Chapter 10 #2
“No,” he said with a wry smile. “Very rarely. But they are not for the faint of heart.”
Jane lifted her right arm slightly. “I brought a muff pistol with me.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “I will keep you safe. You must know that.”
“I know,” she replied, “but my aunt insisted.”
Turning her head, Jane saw up ahead a massive block of soot-darkened stone. Newgate. They had arrived.
Alistair noticed the moment Jane’s shoulders stiffened. It was subtle—a tightening of her spine, a faint lift of her chin—but unmistakable. The closer the carriage drew to Newgate, the more tension he could feel radiating from her.
His gaze drifted upward as they passed beneath the looming main gate.
The stone walls were dark with centuries of soot and weather, the heavy surface pitted with deep grooves where wind and rain had gnawed at it over time.
The smell hit next—an unpleasant mix of manure from the street and the stale, acrid reek of the prison itself, pungent enough to creep beyond the walls.
Newgate was no ordinary building. It rose like a fortress, oppressive in its scale, its narrow, iron-barred windows grudgingly offering prisoners the faintest slice of the sky. The air around it felt colder, heavier, as though the place itself breathed despair.
A handful of warders in plain coats lingered near the entrance, their eyes following the carriage with idle curiosity. The street noise clattered faintly in the background, but here, immediately before the gates, there was a stillness that felt almost unnatural.
But his focus wasn’t on the building. It was on Jane.
“How are you faring?” he asked, watching the faint crease appear between her brows.
“The smell is rather wretched,” she admitted.
“It is,” he said, grimly. “That is the scent of hundreds of unwashed prisoners confined together.”
She reached into her reticule and withdrew a handkerchief, pressing it to her nose. “Much better,” she murmured.
The carriage halted. Alistair exited and turned, extending his hand for Jane.
Her gloved fingers slid into his, and he was pleased when she allowed him to guide her down onto the gravel path.
He tucked her hand firmly into the crook of his arm, keeping her close—not for propriety alone, but because something in him bristled at the idea of her walking into Newgate without his arm to steady her.
Two armed warders flanked the entrance, rifles resting in their hands. Before they could move forward, the door opened, and Lord Warwicke stepped out.
“Alcott,” Warwicke greeted with a curt nod before inclining his head towards Jane. “Lady Jane. It is good of you to come.”
“It is my pleasure,” she said, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her unease.
Warwicke smiled, as though he had not noticed. “Your help in identifying these men will go a long way to securing their conviction.”
“It is the least I can do,” she replied, the same faint quiver in her tone. Alistair gave her hand the smallest squeeze, a silent promise of reassurance.
“Follow me, and stay close,” Warwicke said, holding the door open for them.
Alistair leaned closer, speaking for her ears alone. “You are doing very well.”
“Am I?” Her eyes met his briefly. “My legs are shaking, and my heart is pounding.”
“We will get through this together,” he said.
Her chin lifted a fraction. “I can do this.”
“Good.”
Inside, the entry hall was dim, the air cooler but no fresher. In one corner stood a long desk, behind which two men sat with the air of officials who resented interruptions.
Warwicke approached first. “Lord Alcott and Lady Jane are here to identify his attackers.”
One of the men, dark-haired and sallow-faced, barely looked up. “Stand over there. We will be with you shortly,” he said with the dismissiveness of one accustomed to giving orders to those who could not protest.
Warwicke’s voice turned sharp. “Perhaps I was unclear. We are not going to wait while you twiddle your thumbs.”
A side door opened, and a white-haired man in a red waistcoat emerged. “You heard the man, Stevens. Do your job.”
Stevens grudgingly reached for a ring of keys hanging behind him. “Follow me, but remain close, or I’ll have no choice but to leave you locked up.”
The steel door groaned open on its hinges, releasing a blast of fetid air. Jane’s sharp intake of breath was audible.
Alistair bent his head towards her. “Do not worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I believe you,” she said simply.
They stepped into a narrow corridor as Stevens went to unlock another door ahead of them.
Beyond it lay the cell hall—rows of barred enclosures on either side, the dim light leaving much in shadow.
The floor was sticky underfoot, coated with layers of grime.
The smell was suffocating, the kind that clung to the back of the throat.
A few prisoners whistled at the sight of Jane, but she gave them no heed.
Warwicke gestured towards a white-haired man standing back. “This is Cayser, a Bow Street Runner. Do not let his age fool you. He is among the best.”
Cayser dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Warwicke brought me in to make sure your attackers do not escape justice.” His gaze swept over the cells. “Take your time. See if you recognize anyone.”
Alistair scanned the faces but saw nothing familiar. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get a good look.”
“I did,” Jane said firmly, stepping forward. She pointed towards a cell. “That man, with the dark hair—he was one of them.”
“Are you certain?” Cayser asked.
“Positive.” She moved farther down the row. “And these two as well.”
One of the men gripped the bars, sneering. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Lady.”
Jane didn’t flinch. “I would recognize you anywhere.”
The man bared his teeth. “You’re lucky I’m not out there with you.” He reached for her through the bars.
Alistair was there instantly, placing himself between them. “Do not waste your breath on him. He has no power here.”
Cayser was already at the steel door and instructed, “There is no reason to linger here any longer.”
But as they began to leave, the dark-haired prisoner Jane had first pointed out called out, “I want to make a deal.”
“I’m listening,” Cayser said, pausing for a brief moment.
The man leaned against the bars. “We were set up.”
“By whom?”
“Don’t know. A note was slipped under my door with some coin, giving instructions on who to kill. We were promised more money once the job was done.”
Cayser’s expression was unreadable. “Not much of a bargaining chip.”
“Wait!” the man blurted. “The note was in French. Does that help?”
Turning back towards the man, Cayser asked, “You speak French?”
“My mother was French. She taught me enough.”
The Bow Street Runner gave no further reply. He simply opened the door and ushered them through.
The moment the heavy door clanged shut behind them and Cayser turned the key in the lock, the oppressive stench of the prison was cut off. The echo of the bolt sliding into place sounded final, almost like a seal on what had just transpired.
Cayser faced Jane, his tone unexpectedly warm. “Thank you for what you did. I know it wasn’t easy.”
Jane’s posture remained straight, though Alistair could see the faint tremor in her hand as she held her handkerchief. “No, it wasn’t,” she said. “But it needed to be done.”
“That it did,” Cayser agreed with a short nod.
Alistair stepped forward, offering his arm. “Come. We should return you home now.”
Her gloved fingers slid into the crook of his arm, and he guided her down the corridor.
The warders they passed gave her openly curious looks—some lingering longer than he liked.
He supposed he couldn’t fault them entirely; Jane was a striking young woman.
Still, a sharp protectiveness stirred in him, an instinct to shield her from every stare.
Once outside, he helped her into the carriage, his hand firm beneath hers, then climbed in after and settled into the seat opposite. The door shut, the driver snapped the reins, and the wheels began their uneven roll over the cobblestones.
“With any luck,” he said, “those men will be transported soon enough.”
Jane gave a small nod, though it carried the weight of hesitation. “I hope so.”
He studied her face for a moment before asking, “Are you all right?”
Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, fingers pressing into her gloves. “Do you think I am weak?”
“Heavens, no,” he rushed out.
“Then why,” she asked, “am I afraid to face my own father?”
He heard the sadness beneath her question, and something in his chest tightened. “That,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “is a complicated question.”
“It shouldn’t be.” A small frown tugged at her mouth. “I think it is time I speak to him.”
His brow furrowed. “Whatever for?”
She lifted her chin, though he saw the faint quiver there. “He holds no power over me anymore since he disowned me. And because of my aunt, I will never have to rely on him again.”
“Are you quite sure?”
Her eyes met his, steady but not entirely without fear. “I am. But only if you accompany me.”
“I would have it no other way.”
“My father will no doubt yell at me,” she warned. “You should prepare yourself for that.”
He moved from his seat opposite to sit beside her, the carriage swaying with the shift in weight. “As long as that’s all it is,” he said, “I will not tolerate him striking you or speaking to you with disrespect.”
Her lips curved into a smile, though it did not quite reach her eyes. “Going to Newgate with you proved I can do hard things.”
“I never doubted that for a moment.”
“But I did,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “I have been so used to being told what to do, how to act, what to think. It is refreshing to know I have a choice in my life.”
He didn’t say it aloud, but the thought lodged firmly in his mind: he would do everything in his power to ensure she never forgot that again.