Page 128 of A Scot Is Not Enough

She nailed the lady’s gaze with hers and scrambled up ingloriously. She was alone, cornered, with nothing to lose. Fury boiled under the surface, the emotion fueling her to put one foot in front of the other. The chain dragged heavily. Hideous tremors quaked her knees, and torchlight assaulted her eyes. If this was a bare-knuckle brawl, Cecelia would be bruised and bloodied and the countess revoltingly fresh and ready for a fight.

“Here I am,Lady Pink.”

Lady Denton nudged aside her hood. “Oh, you think you’re the clever one, but you have no idea.”

“You visited me to tell me that?”

“I’m here because I wanted to see your face when I told you your fate.”

Cecelia yawned. “Then enlighten me or I shall go back to bed.”

Lady Denton tipped the torch. Flames licked at rusted bars, their warmth touching Cecelia’s face.

“Get used to your chains. There’s a ship anchored in the Thames,The Hannah James. Tomorrow, you will be on it. I chose it for you because Captain Belmont takes his job transporting prisoners quite seriously. He will order his men to hold you down while they shave you bald.” Her mouth twisted in distaste. “Vermin, you know. The good captain will take what’s left of your ragged silks and sell them. You won’t need them where you’re going.”

Cecelia clutched her stomacher. Behind it, bile churned hotly.

Eyes narrowing, the countess delivered her final blows. “Seven years transportation for violating the Dress Act. You’ll spend each one of them on the king’s sugar plantation... if you survive. Nasty place from what I hear.”

“Seven years?”

Six months in prison was the usual sentence for the first time someone violated the Dress Act.

“Tomorrow you will be formally charged and, within a few days, taken to the Old Bailey.” The countess smiled cruelly. “I dedicated my day to ensuring your sentencing.”

“But my trial—”

“Is a mere formality. I’ve made sure of it. Justice, you know.” Lady Denton brushed her hood forward. “Farewell, Miss MacDonald.”

The countess walked away, taking dim light with her. Cecelia clung to iron bars, fighting to breathe. Darkness engulfed her. Outside Gatehouse, rain splintered the night. She listened to it, crushed. Shecould be standing on Tilbury Fort again, the day she learned her father was dead. Her dearest friends, the ladies of the league, had saved her then.

But this was different.

No one was coming to save her—not even Alexander.

Chapter Forty-One

Sunshine beat her head, but she shivered. Higgins and the young warder led her from the bowels of Gatehouse and drove her through the streets in an open cart to the heart of Bow Street. Iron was cold on her skin and her choices. This time she was the entertainment, drawing merchants and matrons alike. They crammed the gallery, a blur of faces. Numbness was her cocoon, the only thing saving her from falling into a puddling mess.

Higgins deposited her on the bench for the accused. Five paces away was Fielding, shuffling papers on a plain table, a clerk at his ear. The clerk’s whispers caused a frown to fall on the magistrate’s face. She smirked.Poor old crow, something upset his morning.

Behind her, the gallery stirred and she braved a look. Would there be one or two encouraging faces among them? Most stared at her, their eyes sharp accusing slits. A few were Grub Street scribblers, but in the back, kind, encouraging smiles graced her. Mary, Margaret, Aunt Maude, and Aunt Flora sat ina row and Mr. MacLeod was with them. Of all the men to show today . . .

But Mr. Sloane was nowhere in sight.

She swallowed the hard lump of his absence. It was best to shore up her strength for her trial at the Old Bailey and the inevitable—seven years’ transportation.

If she lasted that long.

But she would not bow her head in shame.

Fielding cleared his throat. “We are ready to begin. Miss MacDonald, come forward, if you please.”

A hush descended. Her manacles clanked in time with her footsteps all of the few paces it took to stand before Fielding. Behind her, dozens of gawking stares landed heavily on her back. Fielding’s linked hands rested on the table. A ledger with her sketched face was open beside him, a clerk’s pencil-holding hand poised over it.

“I see your sketch artist captured my good side,” she said.

The clerk chuckled.