Page 60 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)
But the fact remained that when she turned the knob on the door, it did not yield. It was irrevocably locked, dispelling any illusions. She was as much a prisoner as any of the miserable beings who crowded the common cells, her future as precarious as any desperate pickpocket, thief, or murderer.
Shivering, she rubbed her arms. Despite the heat that emanated from the coal burner, she did not seem able to get warm. Perhaps because the chill had its origin in the despair to be found in her own heart.
Glancing out the room’s single window, she saw late afternoon shadows slanting across the yard below.
The distant figures of prisoners less fortunate than herself shuffled along, weighted down by the irons shackling their arms and legs.
They struggled to drink in what air and sunlight they could before being herded back to the dark confines of their cells.
Those were the condemned, the turnkey who guarded Anne’s quarters in the state side of the prison had confided.
Already tried and convicted, they would soon be taken to the transport ships to be conveyed off to some distant penal colony.
Some would face a much shorter journey, traveling only as far as Newgate s front gate where the hangman awaited.
Anne stepped back, shrinking from the sight of those wretched souls who only served as a reminder of the grim possibilities of her own fate.
“But I am innocent,” she reminded herself repeatedly. “I have done nothing wrong.” The protestation had become like a monotonous litany that she chanted in her mind, one that began to have little meaning.
What did it matter if she was innocent if no one would believe her? Not the servants, or the constable who had taken her into custody, or the magistrate who had remanded her to be held for trial. Not even her own sister.
“Why did you do it, Anne?” Lily had wailed. “And if you had to shoot that scoundrel, not that I blame you, why couldn’t you have told me first? I could have arranged the matter more discreetly, buried his remains beneath the begonias.”
The servants, from Firken to the youngest footman, in their efforts to be loyal, had declared Sir Lucien a proper villain who more than deserved whatever Lady Anne had done to him. What they failed to realize was that their indignant protestations only served to damn Anne further.
Despite the nightmare into which she had descended, Anne might have been tempted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, especially Lily’s remarks. Except that her sister’s distress had been far too real. When Anne had been hustled away by the constables, Lily had collapsed.
Yet she had turned up at the prison first thing that morning, paying out an exorbitant fee to make sure that Anne was given the best of accommodations and treatment that Newgate offered.
Her sister had looked drawn and pale, for the first time making Anne aware of the span of years that separated them.
Lily declared it was simply because she had misplaced her rouge, and although Anne had begged her to go home and rest, Lily had insisted upon setting out to engage for Anne the best solicitor in London.
Anne feared it would take a clever lawyer indeed to help her explain away such suspicious circumstances as her being alone in the garden with Lucien at midnight, being found with the pistol in her hand, and Lucien’s dying accusation.
But Anne had kept her terrors and her growing sense of hopelessness to herself.
Lily was distraught enough already without Anne giving voice to the doubts that gnawed at them both.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since Anne had been incarcerated at Newgate.
But she found herself already marking the time, pacing the small confines of her cell.
She occupied her mind by fretting over the most foolish things; wondering if Lily had found her rouge pot, if Bettine had remembered to mend the tear in Norrie’s pink muslin, if Norrie would take the time to finish her lessons before she settled down to have a tea party with her dolls.
It had been so remiss of her not to have engaged a new governess for Norrie, Anne thought ruefully.
A good, caring governess would have been of great use just now.
She would have kept Norrie busy and distracted.
She would have found a gentle way to explain to the little girl Anne’s absence.
Anne dreaded what gossip Norrie might pick up from the servants.
A good governess would have prevented that.
She might even have been able to soothe Norrie’s grief if the worst should happen and no trace of that sinister phantom was ever found, if Anne stood trial for the murder of Lucien and was found guilty.
Anne sank down upon her bed and buried her face in her hands.
Those were the things she must not think about if she were to survive this madness.
Far better to worry whether Bettine would remember to drape a shawl about Norrie’s shoulders when she took the little girl for her afternoon walk.
Anne pressed the heels of her hands against her brow as though by so doing she could blot out more terrifying concerns.
She remained in this posture until she heard the chink of the key in the lock. The door eased open and the scrawny figure of the turnkey slipped into the room.
Mr. Griffiths was a cheerful little man with hair like damp straw and a bright red nose that suggested his fondness for rum. But he was obsequiously respectful to Anne and dipped into a deep bow that would have done credit to an equerry at a monarch’s court.
“Pardon to disturb, milady.” He beamed. “But you have a visitor.”
A faint protest rose to Anne’s lips. She feared it must be Lily again and she was feeling strangely protective of her older sister.
She did not want Lily to keep coming to see her in this place.
But before Anne could say anything, the individual hovering in the hall outside impatiently thrust his way into the room.
Anne stifled a glad cry. The vision that appeared before her was one that she had not dared to conjure up, even to comfort herself during these past frightening lonely hours. She stared at the tall dark man.
Was it just that she yearned after the sight of him, or did Mandell indeed look more magnificent than she had ever seen him?
His dark cloak with the many capes draped lightly over his shoulders, he wore a blue frock coat and tight-fitting cream breeches, his feet encased in gleaming black Hessians.
He swept in with all the hauteur of a king.
Anne trembled, rising to her feet. She had never expected he would come to her. They had severed their relationship, said their final farewells last night. But she also remembered something else Mandell had said to her.
If you should ever need me for anything, you know you have only to send for me.
Her heart swelled with a joy and renewed hope. If there was one man in London who would believe in her innocence, she knew it was Mandell.
It was all she could do not to cast herself into his arms. She was restrained by the presence of the turnkey and by Mandell’s own manner. He bowed over her hand with as much studied elegance as though he greeted her at teatime in Lily’s parlor.
“Good afternoon, my lady,” he said. “Your sister commissioned me to bring you the shawl that you requested.”
Shawl? Anne could not recollect requesting any such thing, but she was too dazed by Mandell’s unexpected appearance to do any more than murmur her thanks. Mandell dropped a paper-wrapped parcel on her bed Anne started to open it, but Mandell prevented her doing so.
His casual aspect was belied by the way he gripped her hand. He crushed her fingers within his own as though he meant never to let her go, his eyes filled with dark shadings of a nightmare only she could understand.
“They have not harmed you?” he asked tersely.
“No,” Anne was quick to reassure him. She sensed a tension in him that she had not at first perceived, a subtle hinting of danger that she began to find alarming.
Mr. Griffiths piped up indignantly, “Of course, ‘er ladyship ‘as not been ‘armed. She ‘as been treated well, as befitting a female of ‘er station with a sister as what possesses such a generous purse. You can see, m’lord, the lady ‘as not even been shackled.”
“I am relieved,” Mandell murmured, glancing down at Anne’s wrists. The smile that touched his lips struck Anne as being etched with a strange sort of satisfaction. Her inexplicable feeling of apprehension deepened.
“This is the room where the marquis of Sligo was kept before ‘is trial,” the turnkey continued eagerly.
“You don’t say,” Mandell drawled.
“Aye, just look at all the extra comforts.”
“Indeed, most excellent accommodations, but the lady will not be staying.”
“Eh? Beg yer pardon, m’lord?”
By way of reply, Mandell eased a pistol from beneath the folds of his cloak. Anne gasped, but Mandell’s lips were still curved in that hard smile. His eyes glinted with a reckless light as he leveled his weapon at Griffith’s scrawny chest.
“Dear God, Mandell! What are you doing?” Anne cried.
“Rescuing you from this vile place.” He arched one brow as though surprised that she could even ask such a thing.
“Oh, no. You must not. Please, put that pistol away.”
“Aye, do, m’lord and I’ll just forget I ever saw you had it,” Griffiths quavered. “It is mightily against the law to help a prisoner escape.”
“Is it indeed?” Mandell mocked. “How remiss of me to forget that fact.”
“Mandell, please listen to him,” Anne begged. “You could be imprisoned yourself for attempting such a thing.”
“Neither of us shall be imprisoned if you make haste and do what I say, Anne.” Mandell jerked his head toward the parcel upon the bed, “In that package is a suit of masculine garb, my footman’s livery. I will request Mr. Griffiths to kindly avert his gaze while you put it on.”
“No, Mandell. I cannot allow you to put yourself in such peril for me.”
“Damn it, Anne. Will you stop arguing and do as I say?”
She stubbornly shook her head, her heart already pounding with fear for him. He shifted to glare at her and in the split-second Mandell’s attention wavered, Griffiths bolted toward the door.
He started to shout for aid, but Mandell moved with lightning swiftness. Raising the butt end of the pistol, he clipped the turnkey alongside the head, cutting him off in mid-shout.
Griffiths collapsed in a heap.
“The bloody fool,” Mandell swore.
A fleeting regret clouded his features as Mandell bent over the turnkey’s inert form. Then he glanced up at Anne who stood frozen with horror. The determined light came back into his eyes as he said, “I trust this puts an end to any further argument, milady.”