The Perfect Princess (3 page)

Rosamund glanced at the paper, then looked up at Callie. “Isn’t he the man who murdered one of the maids at the George and Dragon? Wasn’t she his mistress?”

Callie shook her head. “He denies that she was his mistress. He says that they were only friends. Her father served with him in Spain, and after he died, she asked Maitland for help. He said that she was already dead when he entered her room and one of her killers attacked him.”

“Killers?”

“A boy and a man. Haven’t you read the papers?”

“Yes, but I can’t remember the details.”

Callie made a small sound of impatience. “The boy was part of the plot. He lured Maitland into Miss Rider’s room so that the real killer, who was hiding behind the door, could finish him off.”

“I thought this was a crime of passion. Isn’t that what the prosecutor said? She was going to leave him for someone else. There were witnesses who said as much.”

Callie expelled a quick breath. “Oh, yes, witnesses, if one can call barmaids and chambermaids credible witnesses.”

There were times when Callie could be downright irritating, as now. When she made up her mind about something, she would say anything to win her point. Rosamund had followed the trial in the newspapers, but not very closely because her own name was being bandied about as the future Princess Michael of Kolnbourg and her mind had been preoccupied. But she remembered thinking that Richard Maitland was as guilty as sin.

“Barmaids and chambermaids,” she said, “are respectable people, and the jury believed them.”

“Hah! There was nothing respectable about that lot. I
could tell just by looking at them. Oh, yes, I was there at the trial. I never missed a day.”

It didn’t surprise Rosamund to learn that Callie had attended the trial. It was quite common for ladies of fashion, at least the bolder ones, to attend such events, and Callie was bolder than most. After a moment, she said, “Why would these witnesses lie?”

“Maybe someone bribed them. Or maybe they’re frightened to tell the truth. Maitland said that he had powerful enemies.”

Rosamund shook her head.

“What?” demanded Callie.

“Why are you so determined to believe that this man is innocent?”

“Because of who he is. He’s an officer and a gentleman. He is . . . was chief of staff of Special Branch. I’d rather believe him than barmaids and chambermaids. And I’m going to tell him so, to his face. Oh, don’t look so shocked. He’ll be shackled. We won’t come to any harm.”

Rosamund didn’t know enough about the case to argue the point, and she knew, too, that when Callie’s mind was made up, nothing could change it.

“Who is ‘we’?” she asked.

“Oh, Aunt Fran. And we’re to meet Charles there. So you see, I’ll be well chaperoned.”

This was one occasion when Rosamund thought Charles should definitely put his foot down. Not that Callie would listen to him.

Callie was studying Rosamund’s face, and she let out a soft sigh. “Listen, Roz,” she said, “I feel sorry for the man, that’s all. His friends have all deserted him. I just want him to know that someone believes in him. So I’m going to give him a royal send-off—champagne, roast duck, truffles, that sort of thing. Don’t look so worried. He may not agree to see me. Then I shall just leave my basket of treats with the keeper.”

There was an interval of silence, then Callie went on, “I don’t suppose you ever ran into Maitland when you were in Lisbon?”

“Was Maitland in Lisbon?”

“He served all through the Spanish Campaign. His war record is spotless. It was all in the papers.”

“No, I never met him. But that’s not surprising. My father and I were guests of the ambassador. The only soldiers I met were pretty high up in the chain of command.”

Callie got up. “If you want to tidy yourself before we go, the lavender room is free. Shall we meet back here in say, oh, half an hour? If you don’t want to go, I won’t take offense. I know how difficult your father can be when you forget you’re a duke’s daughter. Make yourself at home. We should be back in an hour or so.”

Rosamund slumped back in her chair, something she would never have done if someone had been there to see her. Callie, she reflected, had the uncanny knack of making her feel less than adequate. Her eye fell on the newspaper Callie had offered her. After a moment, she reached for it and shook it out with enough force to tear the page. It was dated August 28, 1816. She began to read.

Rosamund read the article again, then laid the paper aside. It did not seem to her that there was anything here to stir her sympathy for Richard Maitland. Many soldiers had distinguished war records, but that was no excuse for murder. Even his own colleagues at Special Branch had nothing good to say about him.

His defense, as she remembered, was that his enemies had engineered the whole thing. He was the real target, not Miss Rider. They killed her to make it look like a crime of passion, and so deflect suspicion from themselves, then her murderers had stabbed him and left him for dead. It was too bad for Maitland that the prosecutor produced a physician who claimed that the stab wound to Maitland was superficial and not life-threatening. A self-inflicted wound, the prosecutor averred, to convince the authorities of his innocence. Then Maitland had thrown the knife out of the window so that it would not
incriminate him. But the knife was found and Maitland’s plot failed.

The execution was to take place tomorrow morning. A shiver ran over her. Now her sympathies
were
stirred. A mission of mercy—

If her father knew of this proposed visit to Newgate, he would absolutely forbid it. On the other hand, she was twenty-six years old and life was passing her by.

She dwelled on that thought for a long time. Her decision suddenly made, she headed upstairs to the lavender room.

E
nglish justice was nothing if it was not swift, reflected Richard Maitland. He’d been charged with murder one week, tried and convicted the next, and sentenced to hang two days later. Tomorrow, in fact. It hardly gave a man time to plan his escape.

He adjusted his long length in the hard barrack bed, and allowed his gaze to stray to the grated window high in the wall, too high for anyone to see out. Three floors down was the Felons’ Quadrangle, but no sound reached him through the closed window. No sights, no sounds, no fresh air, and damn little light. There was nothing for a man to do in the condemned cell but reflect on his life or go mad.

This wasn’t the first time he’d faced execution. In Spain, he’d been caught working behind enemy lines. He was a spy. He’d known the rules of war. But his death would have been honorable because he was fighting for king and country. There was no honor in hanging for a crime he did not commit.

Last time, he’d been saved at the eleventh hour by the cavalry. Where, in hell’s name, was the cavalry now?

When he tried to sit up, he winced. The wound in his chest was healing, but it hadn’t completely healed yet. Newgate wasn’t exactly the place to be if a man wanted to recover his health. Sanitary conditions were appalling. He was lucky he hadn’t come down with blood poisoning. And the authorities weren’t interested in exerting themselves for a man who had been condemned to death. The young orderly who had examined him that morning had cracked a joke to the effect that the only cure was plenty of rest. He would have all eternity to laugh at the orderly’s little joke if he didn’t get out of here fast. And once he was free, one way or another he would clear his name and discover who had murdered Lucy Rider.

He could never think of the girl without his rage turning inward. He’d had plenty of time to think in the last little while, and though he’d belatedly come to realize that Lucy must have been part of the plot against him, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that she’d really understood what she was getting into. To his enemies, she was just a pawn, and they’d given her up for a greater prize. If he’d had his wits about him, he could have prevented Lucy’s death.

He could not believe how stupid he’d been. He’d trusted her, he, Richard Maitland, who could count on one hand the number of people he trusted; he counted them off on the fingers of his right hand—Harper; Hugh Templar and his wife, Abbie; Jason Radley . . . He stopped. That was four. After a moment’s consideration, he added himself.

He was surprised to find that he was smiling, because there was damn little to smile about in these dismal surroundings. There wasn’t enough room to swing the proverbial cat. The only relief from boredom was the occasional visitor who came to say their final farewells.

But those were not his friends. In fact, he’d warned his friends to stay away, not only from Newgate, but from the trial as well. He’d done the same with his parents. He didn’t want them making the long journey from Aberdeen to London just to see him like this. He’d seen how things were going. He’d known he would be found guilty, and he had no intention of passively accepting his fate. If he escaped, anyone who was close to him would come under suspicion.

Massie, who was now acting chief of staff, had visited him that morning to say a somber farewell. He’d also visited before the trial.

“I know you’re innocent,” Massie said, “and I know you’re the victim of a plot. I want to help. Tell me where to begin to look for these conspirators.”

Richard liked Massie. He was a good agent. They had much in common. The intelligence service was their profession. Unlike many of their colleagues, they had no connections in high places to help them up the ladder. Everything they had, they’d got through their own intelligence and hard work.

There was, however, one major difference between himself and Massie. Massie followed the rules.

But he hadn’t taken Massie into his confidence. Good agents weren’t always what they seemed to be, and if Massie was working for his enemies, his offer to help might be nothing more than a ploy to find out just how much he, Richard, knew, so that they could cover their tracks.

Cover their tracks? He almost laughed. The man and the boy had disappeared without a trace. They’d covered their tracks so well that he didn’t know where to begin to look for them. All the witnesses were telling the truth as they saw it. Lucy had done her part well. It was a conspiracy. But who was behind it?

He’d come at that question from all angles since the night Lucy died, and he was no nearer to answering it
now than he’d been then. It wasn’t because there was a lack of suspects. There were too damn many.

His head jerked up when he heard the key turn in the lock. A moment later, the massive studded door slowly swung open. Framed in the doorway was a uniformed turnkey, a vicious-looking character with monkey features and bushy eyebrows set in a scowl.

“Harper,” said Richard, a slow grin spreading across his face. “What kept you?”

“I was waiting until the coast was clear. Well, move your arse. We haven’t got all day.”

Sergeant Harper was one of the few people Richard trusted, which was just as well, because Harper was Richard’s bodyguard. This explained why Harper was more surly than usual. The man he was sworn to protect had gone off, so he said, half-arsed without a word to his bodyguard, and look where it had got him.

Richard and Harper had known each other for a long time. In Spain, they’d both served in His Majesty’s Secret Service. They hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but the cases they’d worked on since had given each a profound respect for the other. They were comrades. In private, they spoke freely, though Harper perhaps a little more freely than his chief would have liked. It did no good to remonstrate with Harper. He did not answer to Richard. His appointment had come from the prime minister, as a reward for services rendered, and he never let Richard forget it.

Harper looked down the length of the passageway, saw that it was empty, and stepped into the cell. “Let’s get these fetters unlocked,” he said, “but mind, don’t take ’em off till you’re in the closet.”

Now that the moment of escape had arrived, Richard felt a surge of energy at every pulse point in his body. The nagging pain in his chest vanished; his mind was crystal clear. His breathing quickened.

As Harper unlocked the fetters on his hands and
legs, Richard reviewed each step of the escape plan. Harper, the brass-faced villain, really was a turnkey, having secured the position with a little help from his unsavory friends even before Richard was convicted of murder. A born pessimist was Harper, and sometimes, as now, it paid off. The first step of the plan was to disguise Richard as a turnkey as well. Harper would escort him to the water closet at the end of the passageway, where a uniform was waiting for him, and inside the tricorne hat would be a pistol, fully loaded. Once he had changed, they would descend the three flights of stairs to the Felons’ Quadrangle and act as though they were guarding the prisoners and their visitors. Soon after, a new shift of turnkeys would arrive to replace them, and they would march to the turnkeys’ lodges beside the keeper’s rooms and the last locked door to freedom.