A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(102)

And there was still the problem of public scandal. She couldn’t adopt the family name, then turn around and drag it straight through the seediest lanes of Southwark. Even after Aunt Marmoset’s confessions, she wouldn’t wish that on any of the Gramercys—and she didn’t want that cloud hanging over a marriage to Samuel.

In a nervous gesture, she twisted the ring on her finger, turning the pale pink stone this way and that to catch golden flashes of sun. So beautiful. She couldn’t imagine ever removing it. Samuel had chosen it especially for her.

The stone had inner fire. So did she.

“Well, we must do something,” Minerva said. “Print pamphlets. Stage a hunger strike in the green. Go without our corsets until someone relents. This is Spindle Cove. Heaven forbid we let etiquette and convention carry the day. Just look at your dog. Even he agrees with me.”

Kate looked down at Badger, who was happily gnawing his way through yet another copy of Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom for Young Ladies.

She bent and scratched him behind one funny, half-cocked ear and whispered, “This is all your fault, you know.”

If not for Badger, she might never have pulled the truth from Samuel after the adder bite. She might never have come to know his softer side, and grown to love him for it. Melons would have far less meaning in her life.

In her mind, the wisp of an idea began to coalesce. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . Badger could be the key to this problem, too.

“I think I may know just what to do,” she said, growing excited as she looked around the room at her family and friends. “But I’ll need help getting dressed.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

So this was Spindle Cove’s excuse for a gaol.

Thorne had always wondered about this tiny building settled on the village green, not far from St. Ursula’s. At first he’d assumed it to be a well house for a spring that had long dried up. Then someone told him it used to be a baptistery for the original church.

At any rate, now it was the gaol.

The structure was small, round, and fashioned of windowless sandstone walls. It must have been built during the same era as the original Rycliff Castle—in other words, forever ago. The wood ceiling, of course, had long since rotted away. Instead, a lattice of iron bars overhead kept prisoners confined while admitting fresh air and golden shafts of sunlight. Here and there a bit of moss or fern sprouted from a crack in the wall.

As with all things in this village, it was a little too quaint and charming. But it would be effective enough. The only break in the stone walls was the single forged metal door. The handiwork of Aaron Dawes, no doubt, and Thorne knew him to be a capable smith.

A heavy set of iron cuffs encircled his wrists, linked by a chain. The shackles were genuine, taken from Sir Lewis’s collection. The only keys to both cell door and irons were in Bram’s possession, and he’d given his word.

Thorne was well and truly confined.

The night hadn’t been easy. Sitting chained in the dark . . . the silence poked at the wild, feral creature in him. But the restraints were good, and the walls were solid. Even if he went a bit mad and his resolve crumbled, he wouldn’t be muscling his way out of this cell.

Which was fortunate, because if he did muscle his way out of the cell, taking on the guards would be no difficulty.

“Tell me again how is it that you two,” he asked, “are the village gaolers?”

Finn and Rufus Bright sat outside the cell’s grated door with a pack of cards. They were twins, just nearing sixteen years old, and Thorne didn’t like trusting them with a few hours’ watch from the southeast turret of Rycliff Castle. He would have never set them to guard a dangerous criminal.

“Used to be our despicable sot of a father’s duty,” Rufus said. “He was the riding officer, before he switched sides of the law. Better money in smuggling, I suppose.”

“Once he was gone,” Finn said, “the task fell to Errol, as his eldest son.”

“And Errol’s gone to Dover this week.” Rufus split and shuffled the deck of cards. “So lucky you, you get us.”

Lucky them, the youth surely meant. As much hell as Thorne had given Spindle Cove’s youngest militiamen over the past year, he could only imagine they were enjoying this.

He heard Bram’s voice. “Finn, Rufus. I hope you’re treating your prisoner well.”

“Yes, Lord Rycliff.”

“Thorne?” Bram peered through the door grate. “Not yet wasted to bones, I gather.”

“Not even close.”

“Don’t think this isn’t costing me. My wife is not pleased. And in case you’re wondering, Miss Taylor—Lady Kate, I suppose I should call her now—is not pleased, either.”

Thorne shrugged, indifferent.

Katie would be pleased, eventually. In time, she’d see that this was best. Drewe could keep her safe and make her happy. She might have put on a brave face for him last night, told him she’d leave behind everything to be with him—but he knew her too well. She’d longed for a family all her life, and he couldn’t offer her anything to replace the Gramercys. And after last night, he knew he wasn’t fit to be a lady’s husband. He couldn’t even keep her safe.

“So what’s happening?” Thorne asked. “Have they seen the vicar for a license yet?”