Rogue in the Regency Ballroom. Helen Dickson
at her hard, studying her features for her reaction. ‘But—what would happen to her if I didn’t? Where is she now? What about her mother? Who is caring for her?’
‘Her mother—my wife, who was a Cherokee—is dead. She died in childbirth. My daughter is called Sky and she is being cared for by a good family. The mother, Agatha, has a loving heart, but life is a struggle, with five children of her own to raise and precious little money.’
‘But I could give her money,’ Amanda was quick to offer, anything to avoid admitting a strange child into her life, a child she would have difficulty explaining.
‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘That—is not what I want.’ His voice became strangely hesitant and Amanda thought he wouldn’t go on, and when he did it was almost as if he was testing his ability to talk about it. ‘I have nightmares when I think what might happen to Sky when I am no longer here to take care of her. And now you appear as an answer to my prayers. Can I give my daughter into your keeping, for you to take her to my cousin?’
Amanda heard the appeal behind his words, sensed the desperation he must feel for his daughter’s well-being, and how much he must miss not being with her. ‘H-h-have you not seen her since you were arrested?’ she asked, not yet ready to give him her answer.
He shook his head. Even now he marvelled at how profoundly he could be affected by one dimpled smile from a raven-haired child, how it felt to hold her, feeling the bond between them growing stronger and deeper than anything he had ever known. ‘I love her, and she knows it. She is the child of my heart, and I would not have her see me like this.’
All the sympathy Amanda felt was mirrored in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, feeling a lump of constricting sorrow in her chest. ‘I realise how hard this must be for you.’
‘Best that she remembers me when we were together—happier times. I wish there had been some way to spare her this. What happens to me cannot be kept from her. She will not always be a child, and will hear the rumours sooner or later. So—what do you say? Do we have a bargain—or does marriage to me not seem such a good idea after all?’
‘A bargain is a bargain, I suppose.’
‘And do you pledge yourself to honour this one? Do you promise to look after my daughter until you have placed her in my cousin’s care?’
Amanda hesitated as she thought of the enormity of what she was committing herself to. Dazed by confusing messages racing through her brain, driven by the need to help his child and by something less sensible and completely inexplicable, she conceded. Whether he agreed to marry her or not, this request was made from the heart and she could not—would not—refuse him.
‘I will make your daughter my responsibility and I will not fail you.’
‘Thank you. It means a great deal to me. You have no idea just how much.’
Amanda would have to deal with the consequences. And yet what did it matter? she thought. Mr Claybourne’s crime was proved and he would hang for sure. This time next week she would be on the ship homeward bound, and her husband nothing to her but a name. And yet there would be his child to remind her.
‘When the ceremony has been performed, you can tell me where I can find her. Do you wish to see her before …?’
‘No.’ His word was final.
‘Very well. I will leave you now. Mr Hennesey will let you know about the arrangements. Are you a Catholic, by the way?’
‘Why?’
‘It could complicate matters.’
He grinned. ‘With a good Irish name as you have, Miss O’Connell, are you not of that persuasion?’
‘No. My father was an Ulsterman.’
‘And I adhere to any form of Protestant denomination, so that should not be a problem.’
Amanda turned to go. At the door she paused and looked back at him. ‘There is one thing I will ask you before I go—and I would appreciate the truth.’
‘And that is?’
‘Did you really murder Mrs Rider?’ With a mixture of dread and helpless anticipation, Amanda met his steady, dark gaze.
‘No, I did not. I’d like you at least to believe there is a possibility I’m telling you the truth.’
‘Then if you are indeed innocent, surely there are ways to help you—someone with influence and means.’
‘If you are suggesting there is someone out there to redress the wrongs done to me, then sadly the source is exhausted. However, your concern touches me deeply, Miss O’Connell.’
His voice was casual and his face was serious, but Amanda distrusted the gleaming, mocking humour lurking in his gaze. He did not believe for one minute that she or anyone else cared one iota what happened to those in his position.
‘Then if you did not kill her—where were you?’
‘Fishing.’
Amanda stared at him and then slowly her lips curved in a smile. ‘You were fishing? Oh, I see. Well, good day, Mr Claybourne.’
Kit watched her go. For the time they had been together her beauty had fed his gaze, creating inside him an ache that could neither be set aside nor sated. When the door had shut, at that moment the prison walls closed round him with a ferocious pressure. His filthy and torn clothing, the roughness of his unwashed skin, the stink of himself, his absolute hopelessness, stirred a rage in him that was almost overpowering.
As Amanda followed Mr Hennesey, a treacherous seed of doubt about Mr Claybourne’s guilt planted itself in her mind, and before she had left the prison that seed was taking root, nourished by her horror at the possibility that an innocent man would hang. Her mind argued that she was being a fool to think like this, but every instinct she possessed shouted that he was innocent. She knew it. She could feel it. And if he was, then she could hardly bear the thought of what he was to go through.
Of course the worst thing that could happen for her would be for Mr Claybourne to be released; yet, though she bore no feelings for him one way or the other, she could only admire his courage as he faced imminent death. He had impressed her, and the idea of such a fine-looking man, in his prime and full of life, dying in such a cruel manner, depriving a child of its father, was repugnant to her. Surprised to find her eyes were wet with tears, she raised her hand and wiped them away.
‘Mr Hennesey, if you please, may I have a quiet word?’
Hennesey stopped and turned to look at her. His pace had quickened and he was studying her with a keen eye. ‘Aye, a quiet word is it? And would I be right in thinkin’ it concerns Claybourne?’
His tone gave Amanda confidence—although she did wonder if he had had his ear to the door of the cell. In a low voice, not wishing what she had to say to be overheard, she said, ‘Yes, it does. Mr Claybourne and I wish to be married—before …’
‘He hangs.’
‘Yes.’
Hennesey gave a low whistle. ‘That’s a serious matter.’
‘I agree, but it is what we want—and I would like it carried out with the utmost secrecy. Time is of the essence. Can you help me?’
Hennesey rubbed his chin as he thought about her request. ‘Well, now—the governor has to know about such things happenin’ in his prison.’
‘Is that necessary, Mr Hennesey? Can’t we keep this between ourselves?’ Amanda knew that if she confronted the governor of the prison all kinds of embarrassing questions would be asked—and he might even be acquainted with Charlotte and inform her, which would dash all her hopes.
Mr Hennesey rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. ‘Well, now, we could—but it will cost you.’
‘Money is not a problem, Mr Hennesey.’