Page 15 of My One and Only Duke
Quinn grasped her dilemma. Money always came with conditions, with complications. Instead of struggling against her father’s incompetence, Miss Winston would have to deal with being a murderer’s widow. She would figure prominently in the broadsheets and tattlers in the coming weeks, and ten years hence, somebody would considerately wave those horrors in the child’s face.
Miss Winston would have to draw firm lines between her household and the prying public.
She’d have to sort out what to tell pious Uncle Dermott, if anything.
She’d have to explain to the child how a condemned felon had stepped into the legal role of father.
Quinn could help her with none of it. “Money changes everything. It changes how you’re perceived and treated, how you approach others. The changes aren’t always for the better, but not having money can be fatal.”
In his case, having money had proved equally dangerous.
“A child must eat,” Miss Winston said, linking her fingers on the table before her, as if somebody was about to bind her wrists. “I must eat, if my child is to be born healthy.”
Quinn held his peace, because the lady had apparently come to a decision. She’d take his money, she’d let him make one gesture in defiance of the court’s judgment of him. Althea and Constance would grasp his logic, and Joshua would see to the funds.
Stephen…Quinn could not bear to think about Stephen. Thank God that Duncan was on hand to think about Stephen.
Miss Winston scooted to the edge of her chair. “Get that special license, Mr. Wentworth, and prepare to become my lawfully wedded husband.”
She pushed to her feet, then swayed. Quinn was off the bed and had his arms around her in the next instant.
* * *
“I’ll go next week,” Ned said, keeping his voice down.
Newgate was the epicenter of tragedy in London, as full of despair and hard luck as the sewers were full of waste. Of all the prison’s horrors—the stink, the sickness, the violence, the graft—the plight of the children appalled Jane most.
Papa’s response was the predictable mumbling about God’s will, which only confirmed that Jane wanted no part of her father’s God.
And yet, who but the Almighty could have inspired Ned to remain captive?
“We might not have a next week,” Jane replied. “The charwoman might lose her job, the warden might decide that wheelbarrows will replace the muck carts, the wagon that picks up the straw might be delayed by a lame horse.”
Ned hopped down from the common room’s windowsill. “All of that might have happened this week, but it didn’t, Miss Jane. I don’t want him to die alone.”
“We all die alone, Ned. That can’t be helped.”
He kicked at the straw, doubtless disturbing a legion of fleas. “I’ve seen other men hang. He’ll go quick ’cause he’s so big.”
Mr. Wentworth was tall and strong. Jane had had occasion to appreciate that strength when she’d nearly fainted several days earlier. He’d gathered her in his arms, his warmth and scent enveloping her. He was a killer—Jane had never once heard him protest his innocence—and yet, his embrace had been a comfort.
He’d held her as if he had all the time in the world to humor her wayward biology, as if she weighed nothing. He knew how to shelter a woman against his body without awkwardness or impropriety intruding.
Gordie hadn’t known that, and he’d legally taken on the role of protecting Jane. His embraces had been exclusively carnal from the first, and Jane hadn’t realized a man might offer her any other sort of intimacy.
“Next week,” Jane said, “I want you to go, Ned. I’ll make you promise Mr. Wentworth if you won’t promise me.” Because Mr. Wentworth could make the boy do anything—except abandon him.
“Next week you’ll be a missus. You won’t have to come here ever again.”
Jane didn’t want to visit Newgate again. Mama’s stubborn devotion to charitable work had resulted in her death. Jane wanted to get the wedding ceremony over with, leave, and never, ever come back. Mr. Wentworth’s generosity made that dream possible, even as eternal damnation awaited him.
In a few minutes, Jane would become a wife for the second time. She was waiting for Davies, Mr. Wentworth’s self-appointed footman, to let her know the preacher had arrived. The license had been obtained only that morning, and on Monday—the day after tomorrow—she’d become a widow once again.
She’d considered telling Papa about the wedding and decided against it. He’d never approve, and he’d meddle, and a great ruckus would ensue, and then Jane would be sick, poor, and unwed.
Davies emerged from Mr. Wentworth’s quarters—they hardly qualified as a cell—and beckoned.
“The parson’s in the warden’s room. You look a right treat, Miss Winston.”
