Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine by T. Davis Bunn Page A

believers before us. Let her speak, and let them hear thy command. Set my daughter free.”
    “Amen,” their carriage driver intoned, and Jack as well. “Yes, Lord, and amen.”
    “Give me the coin purse,” Lillian said, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. She knotted the purse’s leather strap around a button on her left cuff, then slipped it up her sleeve. Those accustomed to danger carried money in this manner. Normally a small knife with a razor’s edge would be strapped alongside the purse, so a weapon might be drawn when supposedly reaching for money. She saw Jack’s eyes widen at the practiced motions. Lillian did not care what Jack thought. She was so stunned by being prayed over that her mind could scarcely capture any thought at all.
    Lillian drew the housemaid’s cloak about her and fastened it at the collar and waist. She pulled the hood far over her face, careful to tuck in every strand of hair. “Jack, you will come with me.”
    “Aye, your ladyship.”
    “From this point on, you are to address me simply as ‘mum.’ ” She looked back at Ben. “You will guard your lady.”
    “With my life, my lady—”
    “And I shall pray for you as hard as I know how,” Lavinia said, gripping Lillian’s hand once more. “Thank you, sister. Thank you.”
    Save your words for when I return, Lillian wished to say. But she found herself unable to speak at all.
    Lillian slipped her hand free and strode into the night.

    Newgate Prison fronted the street with a façade as grim as a medieval fortress. The octagonal stone turrets were flat at the top, from which the peelers could stare down into the central press yard. This time of night, the main gates were shut. Even so, the stench hit Lillian long before she reached the keeper’s lodge.
    The head turnkey was always referred to as the keeper. This man was busy with his dinner when Lillian peered through the cracked window. The keeper was obviously accustomed to being disturbed by late-night visitors. He paid no attention to either the faces by his window or the loud knocking upon his door.
    “I’ll go in and suss out the man,” Jack said.
    “No, let him play his little game,” Lillian responded, and waited.
    Memories swirled about her like the tendrils of night mist. When she had been nine years old, her aunt had dressed Lillian in her darkest clothes. Together they had left the house an hour after her uncle had departed for some church meeting. Her aunt had spoken little—she had always been sparse with her speech. They had taken a transom to a portion of town the young Lillian had never seen before, a place of hovels and silence and gloom. They had halted before the porter’s lodge of a prison very much like this one, though that distant night had been far colder. The air had tasted metallic, a dangerous flavor spiced by the same fetid smell that filled her nostrils now. That night, the keeper had not wanted to let them in either. But Lillian’s aunt had insisted. The man had relented only when Lillian’s aunt had slipped coins into his palm. Which was another astonishment. Her aunt had always been tight with her silver.
    Lillian was brought rudely back to the present by a deep voice braying, “Well, what is it that can’t wait for the proper hour?”
    Lillian shuddered with the force it required to push the memories aside. “I come with an urgent request.”
    “Why should yours be any different?” The keeper laughed at his own joke. The room behind him was empty save for a battered pewter plate and mug, and a flickering tallow candle upon a rickety table. He wore unlaced boots and a stained leather apron over filthy trousers. His belly was enormous and shook as he laughed. He did not care that Lillian remained silent through his humor. He no doubt had grown used to laughing alone.
    The keeper turned away long enough to drain his mug. “Aye, it’s always the urgent ones what can’t wait for morning.” His eyes squinted in their