He blushed and grinned at her concern. “Oh, no one’ll lay a finger on me, milady!”

He dashed off, and Sophia was left to brood alone once more. The sun set, leaving London covered in hot, black night. The air was pungent with coal and the stench of a foul east wind. Just as Sophia considered changing into her nightgown in preparation for bed, Ross strode into their private apartments. He stripped off his sweat-dampened shirt as he crossed the threshold.

“Is there any news?” Sophia demanded, following him into the bedroom. “How is my brother? Are there any reports? Has there been agitation near the prison? I’m going mad from the lack of news‘.”

“Everything is relatively calm,” Ross said, pouring water into a washbasin. The long muscles of his back flexed as he sluiced water over his face, chest, and beneath his arms. “Fetch me a clean shirt, will you?”

She hurried to comply. “Where are you going? You must eat something first. At least a sandwich—”

“No time,” Ross muttered, donning the fresh linen shirt and tucking it into his trousers. Deftly he positioned the collar and tied a cravat around his neck. “An idea occurred to me just a few minutes ago. I’m going to Newgate—I expect to return soon. Don’t stay up on my account. If I have news of any significance, I’ll wake you.”

“You’re going to see my brother?” Quickly Sophia pulled a patterned gray waistcoat from the wardrobe and held it up for him to slide his arms through. “Why? What is this idea? I want to go with you!”

“Not to Newgate.”

“I’ll wait outside in the carriage,” she insisted desperately. “You can give the footman a brace of pistols, and the driver as well. And there are patrols all around the prison, aren’t there? I’ll be as safe there as I am here. Oh, Ross, I’ll go mad if I have to wait here any longer! You must take me with you. Please. He’s my brother, isn’t he?”

Pelted by the flurry of anxious words, Ross gave her a hard stare, a small muscle jumping in his cheek. Sophia knew that he wanted to refuse her. However, he also understood her anguished concern for her brother. ♦ “You swear that you will stay in the carriage,” he demanded.

“Yes!”

His gaze held hers, and he muttered a curse. “Get your cloak.”

Afraid that he might change his mind, she obeyed with alacrity. “What is your idea?” she asked.

Ross shook his head, unwilling to explain. “I am still considering it. And I don’t want to raise your hopes, for it will probably come to naught.”

As a temporary lodging for those awaiting trial or execution, Newgate was often called the stone jug. Anyone who had ever visited or been incarcerated in the place swore that hell itself could not be more wretched. The ancient walls echoed with the constant howls and jeers of prisoners chained like animals in their cells. No furniture or comforts of any kind were allowed in the open wards or solitary cells. The gaolers, who were supposed to maintain order, were often corrupt, cruel, mentally unbalanced, or some combination of the three. Once, after depositing a condemned man in Newgate, Eddie Sayer had returned to Bow Street with the comment that the gaolers alarmed him more than the prisoners.

Although the prisoners suffered mightily in the bitter cold of winter, it was nothing compared to the unholy stench that accumulated in the hot summer days. Armies of cockroaches scurried across the floor as Ross bade the head gaoler to take him to Nick Gentry’s cell. It was located in the heart of the prison and nicknamed the “devil’s closet,” from which there was no escape.

As they proceeded through one of the twisted mazes, lice crackled underfoot and squeaking rats fled from the approach of heavy boots. Distant cries of misery rose from the cells on the lower floors. It unnerved Ross to think that he had allowed his wife to wait in a carriage just outside, and he sorely regretted his decision to bring her here. He comforted himself with the knowledge that she was in the company of an armed footman, a driver, and two runners bearing cutlasses and pistols.

“That Gentry, ‘e’s a quiet one,” Eldridge, the head gaoler, commented. An enormous, stocky individual with bulbous features, he reeked almost as badly as those who were incarcerated. The top of his head was bald, but long, greasy strands trailed from the sides of his scalp and fluttered down his back. Eldridge was one of the rare prison-keepers who appeared to enjoy his job. Perhaps that was because he made a nice profit each week by selling his accounts of prisoners’ experiences within Newgate, including the final confessions of the condemned, to London newspapers. No doubt he would make a pretty penny with his tales of the infamous Nick Gentry.

“Nary a peep from ‘im all day,” Eldridge grumbled. “I ask ye, what kind o’ story can I sell if ‘e keeps ’is gob shut?”

“Inconsiderate of him,” Ross agreed sardonically.

Apparently gratified by Ross’s concurrence, the gaol-keeper led him to the entrance of the devil’s closet. A six-inch-wide window had been cut in the heavy oak-and-iron door to allow the prisoner to speak to visitors. “Gentry!” Eldridge grunted through the hole. “Visitor!”

There was no reply.

Ross frowned. “Where is the guard?”

Eldridge’s oily face turned toward him. “There is no guard, Sir Ross. ‘Twasn’t needed.”

“I specifically ordered a guard to be placed at this door at all times,” Ross said curtly. “Not only to prevent escape attempts, but also for Gentry’s own protection.”

A deep laugh rose from Eldridge’s pendulous gut. “Escape?” he scoffed. “No one can escape the devil’s closet. ‘Sides, Gentry’s been handcuffed, an’ irons fitted on his legs, an‘ ’e’s weighted with three hundred pounds o‘ chains. ’E can’t move to pick ‘is nose! No man alive could get in or out o’ that cell, wivout this” He brandished a key and worked to unlock the door.

The thick slab of oak and iron groaned in angry protest as it was pushed open. “There,” Eldridge said with satisfaction, the lamp in his hand jangling as he walked into the cell. “Ye see? Gentry is—” His huge frame jiggled from a start of surprise. “Bloody ‘ell!”

Ross shook his head slightly when he saw that the devil’s closet was empty. “My God,” he muttered, filled with a combination of admiration and fury at his brother-in-law’s resourcefulness. A bent iron nail gleamed beside the massive pile of chains on the floor. Gentry had managed to pick the locks on his handcuffs and leg irons—in the dark, no less. A bar was missing from the inner window on the other side of the room. It was inconceivable that Gentry could have loosened that bar and squeezed his large frame through such a narrow space, but he had done it. There was every likelihood that he’d had to dislocate a shoulder to accomplish it.

“When was the last time someone saw him here?” Ross barked to the dazed-looking gaol-keeper.

“An hour ago, I think,” Eldridge mumbled, his eyes bulging from his sweat-drenched face.

Staring through the inner window, Ross saw that Gentry had broken through the moldy wall of the next cell, probably using the window bar. He strove to recall the details of the Newgate layout that was tacked to the wall of his office.

He shot a murderous glance at the gaol-keeper. “Does that key work for all the cells on this floor?”

“I-I think so—”

“Give it to me. Now get your fat arse to the ground level, and tell the runners at my carriage that Gentry is escaping. They’ll know what to do.”

“Yes, Sir Ross!” Eldridge fled with surprising speed for someone of his girth, taking the lamp with him and leaving Ross in darkness.

Gripping the key, Ross left the devil’s closet and unlocked the adjoining room. Swearing profusely, he climbed through the hole in the wall, following his brother-in-law’s tracks. “Damn you, Gentry,” he muttered as rustles and squeaks of unsettled vermin greeted his intrusion. “When I catch you, I’ll hang you myself for putting me through this.”

Breathing hard from exertion, Nick Gentry pushed a swath of damp hair from his eyes and emerged onto the roof of Newgate. Cautiously he placed a foot on an outside wall that connected to a neighboring building. The wall was about eight inches thick, and so old that it was crumbling along the top. However, it was the only route to freedom. Once he made it to the other side, he would enter the building, find his way to the street, and then be unstoppable. He knew London as no one else did—every alley, every corner, every hole and crevice. No one could find him if he did not wish to be found.

Slowly Nick proceeded along the wall like a cat, heedless of the possible fall that would see him crushed on the ground. He squinted fiercely, the dense sky relieved by a mere glimmer of moonlight. One foot after another; he tried to keep his mind clear. But a thought broke his concentration—Sophia. Once he left London, he would never be able to see her again. Nick did not identify his feelings for her as love, because he knew himself to be incapable of that emotion. But he was conscious of a rip in his soul, a sense that to leave her for good would mean the loss of the fragment of decency he still possessed. She was the only person on earth who still cared for him, who would continue to care, no matter what he did.

One step, another, right foot, left… Nick shoved the thoughts of his sister away and considered where he would go when he was free. He could make a new start somewhere, take a new name, a new life. The idea should have been cheering, but instead it sank him into gloominess. He was tired of the balancing act that never allowed him to relax for a minute. He was weary, as weary as if he had lived a hundred years instead of twenty-five. The thought of starting again revolted him. It was his only choice, however. And he had never been one to wring his hands over what he couldn’t change.

Part of the wall crumbled beneath his right foot, sending chunks of mortar and showers of dust to the ground. Silently Nick fought for balance, his arms outspread, his breath hissing between his teeth. Regaining equilibrium, he continued more cautiously, using instinct more than vision to cross the wall in the dark. There was little movement from the ground below, only a few foot patrols crossing back and forth. The groups of demonstrators who tried to gather were quickly ushered away. It was a mere fraction of the crowd that Nick had expected to protest on his behalf. He grinned in ironic appreciation of the obvious wane in his popularity. “Thankless bastards,” he muttered.

Fortunately, no one noticed the figure poised high above on the prison wall. By some miracle of God—or whim of the devil—Nick finally reached the neighboring building. Although he could not quite get to the nearest window, he found a carved lion’s head jutting from the stonework. Settling a hand on the ornamentation, he deduced that it was not real stone but Coade stone, an artificial material that was used for quoining and sculpture when using real stone was too expensive. Nick had no idea if the thing would hold him. Grimacing, he grabbed at a tattered blanket he had draped over one shoulder and tied it around the lion’s head. Jerking hard to tighten the knot, he focused on the window, three feet down. Good, he thought, it was open, and he didn’t care much for the prospect of breaking through glass.

Holding his breath, Nick gripped the blanket, hesitated for one reluctant moment, then jumped from the wall in a decisive plunge. He swung through the open window with an ease that stunned him, as he had bargained for a bit more difficulty. Although he landed on his feet, the momentum brought him forward until he fell with a pained grunt. Swearing, he rose and shook himself off. The room appeared to be an office of some sort, the window left open by some careless clerk. “Almost there,” Nick murmured, striding through the office and hunting for the stairs that would lead him to the ground.

Two minutes later, Nick eased through a door he had found at the side of the building, which had turned out to be a furniture factory. Armed with a turning-blade and a heavy stick of wood, he kept to the shadows as he moved forward.

He froze when he heard the click of a pistol being cocked.

“Stay there,” came a woman’s quiet voice.

His breath hitched in astonishment. “Sophia?”

His sister stood there alone, the gleam of a pistol in her hand, her steady gaze pinned on him. “Don’t run,” she warned, her face tense.

“How the hell did you get here?” he asked incredulously. “It’s dangerous, and—For God’s sake, put that away or you’ll hurt yourself.”

She did not move. “I can’t. If I do, you’ll run.”

“You wouldn’t shoot me.”

Her reply was very soft. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

Nick braced himself against a rush of utter despair.

“Have you no care for me, Sophia?” he asked hoarsely.

“Of course I do. That is why I had to stop you. My husband has come to help you.”

“Like hell he has. Don’t be a fool! Let me go, damn you!”

“We are going to wait for Sir Ross,” she said stubbornly.

Out of the corner of his eye Nick saw patrols and a pair of runners coming toward them. It was too late now. His sister had ruined any chance of escape. With fatalistic acceptance, Nick forced himself to relax and drop his makeshift weapons. All right. He would wait for Cannon. And Sophia would learn that her precious husband had lied to her. It would almost be worth it, to expose Cannon for what he was, rather than have Sophia worship him. “Fine,” he said evenly. “We’ll let your husband help me—right to the gallows.”

Chapter 18

Ross was covered in filth by the time he followed Gentry’s trail up to the prison roof. Feeling as if he would never be clean again, he climbed into the open air, which was indescribably sweet after the stench inside. Walking along the edge of the roof, he found a prison wall that connected to a neighboring building. At first there was no sign of Gentry, but then Ross saw the flutter of the dark blanket dangling from the stonework. He growled in frustration. There was no telling how far the man had gotten by now.Leaning over the wall, he tested it with his foot, discovering that it was as unstable as shifting sand. At this point, following Gentry’s path to freedom was no longer an option. Ross would be damned if he would try a feat that even a circus performer would have rejected. Before he could draw back, however, he heard a woman calling from the ground.

“Ross?”

His heart stopped as he saw the tiny figure of his wife from his vantage point four stories above her.