ROBERT PULLED himself off her, panting from unaccustomed exertion. The heavy candlestick thudded to the floor as he dropped to his knees and scrabbled under the bed for the candle. When his fingers closed around it, he ran to the fireplace to light it and rushed back to examine Amy.
A thin trail of blood ran from her scalp down her forehead. For a minute Robert panicked, searching incompetently for a pulse. He pressed his ear to her chest, heard her heart beating, felt the rise and fall of her even breathing. Thank the heavens. Dead, she was useless to him.
He needed to marry her to get his hands on her fortune.
He ripped long strands of the sheet and tied one around her head as a crude bandage, used another as a gag, and a third to bind her hands together. Hoping she’d cooperate and walk when she awakened, he left her feet unbound.
He wrapped her awkwardly in one of the blankets, then grabbed her under the arms and tugged her limp form off the bed. He hadn’t counted on the dead weight. Petite Amy felt heavy as a horse. Pausing twice to rewrap the blanket around her, he dragged her to the open window, where a ladder waited.
With a mighty effort, he hefted her inert body over one shoulder and ducked out, feeling for the ladder with an unsteady foot. Balancing her precariously, he lurched down a rung at a time, more than relieved when the hackney driver met him halfway and relieved him of his heavy burden.
The driver dumped Amy onto the bench seat, and Robert climbed inside. “You know where to go,” he growled under his breath, sending the man up top with a wave of his hand.
Robert wedged himself next to Amy and fought to catch his breath as the cab squeaked through the quiet streets.
The sidelamp threw light into the interior, casting a yellowish glow onto Amy’s slack face. Thankfully, her wound was superficial, the bandage stained but the bleeding stopped. He tucked the errant blanket tighter around her, then slumped against the side of the coach, relieved and exhausted.
A bellman called the hour of midnight, the words resonating through the thick, clammy fog. Three-quarters of an hour later, the springless cab bumped through Aldgate and into Duke’s Place, rattling to a stop in front of St. James.
The door was unlocked, it being a church, but no one was inside. Robert walked to the altar, his footsteps on the stone floor echoing in the deserted chamber. Votive candles were set about the sanctuary, flickering, contributing to the eerie atmosphere.
Robert had never been in an empty church before. Truth be told, he hadn’t been in a church at all in recent memory. In his opinion, life was for living, and there would be ample time for regret and penance when he was older.
He shivered.
“Anyone here?” he called, half expecting the figure on the cross to look down and answer him. But it didn’t, of course. The sanctuary was silent save for his own breathing, which sounded louder and louder as he became more agitated.
The place was giving him the creeps. Everyone knew that dead clergymen were buried under the floors of these churches, and suddenly Robert was certain one of their ghosts was about to pop up and grab him. He turned and ran down the aisle and out the door.
“No one’s there,” he yelled at the hackney driver, as though it were the man’s fault.
The driver shrugged. “It’s Saturday evening.”
It was actually Sunday morning by now, but Robert didn’t bother arguing. Besides, what if someone needed a priest on a Saturday night? They must be available somewhere. “Take me to St. Trinity, in the Minories,” he ordered before jumping into the cab and kicking the half-door shut.
The driver shrugged again, then took a swig of the brandy he carried with him against the winter chill. He didn’t care if the young fellow wasted his time. Robert had promised him a full evening’s pay, and he’d quoted triple his usual night’s take and demanded half in advance.
St. Trinity was a scant three streets away, much too close for Robert, who had yet to recover from the last stop. The deserted streets contributed to his unease. Londoners stayed inside at night, venturing outdoors only for necessary travel, and then generally with an escort of footmen and linkboys to light the way. The law required citizens to hang lamps outside their houses on dark nights, but no one complied; the unlit, foggy streets were spooky, and Robert felt nervous and shaky.
He forced himself to get out of the cab and slowly walked up to the massive church doors.
Inside, St. Trinity looked much like St. James. His feet made a shuffling sound as he crossed the threshold, and his heart hammered in his chest as he scanned the flickering, shadowed walls. When a door at the other end opened, he jumped, letting out a little shriek.
A florid, balding man stuck his head into the sanctuary and smiled. “Feel free to pray here, my son. Problems seem smaller when you share them with our Lord.”
The curate stepped out into the sanctuary, and Robert saw that he was plump and healthy, evidently well fed and cared for, unlike most parish priests. Apparently the curate of a privileged church enjoyed a highly lucrative position. The man didn’t look frightening in the least.
The whole chamber seemed to lighten, and Robert heaved a sigh of relief. “I’ve come to get married, Father.”
The clergyman looked pleased. “Ah, I see. Have you need of a—shall we say ‘special’—certificate?”
“Nay, the date matters not. But the lady is…reluctant.”
“That’s none of my concern. The price will be three crowns.”
“I heard tell it was two.”
“Two and a half, then. Special, for you.”
“Done.” In truth, Robert would have paid ten crowns or more, and gladly, for securing Amy and her riches.
He turned toward
