Mr. Cranley offered the protection of his arm, and led me to a door in the far wall opening into another chamber. There, in a darkened, corner, I discovered the Countess. Isobel sat upon the ground, her arms hugging her breast, as though that pitiful gesture might offer some protection from the nightmare of her circumstance; she raised a face suffused with dumb suffering at our approach, and her brown eyes widened with horror.

“Jane!” she whispered hoarsely. “How come you to be here? And witnessing my shame!” She looked wildly about, and struggled to her feet, as if to fly from our sight.

“My dear girl,” I said affectionately, taking both her hands in mine, “I see no shame, only great forbearance in the midst of so much misfortune. Your courage is a credit to your name, Isobel — your friends can only honour you.”

“One friend, at least, I have,” she cried, and gripped me in a fierce embrace. Mr. Cranley shut the door of Isobel's cell upon Nance and her confederates, then hovered on the periphery, his eyes averted, until recalled to attention by the Countess's hand.

“And you, Mr. Cranley,” she said, in a softened tone; “most excellent of barristers, and a true gentleman. I am fortunate, indeed, in your friendship. But you seem distressed, good sir.”

“I am only outraged, my lady,” Mr. Cranley said, “in witnessing your continued degradation. I had ordered Snatch to obtain more suitable lodgings for you, and the man has expressly violated the terms of our agreement.”

Isobel looked away, and raised a hand to her eyes; then faced us with better composure. “I believe the man Crow is incapable of honour, Mr. Cranley. You are well advised to bargain with his superiors, if you wish to waste your coin. But do not concern yourself with me. I care little for which room in hell I may call my own; none is likely to offer comfort.”

I surveyed the Countess with profound emotion, unwilling to imagine the trials she had already undergone. Her simple dress of black wool was soiled and torn; whose hands had offended her person I could readily guess, having viewed the gauntlet of her cellmates. Her hair was tangled and dirty, and a fearful smell emanated from the folds of her clothes. She was sunk indeed from the wealth and consequence that had been hers but a few weeks before. I embraced her again, overcome with pity.

“I fear we cannot remain much longer, Miss Austen,” Mr. Cranley said gently.

“Isobel,” I said, “we will have you out of this fearsome place, with your innocence proved and your good name restored. Never doubt that all our benevolence is active on your behalf. Let hope sustain you in this, your darkest hour; we shall see you freed, and Fitzroy Payne with you.”

“Do not speak his name, Jane. I wish never to hear it again.”

I gazed at her averted face and bitter eyes, profoundly disturbed. What fury is love that believes itself betrayed!

“I shall be very much surprised, Isobel, to discover him anything but as innocent as yourself; and in time, you may find in that as much hope as for your own cause.”

She bit her lip, and turned to me with emotion. At a nod from Mr. Cranley, I reluctantly released her; but remembered to press upon my friend the book I had fetched at the very carriage door. It was my most treasured novel — Cecilia, by Miss Fanny Burney — as certain a mental diversion as one could find, in so terrible a place. But Isobel refused it, with an eye to the women beyond her door, and the treacherous Crow.

“Do you keep it safe, dear Jane,” she told me softly. “I shall hope to enjoy its delights in a better time.”

“MR. CRANLEY,” I SAID THOUGHTFULLY, WHEN CROW HAD led us to the street, “we must endeavour to find a reason for the Countess to hope.”

“I agree, Miss Austen. But whence that hope might spring, I cannot say.”

“A renewed faith in the Earl might engender it. Did the Countess think his soul less black, she might suffer less despair.”

Mr. Cranley helped me into his carriage, and stood by the door; and I understood then he would not accompany me on my return to Scargrave House.

“You must descend once more into that hell?” I enquired, in some distress.

“I must meet with the Earl, Miss Austen; and no lady may be permitted in a cell such as his,” the barrister replied grimly. “I fear I have some business with the prison's governor as well, if I can but persuade him to hear me. The Countess and the Earl must be moved to more decent rooms, though a fortune be spent to achieve it.”

“You are goodness itself.”

“I only do what is required — what any gentleman of feeling would do.”

“Most gentlemen of feeling would hardly think a month's ablutions enough to rid them of Newgate's stains,” I replied dryly. “I remain convinced of your worth, my dear sir.”

He inclined his head, somewhat embarrassed, and I moved on with energy to my more important purpose. “Mr. Cranley,” I said, “when you speak with Fitzroy Payne, do you enquire as to his methods of correspondence.”

“His methods?”

“Indeed — what records of letters sent and received he may retain; whether he logs his postage; and particularly enquire if he makes copies of those missives he writes.”

Comprehension dawned upon the barrister's face. “You think of the scrap found in the maid's bodice.”

I nodded. “Could we but show that paper to have been taken from some part of the Earl's correspondence, his guilt in having written it might seem less heavy. For any might have sent the note to Marguerite. It cannot be proved that the Earl did so. What indicts him is his hand; the writing is surely his. We must endeavour to show that it was intended for another, and appeared upon the maid only by misadventure.”

The light in Mr. Cranley's eyes was enough to satisfy me; that we should soon know all we must about Fitzroy Payne's business, I little doubted, and rejoiced in the excellent understanding of Isobel's defender.

Later that day

I WAS TREATED AFTER DINNER TO AN EXTRAORDINARY interview with Miss Fanny Delahoussaye, and am so far from understanding what it may mean, that I write down the essence of it, in the hopes that by so doing, I may better comprehend it.

I had retired to the pianoforte, in an effort to improve my mastery of Mr. Haydn's airs, and reflect upon all that has occurred, when I was surprised by Miss Delahoussaye's appearance at my side. A band of jet beads was drawn across her brow, with a plume behind, and she was resplendent in a dinner gown of black sarcenet. I knew that she looked forward eagerly to her visit on the morrow to Madame Henri's, that breathlessly fashionable modiste of Bond Street, and assumed that she wished to bend my ear, the better to glory in her good fortune.

“Miss Austen,” said she, in a far warmer accent than has distinguished our acquaintance thus far, “may I persuade you to take a turn about the Orangerie? I do not believe you have yet viewed its delights. In such a season as this, when the streets are impassable, a greenhouse must be preferred above all other amusement. I am sure you should like it of all things.”

I saw no reason to hold myself aloof, and gladly consented. The Orangerie was a folly of the sixth Earl, the late Lord Scargrave's father, whose wife was French; he is said to have drawn the structure from the likeness of one on the grounds of Versailles, before that noble palace's destruction at the hands of the French rabble. A quantity and variety of plants are grown in its hothouse atmosphere, such as are rarely met with. The late Earl shared in his father's interest, botany being yet another of his passions; no plant was too costly or too rare for his procuring.

“Mr. Cranley seems a respectable sort of fellow, for a barrister,” Fanny began, as we strolled the moist aisles, smelling of green; “you might almost set your cap at him, had you sufficient time, Miss Austen. His profession is not abhorrent to you, and his prospects must be declared quite good — at least, for one of your — that is, quite good, indeed.”