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A Woman's Innocence by Gayle Callen
Julia Reed's love of adventure led her far from home -- and resulted in
Even though the evidence against Julia is compelling, Sam cannot help
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(The following is the property of the author and Avon Books, and cannot be copied or reprinted without permission.)
Chapter 1
Leeds, Yorkshire
September 1844
Jail was a terrible place for a woman, even a guilty
one. As Samuel Sherryngton stared at the dilapidated building in a rough-looking
neighborhood in Leeds, he found himself hesitating, his jaw tight from spending
so many hours grinding his teeth together in angry frustration. Julia Reed
was in there, having spent ten days awaiting transport to trial in London,
charged with treason.
He hadn't seen her since she'd been led away, claiming
her innocence with weary desperation. He still felt a pang of shock and
disbelief, and a rage he sometimes wondered if he could continue to
control.
How had this happened to bright and sunny Julia, the
little girl who followed him through gardens so many years ago? How could
she have betrayed her country, her family--him? He knew he was taking this
too personally, for they had not been close in many years. But thousands
of people had died because of her. And he'd spent the previous month
of August chasing her through England, ready to intercept her before she
could kill the man who would testify against her.
Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and entered
the jail. Even in the front office, the stench seeped out, full of hopelessness
and fear.
It was easy for him to obtain permission to see Julia.
A few shiny coins were all that mattered to the jailer. After agreeing to
their transaction, Sam set a basket on the desk.
The man tilted back his chair and smiled wolfishly, his
missing front teeth a black hole in his face. "Ye brought her food then,
eh? The wench could use some. She eats like a horse."
Sam leaned over the desk, directing some of his anger
at the jailer. "You had better be taking good care of the prisoner. The charges
against her have the attention of Queen Victoria."
The jailer affably lifted his hands. "Ye need not complain
about me, sir. She gets what everyone else does." Then he sorted through
the basket, taking away the bottle of cider and several meat pies for
himself.
"No glass in the cell, gov'nor," he said with a smirk.
Sam waited impatiently while the man unlocked the door,
lifted an oil lamp, and led him down a dark passage. On either side were
doors with bars as a viewing window. The air was hot, heavy, full of despondency.
Someone coughed repeatedly, a deep emptying of the lungs. Another prisoner
begged to ask a question, and the jailer ignored him.
"You don't have a woman's area of cells?" Sam asked
sharply.
"How big a jail does this look like?" the man replied
over his shoulder. "This ain't London. And the lady got a window, somethin'
rare."
At the last door, there was a feeble light from within
the room, the promised window.
The jailer unlocked the door. "Ye want me to come in
with ye?"
"That won't be necessary," Sam said. He stepped through
the doorway and straw crunched under his feet. "Julia?" His voice sounded
harsh even to himself. He'd get nowhere with her if he couldn't control
himself.
She made not a sound. The door clanged shut behind him.
There was a mound of blankets on the cot and a bucket in one corner.
"Call when ye need me," the jailer said. His uneven footsteps
faded away.
"Julia?" Sam said again, louder, with an edge of worry
he thought he'd never feel for her again.
The blankets suddenly moved, and in the dim light, he
watched the woman push herself slowly to sit against the wall. The white-blond
hair that so distinguished her hung disheveled and dull. She wore a thin,
shapeless dress, more a smock, that sagged off one white shoulder.
He should despise her for what she'd done--but something
nagged at him each night as he lay sleepless in a nearby hotel.
"Sam?" Her usually expressive voice was cold.
He nodded and took a step towards her, watching as she
sat up straighter. "How are you, Julia?"
She cocked her head. "Well that's a ridiculous question,"
she said sarcastically.
He sat down on the edge of the cot, testing it first
with his weight, to make sure it didn't collapse beneath them both. He set
the basket between them.
"Food?" she asked.
"Yes."
They stared at each other in the gloom, and he saw the
dirt that smudged her face, the dark shadows beneath eyes that glistened.
But she didn't cry.
He almost wished she would.
"So you brought me food, Sam. Am I supposed to thank
you? What more could you want from me?" She drew her knees up against her
chest and hugged them to her, though it was hardly cold in this oven of a
jail.
It was just another barrier between them.
"I don't know," he said, giving in to the bewildering
thoughts that chased around inside his head. "This is one of the hardest
things I've ever had to do."
"If you're looking for redemption, then you might as
well leave."
"I don't want that."
"Then just go. Surely you'll see me at the trial in London,
you and your fellow soldiers, full of enthusiasm, ready to gloat."
Sam closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face.
"You think I'm enthused about any of this? This type of crime…I
still can't grasp that you were a part of it."
She sighed again and spoke in a dull, flat voice. "Don't
bother hoping that I might incriminate myself. I didn't do anything. I've
already told you that. But no one will believe me."
"There's too much proof," he said forcefully.
"Sam, who could possibly hate me enough to want me dead?"
she continued. "You know that's the punishment for treason. Death by
beheading."
He said nothing, sickened by the thought of her baring
her long white neck to a blade. She sounded so convincing, so desperate.
She had always been able to appeal to his protective instincts.
What if she was telling the truth?
That was why he was really here, wasn't it? Some part
of him still thought there had to be a mistake somewhere. Was he just a
fool?
"I just saw Edwin Hume," Sam found himself saying against
his better judgment. Hume was to testify that he'd worked for Julia, passing
along information about British troops to the Russians--information which
had helped ensure the deaths of sixteen thousand soldiers and their families
in Afghanistan.
For a man trying to save his own neck, Edwin hadn't even
been able to look Sam in the eyes. He'd taken to drinking, and would now
have to be guarded to make sure he would remain a credible witness at the
trial.
"He's lying," Julia whispered angrily, "but I can think
of no reason why. He was part of my household, my governess's shy son. When
I was young, you always encouraged me to befriend him."
"He was more of your age," Sam said briskly. "I was so
much older than you. It was inappropriate for me to be your constant companion,
even if it was in simple friendship."
"There were only six years between us. Not so much."
"Maybe not now, but back then--" He broke off. She'd
been the master's daughter, he the gardener's son, and at the end a grown
man to her fourteen years. He had realized they couldn't be friends
anymore.
Julia sighed. "Edwin and I shared our first kiss."
He said nothing, though he remembered well his feelings
of jealousy. That sweet kiss, not meant for him, had been the final catalyst
for Sam's entry into the army of the East India Company. He knew even then
that he could not stay in England and watch her grow up and away from him.
Had she felt deserted? Was it his fault that she'd turned to other men?
"And now Edwin has betrayed me," Julia continued harshly,
but with bewilderment. "I haven't seen him in ten years, since I joined my
brother in India. I had no idea Edwin had even left England, and I certainly
never saw him in Afghanistan. I can't believe that he conceived this plot
against me. The man I knew would have been incapable of such a crime."
Sam thought of Edwin, a drunkard now, a man beaten by
life. Was there a chance that Edwin was lying, that someone else was involved
in a deliberate attempt to destroy Julia?
"Tell me this proof," she said fiercely, her fists clenched
on her knees. "Explain it all to me. I was in shock when you arrested me,
and I remember little of it. And the jailer just shrugs at my questions."
He didn't want to go through it all again but…something
didn't add up, and he had long ago learned not to ignore his instincts. Maybe
if he said it out loud, it would come to him.
"The first thing that alerted us were the whispers of
treason we began to hear in Kabul, months before the massacre. Then one of
our informants saw a British woman with pale blond hair deliver a letter
to the hide-out of a Russian officer."
He saw her stiffen, but her voice was brisk and impassive.
"There are no other blond Englishwomen?"
He shrugged. "He said the woman's hair was so blond as
to be white. And we already knew you'd been in Kabul unescorted, because
I had discovered you. Your brother is a British general--surely you can
understand why you were one of the few people with access to military
information." He raised a hand before she could protest. "In no way did we
believe it was you just from this meager evidence alone. But then
Nick Wright was visiting the Russian officer in an unofficial capacity, and
he saw a necklace casually left on a table. He knew he had given it to
you."
Would she deny her affair with Nick--or with the Russian?
Her eyes grew as frosty as ice. "As I told you when you
arrested me, it had disappeared from my jewelry box."
"You're trying to say that somebody took it to frame
you. You were living with your brother, so he had access. Who else did?"
"Our servants. We'd brought a cook and maid from India
with us. We had officers for dinner several times a week. I couldn't even
begin to name them all." She lifted her chin as if to say she'd proved her
point.
"As you've already seen, we have two of the letters written
in your own hand, with a code added that betrays British military troop
strength."
"Anybody could have intercepted those letters and added
their own code."
"We have documented testimony you were seen delivering
them!"
She flung her hands up. "Your witness could have been
paid to say whatever the real traitor wanted him to say!"
His anger faded, replaced by tired bewilderment. "Altogether
this evidence is damning, and you can't refute any of it."
"The real traitor is out there, Sam," she said passionately.
"The evidence was all set up for you too perfectly."
He was being a fool, letting her sway him. But what if
she was right? Could he watch her go to her grave, without being absolutely
sure?
He frowned. "Tell me again why you traveled north to
Leeds to meet with Edwin Hume."
She twisted to face him, her knees now on the cot, and
leaned toward him. "My old governess died in her sleep, and she left possessions
my brother thought Edwin would want."
He well remembered Lewis Reed, now a general in the queen's
army. As young boys they'd played together, but Lewis had soon realized the
differences in their stations. There had been animosity between them from
then on, and Sam had been stunned by Lewis's indifference to his sister.
Yet Julia claimed that the governess's death was the
catalyst for her journey. Edwin had said this story was agreed on before
hand, should their meeting be discovered. But the old woman had died only
a few weeks ago. Had the story been concocted before she died? And did that
mean someone had deliberately killed the governess, just to fashion an alibi?
Sam needed to question Edwin further.
And if Julia had betrayed her country for money, where
had the money gone? None had been found. He stared into her face, not allowing
himself to believe that there was a chance she could be innocent. For a moment,
her eyes caught the scant light from the window, and seemed to shine with
that odd, blue color of stained glass windows that had always fascinated
him.
"No more questions, Sam?" She tilted her head mockingly.
"Nothing else to go over?"
He got to his feet. He was on his own trying to look
deeper into her case. Everyone else believed a swift trial and execution
were all that was left. He couldn't go to his compatriots, Will Chadwick
or Nick Wright. Not only did they believe her guilty, but Will was off on
his honeymoon and Nick had gone to offer his own marriage proposal.
They'd been three spies ordered to uncover a plot against
England--maybe only a spy could discover the real truth.
And Sam was a damn good spy.
"I have to go," he said, turning to rap on the door.
She scrambled to her feet, tall in the meager cell. To
his surprise, she asked, "Will you come back?"
Just an hour ago he would have refused. "I promise I
will," he said, then turned away as the jailer arrived.
Julia watched the door close behind Sam, and though she
hadn't thought it possible, felt even more alone than before. The jailer
leered at her between the bars before he followed Sam down the hall, but
she only turned her back, having learned that he was too much a coward to
attempt her harm.
She went to the window and pressed her face to the bars,
her only view the polluted shores of the Aire River, crowded with mills and
slaughter houses. The smell was little better out there, but she closed her
eyes and inhaled deeply of freedom.
It had been ten days since she'd been cut off from the
world, ten days of listening to the hopelessness of other prisoners, the
occasional shouts or the quiet sobs late in the night. The despair of this
place weighed on her, threatening to close her throat with the hoarse sobs
she yet held back. She'd cried when Sam and Nick had first captured her,
but not since. She was too numbed by all that had happened, all they'd accused
her of.
She had her sins, some of which she didn't want revealed--but
treason and murder weren't among them. So many people she'd known had been
among the dead, their friendships lost to her forever. Her brother had been
transferred from Afghanistan back to India six months earlier, and she'd
gone with him, realizing only later how fortunate they'd been. Thousands
and thousands of men, women and children were killed by the Afghanis, who'd
wanted the British invaders gone. Even now, the images of their faces still
haunted her--the officers' wives who'd insisted on inviting her to dinner
whenever the soldiers were away, the children who gathered in awe around
her horse, which had been bred to be the fastest. They were all dead, slaughtered
as they tried to leave the country under a peace treaty in the dead of
winter.
And her own government was accusing her of causing it.
Grief and despair welled up inside her again, and she fought it back, knowing
she needed a clear mind.
These accusations had even cost her her brother. They'd
never been close, but she'd been certain he would answer her letter, do all
within his power as a general in the queen's army to discover the true criminal.
Instead, he must have believed the lies, because he'd never responded.
Her only visitor was the man who'd put her in jail.
Julia looked at the incongruous basket that perched on
the cot. She shouldn't eat anything Sam had brought. He was only appeasing
his guilt.
But surely good food shouldn't go to waste. She removed
the cloth spread on top, surveyed the contents appreciatively, and bit into
a cake dripping with a sweet glaze. She even licked her dirty fingers when
she was done. There was more to eat, but her belly was already growling a
warning, so she'd better take her time.
Her mind went immediately back to the things that haunted
her. She'd spent her hours in jail fighting the encroaching sense of defeat
by trying to figure out who had framed her for such a terrible crime. Who
could hate her enough to want to see her executed? But her thoughts had gone
round and round, disjointed and confused.
Had her behavior in Afghanistan made her an enemy she
didn't even know about? She had lost more than her inhibitions in that foreign
country. She'd forever lost Sam.
In a childhood filled with duty and distance and
indifference, her only true friend had been Sam, the gardener's son, and
her escape had been the gardens. He came from a large, loving family she'd
envied, had sisters she enjoyed playing with.
But it was Sam himself she'd always been drawn to. Though
he was six years older, he'd always treated her with respect and friendship.
But then he'd joined the army, followed soon by her brother. Her parents
had died of the fever, and she was alone at fourteen years of age with only
the servants, soon forgotten by even the villagers.
She had always known she wasn't like other women. Though
she'd lived on a large estate, it had always felt like a prison to her. There
had been no one but the servants who pitied her, yet they could not cross
the boundary that divided their classes. She grew used to being alone, but
gradually the restrictions chafed at her. She'd ridden her horse across streams,
through forests that she pretended went on forever. But the end of her family
property was as solid as an invisible boundary. She could never go farther,
restricted by her age-but mostly because of her gender. Freedom had always
called to her, had beckoned to her from across oceans. The globe in their
family library had constantly twirled under her hands as she saw the continent
her brother traveled, traced with her finger the paths he wandered.
Not that he ever sent letters himself, even then. She
was just his sister, a nuisance--a dependent. But he was the key to her freedom,
and she focused on him with single-minded determination, hoarding every shilling
in pin money and in unused household budget which the sympathetic housekeeper
passed on to her.
When she turned eighteen, nothing could stop her. She
bought a ticket to the East, and even through a miserably long voyage, her
excitement could barely be contained.
When she'd arrived in India, her brother had disapproved,
but he hadn't sent her home. That would have meant sparing time and thought--and
money--on her. Instead he made sure she knew she was always a guest, never
a part of his household. She'd finally realized that her last hope of belonging
to her own family--a real family--would never happen. She gave up that dream,
determined to exchange it for the freedom a woman in England never had. And
it had seemed to work for many years, years of travel and adventure and new
cultures to explore. But even the ability to do as she pleased paled after
awhile when she had no one to share it with. The price for
freedom--loneliness--sometimes grew too much to bear. Her disappointment
occasionally made her cross the line of propriety into places she wasn't
proud of.
When Lewis had been recalled to England, she'd tried
to look at it as another adventure, the chance to find the companionship
that had always eluded her.
With a heavy sigh, she dug into the basket and bit into
a flaky meat pie.
Were her present problems punishment for the things she'd
done in her past? Had God played the ultimate joke on her, allowing her to
draw the notice of the Duke of Kelthorpe, only to see her chance at a family
crash about her? Why had she been foolish enough to believe that she wouldn't
have to pay a price for her willfulness? Even if she was proved innocent,
the duke could never welcome her again. His abandonment hurt, though she
hadn't loved him. She had no one left to help her--
No one but Sam Sherryngton, who'd disapproved of her
in Afghanistan, who'd helped to arrest and imprison her. He might as well
be a stranger now. His brown hair had just a touch of red, and she used to
imagine he hid a fiery personality. But he'd always been calm and deliberate
with her, even when confronted by her misdeeds. His golden brown eyes, which
she'd once thought held the secrets of the earth, now betrayed only icy
indifference. When he and his fellow spies had captured her, he'd remained
in the background, letting Nick Wright lead in her questioning.
The shock of the arrest still hit her like a blow, and
knowing Sam believed it all made nausea roil inside her. He'd believed
the lies someone had woven about her. He'd helped track her down across England,
instead of helping her. She'd spent the past ten days with his face emblazoned
in her mind, full of bitterness that he'd rather see her dead than listen
to the truth.
She'd been unprepared for the sight of him here in her
cell, bearing food, full of questions. There'd been doubt in his eyes. Dare
she hope that he would help her? Or did he want her to take him into her
confidence so he could betray her?
Sam took out his frustration on Edwin Hume's door as
he knocked for a second time. Nothing. Edwin's horse was in the stable behind
the house, and he wasn't at his favorite tavern across the street. Urgency
overtook Sam, making his stomach tighten, making the world around him suddenly
sharp and clear. And as usual, he felt the thrill of the hunt.
He stepped behind the shrubbery and peered in the front
window, shielding his eyes with his hand. He could see the deserted parlor
and a corner of the dining room, and spotted the one inconsistency: a boot
on its side, just in the line of his vision in the dining room.
Was there a leg attached?
He walked around the house at a quick pace until he reached
the back, facing an alley. The door was ajar and so he slid his pistol from
his pocket, cocked the hammer, and slowly stepped inside. The kitchen was
a cluttered mess, more with empty liquor bottles than food.
And then through the kitchen door he saw Edwin Hume lying
on the dining room floor, unmoving, a wide swath of blood across his chest.
Sam gritted his teeth, holding back his curse. Though
he assumed Hume's assailant was gone, he went through the house quickly,
methodically, until he knew he was alone. Then he stood over the body, his
mind already sifting through motives and meanings.
Hume gave a soft cough, and Sam dropped to his knees
in astonishment.
"Edwin?"
He shook the man's shoulder, then ripped open his shirt.
Just beneath his heart, a hole in his chest oozed blood with every beat of
his pulse. Sam pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it over
the wound.
"Edwin!" he said with more urgency. "It's Sam Sherryngton.
Open your eyes!"
The man's eyelids fluttered, but never fully opened.
"Who did this to you?"
Hume coughed again, weaker this time. His lips parted,
and Sam leaned over him to catch his words.
"Lewis…Reed…"
Sam stared at the dying man. "Julia's brother was here?
He did this to you?"
With only the barest shake of his head, Hume whispered,
"Paid…someone. Just like he…paid me. He's--" A coughing fit made
blood trickle from his mouth. Arching his back with a gasp, he finished with,
"--the real traitor. Tell Julia that--tell Julia--"
His body slackened as he died. Swearing, Sam sank back
on his heels.
General Lewis Reed? The man had betrayed and framed
his own sister?
Website Copyright © 2008 by Gayle Callen