Page 43 of My Deceitful Duchess
“England does not hang pregnant women.”
“Not generally, no.” Mr. Beckett’s hands folded, fingers knitting together. “It’s possible,” he said, “that she’s simplyirregular. But no one is willing to take the risk of putting apregnant duchessin prison proper—whatever her crimes might have been. Can you imagine the scandal?”
“My God,” Sebastian whispered. “MyGod.”
“I’m assuming you’re the father,” Mr. Beckett said.
Of course he was. Hehadto be. And now—and now he would have to compromise every last one of his principles. To save not only Jenny, but theirchildas well.
∞∞∞
Someone had told Sebastion, Jenny realized as she was led once more in the tiny room and locked within. Someone hadtoldhim—because there was a new tightness in his face, perhaps even a disgust of her that had been absent before. As if she had set out deliberately to entrap him somehow. As if her condition were some sort ofrevengeshe had enacted upon him.
“They won’t even go to the effort of putting you on trial in your…condition,” he said without preamble as she took her usual seat across from him in that hard wooden chair. “They’re concerned you make too sympathetic a defendant.”
Sympathetic. It was laughable. No one—excepting Lottie and Harriet, of course—had expressed so much as an ounce of sympathy for her since she had arrived.
“I’ve been…negotiating with the authorities,” he said. “Naturally, I’m somewhat limited in what I can affect. But clearly I cannot allow the mother of my child to be hanged.”
There was perhaps a sliver of relief in it. He might have asked her if itwashis child at all. She supposed he had that right. She would not have been surprised had such a suspicion entered into his mind.
“The most likely path, at the moment, isexile. Those that are reluctant to hang a duchess see it as the best possible option. You’ll never be able to set foot upon England’s shores again, but at least you will escape with your life.” His shoulders bunched; his hand pressed over a leather folio laid upon the surface of the table, fingertips toying with the upper rightmost corner.
“Venbrough won’t be happy about it—but at least it issomething. Tantamount to transportation, and decidedly more palatable.”
She didn’t give a damn what Venbrough was or was not happy about.
“We’ll marry, of course.”
“I would rather hang.” The words surprised both of them, given that they were the first she had spoken to him in weeks.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “There is avery real riskof that, Jenny, so I would advise you not to speak so flippantly.” His fingertips tapped upon the surface of the folio, the sound blunted by the leather cover. “My child deserves a name,” he said.
Hischild. As if she were merely the vessel that carried it. It was the very same way that her late husband had seen her—nothing more than awomb. “I would rather hang,” she repeated placidly.
“Goddamn it all, Jenny. Can you not understand that I amtryingto help you?” The strident undertone to his voice suggested that she ought to find herselfgratefulfor his help, such as it was. That she clearly did not deserveeither his attention or his mercy, but that out of the goodness of his heart he had offered it anyway.
Like hisname. Given to a child who would otherwise be born a bastard.
But better a bastard ofherblood than ofhisname.
“Nothing could induce me to wed you.” The words were dredged up from deep within her soul, from the same internal grave in which she had buried that young, stupid girl she had once been. They seethed with the anger, theanguishthat had been rotting inside her for more than a decade, with the righteous fury of one too often betrayed. “Not even to save myself.I would rather die.”
“You don’t mean that.” For oncehewas the one at a loss. His chest hitched; his fingers clenched into a fist. That wasfearthere, in those eyes which shied away from meeting her own—an emotion with which she suspected he had little experience.
She would relish that fear for the rest of her life, however short it might be—even if it was but a fraction of that which she had lived with all of these years. Now they wouldbothsuffer.
“I have never meant anything more.” A giddy laugh was born in her chest, trickled up her throat, and soared around the room. “I made my peace with death long ago,” she said. “I do not fear it, and I will meet it bravely and with dignity. But you, Mr. Knight”—she took a perverse sort of pleasure in his wince at the distant address—“youwill live the remainder of yours knowing that you sent me to it.”
She watched a swallow bob in his throat, watched a pained expression tighten his jaw, furrow his brows. The hollows of his cheeks were more pronounced—as if he had been eating no better than had she.
“I was never going to let it come to that,” he said, and it sounded like an admission he had not wanted to make. As if, perhaps, he had not wanted to make it even to himself. “As it turns out, it doesn’t matterwhatyou are guilty of—I still don’t want you to hang.”
“Justice does not serve at your pleasure,” she said.
“No,” he said. “But nobodywantsto hang a duchess. They’d much prefer to wash their hands of the situation entirely. The only reason your arrest has caused such a furor is because the current Duke of Venbrough and his sister are stoking the fires of scandal. It’s been such a long time that the crime had been all but forgotten—and the late duke was not well-liked.”
She had known that much already. Evenshehad not liked her husband. He had not been alikeableman.
