her violent and odious husband’s fate, he found he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her or not feel partly responsible for all she was about to suffer. Not a single family member had accompanied her on her daily trips to the court. Nor had a single family member leapt to her defence in any of the hundreds of newspaper stories that made outrageous and wild accusations. Was that because they had disowned her or because she had wanted to do this alone? Or perhaps she was alone? And why the blazes should he care about this woman when he had brought many a criminal to justice and not given two figs about any of their family, when the family were ultimately irrelevant when justice needed to be done?
While pretending to study a document in front of him, he found his gaze wandering back to her hands. As usual, they were buried in her dull skirt, out of sight. Her outfit today was austere, as they all had been this last week, but he noticed that, even though she was seated, the brown spencer hung from her frame. She had lost weight. Rapidly, if he was any judge, and the dark circles beneath her eyes were testament to the insomnia she had clearly suffered in the few scant weeks since her husband’s arrest. How would she sleep after today? Would she ever sleep again?
That was not his concern!
She wasn’t his responsibility and neither was her child. Doubtless someone would crawl out of the woodwork and take them in. If she had any sense, she would move to the opposite end of the country and change her name. Perhaps he should tell her as much once this was all over?
He sensed her looking at him and realised he had been openly staring. He schooled his features into the bland, emotionless mask he always wore and allowed his eyes to meet hers unrepentant. There was something about Lady Penhurst’s eyes which disarmed him and called to him in equal measure. He found he wanted to keep looking at them, as if within their sapphire-blue depths was something he needed, except the inexplicable guilt which had sat heavily on his shoulders for days got the better of him and he hastily looked away.
Not that he had anything in this instance to be guilty about. Penhurst was a traitor. He had robbed the Crown of taxes, as a minion of the infamous and still-unidentified mastermind known only as The Boss, he had willingly consorted with England’s worst enemies and had blood on his hands. Lots of blood. Too many innocent men had died thanks to that smuggling ring and it was hardly his fault the evidence had been so plentiful and compelling the man had got his rightful comeuppance. Hadleigh had no earthly reason to feel guilty at doing his job well. None whatsoever.
So why did he? Those eyes perhaps?
‘All rise.’
Putting his misplaced guilt and odd mood aside, he stood with the rest of the chamber and forced his gaze to remain fixed on the judge as he entered. The judge sat and so did the rest of the chamber, while Penhurst was brought in to hear the sentence. He appeared terrified and rightly so, his eyes darting around the room nervously while the whole indictment was read. Then, as Hadleigh and most of the baying crowd had expected, the clerk placed the black-silk square atop his wig as an eerie hush settled over the room.
Hadleigh’s gaze flicked to her and she was ashen, those lovely eyes swirling with emotion, his heart lurching painfully at the sight. All he could think of was what she might be thinking and what in God’s name was to become of her. No husband. No home. No money. None of it her fault.
Professional detachment be damned! Once the judge was done he would offer some help. He wouldn’t leave her all alone to be fed to the wolves today. He would escort her home. Give her money. A chance to start afresh. Something—anything—to make his misguided conscience feel better.
‘William Henry Ashley, formally the Viscount Penhurst and the Baron of Scarsdale, the court doth order you to be taken from hence to the place from whence you came, and thence to the place of execution, and that you be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and that your body be afterward buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall be confined after your conviction. And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.’
‘No!’ Penhurst broke free of his guards, scrambled over the dock and lunged at the bench. Instinctively, Hadleigh stepped forward to stop him and the Viscount’s fingers gripped his robe with all his might. ‘I’ll tell you everything I know. Everything!’ The genuine fear in the man’s expression was visceral. ‘You have the power to appeal! To respite my sentence! Transport me. Imprison me. Flog me. Do whatever you see fit, but surely I am more use to you alive than I am dead?’
Around them, the gallery had jumped to their feet and surged forward to get a better view. It took two clerks and four men to restrain the panicked Penhurst and several minutes to drag him kicking and howling from the melee of the court room before order was resumed. By the time it was, her chair was empty. The ruined, twisted handkerchief lying crumpled on the floor, still damp from her tears.
Cheapside—five months later
‘You are mistaken, Mr Palmer. I promise you I haven’t yet paid the account. I came in here today specifically to pay the account.’ Penny once again held out the money the pawnbroker had given her for her mother’s jade brooch only minutes before.
The shopkeeper smiled kindly, but made no attempt to take it. ‘’Tis all paid, Mrs Henley. In full.’ He turned around the ledger and pointed to the balance. ‘There is no mistake, I can assure you.’ His eyes wandered over to another woman in the corner who seemed perfectly content examining the rolls of ribbon all by herself. ‘If there’s nothing else I can help you with, Mrs Henley, I’d best see to my other customers.’
‘But I didn’t pay you, Mr Palmer!’
‘Somebody did, because it’s been noted down and I shan’t be taking the money twice. That wouldn’t be honest now, would it? And I pride myself on my honesty. Spend it on that little lad of yours, eh? I dare say he needs something. Growing boys always need something.’ He closed his ledger decisively. ‘Will there be anything else you need, Mrs Henley?’
He didn’t strike her as a stupid man, but it was obvious he was a stubborn one and too proud to admit his error. Perhaps his wife would be more accommodating? ‘Please send my regards to Mrs Palmer. I had hoped to see her today.’ She cast a glance over his shoulder to the little anteroom beyond the counter. ‘Unless she’s here so I can do so in person?’ The shopkeeper’s wife was meticulous and would find a way to gently correct her husband’s blatant accounting mistake.
‘She’s gone off to visit our daughter and the grandchildren, I’m afraid. I shall pass on your regards when she returns next week.’
Not wanting to argue further in public, Penny decided to come back then and attempt to pay her debt to the Palmers’ shop. She said her goodbyes and, mindful of the time, walked briskly up King Street to the home of her landlord, Mr Cohen, fully intending to pay in advance for her next month’s rent, only to find that, too, had been paid. Unlike the cheerful shopkeeper, Mr Cohen was a humourless individual who didn’t like to waste words.
‘I tell you it’s been paid, Mrs Henley. A full twelve months’ rent!’
‘But that is impossible! I haven’t paid you.’ But the coincidence was not lost on her and she found her teeth grinding at the suspicion as to who might have. ‘Who paid it?’
‘That I can’t say. Nor will I, as much as I don’t like it. Your benefactor wants to remain anonymous.’
‘Benefactor?’
The
