A Brother's Honor (25 page)

Clive's high-pitched humming filled the room. Abigail fought to keep her face serene, for she had learned that Clive reacted savagely to any hint of fear. The sound of her footsteps must have entered Clive's slow mind. He peered at her like a huge bird trying to bring her into focus one eye at a time.

“Look who is here!” crowed Fuller. “It is your pretty, Clive.”

Abigail sat in the closest chair. She had learned that was the easiest way to avoid Clive's horrible embrace that threatened to choke her. She whispered, “Good afternoon.” She never said anything but that and “Farewell.”

Wincing, she suffered Clive's patting on her head and the mumblings which occasionally contained a word or two she could understand. Almost every time, that word was “pretty.” When she looked past him to Fuller and Greene, the other guard, she wished she could find some way to wipe the smiles from their faces. She recalled Tessie's words of how Clive had been a gentle creature until these two men had been hired.

She swallowed her cry of anguish as Clive's hand struck her shoulder harder than usual. That he did not understand he was hurting her did not lessen the number of bruises that discolored her shoulders and back beneath her gown. When he whirled away, she waited until he was busy with something on the other side of the room. Then she rose. She started for the door, but Fuller blocked her way.

“Ain't been no hour yet. You know what Sir Harlan wants. One hour for you here with your sweetheart.”

Abigail took a deep breath. If she raised her voice, she chanced calling Clive's attention back to her. She must avoid that. “Mr. Fuller, Clive is not interested in me today. I suggest you move aside so I may leave.”

“Ain't interested in you?” He chuckled. “I can remedy that.”

Abigail watched in disbelief as he turned to Greene. They were as inhuman as Clive, and their madness was cruel.

She ran to the door, but strong hands jerked her back. She screamed, then clamped her lips closed. But it was too late.

Fuller swore as an answering shriek came from the other side of the room. “Now you have done it!” Fuller growled. “I should leave you here with him, but I do not want to clean up the pieces of you afterwards.” Opening the door, he shoved her into the hallway as Clive screeched again. “Get the hell out of here. You had best think up an excuse for Sir Harlan. He will be furious that you upset his son.”

Abigail bumped into a maid. The frightened woman stared as shouts and the sound of breaking furniture erupted from the parlor. As the maid scurried away, Abigail decided to do the same.

She was not more than a few steps up the stairs when Tessie appeared behind her. “Miss Abigail,
he
wants to speak with you as soon as you are done with …” She gulped and looked at the parlor door. She cringed when something crashed beyond it.

Leaning on the banister, Abigail sought what strength she could find. She could not guess why Sir Harlan wanted to speak to her now. Neither Fuller nor Greene had had time to carry their tales to their employer. By all the stars, how could she continue to fight against Sir Harlan and his minions who wished to destroy her?

“If you want,” Tessie whispered, “I can tell him you are indisposed.”

“No,” she replied, although she was tempted to agree. She did not want Tessie to be punished by Sir Harlan, nor did she want the serving woman to come to his attention. If the baronet discovered Tessie was Abigail's ally, he would replace her posthaste. “Where is Sir Harlan?”

“In his study.”

“All right.” Putting her hand on Tessie's arm, she lowered her voice. “As soon as I am done, there is something you and I must discuss upstairs.”

Tessie frowned. “Are you hurt? Did he—?” She shuddered again when something made of glass shattered within the parlor.

“I am fine.” Abigail squared her shoulders. “Or I will be when I find a way …” She bit back the words that could betray her.

Tessie nodded, then ran up the stairs.

Going down them, Abigail walked along the hallway. She knocked on the study door and waited until Sir Harlan called to her to enter. As she opened the door, she asked, “You wanted to speak with me?” Her voice was cold, and she did not try to warm it. She hated Sir Harlan more than she did Clive. The younger man could not help himself. It was the father who was the true monster.

Sir Harlan stood. “Close the door.”

When she neared the desk, Abigail could not keep from staring. Spread across it was a selection of jewelry unlike any she had ever seen. Stones of every color scintillated in necklaces, earbobs, and bracelets. Emeralds, sapphires, rubies, pearls, and other gems she could not name. They must have been worth hundreds of pounds.

“Do you think these are lovely?” Sir Harlan asked, his lips curling in a sly smile.

“They are splendid, but I would have guessed that your wife would have kept these to wear in London.”

“I chose not to leave them with her.” His smile became tight as he added, “She would lose them in a night of gambling with her cronies.”

“So you keep them here in your study?”

“Only for a short time more. Soon they will be yours.”

“Mine?” Her voice squeaked in shock.

“You shall be my son's wife.” He gestured at the beautiful jewelry. “You are Arthur's daughter, so I know you will appreciate the rewards of being Clive's wife.”

Walking away, Abigail sat in an overstuffed chair. “He is not my father. I have told you that.”

“He is your uncle, then.” Picking up a spectacular emerald necklace, he draped it over his hand and held it out toward her. “I know how much he appreciates the finest things in life.”

“Put it away. I do not want it.”

“No?” He laughed. “Then you are as foolish as Clive. Do you have any idea how valuable these are?”

“Yes.”

“But you don't want them?”

Leaning forward, she said, “Sir Harlan, you have bought Captain Fitzgerald's loyalty. You have bought me in your son's bed, but you will never buy my soul. Mayhap I am a fool, but I will be my own fool, not yours.” She stood and added, “Good day, sir.”

“Wait!”

Knowing the price of ignoring his order, Abigail slowed and turned. Sir Harlan scooped up the jewelry and returned it to the box on his desk. After he put it on a bookshelf behind him, he locked the glass doors with a key that he placed in the top drawer of his desk. He rounded his desk.

“Don't forget,” he growled, “that I can have your French pirate hanged whenever I wish. It is only because I am a good representative of the English government that I am granting him the privilege of a trial. Make me angry, my dear, and you will find how quickly I can forget that. Do you understand me?”

Folding her hands in front of her, she nodded. “I understand you completely. What
you
fail to understand is that, if you kill Dominic, you shall have no hold on me. Do you understand
me?
You will, I suspect, if you think on it long enough.” She turned toward the door as he sputtered incoherently at her.

Abigail savored no satisfaction at her slight victory. If she did nothing, Sir Harlan would have his way. She would be forced to wed Clive, and Dominic would die. She was determined that Dominic would escape England alive. She had to find a way to help him, and prayed that he could help her. If not, she would spend the rest of her life in hell.

Chapter Eighteen

As she stepped from the fancy carriage, Abigail took note of everyone on the street that climbed the hill toward Sir Harlan's estate. This village could have been any of the ones she and Dominic had traveled through on their way to London. Similar shops clung to the narrow, twisting street, and the wagons and pedestrians were the same.

But no other village had been shadowed by the walls of a prison. Nor had she needed to be anxious in any other village that Sir Harlan had arranged for someone to spy on her. He certainly would have if he suspected where she was now and why.

Thanking the footman who had helped her out of the carriage, Abigail smiled and pressed a coin into his hand. “You gentlemen must be thirsty after the dusty ride down from the house.” Her smile included the coachman. “Is there a place where you can find something to drink while I complete my errands?”

The footman hesitated. “We have orders to—”

From his seat at the top of the carriage, the coachee called, “Be silent, fool! Thank you, Miss Fitzgerald.” He tipped his cap to her. “We are grateful.”

“I shall be done in about two hours.” She waved toward the shop with the sign that read
MRS
.
RICHE
—
COUTURIÈRS
.

“We will meet you right here, Miss Fitzgerald, in two hours.” To the footman, he bellowed, “Climb aboard. We cannot block the street Other ladies might be coming to see Mrs. Riche.”

Sweeping aside the dust that rose in the carriage's wake, Abigail waited patiently for it to turn a corner. Nothing must betray her now. She forced herself to a sedate pace as she walked in the opposite direction. As she went along an alley, she pulled a plain cloak over her dress. She hoped the cape would make her less conspicuous. She had borrowed it and the coins from Tessie. Somehow she would repay the maid.

At the end of the alley, Abigail paused and stared at the jail. Crenellations marched across the top of the high walls. Tightening her grip on her bag, she forced her feet forward. She hoped that, once she entered this heinous place, she could escape again.

She walked through the narrow door and immediately was met in the filthy courtyard by a tall man. He was as disgustingly dirty as his surroundings. With every step, a ring of keys clanked at his hip. He smiled, his gaze slithering along her.

“What are you doing here, missy?” he asked.

“Are you a jailer?” She had not guessed the warden would look as hideous as the prison.

“I am Pritchard. If you have business here, you have it with me.”

“I have to come to see Captain Dominic St. Clair.” Silently she congratulated herself because her voice remained calm. “Will you be so kind as to tell me where I might find him?”

He held out his hand. “You will be needing an escort, missy.”

Knowing she had no choice, she withdrew a coin from her bag. His smile grew broader as he pocketed it. “Right this way, missy. Good thing you are coming to see him now. 'Tweren't much to look at when we fished him out of the pits this morning.”

When Abigail smiled, Pritchard choked back a gasp of surprise. She did not care what he thought. It appeared that Tessie's visit earlier today had been successful. Tessie had known how many coins it would take to get Dominic out of the common cell.

She wished she could have heard what Tessie had experienced here, so she could be prepared for what waited within. No matter; she would do what she must. She lifted her skirts over stinking puddles. As Pritchard held a door and motioned her inside, the stench in the dim corridors was even worse.

He led her down staircase after staircase until she was sure they must be nearing the gates of Hades. When he shoved aside a thick door, an odor, more pungent than a fisherman's hut in New Bedford, swelled out. She pulled from her bag a perfumed handkerchief Tessie had insisted she must have and pressed it to her nose.

The feeble light from the jailer's battered lantern braved the darkness only a few inches on either side of them. The walls glowed with intermittent splotches of whitewash. Scurrying sounds warned that large bugs or rats fled from the light.

A hand reached out of the darkness and grasped her skirt. She screamed as she was jerked against the bars of a narrow door. Fingers tangled in her hair to twist her face toward the cell. A colorless face peered through the woman's matted hair. She broke away from the desperate fingers only to be caught by another nightmarish creature. Other scrawny arms covered with sores reached out.

Pritchard chuckled when Abigail shrieked again. Then he stepped forward. Viciously he struck the bony arms stretching through the bars.

“Keep yer hands off her, slime,” he snarled. A smile tilted his lips, revealing broken teeth.

Abigail willed her stomach not to revolt. There were children among the women in that cell. What could a child have done to deserve this? Tears welled into her eyes, not just for the children, but for Dominic, who had endured this torment for the past week. When she recalled how he delighted in the breeze blowing in his face, she knew the punishment must be doubly severe for him.

She looked at the turnkey. “Please take me to Captain St. Clair.” As she slid away from the grasping fingers, others clutched the back of her skirt. She whirled to see another prison cell behind her. This one was filled with men as ragged as the women. More children peered through the bars, their slender arms unable to reach far.

Pritchard laughed again and lifted his lantern close to her face. As her hair caught the light, a man called out, “Put 'er in 'ere, turnkey. Treat 'er real nice, we will. Just for the night. Give 'er back to ye in the morning.”

“No!” she cried as the man seized her arm. Her hands curled around the bars as she tried to push herself away. Rust cut her palms.

With a snicker, Pritchard said, “Seems like yer pennies have gotten ye 'bout as far as ye are going, missy.”

Escaping to the middle of the corridor, she tried to straighten her gown. Her trembling fingers refused to work. “You have been paid to take me to Captain St. Clair.”

“Seems to me any friend of that Frenchie pirate must be a criminal as well.” He grinned. “Might be doing everyone a favor to lock ye away.”

“You must be insane!” She glanced at the skeletal women. “You cannot put me in with them!”

“Not over there.” Grasping her arm, he twisted her to face the cell where the men shouted lustful obscenities and crooked their fingers at her. “In here. How long do ye think ye could survive with them? Yer choice, missy. Ten shillings, or in ye go.”