apologetic smile as she excused herself and got to her feet. “What is it?”
“I’m afraid,” Fitzhenry said, as he led her into the nearest side room where they might speak privately, “that I am going to do something terribly foolish.”
“Oh, Fitz,” Sarah said, with a concerned frown.
“I have to,” he said. “The business will take me to London, but I promise I’ll be back in time for the wedding. There and back again—if I’m quick, I’ll be back tomorrow evening. If not, the day after.”
“What business?” Sarah asked, sympathetic but also concerned.
“I don’t want to tell you,” Fitzhenry said, “because it might not work, and if it doesn’t work, I don’t want you to know what a remarkably stupid idea it is. But if it does work it shall be ever so noble.”
Sarah frowned at this explanation, but did not try to dissuade him. “Is it for Mr. Rochester?”
“Yes,” Fitzhenry admitted.
She sighed. “Is he going to be very angry at you for whatever you’re about to attempt?”
“Almost certainly.”
“If he gets back before you do I shall not tell him that you are off doing something devilishly foolish.”
“I appreciate that.”
Sarah kissed his cheek and then smiled at him. “Go on, then. Go be a noble fool.”
Fitzhenry grinned at her, and went to London.
T he city was grimy and crowded as ever, with a stench that made Fitzhenry reel, and the stench only got worse within a stone’s throw of Fleet prison.
Feeling very small and very foolish, Lord Loxley climbed from the hired carriage and prevailed upon Mr. Egby to wait there for him to return. He wished very strongly that Mr. Rochester were at his side to frown disapprovingly at any man or woman who so much as glanced in Lord Loxley’s direction, but he knew that if Mr. Rochester had come along on this excursion, he would have bodily dragged Lord Loxley back home the moment he suspected what Fitz was about.
Taking a deep breath—and promptly regretting it—Lord Loxley strolled in through the doors of the prison and spoke to the man he found at the desk. “My name is Lord Fitzhenry Loxley. I am here to collect Baron Alexander Rochester.”
He had gone to his solicitor first, then to his bank, then to the agency which held the balance of Baron Rochester’s debts, then back to his solicitor, and at last had found himself in front of Fleet prison itself. And then within, facing a dog-faced man with less than half his teeth, who looked Lord Loxley over like he was considering any number of unpleasantries he would like to commit upon Lord Loxley and any other member of the Beau Monde who came within reach.
“Eaint paitess detts,” the dog-faced man slurred, a statement which Lord Loxley felt might possibly translate to ‘Pardon me, sir, but according to my most recent information Baron Rochester remains indebted to several creditors.’
“On the contrary,” Lord Loxley said, “I’ve seen to that.” And he furnished the gaoler with the writ affirming as such.
The payment had taken all of the surplus profits which were meant to be applied to the capital of Lord Loxley’s income, and most of the balance of that same income, and Lord Loxley was quite certain that Mr. Rochester would be enraged when he learned of such recklessness, but he hoped nonetheless that the results might help Mr. Rochester agree to the rest of Lord Loxley’s plan, which was considerably less dangerous—though probably no less foolish—than the solo excursion to Fleet prison.
It took him over an hour to goad and bribe the gaoler into compliance, a process which Mr. Rochester’s intimidating glare would have shortened considerably. At last Lord Loxley was led to Baron Rochester’s cell, the Baron’s identity was confirmed, papers were signed and exchanged, and Lord Loxley led the Baron out to the carriage, which was mercifully still waiting.
The baron was a withered old man who might long ago have been tall and handsome, but his
“I’m afraid,” Fitzhenry said, as he led her into the nearest side room where they might speak privately, “that I am going to do something terribly foolish.”
“Oh, Fitz,” Sarah said, with a concerned frown.
“I have to,” he said. “The business will take me to London, but I promise I’ll be back in time for the wedding. There and back again—if I’m quick, I’ll be back tomorrow evening. If not, the day after.”
“What business?” Sarah asked, sympathetic but also concerned.
“I don’t want to tell you,” Fitzhenry said, “because it might not work, and if it doesn’t work, I don’t want you to know what a remarkably stupid idea it is. But if it does work it shall be ever so noble.”
Sarah frowned at this explanation, but did not try to dissuade him. “Is it for Mr. Rochester?”
“Yes,” Fitzhenry admitted.
She sighed. “Is he going to be very angry at you for whatever you’re about to attempt?”
“Almost certainly.”
“If he gets back before you do I shall not tell him that you are off doing something devilishly foolish.”
“I appreciate that.”
Sarah kissed his cheek and then smiled at him. “Go on, then. Go be a noble fool.”
Fitzhenry grinned at her, and went to London.
T he city was grimy and crowded as ever, with a stench that made Fitzhenry reel, and the stench only got worse within a stone’s throw of Fleet prison.
Feeling very small and very foolish, Lord Loxley climbed from the hired carriage and prevailed upon Mr. Egby to wait there for him to return. He wished very strongly that Mr. Rochester were at his side to frown disapprovingly at any man or woman who so much as glanced in Lord Loxley’s direction, but he knew that if Mr. Rochester had come along on this excursion, he would have bodily dragged Lord Loxley back home the moment he suspected what Fitz was about.
Taking a deep breath—and promptly regretting it—Lord Loxley strolled in through the doors of the prison and spoke to the man he found at the desk. “My name is Lord Fitzhenry Loxley. I am here to collect Baron Alexander Rochester.”
He had gone to his solicitor first, then to his bank, then to the agency which held the balance of Baron Rochester’s debts, then back to his solicitor, and at last had found himself in front of Fleet prison itself. And then within, facing a dog-faced man with less than half his teeth, who looked Lord Loxley over like he was considering any number of unpleasantries he would like to commit upon Lord Loxley and any other member of the Beau Monde who came within reach.
“Eaint paitess detts,” the dog-faced man slurred, a statement which Lord Loxley felt might possibly translate to ‘Pardon me, sir, but according to my most recent information Baron Rochester remains indebted to several creditors.’
“On the contrary,” Lord Loxley said, “I’ve seen to that.” And he furnished the gaoler with the writ affirming as such.
The payment had taken all of the surplus profits which were meant to be applied to the capital of Lord Loxley’s income, and most of the balance of that same income, and Lord Loxley was quite certain that Mr. Rochester would be enraged when he learned of such recklessness, but he hoped nonetheless that the results might help Mr. Rochester agree to the rest of Lord Loxley’s plan, which was considerably less dangerous—though probably no less foolish—than the solo excursion to Fleet prison.
It took him over an hour to goad and bribe the gaoler into compliance, a process which Mr. Rochester’s intimidating glare would have shortened considerably. At last Lord Loxley was led to Baron Rochester’s cell, the Baron’s identity was confirmed, papers were signed and exchanged, and Lord Loxley led the Baron out to the carriage, which was mercifully still waiting.
The baron was a withered old man who might long ago have been tall and handsome, but his
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