Louise Allen - Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1

‘Because it is the only way out,’ Philip retorted. ‘Can you think of another?’

‘There must be.’ But she heard the despair in her own voice as she said it. What choices were there to meet such a debt in so short a space of time? They had no assets, nothing to sell.

‘But what could possibly induce a condemned man to such a course? What benefit to him would there be?’ Even as she asked the question, she knew she was on the verge of agreeing; it did not take the exchange of looks between the two men to see they thought she was won round.

‘Hard to say,’ Arthur shrugged. ‘I’ve heard of half a dozen cases from Hadden. I suppose in some of them the wife promises to take care of the man’s dependents, but you can’t afford to take on any more costs, which is why I have gone for the other option. It seems that for some of the most hardened cases—the ones with nothing to lose or the ones who like to make a show, like the highwaymen—it is a diversion.’

‘In what way?’

‘Someone new to meet, the wedding, getting out of their cell for a bit, being the centre of attention—all those liven things up when you are sitting, waiting to hang, with nothing to entertain you but counting rats and wondering what the ballad mongers are going to write about you.’

‘And you have a convenient highwayman, have you?’ This was not happening to her. This morning she had got up with nothing more on her mind than the fishmonger, who was becoming pressing over his account, and whether she could turn the cuffs on Philip’s shirts yet again. Now she was discussing marrying a highwayman in order to avoid being sent to prison.

‘Yes, Black Jack Standon. Notorious, but not a lout. No gentleman, mind you, but by all accounts he behaves well enough when he holds up stages. Good looking, the ladies say. He’ll be expecting a lot of attention when he’s turned off and, like all of them, he’ll be a bit of a showman. I think he is our best bet.’

The hysteria which she was aware of just under the surface was threatening to break through again. My late husband, Black Jack Standon the highwayman …

Katherine fought it down. ‘And just how is this all to be arranged, assuming, that is, that Mr Standon is willing?’

‘You’ll need a licence and then there’s the Ordinary—that’s the chaplain—to fix and his fees to pay. There’s garnish to the turnkeys as well, but I’ve put it to Hadden and the Assistant Governor that, if they make all the arrangements, I’ll forget what Hadden owes me and nothing about the gaming will get to the Governor’s ears.’

‘Damn good of you, Arthur,’ Philip said with feeling. ‘We’ll go tomorrow, get it fixed up, put it to Standon. If he agrees, we can get the licence and the wedding can be the day after tomorrow.’

‘I think I will go and lie down.’ Katherine got to her feet. It was that or give way to the crazy laughter that was bubbling inside her. ‘Please will you ring for Jenny? I have a headache.’ As she reached the door she turned back. ‘And however lightly you take that debt, I am not going to forget it. Somehow it will have to be paid back, however long it takes. I might be reduced to marrying a highwayman, but I am not going to be a thief.’

The man they called Black Jack stood blinking in the morning light of the Assistant Governor’s office and wondered if bad food and water were making him hallucinate. Had he really agreed yesterday to marry some foolish spinster because she wanted to escape her debts? It seemed he had or he wouldn’t be here. Goodness knows why, unless it was the instinctive reaction that any woman saddled with that dandipratt of a brother deserved some kind of help. And it passed the time more interestingly than sitting in his cell day and night and reflecting on his past sins. Of course, there was the other benefit that the young lawyer had drawn delicately to his attention. Or perhaps it would not prove to be a benefit; he would wait and see.

The more intelligent of the two young men who had made the proposition to him, the lawyer, was speaking to Mr Rawlings. The Assistant Governor frowned, then nodded. ‘Very well, we will have the leg irons off him, no need to alarm Miss Cunningham, but the hand shackles stay.’ There was further hurried speech. ‘A bath and a shave? I think not, Mr Brigham!’ More muttering. ‘Er, yes, there is that. I had set aside one of the better cells; Mr Wiggens left it only yesterday, having cleared his debts. But it will have to be after the ceremony, I cannot detain the chaplain any longer than necessary.’

The dark man caught sight of his own reflection in a mirror hanging in one corner of the office and grimaced. The blushing bride would probably scream and run at the sight of him; he had not realised just how bad he looked and doubtless the smell was worse.

‘Ah, Miss Cunningham, do come in.’ Mr Rawlings was ushering in a tall, slender woman in grey, heavily veiled. A trim maid, wide-eyed with apprehension, was at her back. The woman lifted a hand and put back her veil and the dark man felt the impact as a catch in his throat. She was beautiful.

Huge brown eyes, wide cheekbones tapering to a pointed chin, a mass of dark blonde hair just visible under her bonnet—lovely, terrified, brave.

Katherine sent one searching look around the office and fixed on the man in chains at its centre with almost painful attention. It was hard to look at anyone or anything else. He was tall, broad shouldered, dark, with eyes that looked black. It was difficult to see the rest of his face under a heavy growth of untrimmed beard, but what she could see had a fading tan. She noticed with a strange pang that the skin under his eyes was pale: he was not well.

His hands were filthy and his wrists red raw where the shackles had chaffed. His clothes were quite simply appalling: a torn frieze jacket, buckskin breeches and a pair of muddy boots. If he was wearing a shirt, it appeared to be collarless and a ragged neckcloth, red with white spots, filled in the gap at his throat. She could smell him from across the room. Sweat and the smell of the prison that seeped into everything. She realised it was part of the air of this place.

Then his eyes met hers and he was quite simply a man in desperate trouble, a fellow human being that she and Philip were using for their own convenience.

‘I wish to speak to Mr Standon privately.’ Her voice sounded unnaturally calm to her own ears.

‘I am not sure that is wise, ma’am.’

‘I will speak to him,’ she insisted, walking forward past the highwayman and into the far corner of the room. ‘Mr Standon, please.’ Her legs shook.

He followed her, stood with his back to the room, shielding her, and raised one eyebrow interrogatively. ‘Yes, Miss Cunningham?’

Katherine regarded him, startled. He was so well spoken! A gentleman turned highwayman? It happened, she had heard of cases. ‘I want to know why you have agreed to this,’ she said impetuously, keeping her voice low. ‘What possible benefit to you can there be in it?’

The dark eyes held hers and laughter lines crinkled at the corners. ‘It is an improvement on sitting in a dark cell for twenty-four hours a day.’

‘That cannot be all,’ she said impatiently. ‘If you had some dependents I could promise to take care of, I would do my best by them, despite my circumstances—but my brother says you have no one.’

‘I have no one who needs your help,’ he confirmed and she wondered at the sudden grimness in his voice.

‘Then why?’ She was not going to be fobbed off—suddenly it was important to know why this condemned man should put himself out in any way for her.

The laughter lines were back, and with them a new note in the soft, deep voice. ‘I have to admit that the prospect of tonight was a powerful incentive, Miss Cunningham. Once I had seen you.’