Vanity (46 page)

He gestured expansively, then with another leering grin said, “Well, I’ll leave you with yer lady friend. When miss is ready to leave, I’ll be at the gate below.”

“Twenty-eight shillings a week,” Octavia said gravely as the jailer stomped back down the stairs. “But you wouldn’t want to share with anyone.”

She threw back her veil and regarded him anxiously; her eyes were enormous in the deathly pale oval of her face.

“No,” he agreed, looking around the accommodations. It was a room that would normally house four men, which explained the exorbitant fee.

“And there’s a laundress who will clean and look after you,” Octavia continued with the same anxious gravity. “And your meals will come from the Keeper’s own kitchens. Do you think you’ll be comfortable?”

Rupert’s smile was wry. “As comfortable as it’s possible to be in prison,” he said. “Now, Octavia, you are not to come here again.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she said. “Sit down and let me wash the blood from your head. There’s hot water in the jug, and Ben is fetching you wine and dinner from the tavern outside.”

She pushed him down into a chair and delicately brushed the matted, blood-soaked hair away from the gash in his head.

“That bastard,” she said, pouring hot water into the ewer. “He had no reason to hit you like that.”

“How did you get away from Philip?” He gave up the attempt to remonstrate with her. His head ached too badly for coherent thought, and her touch was cool and soothing.

“Oh, that,” Octavia said, catching her lower Hp between her teeth, a frown of concentration drawing her brows together. “Well, I told him I had my monthly terms … that the shock of being held up had brought them on unexpectedly.”

“Octavia!” he exclaimed with a shout of laughter that made him wince immediately as shooting pains darted through his head.

“It seemed rather apt,” she said with a grin, gently disentangling the matted strands of hair.

For the moment the grim circumstances faded into the background under the wonderful sense of being together again, without the hideous constraint of the last weeks. What had once assumed such vital importance now seemed trivial, and she couldn’t imagine how she’d allowed it to
separate them. But, then, all things were relative, and beside the ghastly realities of the present, very little could assume much importance.

“Eh, Nick. I’m right glad ye’ve found somethin’ to laugh about.” Ben spoke from the doorway, his voice both somber and puzzled.

He came into the room and placed the basket he was carrying on the table.

Rupert turned with a swift smile. “My friend, it’s either laughter or tears at this stage.” He held out his hand, and Ben took it between both of his in a firm warm grip.

“What’s to do?” he said helplessly. “I’ll get the best lawyer …”

“Don’t waste money on a lawyer,” Rupert said. “You know as well as I do it won’t do any good.”

“That’s what I said,” Octavia said, still bathing the ugly wound. “We have to get you out of here.”

Rupert and Ben exchanged looks over her head, but they said nothing.

“Did you bring enough supper for all of us, Ben?” she went on as if she hadn’t noticed their silence, although she had. “I own I’m famished, and I’d love a glass of wine.”

“Aye, there’s a veal and ’am pie, a smoked eel, a goodly round of cheese, and a couple bottles of burgundy.” Ben began to unpack the basket. “Plenty for three of us.”

“There, does that feel better?” Octavia examined her handiwork with a frown. “It’s very deep. I’m sure you should have the physician to sew it up.”

“No, there’s no need for that.”

“But you’ll have a massive scar.”

Rupert shrugged. One scar more or less on a dead man was neither here nor there. He didn’t say it but he didn’t need to, and Octavia turned away abruptly, her lips compressed.

“Are there any cups for the wine, Ben?”

“Aye, I brought some from the tavern.” Ben poured wine into three pewter cups. “I never expected to drink wi’ ye in ’ere, Nick. And I blames meself.”

“There’s no need.” Rupert drank deeply.

“Someone tipped off the Runners. An’ who could it ’ave been? Someone in the Royal Oak, stands to reason.”

Ben frowned into his cup. “Morris weren’t there that afternoon, when we talked of this. But the new stable lad was. Workin’ by the wall where we was talkin’ on t’other side, now I think about it.”

“What do you know of him?”

“Little enough. But I’ll know more right quickly,” Ben said grimly.

“Locking the stable door after the horse has bolted,” Octavia remarked.

The determination to ensure Rupert’s comfort had buoyed her up so far, but now that she’d achieved what little she could achieve, a cold apprehension was creeping over her skin. This was still Newgate. The bars and walls were as thick, even in this spacious apartment. And she couldn’t begin to think how to effect his escape.

“If I brought woman’s clothes,” she said slowly, “you could disguise yourself and slip out of the prison with all the other visitors.”

“My dear, they’ll be watching me every minute of the day,” Rupert said gently. “And they’ll check everything you bring in. Lord Nick the highwayman is too precious a prize to be neglected. If I’m discovered trying to escape, I’ll find myself ironed again and back in the dungeon.”

“But you can’t just give up!” she exclaimed, shaking her head impatiently as Ben offered her the veal and ham pie. She’d suddenly lost all appetite. “They’ll
hang
you if they find you guilty.”

Rupert sighed. “Let’s not talk about this now. Finish your wine and Ben will take you home.” Lines of fatigue were etched around his mouth, and his eyes were heavy with strain and the pain of his crushing headache and battered body.

Octavia stood up immediately. “I’ll come in the morning.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said quietly. “Ben will look to my needs.”

“Better than I could?” The golden eyes were hurt, her mouth soft with distress.

“Not in everything,” he said with a tiny complicit smile.

Ben coughed. “I’ve stabled Peter at the tavern. Mr. Akerman, the Keeper, gave ’im up wi’out too much trouble.”

“Good.” Rupert stood up a little unsteadily as a wave of dizziness washed over him. “See Octavia safe home, Ben.”

“Aye, that I will. Come along, miss.”

Octavia stood irresolute. “Why don’t I stay here tonight? Your wound will need tending and—”

“No,” Rupert interrupted firmly. “Go now.”

Reaching for her, he drew her against him and lightly kissed her brow. “Do as I ask, Octavia, and stay away. I don’t want to risk compromising you.”

“I can’t do as you ask,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She stood on tiptoe to brush his mouth with her own. “And I’ll not be compromised. Wait till you see me tomorrow. You won’t recognize me.”

She was smiling, but she couldn’t disguise the effort it cost her. “Rest now, and I’ll bring you some laudanum tomorrow. I should have thought of it today, but there was so much …” She opened her palms in a gesture of frustration, then turned to go.

Rupert listened to their footsteps recede on the stone staircase; then he flung himself down onto one of the beds, linking his arms behind his head.

How long before they brought him to trial? A lawyer could spin the process out, of course. It would be the only advantage. But did he want to spin it out? Did he want to spend his days and nights in this room, knowing that there was no future? That when he left this place, it would be on the cart that would take him to Tyburn?

Surely it would be better to have done with it quickly. But he knew, too, that even after sentence of death was pronounced a man could languish for many months awaiting
his execution. And he would languish through those months in the condemned cell.

He must stop Octavia’s visits. They would hurt both of them too much. How ironical it was to have achieved harmony again only because he now faced his death.

But before he met that death, he must conclude the business with Rigby and Lacross. He must write the official demands for payment. Ben would deliver them at the correct intervals, and Ben would summon the bailiffs. At the very last the bank would foreclose on the mortgage of Hartridge Folly.

Another four weeks would see the business finally completed. And he could play his part from within New-gate’s walls, always assuming he had four weeks. But the law, even without the help of defense lawyers, was notoriously slow moving.

He closed his eyes, trying to quiet the hammer behind his temples. Philip’s face drifted into his internal vision. He’d been so close to bringing an end to the business begun that day at Beachy Head. So close to exposing his twin, to avenging Gervase. So close, but it might just as well have been a million miles.

The usurping Earl of Wyndham would shortly hold his tide safe from any challenge.

R
upert awoke stiff in every joint. The pounding in his head had lessened, however. Swearing vigorously, he struggled off the bed and stumbled to the window that looked down into the press-yard.

The yard was full of people—men, women, and children milling around, stall holders and barrow boys pushing through the throng, doing a lively business in the necessities of life in prison.

“Ye want some breakfast, sir?”

He turned at the sound of a female voice in the doorway. A young girl stood there, smiling tentatively, wiping her hands on a grubby apron.

“Who are you?”

“Amy. Your laundress, sir.” She bobbed a curtsy, her eyes wide as she gazed at the notorious highwayman. His clothes were torn and stained, but their original quality was still visible. And there was no concealing the physical presence of the man, despite his battered face and tangled hair.

“I could bring ye a nice mutton chop and some eggs, if ye’d like.”

Rupert debated this fare. Decided he needed all the strength he could muster and said, “Thank you, Amy.”

The girl curtsied again and vanished. Rupert gingerly stretched, his muscles complaining vociferously. He felt as if he was one enormous bruise from head to toe.

A cracked glass stood on a makeshift; dresser in the corner of the room, and he examined his countenance with a grimace. Unshaven, hollow-eyed, bruised. He was a sight to frighten children. He touched the gash on his forehead. It was no longer bleeding, and Octavia’s ministrations had cleared away the caked blood, but it was an ugly-looking cut. It probably did need a surgeon. But what was the point of stitching up a dead man?

He had to stop thinking like that. It would neither alter the reality??? make it easier for him to accept.

“’Ere we are, Lord Nick.” The girl came back with a laden tray. “An’ there’s a pint of ale.”

She placed the tray on the table. “Cooked in the Keeper’s own kitchen, sir. Just as yer friends arranged.”

Rupert nodded and sat down, realizing just how hungry he was as the aroma set his saliva running. The girl bustled around the room as he ate, straightening the sheets on the bed.

“D’ye ’ave any clothes for the wash, sir?”

“At this point I have only what’s on my back,” he said wryly, draining his tankard before pushing back his chair from the now empty platters.

“I’ll be bringin’ yer dinner at four o’clock, sir.” Amy took up the tray, offering another bobbed curtsy. “If ye needs me afore then, jest let Timson, the jailer, know. ’E’ll send fer me.”

“You could bring me some hot water,” he said. “And soap and a razor.”

The girl nodded and went to the door. As she reached it, a voice sang up the stairs. “Bring that bath carefully now, ye great lummox! Good money I paid fer that, and yer spillin’ it all over the stairs.”

“All right, all right, girl. You watch yer tongue around ’ere.”

“Pah,” came the scornful response. “Never mind my
tongue. So long as me money’s good, that’s all ye’ve got to worry about.”

Rupert listened incredulously. The voice was unmistakably Octavia’s, for all that she was speaking in the vigorous accents of the street. Labored breathing, muttered curses, and heavy footsteps accompanied her continued stream of encouragement and castigation as whoever it was struggled up the stairs with some weighty burden.

“That’s right, then. Put it down over there. Look lively now, don’t go spillin’ any more of it.”

Octavia appeared in the doorway, pointing imperiously to the middle of the room. “An’ ye can fetch me up two more jugs of ’ot water.”

Reaching into the pocket of a coarse apron, she pulled out a handful of coins, saying loftily. “’Ere, that’s fer yer trouble. An’ I thank ye kindly. Look sharp about them other jugs, now.”

The two men, who had nobly borne the weight of a filled tub of hot water up the long flight of stairs, took the coins with a morose grunt and left with a nod toward the highwayman, who was staring in astonishment at his visitor.

Octavia wore a bright-orange dress that had clearly seen better days. Her breasts jounced above the low neckline edged with torn and grubby lace. Her skirt was kilted up above her ankles to show a dirty petticoat and a pair of rough wooden pattens. She had a scarlet kerchief on her head, tied beneath her chin, and what he could see of her hair hung over one shoulder in a long plait.