Marchmont appeared delighted by the news.
‘And, sir, if I may add,’ he said, driving a further nail into my coffin, ‘I have cause to think she has been consorting with criminals of an even worse kind . . . traitors, no less . . . protecting them, no doubt in exchange for money.’
We had to get him off the subject of Johnny. I could find no words to speak in my own defence as the realisation hit me that neither the duke nor the magistrate believed in my good character and both were determined to see me punished for sins I had not committed. I was going nowhere but back to the holding cell; from there to the dock; from the dock to . . . I did not even want to think about that.
‘But, Papa, she’s not like that! Mr Marchmont is wrong. You don’t understand,’ pleaded Lady Elizabeth.
‘Ah, Lizzie, Lizzie!’ said the duke with a sad shake of his head. ‘Perhaps this whole experience will be a good lesson for you. You’ve been brought up so narrowly by your mother and me that you were not prepared when you came across your first experience of the depravity of men’s hearts. You saw an innocent-looking girl needing your help; I see a blood-sucking leech who has latched on to you and has taken advantage of your unsuspecting nature. If young Marchmont here had not alerted me to the danger, who knows what other liberties she would have taken?’
His insults were too much.
‘I’m not a leech!’ I protested. ‘You can have the dress back . . . I don’t care. I never stole that money. It was taken from me before I could give it back to Lady Elizabeth.’
‘I warned you, young woman,’ said the magistrate portentously, ‘save your speeches for the trial. I only allowed you up here on the request of the duke so that he could confront his children with your crimes. I think we’ve heard quite enough. You can take her back down.’
The runner put a heavy hand on my shoulder.
‘Cat!’ exclaimed Lady Elizabeth, breaking free of her father and dashing across to me to grab my wrist. ‘I swear it’ll be all right. I’ll make sure it is.’
‘Don’t touch her!’ barked the duke. ‘You don’t know what kind of pests and diseases she might be harbouring. I don’t want to lose my precious rose to a gaol-fever.’ He stepped between Lady Elizabeth and me so that my head butted against his embroidered waistcoat.
Lord Francis scrambled roughly past Marchmont and round the desk to intercept me at the door.
‘Is there anything you need, Cat? Other than to get out of here, of course?’ he asked with an attempt at a brave smile.
My voice broke into a sob as the runner began to drag me away. I tried to school my lips to respond in kind but my heart was breaking.
‘Ask Pedro to bring some of my things from the theatre . . . if they’ll let him,’ I said in a strangled voice. ‘But get me out of here quickly please! I’m in a cell with Billy Shepherd and I don’t think . . . I don’t think I’m going to last long.’
‘Dammit, Cat, we’ll get you out . . . I promise you! Even if it’s the last thing I do!’ called out Lord Francis as I was led away to my cell.
SCENE 4 . . . CHAMPAGNE
Reader, I can safely say that my first night in gaol was the worst experience of my life so far. The green silk dress no longer felt luxuriously soft against my skin; it had become a torment, eating into me with the acid touch of shame. I wanted to rip it off and would have done if I had had something else to put on. I did not dare sleep a wink for, though Billy gave up on working on his chains around midnight and was snoring loudly stretched out on his bench, I was afraid that if I dropped off to sleep, I would wake to find his knife at my throat . . . or not wake at all. Added to this, I was cold, hungry and just plain uncomfortable. I sat for many hours, hugging my knees, willing myself to stay alert, listening to the sound of the carriages and wagons rumbling past outside, the scratch of tiny clawed feet rooting in the straw. Somewhere in the darkness a steady drip, drip, drip marked the passing moments.
I found myself wondering if I would ever see the light of day again. Just how firmly set against me was the duke? Would his children be believed once Johnny sailed and they could tell the whole truth, or would he think this just another invention to save my neck? And even if by some happy chance I was freed, what then? As Billy said, unless I was released without a stain on my character, no respectable place would want me back. Mr Sheridan would perhaps believe my story, but even he might be persuaded to doubt me. After all, my conduct over the past few days, eavesdropping and popping up where he least wanted me to be, would hardly endear me to him. Mr Sheridan had not felt able to trust me with the secret of the diamond. I would understand if he now preferred to see the back of me.
My dark thoughts were interrupted in the small hours of the morning by a soft metallic tapping noise. I started, wondering for a disconcerted moment if Billy had begun work on his fetters again, but then realised that the sound came from the grating in the ceiling . . . the only entry for light and air to the cellar beneath.
‘Cat!’ came a soft hiss. ‘Cat!’
I leapt to my feet and moved as quietly across the room as I could so as not to wake my cellmate. Rats scattered from my path, squeaking in alarm. Billy gave a murmur. I stopped. He then rolled over on to his back and resumed snoring even louder than before.
‘Cat!’ came the voice again, now more urgent.
I reached the grating and stood directly below it, looking up into the darkness.
‘Who is it?’ I whispered.
‘It’s me, Pedro!’ said my friend, rather too loudly.
I could have wept to hear his voice.
‘Ssh!’ I cautioned. ‘Billy’s here . . . asleep for the moment, but he could wake up.’