Each mile took him further from Avaline, further from the Tresham stronghold. He was in the clutches of his enemy, a man who would see him debunked and dead. Aidan wedged his shoulder against the side of the carriage to keep his balance over the rutted road, a reminder that, here in the coach, he was on his own. No title would protect him. He had only his wits and his fists, such as they were in irons. He was entirely on his own as he had been for much of his life. It should not seem strange. Being among the Treshams was the anomaly, not the norm, yet his mind struggled to remember that. When had it happened that this feeling of being surrounded by family had become the norm? When had it supplanted the expectation that he must manage alone?
It hardly mattered. It was gone now. The skills of his past had come flooding back, a testament perhaps to the reality that no matter what his name, a part of him would always be Aidan Roswell, street rat. How many times had he had to fight on the streets as he had tonight, with any weapon available? Bottles broken into sharp, jagged blades, sticks wielded like deadly clubs, chains, boards with rusty nails discarded as rubbish in an alley. His child’s imagination had been very good at converting the ordinary into weapons. It had to be when survival was on the line.
Even now, in the dark interior of the coach, his mind was seeking a weapon. He had his chains. In the close confines, it would be possible to get his chains around one man’s neck. He’d have to disarm Hayworth first, though. Hayworth had not done himself any favours by drawing that blade back at Blandford. It exposed Hayworth’s hand. Now, Aidan knew exactly what the man carried. That didn’t change the fact that the blade would be deadly trouble. Aidan was astute enough to recognise Hayworth might not be wedded to the idea of keeping him alive. For Avaline’s sake, he had to make sure Hayworth did.
God, he didn’t want to think about Avaline now. This evening had destroyed her. When she’d collapsed in his arms, he’d been ready to do murder to the men who’d brought her to it. It would have been so easy to finish off the one man. But that was murder, that was resisting arrest. He couldn’t see that any good would come of it, only bad, and there was enough of that already. It wouldn’t help his case. But he’d been thankful for the moments he’d had to hold her, to feel the feminine warmth of her one last time, the one last chance to give her comfort. It would have to stand them awhile. He would think instead of what she was doing now. She would be at Bramble by now, sounding the alarm, raising the troops. Frederick and Cowden would be underway at sunrise, maybe Ferris, too, if they thought he might need a physician. Aidan hoped Cowden would persuade the women to stay behind.
He had more than a passing acquaintance with Newgate. He’d been there for a week over the ruby-tiara incident before he’d signed with the army. It was not an experience he was looking forward to repeating, but he would handle it. He did not want Avaline to have to handle it as well. Hayworth was right about one thing. It was no place for a lady. All manner of depravity took place there. He would not think about that now. It would only create despair and he needed his wits sharp, not dragged down by hopelessness. He would survive Newgate. Avaline and his child were waiting for him. This time, he had everything to live for. It was hard to believe that just a few hours ago, he’d been making love to his wife. His mind sought that memory; of Avaline warm and willing astride him, taking him deep inside her, but he denied it. He forced himself to push those memories away. They were not for public consumption. He refused to think of making love to Avaline in front of Hayworth.
Hayworth shifted on the seat across from him. ‘You should sleep. You’ll get precious little of it where you’re going. Sleep in Newgate, you end up with your throat slit.’
‘Would that disappoint you?’ Feeling out Hayworth’s commitment to keeping him alive would be a useful way to spend the time. Perhaps Hayworth didn’t want to dirty his own hands. It would be easy enough to pay someone on the inside to kill him. There would be no trial. Hayworth only needed the pretence of a trial, an excuse to lock him up and then let the nature of Newgate have its way. No one would be able to prove his death had been anything but another Newgate casualty. ‘Seems that killing me now would expedite your claims, put you back to where you were in October,’ Aidan mused out loud. ‘Avaline a widow, unprotected by a husband’s name.’ He didn’t like thinking of such a thing. He would have failed Fortis if that came to pass.
‘And me without my revenge,’ Hayworth put in with a decided sangfroid that would have chilled a more squeamish man. But Aidan had seen the corruption of the streets and the violence of battle, he knew just how cheaply life was held by men like Hayworth. ‘It’s worth it to me to keep you alive long enough to stand trial and raise a scandal that will discredit Cowden if he continues to stand with you.’
Aidan scoffed, ‘He will always stand with his son, scandal or not. I think you’ve forgotten the truth of the situation. You’re the liar and now everyone will know.’
‘You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.’ Hayworth chuckled. ‘But it’s early days yet. We’ll see what shape your balls are in after a few weeks in Newgate. You’ll have time to cool your heels, can’t get you to trial until the twenty-first of January.’
‘Do you think I’ll live that long?’ Three weeks in hell. He didn’t dare let Hayworth see how the thought affected him. ‘Newgate might finish me off with or without your permission. A duke’s son is easy pickings.’
‘You are not a duke’s son. You’re a survivor.’ Hayworth eyed him. ‘You’ll do what it takes to make it through.’
‘Perhaps I’ll do it myself just to cheat you out of your revenge. Avaline will never marry you.’
‘I can always blackmail her with the truth of her child’s father’s identity.’ Hayworth was unfazed. ‘She can’t claim it’s Fortis’s child if he’s been dead for a year already and you aren’t him. That child would be branded a bastard faster than she could blink. But that’s all hypothetical chess. You won’t do it. You have too much to live for these days. The only way forward for either of us is through it. We both need you to stand trial. One of us will walk away exonerated, the other disgraced.’
There was an unfortunate truth in that.
Newgate was as he remembered it: damp, dirty, dark and dangerous. There were other D words he could add to the list of Newgate’s alliterative deficiencies: depraved, decrepit, debilitating. This was a place where people came to die. There was no hope here, only desperation. Another D for the list.
Aidan could feel the last vestiges of his own hope leach away as Hayworth’s coach passed through its gates, echoes of the past rumbling in his bones, rousing him from slumber. Newgate was wasting no time trying to change him. He would not let it. He was a soldier in Her Majesty’s army, who’d comported himself with honour in battle, a man who knew discipline and strength of mind as well as body. Whether the world saw him as Tresham or Roswell, that was who he was. He was not a street rat any longer. It was the one piece of his identity he could claim as his own. He would not let Newgate drag him down. He would not let Newgate define him. Hayworth was watching him, guessing perhaps the weight such an arrival might carry with him, the exquisite torture this journey held. ‘Does this bring back memories?’
‘Why should it?’ Aidan schooled his features. ‘I’ve never been here before.’ A blatant lie for Aidan Roswell, but an absolute truth for Fortis Tresham. He had to remember who he was in the present, had to play that role to the hilt. Any crack in the façade and Hayworth would have all the justification he needed.
The gates shut behind the carriage, sealing them in, and sealing out the bustling world of the London streets. It was still early morning, but London was alive with vendors, street carts, milkmaids and bakers. He knew the rhythm of the streets, the pulse of the day, as if it was still part of him. Maybe it was. Perhaps he would never fully moult that skin. Perhaps a man never truly escaped his destiny no matter how hard he tried or how far he ran. After ten years of trying, he was back where he’d started.
No. Aidan tamped down on the thoughts. He could not afford to think like that, for his sake and for Avaline’s. The driver set the steps and Hayworth exited. The other two men followed, reaching back in to drag him out. They gripped him unceremoniously by the forearms and shoved him down the steps, according him no courtesy, treating him like a common criminal. It would be the first of the humiliations he would suffer today. He would weather it and all the others to follow. He concentrated on a final look at the sky, at daylight. Those things would be luxuries soon. He simply had to get through it.
He had to survive. For Avaline. With luck, he only need to endure it for a few hours, maybe a day, until Frederick came. It was the latter he thought of as the gaolers searched him for weapons and then again for any personal effects that would be taken from him. Finding none, the gaoler punched him in the stomach, furious. But even doubled over with pain, Aidan felt a sense of pride in outsmarting them. He’d prepared against this. The day after the party, he’d stopped carrying anything of value in his pockets: no pocket watch, no fobs attached, wearing no stickpins in his cravat. The miniature of Avaline was home safe at Blandford on his bureau. If he hadn’t been taken at night after playing chess with Avaline, the gaolers might have had his onyx cufflinks. But he’d even robbed the gaolers of that since he played chess with his shirtsleeves rolled up. Those onyx beauties were probably still sitting next to the chessboard where he’d left them.
By the time the gaolers marched him back to Hayworth and the warden in a far more dishevelled condition than when he’d left, Hayworth had convinced the warden he was dangerous. ‘Tell your gaolers to be careful around him. He got his chains around the neck of one of my guards when we went to take him.’
‘I was defending my wife,’ Aidan ground out, acutely aware of the lie. Avaline was not his wife, not in legal truth nor perhaps even in the eyes of God. He could never marry her in church or at the Register. As Fortis Tresham there was no need. As Aidan Roswell, he could never attempt it, nor would he. Aidan Roswell had as little to offer a wife today as he had ten years ago.
‘Insolent, too.’ Hayworth made a show of adjusting his pristine shirt cuffs where they peeped out just the precise distance from his wool jacket.
‘I am a duke’s son and this treatment is intolerable,’ Aidan argued with all the command he could summon.
‘He’s crazy is more like it.’ The warden eyed him. ‘We see chaps all the time who think they’re someone else.’
Hayworth didn’t like that. ‘No, I assure you he is not delusional. He is posturing as Lord Fortis Tresham quite deliberately with the intent of stealing land and fortune from Tresham’s widow and the family.’ Hayworth slid the requisite payment and more across the desk. A insane man couldn’t hang. He wanted the gallows for Roswell, not an asylum.
The warden shrugged and pocketed the money. Ultimately, he didn’t care what the prisoner was here for. He cared only for what he could make. How anyone thought justice was served by a prison system that required prisoners to pay to get in was beyond Aidan. In this case, Hayworth was all too glad to pay. ‘Then come along, Lord Fortis Tresham,’ the warden mocked, nodding to one of the gaolers to take him away. ‘Let’s see what the rabble makes of you. You might not be lordly for long.’
The gaoler led him down a slick cobblestone maze, past cramped cells filled to irreverent capacity. Newgate was no respecter of station or crime. Murderers and felons lived cheek by jowl with debtors and petty thieves caught only stealing a loaf of bread. At a cell at the end of the maze, the gaoler stopped and took a ring of keys from his belt. He fitted one into the lock. He shoved Aidan forward, the door clanging shut behind him. ‘This chap here claims to be Lord Fortis Tresham, son of a duke.’ The sneer was evident in his words. The cellmates laughed. ‘I suppose we’ll see about that. How long do you think your father, the Duke, will let you languish in here before you get a proper chamber? Just in case your father is delayed, Jimmy here is King of this particular castle.’ The gaoler laughed at his own wit as he sauntered off, the last of Aidan’s freedom jangling at his waist.
Aidan surveyed the motley crew before him, sizing each man up in turn as he knew they were sizing up him. King Jimmy was a hulking brute who occupied the single bench in the cell as if it were indeed his throne. The rest of the men gathered about him, giving a twisted appearance of being his royal court. Aidan understood that. Prison politics hadn’t changed in ten years. Money and influence bought favours and protection in here as it always had.
‘What do we make of him, lads?’ King Jimmy asked with a belch.
‘He sure is pretty. He’s so tall and so clean. Makes me want to mess him up, get him dirty,’ a lean, emaciated fellow hissed from King Jimmy’s right shoulder. Aidan knew the type. This was Jimmy’s sycophant. The nuance of Newgate slid over Aidan whether he liked it or not. He would kill this man first if it came to it.
A tall, bearded man built like a bear stepped from the shadows at the edge of Jimmy’s court. ‘He’s too big for you, Sligo. He’d sooner kill you than look at you.’ Ah, so King Jimmy had competition for his throne. Aidan nodded in the man’s direction and sidled over to stand with him. He’d have an ally if he needed it. He hoped he wouldn’t. He hoped Frederick was on his way. Already, despite his best efforts, he felt Newgate trying to reclaim him, its tentacles wrapping about him, drawing him towards its gaping maw. Aidan slid to the ground, his back to the wall, the best defensive position he would have in here. He wrapped his arms around his knees, hugging what little body heat he had to himself, and thought about Avaline.
He’d not wanted to think of her in this place, but she was his best weapon for holding the darkness inside him at bay—Avaline with her light, her laughter, her trust. He had a thousand pictures of her in his mind: Avaline at the workers’ picnic, setting out baskets of apples; Avaline sneaking glances at him as he roofed when she thought he wouldn’t notice; Avaline in his bed, soothing his nightmares; Avaline dressed in silver, dancing in his arms at his birthday party, her face shining with love. What a night that had been! Right up until Hayworth had destroyed it. Hayworth and Newgate were darkness. Avaline and Blandford were light. God and Cowden willing, he’d see them again.
By mid-morning, the gaoler was back, gruff and out of sorts as he unlocked the door. ‘You...’ he pointed at Aidan ‘...have cost me five quid. Get up. Seems you have friends in high places after all.’
‘You shouldn’t have bet against me,’ Aidan couldn’t resist saying as he followed the man out. Relief filled him. Frederick was here. The man had made beastly good time. He must have left before sunrise. The thought cheered him as they went back through the maze and up towards the light. Up another flight of stairs, they reached a small chamber. The cot, the rickety table and the single chair crowded the space. There was no window, no light, but it was private. Already, those little blessings seemed like luxuries.
There was a thump and a commotion in the hall and Ferris appeared in the doorway, directing a man with a trunk. ‘There you are, Brother! This place is ghastly.’ Ferris swept him into an ungainly embrace and then drew back with a grimace. ‘Gaoler! Lord Brixton explicitly instructed you to have these shackles removed!’ A look passed between Ferris and Aidan as he held out his wrists for the key. He might have laughed if the situation weren’t so dire. So, Frederick was here, too, and throwing his ducal family’s weight around. Brixton was his honorary title, one of Cowden’s subsidiaries. The shackles fell to the floor and Ferris wasted no time imperiously dismissing the gaoler. ‘How dare they treat you like this.’ Ferris hugged him again. ‘Frederick is working his magic with the warden right now.’
Aidan sat at the edge of the cot and rubbed his wrists. ‘How is Avaline? The men roughed her up when they came, I tried to fight...’ He never wanted to be helpless to defend her again. Never wanted to see another man touch her in anger. All talk of strategies could wait. Avaline was more important.
Ferris came and sat beside him. ‘She is fine. She came straight to us. She has your trunk.’ He nodded to the monstrosity filling the room.
Aidan gave a short laugh. ‘A trunk for Newgate? This is not the Grand Tour.’ He knew, of course, that people paid for the right to have clothing, to have good food. Inside Newgate, someone with money could have nearly any luxury if they paid enough for it.
‘Avaline has seen to every comfort.’ Ferris undid the buckles and opened the trunk. The fresh, sharp odour of cedar and balsam filled the stale air of the little chamber. Aidan breathed it in. If ambrosia had a scent, this would be it. ‘She sends her love.’
Aidan felt tears sting his eyes. She did indeed. Everything in the trunk represented that love, each item chosen not just for his comfort, but to remind him that she was with him still, though prison bars kept them apart. There were clean shirts, neatly pressed, cravats, waistcoats, jackets, trousers, all packed with balsam sachets. There were blankets and sheets from home, fine linen pillowcases sporting her embroidery work at the hems. When he thought Ferris wasn’t looking, he held a pillowcase up to his nose and smelled the faint scent of her hair, of her, rosewater and vanilla. He lingered too long and Ferris caught him. He quickly thrust the pillowcase away.
‘It’s all right to miss her.’ Ferris clapped him on the shoulder in consolation. ‘She wants to see you.’
‘No, absolutely not. I don’t deserve her. I am not worthy of her. I’ve tried to tell her, but she won’t listen. She must think about how to distance herself from me now. Tell her not to come. I don’t want her here.’ Aidan busied himself with the sheets. ‘Tell her to stay at Bramble.’ Where she could have her beloved Christmas among family.
‘She’s already on her way. The ladies are coming up today.’ Ferris smiled. ‘Really, Fortis, do you know your sisters-in-law so little to think any of us could dissuade them from coming? She’ll be at the town house with us on Portland Square. We’ll take care of her.’
‘Thank you.’ A little band around his heart loosened to know Avaline was close by, surrounded by family. Perhaps that would be enough. He hadn’t realised how much that meant to him. Aidan relented. Perhaps it would do them both good to know the other was all right.
Ferris rose to go and the two men embraced. ‘She can come just once, Ferris. This is a terrible place. There’s illness everywhere, everyone has a cough. She has to think about the babe.’ He hoped he wasn’t being selfish in relenting. He had not understood until now how love was a blessing and curse. It was a wondrous thing to love and be loved, as Avaline loved him. But it was a fearful thing, too. It reminded a man of all he risked and all he stood to lose; all that mattered in the world hung in the balance when a man loved a woman as he did.