The Making Of A Gentleman. Ruth Axtell Morren

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