Lady Sophia's Lover (Bow Street Runners #2)(89)

She hurried to comply. “Where are you going? You must eat something first. At least a sandwich—”

“No time,” Ross muttered, donning the fresh linen shirt and tucking it into his trousers. Deftly he positioned the collar and tied a cravat around his neck. “An idea occurred to me just a few minutes ago. I’m going to Newgate—I expect to return soon. Don’t stay up on my account. If I have news of any significance, I’ll wake you.”

“You’re going to see my brother?” Quickly Sophia pulled a patterned gray waistcoat from the wardrobe and held it up for him to slide his arms through. “Why? What is this idea? I want to go with you!”

“Not to Newgate.”

“I’ll wait outside in the carriage,” she insisted desperately. “You can give the footman a brace of pistols, and the driver as well. And there are patrols all around the prison, aren’t there? I’ll be as safe there as I am here. Oh, Ross, I’ll go mad if I have to wait here any longer! You must take me with you. Please. He’s my brother, isn’t he?”

Pelted by the flurry of anxious words, Ross gave her a hard stare, a small muscle jumping in his cheek. Sophia knew that he wanted to refuse her. However, he also understood her anguished concern for her brother. ♦ “You swear that you will stay in the carriage,” he demanded.

“Yes!”

His gaze held hers, and he muttered a curse. “Get your cloak.”

Afraid that he might change his mind, she obeyed with alacrity. “What is your idea?” she asked.

Ross shook his head, unwilling to explain. “I am still considering it. And I don’t want to raise your hopes, for it will probably come to naught.”

As a temporary lodging for those awaiting trial or execution, Newgate was often called the stone jug. Anyone who had ever visited or been incarcerated in the place swore that hell itself could not be more wretched. The ancient walls echoed with the constant howls and jeers of prisoners chained like animals in their cells. No furniture or comforts of any kind were allowed in the open wards or solitary cells. The gaolers, who were supposed to maintain order, were often corrupt, cruel, mentally unbalanced, or some combination of the three. Once, after depositing a condemned man in Newgate, Eddie Sayer had returned to Bow Street with the comment that the gaolers alarmed him more than the prisoners.

Although the prisoners suffered mightily in the bitter cold of winter, it was nothing compared to the unholy stench that accumulated in the hot summer days. Armies of cockroaches scurried across the floor as Ross bade the head gaoler to take him to Nick Gentry’s cell. It was located in the heart of the prison and nicknamed the “devil’s closet,” from which there was no escape.

As they proceeded through one of the twisted mazes, lice crackled underfoot and squeaking rats fled from the approach of heavy boots. Distant cries of misery rose from the cells on the lower floors. It unnerved Ross to think that he had allowed his wife to wait in a carriage just outside, and he sorely regretted his decision to bring her here. He comforted himself with the knowledge that she was in the company of an armed footman, a driver, and two runners bearing cutlasses and pistols.

“That Gentry, ‘e’s a quiet one,” Eldridge, the head gaoler, commented. An enormous, stocky individual with bulbous features, he reeked almost as badly as those who were incarcerated. The top of his head was bald, but long, greasy strands trailed from the sides of his scalp and fluttered down his back. Eldridge was one of the rare prison-keepers who appeared to enjoy his job. Perhaps that was because he made a nice profit each week by selling his accounts of prisoners’ experiences within Newgate, including the final confessions of the condemned, to London newspapers. No doubt he would make a pretty penny with his tales of the infamous Nick Gentry.

“Nary a peep from ‘im all day,” Eldridge grumbled. “I ask ye, what kind o’ story can I sell if ‘e keeps ’is gob shut?”

“Inconsiderate of him,” Ross agreed sardonically.

Apparently gratified by Ross’s concurrence, the gaol-keeper led him to the entrance of the devil’s closet. A six-inch-wide window had been cut in the heavy oak-and-iron door to allow the prisoner to speak to visitors. “Gentry!” Eldridge grunted through the hole. “Visitor!”

There was no reply.

Ross frowned. “Where is the guard?”

Eldridge’s oily face turned toward him. “There is no guard, Sir Ross. ‘Twasn’t needed.”

“I specifically ordered a guard to be placed at this door at all times,” Ross said curtly. “Not only to prevent escape attempts, but also for Gentry’s own protection.”

A deep laugh rose from Eldridge’s pendulous gut. “Escape?” he scoffed. “No one can escape the devil’s closet. ‘Sides, Gentry’s been handcuffed, an’ irons fitted on his legs, an‘ ’e’s weighted with three hundred pounds o‘ chains. ’E can’t move to pick ‘is nose! No man alive could get in or out o’ that cell, wivout this” He brandished a key and worked to unlock the door.

The thick slab of oak and iron groaned in angry protest as it was pushed open. “There,” Eldridge said with satisfaction, the lamp in his hand jangling as he walked into the cell. “Ye see? Gentry is—” His huge frame jiggled from a start of surprise. “Bloody ‘ell!”