Page 2 of My One and Only Duke
He wanted…
What he wanted no longer mattered, if it ever had. The reprieve Ned spoke of was more burden than blessing, because Quinn was fated to die, awfully, publicly, and painfully, whether he’d committed murder, manslaughter, or neither.
“If you’re not going to eat that, guv, it shouldn’t go to waste.”
Quinn passed over his sandwich. “My appetite seems to have deserted me.”
Ned tore the sandwich in half and put half in his pocket. For later, for another boy less enterprising or fortunate than Ned. For the birds—the child loved birds—or a lucky mouse.
Quinn had lost not only his appetite for food, but also his interest in all yearnings. He did not long to see his siblings one last time—what was there to say? He certainly had no desire for a woman, though they were available in quantity even in prison. He had no wish to pen one of those sermonizing final letters he’d written for six other men in the previous weeks.
Those convicts had faced transportation, while Quinn faced the gallows. His affairs were scrupulously in order and had escaped forfeiture as a result of his forethought.
He wanted peace, perhaps.
And justice. That went without saying.
The door banged open—it was unlocked during daylight—and the under-warden appeared. “Wait in here, ma’am. You’ll be safe enough, and I see that we’re enjoying a feast. Perhaps the famous Mr. Wentworth will offer you a portion.” The jailer flicked a bored glance over Ned, who’d ducked his head and crammed the last of the food into his mouth.
A woman—a lady—entered the cell. She was tall, dark-haired, and her attire was plain to a fault.
Not a criminal, then. A crusader.
“Bascomb,” Quinn said, rising. “My quarters are not Newgate’s family parlor. The lady can wait elsewhere.” He bowed to the woman.
She surprised him by dropping into a graceful curtsy. “I must wait somewhere, Mr. Wentworth. Papa will be forever in the common wards, and I do not expect to be entertained. I am Jane Winston.”
She was bold, as most crusaders were. Also pretty. Her features were Madonna-perfect, from a chin neither receding nor prominent, to exquisitely arched brows, a wide mouth, high forehead, and intelligent dark eyes. The cameo was marred by a nose a trifle on the confident side, which made her face more interesting.
She wore a voluminous cloak of charcoal gray, bits of straw clinging to the hem.
“As you can see,” Quinn replied, “we are a company of gentlemen here, and an unchaperoned lady would not be comfortable in our midst.”
The warden snickered. “Wait here or leave the premises, ma’am. Them’s your choices, and you don’t get a say, Wentworth. I don’t care if you was banker to King George himself.”
As long as Quinn drew breath he had a say. “I am convicted of taking an innocent life, Miss Winston. Perhaps you might see fit to excuse yourself now?”
He wanted her to leave, because she was an inconvenient reminder of life beyond a death sentence, where women were pretty, regrets were a luxury, and money meant more than pewter tankards and a useless writing desk.
And Quinn wanted her to stay. Jane Winston was pleasing to look at, had the courage of her convictions, and had probably never committed anything approaching a crime. She’d doubtless sinned in her own eyes—coveting a second rum bun, lingering beneath warm covers for an extra quarter hour on the Sabbath. Heinous transgressions in her world.
He also wanted her to stay because frightening the people around him had stopped amusing him before he’d turned twelve. Even Ned didn’t turn his back on Quinn for more than an instant, and Davies remained as close to the unlocked door as possible without giving outright offense. The wardens were careful not to be alone with Quinn, and the whores offered their services with an air of nervous bravado.
Miss Winston’s self-possession wafted on the air like expensive perfume. Confident, subtle, unmistakable.
“If a mere boy can break bread with you, then I don’t have much to fear,” she said, “and my father will expect me to wait for him. Papa is easily vexed. Do you have a name, child?”
Ned remained silent, sending a questioning glance at Quinn.
“He is Edward, of indeterminate surname,” Quinn said. “Make your bow, Ned.”
Ned had asked Quinn to teach him this nicety and grinned at a chance to show off his manners. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Winston.”
“I’ll be leaving,” the guard said. “You can chat about the weather over tea and crumpets until…” He grinned, showing brown, crooked teeth. “Until next Monday.”
“Prison humor.” Miss Winston stripped off her gloves. Kid, mended around the right index finger. The stitching was almost invisible, but a banker learned to notice details of dress. “I might be here for a good while. Shall you regale me with a tale about what brought you to this sorry pass, Mr. Wentworth?”
The lady took the seat Ned had vacated, and she looked entirely at ease, her cloak settling around her like an ermine cape.
