LITMIR.BIZ

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      Eleanor watched it go. There was nothing more she could do.

      The steady sound of dripping water never ceased in this accursed place. Shivering, Garrick pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and leaned back against the wall. The damp of his cell pervaded every bone in his body. His teeth chattered uncontrollably if he let them. He clamped his jaw tight.

      Out of respect for his rank, they’d put him in a private cell. As if it made any difference. Still, he’d glimpsed the condition of some of the other poor wretches who inhabited this filthy place and had no cause for complaint.

      The hole in his side had been cleaned and his arm was on the mend thanks to Ellie insisting on a doctor. He’d cut a good strong figure on the gibbet, the doctor had said. Nothing like a little gallows humour to cheer a man up.

      If they’d also caught Le Clere, he wouldn’t feel quite so bitter. But what the man had done, he’d done in Garrick’s name and the piper would be paid.

      A sharp twist of regret squeezed his chest. He would have liked to marry Ellie.

      Ellie. So dear and so brave. Right up to the last, she’d tried to save his worthless hide. He didn’t blame her one bit for not wanting to fly with him. She deserved so much more. Though the thought of her with another man sent hot blood rushing to his head. Ah, well, soon he wouldn’t have a head.

      God, this place was really getting to him.

      He did like thinking of her safe with her family, safe from Le Clere. It was the only thing making this stinking pit bearable. Not that he’d be here much longer. He swallowed. They’d take him to London for trial. A jury of his peers in the House of Lords. A chill ran down his spine.

      He’d brought shame to the proud name of Beauworth. Harry, bluff, cheerful Cousin Harry would have to carry the burden. Good thing the man was well liked by his fellows. He’d make an excellent Marquess.

      The noise of boots in the hallway echoed through the cells. Was this it? His heart picked up speed. He’d been expecting them all day, but deep in his heart he had hoped something would save him. If Piggot hadn’t left the letter, he could have died honourably, serving his country in battle. No doubt his old enemy, Hadley, or Castlefield as he was now, would make sure he met a just end. Justice. The gods must be laughing their heads off at the irony of it all.

      The footsteps drew closer. If only Eleanor had trusted him with the truth. His fist clenched. He slammed it into the wall, welcomed the jarring pain. He would never have ruined her. It was his one regret.

      That and what he had done to his mother.

      He smoothed his lank hair, and scratched at three days’ worth of stubble. He must look like everyone’s idea of a desperate killer.

      The cell door opened. Letting the blanket fall, he pushed to his feet and held out his arms for his manacles. Thank God, they did not also chain him to the wall of his cell.

      The warder ignored his outstretched hands. ‘This way if you please, my lord.’

      Stiff, joints aching, Garrick took a deep breath and straightened his spine. He followed the warder out of his cell and up the worn stone steps. This was it. A journey to London, a public humiliation and death.

      At the head of the stairs the warder ushered him into a room. An office. For the first time in three days, Garrick felt some of the bone-chilling cold leave his body.

      A man of medium height, middle-aged, grey at the temples, and his blue eyes twinkling, sat in one of two chairs in front of the desk. He rose at Garrick’s entrance.

      ‘My lord? Andrew Calder, at your service. I am your barrister.’

      ‘I don’t need a lawyer.’ A guilty plea needed no argument.

      ‘As to that, my lord, you are probably correct. However, Lord Dearborne asked me to meet you before your appearance.’

      Dearborne was a local magistrate. He wasn’t to be tried in the House? ‘The trial is today?’

      ‘No, my lord. You will be released today.’

      Legs weak, Garrick dropped onto the other chair. ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘My lord, I have been asked by Lord Dearborne to offer apologies for your wrongful arrest. You have been cleared of any involvement in the crime against Lady Eleanor Hadley. Caleb Trubbs has confessed the whole. His evidence proves you were a dupe in Le Clere’s plans. Lady Eleanor herself confirmed his testimony.’

      The room seemed to shift around him. At any moment he would awaken in his cold cell, lying on the filthy pallet, and discover he was hallucinating. It wouldn’t be the first time. Usually it was Ellie who occupied his dreams.

      The dapper little man continued to look at him with a kindly smile. Garrick began to believe. Slowly he felt his shoulders relax. Until he remembered. A bitter taste filled his mouth. ‘There is another matter, Mr Calder. The death of the Marchioness of Beauworth, my mother.’ He swallowed the dry lump in his throat as if the words would choke him.

      Calder frowned. ‘I know nothing of this matter.’

      His hands gripped the chair arms, clinging to the only solid thing in the room. ‘There was a letter. From an eye witness.’

      Calder shook his head. ‘There is no letter, my lord.’

      ‘It was there.’ Castlefield had dropped it at his feet. He’d seen it and so had Ellie.

      ‘I have no reports of a letter, my lord.’ Calder was beginning to sound just a little impatient, no doubt wondering why the prisoner wasn’t leaping for joy. Garrick shook his head, trying to sort his jumbled thoughts into some sort of order. The letter had been there. Addressed to him. Lying among the sheep droppings on emerald grass. Something about it had puzzled him. And now it had disappeared.

      This was his chance to confess. Why admit to something you don’t remember? Ellie’s words. He’d be confessing to something he didn’t believe in his heart. Had never believed. The realisation dawned slowly. Before he said anything, he had to know for sure.

      ‘Shall we go, my lord?’ Calder said, rising to his feet. ‘A carriage is waiting outside.’ He coughed discreetly behind his hand. ‘You might wish to, er…freshen up.’

      Garrick looked down at himself, filthy, ragged and stinking. ‘Yes. I would like that.’ He stood up.

      ‘Good. Lord Dearborne would be glad if you could call on him two days from now. At that time, you will be required to give a statement and the proper paperwork will be drawn up.’

      ‘And Duncan Le Clere and Matthews?’

      ‘The search continues.’

      ‘I want to help.’

      The lawyer grimaced. ‘Leave it to the authorities, my lord. By all accounts Le Clere is a dangerous man.’

      Only a Le Clere could deal with Duncan. But right now Garrick had something more important on his mind. A wife. His heart swelled. He would make things right for Ellie.

      ‘Beauworth for Lady Eleanor.’ He handed his card to the Castlefield butler. At least his voice sounded calm, despite his inner turbulence.

      The butler ushered him into a saloon painted pale blue with white trim. Large windows overlooked an expanse of formal gardens. The house was a sprawling Tudor mansion, but this room occupied one of the newer wings. ‘If you would wait here, I will see if her ladyship is at home.’

      Why hadn’t she replied to his letter of a week since? Unable to sit, he wandered the room. A room full of family treasures, Meissen china, paintings, statues. The clutter of generations of Earls and their families. Nothing like Beauworth, where few reminders remained of his parents. Le Clere had put them all away, even the portraits, supposedly out of respect for Garrick’s feelings, but now he wondered if the old man hadn’t tried to make him forget the happy part of his childhood.

      He

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