The Duke untied it with careful hands. On top was the original loan agreement for £40,000, signed in bold black ink by the Earl of Marlowe. Beneath it was a sworn statement in the old Duke's handwriting, signed and sealed, telling the whole story of what he had seen. And beneath that, letters from the Earl to Thomas Hartley begging for more time to pay.
Mr. Drummond took off his spectacles and wiped them. "I knew Thomas Hartley," he said softly. "He was the most honest man in the city. I never believed a word they said about him." He looked up. "What will you do now, Your Grace?"
The Duke tied the red ribbon again. "Tell no one," he said. "Not one word, not yet."
Back in Newgate, Clara waited.
On the evening of the fourth day, the jailer pushed a folded note under her door. It had no name on it, only a few words written in a strong, firm hand:
*Your sister is safe and warm. A doctor is with her. H.*
Clara read it a hundred times, held it against her heart, and wept with relief. And then she waited for him to come back.
He did not come. The fifth day passed, the sixth, the seventh: no visitor, no note, no word of any kind—only the gray bread, the dripping walls, and the shouting in the night.
On the eighth day, the cell door opened. But it was not the Duke; it was Lady Cecilia Marlowe in a gown of pale rose silk and a velvet cloak trimmed with fur. She held a scented handkerchief to her nose and looked around the filthy cell with delight.
"Oh, dear," she said. "What a dreadful little room. It suits you."
Clara did not stand up. "What do you want?"
"Only to bring you a little gift." Cecilia reached into her cloak and drew out a stiff white card edged in gold, holding it up so that Clara could read it:
*The marriage of His Grace, the Duke of Ravenshire, to Lady Cecilia Marlowe. St. George's Church, Hanover Square, tomorrow at 11:00.*
"Henry has been so very attentive this week," Cecilia said sweetly. "He has visited my father twice. He signed all the marriage papers without a single question." She smiled. "Whatever little hope you were holding on to, you may let it go now."
Clara said nothing, but inside, something cracked: seven days without a word.
"And your trial for theft," Cecilia went on, "will be heard the day after my wedding before my father's dear friend, Judge Harlow. He has already told Papa what the sentence will be." She leaned closer. "Transportation to Australia—fourteen years. They say the ships are dreadful; half the women die before they arrive." She straightened up and smoothed her rose silk skirt. "I told you that night in the great hall: you are nothing. You have nothing. And tomorrow at 11:00, I shall be the Duchess of Ravenshire."