Hugh followed Minna a little way down a corridor where she stopped, pointing to the end of a passage at right angles. From the room to the right, he could hear faint singing punctuated with breathless sighs. Several patrons sagging against each other as they traversed the passage brushed past and disappeared through a nearby door, not closing it before shrieks of laughter issued into the corridor.

“Go to the last room,” she whispered. “I must return to my antechamber in case Sir Gawain does come for me.”

Hugh nodded. “Thank you, Miss Minna, for your great help,” he said. “I hope your own story will end happily.”

She shrugged. “It will end in some fashion, but whether that is happily, I would not begin to speculate upon. My fate is not in my hands.” She turned, saying softly over her shoulder, “I wish you good luck in your endeavors, sir, and will read the papers with great interest.”

Consumed by the hope of what he might soon discover, Hugh made his way stealthily toward the room she’d indicated. Like the previous one, its door was flanked by luxuriant potted palms, the perfect cover for putting one’s eye to a peephole. He ran his hand over the green-papered walls and felt the slight indent. But the hole was covered.

His spirits fell, and he stood uncertainly by the wall, wondering what he should do. The room was at the end of a long corridor, and his position there was very obvious. He decided to return to the reception rooms, and was a few feet into his return journey when a slight, fair-haired gentleman in evening clothes, wearing a mask and heading in his direction, stopped him.

“Where are you going, my dear?” he asked, looking Hugh up and down with raw appraisal, his hands on his hips, his expression arch. “I haven’t missed out on all the fun, have I?”

Hugh glanced over his shoulder and saw that it must be apparent to the young man that he was returning from the very room upon whose occupants he’d hoped to spy.

His uncertainty in what to say was misconstrued, for the gentleman tipped his head to one side and said, “Lost your way, have you? Told all the fun you were looking for was in Room 404?” He giggled suddenly, and to Hugh’s incredulity, took his hand. “Well, don’t be shy; Reggie will look after you. There’s lots of fun to be had in Room 404 if you come with me.”

Hugh pulled back. “No, really, that wasn’t at all…” he floundered.

Reggie dropped his hand and gave Hugh a considering look. “You just want to watch? Never done this sort of thing? Got a wife at home, eh? Maybe this is your first time?” He began to gently run his hand up and down Hugh’s coat sleeve, his smile colluding. “That’s all right,” he whispered. “You can just watch. We’ll find you some nice comfy cushions for you to lie back on and be comfortable while you see how it’s done.” He flashed Hugh a wicked smile and added, “As soon as you feel ready, you can join in.”

With trepidation, Hugh allowed himself to be led along the passage before he was pushed into a dimly-lit room. He stopped abruptly, his eyes acclimatizing to the dimness. Lord, what den of iniquity had he landed in? he wondered as he was gently pushed into a pit of cushions. A faint whiff of scented smoke permeated the air, and when his eyes readjusted, he saw lying on a large embroidered cushion a small, large-bellied man, completely naked, playing with himself.

Hugh forced himself not to gasp with shock. Without his clothes, Lord Coulson looked like a gleaming white walrus with shaggy gray facial hair, his domed forehead topping a pear-shaped body. He started when he heard Reggie and sat up, peering through the gloom. Hugh was glad he still wore his clothes, including his mask, but then he’d no more divest his clothes in a place like this than…give up on Phoebe.

“You’ve brought a friend, Reggie?” The magistrate’s voice was slightly slurred and Hugh, tense with terror, was relieved that Lord Coulson seemed happy about this.

He raked Hugh with an appraising look. “Very nice,” he said approvingly. “But perhaps this is your first time.” He smacked his lips. “Don’t worry; we’ll make sure you enjoy your initiation, won’t we, Reggie?”

Reggie gave a high-pitched squeal of excitement as he quickly divested himself of his clothes. Throwing his arms wide in theatrical fashion, he threw himself onto Lord Coulson then, in the midst of his embrace with the magistrate, beckoned to Hugh. “Oh, do join us! Don’t be coy.”

“I…I’d rather watch first time,” Hugh said unsteadily. “I… “

“Feel guilty? Don’t think about it. It’s the way of the world,” Reggie assured him, looking up from nibbling Lord Coulson’s nipple. “Whoopsy and I are more than happy to give you a little taste of what’s in store for you, lucky boy.” Reggie rose onto his knees and gripped Lord Coulson’s engorged member, flashing another wicked smile at Hugh over the tip.

Hugh turned his head away, his mind reeling as Reggie whooped, “Your turn next, handsome stranger,” before he proceeded to pleasure the magistrate with great enthusiasm and thoroughness.

Soon the men were entirely caught up in their own pleasure. Hugh rose to his feet and quietly made his way to the door. He felt ill, but exulted too.

He mightn’t have found Wentworth to squeeze the truth out of but he’d discovered the next best thing.

* * *

“Take the prisoner away!”

Phoebe stared at the two flunkeys who moved forward at the magistrate’s direction. She’d survived the last two hours by pretending she was in another sphere, looking down upon herself. Now, with the howls of derision and feet banging, and so many angry faces glaring at her, she had to accept the truth. She had failed to convince the magistrate of her innocence. Not that she’d been given a great deal of opportunity. Wentworth’s version was brilliantly compelling, and it all came down to the same two factors. Phoebe had been in bed with Wentworth when news arrived of his brother’s deaths, and Phoebe’s hand had gripped the paper knife used to kill Ulrick.

So she would die.

Judgment was to be passed before the afternoon was out.

In her cell in the tower, she stared at the gray sky and remembered what it felt like to be in Hugh’s arms. How sweet and treasured those memories were to her now.

Closing her eyes, her mind ran over the soft, sensual touch of his hands upon her limbs, soothing, caressing. She smiled reluctantly. What worth had her life ever really had? She’d not been born into a position of power or influence. She’d been a pawn for her father to use to better his family’s social and financial position. As Ulrick had married her for convenience, not love, she’d never had any power over him.

Wentworth had professed to love her, but how ironic was that?

As for Hugh, well, he had realised his love was based on a lie.

A waxing moon hung heavily in the sky, and she stared at it. Wondering how many moons she’d ever stare at again.

* * *

The court case had been a farce from the start. Hugh could scarcely believe the smoothness with which Wentworth’s bald-faced lies tripped off his tongue. He knew Phoebe was none of the things Wentworth had called her. Not that he even wanted to think about what had been said by others. Men and women no doubt in the pocket of Wentworth.

It was even probable that Lord Coulson was in some measure in collusion with Phoebe’s vile and undeserving relative by marriage. Hugh would not allude to the fact she’d been his former mistress. That was so irrelevant now.

He’d tried every trick he could manage to speak a few words to the magistrate before the two-faced man of the law had donned his wig and taken the stand, but Lord Coulson had waved him away each time.

Desperate now, Hugh bowed before the rotund gentleman during a rare moment he was alone. In his robes he looked very regal, standing amid a room of fawning acolytes. His word was law. He was the keeper of the rule of law, the minister of justice, arbiter of all that was right.

“My Lord, a quick moment if you please.” Hugh spoke rapidly, assessing the crowd, realizing his time was short. “I’ve come to beg clemency for the prisoner,” he responded when the magistrate inclined his head.

Lord Coulson let out an unregal guffaw. “In an hour, justice will be done and your pleas will be answered.”

“But my Lord, she is innocent.”

“And if she is, judgment will reflect that.”

“I don’t believe judgment will do justice to the truth.”

Lord Coulson stiffened. “You insult me, sir!”

“Hear me out just one moment, my Lord, for we have met before.” He spoke hurriedly, watching the hand that snaked upward to beckon for assistance to usher Hugh away. “Yes, under very unusual circumstances. Do you not remember it?”

Lord Coulson’s eyes slid upward to Hugh’s face, assessing him, clearly trying to place him.

“You are mistaken. We have not met.” His tone was suspicious. “Do you not think I know all the tricks there are? My word is law, and I cannot be bought. I could have you thrown in jail.”

“You must do what you know is right. Lord Cavanaugh—Mr Wentworth who was—is not being honest in his account of what happened the night his cousin was murdered.”

Lord Coulson sighed. “We have endured two long sitting days to ensure that there can be no conjecture on that score. Now you’ve had your time. Leave.”

“Don’t you wish to know who I am?”

Lord Coulson stiffened and he turned, his nose raised to the air. Hugh shot out a hand to grip his arm, and instantly Lord Coulson swatted it away; face mottled with indignation.

“In the cushions at Mrs Plumb’s last night. I was the man invited in to observe your antics.” Hugh spoke rapidly, pausing to watch the magistrate turn the color of thin gruel. Triumphantly, he went on, “Your illegal antics, my Lord, and I have witnesses who were at the peephole.”

“The hole was shuttered.” Lord Coulson spoke quickly and without thinking, for no sooner were the words out than he realized his error.

“The hole which I slid open as I left.” Hugh was fabricating this last though there was no proof either way. Lord Coulson would have to decide whether to take him at his word. He certainly was taking a moment to decide his next move.

Cornered, he began to walk away. Hugh was confused until he realized Lord Coulson was moving to somewhere they could speak in private.

“What do you want?” the older man hissed, careful to keep his features under control as he pretended to consult a paper in his hand.

“The prisoner’s freedom.”

“That’s not possible.”

“She’s not guilty. You know that.”

Snake eyes stared out from beneath Lord Coulson’s wig. “There’s nothing I can do.” His words sounded dead.

“All London shall know in the morning what you are guilty of, sir.” Hugh nearly spat the words. “Then we shall see what justice is really about.”

“I can’t do it else Lord Cavanaugh will exact his own pound of flesh. I’m in an impossible situation. It flies in the face of every bit of testimony heard to exonerate the prisoner.”

“You should have thought of that before you played in your cushiony dell with such inappropriate bedfellows.”

Lord Coulson tapped his fingers on the document he was holding. Finally, he said, “There is but one concession I can make.”

Hugh stilled. He put his head closer to Lord Coulson’s and did not draw back from his foetid breath. For though unpalatable, what he offered was better than Phoebe’s assured death.

* * *

Ravens were common enough, but the ravens at the tower were huge. After days of being unable to eat, Phoebe’s stomach seemed to have folded in on itself. She wondered if she would make a tasty morsel for the flesh-eating birds if she were allowed to wander the battlements or gardens.

No point in such foolishness, she thought as she was led onto the waiting barge.

For a moment, Phoebe just stood on the deck, staring out across the mud and silt and the detritus left by the tide; wondering how soon before she would hear carpenters making the gallows.

“Reckon me old lady’d be right impressed wiv the week’s sport. A feeble woman killin’ a man. An’ then gettin’ her jest desserts.” One of the prison guards laughed loudly as he scratched at a sore on his cheek before picking up his oars. “The beautiful assassin they calls yer.” He winked at his friend. “Reckon no one would know if we ‘ad us a piece of the beautiful assassin afore she’s an assassin an’ beautiful no more, if yer gets me meanin’.”

Again they both guffawed, and Phoebe put her head over the side of the barge, fearing she was about to be sick.

“Wait! One minute before you push off!”

They turned at the shout of a young man dressed in the robes of a court official. He strode down the embankment and pushed a document into the hands of the closest of the two prison guards, stabbing at a signature and a wax seal.

“You’re to surrender the prisoner into my care. I shall accompany her on her final journey downstream.”

The guards exchanged looks of surprise, but made no objection as the man put his hand on Phoebe’s shoulder after he’d stepped into the boat. “Sir Gawain at your service, my Lady.”

Phoebe stared, confused, asking, “And what service do you render me? I am to die, by order of the king.”

“I am to ensure that justice is done.”

His voice was without emotion, but for some reason, Phoebe felt a stab of hope as the vessel was navigated into the middle of the current. Softly, she repeated, “Sir Gawain? Of the Round Table?” Then she giggled, shocked at the hysteria she heard in the sound. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to focus into the gloom of the bridge underpass that was coming up.

He stooped a little, and she glanced up to see his lips close to her ear. “Whisking hapless maidens from the very depths of despair is my job. You are not the only one but you must trust me if I am to help me.”

A shiver ran through her. “Is that what you’re doing now? Helping me?”

The temperature had dropped several degrees now that they were beneath the bridge. The sluggish river lapped at the embankment against which the ferry now abutted as it drew into a landing stage. An official in red and black was waiting to hand her onshore, and Phoebe leaped nimbly onto the quay to avoid her shoes getting wet, slipping a little so that the man hurried forward to grip her elbow, holding it a moment longer than was seemly, and whispering, “Saving hapless females from danger is not only Sir Gawain’s job today.”

“Hugh!” Phoebe gasped, but he shook his head, indicating the prison guards.

`“Nearly came a cropper, m’lady,” he said loudly, “but never fear, I’ve got you safe now.”

Phoebe glanced from Sir Gawain, now conducting an official handover of his prisoner to Hugh, before turning back towards the road while the unquestioning guards returned to their ferry and pushed back into the current.

In the grey light, Phoebe stared at Hugh, unable to believe her eyes. They were alone at last.

And she was free? A strange feeling, half disbelief, half hysteria, clawed its way up her throat, releasing itself in a great sigh of relief.

Behind Hugh, the riverbank sloped downwards, to meet the landing stage and fast-flowing water. Dozens of vessels bobbed upon the river. It would be so easy to slip away and disappear into the seething metropolis on either bank. She had nothing to lose, after all.

But what about Hugh? He’d come to save her but she couldn’t let him risk or even sacrifice his future for her.

Tears stung her eyelids as he stepped towards her, his arms outstretched, joy lighting up his face. When he registered her retreat, the hurt in his eyes cut her to the quick.

“You saved my life, Hugh, but I must leave you, now,” she said, brokenly. “Please…you know there is no future happiness for us together if my only guarantee of safety is to live in exile. I would not ask that of you.”

He dropped his arms. “You’ve asked nothing of me, Phoebe—beyond a new gown… Do not presume to tell me what I should or shouldn’t sacrifice. Do you love me?”

“You know it very well.” She exhaled on a sob. “Too much to let you sacrifice your ambitions.”

“And I love you too much to let you go.”

Phoebe brushed away a tear. The wind off the river was cold and she shivered. “You protected me when I needed protection. I used you and I abused your trust. Surely you see I am not a woman who should be trusted? If you don’t think it now, the time will one day come when you will. And I can’t bear that!”

She took a step backward up the incline. No, this would be her moment of sacrifice when she’d show Hugh how much he really meant to her. He might not thank her now, but he would.

“Phoebe! Please!” he entreated.

She shook her head, opening her mouth to deliver the terms that would sever them; she, by leaving and he by offering her the final proof of his love: the means to begin a modestly independent life somewhere on the Continent.

But instead of dry, emotionless business matters issuing forth, she exhaled upon a shrill scream. Danger! She’d been primed for it all these long weeks she’d been poised to flee for her life. Now, the coiled up energy she’d stored found expression in a swift lunge forward.

Behind Hugh, stepping out of the boat that had just drawn up at the landing, was the man she loathed and feared above all others: the murderer Wentworth. How could she not have noticed him approaching? But she had not amidst the general traffic on the river.

He was straightening up, one foot still in his boat, the other upon the landing, and Hugh, with his back still to him, registered only confusion as Phoebe leapt forward, pushing him out of the way just as Wentworth extended his arm to curl around Hugh’s neck.

Such was the force of Phoebe’s battering ram action that even her slight body had enough momentum to knock Wentworth off balance so that his legs parted and before he could right himself, either in the boat or on dry land, he came crashing down.

* * *

Hugh swung round, arm outstretched, but not within range to catch either of them before they plunged into the water with a shared scream of terror and rage.

“Phoebe!” he cried, so loudly it hurt his lungs, as he ran to the water’s edge.

They were wedged between the boat and the landing but Wentworth had the advantage. With one hand clinging to an iron spike, his other held Phoebe’s head below the surface of the water. As he watched Hugh loom above him, his lips curled up into a rictus of a snarl.

With a choke of laughter he hauled Phoebe up by a hank of hair to taunt, “You thought I loved you once and by God it was amusing to see you beg for crumbs of my regard when you were nothing to me! And then I killed your husband for you and what thanks do I get? You thought you’d escape me, did you?”

Coughing and spluttering, Phoebe cried out in terror while Hugh lunged at Wentworth, raising his heel to bring down upon Wentworth’s fingers. The other man just laughed and found another metal spike to hold, slamming Phoebe’s head against the side of the landing before dragging it beneath the water once more.

“Watch your whore die, Redding!” he shouted. “And then I’ll come after your sister since she knows my secret, too.” Wentworth laughed again while Hugh’s stomach curdled at the blood that had streaked his beloved’s forehead before she’d been pulled under again.

Desperately, he searched about him for a weapon of sorts. Hugh was still holding down Phoebe’s head. Time was running out. Every time Hugh tried to deliver a blow to Wentworth’s fingers, he deftly moved his hand and bobbed just out of reach to cling to the boat which was secured by a yard of mooring rope.

There was no other way than to do as Phoebe had done and hope he were as lucky in his timing to catch Wentworth by surprise. Hugh was not a strong swimmer but he would rather die trying to save Phoebe than watch her life snuffed out in front of his eyes.

With a great roar of fury he launched himself into the inky abyss of fast-running water.

His speed and accuracy caught Wentworth by surprise and as Hugh’s spread-eagled body covered his, he let out a bellow of shocked anger before they all dipped below the murky depths.