“One always has a choice, Mrs. Sloane.” McClellan put a pan on the hob and began slicing bread to fry with the fat-streaked strips of gammon. “You’re simply too principled to choose your own self-interests over aiding those in need.”
How much the other woman guessed about her dilemma was impossible to know. McClellan, too, kept her thoughts to herself, but there was no missing the glint of lively intelligence and steely sharpness in her eyes.
“Principled?” Cradling the warm cup in her hands, Charlotte took a sip. “More likely buffle-headed.” She blew away a wisp of steam. “Both the victim of the recent murder and the man accused of the crime are very dear to me. If I am to find the real killer and see that justice is done, there’s a good chance that I must step out of the shadows. Which means I will have to tell the boys, and you, and all my friends—about my past.”
“That includes Wrexford, I imagine,” murmured McClellan.
Charlotte drew in a deep breath. “Wrexford already knows.”
The other woman’s expression didn’t change.
“I asked him to keep it a secret until I felt ready to take the momentous step.”
“And you don’t really wish to?”
“Let’s just say it will change everything,” Charlotte replied carefully.
Grease sizzled as the meat slapped against hot cast iron. “How so?”
“I . . . I suppose secrets are like a comfortable cloak. They hide all the warts and imperfections that we prefer for our friends not to see.” Charlotte gave a wry grimace. “Or perhaps it’s merely the illusion of having our vulnerabilities covered that provides the comfort.”
“It seems to me that Wrexford doesn’t look at you any differently.” Taking up a fork, McClellan shifted the fried meat to a plate and added eggs to the frying pan. She didn’t elaborate on the statement.
The smell of food was unexpectedly welcome. Charlotte hadn’t expected to feel hungry.
“I’m not so sure,” she replied. “The earl can be mercurial.” And unpredictable. “His moods make him—”
A sudden rapping of the front door knocker interrupted her words. Charlotte tensed. The early hour meant it wasn’t a social call.
“I’ll go see who it is.” McClellan wiped her hands on her apron and hurried down the corridor—though not before slipping a kitchen knife into one of the pockets.
She returned shortly with a missive bearing the earl’s crest.
Charlotte quickly broke the wax wafer and scanned the contents. Wrexford had somehow worked magic overnight. “It seems the earl has arranged permission to visit Newgate, but it must be done before the night guards go off duty. He’ll be here shortly.” Which meant the moment of reckoning was coming even sooner than she expected. “I must hurry and dress.”
* * *
The wide brim of Charlotte’s oversized hat curled down to hide her eyes, making impossible for Wrexford to read her face. Dark on dark, shadows dipped and darted beneath the drab brown wool. She had smudged dirt on her face, making her expression even more impenetrable.
In his note, he had suggested that she dress as a street urchin, a disguise she wore like a second skin. A lady seeking entrance to Newgate would draw too much attention, something they wished to avoid.
“Mrs. Sloane,” he said, reluctantly interrupting whatever thoughts were swirling in her head. “I must remind you to let me do all the talking with the officials. Once we are in the cell, I shall defer to you.”
“Yes, yes. I’m not a complete widgeon, milord,” she replied.
“No, but your nerves are on edge, and we can’t afford to have you make a careless slip. Newgate runs by its own rules. A wrong move will cut off any access to Locke, even with Griffin calling in favors.”
She nodded, but made no reply. Another sign that Charlotte wasn’t herself.
He leaned back against the squabs, content to let the rest of the journey pass in silence. She would need all of her strength for the ordeal ahead.
After a last jolting turn, wheels clattering over the uneven cobblestones, the carriage finally rolled to a halt. The grey day felt even darker with the oppressive stone bulk of the prison looming over them. Wrexford didn’t dare shoot a glance at Charlotte to catch her reaction. He passed through the main portal with quick, confident strides and demanded of the first gaoler he spotted to be taken to the warden on duty.
“Stay right behind me, lad,” he barked at Charlotte.
“Oiy, there’s many in here who wud snatch up a pretty cully like ye,” said the man with a nasty leer before turning to lead the way into a dark corridor reeking of urine. “And even iffen His Nibs found ye, he wouldn’t want what wuz left of ye.”
The stench grew even more overpowering as they made their way deeper into the bowels of the prison. The gloom grew thicker, and from some unseen block of cells, a cacophony of screams and demented laughter reverberated against the unyielding stones. Wrexford had known what to expect. He wondered if Charlotte fully understood the horrors that lurked within these walls.
Another turn brought them to a small windowed office overlooking one of the inner courtyards. The warden, a greasy-haired fellow with a beaky nose and reptilian eyes, read over the papers from Bow Street that the earl thrust into his hands.
“Locke, eh?” He looked up with a sniff.
Smelling the scent of money, no doubt.
“Now,” snapped Wrexford, curling a hand around the purse in his pocket.
“Doesn’t say anything here about two visitors. Why’s the lad with you?”
In answer, the earl slowly lifted up the soft chamois bag. The weight of gold guineas made a very distinctive ring. “Take me to Locke.”
The warden smiled, revealing two missing teeth, and plucked the purse from Wrexford’s palm. “Burley,” he bellowed, “escort these gentlemen to the Golden Beauty’s cell.”
More darkness, more filth, more screams.
At last, the gaoler stopped in front of a heavy iron door and shoved a massive key into the lock. Metal scraped against metal, and the mechanism released with a groan.
“I’ll be back in a quarter hour,” warned the gaoler as he pushed the door open with his boot. “Be ready te move yer pegs quick-like. Ye can’t linger.” Once the two of them entered the cell, he slammed it shut and relocked it.
Charlotte waited until the footsteps were swallowed by the other prison noises before taking a step toward the narrow cot, where a figure lay curled like a hedgehog, a threadbare blanket pulled up over his head and shoulders.
“Nicky?” she said softly.
A pitiful moan shivered through the ragged wool. “Be damned with you, Lucifer—stop plaguing me with such devil-cursed dreams!”
“Nicky.” Charlotte crouched down and pulled the blanket down, revealing a tangle of pale gold hair. “Come, rouse yourself. It’s no dream. I need to talk with you and we haven’t much time.”
Wrexford watched as a pair of muck-encrusted boots scrabbled free of the blanket. After slowly twisting up to a sitting position, Nicholas Locke slumped back against the stone wall and blinked in confusion. “C-C-Charley? Oh my God, i-is it really you?”
She gripped his shoulders and gave him a shake. “Yes!” Leaning closer, she spoke with a rapid-fire urgency, punctuating her words with a light slap to his cheek.