LITMIR.BIZ

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at the end of the hallway. He hastily followed. Once inside she looked around.

      No one was there. No sick child.

      The room was empty. But it was well lighted, every lamp blazing. The only furniture was a physician’s examining couch, which sat at the very center of the room. A white sheet was draped over it. Beside the couch, on a small utility table, was a white shaving mug and brush and a pair of scissors.

      And, gleaming in the lamplight, lay a silver, fully opened straight-edged razor.

      Instantly alarmed, Claire turned to give the lord a questioning look. She was horrified to find that he was now stark naked, the white uniform discarded and lying on the carpeted floor. Beneath his flabby overhanging belly, his male member was fully erect.

      “Lord Nardees, how dare you!” she exclaimed in shock and outrage. “Cover yourself at once!”

      She made a move toward the closed door. But the lord stood before it, blocking her way, his beady eyes gleaming and a drool of spittle slipping down from the left side of his mouth.

      “My dear,” he murmured, stepping close, “since the first moment I saw you, I’ve wanted you for my mistress.”

      And with that declaration, the naked nobleman had swiftly caught a stunned Claire up in his arms, pressed her against his big belly and tried to kiss her. Horrified and repulsed, she turned her face away and began to struggle to free herself.

      “Let me go, damn you! Stop this at once!” she demanded, hitting his beefy arms and broad back with doubled up fists.

      “Ah, yes, fight me a little while I rub myself against you, sweet beauty! I like my lovers to be fiery.” The eager lord shoved Claire’s robe off her right shoulder, yanked the yoke of her nightgown open down her chest and buried his wet, fleshy lips in the curve of her neck and shoulder.

      “Let go of me, you miserable swine, or I shall scream so loudly your wife will come running.”

      Sucking eagerly on the tender flesh of her exposed throat, Lord Nardees ignored her threat. Claire was well aware that his homely, lazy wife was probably snoring soundly in their suite on the mansion’s first floor and would not hear her screams. Claire continued to beat on the baron’s bare back and tried to kick his shins. Vainly, she struggled to free herself from the excited, perspiring man.

      Finally, having no other recourse, she turned her face inward and bit his jowls. Hard. Drawing blood. Shocked and in pain, he automatically raised his head and loosened his hold. Claire seized the opportunity and viciously kneed him in the groin. He released her and grabbing himself, sank to his knees, keening in agony there before the closed door.

      Claire knew she had to get out of that room and out of that house. Finding strength she didn’t know she possessed, she shoved him over onto his back, grabbed him behind the knees, and dragged him away from the door. She darted around him, opened the door and fled down the hall to her room. Heart pounding, she hurriedly dressed and began packing.

      She wasn’t sure what the thwarted lord would do next, but she had no intention of staying in his home long enough to find out. After only a few short minutes spent collecting her belongings, Claire was ready to make her escape.

      But she was too late.

      The door to her room was now locked and barred from the outside. Claire ground her teeth in frustration. The angry baron had already summoned his minions to confine her.

      She dropped her valise and hurried to the tall leaded windows that faced the estate’s rolling back gardens. She opened one of the windows and looked down. She had never realized how high off the ground this third floor room was. There was no balcony on which to step outside. No trellis on which to climb down. It was a sheer drop of forty feet to the ground below. If she jumped she would likely break a leg. Even if she didn’t, guards patrolled the vast rear grounds at night. She’d never get past them.

      She was trapped.

      Throughout the long night Claire paced, worried and wondered what would happen to her.

      Come the morning she found out.

      While the entire staff watched and whispered, Claire was taken from the baron’s house by two uniformed policemen. Lord Nardees had accused her of stealing some of his wife’s valuable jewelry and had alerted the authorities.

      At police headquarters Claire had vowed her innocence, but to no avail. Her repeated requests for counsel were refused. After the long tiring day of futilely demanding that a barrister be appointed for her, she was thrown into Newgate prison’s Common Cell with a stern reminder that stealing from one of England’s titled noblemen would surely get her several long years in prison.

      Now in the prison’s darkness, Claire swallowed hard and fought back the tears that clogged her tight throat. The terrible truth dawned that she might never get out of this dungeon.

      Dawn was not far off when Green Tooth slowly turned her head, looked at the fair, blond young woman and saw that she was sleeping.

      Finally.

      Green Tooth glanced warily around at the rest of the prisoners to make sure all were asleep. Satisfied they were, she reached down and dug deep into her worn left shoe and pried from its sole a shiny gold coin. A coin she’d treasured for years.

      She laid the coin in her lap and reached into the pocket of her filthy skirt. She withdrew a small pad of paper and a stubby lead pencil.

      In minutes she was up and silently crossing the Common Cell. She waved a thin arm until she attracted the attention of the head turnkey who was back on his perch above. She motioned to him. He frowned, shook his head, but dropped the ladder over and came down it.

      “Need a favor, gov,” Green Tooth whispered and handed the guard a folded note and the gold coin.

      The turnkey glanced at the note, bit the coin to check its authenticity, and nodded in affirmation.

      Three

      Alas, it wasn’t weeks or months until Claire’s arraignment. It was later that very same morning.

      Nine sharp.

      Thursday, the twenty-seventh of June, 1895.

      Claire’s case was first on the docket. If indicted—which seemed assured—she would be convicted and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison.

      The honorable Percival Knowlton sat on the bench above in his colorful flowing judge’s robes and curly white powdered wig. The prosecutor, Cecil Twiggs, a slight man with thinning, sandy hair and sallow complexion, was there to represent the Queen.

      Claire stood beside him as Twiggs stated the charges. “Your honor, the defendant, Mrs. Claire Orwell, betrayed the trust and kindness of her employer, Lord Wardley Nardees. Mrs. Orwell was employed…”

      The arraignment, a predetermined farce, had begun.

      Once the charges had been fully read, the elderly judge sat back in his chair, reached up under his white wig and rubbed a spot on his temple.

      He looked at Claire. “Who speaks for the defendant?”

      Rising to her feet, Claire looked around, searching in vain for the aging hack barrister the crown had appointed as her counsel. She turned back to address the judge.

      “No one, I fear, milord.”

      At that moment a large hand came to rest on her shoulder. She turned and looked up to see a giant of a man, resplendent in legal raiment bearing the Old Queen’s own colors. The powdered wig only added to his towering height.

      “I kindly beg to differ.” The giant’s voice was low and surprisingly soft. “I speak for the accused, your worship.”

      Cecil Twiggs paled and the slim prosecution brief slipped from his fingers. He bent and picked it up, his hand visibly shaking.

      The judge sat upright, imperious

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