Authors: Beth Pattillo
“You ordered the guards to remain with you.” The words were a weak attempt to resurrect the walls that had shielded him for so long. The blame he had always heaped upon his father was melting away, and Nick felt unprotected without it, like a knight without armor.
“And I instructed your mother to take clothes from the servants’ hall and travel incognito. A contingent of the Santadorran guards at your heels would have ruined the disguise.”
Nick swallowed at the deluge of memories that threatened to swamp him even after all this time. “Instead, our costumes made us easy prey for the renegades from the French and Spanish armies,” he said, no longer arguing with his father but with himself.
“Yes.” His father’s head dipped. “I did not think of them at the time. Only of the French soldiers pouring into the palace.”
Neither said anything for several long moments. The rumble of traffic from the street floated on the air.
“Where the devil is Crispin?” Nick twisted in his seat to look out the opposite window.
His father ignored the question. “The Royal Guards will be waiting for you on the Portsmouth road.” He reached for Nick’s hand, and Nick surprised himself by not shrinking from the contact. He had not felt his father’s touch in more than fifteen years, and yet it was as familiar as if they had embraced only the day before. “Come home, Nick, and we will put the past to rest. I think we are both ready now to do so.”
At that moment, the door to the carriage swung open, and Crispin stuck his head in the opening. “It’s time.”
Nick’s father clapped him on the back. “Good luck, son. By nightfall, we will be halfway across the Channel.”
Nick looked at his father, and for the first time since the cold night on the mountain, he allowed himself to hope. “Santadorra will hardly seem like home.”
The king smiled. “In time, my son. In time.”
Nick climbed from the carriage, and he and Crispin crossed the street to the entrance of the prison. The guard nodded at Crispin and extended his hand for the proffered coin.
“The boy?” Crispin asked, and the guard grunted.
“I’ll take ye to ‘im myself.”
For the price of a few more coins, they gained admittance to the cell where Tom Selkirk was held. The young man’s shoulders sagged with relief when he saw Nick and Crispin. Nick kept his expression stern, careful to hide his true feelings from the guard.
“Selkirk.” He nodded at the youth. Tom looked puzzled, until Nick managed a surreptitious wink.
“Sir.” Tom, a quick study, bowed formally and appeared to be shaking in his boots.
“You will come with us,” Nick ordered, and Tom bowed and scraped. His humility seemed to satisfy the gaoler.
“I’ll take you to the lady, then, but ‘ide the lad if anyone looks suspicious-like.”
The walk from Tom’s cell to the more genteel part of the prison seemed to take forever. Nick concentrated on placing one shabbily booted foot in front of the other. No one said a word, and, thankfully, the passageways were deserted. His head spun from his conversation with his father, but he could ill afford distraction now. Lucy’s future depended on his clear-thinking resolve.
The guard inserted a key into a heavy wooden door and pushed it open. “‘Alf an ‘our, and no more,” he instructed. Nick stepped across the threshold, Crispin and Tom close behind him. The door slammed shut with hollow finality.
Nick glanced about. The small drawing room lay empty. His heart pounded in his chest. “Cris?” He looked to his friend for reassurance.
Crispin arched an eyebrow. “I would offer to look in the bedchamber myself, but perhaps that is a husband’s prerogative?”
Nick laughed ruefully. “I’ll go.”
For a small drawing room, it took a surprisingly long time to cross. He opened the door on the other side and stepped into the dimness beyond.
His eyes, unaccustomed to the dark, required a moment to focus. They cleared, just in time to see a large object hurtling toward him. Nick ducked, and a washbasin shattered against the wall behind him.
“Hello, Lucy,” he said wryly. He saw her then, outlined in the dimness. Never had there been a more welcome sight. Her only response to his greeting was to fling the pitcher at him as well. It, too, crashed against the wall when he nimbly stepped to the side. Her cheeks were flushed, and Nick breathed a sigh of relief that she appeared unharmed.
“I believe a wife’s place is at her husband’s side, and we are leaving,” he said. Her spine stiffened, and she raised her chin. Nick felt warmed from head to toe. She still had spirit, even in this place. As he’d known the day he proposed, if she were set against forgiving him, she’d not be displaying such a bounty of indignation.
“You are mad to think I’d go with you.” She turned up her nose.
“Me? Mad? I’m not the one refusing a way out of this hellhole,” he pointed out quite reasonably. Lucy glanced around for something else to throw. It was time to put a stop to the missiles, Nick decided, and moved toward her.
She refused to cower, which was one of the things he loved most about her. “Pardon me if I fail to express my gratitude properly.” Her tone was scathing. “But as
I recall, you’re the reason I’m in this predicament to begin with.”
She had him there. Nick cleared his throat.
“You have every right to despise me, Lucy.” The words were difficult to say, despite their truthfulness. “I betrayed you. Whatever my purposes or reasons, it was a betrayal nonetheless.”
Her eyes widened at his confession. “Then you admit your error?”
“I admit my actions,” he said evasively, “but what’s done is done.” He moved a step closer, and she did not shrink away. “I can’t change the past, Lucy. I’ve finally learned that lesson. But I can change the future, and I have no intention of seeing you hang or allowing you to be thrown aboard a transport ship.”
She stiffened, and he saw in her eyes the toll that the fear of the last few days had exacted from her. “Sidmouth will never allow my release.”
“I know.” The bold statement of fact and its implications hung in the air between them. “I’ve come to rescue you, Lucy, if you might allow me that privilege one last time.”
“What do you mean?” Her eyes narrowed.
“If you come with me, you will have to leave more than Newgate behind.”
“I don’t understand.”
Nick wondered if she truly did not understand or if her stubborn will refused to accept the inevitable. “You must leave England, princess. There is no possible way you can remain. Sidmouth is a powerful man, and he will not rest until you can no longer trouble him.”
Her eyes flashed. “Why does he care? I am nothing to him and very little to the cause of reform. I could understand if I were Wilburforce or Orator Hunt, or even Mr. Benton, but I am no one.”
“On the contrary. You are the daughter of a duke, and that makes you the worst of traitors in his eyes.”
Nick could almost see the gears of her mind turn as she thought over the implications of his statement.
“Where
. . .
where would I go?”
Nick wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms, but now was not the time. She must decide for herself, with no other form of persuasion than his most logical arguments.
“You must come with me to Santadorra.”
“No.” Her chin rose.
“Be reasonable, princess. At the moment, your only protection lies in my country.”
“As your wife.”
“Yes, as my wife.”
She looked as if she might spit in his eye, and then suddenly, remarkably, Lucy began to cry. Her face crumpled, and Nick’s heart broke in two. It was everything he’d feared. To Lucy, he had literally become a fate worse than death.
“You will force me to come with you,” she said between sobs. “Here.” She extended her arm.
“What?”
“Here. You are forever grabbing at me, pulling me about. Here.” She lifted her arm higher until her wrist was almost beneath his chin. “What is to stop you?” she demanded. “Do as you have done every time before. Grab my wrist and tow me about like a child in leading strings.”
Images flashed through his mind. Fleeing the duchess’s town home. The night in the maze at Carlton House. Lucy was right. Since the moment they’d met, he’d been grasping her and pulling her against her will.
“No,” he again and took a step back. Her arm dropped to her side, and she wore a look of unhappy satisfaction.
“Then I will remain here.” She raised her face to his, and the tears shining in her eyes pounded what remained of his heart into dust.
“No.” Without another word, Nick lifted his hand and extended it toward her. He held it, palm up and fingers loose, as if he were making an offering to the gods. When she made no move to take his hand, he forced himself to say more.
“I lied.” The words were thick and hard to say, but he managed them. “When you asked me how I could not be changed by what happened in the square, I lied.”
Lucy went white. “What do you mean?”
Nick swallowed hard. “You did convince me, with your Orator Hunt and your reform rallies. You convinced me with your climbing boys and the Selkirks and your passion for the truth. Reform is not without reason. I see that now.”
Lucy clutched the bedpost. “You lied.”
“Yes. I lied at the Selkirks’ so you would be forced to marry me.” Nick’s pulse pounded in his throat.
“Why?” Lucy looked as if she’d been struck. “Why would you want to marry me?” Then, as if she’d comprehended her own question, she nodded. “So you could rescue me, of course. Your damnable tendency to play the hero.”
“No.” The denial sprang to his lips. “No. I told myself at the time that was my reason, but I lied even to myself.”
Lucy moved around him, and he had to let her go. She had refused his hand. “Don’t lie,” she said, “not now. It doesn’t matter. You feel responsible, and your overdeveloped sense of guilt will not let you rest until you set things right.”
Nick’s throat was tight. “I can never set things right.”
She whirled to face him. “What do you mean?”
“Lucy, you must come with me.” He extended his hand once again. “I can never give you back what I have cost you. You must relinquish your country, your friends, your cause, but I will do everything in my power to make you happy. I will bear you company, if that is what you wish, or I will banish myself from your presence forever. You have only to say the word.”
Her mouth was a thin line. “But the word will have to be said in Santadorra. That is what you mean.”
“Yes.” His fingers continued to hang in midair, and his arm grew heavy with the effort of holding it out toward her. “That much I cannot change.”
Her lip trembled. “I have no choice, do I?”
“Very little,” he conceded.
The moment stretched into a lifetime. Then, Nick watched as with agonizing slowness, her hand lifted, and she reached out and laid her fingers atop his own.
“If there is no other way,” she whispered, and Nick would have given any future kingdom to take her in his arms and offer her comfort. Pride, though, and respect for Lucy prevented him. Perhaps one day
. . .
“We have little time to waste.” With his free hand, Nick flicked open the buttons of his coat and began to work at the fastenings of his waistcoat. Lucy jumped back with a gasp.
“You are disgusting.”
“What?” Nick looked at her in confusion. He began to unwrap the clothing he’d concealed beneath his garments. First a worn pair of breeches, followed by the distinctive black shirt and vest of a chimney sweep. Last of all came the familiar cap that covered her curls so well. “We’ve no time for missishness, princess. The royal yacht awaits us at Portsmouth.” He thrust the clothes into her arms.