Rogue in the Regency Ballroom: Rogue's Widow, Gentleman's Wife / A Scoundrel of Consequence

When Amanda had arrived at Magnolia Grove, Amos had fallen under her spell the first time he had received the full impact of her dimpled smile, and from that moment on had become her most devoted servant.

Amos paused in his stride when Amanda called his name, waiting with proper respect for her to reach him as she ran across the yard, holding her skirts off the ground, her tiny feet moving as though they had wings.

The friendliness Amos had shown Amanda since she had come to Magnolia Grove gave her confidence. ‘Amos, I know I can trust you and that you’ll do almost anything I ask you to.’

Amos looked at her with ardent curiosity and deep suspicion; despite his devotion, he was under no illusions about her. And when she looked at him as she did now—demure and sweet-talking, knowing such methods always worked with him when she was planning some new escapade—he found himself saying cautiously, ‘Yo’ can always depend’ pon my complete, unquestioning loyalty, yo’ sure know that, Miss Amanda.’

‘What I am about to ask of you I don’t want to go any further. You do understand that, don’t you, Amos?’

‘Very well, miss. Ah woan breathe a word,’ he said in hushed tones, entering into the conspiracy, unaware of where that conspiracy was to lead him.

Amanda paused to steal a furtive glance about the empty yard; then, moving closer, she looked at him and confided, ‘Amos, is it difficult obtaining admittance to the City Goal?’

Stepping back, he stared at her as though her senses had deserted her. There was a gleam of such intense excitement in the young miss’s eyes that it aroused sudden distrust in Amos. ‘The City Goal? But why’d yo’ want to go there? God fo’saken place—sho is, and no respectable young lady should be seen near it.’

‘Never mind that. Please, please say you’ll help me, Amos,’ she pleaded, determined to get her own way in this.

‘Not in a ’undred years, I woan,’ he stated adamantly, shaking his grizzled head, seeing the scowling expression on her face pass into a smile that would have charmed a fox out of its hole, a smile she knew was difficult for him to resist. ‘Ah ain’t never been in that place, an don’ think yo’ can get round me by lookin’ like that.’

‘Now, Amos, don’t be mean,’ she wheedled.

‘What fo’ you want to go there anyhow?’ He looked at her piercingly. ‘This don’ sound right to me—an’ are you not tellin’ Miss Charlotte?’

‘No. Charlotte mustn’t know—at least, not just yet. Please, Amos. There’s a man I want to see as soon as possible—tomorrow if it can be arranged. I’ve got to see him. I’ve simply got to, and I can’t do it by myself. If you won’t help me, then I will find some other way. It is extremely important to me. Please, please say you will,’ she entreated, feigning helplessness.

Amos shifted from one foot to the other like a restive horse. ‘What fo’ are yo’ fixin’ to see this man—a gentlemun, I hope?’

‘Of course he is, and what I want to see him about is my business,’ Amanda replied indignantly, growing impatient. ‘Well? Are you going to help me or not?’

‘Well … yes, miss—but I don’ approve. I want to know what you’re up to—so don’ you go askin’ no one else.’

His capitulation brought a sigh of relief from Amanda. ‘Thank goodness. I knew I could rely on you.’

‘Only if I go in wid you. Dat prison’s full o’ dangerous varmints an’ ’tis no place for yo’ to be alone. What would Miss Charlotte say if she finds out? Flay me alive she would.’

‘No, she won’t and you know it. You can drive me there but I must go in by myself. I will not have you glowering at me while I converse with the man I want to see. Are the prisoners allowed visitors?’

‘Most of ’em.’

‘If the person I want to speak to is not, can any of the gaolers be bribed?’

Amos’s black brow wrinkled in thoughtful lines. ‘One of the turnkeys is a man called Hennesey—though he’s a hard, mean character, he’s also greedy and gold sings right sweet in his ears. But it shouldn’t come to that.’

‘Good. That’s what I hoped you’d say.’ Amanda faced him squarely, the light of decision in her eyes. ‘The man I want to see is Mr Claybourne, the horse breaker found guilty of murdering Carmen Rider.’ Sensing fresh disapproval, she said quickly, ‘I am sure a resourceful man of your position could arrange it for me, Amos. Will you go and see Mr Hennesey and ask him if I can see Mr Claybourne alone? For such considerations he will be well rewarded for his trouble.’

In no way did Amos approve of what she was asking him to do, but he nodded nevertheless, knowing she was capable of going to the prison alone if she took it into her head. ‘Ah’ll do my best.’

‘Thank you. Oh, and, Amos, not a word to Mr Quinn or cousin Charlotte. Remember.’

And so it was arranged. Amos had a word with her before she went in to dinner, quietly informing her that Mr Hennesey would expect her at the City Gaol the following morning at ten o’clock.

The next day there was no sign that Amanda had spent a sleepless night pacing her room with single-mindedness of purpose. Her sights were centred on one goal, her mind bolstering the courage to carry out the wild plan she had conceived with Amos’s help. She had everything to gain and nothing to lose—and neither had Mr Claybourne. Her heart and jaw were set with determination, her mind made up. Thank God she wasn’t afraid.

However, certain practicalities had to be taken into consideration. She must wear something Mr Claybourne would be unable to ignore, and yet something that would not attract too much attention. Spending several minutes in a frenzy of worry and indecision, she finally decided on a rather modest saffron silk gown and matching bonnet with a veil that would conceal her features until she was in his presence. Hopefully she would succeed in entering and leaving the prison without anyone being any the wiser as to her identity.

Travelling into town, Amanda paid little attention to her surroundings. Her mind was focused one hundred percent on her meeting with Mr Claybourne.

Believing they were going on another shopping expedition, Nan was as absorbed as she always was by this fine city. Despite her aversion to the sultry, tropical heat, she found it a compelling place.

The houses with their shaded porches and galleries, shredding the sunlight through the delicate traceries of their iron balustrades, were tall and narrow and of multicoloured stucco, adorned with wooden shutters that would be opened when darkness came. The streets, ablaze with azalea and wisteria and shaded by tall trees dripping with wispy tendrils of Spanish moss, were a delight.

The old Charlestonians were a proud, close-knit community and strong in their determination to preserve the old way of life as they had known it before the war. Their traditions were a precious inheritance which no one could take from them. This inner circle was for Charlestonians only, and foreigners were kept out.

Nan was drawn out of her reverie when Amos suddenly stopped the carriage in Magazine Street, across from the City Gaol, and Amanda climbed out quickly. Four storeys high and topped with a two-storey octagonal tower, it was an ugly prison, as prisons always are. Casting Amos a meaningful, conspiratorial look before pulling her veil down over her face, she told Nan that she wouldn’t be long. Nan was reduced to a state of shock as she watched her mistress enter that frightful building. She was about to get up and follow her, to demand to know what she was playing at and return to the carriage at once, when Amos turned and halted her with a stern look.

‘Leave her be, Miss Nan.’

‘Leave her be? How can I leave her be? Can you not see where she’s going?’

‘Miss Amanda knows what she’s ‘bout and will be quite safe.’

‘Safe? In that place? She’s up to something. I can always tell. But, in God’s name, what is it this time?’

‘I’m sho she’ll tell yo’ all about it later, Miss Nan.’

With that Nan had to be content to wait—not that she wanted to enter that dreadful place anyway—but what wouldn’t she say to that wilful, disobedient girl when she returned.

With her heart beating fast, Amanda spoke to the desk sergeant and a moment later Mr Hennesey materialised out of the shadows. He was a distasteful individual, untidy and with sly eyes, which lit up with a greedy light at the sight of the leather purse.

‘This is for your silence, Mr Hennesey. No one must know of my visit. Do you understand?’

He nodded, taking the purse from her gruffly and telling her to follow him. The prisoner was expecting her. Under the bombardment of many curious glances and trying to close her ears to an assortment of crude noises made by the dangerous portion of humanity incarcerated within the walls of the City Gaol, she followed Mr Hennesey along corridors between iron-barred doors to the rear of the building.

The prisoner occupied an individual cell, so they could talk privately. It was quite small. Directly opposite the door, high in the wall, was a barred aperture that let in air and daylight. The stench was appalling and Amanda had to resist the temptation to take the scented handkerchief from her pocket and put it to her nose.

She glanced at the turnkey. ‘I wish to speak to Mr Claybourne alone.’

Hennesey shrugged. ‘Suit yerself. It’s not the usual practice, but you’ve paid for it. But I’ll be just outside and will hear if he gets up to any funny business.’ Before he went out he threw the prisoner a warning glance. ‘Treat the lady with respect now, you hear—or ’twill be the worse for you.’

A voice from the shadows gave a derisive laugh. ‘Your threats are useless, Hennesey. Do you forget that I have only one life to lose and that it’s already forfeit?’

With a grunt, Hennesey went out, closing the door with a bang. Amanda examined her surroundings and Christopher Claybourne. His feet were shackled together. He was exactly as she remembered him, except that he was fresh shaven and his dark eyes were alert, watching her. His clothes were ragged and soiled, his uncombed hair hanging loose about his face, but even in his wretched state his strength of character shone through.

Kit—the shortened version of Christopher, which was how he had been addressed all his life—had been told to expect a visitor and nothing more. Recognition widened his eyes when the woman lifted her veil back over her bonnet. Miss O’Connell’s appearance had taken him unawares—although what she was doing swanning it through this hell hole, like a lure to a pond full of piranhas, he could not conceive. He recalled seeing her the day before, recalled the way she had looked at him, had seen the interest kindle in her eyes, and he was bewildered as to why she had come to see him. He moved forward, watching her, speculative, admiring, alert. She looked magnificent—like a gilded statue.

The rich vibrancy of her hair was neatly coiffed beneath her bonnet, and as she stared up at him he felt himself momentarily fixed on her strong gaze. Her eyes were olive green, incisive and clear, and tilted slightly at the corners. She had a healthy and unblemished beauty that radiated a striking personal confidence. There was about her a kind of warm sensuality, something instantly suggestive to him of pleasurable fulfilment. It was something she could not help, something that was an inherent part of her, but of which she was acutely aware.

To Kit, starved of a woman’s beauty—of any kind of beauty—for so long to behold so much loveliness, to find himself alone with her, a woman forbidden, inaccessible to him, to be surrounded by the sweet scent of her, was torture indeed.