As they approached a crossway in the corridors, a woman sped past on the other path. Padua Belvoir, tall and proud, walked with determination toward the exit, a handkerchief to her nose. She headed down past wards holding women, some of whom mocked her with lewd calls and cackles. Ives paused in the crossway and watched her run the gauntlet.
“That is his daughter, or so she says,” Brown commented. “Showed up yesterday, asking to see him. She brought him some food, clothes, and books today. Them that care about Belvoir’s case were very interested in this woman’s sudden appearance after all this time. I expect they are hoping she was sent by those he worked for.”
“She really is his daughter.” Ives spoke with more authority than he could claim. He hardly had proof of the fact. Yet there had been very little dissembling, and considerable concern, in the woman who intruded on his evening. Should she cajole her father into cooperating, it would be a good thing. That she had now attracted the attention of the authorities alarmed him, however.
After a few more turns, Brown stopped in front of a cell. Like many of the others, it held at least twenty men, all of whom lived, slept, ate, and wasted away init. For a price a man could have better lodgings. The wretches here could not afford it.
“That is him, in the corner.”
Ives did not need the gaoler’s direction. The man in the corner stood out from all the others. Although he sat against the wall, with his manacled ankles pulled close to his body, one could tell he was very tall and very thin. He wore a waistcoat and frock coat that, while disgusting and dirty now, had once been those of a gentleman. Presumably there had been no beard when he entered that cell, and his steely gray hair had been better groomed too.
The most notable thing about him, however, was not his appearance, but rather his activity. In his corner, beside his hip, stood a little stack of books. Belvoir read one so intently that he did not notice the gaoler and Ives peering through the door’s iron grate.
Beside the books rested a wrapped package, and a small basket of fruit. The other men in the cell eyed the last item with lust. Ives assumed Belvoir would soon be relieved of the fruit, and perhaps the package of clothing. No one would want the books.
“When he first came, and I took down his information, he identified his occupations as teacher, scholar, gentleman, and mathematician.” Brown found it amusing. “Funny how they never say forger, coiner, murderer, or thief.”
Ives looked at those books. Hadrian Belvoir would not even notice his surroundings until they were all read,he guessed. Then read again, if no new ones were brought by his daughter.
“That daughter, if she is a daughter, wanted to buy him a better place,” Brown said. “She had the coin for it. I said I would check to see if that is allowed. My guess is they want him here, and as uncomfortable as possible.”
Ives did not think it would matter now. Anyone who saw him could tell that Hadrian Belvoir had entered a different world from the one in which he sat. His mind had been freed even if his body still suffered.
***
Padua pushed through the crowd waiting to hear the news from the Old Bailey’s trials. She found a spot near the end of the building, where she could pause and compose herself.
She would never grow accustomed to seeing her father in that place, but his condition was not what agitated her. Rather she carried a deep anger away from her meeting. She had brought him some items to relieve his suffering, at notable cost to herself, only to have him once more reject her help. Oh, he had taken the food and books, but there had not been one word of thanks, and he had once again ordered her not to return.
The only reason she had not lost her temper and upbraided him was the way he looked at those books, and then at her. His relief had been palpable and his eagerness visible. When his gaze rose to hers again,she discerned some gratitude, and also embarrassment. Then he had flipped through them hungrily, and almost smiled when he found the paper and pencil secreted inside one of them.
Other than that vague expression in his eyes, had he acknowledged her love and concern, though? Not at all. And his words had been cruel and sharp.I said not to come here again. Do not disobey me this time as I say it again.
“Miss Belvoir.” The call came from the other end of the building, from beyond the line of people waiting to petition to see their relatives. Her gaze snapped to a waving hat, and a man on horseback. Ives. He had given her leave to think of him by that name, and she had taken to doing so most of the time.
He trotted toward her, and the line split like the Red Sea to permit him to pass. Fifty yards from her he dismounted, and approached on foot with his steed in tow.
Decked out like the wealthy aristocrat he was, Ives proved quite a sight. In the sunlight his face proved no less impressive, but the raking illumination showed the fine lines on either side of his eyes and mouth. Laugh lines they were called, yet they made him appear less friendly not more so, and gave his classic beauty a hard edge that the soft haze of candles had not revealed.
“Miss Belvoir, it is fortunate to find you here.” He made a little bow. “I have learned a few things that you should know. Walk with me, and I will tell you all.”
Of course she walked with him. Together they strolled along the edge of the square.
“You visited him again today,” he said. “Did you learn anything?”
“If I had, it would be unwise to tell you.”
“Anything he says in his own defense will aid him. The Crown is not without mercy.”
“Do you have reason to think he will need mercy?”
He stopped walking and faced her. “I regret that I do. It is worse than I thought, and I think worse than you feared. The pending charge is for coining. It is very serious, and the evidence is solid.”
Coining? Her father? Hadrian Belvoir? She could not keep a laugh from emerging. “That is ridiculous. He has no sense of money, and little use for it except to buy paper and books. Anyone who knows him would know—”
“The counterfeit money was found in his home. They have him dead to rights. He is only in prison, instead of tried and convicted, because they hope to get him to reveal the rest of the scheme. No one counterfeits on his own. It is a complicated procedure that requires specialized skills.”
“If there was bad money in his possession, he probably received it from some shop and was not aware it was bad.”
