“Lord Lefthook, is it?”
Belatedly, it occurred to Jasper that, as Little Hook, Madelina might work with the man. Aubrey Saint Lawrence might already have a way to let Lord Lefthook know of Madelina’s kidnapping. “Or will you tell him?”
“You may have the honor.”
That told him nothing of Madelina’s relationship to Lefthook. “Does Madelina already know him? Do you?”
Miss Saint Lawrence studied him a long moment, cold assessing gray eyes oddly similar in cast to Clementine’s. Another woman who would do whatever necessary to get what she wanted. Fortunately, Jasper rather thought he and Miss Saint Lawrence wanted the same things.
“You really think you love the girl, don’t you?”
“I know I do,” Jasper replied.
“Like you knew you loved Clementine?”
He winced. “I admit, I thought I loved Clementine, once.” He met Miss Saint Lawrence’s gaze squarely. “Do you suppose Madelina intends to say she loves me and then throw me over? Is everything she’s led me to believe about her a lie?”
“Girl’s never been as good at lying as I’d hoped.”
“Well, then, I love her.”
Miss Saint Lawrence nodded. She levered up from the chair. Without another word, she started to limp from the room.
“Wait,” Jasper called again. He hurried to her side. “Shall we agree to meet, in case one of us learns something?”
Eyes like granite peered at him from a lined face. “No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“I don’t know you, boy, and I do not trust what I don’t know.”
“But, wouldn’t we accomplish more if we—”
“No,” Miss Saint Lawrence repeated. “You do your best. Make your plans. I’ll make mine.”
She thumped her way from the room, leaving Jasper staring incredulously after.
Chapter Fifteen
Icy cold seeped from the stones into Madelina as she sat on the floor, legs pulled up to her chest. She tugged her cloak and the thin blanket they’d provided closer about her. She should gather up a thicker pile of straw. She’d little else to do.
The cell permitted her to stand or sit but didn’t offer room to lay stretched out. She didn’t know if they’d purchased or found the apparently unused gaol, but her cell exuded an ancient feel, like a dungeon of old.
Walls, ceiling, and floor were hewn from bedrock. No seams existed. No cracks. Nothing to pry loose to escape, or even to use as a weapon. Only a dusting of straw and stray pebbles met her searching hands. A stout door, a single three-inch slab of oak with hinges on the outside, barred her freedom. There wasn’t even a lock to pick. Instead, bolts were driven home at the bottom, middle and top of the door.
The base of the door stood a few inches off the floor. High enough to slide food and water in and out. Madelina ate the food, trying to keep her strength. She drank the water only when they brought more, worried they would deprive her.
The few inches under the door were also enough for Madelina to stick her arm through up to the shoulder. If she lay on her back, legs braced halfway up the wall, she could reach through and undo the bottom bolt, for whatever good that did her. The door also boasted a window, smaller than Madelina’s head and latticed with iron bars. Without, a torch flickered. They replaced the spent torch when they brought food. Otherwise, there was no light.
She liked to think they brought food once a day but couldn’t be certain. As others had before her, evidenced by the walls, she used a pebble to scratch out a mark each time food and water arrived. Marks that would disappear once the torch gutted out. The long, dark hours gave her plenty of time to relive her final moments of freedom and wonder what more she could have done.
The coach had turned into a narrow alley, off an only slightly wider street. The carriage had come to an abrupt halt. The nearness of the buildings she could see through the windows suggested a less prosperous borough, as did the general disrepair of the structures. Both details bore out the story of the increasingly unkept streets they’d ridden over, but she hadn’t seen any landmarks she recognized.
Before Madelina had time to grapple for Miss White’s gun, the woman had passed the pistol out the window beside which she sat and accepted a strip of black cloth in return. She’d turned back to Madelina with a smile. Then the door beside Madelina had wrenched open. Seven burly men stood without, all pointing guns at her.
Miss White had proffered the cloth. “Blindfold yourself.”
Madelina took the cloth but made no move to obey. “Why?”
