Was she really going to go through with this? It had seemed a good plan, in the safety of Grosvenor Square. Her stomach knotted with a grim sense of foreboding. A church bell tolled somewhere in the darkness, a forlorn clang like a death knell. They rose into the mist, five stories high, a vast expanse of brickwork, bleak and unpromising. Georgie peered out into the rain-drizzled street, then up, up the near-windowless walls. A felon she would marry before the night was through. Or, in this case, for a desperate felon about to be hanged. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Until three days ago, enlisting a husband from amongst the ranks of London’s most dangerous criminals had not featured prominently on her list of life goals. “Your father would turn in his watery grave if he knew what you were about.” The salt-weathered Dutchman always used her full name whenever he disapproved of something she was doing. Georgie frowned at her burly companion, Pieter Smit, as the nondescript carriage he’d summoned to convey them to London’s most notorious jail rocked to a halt on the cobbled street. “Georgiana Caversteed, this is a terrible idea.” It was just that, at present, Georgie couldn’t think of any. There were worse places to find a husband than Newgate Prison.
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