Critical praise for
RUTH AXTELL MORREN
and her novels

THE ROGUE’S REDEMPTION

“A beautifully written Regency-era love story.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

THE HEALING SEASON

“The author expertly creates an endearing story that will both encourage and delight the reader.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

DAWN IN MY HEART

“Morren turns in a superior romantic historical.”

—Booklist

“Morren’s tales are always well plotted and fascinating, and this one is no exception. 4½ stars.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

LILAC SPRING

“Lilac Spring blooms with heartfelt yearning and genuine conflict as Cherish and Silas seek God’s will for their lives. Fascinating details about 19th-century shipbuilding are planted here and there, bringing a historical feel to this faith-filled romance.”

—Liz Curtis Higgs, bestselling author of Whence Came a Prince

WILD ROSE

Selected as aBooklist Top 10 Christian Novel for 2005

“The charm of the story lies in Morren’s ability to portray real passion between her characters. Wild Rose is not so much a romance as an old-fashioned love story.”

—Booklist

WINTER IS PAST

“Inspires readers toward a deeper trust in the transforming power of God…[Readers] will find in Winter Is Past a novel not to be put down and a new favorite author.”

—Christian Retailing

The Making of a Gentleman
Ruth Axtell Morren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Frances, a modern day “prison lady”

and

Thank you, Allison, for taking this ugly

duckling and helping turn it into a swan…

Let the sighing of the prisoner come before thee; according to the greatness of thy power preserve thou those that are appointed to die.

—Psalms 79:11

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

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

London, 1812

The hangman’s noose swayed gently in the chill winter breeze, the pale Italian hemp stark in the murky light.

No matter how many hangings Florence had attended, the sight of a man—or woman—hanging from the noose caused her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She shifted her gaze from it, although there was nothing to comfort the eye in the rest of the panorama facing her. Newgate Prison’s classic stone facade, unrelieved by any windows, stared back at her, its walls as gray as the lowering skies above her.

The February wind bit at her. Shivering, she pulled her cape tighter. Despite the bodies around her, the cold penetrated through to her bones. Perhaps because she’d eaten nothing since yesterday evening, preferring to spend the time in prayer and fasting for the condemned man.

The crowd pressed against her as new arrivals jockeyed for position. They had been drifting in since last evening when the portable gallows was wheeled in by the team of horses. Two crosslike structures supported a parallel set of bars between them. A lone noose hung from one of these bars, designed to support up to a dozen bodies. But on this rare occasion, only one man would be hanged.

A few guards stood below the platform, bearing pikes or muskets. Florence glanced over at the one nearest her. His unshaven face and slouched stance showed the effects of having stood watch all night.

Though the growing audience swelled, waist-high wooden barriers extending out along the walls of Newgate prevented anyone from getting closer than a few feet from the gallows.

Florence had been attending the hangings for six years now, ever since she’d begun ministering to the inmates of Newgate. She was determined to show them a last friendly face and let them know up to the end that there was somebody praying for their souls. She hoped a glimpse of her would remind them of the verse she’d shared with them at the end, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.

“Last confessions of dying man! Tuppence. Get the true and final confessions of Jonah Quinn!” A man wending a horse with difficulty through the crowd waved a sheaf of printed broadsides, their ink no doubt still damp.

How she hated these executions, where a person’s life was made a mockery and the proceedings a theatrical farce. She focused on the empty platform once again. The prisoner wouldn’t be brought forth until half past seven. She knew the schedule well.

Lord, break his will. Soften his heart. Don’t let him depart with that hardness of heart that prevents him from receiving Your mercy.

The prayer had become a litany to her since last night.

A prayer for Jonah Quinn, a man accused of forgery, one of the dozens of capital offenses codified in the “Bloody Code.” It had been a shock to most sitting at the January Sessions that his sentence had not been respited. Nowadays, all but a few of the capital crimes were commuted to transportation. The Recorder of London, principal presiding judge at the Old Bailey, had stared hard under his dark brows so at odds with the white curling wig flowing over his shoulders at the accused as he pronounced the age-old words “hanged by the neck until dead.”

The prisoner had remained as unmoving as the granite blocks before Florence now. He’d already stated his last words just prior to the judge’s verdict. “God curse you all for hanging an innocent man!”

Florence had seen more than one man go to the gallows defiant, but many more were glad for the message of hope to take with them when all that was left to them was to face their Maker. She was reminded of the two criminals crucified alongside Jesus, the one unrepentant, the other humble and penitent before the Son of God.

Eyes closed, Florence shut her mind to the growing noise of the crowd as she took up her prayer once more. Only the Lord could break through to a man’s heart.

“Quinn is an innocent man!” someone in the crowd yelled. A chorus of assent followed.

The shouts from the crowd intensified. The windows in the houses opposite the Old Bailey began filling up with the well-to-do. Many had paid several pounds to secure a seat above the crowd. Florence had heard rumors that even certain members of the House of Lords who had taken an interest in the case were in attendance, but she had no interest in scanning the windows behind her. Today, only one soul concerned her.

“Hats off! Hats off!” The shout of voices around her alerted her that the prisoner was being escorted out and those in the crowd didn’t want their view impeded.

The Debtor’s door opened and the sheriff came out, holding the prisoner by the arm. The condemned man took one look at the crowd. Instead of being intimidated by the sea of faces, he seemed to grow more defiant. His broad chest swelled out, and his bearded chin thrust forward before the sheriff jerked his arm.

They climbed the short flight of steps onto the gallows. The hangman followed behind them. The ordinary—or prison chaplain—brought up the rear.

It was the first time Florence was seeing Jonah Quinn in the light of day, the small iron grille of his cell door having afforded her few details of his face in the dark condemned man’s cell.

Now, a white nightcap covered his shaggy black hair. His thick black beard was due no doubt to the six weeks he’d sat in his solitary cell since his sentencing. Weeks of deprivation in prison had not eroded his formidable build. The breadth of his shoulders reminded her of a prizefighter she’d once seen. As was customary, his wrists were bound in front of him and another rope was tied around his torso at his elbows, pinning his arms to his sides. The shackles had been removed from his ankles in the prison yard. The sheriff and the black-gowned ordinary looked puny beside him.

“A poor man gets no justice!” a second voice shouted from somewhere in the crowd. Others took up the chant, and soon there was a clamor of protests from the street. The guard beside Florence shifted his pike from one hand to the other, muttering curses under this breath.

The ordinary turned to the prisoner and indicated he could kneel to pray, but the prisoner shook his head, looking as unyielding as he had sounded at his trial. Lord, save him!

The sheriff signaled to the hangman, who took a step forward and pulled the nightcap down over the prisoner’s face. Then he placed the noose around his neck.

A second passed, then at the sheriff’s nod, the hangman stepped back and reached for the lever.

At that moment, a man plowed into Florence, throwing her against the wooden barrier and knocking the breath from her.

“For Jonah and for all the poor whose land has been stolen from ’em!” A sudden barrage of shouts came from all sides as men jumped the barrier and surged onto the platform like rats.

Time seemed to slow as Florence watched. Before the hangman could release the trapdoor beneath the prisoner’s feet, a rough-looking man jumped him from behind and wrestled him to the ground. Others swarmed around the prisoner and cut him free.

The soldiers rallied, but the erupting mob blocked their attempts to reach the platform.

“Down with the king! Give us bread! Liberty for the people!”

Florence clung to the wooden barrier, terrified she would be crushed by the mob pressing against her.

The prisoner leaped from the platform and in one fluid motion jumped the barricade and landed beside Florence.

The guard raised his pike.

Florence stared at its sharp point, poised above her. The next instant, an arm grabbed her from behind and a cold blade of steel pushed against her neck.

“Anyone comes near and I’ll slit ’er throat.”

She didn’t dare breathe. The guard’s eyes flickered to hers. That second’s hesitation saved her life. The pike was ripped from his arms by the mob.

Behind her, the crowd parted and the prisoner made his escape, dragging her along with him like a piece of flotsam, the press of bodies closing around them like the incoming tide.

“This way!” shouted a man.

They slipped down a narrow side alley, then along a wider road she recognized as Seacoal Lane. They came out onto Fleet Market, an area packed with vendors. Shouts and commotion followed them as stalls were overturned in their wake.

Quinn veered off the main thoroughfare, his hand clenching her arm in an unyielding grip. Through a covered courtyard and past derelict buildings, the area became grimmer and dirtier. They were going to the rookery of Saffron Hill north of Holborn. God help her.

“Come along!” the man—their guide—barked at them. Quinn yanked her forward and she stumbled in the pockmarked path. Here the roads were nothing but muddy tracks and the brick buildings full of boarded-up windows and decay. The stench of human waste was overwhelming.

Their guide seemed to know the area well. The two men leaped across the puddles and ditches while her smaller boots sank and skidded over the slimy ground. Quinn held her fast, giving her no option but to struggle to keep up.

Small secondhand stores and pawnshops lined the streets, fronts for stolen goods no doubt. Dirty children roamed the alleys, their ragged clothes offering little protection against the cold. Equally filthy adults squatted in doorways, often with a bottle in one hand, their stares dull and lifeless.

Though she was gasping for breath, the two men didn’t slow their pace, but dashed from twisted alley to alley that bisected the toppling buildings like a rabbit warren. She soon lost track of whether they were headed north, south, east or west. Perspiration trickled down her back, despite the cold air stinging her face.

“Why—why…don’t you…let me go…now,” she panted.

Quinn threw her a scornful glance. “What, give up my surety? They catch me, you’ll go down with me.” He waved the knife at her, his teeth flashing an instant before facing forward again, urging her on with another painful jerk to her arm.

Her side hurt and her chest screamed with each breath. Just when she couldn’t bear it anymore, he pulled her into a courtyard. She had only a glimpse before she was plunged into a dark stairwell. She stumbled down rickety steps riddled with gaps.

At the bottom, Quinn pushed her ahead of him into a low cellar. She leaned forward, her hands on her knees, panting like a hound after the hunt.

Only as her breathing slowed did she straighten and dare to look around. The two men conferred a few feet away from her. Relief trickled into her when they ignored her. Would she be able to escape them? Her glance went to the wooden door. It stood firmly bolted.

“Ye’ll be safe here for now,” the disreputable-looking guide told Quinn. “There’s some kindling and victuals in the corner. Stay low. After I leave, ye’re on yer own. The Boss doesn’t want any more involvement.” After a few more words, sprinkled liberally with oaths, and a slap on the back at their successful escape, the other man went to the door. He glanced back at Florence over his shoulder as Quinn unbolted it.

“Don’t know what ye’re going to do about ’er. Mayhap have some fun ’fore ye leave.” His coarse laughter rang through the room as he climbed back up the stairs.

The sound of the bolt falling into place made Florence jump. She was truly alone now. She dared a look at her captor, a man who feared nothing and no one, and remembered the other man’s words.

Lord, protect me. Show me what to do. Show me Your purpose in bringing me here. Only Scriptures could allay the terror that threatened to paralyze her.

She’d been face-to-face with many criminals since her work at Newgate, but always there had been a guard within calling distance, or an iron grating separating her.

She was not alone, she reminded herself. The Angel of the Lord encamped round about her. If the Lord had allowed the events of the past hour, it must mean He had heard her prayer for mercy for this man’s soul. The realization gave her courage.

Instead of approaching her, Quinn knelt down, his back to her. In the shadows, she heard him strike a flint and then saw a flash of light which soon grew into a flame as it caught the dry tinder.

Her glance strayed to the rest of the space. The cellar’s stone walls dripped with dampness. Light from the outside showed through a small, boarded-up window at street level. Above them, wooden planks, dark with age, formed a low ceiling, with gaps here and there where the wood had rotted through. The floor beneath her feet was hard-packed dirt with moldy straw piled along the edges and a few rumpled blankets heaped in a corner, as if it had served as sleeping quarters before now. A rough-looking table and a few wooden chairs were the only articles of furniture. How many undesirables, running from the law, had hidden here before?

The fire that now burned steadily between a circle of stones was the only cheerful thing in the room. Florence drew near its warmth. The heat of her exertion had passed, leaving her more chilled than when she’d stood in front of the gallows.

How long before the guards would find this runaway convict? He continued tending the fire. Her eye fell on the knife, now stuck in his belt, its steel reflecting the glow of the fire. The memory of its cold blade pressed against her neck rose in her mind, and she experienced the horror of those moments once again.

She shook away the thought. She was alive and sure God had a purpose for her.

After several minutes, when the man continued to ignore her presence, Florence inched to the fire. But as soon as she drew near him, she wrinkled her nose, noticing the sour smell of his tattered garments. She sniffed at her cloak, smelling him even there.

He stood suddenly, and she flinched. His broad back muscles strained against his filthy coat. His presence seemed to fill the cellar. His attention continued fixed on the small fire.

“Don’t think about leaving anytime soon.” His voice was a near growl, low and gravelly, as if he hadn’t used it for some time. “You just stay put till we see if those guards have lost our scent.”

“You couldn’t leave a trail more obvious than that one.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she bit her lip. Why couldn’t she be more like her brother, Damien, with his mild manners?

Quinn turned then. Dark eyes glittered at her from a swarthy face framed by an even darker beard. Thick black hair curled around his face, giving him a savage appearance, as she imagined Robinson Crusoe must have looked after his many years as a castaway.

She forced herself to hold her ground when he took a step toward her. He stopped so close to her, the heat of his brawny frame filled the space between them. “Think you’re a clever one, do you?”

Her experience at Newgate had taught her that to show fear was fatal. She jutted her chin out. “Do you really think you can evade your pursuers?”

His lips curled in a sneer. “Those red-coated fools? They’ll think twice ’fore venturing into this neighborhood. The Crown likely doesn’t pay ’em enough to risk their miserable hides in ’ere.” He fingered the knife’s haft at his side. “Besides, what do I have to lose?”

His merciless tone sent a shiver through her.

Noticing it, he gestured toward the fire. “Best get yerself warm while ye can.”

She blinked at the sudden change in tone. Was this the defiant brute who’d kidnapped her at knifepoint and now noticed she was cold? She rubbed the bruised spot on her arm where he had held it so tightly.

Keeping her movements careful and deliberate, Florence brought one of the chairs from the table toward the fire. The chair wobbled when she sat down. After assuring herself she wasn’t going to lose her balance, she removed her gloves and stretched her hands toward the blaze.

She heard a scraping noise and turned to see Quinn dragging the table closer. Then he placed the other chair in front of it and sat down. He opened a leather satchel thrown down by his companion and proceeded to remove its contents: a round loaf of bread, a few paper parcels and a bottle.

He unwrapped the first parcel, a wedge of cheese, and the second, a small joint of ham. With his knife, he hacked off a piece of cheese and immediately stuffed it into his mouth, even before proceeding to slice the bread and ham.

Those condemned to die were fed only bread and water for the last three days of their life, so he must have been famished. As he took the first bite of his rapidly made sandwich, his gaze fell on her. “Hungry?” he said through his full mouth.

She stared at his bulging cheeks, feeling a faint disgust, but surprised nonetheless that he had asked. “Yes.”

“Help yourself.” He cut off a few more pieces of bread and placed them on the paper holding the slices of ham and cheese.

“Thank you.” She noticed he didn’t leave the knife lying there, but stuck it back in his waistband after wiping it clean on his sleeve.

She moved her chair closer to the table and took a piece of bread, eyeing the dried-looking cheese. Quinn was halfway through his bread before she’d even finished arranging her meat and cheese atop hers. He reached across the table and took a swig from the bottle.

He caught her watching him. He lowered the bottle, setting it back with a thump before wiping his mouth with the same sleeve he’d used to clean the knife.

His eyes weren’t dark as she’d first supposed. No, they were bottle-green like the one on the table, reflecting the flickering flames of the fire, beneath thick black brows and curly, brushlike lashes. For a split second, staring into those deep-fringed eyes, she thought she read vulnerability, a lost soul needing a message of hope. The next instant, he blinked, appearing once more savage and ferocious.

She looked away and took a bite of her bread and cheese, tugging as delicately as she could at the dry crust to tear it free. Although the stale food made her thirsty, she refused to drink from the bottle. No doubt it contained cheap gin. She noted he didn’t offer her any but did leave the bottle within reach of them both. The chill in the cellar seeped to her very bones. What she wouldn’t give for a hot cup of tea.

The Lord would provide in His time, she reminded herself, more certain than ever now that He had a purpose in bringing her here.

The edge of her hunger abated, she folded her hands on the rough tabletop and formulated what she should say. Above all else, she was the Lord’s vessel. She licked dry lips. What would her brother do in her place? Damien was such a thoughtful man, so sweet of temperament. She slipped her watch out of the pocket of her dress.

Quinn was immediately alert, watching her movements.

Slowly, she lifted her hand. “It’s my watch.”

Relief darted through his hard expression and he looked back down at his food.

It was only half past eight. She found it hard to believe little over an hour had passed since she was standing at the gallows. She snapped the watch closed and stowed it away.

She cleared her throat. “How long do you plan to hold me here?”

He continued to chew. Finally he shrugged. “Until I figure out what to do with you.”

“You won’t get away, you know,” she said, ignoring the fear his words had sent through her. Would he keep her here the entire day? What of Damien? Had he noticed her absence yet?

Quinn glanced up briefly from his food. “What d’ye know of anything?”

“Your only help now is Christ.”

He swore.

She pursed her lips. “That certainly won’t put you in His good graces.”

When he said nothing, she continued. “They’ll soon begin combing the neighborhoods. They’ll flush you out like a partridge.”

He snorted. “In this stew? They’re scared o’ stepping foot in here.”

“Not if they’re well armed.”

He shrugged. “I’ll keep moving. They’ll never be able to look in every hole of this rookery.” He wiped his mouth again with the back of his hand. “The place is filled with Irish. They’ll never give me away. They hate the English too much. Like as not, they’ll send the soldiers on a wild-goose chase.”

She pressed her lips together in consternation. His escape from the gallows certainly had done nothing to lessen his arrogance. “For a time, perhaps, but eventually the arm of the law is too strong. Where can you run?” Maybe if he were desperate enough, he’d listen to reason.

He swore at her. “Shut your bleedin’ trap. It’s none o’ your concern.”

“It is since you kidnapped me.”

“That was to ensure me safety. As soon as it’s nightfall, you’ll be free to go. I won’t be here, if you’re thinking o’ sending the constable looking for me,” he added with a rude laugh.

The relief at his promise of her freedom was tempered by the fear of being left by herself in this rookery. “You needn’t worry that I’ll turn you in,” she said with a studied indifference. “You’ll have plenty to worry about on that score from the people in the neighborhood—or from your own companions, for that matter.”

That last remark caught his attention. His eyes narrowed under his heavy brows. “You’re the prison lady.”

She acknowledged the name they called her at Newgate with a slight inclination of her head. “Yes.”

He swore again. “I thought there was somethin’ familiar looking about you. You’re the one that offers the condemned false hope.” He pushed the remains of the food away and belched. “As soon as you leave to your warm dwelling, they’re left in the filth and cold of their prison walls, trusting their future to empty promises of a savior.”

“The only One who can help you now is that Savior.”

“Bah! I’ll take my chances on me own.”

“Where do you hope to go if you stay here? You may elude capture for a few days, maybe weeks, but eventually, they’ll catch you. If you leave here, there’ll be even a greater chance of detection. Someone will recognize you. Most people will fear you, the way you look now, like a great wild beast.”

His eyes widened before they flickered away from her and back toward the fire.

She leaned forward. “You can stow away on a ship, but then what? Where will you go? France? We’re at war with them. America? With the blockade?” She gave a doubtful laugh.

Quinn’s large hands clenched on the tabletop, the only sign that her words were having any effect.

“You could always turn yourself in—”

“Never!”

“In a few hours, days at most, they’ll have this place surrounded, mark my words—”

He stood, knocking his chair over backward. “They’ll never take me alive.”

She knew in those moments, as his green eyes stared into hers, that he spoke the truth.

Realizing the futility of arousing his ire further, she tried another tack. “You could petition to have your case retried. It’s been done before.”

“What do you know of my case?”

“I know enough to know you may be as innocent as you claim.”

Her words caught his attention. Picking up the fallen chair, he retook his seat.

She leaned forward. “I’ve been around Newgate long enough to know that witnesses can be bought or sold.”

He seemed to weigh her words a moment longer before shaking his head. “They’ll never believe me if they didn’t the first time.”

“In any case, your innocence or guilt is not the most important issue. The fact is the Lord has given you a reprieve. You would have been condemned to a fate worse than mere death if you had swung on that gallows today.”

His eyes registered surprise for a second. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rough guffaw. “Worse than mere death?” he mimicked her cultivated syllables. “I beg your pardon, madam, but it’s easy for you to call it that since you haven’t had a rope strung about your scrawny neck.”

“I may not have stood where you stood today, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t watched enough souls go to their grave to understand the seriousness of their eternal destiny.”

He leaned in close, his green eyes glittering with mockery. “Are you one of those who like to watch a man swing from the gallows? It shows how little fine manners separate the scum o’ the Earth from those born to wealth.”

She jerked back. How dare he accuse her of enjoying the sight of someone strangling at the end of the rope? Before she could think of a suitable retort, he had turned away from her as if tired of her conversation.

He swung out his knife again. She flinched, but relaxed when she saw he used it only to pick his teeth.

Florence shifted her attention to the fire, which had burned low. “May I replenish the fire?” she asked softly.

He grunted. Taking it for assent, she stood.

There were only a few sticks of wood left. She used one to stir up the remaining embers and laid what was left atop them.

Damien, I pray you don’t worry about me. By now, he may have heard something about the escape. As far as she knew, no condemned person had ever slipped the noose.

“Did you know you would be rescued today?” she asked into the silence.

“No.”

She drew in her breath. The enormity of his reprieve took her breath away. The Lord had indeed heard her prayer for mercy. “You were prepared to die today?”

He laid down his knife and looked at her. His expression was flat and unreadable. “As ready as a man ever is.”

“You refused to kneel and pray.”

He turned aside and spit on the ground. “What, kneel for the benefit of a jeering crowd and play into the hands of that cleric so he can use it as a lesson to hold over the other poor prisoners?” He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. “Yes, dear people,” he mocked the pious tones of the ordinary. “Witness here a dying man’s repentance for a crime he never committed.”

She had no words to reply to that. She knew the man he was referring to and could hardly refute what he was saying.

Not knowing what else to say and feeling stiff from kneeling by the fire, she stood and shook her skirt out. Although the chill had left her limbs, she felt exhausted. The night’s vigil and the day’s excitement were taking their toll. She sat back down and recommenced praying. The Lord surely had a plan, and she needed to know what He would have her do next.

Instead of showing signs of fatigue, Quinn seemed to grow restless. He stood and began to prowl about the low cellar. He investigated every corner of it. Then he checked the door. Finally, he came back, spread out a dirty blanket on the hard ground next to the small fire, and lay down.

“Remember, if you try anything, I have the knife right here.” He patted the blade, which rested beneath his hands on his broad chest.

She sniffed. “It’s not up to me to turn you in. The Lord spared your life for a reason.”

He turned his back on her.

After a while, she heard the deep, even breathing that told her he was asleep. She began to recite Scripture. She felt her own lids grow heavy. Finally, able to fight the fatigue no more, she rested her head on the pillow of her arms and shut her eyes….

Chapter Two

Jonah opened his eyes. He tensed, as he’d done every morning in his solitary cell in Newgate. The fire pit in front of him brought reality back in a jumble of images.

The feel of the rough hemp about his neck. The cap over his face blocking out the sea of faces in front of him.

He was going to die, and he didn’t know if he’d disgrace himself before the crowd. How they loved a good show. Would he suffocate quickly, his short, insignificant life snuffed out, or would the rope prove uncooperative and leave him swinging there for agonizing minutes?

Before he’d been isolated in the condemned man’s cell, he’d heard richly detailed stories from other prisoners of how chancy a clean death was. Often the hangman would have to pull on a prisoner’s legs so he’d die the quicker. A rare prisoner even survived the hanging, his throat raw and bruised, only to have to face the rope the next day.

Jonah didn’t think he could go through such a proceeding twice.

Despite his bravado, he’d been terrified. He’d stared at the dank, stone ceiling of his cell as the hours ticked by, and contemplated his demise. What would the morrow bring? Where would his soul go after the rope cut off the breath from his body? Or would his life be ended for good?

He passed a hand in front of his eyes now, wiping away the last horrible memories. His shoulders ached from his position on the floor, though he was used to a hard surface from the wooden pallet in his cell. The fire had long since gone out. His feet felt numb.

Quiet breathing alerted him that he wasn’t alone. The prison lady.

She—he didn’t even know her name—still sat on the chair, but now her head rested on her arms and it was obvious she slept. She looked peaceful and harmless. He laughed inwardly, thinking how little the image reflected the reality. The woman’s words were like barbs, pointed and skillfully aimed at a man’s weaknesses.

They’ll flush you out like a partridge. Her pale eyes had taunted him, her tone as self-assured as the presiding judge’s at the Old Bailey. You would have been condemned to a fate worse than mere death if you had swung on that gallows today.

What did she know of his life? Who was she to judge? Had she ever been accused of a crime she didn’t commit? How would she have responded to a rope around her neck? Would all her preaching help her then? Not for a moment had she truly noticed the man in front of her.

He observed her in her sleep now, her back rising and falling in an even rhythm. A strange curl of something snaked through his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in so long. Then her cutting words rose again and he saw her for what she was. His prisoner.

The tables were turned. He, the prisoner, with a prisoner of his own. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t let her go once he was away from Newgate. Surety against the soldiers? Perhaps. Although he doubted the value of one woman’s life to the soldiers. Especially such a scrawny one. He remembered how slight she’d felt when he’d half dragged, half carried her along the streets.

He shrugged. It no longer mattered. He’d let her go soon. She was of no use to him now. He’d have enough trouble keeping his own hide in safety. Two would be nigh on impossible.

He stood and listened but could discern no noises from the street. If the soldiers hadn’t ferreted him out here, he might actually have a fighting chance. For the first time since his escape, he began to believe in his freedom. It had happened so quickly. One moment facing his death, the next offered a chance at liberty.

He didn’t even know who had organized his rescue. From the few words he’d exchanged with the cove who’d led him here, it sounded like an underworld boss. He certainly didn’t have the kind of friends who’d risk their lives for him. If anything, circumstances had proved how quickly his acquaintances in the city would betray him.

Eventually they’ll catch you. The prison woman’s words came back to him…again. He threw an angry look at her sleeping form. How dare she invade his mind with her convictions? She was a nothing, a self-righteous little nothing.

And yet, her direct words, those clear gray eyes that cut through to a man’s soul, haunted him, worsening his restlessness. He rose to his feet and paced, ignoring the pins and needles as his feet came back to life.

He thought of the many eyes in this rookery. Even when the streets appeared deserted, there were dozens of watchers from the broken and boarded-up windows. How long before someone turned him in? What if the Crown offered a reward for his capture?

He halted. Suddenly the walls seemed to be closing in on him, and he remembered the feeling of confinement in the dungeonlike cell at Newgate. He would not go back to that. They’d not catch him, he swore. They wouldn’t! He’d die first.

The woman stirred and raised her head. Her hand went to her bonnet, half fallen off. Then she turned and her gaze met Jonah’s.

“’Bout time you woke up.”

“How long have I been asleep?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. The sight of her slim pale hands curled against her face gave her a vulnerability she’d lacked before, and Jonah felt an odd protectiveness sweep over him. What had she been thinking, exposing herself to prisoners and mobs? He remembered the other man’s lewd words when he’d left him and they sickened him. This woman had a refinement that belonged to the drawing room, not hiding out in a hovel on Saffron Hill with a fugitive.

He remembered holding the knife to her delicate neck and guilt stabbed him. She smoothed back her hair while he watched. What was he going to do with her? He shrugged to hide his dismay. “You’re the one with the watch.”

She fumbled beneath her cloak and finally managed to extract the timepiece. “It’s almost six o’clock.”

“It’ll be dark outside.”

She pushed her hair away from her forehead and looked at the cold grate.

Her longing for a fire was clear. To distract her, he said, “I haven’t heard any hoofbeats on the road above us so the search hasn’t reached this quarter.”

“Yet.”

He glared at her and turned back around. To think he’d felt a moment of pity for her.

She began to untie the ribbons of her bonnet and proceeded to remove it. She wore her light brown hair in a simple knot and her cloak was gray. Was she a Quaker? Despite her plain appearance, she had the air of a lady. It was more than her speech. It was something in her gestures and the cut of her clothes. Not that he’d ever had much contact with ladies in his life.

“You said you didn’t know you were to be set free today, but did you know any of the men who stormed the gallows?” she asked.

“I had little time to see anything once the cap was removed from me eyes.”

“Did you recognize any of them?” she persisted.

He frowned at her, wondering why the close questioning. Was she going to go to the authorities as soon as he released her? “I don’t know nothing of any of ’em! And it’s best you probably know as little as possible.”

She arched a thin eyebrow at him.

He folded his arms across his chest. Did nothing cow her? “You’re bound to be questioned once you return to your nice, cozy house.”

She nodded slowly. “My reason in asking was to wonder if these men have made any provision for your escape. Will they take you somewhere else now?”

He turned and resumed his walk in the small space, not liking to be reminded of the future. “I wouldn’t think they’d chance further involvement. It was dangerous enough what they did.”

“Yes. If any were caught, they’d be up for treason.” When he said nothing, she gave him that weighing look. “So, you are on your own now.”

He shrugged as if the idea didn’t bother him at all. “It’s not the first time.”

She chewed her lip a moment. “I have a suggestion.”

He stilled but said nothing.

“My brother might be able to help you.”

Was it possible? This sharp-tongued woman was offering him help? True, she had conceded he might be innocent, but to involve herself further, that entailed quite some risk. “Your brother?” was all he could think to say.

“Yes. He lives with me…I mean, I live with him. I…keep house for him.” For the first time, she seemed nervous. Perhaps she realized the folly of dragging someone else into this mess and making him an accessory to a crime.

“How could he help a man in my shoes?”

“I d-don’t know exactly, but he is very wise. He might know of somewhere you could go. He might be able to help you out of the country. I don’t know…He’s very levelheaded. He won’t give you away.”

“Who is he? Someone of importance?” Was she a wealthy nob and he hadn’t realized it?

“Not in earthly terms. He’s a curate.”

He turned away, angry at himself for the spurt of hope he’d allowed her words to give him. “Ach! I can see the kind of help you have in mind.”

“I was thinking in terms of material help in this case, not spiritual, although, you will need that as well. He is not rich, by any means, but I’m sure he’ll help you in any way he can.”

He refused to listen to any more. No doubt she was still only trying to save his soul, to make up for her failure with him in Newgate. Walking to the door, he pressed his ear to it. So far, silence. Carefully, he opened it, and stood listening a while longer. Nothing. He stepped out.

“Where are you going?”

“Wait here.” Ignoring the note of worry in her voice, he proceeded up the stairs. Time to scout out the street and decide if the moment had come to move.

The street was dark. A few shadowy figures hurried along it. He could leave and skirt down the nearest alley. Best head toward Clerkenwell.

When he reentered the cellar, the woman had removed the pins from her hair until it fell loose about her shoulders. She was combing it through with her fingers. For a second his gut clenched, remembering his wife’s similar motions with the tortoiseshell comb he had bought for her one time from a tinker.

When the woman noticed him watching her, she quickly gathered her hair in her hands and wound it back up in a tight knot.

“It’s time to leave,” he said.

She replaced the pins in her hair, then stood and straightened her cloak, her movements quick and efficient.

He came to the table and wrapped the food up. Corking the bottle, he placed the things back into the satchel and flung it over his shoulder. Who knew when he’d have more?

He turned and found her standing near him. She was above medium height, the top of her bonnet reaching to his temple. Her pale gray eyes looked at him calmly. For a woman who had been abducted and kept hostage, she had shown an amazing amount of courage.

Suddenly, his conscience smote him. He couldn’t very well leave her in this rookery. Despite his months in the brutal surroundings of Newgate, he remembered a time when he’d been among civilized people. Men who respected women.

He swallowed, remembering his own wife again. He’d never have left her to fend for herself in such a pit. He pushed open the door and gestured. “Either come with me and be quiet about it, or I’ll leave you in this stew to find your own way out.”

She followed silently behind him as he climbed the stairs once more. They stood in the doorway of the derelict building some time before he ventured out. Finally taking her by the arm in a sure, but not rough, grip and placing a finger to his lips, he stepped out of the overhang of the doorway.

Jonah had a fairly good knowledge of the layout of the neighborhood. He’d spent most of the past year since arriving in London in the surrounding areas, before they’d thrown him into Newgate. His eyes strained through the darkness, knowing that although no one was about, there was no telling how many people watched the street. It was an area where few lingered after dark and most had something they preferred hiding.

He reached an alley and walked down it, skirting the piles of litter. A cat let out an outraged meow and jumped up onto a jagged brick wall.

Their boots crunched over the thin layer of ice that now covered the puddles. He turned left and went down a narrower path. Another turn, then another, and they left the open area and were once more hidden by buildings.

He spared her a glance. “Where do you live?”

“Just outside Marylebone, beyond the Uxbridge Road tollhouse.” She kept her words brief, as if understanding the need for quiet.

“I don’t know that part of town. I’ll leave you where you can get a hack.”

They skirted another building then went down another alley. Soon the streets widened and more pedestrians and carriages were to be seen. He made a wide circle around Gray’s Inn. He knew he was taking a grave risk entering this neighborhood, especially so early in the evening, but he’d made up his mind he wouldn’t leave this innocent woman alone in the stews of London.

Suddenly a crowd of uniformed men turned the corner just as he was ready to emerge from an alleyway onto a main street. Horse guards, by the jingle of their spurs against the cobblestones. Jonah jerked to a stop, pulling the woman by her middle against him. He didn’t have a chance to unsheathe his knife to hold to her throat or cover her mouth with his hand. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe, nor make the slightest sound to draw the men’s attention as they passed in front of him.

One of them slipped and clutched at his companion’s arm.

“By George, Harry, have a care,” the other admonished, giving him a shove that sent him dangerously close to where Jonah was standing. “If you can’t hold your liquor, you belong with the Grenadiers!” Laughter rang out all around them.

By their tone, they were likely leaving a tavern and not on a manhunt. Even so, if one so much as turned in his direction, they’d see him where he stood only a few feet away in the shadows. His attention slid to the woman in front of him. Her bonnet hid half his face. He could feel her slim frame beneath his grip. All she had to do was call out and he’d be finished.

As the seconds ticked by, he realized his entire future hung on this woman’s whim. The sweat broke out on his forehead and armpits. His heart pumped in deafening thuds as he relived those last moments on the gallows.

Then the soldiers were gone. Their laughter faded, as did their footfalls on the cobbles. The ensuing silence was only broken by his heartbeat. Slowly, he loosened his hold on the woman’s midriff. She stepped a few inches away from him, as if awaiting his next move.

She hadn’t given him away. He swallowed, still scarcely believing his good fortune. He took a large gulp of the frigid air, breathing in the taste of freedom.

He mustn’t risk another near encounter with the law. Taking her arm once again, he crossed the street after a quick look up and down it. He led her at a rapid pace a few more blocks on a less-traveled side street. Finally he stopped.

“If you walk in that direction,” he said, gesturing, “you’ll come to Red Lion Square. Continue a little farther and you’ll reach Holborn. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a hack there to take you where you live.” He thought of something. “Do have any blunt to pay your fare?” He certainly had nothing to give her.

She nodded. “I’ll manage.”

“All right. I’ll leave you here.” He swallowed, finding it hard to say the next words. It had been a long time since he’d felt gratitude to anyone for anything. “And…uh…thanks for holding your tongue back there.”

“I told you I wouldn’t give you away.” Through the darkness, he could feel her straightforward look. “Don’t forget my offer. If you find nowhere to go, come to my brother. St. George’s Chapel on St. George’s Row just above Hyde Park. You’ll not be turned away by the Reverend Damien Hathaway.”

He shifted on his feet. “I don’t expect you’ll be seeing the likes o’ me unless it’s at the end o’ the noose. I’ll be long gone from London ere you wake up tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “You’re a fool. Look at you. You don’t even have a greatcoat. How long are you going to survive in this cold?”

“I survived this long. I’ll manage.”

They stood eyeing each other for another few seconds. Would he ever see her again? Strange how the thought gave him pause. Even now, she was berating him, and yet he felt she meant him good and not harm.

Without another word, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her bonnet and turned away from him. His hand almost reached out to stop her, but then he dropped it back to his side. What had he meant by the gesture? What could he say to her?

In a certain sense, he owed her his life.

Her footsteps took her rapidly in the direction he’d pointed and she disappeared into the night.

He stood a second longer before hurrying back into a side street and toward the East End of London.

Florence stumbled from the hackney after a long ride across London. Her stiff fingers fumbled with her purse. Finally, she paid her fare and turned toward her house.

She breathed in the fresh, cold air. Her neighborhood seemed more like a village than a part of London. Beyond the parsonage lay orchards and fields. She walked up the steps to the large brick house where she and her brother lived since he’d been given the curacy of the small chapel.

She tried hard to forget the image of Mr. Quinn with his dirty clothes that offered so little protection from the elements. If he returned to the cellar, there was no wood left for a fire. Or would he head out of London on the Great North Road and hope to sleep under cover of a forest?

It would be harder to hide in a village.

She shut the front door behind her as the rattle of the coach faded in the distance. Familiar warmth enveloped her.

“Florence! I thought I heard someone come in. Thank God, you’re alive!” Damien hurried toward her, his arms outstretched, his pace fast in spite of his wooden leg.

They were not a generally demonstrative family, but it felt good right then to be held in a warm embrace. He smelled good, too, his cravat freshly starched, a great contrast to the stink of the other man and his surroundings.

Damien pulled away from her. His blue eyes searched her face. “Tell me what happened, where you’ve been, I heard so many stories.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t be worried.” She slipped out of his embrace and began to undo the clasp of her cloak. “First, let me get near the fire. It’s a raw night.”

“Of course, forgive me for keeping you standing here.” He took her cloak and bonnet and hung them on the hook. “I must also let Albert and Elizabeth know you are back. They were most concerned.”

“Yes, let me go to the kitchen at once.”

She spent the next several minutes assuring their two old retainers that she indeed was safe and sound. Finally she was able to sit with her brother in his study, her feet on the fender, a hot cup of tea in her hands.

“I’ve been praying for you since this morning, Florrie.” Damien used the nickname she hadn’t heard since they’d been children. “I heard there’d been a storming of the gallows and you’d disappeared in the fray. Some said you were abducted, others that you’d been crushed by the mob. It took a troop of guards quite some time to subdue the crowds.”

She shuddered, remembering the violent mob. “That explains how Quinn was able to get away. I can still scarcely believe what happened. The hangman was ready to release the drop, when all of a sudden a dozen men besieged the gallows and cut down the prisoner a second before his feet would have dangled in the air.” She put a hand to her cheek, picturing it all again. “The next thing I knew Quinn had grabbed me and was holding a knife to my throat.”

Damien drew in a sharp breath.

She raised her eyes to meet his gaze. “I’m sure he thought to use me as a shield.” She refrained from telling him how close she had come to having the guard’s pike embedded in her.

“How cowardly to grab a woman. Did he hurt you?”

“No.” She pictured the events as she stared into the fire. “I think he reacted out of pure fear—fear of being recaptured,” she added, remembering the man’s fierce look when she’d mentioned the authorities closing in. “As soon as he made his way through the mob, most of whom sympathized with the prisoner, I must say, he just kept going.” She shook her head. “I wonder if he even intended to take me at all. It almost seemed as if he simply forgot to let go of me.” Her arm was still tender from his bruising grip.

Damien reached across and covered her hand with his. “How terrifying for you.”

She smiled. “I know. Oddly enough, after a while, I was no longer afraid. I was too stunned by how the Lord was answering prayer.” She leaned forward. “The man was set to die. The Lord has given him a stay of execution. Jonah Quinn was not ready to face his Maker, in the state he was in.”

Damien nodded, a small smile curving his lips. “It certainly seems like the hand of the Lord when I see it was you out of all the crowd who was taken.”

Florence went on to describe where they had hidden out all day.

Damien shook his head in wonder. “And he didn’t hurt you.”

“No. I think he was more bluster than real threat.” For such a fierce-looking man, he’d behaved almost…gallantly, even to bringing her at great risk to himself to a place where she could get a hackney. She recalled their near brush with the soldiers.

What would her fate have been in the hands of another sort, like the fellow who had led them to the hideout? She shivered.

“Did they search for him very long?” she asked her brother.

“They spent more time subduing the mob, from what I heard. It has certainly caused an uproar. I think it’s the first time, in memory at least, that someone has escaped the gallows. The Crown will be nervous with the unrest there’s been since the war. They’re already saying it’s the Jacobins who are responsible.”

“The prisoner claimed ignorance of his rescuers.”

“He could be speaking the truth.” Damien cleared his throat. “They’re sure to question you once they know you’re back.”

She frowned into her tea. “There’s little I can tell them, or wish to.”

“Did you get any sense of its having been planned?”

She looked at her brother, her heart heavy. “No. I don’t think there is even a plan for Quinn to hide out or be smuggled abroad. It’s only a matter of time before the authorities find him.”

Damien nodded thoughtfully, his own glance straying to the fire. “So many poor unfortunates housed in Newgate. They won’t have any mercy on this man if they catch him.”

“He insisted on his innocence right up to the end.” A wave of desolation swept through her when she remembered how alone he’d looked when she’d left him. She’d been so sure the Lord had called her for a special purpose in the man’s life.

She looked at her brother sadly. “I wasn’t able to get through to Mr. Quinn at all. He remained deaf to any of my admonitions to seek the help of the Lord. He disappeared into the night where he left me and I doubt I shall ever see him again.” She paused and hesitated on the next words. “I even told him he could come here, that you would be able to help him in some way. I felt sure…” She stared unseeing into her teacup.

“Don’t fret. You were obedient in going where the Lord led you and witnessing to this unfortunate soul. You have nothing to reproach yourself with. You must trust the Lord now to finish the work begun in Mr. Jonah Quinn.”

His swarthy face came to her mind. Underneath the filth and foul language, she’d sensed a man of substance. A soul worth saving.

Lord, help him find You, she prayed silently. The streets of London could be cold and inhospitable.

Jonah spent the next few days moving from one abandoned cellar to another, searching through the refuse around Westfield Market by night for a scrap of food. When he was able to find some fuel, he hazarded a fire in the various hovels, but he dared not risk detection. He trusted no one around him. He had no contact with those who had rescued him and gave up hoping for more. He was on his own, the way he’d been since his wife and children had perished.

It had been their doom the day they’d come to London. But what else could he have done once the open fields around his village had been enclosed? They’d been left with no land to graze their few cows or grow any wheat. With the war lasting so long, the price of wheat kept going up, so they could hardly buy bread anymore.

Jonah pushed the memories from his mind. It did no good to go over the same thoughts. What was done was done. He couldn’t change a single fact of his miserable destiny.

He had no funds, precious little food, not even a coat he could huddle under.

He was beyond help.

It was only a matter of time before he’d die of exposure or the authorities would catch him. Already he’d felt a burning in his throat that had grown worse each day until he could hardly swallow. The gin was long since gone, so there was nothing to relieve the pain.

He scratched his itchy scalp then folded his arms once more over his chest, tucking his fingers under his armpits. How had he gone from a life of hard work but basic satisfaction at the end of the day to the life of a virtual beggar in the city?

He’d never wanted much. Life had been good the way it was. He’d come home to Judy and the two babes, eat his plate of potatoes or bread and butter, sometimes with a piece of bacon, stretch out his legs before the fire, then retire for the night in their small cottage. That life seemed one of a king now.

The decline had come fast, starting when he could find no work in the city because he was an “unskilled laborer.” He’d learned the meaning of that term quickly on. His wife had been more fortunate at first, finding piecemeal work, picking over silk for a family in Spitalfields. But with the difficulties in that industry, the employment had soon dried up.

He’d only managed to find work for a few days at a time, mainly digging ditches. The day he was forced to snitch a piece of fruit off a market stand to bring something home to the wee ones, he thought he’d sunk as low as a fellow could.

For a while Judy had taken in laundry, but it left her exhausted, her hands worn, and when the cold weather set it, she’d gotten sickly spending so much time wet. One by one, the little ones had also succumbed to the fever until Jonah had been the only one left.

That’s when he’d met a cove by the name of Stevens. He’d seemed an upright gentleman with an honest trade. He’d promised Jonah employment in his shop. The wages were low, but Jonah was desperate enough to take anything.

The job had been humble enough. Sweeping the shop, unloading the wares from the delivery wagons, all used goods, sorting through the dirty clothing and odd assortment of wares. Gradually, Jonah had grown to wonder at the steady supply of merchandise, especially when he’d seen the number of pocket watches and rings. When he’d begun to ask questions, his boss had laughed and told him to mind his own business.

Then came that fateful day when Mr. Stevens had asked him, with that cherubic smile on his face, to take the banknote to one of his suppliers.

The next day, he’d been accused by the man of passing a false bill.

It was only during the long months sitting in Newgate awaiting his trial that Jonah had pieced it all together. Stevens’s shop had been nothing more than a front for stolen goods. When Jonah had begun to question things, Stevens had seen that it was time to get rid of him. No one had believed Jonah’s simple denials in the face of the evidence of the forged note. The evidence was irrefutable. The trial had lasted no more than five minutes before he was declared guilty and sentenced to hang.

Jonah bowed his head on his folded arms. Why did he fight against the inevitable any longer? Why not give up the ghost and be done with it?

A woman’s sharp words pushed past the despair engulfing him. If you find nowhere to go, come to my brother…. You’ll not be turned away by the Reverend Damien Hathaway.

She’d not given him away when she’d had the chance.

Despite her snappish tongue, she’d proved to be a true and stalwart ally.

Was she his only hope?

Chapter Three

Florence walked from the chapel through the dark orchard to the rear of the parsonage. The rain fell in cold hard drops and she was glad of her hood. She had just finished arranging things on the altar for tomorrow’s service.

She quickened her step while trying to avoid the muddy puddles, but it was impossible to see them all in the dark. Ahead, the lights of the house windows beckoned with their golden glow. She fumbled with the latch of the door to the walled kitchen garden. The box hedge brushed its stubby wet branches against her, sending forth its pungent odor. They’d have to trim it back come spring.

A sudden rustling made her heart jump. She froze.

“Who’s there?” her voice rapped out. A vagrant or Gypsy seeking a roof over his head for the night?

A large figure moved from the shadows. “You said I could come to you.”

More than his voice, she recognized his size. “Mr. Quinn!”

“Shh! I’m a wanted man, if you haven’t forgotten.” He stepped closer.

His face was filthy and haggard. Dark circles ringed his eyes. She wasted no more time on questions. “Come along. You’ll freeze out here.” Without a backward glance, she quickened her step along the stone path. How long had he been standing there in the freezing rain?

“Oh!” She felt her foot slip on a slick stone. Before she could land on her backside, a strong grip stopped her fall. She well remembered that iron hold.

He let her go as soon as she regained her balance. “Watch your step.”

“Tha-thank you.” She straightened. “Come along,” she said, her tone firmer than she felt inside.

Where had he been since she’d last seen him? It had been, she calculated, five days. She’d prayed for him each one and thanked the Lord that he was still free—if alive—since her visits to Newgate had told her he hadn’t been apprehended.

They’d only questioned her minimally. Few people had even been aware she’d been grabbed by the prisoner. The warden let the matter drop when she gave him the scant details of her abduction. She was thankful she hadn’t had to lie. She’d merely told them Jonah Quinn had let her go once he’d found a hiding place. She had told them nothing of the location of the cellar. In truth, she would have no idea how to find it again herself.

They reached the back door to the parsonage. Quinn closed it behind them and she turned to look at him in the lamplight. The warm glow only emphasized his drawn cheeks and rough beard, all dripping from the rain.

“My goodness, you must be frozen.” He wore the same jacket and breeches she remembered, everything soaked through. “Come along to the fire.”

She gestured to the bench in front of the hearth. “Sit down, while I fetch my brother and some dry things for you.”

He looked as if he wanted to say something, but she hurried from the room. It was a miracle if the man didn’t catch his death.

She rushed to her brother’s study first. “Damien, you must come immediately.”

“What is it, Flo?” he asked, half rising from his desk chair.

“It’s him. He’s come.”

“Who?”

“The escaped prisoner, Jonah Quinn.”

He dropped his pen. “Where is he?”

“I’ve brought him to the kitchen. He’s chilled to the bone. Who knows how long he’s been standing in the garden.”

Damien was already heading for the door. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Yes. Let him know he’s safe here, for now. I must get some dry things for him.” She eyed her brother’s slim frame. “May I rummage about in your clothespress? I doubt anything of yours will fit him, but he can’t stay in those wet garments.”

“Rummage away, even if it’s only for a nightshirt.”

Jonah turned at the sound of the door. A young man—a gentleman by the look of his refined features, neatly trimmed hair and dark clerical clothing—stared at him. Of above average height and slim, his resemblance to his sister was obvious. Jonah remembered she’d said he was a curate.

The curate stepped forward, a pale hand outstretched. A distinct limp brought Jonah’s eye to a wooden leg, just below the knee. Pity.

“Welcome.” The word held genuine warmth. “I’m Reverend Damien Hathaway. You met my sister, Florence, the other day during your…adventure,” he added when Jonah said nothing.

After a second’s hesitation, Jonah stood and held out his own grimy hand. The other’s shake was firm, despite its more fragile, neat appearance.

“Jonah Quinn,” was all he said.

“Please, sit down, Mr. Quinn. Welcome to our home.” Hathaway smiled, and Jonah was struck by the friendly goodwill in the man’s clear blue eyes.

“Goodness, Florence was right. You’re soaked through. She has gone to get some dry things. You’d better get out of those as soon as possible. Let me help you with your jacket.”

Before he could comply, another door opened. He tensed, wondering if he must flee again. A gray-haired woman peered in.

She gave Jonah a sharp look and it was all he could do not to look away.

“Ah, Mrs. Nichols,” the curate said, as if Jonah’s appearance was the most natural thing in the world. “As you see, we have a visitor with us on this inhospitable evening. I was just going to fetch a blanket for him. Florence has gone for some dry clothes. I suggest some tea and perhaps a hot bath?”

“Of course, sir, I’ll have Albert fetch the tub. Dear me, it’s an awful night to be about. Come, let me take your coat.” She gave Jonah a quick curtsy. “Elizabeth Nichols, at your service.”

Jonah gave a quick bow of his head then stopped. He couldn’t give his real name. He hadn’t thought of that wrinkle. All he’d thought about was getting to somewhere warm and dry.

He looked across at Reverend Hathaway and read understanding in his eyes. “Kendall,” Jonah finally said. That was his mother’s family name. “William.” No one would think to connect Jonah Quinn with his brother’s name. “William Kendall, at your service,” he said, and held out his hand.

“Very good, Mr. Kendall,” the servant said.

Hathaway stepped forward. “Mr. Kendall has come to stay with us a while.”

“Of course, sir.” She turned away and went to hang up his coat, as if she were used to having ragged guests appear at all hours of the night.

The next moments were filled with bustle and confusion as Jonah sat on the bench by the fire, unable to stop the shivers racking his body. Mrs. Nichols came up to him with a large blanket. “Here you go, sir. If you’ll remove your wet things, you can just wrap yourself up in this till your bath is ready.”

“Yes, madam,” he answered, suddenly overwhelmed. He’d never been waited on in his life, except by his wife, who’d served him his supper when he’d come in from the fields and cleared it away from him when he was done.

When the others had left the room, he slowly began to remove his boots. Both were split at the soles, hardly affording protection against the wet streets. His stockings, full of holes, were soaked through. After removing them, he hesitated, wondering where to set them. The flagstones looked clean enough to eat off and the Dutch tiles along the wide-open range shone.

Just as he laid the dirty socks in a sodden heap on the floor, the door opened. The prison lady, Miss Hathaway, reappeared carrying a bundle of things in her arms.

She seemed startled to find him alone. “Where did everyone go?”

“To fetch me a bath,” he answered, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

She laid the armful on the table. “I’ve brought some of my brother’s things, though you are larger than he is. It’s mostly nightclothes once you’ve had a bath.” She spoke quickly as if she, too, were nervous. She wasn’t still afraid of him, was she?

An older man entered the kitchen, carrying a tin tub in one hand and a bucket in the other. “Evening, Miss Hathaway.” He gave Jonah a quick bob of his head before going to the range to pour the bucket of water into a large black kettle.

When the man had left again, Miss Hathaway indicated the rest of the things she’d brought. “Here are towels, a bar of soap, a hairbrush and, as I said, some nightclothes and a dressing gown from my brother. I shall leave you now and prepare your room.” She turned to go.

Before she reached the door, he said, “Those others—” He cleared his throat. “They won’t, uh, give away who I am?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Nichols? Oh, no. They’re used to seeing strangers come and go from here. As I told you, my brother never turns anyone away from his doors. You’ll find refuge here.”

“You don’t think they recognized me?” He remembered the odd look the woman had given him.

Miss Hathaway fingered the white lace at her collar, her only sign of hesitation. “I…cannot be certain. They know I was…abducted by you five days ago, but with scant details.” She looked away from him. “I thought it better to say little of the matter to anyone save my brother. I was questioned by the authorities of Newgate. Again, I gave few details, as I didn’t wish…to lie. I—I was glad then I knew little myself. I wanted to give you a chance to be gone from London…as you said you were planning.”

He could feel his face heat. Fine job he had made of his chance at freedom. He thought on her words. It didn’t bode well. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come here, the very place the authorities might look.

As if reading his thoughts, she said, her voice regaining its self-assurance, “I shouldn’t worry too much. My part that day has been all but forgotten and the Nicholses are trustworthy.”

Alone again, he sat wrapped in the large blanket, sipping a cup of tea before the fire and pondering where he’d ended up. From huddling in the freezing cold for five days to being treated like an honored guest. The open warmth and acceptance with which the curate and his sister had received him left him uneasy. Could he trust such kindness?

And Miss Hathaway. Jonah shook his head in further amazement. She’d not only held her tongue, but seemed to have forgotten how he’d held her at knifepoint and kept her hostage an entire day.

The old manservant returned and poured the heated water into the tub. When he’d gone, Jonah rose, feeling the full weariness of all those days on the run.

With an effort, he shed his torn breeches and eased into the hot water. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a bath, not even a pitcher of water and cake of soap. Even though he couldn’t stretch out his legs in it, he wished he didn’t have to leave the water. His body couldn’t seem to get warm despite the steaming water and blazing fire in front of him.

He grabbed up the bar of soap. As it hit the water, it released a fragrance. He put it up to his nostrils. Despite his stuffy nose, he got a whiff of lavender and saw the little purple buds embedded in the bar. They reminded him of life in the country and the herbs his wife used to hang upside down from the rafters to dry.

He dunked his head in the water and began to scrub the months of filth from his scalp and beard, working his way down to his neck and chest.

His bathwater soon turned gray. With a sigh of regret he took the pitcher full of water left for him and let the clean water run from his head down the length of his body, feeling cleaner than he’d felt since arriving in London.

By the time he’d toweled dry, he was shivering again. He put on the nightshirt. It was long enough, but a trifle tight around the shoulders. The dressing gown was the same. He sat in front of the fire and rubbed his hair dry, hoping to get warm again. A voice called through the door, “May I come in, sir?” The older man, Nichols, peered into the room.

“Aye, come in.”

“Good, I see you finished your bath. Mistress says to come up to your bed as soon as you’re ready and we’ll bring you a bowl of soup, if you’d like.”

Soup. His very gut rumbled at the word. “I could use something hot.” He rose and followed Mr. Nichols up a carpeted stairs, the plush material blissful under his bare feet. He wondered if he could ask for a shot of gin. That would further warm his bones.

He entered a neat bedroom. A full-size bed filled most of the space. A fire burned in the grate.

“There you go, sir. Just make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring your soup up in a trifle.”

“Tha-thank you,” Jonah found himself stumbling over the simple words, words he’d rarely used of late. Suddenly he sneezed.

“Coming down with something?” Mr. Nichols tut-tutted. “Here, let me get you a handkerchief.” He rummaged about in a chest of drawers and handed him a white square.

Like everything in the house, it appeared clean. Jonah brought it to his nose. It also smelled clean.

As soon as he was alone, he climbed into the bed. He felt the full exhaustion of days on the run, of being afraid to sleep, of running from place to place…

He was roused with the arrival of the older woman who was carrying a tray. “Here you go, sir, some hot soup and a hot toddy to help put you to sleep. Albert said you sounded a bit congested.”

Jonah sat up as the tray was placed on his lap. In a split second he’d downed the tumbler of sweetened hot water and rum that stood beside the bowl. He smacked his lips before picking up the spoon and going to work on the soup. The woman adjusted the pillows behind him.

The soup was tasty, thick and savory, with chunks of beef and barley through it. So much like his wife’s cooking, back in the days when life had been kinder, except this contained a lot more meat.

He’d just finished it, and was almost wishing for a second dish, when Miss Hathaway reentered with her brother. The curate smiled at Jonah. “How is everything?”

“Good,” he answered, his attention still on his food. He was debating whether to ask for some more soup, or just collapse into sleep, when Miss Hathaway approached his bed. Like the other woman, she arranged the pillows behind him. He could smell the scent of lavender on her gown’s sleeve as she reached past him.

Suddenly she stepped back. “Look, Damien, he’s full of vermin.”

Jonah turned to her, a hunk of bread halfway to his mouth, not liking the alarm in her tone.

Her brother came round to her side of the bed and touched his scalp. “Excuse me, Mr. Quinn, for taking such liberties.”

Jonah sat still as the man began to probe his scalp.

Finally the man stood back, his brow furrowed. “A little bad news, I’m afraid. Lice.”

Jonah’s hand immediately went up to his scalp and rubbed it. As usual it itched.

“It’s not unusual to become infested, most probably while you were at Newgate. The thing is, it’s catching, and we don’t want it to spread.”

Miss Hathaway addressed her brother. “He’ll have to be shorn. I shall fetch the shears and a cloth to catch the hair. We’ll have to shave him as well. Pity we didn’t see this below stairs.”

She spoke of him as if he wasn’t there, but before he could raise any objections, she had left the room.

“Why don’t you finish your meal,” Mr. Hathaway said in a gentle tone.

Jonah turned back to the remaining bread and butter, which no longer held any appeal. Before he could take it up, he sneezed.

“It sounds like you’ve caught a chill,” the curate said, sympathy in his tone.

“Aye.” Jonah picked up the piece of bread and forced himself to eat it. As soon as he’d swallowed the last bite, he lay back against the heaped-up pillows.

Hathaway, immediately at his side, picked up the tray. He stood a moment and cleared his throat. “I’m glad you came to our house. It gives me a chance to thank you for not harming my sister the other day.”

Jonah’s face heated at the memory of abducting an innocent woman. “I—”

“She’s the only family I have left, and she’s very precious to me.” The curate’s face was so open and sincere that Jonah felt doubly ashamed.

He’d once cared for his family like that. Only he’d lost them. He felt his throat swell up and something sting his eyes.

Relieved to hear the sound of the door opening, he turned away from the curate.

Miss Hathaway entered, equipped with a pair of shears, shaving blade and strop, followed by the old man carrying a steaming bowl of water and more towels.

For a moment, Jonah’s gaze locked with Miss Hathaway’s. Only his wife had ever shorn him.

“Good, he’s finished,” she said, addressing her brother. She proceeded to wrap the large cloth tightly about Jonah’s neck and secure it behind him. Her touch was deft and sure. “Come, Albert, you may shave him. As soon as you’re finished, I shall cut his hair.”

Before he could react, she stepped away from him, and Mr. Nichols took her place. He laid a steamy hot towel against his beard and then proceeded to lather it. Slowly, Jonah eased himself back, enjoying the feeling of the hot, soapy water against his skin. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea….

In a few efficient strokes, his beard was nearly gone. He brought a hand up to his cheek, hardly remembering what clean-shaven skin felt like.

“Just a few more strokes, sir, and I’ll be done.”

Jonah removed his hand.

“There you go, sir, if you want to rinse your face off.”

Jonah did so, then was handed a towel to dry himself off.

Miss Hathaway stepped up to him, brandishing her shears. Without so much as a by-your-leave, she was clipping at his hair with quick movements. The sheet around his neck was soon covered in thick, black curls. He wondered if he had any hair left.

“That’s as close as I can cut,” she told her brother. “I shall continue with the razor.”

Razor? He shifted away from her. “What do you mean, razor?”

She looked down at him. “It means I intend to shave your head. Now, sit still so I don’t nick you.”

He turned to her brother. “Reverend, I—”

“It’s the best way to ensure no vermin remains in your scalp,” Mr. Hathaway told him, his expression apologetic.

Jonah brought a hand up to his hair. It felt short and spiky. “It seems most o’ my hair’s been cut away already.”

“It will soon grow back, and with the proper—” he coughed “—hygiene, you should remain lice-free.”

The next he knew, small but firm hands were working up a lather in his remaining locks. She really meant to shave his scalp. He pulled away from her.

Miss Hathaway’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Sit still.”

But he’d have no more of her treating him as if he were a half-wit. He threw the blankets off himself and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “No one’s touching my scalp,” he said, standing to his full height.

She glared up at him. “Now see here, we’ll not have the house infested by vermin because of your stubbornness.” She pushed down on his shoulder, but he shoved her hand aside.

“It is just a temporary measure,” her brother said, coming between them and laying a hand gently on Jonah’s arm. “You’ll see how quickly it grows back.”

“It’s my scalp you’re talking about.”

“You’re perfectly right. Permit me to apologize. You see, it’s probably our own fear of getting the lice that caused our overzealous reaction. Please forgive us for discussing your condition as if you weren’t present.”

Jonah sneezed.

Hathaway offered him another clean handkerchief. He looked at it a second, then slowly took it. Why was the curate being so generous after the fuss Jonah had raised? He blew his nose. “Well, I suppose if it’s the only way…”

Hathaway eased him back against the pillows. “It’s the quickest and most effective treatment. Your hair will grow back in no time.”

Jonah pulled the covers back over himself. “At least I won’t have to bother with a comb.”

“That’s the spirit.”

His sister moved to take away his pillows. “I shall have to change the casings. They’re likely infested already.” Disgust edged her words.

He glared at her. Who did this stick of a woman think she was? “If you don’t want me here, just say the word and I’ll take my leave.” He shoved away from the brother’s hand and launched himself from the bed. Not two steps and his legs gave out, forcing him to clutch the bedpost. If he’d felt humiliated coming to this house before, standing now in his nightshirt, wobbling like a babe, was too much. “Where are my clothes?”

Before he could take another step, a wave of dizziness swept through him. His hand slipped from the bedpost. His body hit the floor with a large thud.

“Mr. Quinn! Oh, dear!” Miss Hathaway knelt at his side. He felt her touch on his shoulder. “Damien, we must get him into bed.”

Hathaway crouched down at his other side. “Are you all right, Mr. Quinn?”

Miss Hathaway’s soft hand went to his forehead. “He’s feverish. It’s no wonder, the way he was standing out in the rain. Mr. Quinn, can you stand if we help you?” Finally she was looking directly at him, her pale gray eyes showing real concern.

He attempted to rise, feeling their assistance on either side of him, but he couldn’t stop shivering, so he just knelt there, teeth chattering, limbs trembling, sight blurring….

Florence looked at her brother in alarm. “He’s very ill.”

Damien felt his forehead and nodded. “Let me get Albert and see if we can get him back in bed.”

“I think between the two of us we can manage.”

Damien frowned. “I don’t know, he’s a large man.”

The two of them put their arms under Quinn’s and began to hoist him up, but her brother was right. He was large and too heavy for the two of them to move.

Quinn began to stir. His thick eyelashes fluttered upward and his green eyes looked into hers. “Wh-what—where am I?”

“You’re here with us,” she said in a soothing tone. “You must have gotten light-headed. Do you think you can stand so we can help you back to bed?”

Quinn blinked a few times as if focusing and finally shook his head as if to clear it. He reminded Florence of a great beast, except this time he no longer had shaggy locks to shake.

With a deep breath, he strained his torso upward. Both Florence and Damien aided him at each side. His legs buckled under him when they finally got him upright.

“Careful, there,” she murmured, feeling his weight fall upon her as she draped one of his arms over her shoulder. “You’re almost to the bed. Just a few more steps…”

He collapsed against the headboard.

Florence replaced the pillows she had removed earlier, deciding not to attempt to shave his scalp until he fell asleep, which by the looks of things, would be in a matter of minutes.

“Just lie back, Mr. Quinn.”

“I believe he will go by Mr. Kendall from now on,” Damien said quietly.

She looked across at her brother, who had walked to the other side of the bed and was tucking the blankets around the sleeping man.

“It’s the name he gave Albert and Elizabeth.”

“I see,” she said, adjusting the blankets on her side. She hadn’t thought of that issue. Her glance strayed to Quinn, who had closed his eyes, his thick lashes resting against the flushed cheeks. Although they’d helped many people who came to them, they’d never had a fugitive from the law under their roof. Of course he couldn’t use his own name. She chewed her lip, beginning to understand the full implications of offering Quinn refuge.

Subterfuge, deception…it all came down to the same thing. They’d have to lie.

She noticed Quinn still shivering despite the heavy blankets and placed a palm gently on his forehead again. It was quite warm to the touch. “Should we call Mr. Hershey?” she whispered to Damien.

Before he could answer, Quinn’s eyelids shot up. “Who’s that?”

“Our apothecary,” Damien said before she could answer.

Quinn grabbed his arm. “Don’t tell a soul I’m here.”

“It’s all right,” Damien soothed him. “You’re safe here.”

“Swear to me, don’t…tell anybody…”

“All right,” Damien agreed. Only then would Quinn release him. Florence tucked the blankets up closer to his chin. His jaw was clenched tight, as if to keep his teeth from chattering.

“I’ll bring him some hot tea,” she said, and bent to turn down the lamp. Then she retrieved the supper tray. Once they got him quiet, she’d bring more hot water and finish her job with the razor.

Chapter Four

Florence wrung out a cloth and spread it across Quinn’s forehead, as she’d been doing over the past four days. It was now a fight for his life as fever racked his body. The man had not proved easy to nurse. His large, muscular frame thrashed about every time they tried to remove his wet nightshirt or move him the slightest to change the linens underneath him.

She regarded him now. He slept peacefully at the moment, his face at rest. Gone were any traces of the savage-looking man who’d abducted her. In his place was an individual with strong, handsome features. His jaw was square. Either she or Albert had been shaving him to ensure he remained free of vermin. She’d grown to know the feel of every plane of his face. She knew the curve of the cleft of his chin to the small dimple placed in the center of it. Her eyes traveled over his smooth skull. She’d managed to shave it while he slept. His head was nicely shaped, as well as his ears, she noted, which didn’t stick out, but lay flat against the sides of his head.

Her brother’s entry interrupted her contemplation. “How is he?” Damien asked in a low tone, approaching the opposite side of the bed.

She sighed and sat back. “More or less the same. One moment the fever breaks, then a few hours later it’s back. I don’t like the sound of his cough either.”

Damien nodded and bent over Quinn, feeling his cheek with the back of his hand. “Yes.”

“He continues delirious.”

“Yes, I’ve heard him. He seems most disquieted over several things. Probably due to his recent experience on the gallows and daring escape. It’s understandable.”

“Yes. He mentions a Judy and Mary and…a Joshua,” she said, recalling the names. “I wonder if they are his family.” She refrained from voicing the obvious—his wife and children. Strangely, she could not picture him as a husband and father, when she’d seen him only as alone and on the run.

“Likely. Why don’t you let me sit with him a while?”

Why did she feel loath to leave Quinn’s bedside? Florence glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost half past ten in the evening. “You need your rest. You are preaching tomorrow.”

“I won’t stay up long. It will give me an opportunity to go over my sermon.”

In truth, her neck and shoulders ached with fatigue. “If you’re sure,” she said slowly. At his nod, she rose from her chair and took up her needlework from the table.

When Damien had seated himself in her vacated chair, she lingered at the foot of the bed. “You haven’t decided yet what to do about Mr. Qui—Kendall?”

“I don’t think there is much we can decide until the fever passes.”

“And if it…shouldn’t?” It was the first time she’d allowed herself to voice the thought she’d fought to keep at bay. She couldn’t believe this man’s life was to be for naught.

Damien adjusted the blankets on that side of Quinn. “I don’t think the Lord saved this soul from the gallows to take him so quickly. We must wait and see what He would have us do.”

Her brother’s words reassured her. “Of course.”

With a murmured good-night, she departed the room. If Damien felt as she did, it must be more than her own personal desire to wish to see Quinn well and strong. All she desired was for the Lord to have His perfect way in this man’s life.

Jonah felt alternately as if he were being beaten with a rod or his body was once more huddled outside in the icy cold. At those times, he couldn’t get warm, and his body shook so his teeth rattled. The pounding between his temples wouldn’t go away.

He’d fall asleep only to find himself back in the dungeon of Newgate, lying against the dark stone walls of his cell. Or worse, feeling the rope around his neck and knowing in a few seconds it would be jerked against him with bruising strength. In those moments, he couldn’t move, no matter how much he thrashed about. His body felt trussed like a bird’s, helpless to do anything but swing in the air as he gasped for air.

He’d wake up shivering to brief moments of light. His surroundings seemed warm but he couldn’t get any of that warmth into his bones. Different faces hovered over his, pressing cold compresses against his skin, chilling him even more, or thrusting spoonfuls of warm broth or foul-tasting liquids into his mouth. He welcomed the former as the heat soothed his sore throat and struggled against swallowing the latter.

Strong arms would hold him back and a stern voice would scold him. “Come, Mr. Quinn, you must drink this if you hope to be well.”

He knew that voice. Firm, uncompromising. It belonged to that woman, the prison lady with the spare frame and pale features. Once he’d opened his eyes and stared straight into her light-colored ones—either washed-out blue or gray.

“You aren’t going to die on us now, Mr. Quinn. You haven’t put us to all this trouble to give up the ghost now.” With that she’d placed another ice-cold cloth on his forehead.

Sometimes she called him Kendall, sometimes Quinn, which confused him. He hadn’t the strength to argue with her. His body needed all its force to fight against the chills racking it.

Other times he’d awaken to see a pretty young woman hovering over him. She reminded him of his Judy. Plump, dark haired and rosy cheeked. This one, though, looked scared most of the time. Was he that frightening to look at? Once he’d been considered not a bad-looking sort, back in his youth. He could have had his pick of the lasses, but he’d chosen Judy for her saucy smile and curvy figure.

He remembered calling for Judy and little Mary and Joshua more than once. He kept hoping they’d answer, but only soft murmurs greeted his words.

Then finally came that night when he felt drenched. The linens clung to him. He didn’t think he could sweat so much.

“God be praised. The fever has broken.” The woman’s voice again.

“Hallelujah.” Her brother’s lower, gentler one responded. Jonah struggled to open his eyes as strong arms helped him sit up. “Come, sir, let me help you with this nightshirt. It’s soaking.”

It was lifted off him and another, dry, one was put over him, enveloping him in its clean warmth.

“We must remove the sheets as well.” The woman’s hand gripped him lightly by one shoulder, helping to keep him upright.

Before he could move, they had stripped the sheet from under him and were smoothing a dry one in its place. Then the covers were removed and a dry sheet placed over him, the blankets replaced and the pillows plumped up behind him.

“Here, drink this.” Miss Hathaway’s hand came up under his neck and helped prop him forward to take a sip from a glass. Cool liquid slipped down his throat, which no longer hurt to swallow, he discovered. He began to gulp down the liquid, a watery, slightly sweetened drink, bringing his hand up to the cup to lift it farther.

“There now, careful or you’ll spill it.” He could already feel it dribbling down his chin. Miss Hathaway removed the cup and brought a cloth up to wipe him. “Would you care for some more?”

He nodded, not sure if his vocal cords were going to respond properly. She raised the glass to his mouth and this time he drank more carefully.

“There. Mustn’t overdo on the first day.” She placed the glass on the table and patted his mouth once more before helping him to lie back against the pillows.

She smelled the same as the cake of soap he’d used the first night here. The lavender scent brought back the evening of his first bath and decent meal. “How—” He stopped, his voice raspy beyond recognition.

“What’s that?” She had leaned closer to him and peered at him. He had the sense those gray eyes missed little. After nursing him through this bout, she’d probably seen more of his hide than most people.

He attempted to clear his throat and instead erupted in a paroxysm of coughing.

“Easy there, Mr. Qu—” She handed him a handkerchief. “Your fever has broken, but your lungs are still quite congested.”

When his coughing had subsided, he began again. “How long’ve I been lying here?”

“Nearly a fortnight. You came to us on a Saturday eve, and it is now Wednesday, the fifth of March.”

He laid his head back and shut his eyes. February had gone by without his recollection, except for blurred images.

No sooner had his head touched the pillowcase than he sensed the difference. His fingers touched his scalp. It felt the way his chin did when he hadn’t shaved in a few days.

His eyelids opened and he stared at the woman standing over him. She’d had her way after all.

“No lice, I suppose,” he muttered.

Although she didn’t smile, he thought he detected something like humor in those gray eyes. “You are lice-free, I’m happy to report.”

He hadn’t the energy to feel angry. Lying back, looking at Miss Hathaway, he suddenly realized the great debt he owed her for nursing him through. If he’d been sick nearly a fortnight…

If he hadn’t found his way to this house, where would he be now? Long dead in some gutter, his body picked over by stray dogs.

Quinn’s condition improved rapidly after that day. His appetite grew in like measure, and Florence had to struggle to get him to satisfy himself with light custards and broths until she judged him sufficiently improved to digest more solid food.

“Is it back at Newgate I am?” he asked three days later, looking with disdain at the poached egg lying in a bowl, its only accompaniment a thin sliver of dry toast.

“Your stomach has held nothing down but teas and broths for over a week. If you don’t want to suffer severe abdominal pains, you will satisfy yourself with what Mrs. Nichols prepares for you.”

“You want to keep me weak as a kitten and at your mercy in this bed, is what I think,” he said, picking up the spoon and shoveling it into the watery egg. “First you shave my head while I’m lying out of my wits, and now you starve me.”

She folded her arms to keep from boxing his ear. Ever since he’d regained consciousness, he seemed to do nothing but complain to her. To the others, he behaved with more politeness than she’d expect from a Newgate convict. But to her he seemed to do nothing but find fault. Was he still angry that she’d shaved his head?

“On the contrary, Mr…. Kendall,” she told him now, “I’d have you strong and well so you no longer grumble. Honestly, what have the reverend and I brought upon ourselves opening our doors to you?”

For a second, she read a stunned hurt in his eyes. But it was gone immediately as he focused on wiping out the remains of the egg in his bowl with his toast. A man of his brutish strength and rude ways wouldn’t be bothered by her words. Still, her conscience smote her for her unkind remark. What would Damien say if he’d heard her?

After she’d left the room, Jonah sat on the edge of the bed and swung the covers off, his arm feeling like jelly in the process. He needed to use the chamber pot and didn’t want to ring for either the curate or Albert. Not after Miss Hathaway’s remark.

Her comment rankled. No less because it was true. What had he brought on these innocent people? If he should be discovered hiding in the parsonage, what would happen to them?

He scratched his jaw, his whiskers feeling itchy, although not nearly as bad as his face and scalp had felt for months now. Once again, he passed a hand over his head, unused to the smooth feel of it. Although it didn’t feel so smooth now. Rough stubble grazed his fingertips.

He took a deep breath and tried to stand. A wave of dizziness passed over him and he reached out for a bedpost, but he was too far away. He fell back down on the soft bed.

He twisted around as a knock sounded on the door. It couldn’t be one of the women—they never knocked as they came in with some potion to administer or to take the very sheets from beneath him and make up his bed.

“Come in.”

The Reverend Hathaway poked his head in the doorway. “Good morning, Mr. Kendall,” he said with a smile. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. My sister said you were awake.”

“No, you’re not disturbing me.” He quirked his lips. “I was just about to use the chamber pot—” His words broke off as the reverend came in followed by his sister.

Her clear gray gaze locked with his. Any softness he’d sensed in them during his fever had long since gone.

“Of course. If you’ll excuse us, Florence.” Hathaway turned to his sister. For a second she seemed to hesitate—goodness knows, she probably thought she owned him body and soul after nursing him the way she had—then with a nod, she retreated and shut the door behind her.

Hathaway helped Jonah to his feet. “I’m sure you’re feeling as weak as a kitten. It’s understandable. You’ll quickly regain your strength.” As he spoke he led Jonah to the screen in the corner of the room. “There you go. Need any more help?”

“No, I’ll manage.” He’d been helped on and off a bedpan enough already by Albert.

“Very well, I’ll leave you and return in a few minutes.”

After Jonah had finished, he managed to make it to the dressing table and splash water on his face and hands. As he took up a facecloth, he noticed a hand mirror lying facedown on the table. Gingerly he took it up and turned it over.

An unrecognizable face stared back at him. A skull covered over with a light layer of black fuzz, gaunt cheeks shadowed by a layer of bristly whiskers. He passed a hand over his jaw once again, feeling the hollow cheeks, which made his cheekbones look wider. His face had always been full, his neck corded with muscle. Now, he looked like a caricature of that man.

He fingered the cleft in his chin. At least a few recognizable markings still remained. The eyes, too, were familiar. Their dark green irises, framed by black lashes and covered by heavy black eyebrows, stared back at him.

He scowled as his gaze traveled upward to his skull. His forehead seemed way too high now with no black curls to frame it. At least the hair was growing back although it looked shorter than his beard at this point.

He looked like a wrestler or prizefighter, except he no longer had the girth required.

A knock sounded once again on the door. He quickly put down the mirror and began making his way back to the bed, calling out “Come in” as he did so.

Mr. Hathaway returned with his sister. The curate hurried forward and took Jonah by the arm. With a defiant look at Miss Hathaway, Jonah shook the other man off. “That’s all right, Reverend. I’m getting me legs back.”

“That’s good.” Hathaway helped tuck the blankets around him once Jonah was in bed, then pulled up a chair for his sister and one for himself.

Again, Jonah glanced at the woman. She perched in that ramrod straight way of hers. So prim she was, with the tongue of a harpy. Pity, the brother seemed to have gotten all the looks in the family. Whereas the curate was blue eyed with wavy, light brown hair, his sister was a pale likeness. Her cheeks, although smooth, had no color in them. Her hair, covered with a lacy cap, was also light brown, but straight and of a shade with no golden tints in it like her brother’s. Her eyes were a washed-out imitation of his, neither gray nor blue. And yet, there was something compelling in them. Something that challenged a man, the way they could stare him down.

He looked away suddenly, ashamed of his critical appraisal. This was the only person who’d opened her doors to him and who’d nursed him for the past fortnight.

Hathaway folded his hands on his lap. “I wanted to have a talk with you now that the fever has broken. I realize you still need some time to recover your strength, but I thought it a good time to discuss what we ought to do in the coming weeks.”

Hathaway’s blue eyes searched his. “You are still a wanted man. Although the commotion died down in the time you were ill, your name remains among the wanted and there have been posters with your picture placed around Newgate according to Florence.”

Jonah’s eyes went to Miss Hathaway. “You’ve been back there?”

“It’s my work.”

He frowned, imagining it wouldn’t be long before the constable came around.

As if reading his thoughts, she said, “You may rest easy, Mr. Kendall. They know nothing about my abduction except that I was held for a few hours in a place on Saffron Hill I would never be able to find again.”

The news didn’t ease his worry. Jonah went to rake a hand through his hair. His fingers met stubble and he made a fist.

“Nothing has been posted around here or in Mayfair,” the curate added in a hasty tone. “I’m sure the magistrates believe you are hiding somewhere in the East End, indeed, if you even remain in London.”

Only somewhat relieved, Jonah took a deep breath and unclenched his hand. “I don’t suppose anyone’d ever imagine me holed up in the West End.”

The reverend returned the smile. “That does make things a lot easier. You must remain in hiding for the foreseeable future. If you were discovered now, it would mean a prompt hanging with doubled security. From the newspaper accounts, the Crown has been made a fool of. The band rescuing you seems to have been led by a competing receiver of stolen goods. A question of revenge and encroachment of one another’s territory. Perhaps they thought they could use you against your former employer.”

Jonah shook his head. “And I was the ignorant gull caught in the middle.”

“It seems so. Though I doubt that will make the authorities any more sympathetic to your case.” The curate paused. “Florence and I have been discussing your choices.”

Jonah glanced from one to the other. Miss Hathaway hadn’t spoken yet and her serious face made him question whether he had any choice but the noose. “Do I have any?”

Hathaway smiled faintly. “A few. You can leave our house once you feel fully recovered, if you choose. I wouldn’t recommend that path unless you have some friends or family who are willing to help you out.”

Jonah shook his head. He had no one to run the risk of hiding him…other than this man and his sister.

Miss Hathaway leaned toward him. “Have you any family at all?” When he said nothing, she added, “You mentioned a…Judy…and Mary and…Joshua in your fever.”

He turned away from her gently probing look and picked at the threads of his coverlet. He felt his neck flush as he pictured himself ranting out the most personal details of his life in his delirium. “I…had a wife and two bairns.”

Her soft voice broke into his thoughts. “What happened to them?”

He kept his eyes fixed on the blanket beneath his hands, its pattern blurring. “Brought ’em—” He cleared his throat. “Brought ’em with me when I came to London.” After a few minutes he was able to continue. “All three died last winter from fever.”

“I’m sorry,” both of them said.

He wiped the corner of his eyes with the back of his hand, despising himself for his loss of control. When he finally looked at the Hathaways again, he read only compassion in their eyes.

“You’ve nothin’ to be sorry for. It was the fault of a city that doesn’t let a man defend himself nor earn the bread to feed his family.”

“Do you have any other family?” the curate asked.

“My kin is scattered across Bedfordshire. I lost touch with ’em once we came to London. I wouldn’t want to involve them in my misfortune. They have little eno’ as it is. They’re likely facing terrible times themselves.”

Hathaway nodded. “Another option is to flee the country. We could provide you with some money, but I know little enough of getting you aboard a ship heading to lands beyond. You’d need false papers for one thing. France, the closest, would be difficult as we’re at war. With the blockade, seas are dangerous if you should choose to venture farther.”

Jonah could not imagine leaving England. Just leaving his native village and coming to London had proved disastrous.

Miss Hathaway spoke. “There is one other possibility.”

Slowly, Jonah raised his head as she continued. “I would say ‘impossibility,’ except that my brother would remind me we serve a God of the impossible.”

Jonah waited, his body tensing.

“Commutation of your sentence.”

The words meant nothing to him. “I…don’t ken the expression.”

The curate explained. “If we appeal to the home secretary for clemency—that is to say, mercy—there is a possibility that your sentence could be commuted to life or to transportation to the colony.”

“You mean I’d either have to rot in that stinkin’ Newgate cell, or be stuffed into the hold of one of those prison hulks—”

“Most likely it would mean transport,” Miss Hathaway said.

“Which means death on the seas.”

“It is a harrowing journey, I’ll grant you, but for those who arrive, there is the chance for a fresh start.”

“Living like a slave out there for the years of me sentence.”

The young curate leaned forward. “There is also the possibility of a royal pardon.”

Pardon. The word rang in the stillness. Then Jonah remembered he wasn’t guilty in the first place. “For something I never done?”

“Something you did unwittingly,” the curate corrected gently. “If we could get the home secretary to consider the innocence of your action, there is a chance for a full pardon.”

Miss Hathaway cleared her throat. “Do not let my brother’s words get your hopes up, Mr. Kendall. There is very little likelihood of a pardon. Your best hope lies in transport to the colony. However—” her slim fingers formed pleats in her skirt as she spoke “—my brother has a scheme, and I am willing to consider it, however little chance it has of succeeding.”

“Don’t let my sister’s words frighten you.”

Jonah looked from brother to sister and back again, his worry only growing. What did they mean, “scheme”?

Miss Hathaway folded her hands in her lap. “There would be no hope for clemency unless you showed yourself a thoroughly reformed individual.”

Jonah frowned at her. “Reformed from what?”

“Reformed from the defiant individual who stood on the gallows refusing to kneel in prayer and who later flaunted all authorities when he fled the gallows.”

In contrast to the grim picture his sister painted, Mr. Hathaway’s tone was gentle. “Pardons are not as uncommon as you may think. Many a man—and woman—has been issued a full pardon when they’ve shown themselves repentant of their deed.”

His uneasiness grew. “But I’m not guilty of anything.”

“Unfortunately, the fact that you were rescued from the gallows and a riot ensued will not go over well with the home secretary,” the curate reminded him. “However, Miss Hathaway has achieved a good reputation working among the prisoners of Newgate. If she vouches for your character, that will guarantee you an audience at least.”

Jonah looked at Miss Hathaway. He knew little of her work as the prison lady.

The curate continued. “That is only the beginning, however. We must also prove to the home secretary and to the lord chancellor, and ultimately to the prince regent himself, that you are a reformed individual—a man who looks and sounds respectable, a man as far from the one who escaped the gallows as day from night.”

“The first step, therefore, Mr. Kendall, is to transform you into a gentleman,” Miss Hathaway finished for her brother.

Jonah stared at her as if she’d told him he must fly to the moon. “A what?”

“A gentleman. A man the home secretary can understand. He knows nothing of the plight of a poor farmer from East Anglia whose cattle has lost its grazing rights through the system of enclosures, but a man who is presentable, can speak his language, and is an upright member of society, exercising a trade and living an exemplary life—that man might just win the secretary’s sympathy.”

Jonah gave a bark of laughter. “A gentleman! Who would ever believe Jonah Quinn as a gentleman?”

Mr. Hathaway tapped his knee, a light of optimism in his eyes. “If you allow Miss Hathaway and myself have a go at your, er, education, you might be surprised at the results.” He turned to his sister. “Miss Hathaway can coach you in the finer points of etiquette, manners and dress, and I can help you refine your speech a bit. By the way, can you read?”

Jonah grunted. “Well enough.”

“That’s very good. Did you receive some schooling as a child?”

He shrugged. “Taught meself to read once I arrived in London. Never had no need of it back home.”

They both looked at him, eyes wide.

He stared right back at them. Didn’t they believe him?

“That’s remarkable,” Miss Hathaway said. “How did you do that?”

Did she think he was as brutish as he looked? “I found an old schoolbook in the rubbish. It must have been a child’s primer, all beat up and dirty.” He shook his head at the memory of hours spent in the dim light of evenings, bent over the torn pages. “I studied it and studied it until I figured out the pictures.” He smiled, remembering the drawings. “A is for apple, B for boy, C…cat. If I close my eyes, I can still see those pictures. The letters and their sounds began to make sense and soon I could put together the letters I saw on street signs and make out whole words. ’Course I can’t read a whole lot, but enough to get by.”

“And no one had ever taught you before?” Her tone remained dubious.

“No.” He folded his arms across his chest. “And I had no need of it neither, farming the land.” Bitterness crept into his voice. “When I still had some land to farm.”

Hathaway sat back with a satisfied air. “This is wonderful. If you’ll permit me, I can help fill in the gaps, perhaps teach you some arithmetic as well.”

“I don’t mind. I suppose I’ll have to while away my time somehow till I’m fit again. I’m as weak as a fish right now.”

“That will pass. Now, to more practical matters. You took the name William Kendall the first night you arrived. Does anyone know you by that name?”

He shook his head. “It was the first thing that popped into my head. William is me brother’s name and Kendall me mother’s family name.”

“Very clever. It will do, don’t you think?” The curate turned to Miss Hathaway.

“Yes,” she answered more slowly. “My brother and I don’t believe in telling falsehoods,” she said. “However, in this case, we see the necessity of concealing your identity. And since they are family names, they are not wholly untrue.”

“So, from today forward, we will only refer to you as Mr. Kendall.”

Jonah thought of something else. “Where are me clothes? I think I’d like to get out of this bed. Seems I’ve been here months.”

He turned to his sister. “His clothes?”

“I’m afraid they’ve been disposed of.”

“What do you mean, disposed of?” Quinn asked, feeling a sudden terror.

“Burned.”

“Burned?” He swore then stopped in midsentence at Miss Hathaway’s stern frown.

“The vermin,” she said. “We had to ensure there would be no spread of it through the household.”

He stared at her, panic growing in him. “I had some…things…” Once again, his face felt hot at having to confess these things to this lady.

“You had a lock of hair and a small square of cloth in one pocket,” she said in a softer tone. “I saved them for you, supposing they were sentimental keepsakes.” She rose and went to the bedside table. From the drawer she extracted a ragged square of dirty calico and the dark curl. She handed them to him. “Is this what you meant?”

He took them without a word, enclosing them in his fist, ashamed and comforted at the same time. These were the only keepsakes he had of his former life, the lock of Judy’s hair and the bit of cloth from one of little Mary’s frocks. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Nothing remained of his Joshua. He cleared his throat and glared at the woman standing over him.

“So, what am I supposed to walk around in? My nightshirt?”

“We’ll procure some new clothes for you.” She turned to her brother. “We can send for Mr. Bourke, my brother’s tailor,” she added, sparing Jonah a glance. She continued addressing her brother. “He can measure Mr. Kendall and have some things made up for him. Mrs. Nichols and I can begin immediately on some shirts and neckcloths.”

Again she was treating him as if he wasn’t in the room. “In the meantime what am I supposed to do?” he said to her back.

She turned to him. “In the meantime, you’ll have to satisfy yourself with a nightshirt and dressing gown of my brother’s.”

“I haven’t much choice, I suppose?” His glance went slowly from sister to brother, and he saw the understanding in their eyes. He was not just referring to the state of his wardrobe.

“I’m afraid not,” Hathaway said, an apologetic note in his tone. “Which brings me to the most important question.”

Jonah stared into the young man’s eyes.

“Are you willing to trust us to do what is best for you for however long you remain under our roof?” The curate smiled as he ended, softening the solemnity of his words.

Miss Hathaway’s expression was not so encouraging. Her gray eyes measured him. “My brother believes this is your best chance. I am willing to do whatever I can to ensure you are presentable.” She paused. “My brother has asked for your trust. But my question to you is, can we trust you? Will you do your part, Mr. Kendall? It will be no easy task to change the habits of a lifetime.”

Her steady gray eyes looked skeptical and her words left him with no doubt that he would have to earn her approval.

Was he up to it?

Did he have a choice?

The young curate held out his hand. After a moment, Jonah stretched out his own. The two clasped hands, sealing their bargain. Although he didn’t shake Miss Hathaway’s hand, somehow he knew the biggest hurdle would be to prove himself to her.

Chapter Five

Florence sat on the striped settee in the upstairs morning room and watched Mr. Bourke wrap his tape measure about Mr. Quinn’s neck. “Sixteen and a half. A thick neck,” he mumbled, jotting on his notepad.

Quinn stood in his nightshirt, a stoic look on his face. His hair was starting to grow in, showing a black shadow all over his head. Florence frowned. The shadow continued down the front of his cheeks. The man hadn’t shaved again this morning. She gave a mental shake of her head. It would take more than her brother imagined to change this man’s personal habits and bring about any semblance of gentleman.

The tailor whipped the tape measure off. “Arms apart.” Quinn spread his arms out. “Wider, please.” The little man reached around Quinn’s torso with the tape, resembling a squirrel trying to embrace a mighty oak. To his credit, Quinn remained patient. He hadn’t said anything since greeting the tailor with, “Come to dress me at last?”

He whistled. “Forty-five and a quarter…a broad chest that,” he muttered. He proceeded to his waist. “Thirty-three and a quarter.” The tape went around his hips. “Thirty-eight.”

He clicked his tongue, looking at the numbers on his pad. “Not a classic build. The shoulders are too broad, though at least the waist is trim. He certainly won’t require a corset.”

Florence cleared her throat. “All we need, as I explained earlier, are good suits of clothes proper for a gentleman of, er, Mr. Kendall’s stature.” The tailor wrapped the tape around a bicep.

“Fourteen and a quarter. Make a fist please…sixteen and a quarter,” he noted of the expanded bicep.

Again, he tsk-tsked. “This man’s dimensions are quite disproportionate, more suitable for a prizefighter than for a gentleman.”

Quinn cocked an eyebrow at the smaller man. “I have fought in the ring a time or two.”

The tailor stepped back. “Indeed, sir? Where was that? Maybe I’ve see you fight.”

“I rather doubt it. They were local fights during country fairs, and suchlike, up in Bedfordshire.”

“Pray, let us continue with the fitting.” Florence eyed Jonah with a frown. So, they not only had a convict on their hands, but also a prizefighter.

“Yes, of course, Miss Hathaway.” Bourke glanced down at his notepad, continuing to talk to himself. This time the words no longer sounded critical, but were beginning to reflect awe. “The shoulder span wide, the waist narrow, the hips—” he nodded his head, his lips pursed “—the same. Now for the back.” He stepped behind Quinn and spread the tape across the breadth of his shoulders. “Eighteen and a half. Nice and wide…will require more cloth than usual.”

The tailor peered around at Florence, the tape measure dangling from his neck. “I see a navy-blue, double-breasted tailcoat with square tails…let us say…to the knee, not farther, a bit of gathering at the shoulder, a narrow collar with a long roll to here…” he said, waving his hand to illustrate the point. “Velvet perhaps on one? A waistcoat of the same material and one of a contrasting color? Red satin?”

She pressed her lips together in disapproval. The last thing she needed was his turning Quinn into a macaroni. Before she could contradict him, the tailor took a few steps away from Quinn and eyed him. “As for materials, a fine broadcloth, one in navy, another in black? Or perhaps bottle-green?” He turned to Florence again.

“Green,” she found herself saying and only then realized she was thinking of the color of his eyes. She glanced up at them and quickly away.

“Excellent choice, Miss Hathaway.” The tailor wrote down the color. “And the waistcoats? A half a dozen? Cashmere, lutestring, a satin for Sunday wear,” he rattled off, answering his own question. “I have a lovely embroidered silk in pink and blue…”

“Nothing to call attention,” she said at once. “Sober colors, cream or ivory and some dark to match the coat.”

He looked down his thin nose at her. “Miss Hathaway, everything Bourke & Sons of Bond Street does is in the utmost taste.” He turned his back to her and surveyed Quinn, the measuring tape stretched taut between his hands. “Now for the length. Excuse me, sir.” He bent over and held the tape down the outside of Quinn’s leg to his bare ankle. “Very good.” Then he proceeded to measure the inward length.

Florence averted her gaze but not before it crossed Quinn’s. Was that amusement she read in their black-fringed depths? Or were they merely sardonic?

She pressed her lips together and looked away from him. If he thought to discompose her, he had another think coming. She’d seen enough of the man during his fever that the sight of a tailor measuring his leg could hardly put her to the blush. Without conscious thought, she remembered the broad planes of his muscular chest and ropelike biceps when she’d bathed him.

She rocked her leg back and forth across her knee and fixed her eyes on the fireplace across the room. She must really polish the candlesticks on the mantel. The silver bases were showing signs of tarnish. Soon it would be time for the spring cleaning—

“And the thighs…” Mr. Bourke whipped the tape measure around one. “Twenty-five. No padding needed there.”

“I should hope not,” Florence said, unable to keep her gaze from flickering back to the outline of Quinn’s leg. The tailor moved the tape measure around the circumference of one calf then down to his ankle. She swallowed, noting how well proportioned his legs were.

The tailor flipped his notebook shut and began to roll up his tape measure. “I think that will do for now. I shall have a pair of trousers and a coat and waistcoat ready to be fitted in—” he pursed his lips “—shall we say, three days?”

“Three days I’m to be without clothes?”

The tailor blinked at Quinn’s tone of outrage. Florence stood at once. “What he means is that he really needs the first outfit as soon as possible. His others were, er, damaged beyond repair.”

“Oh, rest assured, we shall have a few good outfits ready in no time.”

“Very well, we shall make do with what he has for the present.” She gave Quinn a stern look so he wouldn’t commit any more slips, before turning back to Bourke. “Mr. Kendall only needs some presentable suits, nothing too fancy. Shall we expect you Thursday morning then for the first fitting?”

“Nine o’clock, Miss Hathaway, if that is not too early for you?”

“Certainly not. Nine o’clock it is then.” She escorted the tailor to the door. “Why don’t you have a cup of coffee before you go?”

“That would be lovely….”

Their voices faded down the hall. “That would be lovely,” mimicked Jonah in a simpering tone. “In the meantime I continue flitting about in a nightshirt. I’m almost as much a prisoner in these fancy surroundings as I was back at Newgate.”

“What’s that about Newgate?”

Jonah jumped, but relaxed at the curate’s smiling face in the open doorway.

“Oh…just mumbling to myself.”

“I saw Mr. Bourke leaving. I trust your fitting went well.”

“If getting every inch of meself measured means a pair of trousers and shirt, then it went splendidly.”

Hathaway chuckled. “You’ll soon be walking around like a fine gentleman.”

Jonah harrumphed and marched back into his bed. “I’d as soon have a pair of trousers and a plain shirt o’ Albert’s if it meant going about clothed today.”

“Well, why not? I’ll talk to him straightaway. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind lending you something.”

Jonah’s eyes widened at the man’s ready assent. “You will?”

“Certainly. Why wouldn’t I? You must be tired of hanging about up here all day. I apologize for ignoring you most of yesterday. Sundays are busy days for us.”

“You had guests,” he began, thinking of the fancy coach he’d seen parked in front of the house as he’d whiled away the lonely hours upstairs.

He smiled. “Yes, the rector of the parish. Reverend Doyle. He’s a most learned man.” With a lift of his brows, he indicated the chair, and Jonah quickly nodded, realizing the man was asking his permission to sit down. It was his house, after all, his room, his bl—furniture, for goodness’ sake.

“He’s your boss, is he?”

Hathaway settled down in the straight-back chair. “Yes, you could say that. But more than that he’s a mentor and advisor. He’s taught me a lot over the years.” He rubbed the cloth of his knee breeches just above the wooden leg. “He’s the one who made it possible for me to attend university.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. His high recommendation to a local lord gave me favor with the gentleman, who paid for my studies there.”

“Your own kin didn’t have the blunt?”

“No. My father was a clockmaker, you see.”

“He wasn’t a gentleman?” He looked at the fine cut of the man’s coat. “But I thought you were a—”

Hathaway quirked an eyebrow, humor lighting his blue eyes. “A gentleman? No, I’m an artisan’s son. It shows how much a man can achieve with the proper education.”

Quinn shook his head. “But you’ve got to have a head for letters.”

“Yes. But there’s a lot the average person’s head is capable of if given half the chance.”

Quinn scratched at the stubble of his jaw. “You think so?”

“I know so. My sister and I teach children at the local orphanage in Marylebone. These children come from all levels of society, and yet they are like sponges.” The curate’s long fingers moved in animation. “You should see how quickly they learn their letters and numbers and are clamoring for more.”

“But they’re young. Their minds are, like you say, sponges.”

“Yes, that is so. An older person may be more set in his thinking, but that doesn’t mean his brain is less capable of learning if he sets his mind to it.”

Jonah merely shook his head.

“You’ll see, by week’s end, you shall be dressed like a gentleman and soon my sister shall have you speaking and behaving like one, too.”

He remembered Miss Hathaway’s exactitude during the fitting. “Miss Hathaway and Mr. Bourke seemed mighty particular about the sort of clothes I’m to wear. I never realized there was so much involved in dressing like a gentleman.”

Hathaway chuckled. “Don’t let it rattle you. I let Florence take over the selection of my wardrobe long ago, realizing she had a much better eye for such things than I did. Left to my own devices I’d probably wear the wrong waistcoat with the wrong coat, or a different colored pair of stockings—”

Jonah started to laugh until he glanced down and realized the man’s error. The wooden leg seemed to grow larger between the two of them. He coughed. “How did you, uh, lose the leg?”

Hathaway touched the leather strap holding the wooden peg in place. “A wagon ran over me as a child.”

Jonah widened his eyes at the calm tone.

“I was eight. I was in charge of herding a flock of ducks back to our pond and I ran after one, heedless of the traffic on the road.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I was fortunate not to be killed altogether. But the Lord was merciful. He spared my life for my parents’ sake. They only had Florence and myself,” he explained.

Jonah shook his head at the young man’s lack of self-pity. He himself couldn’t get over the fact the curate wasn’t even the son of a gentleman. He’d never have guessed it. He made a very fine-looking gent from his golden brown hair to his aristocratic features. “Pity about the leg, though,” he said.

A flush was the only indication that the words might have caused him any discomfort. “Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise.”

Jonah cocked an eyebrow. “How do you figure that?”

“I think my, er, impediment has made me more readily submit to God with my whole heart.” His lips curved upward. “I can identify with Jacob in the Old Testament when he wrestled with the Angel of the Lord one night. Are you familiar with the story?”

Here it came. Was Hathaway going to evangelize him the way his sister did those at Newgate? “No…I never heard much o’ the Bible.”

“Pity. Well, Jacob wrestled an entire night with a stranger.”

Jonah leaned forward. A wrestling story, that sounded interesting.

“Jacob was going to meet his brother, whom he had wronged many years before.”

“Hmm. And he got into a fight?”

He grinned. “God met with him one night.”

Jonah raised an eyebrow.

“Jacob was all alone. God appeared in the form of a man and wrestled silently with him. It wasn’t until Jacob found it impossible to best him that he realized this was more than a mere mortal.”

“It was God?”

“The Bible says it was ‘the Angel of the Lord.’ Jacob was a shrewd fellow. When he perceived it was a divine being, he wouldn’t let go until he received a blessing.”

Jonah rubbed his bare head, still expecting to find thick hair there. “Can a man fight with God and come out alive?”

“If God has a purpose with that individual and must first wrestle with him to put to death the ‘old man.’”

“The old man?”

“The man in the flesh,” Hathaway explained. “He will always contend with the man of the spirit.”

“So, how do you figure all this in your own case?”

Hathaway smiled. “Well, to break the stalemate, the Angel eventually touched the hollow of Jacob’s thigh and it immediately became dislocated. Jacob walked with a limp for the rest of his life.”

“Ah.” He was beginning to see the connection. “So, would you say God fought with you and you lived through it but lost your leg?”

Hathaway’s eyes twinkled. “I would say, rather, I came out of that accident with a realization, earlier in life than most people, of how much I must depend on God.”

Jonah rubbed an earlobe. “You weren’t railing at God for such a misfortune?”

The curate shook his head, a far-off look in his blue eyes, as if he were seeing himself again. “I was only a lad of eight. My parents had raised me to know a God of love, not one of vengeance. After the terrible physical pain of the accident was over, I was faced with a different situation.”

Jonah waited.

“Being viewed with pity by my elders or with ridicule by my peers.”

“Aye.”

“I had to get used to people staring at the absence of a leg first thing, before they even looked at my face. I needed desperately to be able to hold my head up in public.” Hathaway continued more slowly, his long, lean fingers rubbing the cloth of his pant leg above the wooden peg. “I think this need made it easier for me, in a way, to submit to God. It made me understand more quickly God’s love for me.”

He gazed keenly at Jonah. “No matter how human beings were to treat me, I could be sure God did not look at the exterior man, this man of flesh with its glaring imperfection, but He looked deep into the interior of me, and saw the real man I was, whole and sound.”

Jonah shifted uncomfortably as he remembered the scorn he’d endured when he’d been shackled like a murderer and heard the clank of the iron-barred door closing behind him. He wasn’t one of those criminals, he’d wanted to rail at the turnkey, but all he’d seen was ridicule and derision on the grimy face.

“When I lost my leg, I learned the truth of the Scripture verse which says ‘my strength is made perfect in weakness.’ It might have taken me many more years to understand and submit to that teaching if it hadn’t been for the accident. I probably wouldn’t have achieved all that I did for a mere clockmaker’s son—gone to Oxford, been ordained as a clergyman, and now at the age of six-and-twenty gotten a curacy in the greatest city in the world.” He sat up and smiled. “I would probably be a simple watchmaker, working alongside my father in his small shop and content with that.”

Jonah cleared his throat. “Would that have been so bad? You had a roof over your head, a fair income, I’ll wager, and your family around you.” So many had far less.

Hathaway looked at him with understanding. “No, I’m sure I would have been content…but would the Lord have been?”

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