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CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
The cold stone beneath him slowly stole his body heat away from him. Even though Fergus knew summer still persisted outside the gaol, he could only remember cold winters hunkered down by the fire in the army camps. He had endured worse conditions and worse food but not for many years.
Most of the other prisoners were quiet. Occasionally, a man might sing or shout or an argument might break out, but Fergus kept to himself. He did not want the other prisoners to know his title or name. Unfortunately, left alone with his own thoughts, his mood grew dark and gloomy.
Part of him felt that he deserved the punishment even though he had committed no crime; being sentenced to hang seemed somehow appropriate. If he told Edwina that, she would protest. She would not understand. He did not deserve happiness.
It was ironic in a way. Edwina had tried to warn him that this would happen, and he did not believe her. Well, it was not that he did not believe her that a mob was after him; he just did not think he would actually be arrested. He was a Duke, after all. However, once the mob caught him, they brought him directly to Lord Somersby, who stood waiting for them on the front steps of Somersby House. Fergus had been brought down by his own pride and arrogance.
What if a part of him had hoped that they would capture him? He felt almost that he needed to prove to himself that thetonwas actually as cruel as he felt they were. If they captured him, perhaps they could finally rid themselves of a man that did not deserve his title or his place in society.
He thought back to the night before. After the mob had taken him in Hyde Park, they dragged him forcibly, punching and pushing him along the way. He had been unsure where they were going until they came up the drive of Somersby House, and they found Lord Somersby standing on the steps with another part of the mob.
“We have caught him at last!” Lord Somersby had cried to the cheers of the mob.
“Lord Somersby!” Fergus cried. “You know me; you know I am not the monster!”
Lord Somersby ignored him. “This man will see justice for what he has done!” he cried to another chorus of cheers.
“Earl!” Fergus shouted, straining against the man holding him. “I did not do it!”
“He will pay!” Lord Somersby cried.
“Hang him!” another man in the mob cried out.
“Hang him!” another man cried.
Soon, the whole mob chanted, saying, “Hang him, hang him!”
Another man pushed through the crowd. “Lord Somersby, we must get this man to the gaol. We cannot take justice into our own hands.”
Lord Somersby looked down at the man. “Mr. Barnett, I would never dare take the law into my own hands.”
“This mob is about to,” Mr. Barnett pointed out, waving to the crowd. “We need to calm this down.”
Fergus had no idea who this man was, but he sighed with relief, hearing someone speak logically. Mr. Barnett turned back to Fergus, taking one of his arms away from the man holding him. Starting to push Fergus down the street, he leaned over to say, “I have seen the Duchess to her father’s house safely. She asked me to ensure your safety. I shall do what I can.”
“I will not forget this,” Fergus told him, shocked by this stranger’s generosity. The mob pushed them forward, still shouting and shoving. As they walked, occasionally, someone would push or punch him roughly. His ribs felt battered and bruised.
Once at the gaol, the jailer pushed him into the cell and dispersed the crowd. At first, Fergus relaxed into the silence until the realization of what had happened hit him. He had been arrested for the supposed murder and assault of several women. No one had spoken of numbers, but if they wanted to attribute every attack by the Monster of London, then the victims might include his own mother.
He did not sleep, just sat down on the cold stone and leaned his head back against the stone wall. The smell of excrement stung his nose. The sound of rats scratching the walls grated on his nerves. He could not imagine that he would be held long. As soon as the word spread of his arrest, he felt sure a trial would be called.
If he had been more involved in society after becoming the Duke of Hillow, he might have had more connections to leverage. He might be able to send word to powerful people who might be able to get him released. Instead, based on what he had seen from the mob, he had no hope that he would be given a fair trial.
In the sleepless hours in his cell, his emotions came over him in waves. First, anger filled his chest with vengeful rage, desiring revenge over the cruel society that put him in this position. Then, he felt desperation and self-deprecation, like he deserved the treatment for how he had behaved toward Edwina and her father. Finally, regret washed over him. He had to make amends. He had to get out and show Edwina how much she meant to him. If he was given a second chance, he would not waste it.
The jailor came down at some point in the day though Fergus could not tell the time from his windowless cell.
“Visitor for ya, Your Grace,” the jailer told him.
Fergus looked up to see Edwina behind the jailer. Surprised, he scrambled to his feet. “Edwina,” he breathed.
Even though he had only been in his cell for half a day, seeing her brought him an immense amount of relief. She looked so clean and fresh, and the smell of her perfume pervaded the air. He wished that he could fold her into his arms, breathe in the scent of her skin, touch the softness of her face, and feel her lips against his.
As soon as the jailer stepped out of the way, Edwina rushed to him. “Oh, Fergus…”
“Careful, Your Grace,” the jailer said, trying to hold her back. “This man’s a murderer.”
