Eloise shook her head. “I don’t know where they got that, but Papa has been frantic. He even engaged Bow Street when you vanished. We’ve been working with a constable. We have all been desperate to find you!”
Timothy stopped. He stared down at the pavement a moment, then finally looked at her. “Truly?”
“Son, your sister has turned this city inside out trying to find you. She even went to a morgue, thinking some villain had done killed you.”
Timothy’s eyes widened. “You did?”
Eloise frowned at Gilley. “How did you know I went to a morgue?”
“That constable told Robbie.”
The frowned deepened. “Robbie has been meeting with Constable Lewis?”
Gilley pointed behind them. “How do you think Bow Street knew about that place? Robbie knew if he could get the boy out, they would be chased unless there was a good reason not to. He sent a message to the constable this afternoon.”
“He set up the raid.” The realization sank in, and Eloise straightened. “He set up the raid even knowing he could get caught.”
Gilley nodded, then motioned for them to walk again. “We must get you inside.”
Eloise took one look backward, then grasped Timothy’s hand in hers as they followed Gilley toward Covent Garden.
*
Newgate Prison was,without a doubt, located somewhere between the seventh and eighth circles of hell. Robert sat in the corner of a blighted cell, his back braced against the wall, his body a throbbing mass of pain. Three other men occupied the space, which was otherwise decorated only with two low beds and a layer of filth Robert did not wish to examine too closely. The two men who had claimed the beds had apparently been incarcerated for some time and carried the malevolent appearance of men with no hope. The fourth had, like him, been thrust into the cell after the raid on the house, and now cowered in the opposite corner, looking for all the world like a cornered fox, shivering and on the verge of attack.
Robert had already had to use his boxing skills to maintain possession of his topcoat and boots, and he felt a wild wariness as well. He dare not take his eyes off the two men or attempt to sleep.
Not that he could. The prison rang constantly with the screams of men—cries of pain mixed with the moans of insanity. Calls for mothers in a variety of languages often echoed through, making Robert wonder what would happen to his own mind if he stayed here for long. He hoped the gruff promises of the constables who had rounded up the men in the raid of a “rapid rendering in front of the magistrate” would be truth more than blather.
“Ashton! On your feet!”
Robert looked up at the keeper, who stared at him through one of the small square openings in the metal door. He struggled to stand, using the wall for balance, and stumbled toward the door. He heard the key rattle in the lock, then the bolt at the bottom being thrown. The door opened with a squeal that made him wince.
The keeper pointed at the other side of the corridor. “Stand against the wall.”
He did, watching as the door was closed and secured once again.
The keeper pointed again. “Walk in front of me.”
Robert did, grimacing as each step shoved a hot pain through his left hip. “Where are we going?”
“Just walk. Left at the end.”
Following the keeper’s directions, Robert turned left, then down a flight of steps and two more lefts. He had already been confused about the layout of the prison, but now being lost in an endless maze made him understand some of the prisoners’ madness. This was definitely a place of no hope.
Finally, the keeper stopped and unlocked another cell door, opened it, and gestured inside. When Robert hesitated, the man growled. “You ain’t gonna be here long enough for me to bother with irons. But don’t tempt me. Get in.”
Robert entered the cell, only to have the door slammed behind him. His eyes adjusted to a new level of light, and he realized he was alone. He turned back to the door. “Why am I in here?”
The keeper snorted, a sound of cynical derision. “Because you know somebody with money.” His footsteps moved away.
Robert leaned heavily against the door. The cries of pain and abandonment had vanished, leaving behind only the sounds of clanks and an occasional cough. This cell had a single bed with a straw-stuffed mattress and a high barred window. A table and chair sat near the bed, and across the room, an empty and relatively clean chamber pot waited near a tiny coal fireplace—which even had three lumps of coal in it. A narrow stone shelf near the fireplace held a tinderbox, and a scuttle and shovel sat beneath it.
It was pure luxury.
He sat down on the bed, a sigh of relief sagging his shoulders. He lay down gingerly, stretching sore and bruised muscles, and rested his swollen face on his arm. With a thought as to who exactly that “somebody with money” was, he gave a moment of thanks to his father, whose subtle signs of care had always been a wonder to behold.
And Lord Robert Ashton, being held for charges of sodomy and other offences, slept.
