One small mercy was that they had put him in a cell by himself, not thrown him into one of the common yards where pickpockets and murderers, petty thieves and rapists crowded together, sleeping in great filthy chambers as best they might, fighting amongst themselves and preying on the weakest amongst them if they could.
Apparently his notoriety as Black Jack Standon was worth enough in tips to the turnkeys for them to keep him apart where he could be better shown off to the languid gentlemen and over-excited ladies who found an afternoon’s slumming a stimulating entertainment. The sight of an infamous highwayman who had made the Oxford road through Hertfordshire his hunting ground was the climax of the visit to one of London’s most feared prisons.
He had hurled his bowl at the group who had clustered around the narrow barred opening an hour or two ago and smiled grimly at the shrieks and curses when the foul liquid that passed as stew splattered the fine clothes on the other side of the grill. He doubted they’d feed him again today after that. It was no loss, he seemed to have passed beyond hunger after the trial—if such it could be called.
Footsteps outside again, slowing. He raised his dark head and regarded the door through narrowed eyes. There was nothing left to throw except the coarse pottery mug and he was not prepared to give up water as easily as food.
The slide over the grill rasped back and he squinted in the beam from a lantern directed through the gap. It was probably daylight outside; all that filtered down into his cell was a dirty smudge of light that hardly had the strength to reflect off the rivulets of water on the walls.
They did not sound like society sensation seekers. One man talking. No, two, low voiced and apparently arguing. Suddenly moved to real anger at being exhibited like a caged animal at a fair he swung his legs off the bench and took a stride towards the door before the shackles jerked him to a standstill. The grill shutter slammed closed. All he heard was ‘She’ll never agree …’
With an awkward shuffle, the man they called Black Jack got back to his bench and hoisted his feet up again away from the foul straw and the rats who lived in it. Better get used to being stared at, he told himself grimly. In eight days he would walk out of here to die in front of a vast crowd. They expected the condemned to ‘die game', defiant in their best clothes, a joke on their lips for the onlookers. They would have to do without the fine clothes, all he had was the ill-fitting ones he was wearing and not a penny-piece in his pockets to buy anything else.
So, he continued his inner dialogue, Better get used to the idea and think up something witty to say. Was it too late to save himself? Yes, days too late. If he had sent word when they first took him, the message might have reached Northumberland; help might have come. Or might not.
He had made this particular bed. Pride had kept him away for six years, pride was damn well going to have to get him through to the end. Meanwhile pride and a hard bench made for little sleep. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift. At least it wasn’t raining, at least there was no mud and nobody was going to try and kill him for eight days. That was an improvement on the night before Waterloo. ‘Count your blessings,’ his old nurse was wont to say. The bitter twist of his mouth relaxed a little and he began to doze.
Katherine Cunningham looked up from her book in some surprise as the front door opened and she heard male voices in the hallway. A rapid glance at the mantel clock showed it still lacked half an hour before six: what was Philip doing home at this time in the afternoon?
She got to her feet and went to the door of the small back parlour of the Clifford Street house where she had been indulging in some snatched leisure for reading. With virtually no staff, it was easier to keep only the one small reception room in use; the rest were under holland covers with the exception of the room that Philip liked to call his study.
He was approaching it as she stepped out into the hall, Arthur Brigham, his friend from schooldays, at his heels. At the sight of her they both stopped dead.
‘Good afternoon, Arthur.’ She studied their faces. ‘What on earth is the matter? You look as though the pair of you have seen a ghost.’
‘Good … good afternoon,’ the young lawyer stammered. ‘I was … we were just going to look at something in Phil’s study.’ As he spoke he gave her brother a firm shove in the back, propelling him into the room before Katherine could get a good look at him.
The familiar wave of apprehension swept over her: now what was Phil up to? Drunk again, that would be almost inevitable despite the hour. But there was something else afoot, she could sense it.
‘Philip, what is wrong?’ She swept neatly through the open door before Arthur could close it, then stopped dead as she saw Philip’s face. It was blotched—with drink, doubtless—but also with dried tears. The expression in his eyes was desperate and his mouth, so like hers, too feminine for a man, quivered. Something clutched at her heart. ‘Phil! Sit down, quickly. Arthur, is he ill?’
Thank goodness for Arthur, she thought, kneeling beside Philip’s chair and trying to get him to meet her eyes. He might be wild to a fault and perfectly capable of neglecting his studies or his duties in his uncle’s law firm when it suited him, but he had none of Phil’s fatal weaknesses for drink and gaming. And he was patient and loyal enough to keep hauling his friend home whatever the scrape he was in.
‘You must tell her, Phil,’ Arthur urged. ‘She has to know sooner or later.’ It seemed to Katherine as she knelt there that he could not meet her eyes either. The grip on her heart tightened.
‘Oh God, oh God, I’m sorry, Katherine.’ To her horror her brother burst into tears, his head on her shoulder. Ignoring the blasphemy, she patted his arm, stroked his hair until he suddenly jerked upright. ‘We’re ruined, Katy, absolutely ruined.’
‘How can we be?’ Somehow she could not get to her feet, her knees felt like jelly. She stayed there by his side, the wetness from his tears soaking the front of her old blue dimity gown. ‘You said you had won at the races, you said you had won at cards and we could pay off that money you borrowed and everything would be all right.’
He buried his face in his hands. She caught the muffled words, ‘Lost it again. Payment due.’
‘What? All of it?’ Philip was beyond listening to her, so she twisted to look up at Arthur. ‘Arthur, what is he saying?’
‘He went to a new hell in Pickering Place last night. Said I’d meet him there, but by the time I arrived most of the money was gone.’ The young man shot her a look of mingled shame and apology. ‘I couldn’t get him to leave, Katherine, he was drunk as a judge, convinced it would only take one more throw of the bones.’ He bit his lip, his eyes shifting under her horrified gaze. ‘I did get him out eventually, before he actually wrote any vowels.’
‘Small mercy,’ she said bitterly. ‘They would have joined all the other debts and the tradesmen’s bills. But thank you for trying, Arthur. Where have you been today?’
‘To the moneylender, to see if he could get an extension on the loan, some more money. But the old bloodsucker just laughed in his face, said he’d give him two weeks’ grace, then send the bailiffs round.’
‘Merciful heaven.’ Katherine sank back on her heels, her fingers pressed to her lips. ‘Philip!’ She shook his arm. ‘How much do you owe them?’
‘Five,’ he muttered, head averted.
‘Five hundred … Let me think, what is left we can sell …?’
Arthur cleared his throat. ‘Er, no, Katherine. Five thousand.’
The room swam. Surely she had misheard him? ‘Five thousand?’ she whispered. ‘Five thousand pounds?’
Philip nodded mutely.
‘And there are all the other debts and bills.’ Her stomach seemed to have risen so she could not breathe, would be sick at any moment. Katherine gulped air and clenched her hands until the nails bit into her palms. When she could