Nan Ryan - Duchess For A Day

“How do I look now?” Claire asked, nervously tugging at the low-cut bodice of her gown, pulling it higher. “I feel naked.”

Olivia laughed, brushed Claire’s hands away and urged the bodice back down. “You look beautiful. And remember, you’re not Claire Orwell—you’re the brazen Duchess of Beaumont.”

“That’s true. I’m sure the duchess has no qualms about displaying her décolletage.”

“None whatsoever.” Olivia’s smile became wicked when she said, “I’ve heard it whispered that since Charmaine Beaumont’s husband—the pompous old duke—died five years ago, she has taken any number of handsome lovers. Are you planning to add a few to her list?”

“Only one,” said Claire without hesitation, the image of the dark stranger she’d caught sight of this afternoon flashing into her mind. She stated the unguarded truth. “I would like—just once in my life—to have a grand passion. To know what it’s like to make love with a man who can sweep me off my feet and dazzle me. I shall do the duchess proud. I assume Her Grace can choose any man she wants. So I fully intend to pick the most sought after man in Saratoga.” She paused and added, “And then seduce him.”

“Seduce him? How?” asked Olivia.

Claire smiled, catlike. “Why, by ignoring him, of course.”

CHIEFTAIN

NAUGHTY MARIETTA

THE SCANDALOUS MISS HOWARD

THE SEDUCTION OF ELLEN

THE COUNTESS MISBEHAVES

WANTING YOU

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

London, Wednesday June 26, 1895

Newgate Prison

6:00 p.m. British Summertime

At shortly after the hour, a stern-faced turnkey dropped a ladder down from his perch high atop the catwalk. He turned and handed a frightened Claire Orwell down that ladder and into the infamous prison’s crowded Common Cell.

Claire’s presence caused an immediate stir. The criminals snapped to attention. Bloodshot eyes popped open and clung to the blond, willowy young woman.

“Meet yer ’ospitable mates.” The gruff turnkey gave a nasty grin as the curious crowded closer. “Street thieves. Pickpockets. Footpads. Shoplifters. And whores. You’ll fit right in, eh?”

The turnkey kicked a sleeping derelict out of the way. The bony, sweat-soaked felon groaned, rolled over, belched loudly, then fell back to snoring. Sickened by the pungent scent of stale vomit emanating from the prostrate creature, Claire made a face of disgust.

The turnkey laughed again. “Not to fret. T’aint nothin’ ye won’t get used to, Queenie.”

Claire felt her stomach roll.

“’ere, dearie, sit by me.” This from a diseased-looking woman with brittle, dyed-black hair and grimy clothes.

The woman yanked her soiled skirts up around bruised thighs and batted her matted eyelashes. Claire shuddered as the others hooted and whistled, obviously enjoying the look of repugnance on her face.

A chill skipped up her spine. “I beg you, sir, allow me to speak to a barrister at once. You cannot imprison me before I’ve even been accused. A cell at police headquarters if you must, but don’t leave me down here. I’ve done nothing wrong. I am innocent of any wrongdoing.”

“Aye, that’s what they all say,” was his curt reply. He adjusted his black uniform coat with its two rows of brass buttons, shoved his billed cap forward on his broad forehead and, none too gently, propelled Claire forward. “A few nights down here, Miss Sticky Fingers, and you’ll think twice ’fore ye go stealin’ from yer betters again.”

Claire said nothing more. It was no use. He wouldn’t listen. No one would listen. She had spent the whole long day fruitlessly attempting to persuade the authorities that she had done nothing wrong. Now the terrible thought struck her that no one would know she was imprisoned here save the vengeful, titled knave who had lied to put her here.

Claire had to let someone know what had happened. Surely even prisoners were allowed to send messages, to have visitors, to retain counsel.

She firmly set her jaw as the turnkey, roughly gripping her upper arm, thrust her on through the motley horde of criminals lying about in clumps on the dirty dungeon floor. All were watching her every move, muttering, making lewd gestures and grinning slyly. Claire artfully dodged dirty hands reaching out to grab at her long, flowing skirts. She made eye contact with no one.

Newgate was everything she’d heard it was.

And more.

A filthy hellhole into which the very dregs of humanity had been cast and forgotten. A dank, putrid place filled with scum and riffraff and dangerous criminals of both sexes. A dungeon where the only light came from small, dirty windows high above the catwalk.

Shadows were deepening with the close of the day. Claire anxiously looked about for a place to sit apart from the other prisoners. There was no such place.

“Make yerself at ’ome,” said the turnkey, finally releasing Claire’s arm.

Claire frowned and exhaled heavily. Then she squared her slender shoulders. With single-minded determination, she made her slow, sure way toward the cell’s western perimeter where fewer prisoners were gathered. The turnkey followed close on her heels.

Claire heard the big warder behind her say, “Move it, Green Tooth. We ’ave a new guest checkin’ into our luxurious ’ohel. Scoot yer bony arse over and give the little lady some room to breathe.”

Claire glanced down at the poor creature he had addressed. A stick-thin, graying, stringy-haired old crone who was badly in need of dental work and a fresh suit of clothing. The woman’s thin face was wrinkled and dirty, her teeth rotted and blackened, but her eyes were bright and amazingly alert.

The old woman known to the criminal class as Green Tooth hurriedly moved out of the way. But she didn’t take her eyes off the new female prisoner.

“What are you looking at, old woman?” Claire snapped, hoping to assert a firm authority and clearly demonstrate a lack of fear she didn’t feel. “Stop staring! Keep away from me. I mean it.”

The old harridan sank back into the shadows against the wall. But she continued to covertly stare at Claire.

Claire released a slow, shallow breath.

She turned about and sat down. She leaned against the wall, raised her knees, and wrapped her arms around them. She let her head fall back and rest against the rough brick. Warily, she looked around the teeming, reeking hellhole.

The prisoners were continuing to ogle and point and whisper. Claire felt goose bumps pop up on her arms and the fine hair rise at her nape. She was in a squalid pit surrounded by the dregs of humanity and darkness would soon fall.