“Let us see what Hollister has to say next time I see him.” The earl rose. “I’ve received permission for another meeting with Locke at first light tomorrow. The choice is yours on whether to come. But the fact is, I may be able to wrest more out of him if you’re not present.”
As it was the last time, the offer to beg off was tempting. The mere thought of Newgate—the stink, the screams, the air of utter hopelessness—made her skin crawl. And yet it would be cowardly to do so and leave Nicky to rot in such misery.
“I must come,” she said.
He nodded grimly. “I expected no less. But if you really wish to help him, you should come prepared to do more than hold his hand and tell him fairie tales about truth always prevailing in the end. Try to think of some way to poke a stick in his arse. The clock is ticking, and my sense is, Locke is still holding something back.”
CHAPTER 13
The stench and shrieks within Newgate seemed to grow worse with every visit. Keeping her head down, Charlotte stayed close on Wrexford’s heels as he followed their gaoler escort through the winding stone corridors. Thank God the blackness hid the filth beneath their boots. If only it could deaden the pitiful cries coming from the cells. Even at this ungodly early hour—she had climbed into the earl’s carriage just after dawn—the prison pulsed with desperation.
The primal misery of the place was like an iron fist, threatening to squeeze the air from her lungs.
At last, the gaoler halted. A lock released with the rattle and groan of rusty metal and then the door clanged shut behind them.
Charlotte let out a silent breath, and steeled her nerves for the coming confrontation. During the ride to Newgate, Wrexford had given her a terse explanation of his meeting with Hollister. He had seemed tired and snappish, his temper dangerously frayed. She sensed he was in no mood for self-pity and prevarications.
Which didn’t bode well for her cousin. But they needed more than mumbled half-truths if they were to save his neck.
Locke was awake, and sitting at the small table set in the center of the cell. Charlotte was gratified to see that he had shaved and was wearing a clean shirt. Looking around, she saw that the earl’s purse had provided more amenities—blankets, clothing, a hamper of decent food, and even a few bottles of brandy and wine. Hardly luxurious, but a world of difference from the terror of bare stone and starvation.
“Thank you for your generosity, Lord Wrexford—” began Locke.
“Stubble the pleasantries,” snapped the earl. “Now that you scrubbed off the initial stink of terror, I expect to get more than irrational blatherings from you.” He pulled a stool over to the table and took a seat facing the prisoner.
Charlotte was too jumpy to join them. She moved a few steps to her left, where the lamplight allowed her a better look at Locke’s face.
“I’ve told you what I know—”
“The devil you have.” The earl smacked a fist to the tabletop. “Decide now—do you wish to live, Mr. Locke? Or are you happy to dance the hangman’s jig as the rope slowly strangles the life out of you?”
“Nicky,” began Charlotte.
“Let him answer for himself, Mrs. Sloane.”
She fell silent. Never had Wrexford’s expression looked so grim.
To Locke, he added, “Your cousin is about to sacrifice everything she holds dear in life in order to try to save your miserable neck. You had better prove to me that you are worth it at this meeting, or, by God, I won’t let her do it.”
To his credit, Locke faced the earl’s wrath without flinching. “I don’t blame you for thinking the worst of me, sir. I’ve given you no reason to think otherwise.” He turned his gaze toCharlotte and she saw his eyes were no longer glazed with confusion. “I’d rather die than see you hurt in any way, Charley. If I can’t save myself by my own wits, then so be it.”
“Then, bloody hell, show you have some,” growled the earl.
“Let’s all try to use our heads,” interjected Charlotte. “Stop bellowing at him, Wrexford, and start asking him your questions.”
He shot her a scowl, but thankfully the murderous fury had softened from his features. “Very well, but warn your dear Nicky that my patience is perilously close to snapping.”
“I daresay he’s aware of that.”
Wrexford shifted, his boots scraping against the stone. “Westmorly—tell me more about Westmorly, Locke. Beginning withyourgambling debts to him.”
“We played occasionally at a gaming hell in St. Giles—Lucifer’s Lair,” answered her cousin without hesitation. “As did some of the other members of the Eos Society. I’m a decent card player, but I had a run of bad luck one night, and Westmorly won more than I should have wagered, given the amount of brandy I had imbibed. But as I told you, the amount wasn’t more than I could afford.”
“Cedric knew about your losses?” asked Charlotte.
“That’s what puzzles me—I have no idea how. Or why.” Before Wrexford could comment, Locke added, “I wasn’t misleading you, Lord Wrexford. I don’t care what your witnesses say they saw, my brother and Westmorly werenoton good terms. Granted, the breach was a recent one, and while I don’t know the exact reasons, I recall Cedric muttering something about the fellow being a yellow-livered snitch.”
“And you’ve no idea what that means?”
