Crowds thickened and their carriage slowed.
“We’re gettin’ close,” Nick murmured.
Progressing at an agonizing crawl, Elizabeth heard the sounds of smashing glass and rebellious shouts over the clamber of the wheels. She smelled smoke.
The carriage stopped, and the coachman turned. “This is as far as I go.”
Nick handed the driver his fare and held his arm out to Elizabeth. A man walking too closely jostled against them.
Elizabeth clutched Nick’s arm, and when the crowdmerged into one, sweeping mass, he moved in front of her, pushing his way through. “Hold on, Elizabeth.”
She grabbed onto his coat and held fast.
Like a powerful wave carrying them to the prison gate, Elizabeth rode the current until they passed Newgate’s formidable walls.
Darcy paced the cell.He was grateful Connell had arranged for him and Alex to share a condemned cell rather than separate them into their corresponding sections. But the sounds on the other side of the prison walls were loud enough to reach them in the belly of Newgate.
Through the small squares of the metal door, he saw guards running by, keys clanging, swords and pistols drawn.
Alex stood in the far corner, rubbing her hands together and stretching her limbs. “Save yer strength, Darcy. Ye’ll need it if their fight reaches us.”
He was too anxious to still. Rioters had burned the prison once before. Would they do it again? How could they escape?
He examined the doors again, checking for weakness.
“Set in stone.” She pulled a hair pin out of her coiffure and scowled at the implement. “And this’ll do me no good when the lock’s on the otherside and the holes are too small to fit me hand through.” Alex threw the pin to the ground. “We’ll not get out unless someone lets us out.” Darcy ought to have known she was already a few steps ahead of him. She was an artist of capture and escape.
Anticipating his question, she answered, “We wait. Nick’ll come. He’ll find a way, ye’ll see.”
Darcy did not doubt it, but the whole reason he had taken Nick’s place was to keep his brother far away from this dreadful place.
Standing by the door, he watched and listened.
A voice he recognized reached him from down the dark halls. “Until I receive my payment in full, I shall be your constant companion, Connell. That you may trust.”
Wickham. The lout. The Judas Iscariot, selling Darcy to the enemy for thirty pieces of silver. Disgust burned Darcy’s chest but did not deepen to hatred. Pity, perhaps. Wickham was destined to be miserable the remainder of his days, while Darcy would get out of this predicament and spend the rest of his life happy with Elizabeth.
“You fool! Half of the prisoners here know me—have relatives and friends I have helped imprison. They will kill me given the chance. We must leave now. While we can. If we can.”
Darcy called out, “Connell! Wickham,” but they passed in a blur.
He pounded his fist against the iron door, the boom echoing in the cell and through the halls.
Connell feared the prisoners. The sounds Darcy had heard were from an attack on the prison. They had to get out.
He pounded again. Pounded until his hand ached and the irons around his hands rubbed his skin raw.
A deafening rumble, then the shouts grew louder, more violent. Acrid smoke pierced his senses. Feet scuffled by, weapons clanging.
Darcy pounded and shouted, kindled by desperation and the smell of smoke and the crack of shots and the screams.
Clunk-clunk-clunkshove. Darcy jumped back as a dark figure wielding a scimitar in one hand and keys in the other pushed the door open.
“Jaffa!” Alex squealed, leaping into his arms. “Why’re ye here?”
“Some men at the docks spoke of Connell’s latest prize. I had to make certain you were safe.”
She squeezed tighter then released her hold. “I’m glad ye did!”
