Page 105 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
“I am acquainted with some passing strange people,” Sara murmured.
Mandell folded his arms across his chest, not certain he trusted her, this sudden eagerness to come to his aide. “Why would you offer to help?” he asked.
“It holds no risk for me. I don’t intend to assist you in the actual escape attempt, only give you my expert advice on the best means of rescuing this lady.”
“But Anne is nothing to you. You don’t even know her.”
“Perhaps I have a curiosity to meet the woman who could inspire the haughty marquis of Mandell into storming Newgate clad in little more than his dressing gown.”
But Mandell was not to be put off with this flippant answer. “Why, Sara?” he persisted. “What is your real reason for involving yourself in this matter?”
She cast her eyes downward and Mandell detected a shading of some emotion he could not read. But then she glanced up and met his gaze with her customary boldness.
“I will help you because I feel I owe you a debt, my lord. A payment due from one very clever person to another.”
She flashed him a brilliant smile. Mandell was not sure he was entirely satisfied, but there was enough honesty in her answer that he was able to quell his suspicions. He turned to Hastings to give him leave to follow Sara’s instructions. But he discovered the footman had already gone.
The prison room was small and cramped, with little furnishings beyond the narrow cot. The Countess Sumner had paid dearly for a few extra luxuries for Anne; a thin comforter, a washstand with pitcher and basin, a generous supply of fuel for the coal burner. Anne knew that there were far worse places she could have been lodged at Newgate than this chamber in the warder’s own house.
But the fact remained that when she turned the knob on the door, it did not yield. It was irrevocably locked, dispelling any illusions. She was as much a prisoner as any of the miserable beings who crowded the common cells, her future as precarious as any desperate pickpocket, thief, or murderer.
Shivering, she rubbed her arms. Despite the heat that emanated from the coal burner, she did not seem able to get warm. Perhaps because the chill had its origin in the despair to be found in her own heart.
Glancing out the room’s single window, she saw late afternoon shadows slanting across the yard below. The distant figures of prisoners less fortunate than herself shuffled along, weighted down by the irons shackling their arms and legs. They struggled to drink in what air and sunlight they could before being herded back to the dark confines of their cells.
Those were the condemned, the turnkey who guarded Anne’s quarters in the state side of the prison had confided. Already tried and convicted, they would soon be taken to the transport ships to be conveyed off to some distant penal colony. Some would face a much shorter journey, traveling only as far as Newgate s front gate where the hangman awaited.
Anne stepped back, shrinking from the sight of those wretched souls who only served as a reminder of the grim possibilities of her own fate.
“But I am innocent,” she reminded herself repeatedly. “I have done nothing wrong.” The protestation had become like a monotonous litany that she chanted in her mind, one that began to have little meaning.
What did it matter if she was innocent if no one would believe her? Not the servants, or the constable who had taken her into custody, or the magistrate who had remanded her to be held for trial. Not even her own sister.
“Why did you do it, Anne?” Lily had wailed. “And if you had to shoot that scoundrel, not that I blame you, why couldn’t you have told me first? I could have arranged the matter more discreetly, buried his remains beneath the begonias.”
The servants, from Firken to the youngest footman, in their efforts to be loyal, had declared Sir Lucien a proper villain whomore than deserved whatever Lady Anne had done to him. What they failed to realize was that their indignant protestations only served to damn Anne further.
Despite the nightmare into which she had descended, Anne might have been tempted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, especially Lily’s remarks. Except that her sister’s distress had been far too real. When Anne had been hustled away by the constables, Lily had collapsed.
Yet she had turned up at the prison first thing that morning, paying out an exorbitant fee to make sure that Anne was given the best of accommodations and treatment that Newgate offered. Her sister had looked drawn and pale, for the first time making Anne aware of the span of years that separated them. Lily declared it was simply because she had misplaced her rouge, and although Anne had begged her to go home and rest, Lily had insisted upon setting out to engage for Anne the best solicitor in London.
Anne feared it would take a clever lawyer indeed to help her explain away such suspicious circumstances as her being alone in the garden with Lucien at midnight, being found with the pistol in her hand, and Lucien’s dying accusation. But Anne had kept her terrors and her growing sense of hopelessness to herself. Lily was distraught enough already without Anne giving voice to the doubts that gnawed at them both.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since Anne had been incarcerated at Newgate. But she found herself already marking the time, pacing the small confines of her cell. She occupied her mind by fretting over the most foolish things; wondering if Lily had found her rouge pot, if Bettine had remembered to mend the tear in Norrie’s pink muslin, if Norrie would take the time to finish her lessons before she settled down to have a tea party with her dolls.
It had been so remiss of her not to have engaged a new governess for Norrie, Anne thought ruefully. A good, caring governess would have been of great use just now. She would have kept Norrie busy and distracted. She would have found a gentle way to explain to the little girl Anne’s absence. Anne dreaded what gossip Norrie might pick up from the servants. A good governess would have prevented that. She might even have been able to soothe Norrie’s grief if the worst should happen and no trace of that sinister phantom was ever found, if Anne stood trial for the murder of Lucien and was found guilty.
Anne sank down upon her bed and buried her face in her hands. Those were the things she must not think about if she were to survive this madness. Far better to worry whether Bettine would remember to drape a shawl about Norrie’s shoulders when she took the little girl for her afternoon walk. Anne pressed the heels of her hands against her brow as though by so doing she could blot out more terrifying concerns.
She remained in this posture until she heard the chink of the key in the lock. The door eased open and the scrawny figure of the turnkey slipped into the room.
Mr. Griffiths was a cheerful little man with hair like damp straw and a bright red nose that suggested his fondness for rum. But he was obsequiously respectful to Anne and dipped into a deep bow that would have done credit to an equerry at a monarch’s court.
“Pardon to disturb, milady.” He beamed. “But you have a visitor.”
A faint protest rose to Anne’s lips. She feared it must be Lily again and she was feeling strangely protective of her older sister. She did not want Lily to keep coming to see her in this place. But before Anne could say anything, the individual hovering in the hall outside impatiently thrust his way into the room.
Anne stifled a glad cry. The vision that appeared before her was one that she had not dared to conjure up, even to comfort herself during these past frightening lonely hours. She stared at the tall dark man.
