“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.”

Also by NAN RYAN

CHIEFTAIN

NAUGHTY MARIETTA

THE SCANDALOUS MISS HOWARD

THE SEDUCTION OF ELLEN

THE COUNTESS MISBEHAVES

WANTING YOU

Duchess for a Day
Nan Ryan

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Contents

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

One

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.

She lifted her eyes to the catwalk above.

The burly turnkey who had escorted her down into the pit stood clutching the railing, looking down on the prisoners. A younger warder walked patrol around the catwalk.

Claire was relieved to see them there. They or their replacements would be on patrol throughout the evening, making certain there was no trouble. They wouldn’t allow any real mischief to take place. She would be safe enough.

As darkness settled over the city of London the only light in the Common Cell of Newgate prison were the wall torches flickering on redbrick walls blackened by years of soot.

Claire didn’t move as the others roused to eat the evening meal. While the ravenous prisoners tore at the stale bread and wolfed down the watery soup with loud slurping gusto, Claire made a face and closed her eyes. The smells and the sounds continued to assault her senses, but she didn’t have to look at the human slime.

“Best ’ave a spot ’o yer soup,” came Green Tooth’s voice from out of the shadows.

Claire opened her eyes and her head snapped around. She glared at the dirty old woman. “I am not hungry. Stop bothering me.”

Green Tooth lifted her own tin bowl and took a long final drink of the watery soup. She set the empty bowl down, wiped her mouth on a dirty sleeve, and informed Claire, “Need to keep yer strength up if you’ve any ’opes of stayin’ alive down ’ere.”

“I won’t be staying long,” Claire stated firmly. “I’m innocent and I—”

“’Course ye are,” said the old crone, interrupting. “Ain’t we all. Not a guilty soul in ’ere. Not a one.”

“Yes, well, I am innocent and I’ll be out of here by morning.”

“Not bloody likely,” said Green Tooth. “Innocent or no, it’ll be weeks, p’rhaps months ’fore any court ’ears yer case.”

“No, it will not,” Claire said, dismissing her. “Now kindly stop bothering me.”

Green Tooth said, “I’m tryin’ to ’elp ye.”

“I need no help,” Claire said. “Not another word out of you, do you hear!”

Green Tooth fell silent, but she continued to carefully study Claire. She couldn’t take her eyes off her. There was something hauntingly familiar about this young woman. That hair, the porcelain skin, those vivid violet eyes, the graceful curve of her throat. Surely a direct link to someone from the past. The name she couldn’t quite bring to bear. She searched her memory.

Could she be? No, too young. But blood told…The daughter. She had to be the daughter.

Eyes closed, Claire sat on the hard stone floor and silently lectured herself. She couldn’t let this hideous turn of events best her. She had to be strong and resourceful. She had to keep her wits about her and figure a way out of this terrible predicament. She was, she knew, in serious trouble.

Who would take her word over that of Lord Wardley Nardees?

No one.

She faced this outrageous charge on her own. All alone.

It wasn’t the first time Claire had been alone. She was used to it. Had been used to it since losing both parents when she was a girl of eighteen. Shortly after their deaths she had accepted the proposal of an old family friend. Dear, stalwart, solicitous Keith Orwell. He would have gladly taken care of her for the rest of her life, but tragedy soon struck again.

Only four years after they’d wed, her kindhearted husband had died suddenly of apoplexy and she was widowed at age twenty-two. Orwell had left no money, so there’d been little time to grieve his passing. Claire had had to immediately find a way to support herself.

Well educated, she had promptly become governess to a fine family’s two well-behaved boys. She’d spent five pleasant years in their employ ending with her young wards leaving for boarding school. She was then chosen to be governess to the wealthy Lord Wardley Nardees’s three unruly children.

Claire shuddered now at the recollection of what had happened in the baron’s huge mansion only last night.

She opened her eyes and again looked above. She felt a small degree of comfort in seeing the turnkey continuing to patrol on the catwalk. But as she watched, he suddenly stopped and moved directly to the rope ladder on which she had descended into the bowels of the Common Cell.

Her heart sank when he loudly announced to the prisoners below, “Raisin’ the ladder, ye miserable scabs! Jest ye try and get out ’o the hole in the middle of the night!” He bent and swiftly drew the ladder up out of reach, rung by rung, and Claire saw her only connection with the world above taken away.

No sooner had the ladder been lifted than the turnkey moved around the catwalk extinguishing most of the wall torches. In minutes the Common Cell was cast into deep dark shadows.

She was to spend the long night in this pit at the mercy of dangerous criminals.

Nothing to worry about, she told herself. The turnkey was patrolling again. He would keep a close eye on the dungeon. She should try to relax and get some much needed rest. Tomorrow she would figure a way out of this travesty.

A quarter past midnight.

Claire was wide awake. Unfortunately the lone turnkey was not. He was no longer patrolling. He was snoring, dead to the world, somewhere out of sight above.

As the hour grew later the hellhole began stirring to life after hours of relative quiet. The new activity greatly unnerved Claire. She was not naive. She was fully aware that she had attracted the unwanted attention of the male denizens and the soulless whores. All had cast lascivious glances at her throughout the evening. All were dangerous. All were free to do as they pleased because the sleeping turnkey was not doing his job. She was helpless against them.

Claire’s anxiety grew when a half dozen of the menacing villains began to gravitate steadily closer. She was paralyzed with fear when a big, strapping female squatted down before her, roughly grabbed Claire’s left ankle and dragged her away from the wall.

“Come to me, beauty,” said the woman, a leer on her chubby face.

Claire kicked wildly at her. “Stop!” she cried, her hips and shoulder blades bumping against the stone floor. “Leave me alone, let me be!”

The fat female smiled in mock surrender and, releasing Claire’s ankle, rose to her feet. Claire scrambled to sit up. She held up her hands defensively as her heart pounded in her ears. She frantically looked around for an escape route. Even if she made it past the evil creatures now circling her, she couldn’t get out of this snake pit.

“I’m first,” announced a cadaverous man with open sores on his face and old scabs decorating his ropy forearms. Shoving the obese prostitute out of the way, he began unbuttoning his filthy trousers as he licked his droopy lower lip.

“The ’ell you are!” snapped a tall, thin woman with greasy corkscrew curls and a long nasty scar slashing down her filthy face. She easily shoved the thin man out of her way. Yanking her tattered skirts up past her knobby knees, she stated, “This one’s mine.”

She’d hardly gotten the words out before a big, muscular brute with a sweat-drenched bare chest and unshaven face stepped in, swung a quick right, and knocked the thin whore flat on her back.

“Stay away from me!” Claire warned as the reeking, half-naked man sank to his knees and reached for her.

Claire’s heart stopped.

“You ’eard the lady,” came a low feminine voice from out of the darkness.

Claire blinked as Green Tooth, roused from a fitful slumber by all the commotion, swiftly emerged from the shadows and pressed the tip of a long sharp piece of glass directly against the man’s juggler vein. Firmly clutching the crude weapon by its handle fashioned of used twine, she said quietly, “Move back or get yer throat slit, gov.”

The big man, his calloused hand already clutching at Claire’s shirtwaist bodice, laughed off Green Tooth’s threat. Bent on having the pale, clean beauty, he ripped Claire’s bodice and she screamed.

“Now I will kill ye!” Green Tooth coolly promised. She jabbed the weapon’s sharp tip into his glistening throat and drew blood.

He yelped in pain, released his hold on Claire’s bodice, and rolled away, cursing. Green Tooth stepped directly in front of Claire, thrust the bloody glass weapon forward toward the others and said, “The same goes for the rest of ye. Touch one ’air on ’er ’ead and ye won’t live to see daylight.”

Two

No one doubted Green Tooth’s threat.

They cursed her and vowed to get even and promised, come daylight, they’d tell the turnkey she had a weapon. Then they laughed and jeered and accused her of being a crazy old hag. But all of them slowly backed away.

For several long minutes the slight old crone continued to stay there unmoving, her stance denoting total authority and an absence of fear. Her thin arm extended, jaw set, she had the crude weapon gripped tightly in her hand and thrust forward.

She finally lowered the weapon and began to sink back into the shadows. Claire, clutching at her torn bodice, hurriedly rose to her feet and laid a hand on the old woman’s arm.

“Thank you. You saved me! I’m very grateful to you. What would I have done if you hadn’t intervened?”

Green Tooth brushed Claire’s hand from her arm. “I knew ye’d be causin’ trouble in ’ere,” she said, shaking her gray head.

Without another word, she sat back down on the stone floor, frowning when Claire sank down close beside her.

“I never meant to cause any trouble,” Claire defended herself. “I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong down here.”

“None of us do, lassie,” said Green tooth tiredly. “I told you, we’re all innocent ’ere.”

“But you don’t understand, my employer, Lord Nardees, grabbed me in the middle of the night and—”

“It’s the same old story,” Green Tooth interrupted, “’ve ’eard it all before.”

“Yes, I know, but I—”

“I ’ave to get me rest,” Green Tooth said, closing her eyes, shutting Claire out.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Claire said and fell silent.

Exhausted, nerves raw, afraid as she’d never been before in her life, Claire longed to unburden herself, to confide in someone who would listen and learn the truth.

But no one would believe her if she did.

She sat there in the darkness, berating herself for accepting the position of governess to the powerful Lord Nardees’s three spoiled children.

She had gone to Stonehaven in mid-June, only two short weeks ago.

Late last night, the portly Lord Nardees had pounded on her third floor door, awakening her from a deep slumber. She’d lunged up in bed, sleepy and confused. Before she could rise, the lord, dressed in white cotton attire that looked like a physician’s protective gown, stalked hurriedly into her room and told her that she had to come with him at once. Supposing something untoward had happened to one of the children, she had thrown on a robe and anxiously rushed after him.

“What it is, milord?” she asked, alarmed, as together they dashed down the wide upstairs corridor.

“Shhh,” he cautioned. “We must be quiet.”

Claire said no more, but dutifully swept into the room when he opened the door at the end of the hallway. He hastily followed. Once inside she looked around.

No one was there. No sick child.

The room was empty. But it was well lighted, every lamp blazing. The only furniture was a physician’s examining couch, which sat at the very center of the room. A white sheet was draped over it. Beside the couch, on a small utility table, was a white shaving mug and brush and a pair of scissors.

And, gleaming in the lamplight, lay a silver, fully opened straight-edged razor.

Instantly alarmed, Claire turned to give the lord a questioning look. She was horrified to find that he was now stark naked, the white uniform discarded and lying on the carpeted floor. Beneath his flabby overhanging belly, his male member was fully erect.

“Lord Nardees, how dare you!” she exclaimed in shock and outrage. “Cover yourself at once!”

She made a move toward the closed door. But the lord stood before it, blocking her way, his beady eyes gleaming and a drool of spittle slipping down from the left side of his mouth.

“My dear,” he murmured, stepping close, “since the first moment I saw you, I’ve wanted you for my mistress.”

And with that declaration, the naked nobleman had swiftly caught a stunned Claire up in his arms, pressed her against his big belly and tried to kiss her. Horrified and repulsed, she turned her face away and began to struggle to free herself.

“Let me go, damn you! Stop this at once!” she demanded, hitting his beefy arms and broad back with doubled up fists.

“Ah, yes, fight me a little while I rub myself against you, sweet beauty! I like my lovers to be fiery.” The eager lord shoved Claire’s robe off her right shoulder, yanked the yoke of her nightgown open down her chest and buried his wet, fleshy lips in the curve of her neck and shoulder.

“Let go of me, you miserable swine, or I shall scream so loudly your wife will come running.”

Sucking eagerly on the tender flesh of her exposed throat, Lord Nardees ignored her threat. Claire was well aware that his homely, lazy wife was probably snoring soundly in their suite on the mansion’s first floor and would not hear her screams. Claire continued to beat on the baron’s bare back and tried to kick his shins. Vainly, she struggled to free herself from the excited, perspiring man.

Finally, having no other recourse, she turned her face inward and bit his jowls. Hard. Drawing blood. Shocked and in pain, he automatically raised his head and loosened his hold. Claire seized the opportunity and viciously kneed him in the groin. He released her and grabbing himself, sank to his knees, keening in agony there before the closed door.

Claire knew she had to get out of that room and out of that house. Finding strength she didn’t know she possessed, she shoved him over onto his back, grabbed him behind the knees, and dragged him away from the door. She darted around him, opened the door and fled down the hall to her room. Heart pounding, she hurriedly dressed and began packing.

She wasn’t sure what the thwarted lord would do next, but she had no intention of staying in his home long enough to find out. After only a few short minutes spent collecting her belongings, Claire was ready to make her escape.

But she was too late.

The door to her room was now locked and barred from the outside. Claire ground her teeth in frustration. The angry baron had already summoned his minions to confine her.

She dropped her valise and hurried to the tall leaded windows that faced the estate’s rolling back gardens. She opened one of the windows and looked down. She had never realized how high off the ground this third floor room was. There was no balcony on which to step outside. No trellis on which to climb down. It was a sheer drop of forty feet to the ground below. If she jumped she would likely break a leg. Even if she didn’t, guards patrolled the vast rear grounds at night. She’d never get past them.

She was trapped.

Throughout the long night Claire paced, worried and wondered what would happen to her.

Come the morning she found out.

While the entire staff watched and whispered, Claire was taken from the baron’s house by two uniformed policemen. Lord Nardees had accused her of stealing some of his wife’s valuable jewelry and had alerted the authorities.

At police headquarters Claire had vowed her innocence, but to no avail. Her repeated requests for counsel were refused. After the long tiring day of futilely demanding that a barrister be appointed for her, she was thrown into Newgate prison’s Common Cell with a stern reminder that stealing from one of England’s titled noblemen would surely get her several long years in prison.

Now in the prison’s darkness, Claire swallowed hard and fought back the tears that clogged her tight throat. The terrible truth dawned that she might never get out of this dungeon.

Dawn was not far off when Green Tooth slowly turned her head, looked at the fair, blond young woman and saw that she was sleeping.

Finally.

Green Tooth glanced warily around at the rest of the prisoners to make sure all were asleep. Satisfied they were, she reached down and dug deep into her worn left shoe and pried from its sole a shiny gold coin. A coin she’d treasured for years.

She laid the coin in her lap and reached into the pocket of her filthy skirt. She withdrew a small pad of paper and a stubby lead pencil.

In minutes she was up and silently crossing the Common Cell. She waved a thin arm until she attracted the attention of the head turnkey who was back on his perch above. She motioned to him. He frowned, shook his head, but dropped the ladder over and came down it.

“Need a favor, gov,” Green Tooth whispered and handed the guard a folded note and the gold coin.

The turnkey glanced at the note, bit the coin to check its authenticity, and nodded in affirmation.

Three

Alas, it wasn’t weeks or months until Claire’s arraignment. It was later that very same morning.

Nine sharp.

Thursday, the twenty-seventh of June, 1895.

Claire’s case was first on the docket. If indicted—which seemed assured—she would be convicted and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison.

The honorable Percival Knowlton sat on the bench above in his colorful flowing judge’s robes and curly white powdered wig. The prosecutor, Cecil Twiggs, a slight man with thinning, sandy hair and sallow complexion, was there to represent the Queen.

Claire stood beside him as Twiggs stated the charges. “Your honor, the defendant, Mrs. Claire Orwell, betrayed the trust and kindness of her employer, Lord Wardley Nardees. Mrs. Orwell was employed…”

The arraignment, a predetermined farce, had begun.

Once the charges had been fully read, the elderly judge sat back in his chair, reached up under his white wig and rubbed a spot on his temple.

He looked at Claire. “Who speaks for the defendant?”

Rising to her feet, Claire looked around, searching in vain for the aging hack barrister the crown had appointed as her counsel. She turned back to address the judge.

“No one, I fear, milord.”

At that moment a large hand came to rest on her shoulder. She turned and looked up to see a giant of a man, resplendent in legal raiment bearing the Old Queen’s own colors. The powdered wig only added to his towering height.

“I kindly beg to differ.” The giant’s voice was low and surprisingly soft. “I speak for the accused, your worship.”

Cecil Twiggs paled and the slim prosecution brief slipped from his fingers. He bent and picked it up, his hand visibly shaking.

The judge sat upright, imperious in his tall-backed leather chair. He adjusted his spectacles, leaned forward and asked, “To what happy circumstance do we have the honor of the Queen’s own Counsel gracing our humble criminal court? Welcome, Lord Northway.”

Lord Northway thanked the judge and smiled at the awed Claire. He was an impressive man in both stature and manner and well known for his keen legal mind.

Lord Northway’s father, Henderson Northway, had been elevated by Queen Victoria forty-five years ago for the outstanding legal, diplomatic and political advice he had given as the Queen’s Counsel on affairs both domestic and foreign. Most notable was his opinion that the Queen’s highly opposed recognition of the Republic of Texas would, if done, be unchallenged.

The grateful Queen had rewarded him with a peerage.

Claire was as puzzled as the learned judge and the nervous prosecution that Lord Northway had come to her defense.

From his bench above, Judge Knowlton nodded toward Twiggs. “State the charge.”

“Grand theft, milord.” Twiggs opened the brief. “To be specific, jewelry belonging to Lord Nardees’s wife, valued by these appraisals in the amount of three thousand pounds.”

“Any witness besides the good baron?” asked the judge, a noticeable frown on his face.

Twiggs shook his head.

“What say you, Lord Northway? State your case.”

“No case, milord, but a few questions for the crown, perhaps.”

“We are honored to take questions of the Queen’s Counsel.” The judge waved a permissive hand.

“Thank you, milord.” The tall barrister turned to Cecil Twiggs. “These appraisals you have before you in the amount of three thousand pounds?”

“Yes,” Twiggs eagerly responded.

“How many separate appraisals and who made the appraisals?”

“There are six separate appraisals all made by Lloyd’s of London, of course.”

The quality and power of his voice demanding total attention, Lord Northway promptly pointed out that Claire Orwell’s accuser had not filed any claims with Lloyd’s of London.

“Your honor, Joseph Phillips, Esquire, of Lloyd’s of London waits just outside. He will testify to the fact that no claims have been made by Lord Nardees. May I add that Lloyd’s of London has insured the lord’s belongings for thirty-five years.” Lord Northway turned to Cecil Twiggs. “Over the last ten years, how many charges has Lord Nardees brought against his servants?”

Twiggs blanched, looking to the bench for help and direction.

“Answer,” said the judge with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Twiggs spread the brief before him on the prosecution table. “Perhaps four accusations.”

“Perhaps six,” Lord Northway softly corrected.

“Possible,” said Twiggs. “I have only—”

“Lord Northway, are you calling Lord Nardees a liar?” asked the judge. “That’s your defense?”

“Not at all, your honor. I’m simply pointing out that perhaps a mistake has been made. Honorable people can disagree and—”

“Approach the bench,” the judge interrupted.

Lord Northway again stated, “Nardees has filed no claims on past charges. Perhaps the items Lord Nardees thought were stolen have only been misplaced. And subsequently found.” Lord Northway paused and drew himself up to his full, imposing height. “Are we to send this poor young woman—” he nodded to Claire “—who has no history of committing any crimes, to twenty-five years and ruin her life—or more accurately, end her life? She may not survive…” Again he paused, then said, “I respectably ask for all charges to be dismissed.”

The judge looked intently at Lord Northway. “I will rule later today.”

At 6:00 p.m. the judge told the prosecutor that he had dismissed the charges. He also considered the failure on the part of Lord Nardees to file insurance claims. He told the barristers he was going to deny a true bill and that Claire Orwell was to be set free. Claire and the barristers rose to their feet. The judge asked Lord Northway to stay. Claire turned to thank her gallant defender.

Lord Northway smiled warmly and said, “If you’ll wait just outside, I must speak with you before you go. I won’t be long.”

Claire nodded and walked out with the prosecutor.

“Tell me, old man,” the judge beseeched when the two were alone, “what in the name of God brings you to defend this poor woman?”

Lord Northway smiled, reached into his weskit pocket and extracted a large gold hunter-case watch. He gave the stem a slight twist and the case opened, revealing a yellowing enameled miniature.

The judge gasped audibly.

“Yes,” acknowledged Lord Northway, “an exact likeness of Claire Orwell.”

“Painted years before Claire was born,” the judge said.

Lord Northway nodded. “My father handed me this watch on his deathbed.” He looked at the faded miniature. “She was the love of his life.”

“I see,” the judge sat back in his chair.

“Father instructed me to help her daughter, Claire, if ever she needed me.”

“How did you hear about her being in trouble?”

“A timely missive from a miscreant in Newgate known as Green Tooth,” said Lord Northway.

Claire looked up, smiled and rose from the bench in the corridor as Lord Northway approached. Still puzzled that he had come to her defense, she was even more puzzled when the stately lord handed her an envelope.

“My dear,” he said in that rich baritone voice, “I’ve a bit of good news for you.”

Claire listened and learned that she was being offered the opportunity to sail to America to open up the Saratoga Springs, New York, summer house of Britain’s flamboyant Duchess of Beaumont. The young, blond widow was one of Britain’s more colorful royals, a woman who cared not one whit what the gossips said about her.

Claire had read of the duchess’s exploits and her photograph had often appeared in the London Times.

“Your duties,” said Lord Northway, “if you choose to accept the position, will be to hire a small staff and have the Saratoga residence made ready for the arrival of the duchess herself. She’ll be coming to the Springs in mid-August for the summer racing season.

“It is,” said Northway, “entirely up to you. If you wish to accept this offer, all the necessary arrangements will be made for you.”

“Yes, of course, I accept!” said Claire, excited. “I can think of nothing I’d like better than to…to…” She stopped speaking and frowned suddenly. She couldn’t go. She couldn’t leave the poor old woman known as Green Tooth behind. She owed the woman her life. She couldn’t be ungrateful and turn her back on the poor creature.

Claire looked up at the tall, imposing man and said, “On one condition, milord.”

“Which is?”

“I’ve a friend who must accompany me to America.”

His eyebrows raised. “A male?”

“No, female.”

“I see no difficulty. Your friend can serve in some capacity as part of the staff.”

“Actually, it’s not quite that simple,” Claire said. She took a deep breath and informed him, “She’s presently a prisoner in Newgate. But she’s good-hearted. She saved me from a terrible physical attack and I will take responsibility for her.”

“What’s her crime?”

“I honestly don’t know, but I would guess petty theft or some such minor charge. I beg you, Lord Northway, find a way to free the poor woman and allow me to take her with me.”

Lord Northway reluctantly agreed to look into the charges and see what he could do. The astonished Green Tooth was freed that same afternoon.

The next morning Claire went directly to the bank and withdrew what meager funds she’d managed to save over the years. Then she requested entrance to her safe-deposit box. She took the box into a small private room, opened it and lifted from it a small velvet drawstring bag.

Claire loosened the tasseled drawstrings and looked inside. She smiled, as she always did, when admiring the sparkling treasures inside. After only a few seconds, she reluctantly drew the strings tight once more.

Then she lifted her full skirts and pinned the velvet pouch in among the folds of her full petticoats. She dropped her skirts, patted the concealed treasure, and left the bank with a spring to her step.

With the money she’d withdrawn, Claire promptly sent the woman who had saved her life to the dentist and to have her hair cut and buy some new clothes. And Claire bought her frail friend a fine-looking hickory walking cane with a gleaming silver head.

Days later Claire Orwell and Olivia Sutton—Olivia Sutton looking nothing like the unkempt woman dubbed Green Tooth and Claire vowing she’d have Olivia speaking like a proper lady by the time they reached New York—happily set sail for America on a bright, clear June morning.

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