The Countess' Lucky Charm (31 page)

She had just reached St. James Palace when a burly hand literally yanked her off her feet. She tripped, wrenching her ankle.

“Well, well, who do we have here?” The hand clamped down on her shoulder, squeezing with such force pain shot down her arm.

She turned. A sickening wave of terror welled up from her belly when she saw who it was.

Constable Carstairs. Dismayed, she shook her head. What a dreadful coincidence. Why now?

“Mona Dougherty, I’ve been looking for you. You made me look a fool but I knew your luck would run out sooner or later.”

“Let me go.” She tried to wrestle free from the ham-handed fist. “My husband, Lord Wellington, the Earl of Leavenby is hurt and close to death. I must save him.”

“Sure, and you think I’m going to fall for lying words from a gallows bird? No, I’ve been waiting for you to make a mistake. Heard you were back in town. Eh, what’s this?” He turned her about to see her better in the lamplight, pushing back her cloak as he did so. “Looks like blood. Have you added murder to your list of crimes then?”

“No, let me go or my husband will die! They’ve come back for him, let me go!”

“Save it for the magistrate, Miss Dougherty. I don’t believe a lying word that passes your lips.”

“No! No!” Simone wailed, struggling to pull free. It was no use. She was no match for the constable’s bulk.

He dragged her down the street, mindless of her kicks and screams. No one paid attention to just another piece of street riff raff.

“No,” she moaned, tears spurting down her cheeks. “I must help my husband. No.” The hubbub on the street drowned her wail.

“Shut your mouth,” he snarled. “It’s prison for you and in prison you shall rot.”

* * *

Newgate Prison.

The name struck terror into the hearts of those who might find their way there with or without the help of their own transgressions. Dark, evil, its stone walls were permeated with desolation and defeat, permeated with the stench of human waste and unwashed bodies, permeated with lost hope and lost souls.

With each step that took Simone deeper and deeper within its bowels, her despair grew. It flooded her mind and drowned all reason.

At length she was shoved into a narrow cell, which although barely wide enough to stand with arms outstretched, was not empty. Vacant faces stared at her in the brief flash of lantern light before the door clanged shut. She turned and clutched the iron bars in the tiny window while unknown terrors scratched at her back.

“No!” she shouted, trying to force her face through the bars. “I am innocent, let me go!” She battered the heavy door with her feet.

No one could hear her over the din of moans, screeches and wails. Still she battered at the door until, spent, she clung to the bars and leaned her head against her fists.

In her mind, she lined the facts up: rightly or wrongly, she was in prison. No one knew she was here. Temple was hurt. Only Gentry Ted knew where Temple was. Gentry Ted had disappeared.

Her stomach rebelled at the stark hopelessness of the situation and she vomited in the rotting straw at her feet.

Someone shifted behind her and goose bumps pimpled her arms at the sound. In her initial frenzy, she had forgotten she wasn’t alone. Shivering, she pulled away from the door, wrapping her hands in her cloak to pull it tight around her before turning to face her cellmates.

“Welcome to our hen club.” A low pitched voice sounded out of the murk. “I am Tess, and here is Bonnie and beside her is Elizabeth.”

She could barely make out her companions in the dim light. Tess appeared to be a woman of generous proportions. It was difficult to see much of Bonnie and Elizabeth, however, for they huddled together beneath a shredded blanket. All were of an indeterminate age as if the prison air had sucked the vigour from their skin leaving a wrinkled, sagging mass in its place.

She drew in a shuddering breath. “I am Simone Wellington. Countess of Leavenby,” she added.

It may not be wise to tell them her name but she had nothing of value on her. Perhaps if more people knew of her identity then word would spread beyond the prison walls.

Tess hooted. “Countess, you say? Why, we’re all countesses here, aren’t we, girls?”

“It’s true,” Simone protested.

“Well, Countess Leavenby, no one cares about you here. You’re just another prisoner awaiting your turn with the judge. Mind telling me what you are in for?”

“Thievery.” Her shoulders slumped. What was the use, Tess was right. She was just another prisoner. Who would believe that she, with her blood stained skirt, unkempt hair and dirty, broken fingernails, was the Countess of Leavenby?

She forced herself to look at Tess. “And you? You are educated, why are you here?”

“I had a position as governess to a fine family. A lovely posting it was, until I caught the lord’s eye. The lady did not like it in the least and accused me of stealing her silver comb. Of course, the comb was found in my room.” A ribbon of bitterness twined through her words. “Who would believe me, a child’s governess over the lady of the family?”

“So why don’t you believe me, then? I speak the truth.”

“If I may be so rude, you hardly look the part.”

“Well, it is true. I am the Countess of Leavenby.” She spoke boldly although inside she quaked. Temple had told her once it was all in the mannerisms. Project an aristocratic air and like as not people will believe it. “I am certain this is all a misunderstanding.”

“That’s as may be,” Tess said with a knowing smile. “But it will be difficult to convince the magistrate. He’s not very sympathetic to the plight of the prisoners.”

“How long have you been here?”

“I don’t really know. Long enough to know there’s no getting out of here. Unless one has money, perhaps. You may be able to send word to your count. He may be able to bribe your way out.” Her sarcastic tone lacked conviction.

Simone’s brief surge of hope dissipated and she sagged to her knees, fingers curled into fists. Her left hand felt bare; she missed the comforting mass of Temple’s signet ring. It lay beneath the workhouse floor boards where she had hidden it before embarking on this mad venture this morning, in the same spot where she kept her medallion when not wearing it.

“Aw, Tess, don’t scare the poor thing. She’ll find out soon enough what it’s like here.” A thin voice, scratchy with ague, joined the conversation.

“When I want your opinion, Bonnie, I shall ask for it.” Tess turned back to Simone. “I’m not lying about the money. Having it makes life in here more bearable. We can buy better food and drink with it. Do you have anything we could barter or sell? You would share with your cell mates, wouldn’t you?”

Simone shook her head. “I have naught.” Without thinking, she fingered the medallion hanging between her breasts.

Tess’ sharp eyes missed nothing. “What is this?” she said, yanking at the chain. It gave way and the medallion tumbled to the floor.

“No!” Simone swiped at it but Tess beat her to it.

“This will buy us a day or two of comfort.” The other woman pocketed it. “Tomorrow, when the guards come, we shall see what we can get.”

“Please no, it’s the only thing I have that ties me to my past.”

“Don’t worry,” Tess cackled, “A few days in here and your past won’t matter anymore. Neither will your future.”

 
Tears trickled down Simone’s cheeks. “Please. Give it to me.” It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help Tess and the others, it was the chance the medallion gave her, however slight, to be able to somehow barter it for her freedom.

Tess ignored her and made her way to the stone bench in the far corner, flopping down on the stained mattress and turning her back.

Anguish buried Simone in an avalanche of brutal finality. The tears flowed unabated, wetting her wretched cheeks. She was lost, confined in an underworld more cruel than anything she had ever imagined.

Aye, Newgate had been an ever present threat but she had always been careful. Thanks to mischance, she now lived her worst nightmare.

Nay, being in Newgate wasn’t her worst nightmare. Losing Temple was.

Even now, Temple could be dead. She would never be able to love him, to hold him, to tease him to coax forth the boyish smile.

Regret pierced her. Fool that she was, she had only told an unconscious Temple she loved him. Why hadn’t she told him before?

Because she had felt unworthy of him.

Yet he had never made her feel that way. He had always treated her with charm and consideration. Always, she had felt his equal.

Why had she doubted him? He had rescued her from her miserable street urchin life, taught her how to be a lady, had married her, had brought her back to London society. He hadn’t been ashamed of her.

And what had she done? Let her insecurity turn her into a shrieking harridan against his peers. Then she had fled, even though he had wanted to stay at the ball and show them all for the fools they were.

And it was in his search for her that he had been captured and tortured. The blame lay squarely on her shoulders but she couldn’t help him now.

She couldn’t even help herself.

Great hacking sobs rose and she couldn’t hold them back. Her howls of misery disappeared into the din that was Newgate. 

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Enough, my lord, you’ll hurt yourself.”

A firm hand pushed against Temple’s chest. Scowling, Temple looked up at the narrow, angular face of Dr Arthur Simon, the long-time physician of the Wellington family, before collapsing exhausted against the pillows.

“Blast it, I’m weak as a newborn babe.”

“You’ve lost a lot of blood. It will take time to recover your strength. Rest assured you’ll be good as new but only if you obey orders and rest.”

“Very well,” Temple grumbled. He relaxed against the bed linens, burrowing his shoulders into the feather pillows until they formed to his body. He tipped his head back to the headboard, wincing as he inadvertently bumped the gash. “How long have I been unconscious?” Despite his best efforts, his eye lids fluttered close. He ignored the pounding in his bandaged shoulder to concentrate on the doctor’s answer.

“The better part of two weeks. I dare say you were found in the nick of time.”

Bloody hell, he’d been unconscious for nigh on two weeks. Simone. Where was she? How was she? He slammed a fist against the bedclothes in frustration. Here he lay, a useless bed-ridden oaf.

“Where was I found?” He opened his eyes.

“Face down in a rag cart and how you got there is anyone’s guess. Hold still.” Dr Simon leaned over and placed his ear against Temple’s chest. “Splendid rhythm,” he commented as he pulled away. “If nothing else, your heart didn’t suffer from the beating you took.”

“So I was found under rather mysterious circumstances.” Temple winced again as the doctor prodded his bruised ribs. “You could just ask me if they still hurt or not,” he muttered. “No need to keep poking about.”

“What? Oh, sorry, of course. Yes, mysterious circumstances indeed.” Dr Simon nodded his sandy blonde head. “But all’s well that ends well. The wound in your shoulder has healed nicely as has the gash on your head, although your head shall ache for a week or two. As long as you do as I say, you’ll make a fine recovery.”

A fine recovery? A bitter smile bent his lips. What did the doctor mean by “a fine recovery”? Aye, a fine recovery for his body perhaps but how did one define “a fine recovery” for one’s heart?

The doctor stood there with an expectant air; Temple quelled his sour thoughts. “Of course. I shall follow your instructions to the letter.”

“Splendid,” said the doctor, snapping shut his leather case. “I’ve left you laudanum for the pain. Until tomorrow then.” He bowed and left the room in a cloud of peppermint and antiseptic.

Laudanum. The irony of the situation smacked him straight in the chest. Laudanum. With grudging desire, his eyes opened and he turned his head to search his bedside table for a familiar glass vial. There it was, among the bandages and jars of liniment. Without wasting time on thought, he raised his hand and knocked it off the table.

It fell, shattering into a hundred shards as it hit the bare wood of the floor. He stared at the shards; they vaguely resembled a heart shape and irony smacked him again.

There, for all the world to see, lay his broken heart.

* * *

Sorrow sat heavy on Simone’s shoulders, pushing her into a pit of desolation. Sorrow held her face taut and her heart still, sorrow trapped her in hopeless misery. Time was meaningless to her, had become a futile passage of one empty minute merging into the next. How long had she been incarcerated? A day? A week? A month? She had no way of knowing in the constant grey twilight.

Too, her heart ached for Temple. She missed him dreadfully, missed his teasing smile and the lively glint in his eyes, missed the way he whistled when he thought no one was listening, missed cuddling against his warmth at night. Was he even still alive?