answer was.
She moved back over to the window and glanced outside. “I want to do the things that make me happy. Enjoy myself a bit.” She turned her head to face him. “I want to live.”
James furrowed his brow. Live? “I’m not sure I understand.”
She whirled around and made her way back to the table where she planted her palms firmly on the top and leaned toward him. “The law allows for me to reside under house arrest as long as I am under the supervision of a peer.”
James’s gaze shot to her face.
She squared her shoulders. “I want you to get me out of here.”
CHAPTER 4
After Viscount Medford left, Kate collapsed into the wooden chair that sat next to the small table in the room they’d provided as her cell. She let her head drop into her hands and took a deep breath. She was shaking, trembling. Good heavens, how had she ever summoned the nerve to ask Lord Medford to get her out of prison? Yes, he wanted something from her in return, but still, she was taking a gamble. A risky one. If the viscount left and didn’t return, she might have just missed her one chance at telling her side of the story to the masses. Had she been a fool to ask for so much?
She’d learned what she could about the viscount in the small amount of time she’d had since he first came to visit. There was another lady imprisoned at the Tower, a woman who was to stand trial at the House of Lords for treason. She was accused of being a spy, a supporter of the French. Lady Mary’s trial had been delayed again and again. She’d been in the Tower since before Waterloo. Kate knew only too well how an innocent could be locked away. Lady Mary was the only friend Kate had in the gaol.
The prisoners were allowed to take walks along the grounds in the afternoon, and this afternoon, Kate had asked Lady Mary what she knew about a certain viscount.
“They call him Lord Perfect,” Mary had said, a sly grin lighting her ice-blue eyes. “The Lord of All Rule Following. The Viscount of Flawlessness. And quite a handsome chap, too, if you ask me.” She ended the last part on a wink.
Kate had hid her smile. A rule follower? She’d keep her promise to Lord Medford. She would not tell Mary about the viscount’s printing press. Obviously, the man enjoyed his pristine image and went to great lengths to protect it. But there had to be a bit of a rule breaker in him if he secretly published scandalous pamphlets. And
But if it were true, if he were a rule follower, she may have pushed him too far with her request for sanctuary. She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. But the damage was done now. She’d just have to wait for his answer.
Thankfully, Lord Medford had said he would consider her request and left shortly after, giving Kate a much- needed opportunity to sit. Her legs had turned to water, and her stomach roiled as if she might retch.
Good God. When had her life turned into this? A nightmare. Was it only ten years ago that she was playing with the animals on her parents’ farm? And now both her mother and father were dead, and she was a miserable twenty-eight-year-old duchess, about to stand trial for her life.
She rested her head against the wall behind her. Lord Medford had looked surprised when she’d asked him to free her. Even more surprised when she’d indicated the reason why. But Kate had had little else to do in the last several weeks but think, and in that time, she’d come to understand what she truly wanted from the last days of her existence on this earth.
She was going to fight the charges. Fight them with every bit of strength she possessed. But in the meantime, she intended to live. To truly live. Of course, even if Medford harbored her, she wouldn’t be allowed out in Society, not that she’d ever relished it, but she wanted to eat good food, and sleep on fine sheets, to pet a puppy, and to … dance. Yes. She wanted to dance and dance and dance. She’d gone from her parents’ property to her husband’s and a life greatly unlike what she’d envisioned for herself. Now that she had very little life left, she refused to allow an unfair legal system to take away her last bit of remaining joy. Her husband had never loved her. And she had never loved him. Not really. Oh, she’d thought she had loved him when she’d been the naive girl who’d married him. But it was obvious nearly from the beginning of their marriage that they did not suit. They quarreled nearly constantly and George always wanted to be out with friends and enjoying sports. He never chose to be at home with Kate, spending time together as a couple. In fact, she’d discovered barely a week into their marriage that he still had a mistress whom he had no intention of relinquishing.
Kate had lived a life of loneliness and unhappiness, punctuated by infrequent visits from her husband, and very little to do with her time. She’d been useless. Useless and powerless. And she intended to make up for it now. James Bancroft wanted a pamphlet from her? Well, she would use what little power she still possessed—her story—to get exactly what she wanted.
A loud knock sounded at the door to her cell. “Your grace, are you in need of anything?” the guard asked in a muffled voice that carried through the heavy oak.
Kate momentarily lifted her aching head. “No, I’m fine,” she called back.
She couldn’t help but smile at the question. Lord Medford had asked if they were treating her well. Her answer had been the truth. The guards at the Tower had all treated her with nothing but deference and respect. A wry smile touched her lips. If the people who held her captive believed she was a killer, they didn’t indicate it by either word or deed. But they all had to think it. What else were they to believe?
She may not ever have been loved by her husband, but she would never have killed him. And she regretted that he was dead. She was sad even. Sad for all the years they’d made each other unhappy and sad for the memory of the man she’d thought she’d once loved. Yes, it was true that when she’d discovered that George refused to even discuss a divorce, she’d been devastated. Devastated and then furious. She’d written to him, pleading her case, informing him that a divorce was obviously the best decision for both of them. It was true that a divorce was difficult to obtain and they would be forced to invent a suitable reason, but George had to agree that they were not happy together. In fact, if he didn’t get a divorce, he’d never have a legitimate heir. They both knew that.
The next thing she knew he’d stormed into the country estate, railing at her for even suggesting it. His mother would be disgraced. The Markingham name would be dirtied. Then he informed her that he intended to have her move to his property near the Scottish border. He was banishing her. She’d thought it was the last of the ignominies he’d heaped upon her throughout their marriage, including parading his string of mistresses to stay under the same roof as Kate. But now she supposed the final act of betrayal was seeing to it that she lost her life along with his. Ah yes, things were truly ironic sometimes.
And somewhere out there a murderer was still at large. At first, she’d briefly worried that whoever had killed George might come for her. But as the days passed and the investigators seemed intent upon blaming her for her husband’s death, she realized that whoever had killed George fully intended to allow her to be sentenced to death for it. No. The murderer wouldn’t harm her. She was his scapegoat.
She stood up, hugging herself, rubbing her arms briskly for warmth, and walked to the window. The cold seeped through the stone walls. The wind whistled through the ancient windows. She sighed and traced a fingertip along the freezing-cold pane. The lawn where Anne Boleyn had been put to death was brown and withered, a bit of lackluster snow lay in a dirty heap. The sky was gray and dark. Was it this dark and gray the day the former queen had died? And would the sky remain gray on the day she was put to death herself? Kate shivered. Yes, she and Anne were kindred spirits now. The guards had brought her books, and Kate had spent the last several weeks reading everything she could about the Protestant queen. They were alike. Falsely blamed. Betrayed by the men they’d sworn to love forever. And now here Kate was imprisoned in the same gaol where Anne had once been kept.
Kate made her way into the tiny adjoining chamber and retrieved the wool blanket that lay sprawled on the small bed in the corner. She wrapped the fabric tightly around her shoulders. It was so cold. December. Almost Christmastide. Where would she spend the holiday? If Viscount Medford didn’t accept her offer, she might spend it here, alone, in this sad place. If the viscount did agree to harbor her, she’d be in the home of a stranger. Either
