Page 63 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
He walked through a final set of doors and found a gray-haired man reading a letter at an enormous desk.
“Haversham?”
“Yes, what’s the meaning of this?”
“I have your telegraph.” Lawrence pulled a sheaf of papers out of his coat pocket and slapped them onto the glossy mahogany surface of the desk.
“Telegraph?” Haversham flipped through the papers. “Are you Lord Radnor?” he asked, looking over the rim of his spectacles. “I was under the impression that you, ah, didn’t come to town much.”
Lawrence arched an eyebrow and gestured at his person, as if to say,guess again. He swept the telegraph plans out of the older man’s hands. “You can have these after you’ve granted me a favor.”
“Excuse me? No, no. Not possible. The Admiralty has decided that we don’t need this kind of device. The war is over. We’re at peace. No need to send urgent messages.”
“Then I’m free to sell the plans to anyone else?” Lawrence grabbed the papers off the man’s desk. “A private person or another government, perhaps?”
Haversham turned an angry shade of puce. “Certainly not.”
“Good. Then we can discuss price.”
The older man made a noise that Lawrence interpreted as grudging assent.
“All I require is that you pull some strings to have my secretary, George Turner, released from Newgate.”
“This is most irregular,” Haversham sniffed.
“We both know I could hire a solicitor or throw my weight around in some other way in order to have my secretary set free.” But those courses of action required time and a level of participation on Lawrence’s part that he’d rather avoid. “I suggest we spare ourselves the inconvenience.”
“Tomorrow I can discuss the matter with my—”
“No. Today.”
“Lord Radnor,” Haversham said, “these things take time. Messages need to be sent to the appropriate parties.”
“If only there was some device that allowed for messages to be sent instantaneously,” Lawrence said pointedly, waving the papers in his hand. “Besides, you’ll do well to remember whose son I am, whose brother I am. There’s no telling what I might do if I’m crossed.” As if on cue, Barnabus bared his teeth. “You have until tomorrow morning,” he said, and Haversham blanched. Lawrence nearly felt bad for the man. But there was power in being considered beyond reason, and Lawrence fully intended to exploit every advantage he had.
“Somebodyhas mighty special friends.”
“What?” Georgie was half-asleep, slumped against the slimy stones of the cell wall.
The guard snorted. “You’re to be released.”
“What?” Georgie repeated, staggering to his feet. “Why?”
“I don’t know. They don’t tell me things,” the guard groused. “All I know is that there was a runner from the Admiralty and the next thing I know I’m being told to let you go.”
The Admiralty. That couldn’t mean . . . There hadn’t been time for Lawrence to find out about Georgie’s imprisonment and request help from his acquaintance at the Admiralty. Well, never mind what it meant. Georgie shrugged into the coat the guard thrust at him and walked out the open cell door before anyone could think better of setting him free.
The foggy gray London sky was blindingly bright after the darkness of Newgate. Georgie started walking in the direction of Jack’s house, for lack of any better plan. At least he’d get a meal and a bath along with whatever scolding Jack saw fit to dole out.
Worse than the scolding would be the pity for Georgie having lost his heart in a foolish way. Perhaps even a little bit of respect for Georgie’s attempt to do something that wasn’t entirely self-serving.
Georgie didn’t want any of that. He didn’t deserve it, and he didn’t think he could sit there and endure anything like kindness when he knew how little he merited it. After a lifetime spent stealing and scheming, he belonged at Newgate more than he belonged in a comfortable chair by his brother’s fire. He didn’t regret the past, but all those years spent harming—yes, harming, even though he tried his best not to think of it that way—innocent people had left their mark. He wasn’t a decent person anymore, and there was no use trying to live like one.
He was exhausted. It had been days upon days since he had slept properly. After so many hours on the cold floor of the prison, his bones ached with every step. Judging by the scruff on his jaw, it had been nearly a week since he had shaved, so he must look as rough as he felt. The very model of a ruffian, like something out of a Hogarth sketch depicting a cautionary tale of hard living.
That suspicion was confirmed when he crossed into a respectable neighborhood. A nurse tugged her young charges to the opposite side of the street. A lady and gentleman out for a stroll steadfastly refused to look at him. Georgie tugged the brim of his hat low on his forehead, obscuring his face.
He sat heavily on a bench in Grosvenor Square, facing the house he had frequented for his last job. The Packingham house. He didn’t know why he needed to come here, whether it was to rub some salt in his wounds and remind himself of how he had nearly robbed that poor lady, or whether he wanted to cling with both hands to the first good deed he had ever done, which was to spare Mrs. Packingham.
