparently the reason for hiring such a man. “The marriage is a matter of record. We would certainly be willing to provide the necessary documentation, should the magistrates require it. However I do not see how my client’s marriage is relevant one way or another at this time.”

“Your point is well taken,” said Thomas Randall. “The lady’s testimony is all we seek.”

Velvet shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “I won’t do it. They’ll twist my words. They’ll make it sound as though it was Jason I saw. I-I can’t—”

“My lords—” Litchfield came to his feet. “The lady is obviously too distraught to give testimony. I remind you, as Mr. Parmenter has said, the man you accuse is her husband. Aside from that, she has already been questioned by the authorities. At the time the crime was committed, she described the man she saw to the constable who handled the case. Surely that is enough to satisfy the court.”

Randall motioned toward one of the clerks. “Perhaps it is. I believe you have the notes Constable Wills was good enough to provide. Read the lady’s description for us, if you please.”

“Aye, your lordship.” The stocky little clerk cleared his throat then began to read from the notes of Velvet’s interview with the constable after the murder. “‘He was a tall man, powerfully built. He had long dark hair, unpowdered and tied back with a ribbon. I didn’t see his face.’”

“No!” Velvet stood up from her chair. “It wasn’t Jason! I would have known him! I would have recognized him!”

A gavel rapped for order. Another magistrate broke in. “You said yourself, my lady, that you did not see his face. Either you did, or you did not? Which is it?”

Velvet’s heart nearly pounded through her chest. Lying would only make things worse. “I-I did not.”

“Thank you. Please sit down.”

She did as he commanded, her mouth gone dry, the rapping of the gavel still ringing in her ears.

“I remind you all,” Thomas Randall said, “these proceedings are informal. The prisoner has already been sentenced. We are only here to deliberate what new evidence may have been gathered and decide if it is enough to alter the circumstances of the court’s decision. Mr. Parmenter, you may proceed with your presentation.”

Perched on the edge of her chair, her whole body trembling, Velvet watched in terrified silence as the scant bit of evidence they had gathered was presented to the six Crown court judges.

“If it please the court,” Parmenter said, “the witness, Betsy McCurdy, will be arriving from the country with all haste. Her testimony will verify the claims being made and resolve any doubts the magistrates might have as to the villain in this case.”

He went on with confidence and skill to present the balance of the evidence, but Velvet feared, as she knew Jason did, that it wouldn’t be enough.

“I should like to ask a question of Lord Litchfield.” One of the magistrates peered at him over the top of a gold-rimmed quizzing glass. “I should like to know why you did not come directly to Lord Randall with this information? What did you and the prisoner intend to accomplish by Lord Randall’s presence at an empty warehouse?”

“We had hoped to gain the duke’s confession, my lord. It would have made your task all the simpler.”

Velvet glanced at Lucien. If uncertainty was what he was feeling, not a trace of it showed in the depths of his silvery eyes.

“Yes, it would have,” said Randall. “A confession coming from the prisoner would also simplify our task. Unfortunately, neither party seems willing to grant us that favor. Since that is the case, we must make our decision based on the evidence at hand.” He looked down at his notes, then at Jason. “Until such time as we have finished our deliberations, the prisoner will remain in custody at Newgate prison.” He rapped the gavel.

Velvet’s throat went tight. Newgate. Hell itself was reputed to be only the least bit worse. And he had already suffered so much.

The barrister rose to his feet. “Please, your lordship. We should like to request special custody until the matter is resolved. The last time my client was thrown into jail, someone tried to kill him.”

Randall sighed. “I am sorry, but the prisoner has already escaped his sentence once before. Since that is the case, the ruling of this court must stand. As soon as we have reached a decision, word will be sent to you.” Another rap of the gavel and the men rose to their feet.

For the first time, Jason looked in Velvet’s direction. The bitter resignation carved in his face made a tight knot squeeze in her chest. She started toward him, but the barrister blocked her way.

“I’m sorry, my lady. You cannot speak to him here, but you will be able to visit him as soon as he is settled.” In prison, he meant. Dear Lord, she felt like she was living in a nightmare. “You will want to pay the garnish, of course, and money enough to make certain he is comfortable.”

“Yes…” Velvet said just above a whisper.

“I’ll see to it, Velvet,” Lucien said gently, taking her arm and beginning to guide her away. “We’ll do everything we can to see him properly settled.”

But it wouldn’t be enough. Not unless they found a way to save him. At the moment, only God seemed able to do that.

*   *   *

The gray stone wall pressed into his back. The dampness in the cell seeped through his white lawn shirt, clinging like a layer of film against his skin. A watery ray of sunlight trickled into the cell next to his, but only the faintest trace reached his dirty straw pallet on the cold stone floor.

A rat skittered across the cell, making a scratchy, tapping noise with its tiny clawed feet. Fetid air wrapped around him, a mixture of sweaty, unwashed bodies and filthy, rotting clothes, the ripe smell of urine and feces, the rancid smell of sickness. He’d been led into the bowels of the prison, though Lucien had paid the garnish and demanded he be housed in the master’s side instead of the common side of the prison.

But in Newgate, money only bent the rules as far as it pleased the guards. For the coin they’d been provided, they would move him, they said, in a few more hours, a larger, cleaner cell would be ready, and they would take him there. Of course hours might mean days, days might turn into weeks. In the meantime …

In the meantime, he would sit here in the darkness, inhaling the foul gutter smells, trying to ignore the dampness, the layers of slime on the stones beneath his feet.

Trying not to remember another time in this same fetid prison, a time that had nearly destroyed him.

And there were other memories he tried to avoid, at least in the beginning. Thoughts of Velvet, the woman who had invaded his life with such passion, invaded his bed, and finally his heart. Thoughts of her smile, her laughter, her courage in the face of danger. Her loyalty and trust. He tried not to think of the way it had felt to kiss her, to caress her beautiful breasts, the pleasure of being inside her. The way her small woman’s body wrapped so tightly around him.

He didn’t want to remember her, to make each minute, each second even more painful, now that he was alone.

But the darkness had come, pushing into his mind, sucking him back into the agonizing past, back to the first time he had been there. Back to the terrible years that followed. The awful day in May when he had ceased to be a man and become something far less human.

To keep the memories at bay, he gave in to his need for Velvet and allowed his mind to concentrate on the days he had spent with her, the laughter they had shared, the hours of passion, the priceless gifts she had given him: her innocence, her friendship, her unfailing loyalty and support.

For a while, he was able to keep the darkness away, keep from remembering the blood and the death and the agonized screams. In the end, the fetid odors, the filth and the blackness in the cell began to steal his will and thoughts of Velvet slipped away.

The long tunnel of darkness dragged him in, burying him in the past, leaving him alone with his demons. Ugliness and despair sucked him down, wrapping him in tentacles of misery, and this time they would not go away.

*   *   *

She had to see him. Not in the morning, when Lucien planned to take her. Not tomorrow. Not the day after that. She needed to see him tonight. Now. No matter what anyone said.

Velvet dressed hurriedly, wearing the plain brown woolen skirt and simple cotton blouse she had worn at the Peregrine’s Roost, sturdy shoes, and a serviceable hooded cloak. The Haversham carriage was ready and waiting out in front. Ignoring Snead’s worried expression, Velvet went out the door, down the front porch stairs, and settled herself in the shadowy interior. Mr. Ludington sat in the darkness across from her. He and Mr. Barnstable both sported lumps and bruises from their encounter with Avery’s men.

Surprisingly, even fully aware for the first time of Jason’s true circumstances, both had remained steadfast in their support, certain the man who fought so valiantly to prove his innocence—and to protect the people in his care—couldn’t be guilty of murder.

The big Runner shifted against the seat, uncomfortable in the lavish, red velvet interior of the carriage. “Are ye sure ye want to do this, milady? ’Twould be safer for ye to wait for his lordship to come for ye in the morning.”

“My husband needs me. Something is wrong. I can feel it. I can’t wait until morning.”

Ludington made no reply. Something was wrong—there was no doubt of that. The lady’s husband was about to be hanged. He wished there was something he could do to change things. Since his efforts so far had done not an ounce of good, seeing the lady safe to Newgate was surely not too much to ask.

The carriage rolled through the darkened streets, the clatter of the city growing louder as they neared the prison. Ragmen and coal sellers, chimney sweeps and beggars crowded the lanes and alleys along the way. Gutter smells drifted through the windows of the carriage, the sound of street criers hawking their wares. They passed beneath the big swinging signs of gin shops and alehouses and finally reached the prison.

Ludington helped Velvet down from the carriage, surprised when she caught his arm, rested her hand near his elbow. He must have felt it trembling and realized she needed his support for he straightened, drawing himself up, then walked her protectively to the deputy warden’s office.

Money changed hands, a goodly sum, even more than she had expected. It didn’t matter. She’d been prepared to pay whatever amount it required to accomplish the purpose she had come for. She left with the warden’s promise—ensured by the lure of even more golden guineas—that a new cell would be readied and Jason moved by morning. Then she and Mr. Ludington were shown through a heavy wooden door that led into the bowels of the prison.

A fat, bearded jailer carrying a smoky lantern led the way. Even from a distance, she could smell his ripe, unwashed odor, the sweat and the filth on his clothes. It mingled with the rancid stench around her, making her stomach roll. As they descended the dark stone passageway, the walls slick with mold, and damp against her cloak, she found she could no longer separate the smells.

The vilest dregs of humanity crouched in the cells they passed along the way. The bile rose in Velvet’s throat at the bawdy remarks her appearance garnered, the clawlike fingers reaching out to her through the bars, the moans of the sick and dying. Her hand grew tighter on Ludington’s arm, but she kept on walking, forcing herself to look straight ahead, not to think about the pitiful wretches living in a place far worse than any St. Giles gutter.

She was shaking by the time she reached the door to Jason’s cell, and not from the icy chill that swept down the passage.

“’Ere ye are, miss.” The fat man stuck a long iron skeleton key into the heavy lock and the metal made a tortured grating sound. He reached for a small white tallow candle that sat beside the door, lit it, and passed it over to her. “Ye’ve an hour with the prisoner, no more.”

Velvet nodded, accepting the candle with unsteady hands. “Thank you.”

Ludington stepped up beside her. “I’ll be right here, milady. Right outside the door. Ye just call out if ye need me.”

She forced a smile. “I’ll be fine.” But she wasn’t fine. She was sick with despair at the thought of Jason being held in a place like this. And that it had happened before. For the first time, she understood the roots of the pain that ate at his tortured soul.

Oh, beloved, if only I could have saved you from this, she thought, wishing there was something she could do to free him, vowing as she had a dozen times that she would find a way.

Steeling herself, taking a breath of the fetid air in an effort to bolster her courage, Velvet stepped into the darkened cell. The key grated as the guard locked her in.

“Jason?” Wondering why he hadn’t come forward, she lifted the candle to search the room. “Jason, it’s Velvet, where are you?”

Still no answer. A scuffling noise, then tiny clawed feet skittered across the slick stone floor. Velvet bit hard on her lip to stifle a scream. Only a rat. The least of her worries down here. She pointed the light toward a distant corner. Where was he? Had the guard mistaken the cell?

Then she saw him, sitting on the floor, a heavy iron manacle chaining his ankle to the wall. His eyes were open, but he didn’t see her, just stared straight ahead into the shadowy darkness.

“Oh, dear God.” A sob rose into her throat, along with a thick knot of tears. Velvet set the candle down on the floor with trembling hands and slowly approached him. Kneeling at his side, she slid her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek against his.

“Jason, my love. It’s Velvet. Everything is going to be all right.”

Jason said nothing, just stared sightlessly ahead.

“Jason, please … it’s Velvet.”

He stirred then, a whisper of movement. She felt him inhale a deep breath, then another, forcing more and more air into his lungs. He blinked several times, then shook his head as if pulling himself from a dream. She eased away and looked into his face, saw the small black pupils of his eyes slowing beginning to focus.

“Velvet?”

“Yes, my love. I’m right here.” She brushed away the tears that had started to slide down her cheeks, leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on his lips. “Are you all right?”

A deep sigh of despair followed by the clank of his chains. “You shouldn’t have come here, Velvet.”

“Where were you, Jason, when I first arrived? What were you seeing?”

His gaze swung to hers in the light of the candle, intense blue eyes, stark in a face etched with deep lines of pain. “The past,” he said simply. “The reason you shouldn’t have come.”

“I had to come. I had to see you. I had to be sure you were all right. You’re my husband, Jason.” Her gaze locked with his and refused to leave. “And I love you. I was afraid to tell you before, but now … now I want you to know. I love you, Jason. I have for a very long time.”

The muscles in his throat moved up and down, but he didn’t speak. His head dropped forward, and in the glow of the candle, she saw his strong jaw was darkened with bruises, his lips cut and swollen.

Slowly he lifted his head. Big dark hands reached out and framed her face. “I never wanted you to love me. I tried to tell you, tried to protect you. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you, the terrible trouble I’ve brought.”

“I’m not sorry. I love you. I treasure every moment we have shared. I pray for the hour you are free so that we can be together again.”

He only shook his head. “That isn’t going to happen, Velvet. Even if some miracle occurred and I got out of this place alive, it’s over between us. Whatever we shared is past.”

“No! Don’t say that. I—”

“You don’t love me. You only think you do. The man you love doesn’t exist. Not anymore. He hasn’t for a very long time.”

“That isn’t true. You’re exactly the man I believe you are and more.”

He ignored her words, his finger running over her bottom lip, the touch as light as a feather. “I’ve been selfish, Duchess. I should never have touched you, never should have married you. I should have left you alone. If I had, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.” Jason glanced around the dingy, rat infested cell, saw Velvet kneeling beside him on the filthy straw pallet, and his heart twisted painfully inside him. She didn’t belong in a place like this, should never have known such a place existed.

He was the reason she was there. It was his fault—again.

He ran a finger along her jaw, wishing he didn’t have to hurt her yet again, wishing he could spare her the truth. But it was far too late for that.

“You want to know what I was seeing while I sat here in the darkness? You want to know the truth? Well, I’m going to tell you, Velvet. Then I want you to leave this godforsaken place and never come back again.”