“It’s too damned cold in here,” Tess muttered to herself, pulling her shabby work shawl tighter around her and leaning closer to the low-burning hearth. Removing her useless gloves, she rubbed her hands together, trying to get the blood flowing in the frozen sticks that used to be her fingers. Her feet were so cold they were almost numb, no matter than she wore three pairs of wool stockings.
It was almost as if the very air was too thin, and laced with a cold that nipped at your bones. Tess had visited prisons many times, but she’d always gone back to her nice cozy house; never had she had a taste of real confinement. Never had she felt so dreadfully alone.
While Anna was there, Tess had put on a brave face. But now, alone with the shadows, real and imagined, Tess couldn’t decide which was worse, the sorrow or the terror. She vacillated between wanting to lie down and cry, and jumping at every noise, a fireside poker raised in her hand.
Tess once more checked the small glass clock she’d brought from her bedroom. Only three minutes had passed since she’d last checked? It couldn’t be. Mayhap it was broken? Holding the clock to her ear, she listened for the clicks. Deliberate and steady. Closing her eyes, she sighed. The clock was perfectly fine; it was she who felt as if time had sputtered to a stop.
The wind howled outside, and she shuddered, anxiety interlacing her every shortened breath.
I’m a prisoner in Newgate!
Setting aside the clock, she stood and paced, trying to dampen the fear splintering her flesh and twisting her insides into knots. Once more she checked the open doorway, even though it was too soon for Anna to be back.
She was glad she’d sent Anna to the house to get some more clothing. Anna shouldn’t have to suffer through this internment a moment longer than she needed to. The girl was too young to face this kind of environment, too sweet to be exposed to this other world.
Tess understood that she was far better off than any of the other prisoners, and counted herself blessed. Still, the fear gnawed at her composure and quickened her heartbeat to a racing canter. She was alone, a prisoner, surrounded by convicts and rapists and murderers…
“And guards,” she reminded herself, taking another turn. Still, fear ate at her like a parasite, shooing all positive thought from her mind and leaving her with only hulking shadows. Her heels echoed loudly in the empty chamber as she crossed the small space before the hearth once more. How many other prisoners had trod this path with worry? How many of those prisoners had swung from the courtyard gallows below?
She ran her hand through her hair, loosening the coil and allowing it to fall around her shoulders.
“Could I be any more pitiful?” she muttered to the flickering candles. “Arrested for murder…”
Her steps slowed as grief overwhelmed. “Fiona…” A tear rolled down her cheek, one of the many that had fallen since she’d heard the news.
A crash erupted down the hallway. Tess started, holding her breath and eyeing the distance to the poker. Warden Newman had promised that she’d be safe, but her nerves found little comfort in those words.
When no other sound came and disaster did not fall, Tess exhaled. “Dear God, I have to stop doing this or I’ll go mad.” Either that or turn gray.
“Would Heath still like me if I’m a gray-haired Nervous Nelly?” She attempted a lame jest to the empty room.
Heath.
A small swell of joy trickled through the knot in her middle, loosening some of her fear.
Heath was out there, working for her release, fighting on her behalf…
If anyone could see her freed, it was Heath.
He believed in her, accepting that she was innocent. He took her word as truth, without doubt. He was the only man she’d ever met who’d really understood the truth of all she’d faced. The thought comforted her deeply.
And he wasn’t upset about her work with the Foreign Office. A tiny thrill shot through her. She’d never shown that side of herself to anyone. And astonishingly, he accepted her. All of her.
He had grasped what happened with Lord Berber and Quentin with amazing shrewdness. He acknowledged her mistake with George Belington, and now her work with the Foreign Office. He knew it all and cared for her still.
A sense of awe and well-being blanketed her. She hadn’t thought that a man existed who could accept her and the mistakes and the choices she’d made. But one did.
Heath.
The image of his handsome face surrounded by those ribbons of dark hair lifted her leaden lips into a smile. Thinking of his lean, smooth body and the wickedly delicious things she’d done and still wanted to do with him stirred a warmth deep inside her to which no fire could compare. Closing her eyes, she imagined the sensation of his brawny arms around her and how he made her feel safe and cherished.
Wrapping her arms about her body, she hugged herself close, rocking gently to the sounds of the window latch bumping in the whipping wind.
The room was three stories up, so there was no need for bars, thank heavens, but Warden Newman insisted that the shutters remain closed. Not a bad thought considering the chilly temperatures outside.
Still wrapped in her arms, she spun for another turn. She needed to stop thinking about her pitiful state and start focusing on how she was going to get free. She wondered how Heath had fared with Reynolds. How did Reynolds react to the news that she was in prison? Tess frowned. Probably with irritation. He had little patience when things didn’t go exactly as he wished.
Lord, how she hoped Wheaton was back in Town. The man might be a viper, but he was on her side and wouldn’t forsake her.
Or would he?
She stopped mid-step. Wheaton was the kind of man who cut his losses without a backward glance. Was she too much of a danger to him now that she could be exposed?
Tess swallowed, then shook her head. No, she’d done a lot for Wheaton, and was still of use, for the moment, at least.
She began pacing once more. Oh, how Tess wished she’d gotten more intelligence on the countess!
Could the countess be behind Fiona’s murder? Why? What threat could Fiona pose?
Fiona. What had she meant by what she’d said in her letter?
More importantly, to whom did Fiona write that letter?
Tess’s paced quickened. Who was the “sir” who’d told Fiona that Tess was not as she appeared? Who was the mystery man that Fiona had wanted to meet? Had that meeting occurred? If so, perhaps it was that man who had harmed Fiona?
And what terrible thing had Fiona wanted to share? What did I do to inspire such condemnation?
Guilt and shame and frustration warred within Tess.
Why should I feel guilty? What have I done?
Fiona had to have seen something upsetting. But what? Informing on people? It just didn’t seem as horrific as Fiona’s words conveyed.
Aggravated, Tess grabbed one of the pieces of wood from the pile she’d been rationing. She suddenly had no patience for being practical.
She knelt before the grate, hammering the poker into the wood, trying to position the lumber, her motions jerky, her anger steeping. What have I done to turn a woman that I care about, one whom I trusted, into a snitch?
Tess did recall that Fiona had said that she was doing as the man asked out of concern for Tess’s safety. But still, Fiona was telling this “sir” any and all matters pertaining to Tess. It was despicable. No matter that Tess had informed on people, she’d always been circumspect about what she’d shared.
Tess stabbed at the wood as the fire crackled.
“Where’s yer mistress?” a deep voice called.
Tess started. As she turned, her breath caught. A hefty man with dark curly hair tied back with a bit of rope and a black beard stood near the closed door. He wore rough street clothes and scuffed brown leather boots that had seen better days.
“You frightened me.” Pressing her hand to her chest, she tried to calm her racing heart.
“Where’s yer mistress?”
He thought she was a servant. And no wonder, she wore her serviceable work gown, an old shawl, and was kneeling before the grate.
Still holding the poker, Tess stood, suddenly glad for his mistake; every hair on her body was raised in alarm.
The man’s meaty fists curled and uncurled as if he was nervous, and his eyes darted about the room and behind his back, as if fearful that someone might be coming.
Her heart began to pound so loudly, her ears roared. She hadn’t heard a peep from the guard outside. Anna was gone. It was just she and this man, alone in a scary place where a scream wouldn’t seem so out of place.
She swallowed, feeling as if tiny needles pricked her skin with terror.
She needed to start using her head and the opening that God had given her. Her hand tightened on the poker.
Clutching her shawl around her with one hand, she lifted her chin and mimicked Anna’s mother, “Me mistress went ta see the warden. And what’s yer business with her anyway?”
Holding her breath, Tess waited as her pretense hung in the air between them.
After the longest moment, the man’s lip curled and frustration flashed in his dark gaze. “I’ve a message for her.”
Tess swallowed. “I’ll pass it along if ye like.”
“It’s just fer her.”
Licking her dry lips, Tess nodded. “Suit yerself. But she’s not here.”
“That I can see.”
The silence grew thick.
So what’s it to be? It’s your move.
Her palms grew sweaty and the scents of metal and sweat filled the air.
Finally he snarled, “I’ll be back.”
Tess nodded, involuntarily taking a step backward.
As her skirts swooshed about her feet, the man’s eyes flickered to her expensive kidskin shoes.
Tess’s heart skipped a beat.
His smile was full of malicious intent. “Ta the warden’s, eh?” Never taking his eyes from her, he reached behind him and closed the door.
Raising the poker, Tess ran to the shuttered window screaming, “Help me!”
The brute charged across the room.
Tess lifted the poker but he swatted it out of her sweaty fingers as if it were a feather.
Screaming, she ran behind the table and tossed a chair down in his path. He stomped the chair as if it were made of sticks, his meaty hands reaching for her, grabbing her curls and yanking her back and off her feet. She landed hard on her back, knocking the wind out of her.
Slamming his knee into her chest, he pinned her down on the floor. She scratched at his arms and kicked at his legs.
He punched her in the face. Pain speared her jaw, and she saw stars, tasting blood. She pushed away the pain, raising her fists and fighting him.
He yanked off the twine tying his hair and looped it around her neck. The rope tightened, slicing into her throat, cutting off her air. She gagged. Her hands scratched at the cord, catching nothing but her own flesh. Gurgling sounds spewed from her mouth, and inside her head she heard screams.