Page 140 of Thief of the Ton
The old man threw the clock onto the floor. The cherub snapped off, rolled across the floor, and stopped face up, sightless eyes staring into the heavens.
“I care nothing about material objects, Lord Marlow,” he said. “What matters most is my daughter.”
“Then I shall ride to London forthwith,” Peregrine said, “and I’ll do everything I can to return her to you.”
“Do what you will, sir, but do not set foot in my house again.”
Finding himself dismissed, Peregrine retreated, and Bates ushered him outside, where Poseidon stood waiting.
“Sorry, boy,” he said, approaching the horse. “I’m afraid I’ve further need of you.”
He mounted Poseidon then steered onto the lane. With luck, he’d reach London before nightfall. But what would he find when he arrived?
In all likelihood, Lavinia would hang.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Drip drip-drip drip—drip,drip-drip drip…
You’re going to hang. You’re going to hang…
Was there no respite?
Not even in the blackness of sleep could she escape the sneering voice of the jailer, the gap-toothed man who stank of sweat and death, who’d licked his lips with relish as she was pushed into her cell.
“Leave me be!”
Lavinia opened her eyes and sat up, raising her arms to fend off the foul-smelling man and his overly attentive hands.
But she was alone. Her only companion was a small, dark form that scuttled to and fro in the far corner. With a squeak, it turned and disappeared into a small hole between the bricks, and she caught sight of a hairless tail in the small beam of sunlight that filtered through the bars from the tiny window above.
She glanced about the cell. They had brought her here only two days ago, but in that span, her life had changed. Hope had sparked inside her when she’d been placed before Earl Stiles, the magistrate. But though he seemed a fair and just man, unlike that bastard Houseman, Stiles had explained that no matter what the justification—and no matter that she was a young woman—there was no escape from fact that highway robbery was a capital crime, and he had no option but to have her detained.
The image of a gibbet entered her mind, and she placed her hands about her throat.
Would it hurt?
Though she recalled little of her childhood—fragmented images and memories merging with her imagination, until she couldn’t distinguish truth from fiction—the memory of her beloved mama remained true. Mama’s face on the pillow, surrounded by a halo of golden hair, eyes bright with pain, but clear with acceptance, as she slipped into the world beyond…
Would her own entry into the afterlife be as dignified? Or would she scream and jerk on the end of the rope—as the jailer had described with such relish—before securing her place in hell?
I’m going to hang…
I’m going to hell…
Drip drip-drip drip—drip, drip-drip drip…
Water glistened thickly on the cell walls, filling the atmosphere with dank and decay. She drew in a lungful of air, and almost choked. A bone-rattling cough echoed in the distance, followed by a long, low groan.
One of her fellow inmates.
There were worse ways to die than on the hangman’s noose.
Perhaps, if she pleaded her case to Stiles, he might permit her to send for a swordsman to slice off her head to quicken her exit. Wasn’t that what Anne Boleyn had requested when she was tried for crimes she’d been innocent of?
But you’re not innocent.
Drip drip-drip drip…
