Dark Angel (Gentlemen of the Order 4)

Miss Trimble’s gaze softened. “I’ll come as long as

Mr Bower accompanies us. At least I won’t have disobeyed all of Mr Daventry’s orders.”

A rush of relief had Beatrice throwing herself into the woman’s arms. Miss Trimble’s stiff body melted into the embrace, and the woman hugged Beatrice back.

The Reverend Jenkin was a young man with a wealth of golden hair. He possessed a kind, innocent face, and no doubt thought those with the darkest hearts could be delivered unto the Lord if they repented.

He met them at the entrance to Newgate, a gloomy gaol that cowered beneath the backdrop of St Paul’s majestic dome—a visual heaven versus hell. The introductions were made. The chaplain read a list of rules: maintain a distance of six feet, give no name or personal information, nothing that might help Mr Manning find them.

Find them? Hopefully, the blackguard would remain within the grim walls until he swung from the gallows.

“The Lord will guide you.” The chaplain cupped her hand. Not in the lecherous way some did when they craved human contact more than morning prayers, but in a genuine gesture of support.

A shudder of fear shook Beatrice as she stepped through the fortified entrance. Given a choice, she would rather sit across from Mr Manning than meet John Sands in a tavern.

They stopped at the Keeper’s room, where the stern overseer repeated the instructions in a much graver tone, complained that an enquiry agent was no job for a woman, a prison no place for a lady.

“Wait in the chapel yard. The reverend will remain with you.”

The chapel yard was a small outdoor space surrounded by a high stone wall on one side, the monstrous three-storey prison building on the other. It might have been a pleasant area were it not so stark, were it not for the beady eyes of inmates watching her through the barred windows littering the facade.

Shuffling, the thud of footsteps and the rattle of keys, preceded the screech of the iron door opening. Two turnkeys appeared, big, slovenly men clasping a prisoner by the arms.

Beatrice could only stare. She had expected to meet a beast of a man, a monster taller and wider than any human creature. But Mr Manning was short, thin, almost emaciated. With his pointed nose, straggly brown hair and spectacles, he looked like a crooked banker, not a man the whole of London feared.

Beatrice glanced at Miss Trimble. “Where do I begin?”

The woman tried to smile. Perhaps her bottom lip quivered because of the cold. “I have no notion. But he has something you want, and I imagine he will expect something in return.”

With clumsy steps and a shambling gait, Mr Manning moved closer. His feet were in leg irons, his hands secured in shackles. He couldn’t swat a fly, yet those frigid grey eyes could pierce a person’s soul.

Beatrice spoke first. “Good afternoon, sir. Thank you for agreeing to see me.” Not that he’d had much choice in the matter.

“A man can make time in his busy schedule for a pretty lady, Miss … ?” The dull, monotone pitch implied weakness, but one could not mistake the sinister undercurrent rippling like a noxious substance beneath the surface.

“Understood.”

“Misunderstood?” Mr Manning’s lips twitched. “Misguided, I’d say.” He looked to the Reverend Jenkin. “It will take more than this angel to save my black soul.”

“I’m not here to do the Lord’s bidding.” She turned to the guards. “This is a private matter. Might you step away so I may speak in confidence?”

The turnkeys frowned. They looked at the reverend, who nodded.

“You heard the lady,” Mr Manning jeered as the brawny fellows moved to stand near the wall. “Well, if this ain’t the most entertaining day I’ve had in here.”

“I’m glad you see it that way, as I wish to ask you questions about your business dealings eighteen years ago.”

The man’s gaze turned threatening. “And what is it to you?”

Her throat was tight with nerves. “Have you time to hear the whole story?”

“Can’t see as I’m going anywhere soon.”

She paused, recited the words in her mind before beginning. “My father was murdered in an attack near Hartley Wintney Common in Hampshire eighteen years ago. The other occupants of the carriage were killed too, though their son survived.”

She stopped for breath.

“Go on,” he prompted, rattling his shackles.