Page 46 of My Deceitful Duchess
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Something wasdifferenttoday. Usually it was the same court official who came to remove Jenny from her cramped little cell and walk her to the room where Sebastian cast questions at her until they had both wearied of the exercise in futility. She had grown accustomed to the pinch of sharp fingers around the flesh of her upper arm that had left a circle of bruises there; the derisive sneer affixed to the same unfriendly face.
This time it was a different gentleman entirely who had come for her—a well-dressed gentleman with a kind face, and he didn’t even seize her by the arm as if he suspected she might be tempted to flee. Instead he held the door open with a simple, “If you’ll follow me, Your Grace.”
“I know the way.” She ought to by now. It had become a part of her routine these past weeks. But when she would have continued straight down a narrow hallway, he directed her to the left instead. She thought that was toward the entrance of the building, but it had been so long since she’d been brought here, she found she couldn’t quite remember.
“Be careful,” the gentleman said. “It seems someone in the court was a bit too free in their speech, and now there’s a hell of a crowd.”
A crowd? What for? But she could hear it now—the dull roar of voices in the distance, from somewhere outside the building.
“I don’t understand,” she said, swallowing down a sudden surge of nerves. “Why ought I be careful?” Did they think the crowd might mob the building? Was she indanger? But before she could pose the question, she saw a flash of brilliant red hair, and gasped, “Lottie?”
Fourheads turned toward her. Not just Lottie, but Harriet as well—and Lords Clybourne and Livingston besides. It wasn’t a shock, so much, to see them, but rather to see them all together at once, and in a place other than the cold, spare room in which she generally found herself confined.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as Lottie and Harriet rushed forward. “Oh—don’t hug me, please. I’m filthy.” But still she found herself swept into an affectionate embrace, and her senses, which had been deprived of anything sweet and pleasant just lately, soaked up the subtle violent scent of Lottie’s perfume.
“You’ll have a bath soon,” Harriet said. “We’ve come to take you home, dearest.”
“Home?” How alien, how unfamiliar the word sounded. “I can’t go home. They’re going to hang me.” Did they not understand this? The depths of the scandal into which she’d embroiled herself? Andthem, by association?
Lord Clybourne flinched. “Not,” he said, “if we can help it.”
“There are…conditions,” Lottie allowed. “You won’t be permitted to leave Ambrosia. At all. We’ll have to employ staff to ensure that you cannot, in fact. But you will behome, Jenny.” Still, the fragile smile on her face gave a precarious wobble, and she knew that it was just a temporary reprieve. She could live out her life in comfort—right up until she was hanged.
She didn’t care. Even if all she had was a few months, she would take it. “When—when can we go?”
“Right now.” Lord Livingston offered her his arm. “The paperwork is already done. We were only waiting for you to be conveyed to us.”
She took his arm gently, delicately, feeling the grime of too many days without a proper bath.
“Chin up,” he said. “There’s a bit of a crowd.”
Thecrowd. Ithadformed for her—because someone had let slip the knowledge that she was to be released today. A shiver slipped down her spine. “Should I be worried?”
“No, dearest.” A gentle hand touched her back—Harriet’s, she thought. “Come; the carriage is waiting.”
And that was it—she could just…leave. No one tried to stop her. Lord Livingston led her outside himself, and she was surrounded by her friends. The bright spring sunlight assaulted her eyes—too vivid, too saturated after a month in captivity, without even so much as a window of her own.
Abitof a crowd had been a vast understatement, she realized—the roar that rose from the throng waiting outside was deafening. When her ears stopped ringing with it, it was a surprise to hearcheers. She had expectedjeers, perhaps, butcheers?
“What—what—”
“The carriage, dearest, please.” Lottie all but dragged her when she might have floundered. “Give a wave, and then let usgo.”
As if of its own accord, her hand lifted from Lord Livingston’s elbow, raising into the air with a tiny little flip. The raucous crowd roared again, pressing in around them, only barely contained by the efforts of the court officers standing by. And then she was conveyed into the carriage, squeezing against the farthest side so that everyone else might climb in after her. Still the noise was a cacophony, even through the closed door of the carriage.
The carriage lurched into motion, moving at a snail’s pace—no doubt to avoid trampling the crowd. But even that tiny motion unsettled her already-queasy stomach. Her lips felt dry and chapped, and her breath stuttered in her chest. Confusion made a muddle of her head. “What is going on?” she asked.
“England loves a good tragedy,” Lord Clybourne said dryly. “You’ve turned out particularly popular.”
A chill swept over her. “They want to see me hang,” Jenny said dully.
“No! Oh, no, dear, not at all.” Harriet’s hand covered one of hers, which felt cold as ice where they were settled in her lap. “Jenny, you spend so much of your time at Ambrosia—there are hundreds of ladies who know you personally—and even more that were your customers when you were a seamstress. There are so very few peoplewho truly believe you guilty of the crime of which you stand accused.”
Lord Livingston added, “And even those that might believe it of you don’t necessarily hold it against you. Why, the last time Clybourne and I were at our club, Lord Merton read out an article on your husband’s murder to some of his friends—”
Clybourne barked out a laugh. “One of them said, ‘Good for her. Never much liked the blighter anyway.’”
