“She’s in love with a Cambridge boy now. But yes, it worked.”
Priscilla fell silent then.
“At a great cost to you.” Her mother spoke for the first time since Priscilla had begun her explanation.
“But to Lord Hardwood as well.” This, from Gabriel, who, as an earl, likely sympathized.
“Yes.” Priscilla sighed. “He’s going to have to hold off on his investments.”
But Gabriel shook his head. “Hardwood isn’t going to be investing in anything anytime soon.”
An ominous premonition slid up Priscilla’s spine. It was like that moment just before a storm when the birds fell silent.
“What’s happened to him? What do you know?” She burst to her feet, almost as though she could go to him.
She couldn’t imagine a world without him. Not seeing him again was one thing, not knowing he lived, quite another.
“Sit down, Priscilla,” her mother ordered.
“He’s alive,” Gabriel said, looking confused. “But he’s in Newgate.”
“Newgate?”
“He’s in prison, Priscilla. Word is, Malum had him convicted. Failure to pay his father’s debts.” As her brother’s words took shape, Priscilla froze. Emerson? Locked up? The blood drained out of her face.
“He didn’t just want Mr. Meadowbrook’s money, then…” Priscilla’s guilt exploded. What had she done?
Her brother pinched his mouth together. “No. I’m not privy to the details, but apparently, he needed it. I imagine it had something to do with the former earl.”
Eighteen Days
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Hunt had likely paced the width of the room ten thousand times. He couldn’t sit for long. Sitting magnified the bleakness of his circumstances.
But they were not entirely bleak, he reasoned. Before being locked up, he’d put what money he had to work for him. And Edgeworth, who’d been allowed to visit him once, had assured him all was going as planned.
However, eighteen days had passed, and imprisonment already felt like a lifetime.
If everything worked out as he hoped—if the ship made it back in good time and if the goods sold at the right price—he’d have half the amount he needed in approximately ninety days.
His body broke into a cold sweat.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. He counted his steps again. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on his circumstances—not if he wished to stay sane.
He raised his hand to clasp one of the bars and inhaled. It was impossible to ignore the filthy walls around him, the sounds of other prisoners calling out obscenities and complaints, and most of all, the ever-present stench of human waste.
He imagined the breeze blowing off the sea, but that quickly faded into another scent. One of lavender and spice. And rather than envision the cliffs at home, he imagined Priscilla’s lips, her taste. He remembered the sound of her laughter, the rich timbre of her voice.
With nothing to divert him, Hunt was allowed too much time to think.
Too much time to remember.
And consequently, dwell on the time he’d spent with Miss Fellowes.
Priscilla.
Ironically enough, the name suited her much better than Allison. It was sharper—more vivid.
Unable to keep himself from going down that road, he replayed moments spent with her over and over again.
