Page 56 of A Duchess of Mystery

Chapter Twenty-Four

Cold, damp, cloying blackness, so thick she could almost touch it, pressed in on Isabella from all sides, with not even a hint of light being thrown by the prison cell’s dirty windows. No matter how much she strained her eyes as wide as they would go, she could see nothing. But that wasn’t the worst thing. No, the worst thing was that with the fall of darkness, the prison cell had sprung to life. All around her, it seemed, the sound of scuttling across the floor and up the walls grew louder and closer with every passing moment. She’d already swept her long skirts, the skirts of the gown she’d chosen especially because she’d thought Richard would like it, up above her knees out of fear that something heard but unseen would try to climb them. Now she lifted her feet off the floor as well and hugged her knees to her chest on the hard pallet bed.

Only that was of no comfort at all. She’d removed the one tatty and stinking blanket to one of the other beds and for a while had sat on the thin straw mattress. Until she’d begun to itch. Unseen small things were crawling on her now, despite having thrown the mattress aside and sitting on just the hard base, and there was nothing she could do about it. Scratching herself only made it worse and the more she dwelled on it, the more she became convinced that her body and hair were seething with unwanted visitors. She’d never be clean again. The feel of little feet, real or imagined, on her skin, made her want to rip her clothes off and hammer on the door. But she was a duchess. That would never do.

Someone at last went around lighting Newbury’s streetlamps, such as they were, and a faint glow managed to enter the cell from the filthy window, but not enough to see much by. Not enough to see what it was that scuttled across the floor on tiny feet. Her imagination provided for that. Nervous exhaustion washed over her in ever increasing waves, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie down on this dreadful bed. Who knew what would come crawling over her if she dropped her guard.

She had to keep her spirits up. Richard would do something, wouldn’t he? The expression of anxiety on his face as she’d been taken had given her hope. She refused to consider that there might well be nothing he could do. After all, she’d confessed to him that she’d done it. He would have believed her. He must never know it was Dora who’d pulled the trigger and killed her brother. Never.

His face danced before hers as she’d first seen him in the stables, his hair tousled, his sleeves rolled up above his elbows revealing his well-muscled arms. She’d thought him handsome then, but his resemblance to Marcus had been enough to make her shy away from allowing herself to like him. It was only later, when that likeness seemed to have dissipated, and he’d stood out to her as an individual distinct from his cousin, that she’d dared to admit to herself that she was attracted to him. He was like the mirror image of Marcus—the good version, the antithesis to her late husband, opposite to him in so many ways. How would it have been if Marcus had never existed and Richard had always been the duke? If he’d been the one her father had set his sights on? The one she’d married? Would she even now be at home with a brood of children of her own, like Grace? Would Dora be married as well? Happy, contented women, fulfilling their roles in life, unmarred by their relationships to Marcus.

What would it be like to be married to a man like Richard? This was the first time she’d truly allowed herself to consider this possibility. She’d said she’d help him find a wife, with the intention of taking her time—a lot of time. Had she really intended to do so? To see him married one day to some other undeserving woman? Her own arrogance remained, an arrogance that had been nurtured by Marcus’s treatment of her, an arrogance she’d had to foster in the face of his cruelty, or she would have crumpled to nothing. Did Richard even like her, with all these character traits she suspected he might despise? He’d given nothing away. But that look… the horror in his eyes as she’d been taken away. Had it been something more than friendship? Could she hope for a miracle?

Something larger ran across the floor close by her pallet bed and she tightened her hold on her knees in fear.

That people were kept like this, and she’d known nothing about it, horrified her. Had that woman known this was the way she’d be treated when she’d departed with that smile of smug self satisfaction? Surely not? Isabella wouldn’t have wished this on her worst enemy. Not even on Marcus. Well, maybe on Marcus if she were honest. His death had been an altogether too merciful and quick affair, and she was not ashamed to admit that thought. She had, on many occasions, considered suitable ends for her late husband, none of which had included a quick death by shooting.

Outside, the town clock struck the hour. Nine times. How long had she been here? She’d lost track of time. Been too preoccupied to have noticed the clock striking earlier. Too wrapped up in her own fears.

But she was made of stern stuff, and she refused to give in to despair, close as that enemy was lurking. Surely, in the morning they’d be taking her up to London where the conditions would be better. Surely.

Discomfort weighed down on her. She didn’t dare lean back against the wall for fear of the cockroaches. She kept her feet off the floor for fear of the rats. Sagging a little in weariness, her lids drooped and almost fell. This jerked her awake. No. She would not give in and lie down on this awful bed. A shiver of disgust ran through her at the thought of how many people, possibly wrongly accused like herself, had already sat where she was sitting. Suffering the same despair she was feeling.

Her one consolation was that she was here and not Dora, with her fragile grip on her sanity, courtesy of a lifetime of bullying by her brother. Dora, who had finally cracked when Marcus had been about to commit murder himself, could not have stood this, but she, Isabella, could and would. Dora had done what she’d done only to save her life, and in return, Isabella determined to save her. There was no argument here. Isabella loved Dora as the older sister she’d never had, the island of normality in her turbulent marriage, the succor in her storm. No, she would never let Dora come to this. She would die for her if she had to, or suffer transportation to the colonies. Anything to save gentle, fragile Dora.

Thinking of Dora brought a wetness to her eyes. She swiped away the unshed tears. She would not cry. If she did, she would be giving in. She was Isabella, Duchess of Stourbridge and the daughter of Josiah Hope, and she would never give in, not even if she were sent to the gallows. To the very end she would be dignified, and prove to all those doubters that you didn’t need to be born into nobility to be noble and proud.

The night crept past on slow feet. Or was it still the evening? Much later, or she thought it must be so, the sound of revelers perhaps returning from one of the inns after a night of carousing came from outside. Shouts, carefree laughter, someone singing a drunken song. People who were free and unaware how easily they could be brought down, as she’d been. Later still came the clatter of hooves and rattle of coach wheels on the cobbles as a mailcoach passed through. Ostlers shouted from a nearby inn, voices of passengers carried. All of them free as the birds of the air but unappreciative of it. Perhaps it had brought the promised Bow Street Runner to take her up to London. Then, even later, although for all she knew it could only have been minutes, came the drum of rain on the cobbles outside and the jail’s tiled roof.

It leaked. The steady drip of water in more than one spot joined the scuttling of unseen creatures.

The fresh damp fueled the chill, and the chill ate into her bones. For September, the prison cell was colder than she could ever have expected. She squeezed her hands between her thighs in an effort to warm them. If only she’d thought to bring her warm shawl, some gloves, a clean blanket. But it had all been so sudden. So unexpected. With the passing of two months since Marcus’s death, she’d made the mistake of thinking both of them safe, despite the persistent whispered rumors. No doubt they’d been fueled by Lady Dangerfield. His mistress. A woman intent on revenge just because she couldn’t have become duchess herself. She and Lady Brocklebank, who’d smiled and smiled and remained her hidden enemy since the day Marcus had chosen her instead of Verity as his bride.

What could they possibly have in evidence? Nothing. No one knew what had really happened save herself, Dora, Atkins, Mrs. Barnes, and Old Amos. And none of them would breathe a word.

She bit her thumbnail, a habit she’d had drummed out of her as a child. A habit that was returning with a vengeance. All her nails were now bitten to the quick. So what possible evidence could that woman have seized upon? Nothing that was true. This was her only hope. If she stood trial, could she prove they were lying without incriminating Dora? Could Richard help her do it?

And she was back to thinking about him again. She would be hanged for this, and he would go on living at Stourbridge without her. Perhaps Dora would marry Philip Sanders now she’d no longer fear abandoning Isabella to Marcus. Instead of running off to find employment elsewhere, Philip would be able to remain at Stourbridge. Yes, Dora needed Philip’s solid stability. If anyone could help her overcome her guilt, he could. But he would have to be told. She needed to tell Richard that Philip should be told the truth. If he came to visit her, she could do that. Then Dora might have a chance at happiness, and, one day, she and Philip might have children. Long after she, Isabella, was gone.

But what of Richard? Dear, kind Richard. He would forget about her and marry some young debutante he met during the Season. If not the one approaching, then the one after that. He’d have children. An heir. And then he might go back to his regiment as he’d said. If he’d married her, she’d have made sure he didn’t do that. She’d have wanted him by her side forever. Safe from harm.

She frowned. What was she thinking? He didn’t love her, and surely she was mistaking her own maudlin feelings for love when they couldn’t be? You couldn’t fall in love like this. Could you? Not with someone you hardly knew.

She drew in a deep, steadying breath. She was going mad. That was it. Madness was taking her over, fueling her imagination, making her think things that could never be true.

Something squealed and feet scampered close by the bed. She drew her knees closer still to her chest and hugged them tighter. This was going to be a long night.

It was long after dark when Dickens drew the coach up outside Colonel Jarvis’s house and Richard, Sir Oswald Peverel, whom Richard had snatched away from his dinner, and a reluctant and cowed Mr. Hopkins descended from it. Sir Oswald, a rotund man whose very appearance spoke of his fondness for his dinner, was in a bad humor. The unfortunate Mr. Hopkins, who’d spent the journey trying to sink into the shadows of one corner in the coach, looked as hangdog and guilty as it was possible for someone to look. He’d waited in the carriage, under Dickens’s watch lest he turned chicken and fled, while Richard went inside Wormstall House and apprised Sir Oswald of his mission.

With bad grace, as he hadn’t yet reached his dessert, which he declared was to have been his cook’s specialty, a plum pudding, Sir Oswald had agreed that it was indeed an emergency, and a duchess could not be allowed to suffer such an indignity as being locked up for a crime she hadn’t committed. With nearly as much reluctance as Mr. Hopkins, he agreed to accompany Richard to the Colonel’s house.

When they arrived, it was late, but lights still shone in the downstairs windows of Hampstead Manor indicating that the owner had not yet retired to bed. His butler, a little surprised by the lateness of their arrival, escorted them into the colonel’s library, where they found that gentleman ensconced before a blazing fire, his stockinged feet on the fender, and accompanied by a half-empty decanter of brandy. His nose was notable by its shiny redness.

Richard did not beat about the bush. With every hour that passed, his anxiety had been rising, although he realized there would be nothing gained by racing to the jail and trying to see Isabella unless he held the right cards. The confession of Mr. Hopkins alone, who had at first insisted that he had indeed witnessed the murder and had only caved in under severe threat from Richard, would not be enough. He needed the power of the magistrates behind him.

He explained once again, just as he had to Sir Oswald, but only what he wanted them to know rather than what was strictly true. He couldn’t allow Dora to be exchanged for Isabella’s freedom. He had to gain her release without implicating his fragile cousin.

When he’d finished, he handed the signed statements of his three servants to the colonel. Each of them had sworn that they had been the only ones involved that night, and Atkins had attested to having been first on the scene after the duchess. No one else had been up and about at that time, and neither had any of them had reason to be.