Princess Charming (37 page)

“Kill himself? Of course not.” The duchess inhaled the perfume of her handkerchief again. “Though he was shot.”

Lucy’s jaw sagged with disbelief. “By whom?”

The duchess laughed and then cast a cautious glance over her shoulder. “By Mr. Whippet, my dear, but then, the vicar was only defending his property, weren’t you, good sir?” She cast a sidelong glance at the clergyman. “He had an interest to preserve, given his investment in the knitting frames the Luddites were smashing. Your father was a threat to those interests, to all of our interests.”

Lucy felt numb. “I don’t understand.”

Her stepmother snorted. “Your demented father was not merely sympathetic to the Luddites, my dear. He was preparing to introduce a bill into the House of Lords that would have been even more effective at dismantling the frames than hammers and clubs. With his influence, he might have even been able to ensure its passage.”

Lucy’s shoulders sagged with relief, but her stepmother mistook the movement for shame. The rumors of suicide that had haunted her for eight years had not been true after all. Her father had not abandoned her.

Her stepmother continued. “Yes, well, imagine how it was for me, spreading lies to cover up his intentions and then the shooting. I did not wed a duke so that I might continue to smell of the shop.”

Lucy looked at Mr. Whippet. “Murderer!” she breathed.

The vicar drew a snuff box from somewhere within his tightly fitted jacket. He flicked the box open, removed a pinch of the shredded tobacco, and inhaled deeply. His eyes watered, and he coughed twice. Then, returning the box to his pocket, he turned his flushed face to Lucy. “Am I? What proof have you?” His look of triumph made Lucy’s skin crawl. “You realize, of course, madame, that I must request you release me from our engagement.” His eyes traveled around the squalid room, and he shuddered with distaste. “This is more than I can bear, even for my share of ten thousand pounds.”

The duchess shot him a startled glance. “Don’t be a fool.”

“My peccadilloes are unfortunate,” he said to Lucy, ignoring her stepmother, “but they are nothing compared to your indiscretions or those of your father. And you’re scarcely creditable now. The daughter of a duke practically in chains. Say what you like about me. No one will believe your claims.”

“I am the daughter of the Duke of Nottingham.” Lucy straightened her spine. Confidence flooded her voice as she let go of the pain and uncertainty she’d held inside for so many years. “My friends will believe me.”

“Daughter of the duke?” Her stepmother snorted. “A kinship that never mattered to you one whit until now. You have disgraced the family name so vilely I wonder you dare claim it.”

“Disgraced it?” Anger, clear and true, poured through Lucy’s veins and gave her strength. “I have not been the one to shame my father’s memory with toadeating and simpering. I have not indebted the estate to remove the stench of trade.”

Her stepmother’s neck went rigid. “I have taken my rightful place. You have renounced yours, just as your father did before you, and you will meet the same end.”

Lucy had never felt such despair and yet such relief at the same time, as if one door had been slammed shut and another thrown open. It was finally over, this strange half-life where she belonged neither to the
ton
nor to the world of the working people. Of course, there would be no escape from Newgate. Her heart raced at the thought. Her stepmother would renounce her, the Selkirks were in chains themselves, and Nick
 . . .
He would condemn her actions for his own reasons. She could not hope for help from that quarter.

And yet
 . . .
Her father had not killed himself, though his passion and his persistence had cost him everything. The last thought sobered her. Well, if nothing else, she was her father’s daughter.

“There is no need to stay any longer,” she said to her stepmother. The duchess’s eyebrows rose at Lucy’s dismissive, regal tone. “You may leave me to the consequences of my actions.”

“I had no intention of doing otherwise,” the duchess snapped. She turned to her companions. “Come, Esmie, Bertha. Mr. Whippet.” Her look of disgust told Lucy that her stepmother would not let the clergyman’s rebellion go unpunished, either. “We will leave
Lady Lucinda
to the gaoler’s hospitality and her chosen squalor.”

Lucy stood in the matted straw and watched the small party make its way to the door. Esmie was the only one who looked back, her face bleak and eyes filled with regret and shame, an acknowledgement that the Duchess of Nottingham had finally gone too far. Fear squeezed Lucy’s heart, but she refused to beg them to come back. The odor of unwashed bodies rose up again in her nostrils, and she put a hand on her stomach to calm it. Her father had not been a coward after all. He had not left her of his own will.

Lucy sank down on her blanket. Her father had been a man of integrity, a man willing to pay the price for his beliefs. She, too, was a Charming, and could do no less.

“If this works,” Nick answered with an air of finality, “I will have no choice. Lucy must go to Santadorra, and I must go wherever she does.”

Crispin started to speak and then apparently thought better of it. With a mock salute, he turned toward the prison. Nick watched him ring the bell at the gate and then disappear inside.

It was a complicated plan, requiring the cooperation of far too many people, but he’d had no choice. He could only hope to complete each step as it presented itself and pray that no one would betray them. Nick was rather out of practice when it came to prayer, but since he had met Lucy, the habit was becoming far more common. He closed his eyes and addressed a few pleas to the Almighty.

“LUCY CHARMING!” The gaoler’s voice rang out in the crowded room. Lucy jumped at the sound of her own name, for she had been lost in an impossible daydream about Nick. Her palms grew damp. So soon? Surely they could not bring her to trial yet. She had only been brought from Nottingham the day before.

She rose, picked up her blanket, and moved toward the door. The huge gaoler eyed her with some curiosity. “Leave it,” he said, pointing toward the blanket. Lucy froze. They couldn’t hang her until she’d been called to the dock, at least that was what Anne had said, so it must mean she was to be transported.

She shivered.

“Come along.”

With no choice but to follow the massive shoulders of the man who’d summoned her, Lucy stepped out into the hallway. The door swung shut behind her, and he threw home the bolt. “This way.” He jerked his chin toward the long hallway that lay to the right.

Although conditions within the prison had been improved of late, low-pitched moans and strangled cries echoed through the passageways. The mixture of damp and stench filled her nostrils. Better to become accustomed to it, she thought. No doubt a transport ship would smell worse. They turned again into another passageway and then climbed a flight of stairs. As they went, the cries of the prisoners faded. The damp dissipated as well, and she even heard muffled laughter from behind a door.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

At last they stopped before another door. The gaoler opened it and thrust Lucy inside. She stumbled and almost fell. “Be thankful as ye ‘ave friends,” he muttered before shutting the door in her face and turning the key in the lock.

Lucy spun around, prepared to face yet another scene of squalor. Instead, to her surprise, she found herself in a drawing room that could have passed for one in any respectable part of London. She had heard of the State apartments in Newgate, where wealthy and aristocratic prisoners were held. Here, they could receive food and wine from the outside and even entertain visitors. No doubt that was where she was. Who could have arranged for her to be brought here? Nick’s chocolate eyes flashed in her thoughts, but she hardly dared hope. Indeed, she would not hope. Not anymore. She would merely take each moment as it presented itself until the noose tightened around her neck.

THE CARRIAGE rumbled through the streets of London, its circuitous route meant to lose any spies who might have followed the conveyance from Newgate. Nick frowned as he glanced at the list Crispin had handed him. In all, twelve men and one woman had been brought from Nottingham to Newgate.

“You are certain that the gaoler moved her?”

Crispin nodded. “Lucy is comfortably ensconced in a State cell, and I spoke with all of the Nottingham prisoners.” He nodded toward the list and flipped Nick the empty purse. “Conversation in Newgate is not to be had cheaply. The guards must retire at a young age to the seaside with the bribes they receive.”

“Mr. Selkirk?” Nick asked.

“He was worried for Lady Lucy and concerned that Tom was nowhere to be found.”

“Why was Tom not taken by the soldiers?”

“Evidently he slipped away before they could catch him. In the confusion, it was several hours before they noticed he was missing.”

“What of Mrs. Selkirk?”

“Taken to the gaol in Nottingham but released.”

Nick rubbed his forehead. At least Mrs. Selkirk had been spared the humiliation of Newgate.

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of a familiar shabby edifice. Crispin nodded toward the building. “Do you think she’ll help us?”

For the first time that day, Nick smiled. “When has she not, my friend? If it were not for her, we’d both have been fleeced of our purse, if not our fortunes, the moment we came down from university.”

The two men climbed from the carriage and strode up the walk toward Madame St. Cloud’s. Halfway to the door, Nick stopped. Seated on the steps of the brothel was Lucy’s stepsister, Esmerelda Fortune.

At the sight of Nick and Crispin, the girl rose to her feet. Deep shadows beneath her eyes dominated her gaunt face.

“Your Highness,” she began, her lips, hands, and knees all trembling uncontrollably.

Anger, thick and fierce, filled Nick’s chest. The duchess had no doubt sent her unfortunate daughter on some errand of extortion, but he would not listen. Without so much as a lift of a finger of acknowledgment, he brushed by her.

“I know where Lucy is.”

Nick continued up the stairs, refusing to listen. He already knew anything the girl had to tell him.

“And I know where Tom Selkirk is as well.” Esmerelda Fortune raised her chin in defiance, and Nick stopped in his tracks.

Crispin looked puzzled. “How could you possibly know that?”

The girl blushed. “I was there, when he made his way to Nottingham House.”

“He is there? At your mother’s?” Nick moved back down the steps and planted himself in front of Esmerelda.

“No. He is in Newgate, just as Lucy is.” She cringed when she delivered the information, as if expecting him to strike her. As much as he disliked her, Nick felt a brief flash of pity. Was she truly there to offer information or had she simply yet to name her price?

“Why should I believe you? Perhaps your appearance here is part of some stratagem that the duchess has conceived?”

The girl had the grace to blush. “I have been complicit, Your Highness, in many sins against my stepsister, but even I know that my mother has gone beyond the pale this time.” The determined set of her jaw lent conviction to her words.

Nick stood silently for a long moment, his eyes boring into the girl’s as he waited for her to tear her gaze away. Her eyes, though, held his steadily until even he was satisfied of the veracity of her statement.

Crispin stepped forward. “This information may help us with our plan.”

“Yes.” Nick rubbed his chin. “Tom’s presence may be just the thing to help us free Lucy.” Lucy. He ached to hold her, and he did not dare allow his mind to imagine what might have happened if Crispin’s bribes had not worked. As it was he could barely remain inside his skin thinking of her in the relative safety and comfort of a State apartment.