She cuddled deeper into one corner of the sofa and rested her cheek against a cushion. For weeks, she’d come to be skeptical of the sound of the knocker. In the last few days, she’d come to despise it. Each clink against the metal plate teased her hope that her husband would come. That Prinny would have commuted Con’s sentence after all, or some other miracle had occurred and she was not doomed to spend the rest of her life without him.Below stairs, someone was being let in. Lady Montborne—Clara, as she’d begged Elizabeth to call her, or Celeste or Trestin. Elizabeth’s callers were limited these days. She hardly had the time. When she wasn’t at Nicholas’s house begging to be let in, she could barely muster the energy to see even those she held dear. All her reserves were held for surviving the cold stone steps of the service entrance to her son’s prison.Nicholas always knew she was there. But he didn’t care.Mrs. Dalton appeared at the bedchamber door. A flurry of hopefulness buoyed Elizabeth enough to sit up.
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