Kitabı oxu: «The Making Of A Gentleman»

Critical praise for
RUTH AXTELL MORREN
and her novels

THE ROGUE’S REDEMPTION

“A beautifully written Regency-era love story.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

THE HEALING SEASON

“The author expertly creates an endearing story that will both encourage and delight the reader.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

DAWN IN MY HEART

“Morren turns in a superior romantic historical.”

—Booklist

“Morren’s tales are always well plotted and fascinating, and this one is no exception. 4½ stars.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

LILAC SPRING

“Lilac Spring blooms with heartfelt yearning and genuine conflict as Cherish and Silas seek God’s will for their lives. Fascinating details about 19th-century shipbuilding are planted here and there, bringing a historical feel to this faith-filled romance.”

—Liz Curtis Higgs, bestselling author of Whence Came a Prince

WILD ROSE

Selected as aBooklist Top 10 Christian Novel for 2005

“The charm of the story lies in Morren’s ability to portray real passion between her characters. Wild Rose is not so much a romance as an old-fashioned love story.”

—Booklist

WINTER IS PAST

“Inspires readers toward a deeper trust in the transforming power of God…[Readers] will find in Winter Is Past a novel not to be put down and a new favorite author.”

—Christian Retailing

The Making of a Gentleman
Ruth Axtell Morren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Frances, a modern day “prison lady”

and

Thank you, Allison, for taking this ugly

duckling and helping turn it into a swan…

Let the sighing of the prisoner come before thee; according to the greatness of thy power preserve thou those that are appointed to die.

—Psalms 79:11

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

London, 1812

The hangman’s noose swayed gently in the chill winter breeze, the pale Italian hemp stark in the murky light.

No matter how many hangings Florence had attended, the sight of a man—or woman—hanging from the noose caused her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She shifted her gaze from it, although there was nothing to comfort the eye in the rest of the panorama facing her. Newgate Prison’s classic stone facade, unrelieved by any windows, stared back at her, its walls as gray as the lowering skies above her.

The February wind bit at her. Shivering, she pulled her cape tighter. Despite the bodies around her, the cold penetrated through to her bones. Perhaps because she’d eaten nothing since yesterday evening, preferring to spend the time in prayer and fasting for the condemned man.

The crowd pressed against her as new arrivals jockeyed for position. They had been drifting in since last evening when the portable gallows was wheeled in by the team of horses. Two crosslike structures supported a parallel set of bars between them. A lone noose hung from one of these bars, designed to support up to a dozen bodies. But on this rare occasion, only one man would be hanged.

A few guards stood below the platform, bearing pikes or muskets. Florence glanced over at the one nearest her. His unshaven face and slouched stance showed the effects of having stood watch all night.

Though the growing audience swelled, waist-high wooden barriers extending out along the walls of Newgate prevented anyone from getting closer than a few feet from the gallows.

Florence had been attending the hangings for six years now, ever since she’d begun ministering to the inmates of Newgate. She was determined to show them a last friendly face and let them know up to the end that there was somebody praying for their souls. She hoped a glimpse of her would remind them of the verse she’d shared with them at the end, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.

“Last confessions of dying man! Tuppence. Get the true and final confessions of Jonah Quinn!” A man wending a horse with difficulty through the crowd waved a sheaf of printed broadsides, their ink no doubt still damp.

How she hated these executions, where a person’s life was made a mockery and the proceedings a theatrical farce. She focused on the empty platform once again. The prisoner wouldn’t be brought forth until half past seven. She knew the schedule well.

Lord, break his will. Soften his heart. Don’t let him depart with that hardness of heart that prevents him from receiving Your mercy.

The prayer had become a litany to her since last night.

A prayer for Jonah Quinn, a man accused of forgery, one of the dozens of capital offenses codified in the “Bloody Code.” It had been a shock to most sitting at the January Sessions that his sentence had not been respited. Nowadays, all but a few of the capital crimes were commuted to transportation. The Recorder of London, principal presiding judge at the Old Bailey, had stared hard under his dark brows so at odds with the white curling wig flowing over his shoulders at the accused as he pronounced the age-old words “hanged by the neck until dead.”

The prisoner had remained as unmoving as the granite blocks before Florence now. He’d already stated his last words just prior to the judge’s verdict. “God curse you all for hanging an innocent man!”

Florence had seen more than one man go to the gallows defiant, but many more were glad for the message of hope to take with them when all that was left to them was to face their Maker. She was reminded of the two criminals crucified alongside Jesus, the one unrepentant, the other humble and penitent before the Son of God.

Eyes closed, Florence shut her mind to the growing noise of the crowd as she took up her prayer once more. Only the Lord could break through to a man’s heart.

“Quinn is an innocent man!” someone in the crowd yelled. A chorus of assent followed.

The shouts from the crowd intensified. The windows in the houses opposite the Old Bailey began filling up with the well-to-do. Many had paid several pounds to secure a seat above the crowd. Florence had heard rumors that even certain members of the House of Lords who had taken an interest in the case were in attendance, but she had no interest in scanning the windows behind her. Today, only one soul concerned her.

“Hats off! Hats off!” The shout of voices around her alerted her that the prisoner was being escorted out and those in the crowd didn’t want their view impeded.

The Debtor’s door opened and the sheriff came out, holding the prisoner by the arm. The condemned man took one look at the crowd. Instead of being intimidated by the sea of faces, he seemed to grow more defiant. His broad chest swelled out, and his bearded chin thrust forward before the sheriff jerked his arm.

They climbed the short flight of steps onto the gallows. The hangman followed behind them. The ordinary—or prison chaplain—brought up the rear.

It was the first time Florence was seeing Jonah Quinn in the light of day, the small iron grille of his cell door having afforded her few details of his face in the dark condemned man’s cell.

Now, a white nightcap covered his shaggy black hair. His thick black beard was due no doubt to the six weeks he’d sat in his solitary cell since his sentencing. Weeks of deprivation in prison had not eroded his formidable build. The breadth of his shoulders reminded her of a prizefighter she’d once seen. As was customary, his wrists were bound in front of him and another rope was tied around his torso at his elbows, pinning his arms to his sides. The shackles had been removed from his ankles in the prison yard. The sheriff and the black-gowned ordinary looked puny beside him.

“A poor man gets no justice!” a second voice shouted from somewhere in the crowd. Others took up the chant, and soon there was a clamor of protests from the street. The guard beside Florence shifted his pike from one hand to the other, muttering curses under this breath.

The ordinary turned to the prisoner and indicated he could kneel to pray, but the prisoner shook his head, looking as unyielding as he had sounded at his trial. Lord, save him!

The sheriff signaled to the hangman, who took a step forward and pulled the nightcap down over the prisoner’s face. Then he placed the noose around his neck.

A second passed, then at the sheriff’s nod, the hangman stepped back and reached for the lever.

At that moment, a man plowed into Florence, throwing her against the wooden barrier and knocking the breath from her.

“For Jonah and for all the poor whose land has been stolen from ’em!” A sudden barrage of shouts came from all sides as men jumped the barrier and surged onto the platform like rats.

Time seemed to slow as Florence watched. Before the hangman could release the trapdoor beneath the prisoner’s feet, a rough-looking man jumped him from behind and wrestled him to the ground. Others swarmed around the prisoner and cut him free.

The soldiers rallied, but the erupting mob blocked their attempts to reach the platform.

“Down with the king! Give us bread! Liberty for the people!”

Florence clung to the wooden barrier, terrified she would be crushed by the mob pressing against her.

The prisoner leaped from the platform and in one fluid motion jumped the barricade and landed beside Florence.

The guard raised his pike.

Florence stared at its sharp point, poised above her. The next instant, an arm grabbed her from behind and a cold blade of steel pushed against her neck.

“Anyone comes near and I’ll slit ’er throat.”

She didn’t dare breathe. The guard’s eyes flickered to hers. That second’s hesitation saved her life. The pike was ripped from his arms by the mob.

Behind her, the crowd parted and the prisoner made his escape, dragging her along with him like a piece of flotsam, the press of bodies closing around them like the incoming tide.

“This way!” shouted a man.

They slipped down a narrow side alley, then along a wider road she recognized as Seacoal Lane. They came out onto Fleet Market, an area packed with vendors. Shouts and commotion followed them as stalls were overturned in their wake.

Quinn veered off the main thoroughfare, his hand clenching her arm in an unyielding grip. Through a covered courtyard and past derelict buildings, the area became grimmer and dirtier. They were going to the rookery of Saffron Hill north of Holborn. God help her.

“Come along!” the man—their guide—barked at them. Quinn yanked her forward and she stumbled in the pockmarked path. Here the roads were nothing but muddy tracks and the brick buildings full of boarded-up windows and decay. The stench of human waste was overwhelming.

Their guide seemed to know the area well. The two men leaped across the puddles and ditches while her smaller boots sank and skidded over the slimy ground. Quinn held her fast, giving her no option but to struggle to keep up.

Small secondhand stores and pawnshops lined the streets, fronts for stolen goods no doubt. Dirty children roamed the alleys, their ragged clothes offering little protection against the cold. Equally filthy adults squatted in doorways, often with a bottle in one hand, their stares dull and lifeless.

Though she was gasping for breath, the two men didn’t slow their pace, but dashed from twisted alley to alley that bisected the toppling buildings like a rabbit warren. She soon lost track of whether they were headed north, south, east or west. Perspiration trickled down her back, despite the cold air stinging her face.

“Why—why…don’t you…let me go…now,” she panted.

Quinn threw her a scornful glance. “What, give up my surety? They catch me, you’ll go down with me.” He waved the knife at her, his teeth flashing an instant before facing forward again, urging her on with another painful jerk to her arm.

Her side hurt and her chest screamed with each breath. Just when she couldn’t bear it anymore, he pulled her into a courtyard. She had only a glimpse before she was plunged into a dark stairwell. She stumbled down rickety steps riddled with gaps.

At the bottom, Quinn pushed her ahead of him into a low cellar. She leaned forward, her hands on her knees, panting like a hound after the hunt.

Only as her breathing slowed did she straighten and dare to look around. The two men conferred a few feet away from her. Relief trickled into her when they ignored her. Would she be able to escape them? Her glance went to the wooden door. It stood firmly bolted.

“Ye’ll be safe here for now,” the disreputable-looking guide told Quinn. “There’s some kindling and victuals in the corner. Stay low. After I leave, ye’re on yer own. The Boss doesn’t want any more involvement.” After a few more words, sprinkled liberally with oaths, and a slap on the back at their successful escape, the other man went to the door. He glanced back at Florence over his shoulder as Quinn unbolted it.

“Don’t know what ye’re going to do about ’er. Mayhap have some fun ’fore ye leave.” His coarse laughter rang through the room as he climbed back up the stairs.

The sound of the bolt falling into place made Florence jump. She was truly alone now. She dared a look at her captor, a man who feared nothing and no one, and remembered the other man’s words.

Lord, protect me. Show me what to do. Show me Your purpose in bringing me here. Only Scriptures could allay the terror that threatened to paralyze her.

She’d been face-to-face with many criminals since her work at Newgate, but always there had been a guard within calling distance, or an iron grating separating her.

She was not alone, she reminded herself. The Angel of the Lord encamped round about her. If the Lord had allowed the events of the past hour, it must mean He had heard her prayer for mercy for this man’s soul. The realization gave her courage.

Instead of approaching her, Quinn knelt down, his back to her. In the shadows, she heard him strike a flint and then saw a flash of light which soon grew into a flame as it caught the dry tinder.

Her glance strayed to the rest of the space. The cellar’s stone walls dripped with dampness. Light from the outside showed through a small, boarded-up window at street level. Above them, wooden planks, dark with age, formed a low ceiling, with gaps here and there where the wood had rotted through. The floor beneath her feet was hard-packed dirt with moldy straw piled along the edges and a few rumpled blankets heaped in a corner, as if it had served as sleeping quarters before now. A rough-looking table and a few wooden chairs were the only articles of furniture. How many undesirables, running from the law, had hidden here before?

The fire that now burned steadily between a circle of stones was the only cheerful thing in the room. Florence drew near its warmth. The heat of her exertion had passed, leaving her more chilled than when she’d stood in front of the gallows.

How long before the guards would find this runaway convict? He continued tending the fire. Her eye fell on the knife, now stuck in his belt, its steel reflecting the glow of the fire. The memory of its cold blade pressed against her neck rose in her mind, and she experienced the horror of those moments once again.

She shook away the thought. She was alive and sure God had a purpose for her.

After several minutes, when the man continued to ignore her presence, Florence inched to the fire. But as soon as she drew near him, she wrinkled her nose, noticing the sour smell of his tattered garments. She sniffed at her cloak, smelling him even there.

He stood suddenly, and she flinched. His broad back muscles strained against his filthy coat. His presence seemed to fill the cellar. His attention continued fixed on the small fire.

“Don’t think about leaving anytime soon.” His voice was a near growl, low and gravelly, as if he hadn’t used it for some time. “You just stay put till we see if those guards have lost our scent.”

“You couldn’t leave a trail more obvious than that one.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she bit her lip. Why couldn’t she be more like her brother, Damien, with his mild manners?

Quinn turned then. Dark eyes glittered at her from a swarthy face framed by an even darker beard. Thick black hair curled around his face, giving him a savage appearance, as she imagined Robinson Crusoe must have looked after his many years as a castaway.

She forced herself to hold her ground when he took a step toward her. He stopped so close to her, the heat of his brawny frame filled the space between them. “Think you’re a clever one, do you?”

Her experience at Newgate had taught her that to show fear was fatal. She jutted her chin out. “Do you really think you can evade your pursuers?”

His lips curled in a sneer. “Those red-coated fools? They’ll think twice ’fore venturing into this neighborhood. The Crown likely doesn’t pay ’em enough to risk their miserable hides in ’ere.” He fingered the knife’s haft at his side. “Besides, what do I have to lose?”

His merciless tone sent a shiver through her.

Noticing it, he gestured toward the fire. “Best get yerself warm while ye can.”

She blinked at the sudden change in tone. Was this the defiant brute who’d kidnapped her at knifepoint and now noticed she was cold? She rubbed the bruised spot on her arm where he had held it so tightly.

Keeping her movements careful and deliberate, Florence brought one of the chairs from the table toward the fire. The chair wobbled when she sat down. After assuring herself she wasn’t going to lose her balance, she removed her gloves and stretched her hands toward the blaze.

She heard a scraping noise and turned to see Quinn dragging the table closer. Then he placed the other chair in front of it and sat down. He opened a leather satchel thrown down by his companion and proceeded to remove its contents: a round loaf of bread, a few paper parcels and a bottle.

He unwrapped the first parcel, a wedge of cheese, and the second, a small joint of ham. With his knife, he hacked off a piece of cheese and immediately stuffed it into his mouth, even before proceeding to slice the bread and ham.

Those condemned to die were fed only bread and water for the last three days of their life, so he must have been famished. As he took the first bite of his rapidly made sandwich, his gaze fell on her. “Hungry?” he said through his full mouth.

She stared at his bulging cheeks, feeling a faint disgust, but surprised nonetheless that he had asked. “Yes.”

“Help yourself.” He cut off a few more pieces of bread and placed them on the paper holding the slices of ham and cheese.

“Thank you.” She noticed he didn’t leave the knife lying there, but stuck it back in his waistband after wiping it clean on his sleeve.

She moved her chair closer to the table and took a piece of bread, eyeing the dried-looking cheese. Quinn was halfway through his bread before she’d even finished arranging her meat and cheese atop hers. He reached across the table and took a swig from the bottle.

He caught her watching him. He lowered the bottle, setting it back with a thump before wiping his mouth with the same sleeve he’d used to clean the knife.

His eyes weren’t dark as she’d first supposed. No, they were bottle-green like the one on the table, reflecting the flickering flames of the fire, beneath thick black brows and curly, brushlike lashes. For a split second, staring into those deep-fringed eyes, she thought she read vulnerability, a lost soul needing a message of hope. The next instant, he blinked, appearing once more savage and ferocious.

She looked away and took a bite of her bread and cheese, tugging as delicately as she could at the dry crust to tear it free. Although the stale food made her thirsty, she refused to drink from the bottle. No doubt it contained cheap gin. She noted he didn’t offer her any but did leave the bottle within reach of them both. The chill in the cellar seeped to her very bones. What she wouldn’t give for a hot cup of tea.

The Lord would provide in His time, she reminded herself, more certain than ever now that He had a purpose in bringing her here.

The edge of her hunger abated, she folded her hands on the rough tabletop and formulated what she should say. Above all else, she was the Lord’s vessel. She licked dry lips. What would her brother do in her place? Damien was such a thoughtful man, so sweet of temperament. She slipped her watch out of the pocket of her dress.

Quinn was immediately alert, watching her movements.

Slowly, she lifted her hand. “It’s my watch.”

Relief darted through his hard expression and he looked back down at his food.

It was only half past eight. She found it hard to believe little over an hour had passed since she was standing at the gallows. She snapped the watch closed and stowed it away.

She cleared her throat. “How long do you plan to hold me here?”

He continued to chew. Finally he shrugged. “Until I figure out what to do with you.”

“You won’t get away, you know,” she said, ignoring the fear his words had sent through her. Would he keep her here the entire day? What of Damien? Had he noticed her absence yet?

Quinn glanced up briefly from his food. “What d’ye know of anything?”

“Your only help now is Christ.”

He swore.

She pursed her lips. “That certainly won’t put you in His good graces.”

When he said nothing, she continued. “They’ll soon begin combing the neighborhoods. They’ll flush you out like a partridge.”

He snorted. “In this stew? They’re scared o’ stepping foot in here.”

“Not if they’re well armed.”

He shrugged. “I’ll keep moving. They’ll never be able to look in every hole of this rookery.” He wiped his mouth again with the back of his hand. “The place is filled with Irish. They’ll never give me away. They hate the English too much. Like as not, they’ll send the soldiers on a wild-goose chase.”

She pressed her lips together in consternation. His escape from the gallows certainly had done nothing to lessen his arrogance. “For a time, perhaps, but eventually the arm of the law is too strong. Where can you run?” Maybe if he were desperate enough, he’d listen to reason.

He swore at her. “Shut your bleedin’ trap. It’s none o’ your concern.”

“It is since you kidnapped me.”

“That was to ensure me safety. As soon as it’s nightfall, you’ll be free to go. I won’t be here, if you’re thinking o’ sending the constable looking for me,” he added with a rude laugh.

The relief at his promise of her freedom was tempered by the fear of being left by herself in this rookery. “You needn’t worry that I’ll turn you in,” she said with a studied indifference. “You’ll have plenty to worry about on that score from the people in the neighborhood—or from your own companions, for that matter.”

That last remark caught his attention. His eyes narrowed under his heavy brows. “You’re the prison lady.”

She acknowledged the name they called her at Newgate with a slight inclination of her head. “Yes.”

He swore again. “I thought there was somethin’ familiar looking about you. You’re the one that offers the condemned false hope.” He pushed the remains of the food away and belched. “As soon as you leave to your warm dwelling, they’re left in the filth and cold of their prison walls, trusting their future to empty promises of a savior.”

“The only One who can help you now is that Savior.”

“Bah! I’ll take my chances on me own.”

“Where do you hope to go if you stay here? You may elude capture for a few days, maybe weeks, but eventually, they’ll catch you. If you leave here, there’ll be even a greater chance of detection. Someone will recognize you. Most people will fear you, the way you look now, like a great wild beast.”

His eyes widened before they flickered away from her and back toward the fire.

She leaned forward. “You can stow away on a ship, but then what? Where will you go? France? We’re at war with them. America? With the blockade?” She gave a doubtful laugh.

Quinn’s large hands clenched on the tabletop, the only sign that her words were having any effect.

“You could always turn yourself in—”

“Never!”

“In a few hours, days at most, they’ll have this place surrounded, mark my words—”

He stood, knocking his chair over backward. “They’ll never take me alive.”

She knew in those moments, as his green eyes stared into hers, that he spoke the truth.

Realizing the futility of arousing his ire further, she tried another tack. “You could petition to have your case retried. It’s been done before.”

“What do you know of my case?”

“I know enough to know you may be as innocent as you claim.”

Her words caught his attention. Picking up the fallen chair, he retook his seat.

She leaned forward. “I’ve been around Newgate long enough to know that witnesses can be bought or sold.”

He seemed to weigh her words a moment longer before shaking his head. “They’ll never believe me if they didn’t the first time.”

“In any case, your innocence or guilt is not the most important issue. The fact is the Lord has given you a reprieve. You would have been condemned to a fate worse than mere death if you had swung on that gallows today.”

His eyes registered surprise for a second. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rough guffaw. “Worse than mere death?” he mimicked her cultivated syllables. “I beg your pardon, madam, but it’s easy for you to call it that since you haven’t had a rope strung about your scrawny neck.”

“I may not have stood where you stood today, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t watched enough souls go to their grave to understand the seriousness of their eternal destiny.”

He leaned in close, his green eyes glittering with mockery. “Are you one of those who like to watch a man swing from the gallows? It shows how little fine manners separate the scum o’ the Earth from those born to wealth.”

She jerked back. How dare he accuse her of enjoying the sight of someone strangling at the end of the rope? Before she could think of a suitable retort, he had turned away from her as if tired of her conversation.

He swung out his knife again. She flinched, but relaxed when she saw he used it only to pick his teeth.

Florence shifted her attention to the fire, which had burned low. “May I replenish the fire?” she asked softly.

He grunted. Taking it for assent, she stood.

There were only a few sticks of wood left. She used one to stir up the remaining embers and laid what was left atop them.

Damien, I pray you don’t worry about me. By now, he may have heard something about the escape. As far as she knew, no condemned person had ever slipped the noose.

“Did you know you would be rescued today?” she asked into the silence.

“No.”

She drew in her breath. The enormity of his reprieve took her breath away. The Lord had indeed heard her prayer for mercy. “You were prepared to die today?”

He laid down his knife and looked at her. His expression was flat and unreadable. “As ready as a man ever is.”

“You refused to kneel and pray.”

He turned aside and spit on the ground. “What, kneel for the benefit of a jeering crowd and play into the hands of that cleric so he can use it as a lesson to hold over the other poor prisoners?” He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. “Yes, dear people,” he mocked the pious tones of the ordinary. “Witness here a dying man’s repentance for a crime he never committed.”

She had no words to reply to that. She knew the man he was referring to and could hardly refute what he was saying.

Not knowing what else to say and feeling stiff from kneeling by the fire, she stood and shook her skirt out. Although the chill had left her limbs, she felt exhausted. The night’s vigil and the day’s excitement were taking their toll. She sat back down and recommenced praying. The Lord surely had a plan, and she needed to know what He would have her do next.

Instead of showing signs of fatigue, Quinn seemed to grow restless. He stood and began to prowl about the low cellar. He investigated every corner of it. Then he checked the door. Finally, he came back, spread out a dirty blanket on the hard ground next to the small fire, and lay down.

“Remember, if you try anything, I have the knife right here.” He patted the blade, which rested beneath his hands on his broad chest.

She sniffed. “It’s not up to me to turn you in. The Lord spared your life for a reason.”

He turned his back on her.

After a while, she heard the deep, even breathing that told her he was asleep. She began to recite Scripture. She felt her own lids grow heavy. Finally, able to fight the fatigue no more, she rested her head on the pillow of her arms and shut her eyes….

Chapter Two

Jonah opened his eyes. He tensed, as he’d done every morning in his solitary cell in Newgate. The fire pit in front of him brought reality back in a jumble of images.

The feel of the rough hemp about his neck. The cap over his face blocking out the sea of faces in front of him.

He was going to die, and he didn’t know if he’d disgrace himself before the crowd. How they loved a good show. Would he suffocate quickly, his short, insignificant life snuffed out, or would the rope prove uncooperative and leave him swinging there for agonizing minutes?

Before he’d been isolated in the condemned man’s cell, he’d heard richly detailed stories from other prisoners of how chancy a clean death was. Often the hangman would have to pull on a prisoner’s legs so he’d die the quicker. A rare prisoner even survived the hanging, his throat raw and bruised, only to have to face the rope the next day.

Jonah didn’t think he could go through such a proceeding twice.

Despite his bravado, he’d been terrified. He’d stared at the dank, stone ceiling of his cell as the hours ticked by, and contemplated his demise. What would the morrow bring? Where would his soul go after the rope cut off the breath from his body? Or would his life be ended for good?

He passed a hand in front of his eyes now, wiping away the last horrible memories. His shoulders ached from his position on the floor, though he was used to a hard surface from the wooden pallet in his cell. The fire had long since gone out. His feet felt numb.

Quiet breathing alerted him that he wasn’t alone. The prison lady.

She—he didn’t even know her name—still sat on the chair, but now her head rested on her arms and it was obvious she slept. She looked peaceful and harmless. He laughed inwardly, thinking how little the image reflected the reality. The woman’s words were like barbs, pointed and skillfully aimed at a man’s weaknesses.

They’ll flush you out like a partridge. Her pale eyes had taunted him, her tone as self-assured as the presiding judge’s at the Old Bailey. You would have been condemned to a fate worse than mere death if you had swung on that gallows today.

What did she know of his life? Who was she to judge? Had she ever been accused of a crime she didn’t commit? How would she have responded to a rope around her neck? Would all her preaching help her then? Not for a moment had she truly noticed the man in front of her.

He observed her in her sleep now, her back rising and falling in an even rhythm. A strange curl of something snaked through his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in so long. Then her cutting words rose again and he saw her for what she was. His prisoner.

The tables were turned. He, the prisoner, with a prisoner of his own. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t let her go once he was away from Newgate. Surety against the soldiers? Perhaps. Although he doubted the value of one woman’s life to the soldiers. Especially such a scrawny one. He remembered how slight she’d felt when he’d half dragged, half carried her along the streets.

He shrugged. It no longer mattered. He’d let her go soon. She was of no use to him now. He’d have enough trouble keeping his own hide in safety. Two would be nigh on impossible.

He stood and listened but could discern no noises from the street. If the soldiers hadn’t ferreted him out here, he might actually have a fighting chance. For the first time since his escape, he began to believe in his freedom. It had happened so quickly. One moment facing his death, the next offered a chance at liberty.

He didn’t even know who had organized his rescue. From the few words he’d exchanged with the cove who’d led him here, it sounded like an underworld boss. He certainly didn’t have the kind of friends who’d risk their lives for him. If anything, circumstances had proved how quickly his acquaintances in the city would betray him.

Eventually they’ll catch you. The prison woman’s words came back to him…again. He threw an angry look at her sleeping form. How dare she invade his mind with her convictions? She was a nothing, a self-righteous little nothing.

And yet, her direct words, those clear gray eyes that cut through to a man’s soul, haunted him, worsening his restlessness. He rose to his feet and paced, ignoring the pins and needles as his feet came back to life.

He thought of the many eyes in this rookery. Even when the streets appeared deserted, there were dozens of watchers from the broken and boarded-up windows. How long before someone turned him in? What if the Crown offered a reward for his capture?

He halted. Suddenly the walls seemed to be closing in on him, and he remembered the feeling of confinement in the dungeonlike cell at Newgate. He would not go back to that. They’d not catch him, he swore. They wouldn’t! He’d die first.

The woman stirred and raised her head. Her hand went to her bonnet, half fallen off. Then she turned and her gaze met Jonah’s.

“’Bout time you woke up.”

“How long have I been asleep?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. The sight of her slim pale hands curled against her face gave her a vulnerability she’d lacked before, and Jonah felt an odd protectiveness sweep over him. What had she been thinking, exposing herself to prisoners and mobs? He remembered the other man’s lewd words when he’d left him and they sickened him. This woman had a refinement that belonged to the drawing room, not hiding out in a hovel on Saffron Hill with a fugitive.

He remembered holding the knife to her delicate neck and guilt stabbed him. She smoothed back her hair while he watched. What was he going to do with her? He shrugged to hide his dismay. “You’re the one with the watch.”

She fumbled beneath her cloak and finally managed to extract the timepiece. “It’s almost six o’clock.”

“It’ll be dark outside.”

She pushed her hair away from her forehead and looked at the cold grate.

Her longing for a fire was clear. To distract her, he said, “I haven’t heard any hoofbeats on the road above us so the search hasn’t reached this quarter.”

“Yet.”

He glared at her and turned back around. To think he’d felt a moment of pity for her.

She began to untie the ribbons of her bonnet and proceeded to remove it. She wore her light brown hair in a simple knot and her cloak was gray. Was she a Quaker? Despite her plain appearance, she had the air of a lady. It was more than her speech. It was something in her gestures and the cut of her clothes. Not that he’d ever had much contact with ladies in his life.

“You said you didn’t know you were to be set free today, but did you know any of the men who stormed the gallows?” she asked.

“I had little time to see anything once the cap was removed from me eyes.”

“Did you recognize any of them?” she persisted.

He frowned at her, wondering why the close questioning. Was she going to go to the authorities as soon as he released her? “I don’t know nothing of any of ’em! And it’s best you probably know as little as possible.”

She arched a thin eyebrow at him.

He folded his arms across his chest. Did nothing cow her? “You’re bound to be questioned once you return to your nice, cozy house.”

She nodded slowly. “My reason in asking was to wonder if these men have made any provision for your escape. Will they take you somewhere else now?”

He turned and resumed his walk in the small space, not liking to be reminded of the future. “I wouldn’t think they’d chance further involvement. It was dangerous enough what they did.”

“Yes. If any were caught, they’d be up for treason.” When he said nothing, she gave him that weighing look. “So, you are on your own now.”

He shrugged as if the idea didn’t bother him at all. “It’s not the first time.”

She chewed her lip a moment. “I have a suggestion.”

He stilled but said nothing.

“My brother might be able to help you.”

Was it possible? This sharp-tongued woman was offering him help? True, she had conceded he might be innocent, but to involve herself further, that entailed quite some risk. “Your brother?” was all he could think to say.

“Yes. He lives with me…I mean, I live with him. I…keep house for him.” For the first time, she seemed nervous. Perhaps she realized the folly of dragging someone else into this mess and making him an accessory to a crime.

“How could he help a man in my shoes?”

“I d-don’t know exactly, but he is very wise. He might know of somewhere you could go. He might be able to help you out of the country. I don’t know…He’s very levelheaded. He won’t give you away.”

“Who is he? Someone of importance?” Was she a wealthy nob and he hadn’t realized it?

“Not in earthly terms. He’s a curate.”

He turned away, angry at himself for the spurt of hope he’d allowed her words to give him. “Ach! I can see the kind of help you have in mind.”

“I was thinking in terms of material help in this case, not spiritual, although, you will need that as well. He is not rich, by any means, but I’m sure he’ll help you in any way he can.”

He refused to listen to any more. No doubt she was still only trying to save his soul, to make up for her failure with him in Newgate. Walking to the door, he pressed his ear to it. So far, silence. Carefully, he opened it, and stood listening a while longer. Nothing. He stepped out.

“Where are you going?”

“Wait here.” Ignoring the note of worry in her voice, he proceeded up the stairs. Time to scout out the street and decide if the moment had come to move.

The street was dark. A few shadowy figures hurried along it. He could leave and skirt down the nearest alley. Best head toward Clerkenwell.

When he reentered the cellar, the woman had removed the pins from her hair until it fell loose about her shoulders. She was combing it through with her fingers. For a second his gut clenched, remembering his wife’s similar motions with the tortoiseshell comb he had bought for her one time from a tinker.

When the woman noticed him watching her, she quickly gathered her hair in her hands and wound it back up in a tight knot.

“It’s time to leave,” he said.

She replaced the pins in her hair, then stood and straightened her cloak, her movements quick and efficient.

He came to the table and wrapped the food up. Corking the bottle, he placed the things back into the satchel and flung it over his shoulder. Who knew when he’d have more?

He turned and found her standing near him. She was above medium height, the top of her bonnet reaching to his temple. Her pale gray eyes looked at him calmly. For a woman who had been abducted and kept hostage, she had shown an amazing amount of courage.

Suddenly, his conscience smote him. He couldn’t very well leave her in this rookery. Despite his months in the brutal surroundings of Newgate, he remembered a time when he’d been among civilized people. Men who respected women.

He swallowed, remembering his own wife again. He’d never have left her to fend for herself in such a pit. He pushed open the door and gestured. “Either come with me and be quiet about it, or I’ll leave you in this stew to find your own way out.”

She followed silently behind him as he climbed the stairs once more. They stood in the doorway of the derelict building some time before he ventured out. Finally taking her by the arm in a sure, but not rough, grip and placing a finger to his lips, he stepped out of the overhang of the doorway.

Jonah had a fairly good knowledge of the layout of the neighborhood. He’d spent most of the past year since arriving in London in the surrounding areas, before they’d thrown him into Newgate. His eyes strained through the darkness, knowing that although no one was about, there was no telling how many people watched the street. It was an area where few lingered after dark and most had something they preferred hiding.

He reached an alley and walked down it, skirting the piles of litter. A cat let out an outraged meow and jumped up onto a jagged brick wall.

Their boots crunched over the thin layer of ice that now covered the puddles. He turned left and went down a narrower path. Another turn, then another, and they left the open area and were once more hidden by buildings.

He spared her a glance. “Where do you live?”

“Just outside Marylebone, beyond the Uxbridge Road tollhouse.” She kept her words brief, as if understanding the need for quiet.

“I don’t know that part of town. I’ll leave you where you can get a hack.”

They skirted another building then went down another alley. Soon the streets widened and more pedestrians and carriages were to be seen. He made a wide circle around Gray’s Inn. He knew he was taking a grave risk entering this neighborhood, especially so early in the evening, but he’d made up his mind he wouldn’t leave this innocent woman alone in the stews of London.

Suddenly a crowd of uniformed men turned the corner just as he was ready to emerge from an alleyway onto a main street. Horse guards, by the jingle of their spurs against the cobblestones. Jonah jerked to a stop, pulling the woman by her middle against him. He didn’t have a chance to unsheathe his knife to hold to her throat or cover her mouth with his hand. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe, nor make the slightest sound to draw the men’s attention as they passed in front of him.

One of them slipped and clutched at his companion’s arm.

“By George, Harry, have a care,” the other admonished, giving him a shove that sent him dangerously close to where Jonah was standing. “If you can’t hold your liquor, you belong with the Grenadiers!” Laughter rang out all around them.

By their tone, they were likely leaving a tavern and not on a manhunt. Even so, if one so much as turned in his direction, they’d see him where he stood only a few feet away in the shadows. His attention slid to the woman in front of him. Her bonnet hid half his face. He could feel her slim frame beneath his grip. All she had to do was call out and he’d be finished.

As the seconds ticked by, he realized his entire future hung on this woman’s whim. The sweat broke out on his forehead and armpits. His heart pumped in deafening thuds as he relived those last moments on the gallows.

Then the soldiers were gone. Their laughter faded, as did their footfalls on the cobbles. The ensuing silence was only broken by his heartbeat. Slowly, he loosened his hold on the woman’s midriff. She stepped a few inches away from him, as if awaiting his next move.

She hadn’t given him away. He swallowed, still scarcely believing his good fortune. He took a large gulp of the frigid air, breathing in the taste of freedom.

He mustn’t risk another near encounter with the law. Taking her arm once again, he crossed the street after a quick look up and down it. He led her at a rapid pace a few more blocks on a less-traveled side street. Finally he stopped.

“If you walk in that direction,” he said, gesturing, “you’ll come to Red Lion Square. Continue a little farther and you’ll reach Holborn. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a hack there to take you where you live.” He thought of something. “Do have any blunt to pay your fare?” He certainly had nothing to give her.

She nodded. “I’ll manage.”

“All right. I’ll leave you here.” He swallowed, finding it hard to say the next words. It had been a long time since he’d felt gratitude to anyone for anything. “And…uh…thanks for holding your tongue back there.”

“I told you I wouldn’t give you away.” Through the darkness, he could feel her straightforward look. “Don’t forget my offer. If you find nowhere to go, come to my brother. St. George’s Chapel on St. George’s Row just above Hyde Park. You’ll not be turned away by the Reverend Damien Hathaway.”

He shifted on his feet. “I don’t expect you’ll be seeing the likes o’ me unless it’s at the end o’ the noose. I’ll be long gone from London ere you wake up tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “You’re a fool. Look at you. You don’t even have a greatcoat. How long are you going to survive in this cold?”

“I survived this long. I’ll manage.”

They stood eyeing each other for another few seconds. Would he ever see her again? Strange how the thought gave him pause. Even now, she was berating him, and yet he felt she meant him good and not harm.

Without another word, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her bonnet and turned away from him. His hand almost reached out to stop her, but then he dropped it back to his side. What had he meant by the gesture? What could he say to her?

In a certain sense, he owed her his life.

Her footsteps took her rapidly in the direction he’d pointed and she disappeared into the night.

He stood a second longer before hurrying back into a side street and toward the East End of London.

Florence stumbled from the hackney after a long ride across London. Her stiff fingers fumbled with her purse. Finally, she paid her fare and turned toward her house.

She breathed in the fresh, cold air. Her neighborhood seemed more like a village than a part of London. Beyond the parsonage lay orchards and fields. She walked up the steps to the large brick house where she and her brother lived since he’d been given the curacy of the small chapel.

She tried hard to forget the image of Mr. Quinn with his dirty clothes that offered so little protection from the elements. If he returned to the cellar, there was no wood left for a fire. Or would he head out of London on the Great North Road and hope to sleep under cover of a forest?

It would be harder to hide in a village.

She shut the front door behind her as the rattle of the coach faded in the distance. Familiar warmth enveloped her.

“Florence! I thought I heard someone come in. Thank God, you’re alive!” Damien hurried toward her, his arms outstretched, his pace fast in spite of his wooden leg.

They were not a generally demonstrative family, but it felt good right then to be held in a warm embrace. He smelled good, too, his cravat freshly starched, a great contrast to the stink of the other man and his surroundings.

Damien pulled away from her. His blue eyes searched her face. “Tell me what happened, where you’ve been, I heard so many stories.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t be worried.” She slipped out of his embrace and began to undo the clasp of her cloak. “First, let me get near the fire. It’s a raw night.”

“Of course, forgive me for keeping you standing here.” He took her cloak and bonnet and hung them on the hook. “I must also let Albert and Elizabeth know you are back. They were most concerned.”

“Yes, let me go to the kitchen at once.”

She spent the next several minutes assuring their two old retainers that she indeed was safe and sound. Finally she was able to sit with her brother in his study, her feet on the fender, a hot cup of tea in her hands.

“I’ve been praying for you since this morning, Florrie.” Damien used the nickname she hadn’t heard since they’d been children. “I heard there’d been a storming of the gallows and you’d disappeared in the fray. Some said you were abducted, others that you’d been crushed by the mob. It took a troop of guards quite some time to subdue the crowds.”

She shuddered, remembering the violent mob. “That explains how Quinn was able to get away. I can still scarcely believe what happened. The hangman was ready to release the drop, when all of a sudden a dozen men besieged the gallows and cut down the prisoner a second before his feet would have dangled in the air.” She put a hand to her cheek, picturing it all again. “The next thing I knew Quinn had grabbed me and was holding a knife to my throat.”

Damien drew in a sharp breath.

She raised her eyes to meet his gaze. “I’m sure he thought to use me as a shield.” She refrained from telling him how close she had come to having the guard’s pike embedded in her.

“How cowardly to grab a woman. Did he hurt you?”

“No.” She pictured the events as she stared into the fire. “I think he reacted out of pure fear—fear of being recaptured,” she added, remembering the man’s fierce look when she’d mentioned the authorities closing in. “As soon as he made his way through the mob, most of whom sympathized with the prisoner, I must say, he just kept going.” She shook her head. “I wonder if he even intended to take me at all. It almost seemed as if he simply forgot to let go of me.” Her arm was still tender from his bruising grip.

Damien reached across and covered her hand with his. “How terrifying for you.”

She smiled. “I know. Oddly enough, after a while, I was no longer afraid. I was too stunned by how the Lord was answering prayer.” She leaned forward. “The man was set to die. The Lord has given him a stay of execution. Jonah Quinn was not ready to face his Maker, in the state he was in.”

Damien nodded, a small smile curving his lips. “It certainly seems like the hand of the Lord when I see it was you out of all the crowd who was taken.”

Florence went on to describe where they had hidden out all day.

Damien shook his head in wonder. “And he didn’t hurt you.”

“No. I think he was more bluster than real threat.” For such a fierce-looking man, he’d behaved almost…gallantly, even to bringing her at great risk to himself to a place where she could get a hackney. She recalled their near brush with the soldiers.

What would her fate have been in the hands of another sort, like the fellow who had led them to the hideout? She shivered.

“Did they search for him very long?” she asked her brother.

“They spent more time subduing the mob, from what I heard. It has certainly caused an uproar. I think it’s the first time, in memory at least, that someone has escaped the gallows. The Crown will be nervous with the unrest there’s been since the war. They’re already saying it’s the Jacobins who are responsible.”

“The prisoner claimed ignorance of his rescuers.”

“He could be speaking the truth.” Damien cleared his throat. “They’re sure to question you once they know you’re back.”

She frowned into her tea. “There’s little I can tell them, or wish to.”

“Did you get any sense of its having been planned?”

She looked at her brother, her heart heavy. “No. I don’t think there is even a plan for Quinn to hide out or be smuggled abroad. It’s only a matter of time before the authorities find him.”

Damien nodded thoughtfully, his own glance straying to the fire. “So many poor unfortunates housed in Newgate. They won’t have any mercy on this man if they catch him.”

“He insisted on his innocence right up to the end.” A wave of desolation swept through her when she remembered how alone he’d looked when she’d left him. She’d been so sure the Lord had called her for a special purpose in the man’s life.

She looked at her brother sadly. “I wasn’t able to get through to Mr. Quinn at all. He remained deaf to any of my admonitions to seek the help of the Lord. He disappeared into the night where he left me and I doubt I shall ever see him again.” She paused and hesitated on the next words. “I even told him he could come here, that you would be able to help him in some way. I felt sure…” She stared unseeing into her teacup.

“Don’t fret. You were obedient in going where the Lord led you and witnessing to this unfortunate soul. You have nothing to reproach yourself with. You must trust the Lord now to finish the work begun in Mr. Jonah Quinn.”

His swarthy face came to her mind. Underneath the filth and foul language, she’d sensed a man of substance. A soul worth saving.

Lord, help him find You, she prayed silently. The streets of London could be cold and inhospitable.

Jonah spent the next few days moving from one abandoned cellar to another, searching through the refuse around Westfield Market by night for a scrap of food. When he was able to find some fuel, he hazarded a fire in the various hovels, but he dared not risk detection. He trusted no one around him. He had no contact with those who had rescued him and gave up hoping for more. He was on his own, the way he’d been since his wife and children had perished.

It had been their doom the day they’d come to London. But what else could he have done once the open fields around his village had been enclosed? They’d been left with no land to graze their few cows or grow any wheat. With the war lasting so long, the price of wheat kept going up, so they could hardly buy bread anymore.

Jonah pushed the memories from his mind. It did no good to go over the same thoughts. What was done was done. He couldn’t change a single fact of his miserable destiny.

He had no funds, precious little food, not even a coat he could huddle under.

He was beyond help.

It was only a matter of time before he’d die of exposure or the authorities would catch him. Already he’d felt a burning in his throat that had grown worse each day until he could hardly swallow. The gin was long since gone, so there was nothing to relieve the pain.

He scratched his itchy scalp then folded his arms once more over his chest, tucking his fingers under his armpits. How had he gone from a life of hard work but basic satisfaction at the end of the day to the life of a virtual beggar in the city?

He’d never wanted much. Life had been good the way it was. He’d come home to Judy and the two babes, eat his plate of potatoes or bread and butter, sometimes with a piece of bacon, stretch out his legs before the fire, then retire for the night in their small cottage. That life seemed one of a king now.

The decline had come fast, starting when he could find no work in the city because he was an “unskilled laborer.” He’d learned the meaning of that term quickly on. His wife had been more fortunate at first, finding piecemeal work, picking over silk for a family in Spitalfields. But with the difficulties in that industry, the employment had soon dried up.

He’d only managed to find work for a few days at a time, mainly digging ditches. The day he was forced to snitch a piece of fruit off a market stand to bring something home to the wee ones, he thought he’d sunk as low as a fellow could.

For a while Judy had taken in laundry, but it left her exhausted, her hands worn, and when the cold weather set it, she’d gotten sickly spending so much time wet. One by one, the little ones had also succumbed to the fever until Jonah had been the only one left.

That’s when he’d met a cove by the name of Stevens. He’d seemed an upright gentleman with an honest trade. He’d promised Jonah employment in his shop. The wages were low, but Jonah was desperate enough to take anything.

The job had been humble enough. Sweeping the shop, unloading the wares from the delivery wagons, all used goods, sorting through the dirty clothing and odd assortment of wares. Gradually, Jonah had grown to wonder at the steady supply of merchandise, especially when he’d seen the number of pocket watches and rings. When he’d begun to ask questions, his boss had laughed and told him to mind his own business.

Then came that fateful day when Mr. Stevens had asked him, with that cherubic smile on his face, to take the banknote to one of his suppliers.

The next day, he’d been accused by the man of passing a false bill.

It was only during the long months sitting in Newgate awaiting his trial that Jonah had pieced it all together. Stevens’s shop had been nothing more than a front for stolen goods. When Jonah had begun to question things, Stevens had seen that it was time to get rid of him. No one had believed Jonah’s simple denials in the face of the evidence of the forged note. The evidence was irrefutable. The trial had lasted no more than five minutes before he was declared guilty and sentenced to hang.

Jonah bowed his head on his folded arms. Why did he fight against the inevitable any longer? Why not give up the ghost and be done with it?

A woman’s sharp words pushed past the despair engulfing him. If you find nowhere to go, come to my brother…. You’ll not be turned away by the Reverend Damien Hathaway.

She’d not given him away when she’d had the chance.

Despite her snappish tongue, she’d proved to be a true and stalwart ally.

Was she his only hope?