Page 39 of Unmasking the Earl

Although, he was no Wycherley, regardless of the demands of his body. He would never take what wasn’t freely offered.

“I thank you for your kind consideration,” he said, struggling to sound polite.

“I see you’ve finally remembered your manners. Please continue to do so once you are released.”

He took a deep breath and counted to ten. “I shall endeavor to please.”

“Very well. We’ll do what we can to free you. Can we fetch you anything in the meantime, something that can be pushed through the bars?”

“Don’t bother. It would doubtless land on the floor just out of reach.”

In spite of his complete and utter frustration over every aspect of his life at that moment, he made up his mind just then, that wherever he had influence, he would see to it that prisoners were not required to wear manacles. Or if it was absolutely necessary, that they would only have one foot or hand bound, but not both. The rough edges of the manacles would also be carefully smoothed so they didn’t chafe. And the straw for the mattresses would be regularly changed and washing materials would be provided.

“We will speak to Mr. Marsh,” said Cassie, “and return to you directly.”

“Before nightfall?” He didn’t want to be stuck in this noisome, rat-infested place after dark.

“Well before nighttime. Adieu.”

“Adieu,” he replied as the head retreated, leaving him to his patch of sky and his loneliness once more.

He couldn’t believe she’d forbidden him from punishing Wycherley. She’d probably make him apologize to that little grub of a constable, too. Damn Cassandra Blythe and her infuriating notions of forgiveness! She had not the smallest idea of family honor. Damn her hypocrisy, too! She’d behaved in an utterly scandalous way, but about that she had nothing to say.

When he was free, he would have to point out to her that little mistake in judgment.

One way or another.

Chapter Nineteen

Constable Achilles Marsh was eventually tracked down to the Rose and Crown Inn and brought thence into Portia’s kitchen. It took Cassie rather longer than expected to convince him to release the Earl of Stranraer, however. The good man had insisted on downing a whole bottle of elderberry wine and a quarter side of bacon before consenting to consider any mitigating circumstances.

Thankfully, he’d heard about the dreadful fire in Oxford which was thought to have claimed Lady Georgiana’s life, and he was intrigued to find out where the earl had been hiding all this time. Cassie couldn’t divulge that information, though, without risk of exposing her own misdemeanors.

She looked out the window and realized the sky had become very dark.

“Mr. Marsh, do you think Lord Stranraer might be permitted his liberty now? Dusk is already upon us.”

Portia’s hands flew dramatically to her cheeks. “Oh, my word, I’d no idea we’ve been conversing for so long. The unlucky man must be freezing. I’ll run and put a cauldron on the fire so he can have some hot water to wash if he wants it.”

But Mr. Marsh was not to be hurried. He returned his hat to his head, wiped a sleeve over his buttons, tested the weight of his staff, jingled his keys officiously, and tipped up his cup to make sure he’d drained the very last dregs of elderberry wine before rising at last to head for the jail.

Cassie chewed on her lip as the little procession made its way solemnly across the green to where the dark dome of the Blind House was silhouetted against a fading pink sunset. She wasn’t worried about Ned—seriously, she wasn’t—she was just averse to Portia being on the receiving end of his annoyance because they had taken so long to secure his freedom.

The constable leaned his staff against the limestone wall and unlocked the cell door with a flourish. “These ladies have obtained your early release, my lord,” he announced magisterially.

Silence.

Cassie advanced to the open doorway and gripped the lintel. “Ned? Lord Stranraer? Is aught amiss?”

“I should say it is,” was the response, clearly uttered through teeth clenched in the very greatest of furies.

“I’m sorry it took a little longer to arrange than we’d planned, but you are still getting out several hours early.”

“You could not, I suppose, have returned before the mass departure of patrons from that hellhole I hesitate to accord the title of inn?”

Cassie tilted her head. Why should that matter? She stepped closer and the constable came in behind her, hanging his lantern from a hook on the wall.

“What’s that smell?” she asked with a grimace. There was a distinct odor in the chamber, reminiscent of the rough coaching inns she’d stopped at on the journey to Aston. As she moved forward, her feet encountered sticky moisture on the flagstone floor.