He poured himself a stiff brandy from the decanter Fielding had had the good sense to pack. The Earl of Trentham’s spirts and food were as poor as the condition of his house and property.
The dowager countess had spoken the truth today; if the earl had bothered to properly manage his land it would yield more than enough to take care of his people and maintain the house. Unfortunately for Blackfriars and those who relied on it, the revenue could never be enough to support the earl’s most expensive habit: himself.
Not that Stephen was complaining. The earl was so greedy for money it would take no great effort on Stephen’s part to convince him to take the proceeds from the sale of Blackfriars and parlay it into a once-in-a-lifetime investment opportunity. A feral grin twisted Stephen’s lips and he took a deep pull on his glass. Yes, ruining the stupid, grasping earl was almost too easy. Unlike the second, and more important, part of his plan: Elinor Trentham. The countess was far smarter than the earl and another kettle of fish entirely.
Not only did she speak intelligently and knowledgably, but she seemed to lack what the earl possessed in spades: greed. She appeared not only contented with her worn gown and moth-eaten house but managed to project an image of serene superiority. Stephen knew from experience how difficult it was to manipulate people who weren’t greedy for more: more money, more power, more something.
But there had to be something she valued, something he could take from her. Some way he could hurt her.
Stephen would keep looking until he found it.
A soft scratching at the door pulled him from his reverie.
“Come in.”
The door opened and a wench stood in the doorway: the overly friendly maid from the evening before.
“You sent for me, Mr. Worth?” Her blue eyes sparkled and her full lips parted. Wild tendrils of autumn-gold hair escaped from beneath her cap. Her uniform did a similarly unsuccessful job of restraining her ripe body.
Stephen ignored her inviting lips as well as the sudden heaviness in his groin. He had nothing against a quick fuck with an attractive woman—servant or otherwise—but not when he was intent on business, especially business he’d been planning for fifteen long years.
“Have a bath prepared for me.” He tugged his cravat loose and tossed it over the back of a chair. “I prefer water that is almost scalding.” That way it might actually arrive before ice could form on the surface.
Her eyes dropped to his exposed neck. “Very well, Mr. Worth.” She inhaled so deeply Stephen swore he could hear threads popping. “Do you wish for me to . . . attend you?”
The tightness became a genuine swelling as he imagined water sluicing over her bounteous curves and down toward what would most certainly be—
“No,” he said sharply, quashing the fantasy before it could form. “I will attend myself.”
He turned away and waited for the sound of the door shutting before tossing back his drink.
There would be plenty of time for women later.
Chapter Three
Coldbath Fields Prison
London
1802
Aloud, agonized moan jolted Iain awake. When he opened his eyes, he realized the sound must have come from him.
Dirty brown light filtered through the wooden slats of the shed, just enough that he could see the others in the big room, most of whom appeared to be sleeping. The day had been unseasonably hot and muggy and a nauseating miasma of foul breath, shit, piss, and desperation hung over the cramped room.
Iain tried to breathe through his mouth as he lowered his head back to the damp, stinking straw. He fingered his pounding skull and winced. It felt as if it had been broken into a dozen pieces and reassembled with a few chunks missing. His vision was strange and hazy—as if he were looking through a grubby window. Still, he felt better than he had yesterday or the day before that—when he’d believed he would die.
Of course, he still might die.
He listened to the heavy, measured breathing of sleeping men and gathered his strength to face the others when they woke, which they would sooner than he’d like. They were locked in the oakum shed, perhaps a dozen of them. It appeared Iain had had the bad luck to be tossed into prison the same night on which Edward Despard and his revolutionary associates had been arrested. The regular cells were full to bursting and Iain, as well as several others, had been relegated to one of the many outbuildings that comprised the prison known as ‘The Steel’.
Food arrived erratically and was immediately snatched up by the strongest. He’d had nothing but a heel of bread and a dipper of water, and that thanks to his inscrutable savior. He turned and squinted at the man—or boy, really—who leaned against the wall not far from him: the hulking convict who’d saved Iain’s life more than once in the past days.
Eyes as black as the pits of Hell greeted his and Iain blinked at the cold, hard stare. What had happened to make a boy not much older than Iain look so dead inside?
He pushed himself up to his elbows. “I wanted to—”
The boy gave a slight shake of his head and raised a finger to his lips.
Iain tried again, this time speaking in less than a whisper. “Thank you.”
The young giant shrugged his brawny shoulders.
“My name is Iain Vale. What is yours?”
For a moment he thought the boy wouldn’t answer.
“John Fielding.” His lips curved into a self-mocking smile, as if he’d disappointed himself by speaking.
“How long have—”
The loud jingle of keys and the screeching of rusty hinges cut off the question and caused the other boy to scramble to his feet. Iain followed suit, albeit far less gracefully.
The gray light of dusk slanted into the room and a stooped, ragged figure loomed in the open doorway.
“Here’s yer damn dinner, ye bastards!” The guard
