Page 16 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)
“In her letter to the magistrate, Mrs. Webb declared that her daughter’s fiancé was solely responsible for stealing the items from her home.
” Roxburghe shifted his gaze back to Silas.
“Prior to her arrival at your residence, she altered her statement again, reporting that an unknown man robbed her, and she assumed the thief was Mr. Hollingsworth.”
Issuing a low curse, Silas pulled a fob watch from his pocket, checking the time. “The magistrate didn’t accept a third version of the truth, did he?”
“He did not,” Roxburghe replied, grimacing. “Apparently, his words were quite unkind when he dismissed her.”
The coach slowed to a crawl, then stopped.
“This isn’t the prison,” said Roxburghe, glancing at the window.
Mr. Dunn’s face appeared in the glass, and he yanked the door open. “The street’s clogged. I can’t move closer to the prison without injuring someone.”
“We’ll walk,” Roxburghe said, climbing from the cabin. “Move the coach as soon as it’s safe to do so.”
Silas followed, and they flagged down a gentleman passing on the walkway whom they recognized from their club.
“Mr. Garrick!” Silas saluted him. “A pleasure to see you this late morning. Pray, what is occurring today that so many people have gathered in this location?”
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Mr. Garrick bowed, his exuberance nearly toppling him over. “I’m surprised you hadn’t heard. It’s quite the spectacle. A quadruple hanging!”
Silas’ chest constricted, and he glanced at Roxburghe, whose pale face reflected Silas’ fears.
“Please excuse me, Your Grace, I’d like to secure myself an excellent viewing position.” He bowed again, then hastened down the street.
“Do you know the names of the prisoners?” Silas asked, chasing after Mr. Garrick.
“I do not,” he replied, maintaining his quick pace. “However, I heard one of the condemned is the man responsible for the theft at Mrs. Webb’s residence.”
Roxburghe’s hand slammed into Silas’ back. “Run!”
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.
Mr. Younge twisted back and arched his eyebrows. “The full amount? Mr. Hollingsworth stole items totaling a grand.”
Roxburghe shoved his hand into his pocket and removed an embroidered sack of coins. He counted out the money, piling the pieces into a mound on the edge of the platform. When Roxburghe reached eight hundred, he stopped and glanced at Silas, a slight pink color creeping into his face.
“May I borrow two hundred pounds?” asked Roxburghe, keeping his voice low as he leaned into Silas. “I’ll send my man for the funds as soon as we return to your residence with Mr. Hollingsworth.”
Silas slid his fingers into his coat pocket and froze, a tiny voice in his mind whispering that Miss Fernsby-Webb wouldn’t blame them for Mr. Hollingsworth’s demise; she’d lay the guilt at her mother’s feet.
But could he condemn an innocent man to death to prevent that man from courting a woman he wasn’t considering?
Except I am. And I think of her at the most inopportune moments, such as now, while a man’s life rests in my hands.
Roxburghe frowned, obviously perplexed by Silas’ immobility.
“Are you suffering from a monetary plight I’m unaware of?” he asked, his voice filling with concern.
“Solely a moral one,” Silas replied and yanked a similar coin sack from his pocket.
As Mr. Younge marched toward them, Silas counted out two hundred pounds and added the money to the stack.
Bending, Mr. Younge snatched up the funds and counted the coins, his tongue trapped between his yellowed teeth. Then, he nodded once, straightened, and returned to his position at the center of the platform, shoving the money into his pocket.
“This prison believes criminals should be punished!”
A cheer met Mr. Younge’s announcement.
“However, when a guilty party’s debt has been paid, their sentence is suspended.” Mr. Younge paused, waiting until the prison square was dead silent. “Therefore, today there will only be a triple hanging!”
The deafening roar that answered his declaration shook the prison.
“Release Mr. Neville Hollingsworth!” Mr. Younge spun and pointed at one of the hooded men.
The executioner stepped forward, lifted the noose from the second man's neck, cut the ropes binding his wrists, and removed the covering, revealing Mr. Hollingsworth’s pale, sweaty face.
“Get moving,” the executioner growled, shoving Mr. Hollingsworth toward the stairs. “You’re a free man.”
“Who do I thank for my life?” Mr. Hollingsworth asked, limping down three steps.
“The Duke of Roxburghe,” the executioner replied, indicating the far end of the platform.
Mr. Hollingsworth’s gaze locked on Silas and Roxburghe, and a flash of recognition zipped through his brown eyes. Then he swore.
Before they could reach him, Mr. Hollingsworth bolted through the crowd, ramming people aside in his manic attempt to escape the square, and disappeared, vanishing as he hurried beneath the prison gates.