Page 39 of Never Beguile a Duke

The command was easier given than performed as the throng waiting to squeeze through the prison gates thickened to an immobile mass of greatcoats and colorful pelisses. Silas shoved through a group of gentlemen, asking for their forgiveness as he jostled them aside.

“This would be an excellent moment for Warwick’s cane,” he yelled over his shoulder as he turned to verify Roxburghe’s proximity.

“Don’t stop advancing,” Roxburghe shouted back, elbowing a gentleman in the back. “I can keep up.”

“Pray we aren’t too late.” Silas twisted around and pushed through a trio of ladies, heading toward the prison square.

Rising out of the center, a wooden scaffolding, its top beam coated with snow, waited. Four long ropes, their braided ends tied into nooses, swung gently, pushed by a biting winter breeze. A yell rose up from the crowd, and the swarm pushed toward the scaffold, carrying Silas and Roxburghe with them.

“Look!” Roxburghe pointed at four men, their hands bound in front of their waists by thick ropes, marching toward a small set of steps leading to the platform.

Silas squinted, inspecting the gaunt men. “Which one is Mr. Hollingsworth?”

“It’s difficult to discern their faces from this distance.” Roxburghe stumbled, pushed to the left by a rather large gentleman, who used his weight to forge a path through the crowd.

Realizing an opportunity to move closer to the condemned, Silas leaped into the man’s wake before the throng reclaimed the open space and followed him across the square, forming a sort of train, with the man in the lead and Roxburghe bringing up the rear.

They traveled through the people in this unusual manner, reaching the scaffold as the prisoners were led onto the platform and positioned behind the ropes.

“We’re too late,” Silas hissed as the executioner covered each captive’s head with a tan cotton sack.

“Stop!” Roxburghe shoved around the opulent man and charged toward the scaffold. “An innocent man is about to be hung!”

A gasp rolled through the crowd.

“Your Grace.” The pockmarked jailer strode across the platform, tugged up his pant legs, and knelt, balancing his arms on his knees. “Every time we meet, you request the release of one of my prisoners.”

“Only the guiltless ones, Mr. Younge,” Roxburghe replied, indicating the blindfolded men behind the jailer.

“And which of the condemned do you wish to abscond with today?” Mr. Younge glanced back as the executioner slid a noose around the first man’s neck.

“Mr. Neville Hollingsworth,” Silas said, moving beside Roxburghe.

Mr. Younge frowned, his gaze sliding between them. “The man responsible for the theft that caused Miss Fernsby-Webb to become one of our unfortunate guests?”

“Apparently,” Roxburghe said, the corner of his mouth lifting, “he didn’t steal the items, either.”

Eyes narrowing, Mr. Younge leaned closer. “Someone is guilty of that crime, Your Graces.”

“We agree,” Roxburghe replied, nodding. “However, not Mr. Hollingsworth.”

“Do you possess evidence proving his innocence?” Mr. Younge nodded toward the restless crowd. “I can’t delay their thirst for violence indefinitely.”

Glancing at Silas, Roxburghe grimaced. “Mrs. Webb changed her account and now claims an unknown male stole from her, and she assumed that man was Mr. Hollingsworth.”

Mr. Younge snorted and leaned back. “Mrs. Webb’s word holds no weight in this prison; she paid to watch her daughter whipped despite knowing of Miss Fernsby-Webb’s innocence.”

“And you allowed it?” Silas jumped at the platform, slamming into Roxburghe’s arm, which crashed into Silas’ chest and propelled him backward.

Roxburghe, eyes widening, shook his head in a slow side-to-side movement, then returned his attention to Mr. Younge.

“If Mrs. Webb’s word no longer holds weight,” Roxburghe said, placing his hands on the scaffold’s rough wood and leaning forward, “then her accusation shouldn’t either.”

“Unfortunately, Your Grace, that logic won’t be enough to convince the magistrate, and if that’s the only proof you can provide, I can’t prevent Mr. Hollingsworth’s death from occurring today.”

Rising, Mr. Younge turned and strode toward the center of the platform. Silence fell over the crowd as every eye locked on the jailer.

“I’ll pay the debt!” Roxburghe’s declaration echoed through the hushed square.