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T he purple light of dawn was just starting to fade when Adrian’s eyes snapped open. He stared at the guard who was shaking his shoulder and voiced his displeasure over being denied his rest – the only escape he could have from this place and the future it promised.

“Sorry, but I’ve got my orders and you’ve got your court appearance.”

The guard’s words were as effective as a bucket of ice water dropped on Adrian’s head. He instantly sat, shaking off the man’s hand in the process. “What did you say?”

“The charges against you will be read today. In a couple of hours from now. Kendrick said to make sure you’re ready.” Keys jangled, heavy footsteps scraped over the floor as the guard walked away, then metal clanged as the barred door was slammed shut.

Adrian gripped the blanket Edward had sent him last night while staring at the wall across from where he sat, the hard and uneven surface softened by the gentling darkness. He scrubbed his jaw with his palm, felt the stubble that had formed there over the last couple of days. The expeditiousness with which his case was being treated could only mean that someone was trying to move ahead quickly. Before proof of Benjamin Lawrence’s guilt could be found, while all and sundry would laugh at Adrian’s suggestion that he had, in fact, been able to walk.

Avernail could be behind it, he supposed. A conviction against Adrian would certainly work in the marquess’s favor. Remove attention elsewhere while perpetuating the lie that his son had been crippled and unable to do the ghastly things Adrian accused him of.

Which brought to mind Clive Newton’s father, Viscount Stanton. He’d also be happy to watch Adrian swing from the end of a rope. To say nothing of those Adrian had blackmailed at his father’s behest. They, too, would be standing in line, shouting encouragement to his executioner.

Perhaps it was as it should be – an inevitable result of acquiring so much power. He’d known, had he not, that he must be careful. Papa had warned him to be on his guard and to never trust anyone as he had chosen to trust Samantha.

His heart produced a small thump. If she was truly on his side as Edward suggested, then missing out on the life he could have had with her would be his second regret. The first was failing Evie. Not finding the person who’d orchestrated her death would plague every step he took up onto that scaffold.

And there would be a scaffold. Of that he had no doubt. Anything less would be an insult to the theatrics about to be played out in the courtroom.

* * *

Cross-legged on the bed, Samantha studied the second plan she had received from Marsdale last night. The detail this time was impressive. It showed he’d made a deliberate effort to pay attention to every door and window. Notes were attached with additional information, including exterior elements.

“Any fresh ideas?” Murry asked. Ward and Turner had gone to fetch breakfast, leaving the two alone.

They’d gone over all of it together until they’d been so exhausted the lines on the page had started to blur. But they’d not slept much, awoken by a rag collector hollering in the street. Which was fine, considering Adrian depended upon them to sort this out. A proper night’s rest could always come later.

“Not yet.” She worried her lip between her teeth, one finger jabbing the paper where Adrian’s cell was marked. “A key will be needed here. Marsdale said the guard on duty had one attached to a metal ring he retrieved from a locked cabinet, the key to which was kept in his jacket pocket.”

“Retrieving that won’t be easy. Worse are all the unknowns. We’ve no idea how many guards are on duty at night or how many doors stand between the back alley and that part of the courthouse. Which brings us to the problem regarding our entry. The key to Croft’s cell we can get once we’re inside. It’s breaking in that’s the hard part.”

Samantha didn’t argue. How could she when his point was valid? Marsdale had been good enough to describe the back door through which prisoners were escorted when they were to be transported. It was made from solid iron and contained no lock at all. Most likely because it was bolted from the inside.

She considered the other points of entry he’d sketched. Windows, mostly. All of them barred. Which left the front door, but getting in that way posed its own set of problems. Avoiding contact with the guards would be impossible. There would probably also be Runners working the night shift. How many was anyone’s guess.

The point was Samantha and her men would be walking in blind and would likely end up in a cell next to Adrian’s.

Samantha shook her head, the hope and energy that had consumed her when Marsdale gave her the plan fading fast. “This isn’t going to work. There are too many obstacles in our path. It’s too risky.”

“Does that mean we’re going to focus on the second option?”

Saving Adrian during transport. She’d hated that idea right from the start because of the timing. It would be close. One second off and they’d miss their chance. And that was without having to worry about all the external threats that might arise – the things they could not prepare for. Like people in the streets, traffic delays, more guards than what they expected.

Hell, it was unlikely they’d have the chance to observe such a transport – see how it was done – before it was Adrian’s turn.

The margin for error was huge, the chance they themselves would be caught equally so. And yet she did not doubt that Murry was just as willing to take the risk as she. Turner and Ward too. But to charge ahead without some guarantee they would make it through this seemed senseless. She knew Adrian wouldn’t want that.

Which meant she would have to find another angle. Some way in which to narrow the margin and minimize the risk.

“Considering the charges against him, he’ll have to stand trial at the Old Bailey,” Murry said. “That’s where he’ll be taken. So if we can block off Limeburner Lane, that should give us a chance to charge the carriage, overpower the guards, and whisk Croft away.”

Most likely.

If.

Not the reassuring words that were needed for this kind of operation.

Her heart thudded against her breast. Failure, which wasn’t an option, seemed inevitable. Unless…

Air expanded her lungs as she took a deep breath, held it, and blew it out slowly while letting a new idea settle. She met Murry’s gaze, and he tilted his head as if sensing she’d come up with something.

“We’ve been focusing on breaking him free, either from his cell or from the carriage. But what if we don’t have to?”

Interest sharpened Murry’s eyes. “What are you getting at, Mrs. Croft?”

A plan that was no less dangerous than the others, but one she believed was more likely to work. “We convince Bow Street to hand him over by providing the transportation they need.”

Murry went utterly still before producing a stifled laugh without any hint of amusement – a near splutter that almost made it sound like he might be choking. He steadied his breath and schooled his featured. “I think they’ll realize something is up when they don’t recognize their usual driver. Besides, we’d have to commandeer a prison carriage. A regular hackney won’t cut it.”

Samantha pondered that problem. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to solve it, but rather a question of how far she was willing to go in order to save her husband.

“We may have to resort to Croft methods,” she murmured, accepting the truth she’d tried to avoid until now, just as the door to the room swung open.

Turner and Ward entered, each with a tray full of food. But it was the burst of alarm upon their faces that put her on instant alert. Both looked reluctant to utter the words that clearly threatened to spill from their mouths.

“What is it?” Murry asked when Samantha remained silent, almost wishing she could run from whatever news they were about to impart.

As expected, it was Ward who said, “The trial begins today.”

Samantha’s pulse leapt in panic. “They’ve moved him to The Old Bailey already?”

“No. A judge has been brought to Bow Street.”

Fear slammed into Samantha. This wasn’t normal procedure. Someone had to be pushing to get the case wrapped up quickly and Adrian carted off. The judge would likely be bribed, which didn’t bode well for Adrian’s chances.

Or theirs.

They needed more time, but it would seem that whatever remained was about to run out.

* * *

The Bow Street Magistrate’s Court was already filling with people when Edward arrived at eight. Roused by Bertram, who’d been informed of Adrian’s trial by a messenger Shaw had sent over, he’d not managed more than a bite of toast and a sip of coffee as he threw on his clothes. Within fifteen minutes of waking, he’d been out the door, head spinning and eyes slightly unfocused.

The drive to Bow Street had allowed him the quiet he needed to collect his thoughts. When he finally arrived, he felt more in control, though he dearly wished he’d managed to eat more food.

He sent a wishful look at the bakery he spied a bit farther along the street but refrained from heading toward it. Acquiring a seat inside was of greater importance. The last thing he needed was having to stand. Or worse, getting turned away on account of the courtroom’s being too full.

Waiting for news of what happened inside to travel outside was not an option. So he strode for the door through which a small crowd was already moving and managed to enter the building.

A Runner ushered everyone onward toward the next door, through which Edward glimpsed the judge’s chair. He entered the courtroom, gaze searching until he found Shaw. The solicitor stood with a man Edward did not recognize. Adrian’s barrister, perhaps.

Pushing away from the people around him, he made his way toward the two men, dropping his title when a Runner began denying him access. Shaw must have heard him arguing, for he was suddenly there, telling the Runner to let him be.

They stepped to one side together and Edward finally managed to ask, “What’s going on?”

“I received word two hours ago that Croft’s trial will commence at nine.”

“Here?” Edward could not believe it. High profile cases were usually heard at The Old Bailey.

“It’s highly unusual.”

“And suspicious,” Edward murmured. What the hell was going on?

“I plan to make an inquiry into the actions carried out here today, though I fear it will have no effect on the outcome. The expeditiousness with which this case is being handled is cause for concern.” The pointed look Shaw gave him was telling. The solicitor suspected corruption. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’d not be surprised if the rope is being readied as we speak. That said, I want you to know that Grant is the finest barrister I know of. If anyone is going to save Mr. Croft, it is he.”

The guarantee, delivered right on the heels of Shaw’s harsh remark, did not appease Edward in the slightest. He was worried. So much so it took him a second to realize Shaw was staring at him, an expectant look in his eyes.

“I beg your pardon,” Edward muttered, his thoughts in a jumble. “Did you say something more?”

“I was asking if you will be willing to speak on Croft’s behalf. It may help to show that an earl has his back.”

“Of course. I’m happy to help.”

Shaw gave a curt nod. “Good man.”

He returned to where Grant stood and Edward went to find his seat, squeezing in between two gentleman he did not know. Not that there was a lack of familiar faces. The Earl of Orendel sat two rows over, not far from the Marquess of Avernail, who was flanked by his three remaining sons.

Viscount Stanton was there as well, seated directly beside Mr. Hillford and the Duke of Eldridge. The latter sent a tight smile in Edward’s direction before returning to his conversation with Stanton.

The Duke of Moorland was present, too, along with the Duke of Wrengate, one more welcome than the other in Edward’s opinion. All Wrengate would be here for was the spectacle he no doubt believed would take place.

A small commotion erupted near the room’s entrance, and Edward leaned forward, trying to get a better look. He spotted Birchwood, who’d also decided to show up. Edward wondered at the viscount’s reason for doing so. Was he merely here out of curiosity? Or did his presence have something to do with Adrian having included him in the list of men he’d suspected of being the Mayfair Murderer?

If the latter, he might be yet another man holding a grudge against Adrian.

Edward watched the viscount argue with a Runner. Gestures were made and then Kendrick stepped into the fray. Something was said and an extra chair was produced. The ruckus abated as Birchwood managed to claim the seat and the doors to the room were pulled shut.

Ongoing chatter accompanied the rustle of fabric, the movement of feet, and occasional cough. Minutes went by, stretching so long the seat on which Edward sat grew uncomfortable. He shifted his weight. The men beside him did the same.

And then the door at the back of the room opened, bringing an end to all conversation. The chief magistrate entered, preceding a man Edward knew to be the judge, based on his attire alone. Everyone stood at Sir Nigel’s request and remained standing until the judge had taken his seat, the silence that followed a stark contrast to the noise from just a few seconds ago.

Edward studied the judge, an older chap with a stoic look about him. He had a round face, punctuated by beady eyes, a pointy nose, and a flat mouth. The white wig placed on his head and falling loosely over his shoulders served to remind everyone of his authority.

The judge cleared his throat, then swept the room with his gaze before taking his seat. Everyone else followed suit.

“For those unfamiliar with me, my name is Judge Oakleigh, and I shall be presiding over this case today. Now, I realize this makes for a rather unorthodox situation, considering the severity of the crime the defendant stands accused of. Ordinarily, it would be brought before one of the crown courts, like The Old Bailey.

“However, since doing so would cause a lengthy delay – these courts having already taken on a significant load – the decision was made to host the trial here.”

“Will there be a jury?” the man beside Edward shouted.

Murmurs swept the room as Judge Oakleigh’s gaze shot toward the spot where Edward was seated. “Who asked that?”

Edward was almost tempted to point at the loud-mouthed man, just to make sure no one thought it was him. He slid a bit lower in his chair, surprise sweeping through him when the man answered, “I did. Charles Abernathy, chief editor of The Morning Post .”

A small piece of hope erupted in Edward’s gut. The press was here and if they were watching, asking questions, then surely that meant the judge and anyone else involved in Adrian’s sentencing would be held accountable.

Judge stared Mr. Abernathy down. “If you or anyone else decides to speak out of turn again, you will be escorted from this courtroom and barred from re-entry. This is not an interview for you to participate in unless explicitly asked to do so. That said, I can inform you that a jury will indeed be made available. Anything less would be unthinkable.” He gestured toward a man who stood guard near a side entrance to the room. “If you would please show them in.”

It felt as though every person in the room scooted forward, hoping to get a good look at the people who would be hearing Adrian’s case. The fact that they would – that judgement would not be made quickly by Oakleigh himself – reassured Edward even further.

“Croft is a friend of yours, is he not?” Abernathy asked, his words a bare whisper below the noise produced as the jury members entered the room. When Edward responded with a small nod, the man said, “I must confess, my personal opinion of him leaves much to be desired.”

“Really?” The comment surprised Edward, considering Abernathy’s determination to make sure Adrian got a fair trial.

Abernathy gave him a frank look. “Whatever my own feelings about him may be, it’s important he’s treated as I would expect to be were I in his shoes. With impartiality and respect. Innocent until proven otherwise. If we can’t manage that, then what hope is there of weeding out corruption?”

Edward appreciated the man’s intention to make sure the law was heeded. Having him clarify that he would hold all involved to account and make sure potential wrongdoing was printed in the paper would hopefully lead to a just trial and a fair ruling. He watched with steady breaths as the men who’d been called upon to determine Adrian’s guilt or innocence shuffled toward their respective seats.

It was hard to tell what sort of people they were based upon their appearances. A couple were better dressed than the rest, their attire indicative of good fortune. Perhaps acquired through trade? Though Adrian did belong to the upper class on account of his wealth, he had no title. It therefore stood to good reason that a jury of his peers would consist of men in similar situations as his.

Edward prayed they would be wise – that they would consider all of the facts without making assumptions based upon preconceived notions. Hopefully none had crossed paths with Adrian in the past or knew of someone who had. For if that were indeed the case, their opinion might be tainted, their decision about him made before Grant had a chance to defend him.

“Members of the jury,” Oakleigh said, his voice cutting through all lingering chatter and forcing the room into silence once more. “I hope you understand the importance of what you’ve been called to do here today and the impact your final decision will have. It is important that you consider all of the facts presented to you with the utmost of care.” He kept his solid gaze on the group for a long-drawn-out moment before turning toward the guard who stood by the side entrance. “You may allow Mr. Croft to enter.”

Again, everyone leaned forward, necks straining and heads shifting from side to side in an effort to catch a glimpse of the prisoner. Seated where he was, Edward did not have to struggle too much since only one row of people in front obstructed his vision a little. It was easy for him to see his friend’s face. The expression he wore, while somber, seemed to lack all emotion.

Whatever Adrian might be feeling, he’d carefully tucked all evidence of it away behind a blank exterior. Edward wasn’t sure whether or not that would aid him. In his opinion a bit of unhappiness on his friend’s part might have shown that he did not belong here.

Even though his gaze scanned the room, briefly passing over the spot where Edward sat, he did not seem to register him. And then he was being addressed by Grant, his entire focus shifted toward whatever the barrister told him. Edward couldn’t discern it. There was too much murmuring, besides which the words were likely intended as private and would be spoken accordingly.

“If you are ready,” Judge Oakleigh said, his statement directed toward the spot where Adrian stood next to Grant. “I will proceed with reading the charges.” A brief pause, just to be sure there would be no disturbance. And then, “Mr. Croft, you stand accused here today, on the 29 th of August, 1818, for the murder of the Marquess of Avernail’s son, Mr. Benjamin Lawrence. How do you wish to plead?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor.” Adrian’s voice was unwavering, loud and clear amid the protests that started erupting as soon as he spoke his first word.

Relief gripped Edward. Considering Adrian’s attitude when they’d last spoken, he’d almost feared he’d pronounce himself guilty. At least he now looked prepared to fight, though the odds in his favor weren’t great when he’d all but confessed in front of Kendrick.

The judge grabbed his gavel and let it fall hard against the block while calling for order. When a few raised voices persisted, Runners were asked to escort the troublemakers out. Edward followed the spectacle and saw that one of them was Charles Lawrence, one of Benjamin Lawrence’s younger brothers. His father, the marquess, appeared to simmer with rage, though he did not argue against his son’s removal from the room.

His other remaining sons, David, the eldest, and Nigel, remained equally silent, though their eyes burned with displeasure.

“If anyone else has something to say, I suggest you leave now,” said Oakleigh. “The next person who speaks out of turn will not only be escorted out but forced to pay a penalty of two pounds. Now, if that is all, I would like to proceed with Mr. Grant’s opening statement.”