Consternation replaced ebullience on the grimy little face. “Old Fletcher might die, sir, and then who would they find to do the business? Your family will get you out, see if they don’t.”
Quinn had forbidden his siblings to “get him out.” Abetting the escape of a convicted felon was itself a hanging felony, as were 219 other crimes, among them stealing anything valued at more than twelve pence.
“Thank you for bringing me the news,” Quinn said. “Have you eaten today?”
Ned studied ten dirty little toes. “No so’s I’d notice.”
Miracles occurred in Newgate. One of the most powerful and feared bankers in London could invite a pickpocket to dine, for example, simply because the banker had learned that company—any company—was a distraction from impending death.
Despite the death warrant dictating Quinn’s fate, his cell might have been a successful solicitor’s quarters. The floor was carpeted, the bed covered with clean linen, the desk stocked with paper, pen, two pencils, ink, and even—such was the honor expected of a wealthy felon—a penknife. The window let in fresh air and a precious square of sunlight, which Quinn valued more than all of the room’s other comforts combined.
The foodstuffs, however, had to be kept in a bag tied to the rafters, lest the rodents help themselves uninvited. The pitcher of ale was covered to prevent flies from drowning themselves along with their sorrows.
“Fetch the ale,” Quinn said. “We’ll share some bread and cheese.”
Ned was stronger and faster than he looked, and more than capable of fetching the ale down from the windowsill without spilling a drop. Quinn was, in his own opinion, weaker than appearances might suggest. The warden had taken one pitying look at him and muttered something about the big ones dying quickest on the end of a rope.
That comment—a casual, not intentionally cruel observation—had made real the fact of execution by order of the crown. Hanged by the neck until dead, as the judge had said. The proper fate of all murderers in the eyes of the law.
Though to be accurate, Quinn’s crime was manslaughter rather than murder, else even his coin might have been insufficient to earn him quarters outside the dungeons.
“Shall I get the bread?” Ned asked.
The child was being polite, which ought not to be possible, given his upbringing.
Incarceration had also revealed in Quinn a latent propensity for rumination. What would death by hanging be like? Was the point of the proceeding to end the felon’s life, or to subject him to such awful, public indignity that he welcomed his own demise? As a boy, Quinn had once witnessed a hanging. He’d been running the streets as usual, curious about the excitement rippling through a crowd until he’d wiggled his way to the front.
And there he’d stayed, because the crowd wouldn’t let him wiggle back until—as the mob cheered madly—the condemned had kicked, gasped, thrashed, and pissed his last.
Quinn had avoided the neighborhood for months thereafter.
“The bread, sir?”
“And the cheese,” Quinn said, taking down the sack suspended from the rafter. Cutting the bread required patient use of the penknife. Davies, Quinn’s self-appointed man-of-all-work, and Penny, the whore-turned-chambermaid, were privileged to carry knives, but Quinn shuddered to contemplate what improprieties those knives had got up to when their owners had been at liberty.
Quinn set the food on the table, cut two thick slices of bread for the boy, situated cheese between them, and poured the child some ale.
Pewter tankards, no less. That would be his sister Althea’s influence, as was the washstand with the porcelain pitcher and basin. No need to die looking like a ruffian.
“Aren’t you hungry, sir?” Ned had wolfed down half his sandwich and spoke with his mouth full.
Quinn took a sip of fine summer ale. “Not particularly.”
“But you must keep up your strength. My brother Bob told me that. Said when the magistrate binds you over, the most important thing is to keep up your strength. You durst not go before the judge looking hangdog and defeated. You can’t run very far on an empty belly neither.”
The boy had lowered his voice on that last observation.
“I’ll not be escaping, Ned,” Quinn said gently. “I’ve been found guilty and I must pay the price.” Though escape might be possible. It wanted vast sums of money—which Quinn had—and a willingness to live the life of a fugitive, which Quinn lacked.
“Why is the nobs all daft?” Ned muttered around another mouthful of bread and cheese. “You find a bloke what looks half like you and has the consumption. You pay his family enough to get by, more than the poor sod would have earned in his lifetime, and you pike off on Sunday night leaving the bloke in your place. The poor sod ends his suffering Monday morning knowing the wife and kiddies is well set, and you get to live. It’s been done.”
Everything unspeakable, ingenious, and bold had been done by those enjoying the king’s hospitality. That was another lesson Quinn had gleaned from incarceration. He’d seen schemes and bribes and stupid wagers by the score among London’s monied classes, but sheer effrontery and true derring-do were the province of the desperate.
He’d also learned, too late, that he wanted to live. He wanted to be a better brother and a lazier banker. He wanted to learn the names of the flowers Althea so loved, and to read a book or two just to have the excuse to sit quietly by a warm fire of a winter night.
He wanted…
What he wanted no longer mattered, if it ever had. The reprieve Ned spoke of was more burden than blessing, because Quinn was fated to die, awfully, publicly, and painfully.
“If you’re not going to eat that, guv, it shouldn’t go to waste.”
Quinn passed over his sandwich. “My appetite seems to have deserted me.”
Ned tore the sandwich in two and put half in his pocket. For later, for another boy less enterprising or fortunate than Ned. For the birds—the child loved birds—or a lucky mouse.
Quinn had lost not only his appetite for food, but also his interest in all yearnings. He did not long to see his siblings one last time—what was there to say? He certainly had no desire for a woman, though they were available in quantity even in prison. He had no wish to pen one of those sermonizing, final letters he’d written for six other men in the previous weeks.
They’d faced transportation. Quinn faced the gallows. His affairs were scrupulously in order, and had escaped forfeiture as a result of his forethought.
He wanted…peace, perhaps.
And revenge. That went without saying.
The door banged open—it was unlocked during the day—and the day warden appeared. “Wait in here, miss. You’ll be safe enough, and I see that his nibs is enjoying a feast. Perhaps he’ll offer you a portion.” The jailer flicked a bored glance over Ned, who’d ducked his head and crammed the last of the food into his mouth.
A woman—a lady—entered the cell. She was tall, dark-haired, and her attire was plain to a fault.
Not a criminal. A crusader.
“Bascomb,” Quinn said rising. “This is not Newgate’s family parlor. The lady can wait elsewhere.” He bowed to the woman.
She did not curtsy. “I must wait somewhere,” she said. “Papa will be forever among the convicts, and I do not expect to be entertained. I am Jane Winston.”
She was bold, as most crusaders were. Also pretty. Her features were Madonna-perfect, from a chin neither receding nor prominent, to exquisitely arched brows, a wide mouth, high forehead, and intelligent dark eyes. The cameo was marred by a nose a trifle on the confident side, which made her face more interesting.
She wore a long, voluminous cloak, bits of straw clinging to the hem.
“As you can see,” Quinn replied, “we are a company of gentlemen here, and an unchaperoned lady would not be comfortable in our midst.”
The warden snickered. “Wait here or leave the premises, miss. Them’s your choices, and you don’t get a say, Wentworth.”