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London loved a hanging. The streets were filled with eager throngs, all heading toward Newgate Prison—the hawkers, pastrymen, the gentry in their stylish carriages, the rest of the town on foot, and the festival mood rivalled Christmas.

It wasn’t every day that seven men, two women, and a young boy were to be hanged, and everyone was looking forward to the novelty.

Word had come that they’d had to build a special gallows for the boy, being as he was shorter than the others.

Nick had no idea whether that would make the task easier or more difficult, but he wasn’t particularly worried.

He was more than prepared, and young Skittle wouldn’t have time to feel the noose around his young neck before Nick whisked him away.

After all, it wasn’t as if Skittle was notorious.

No one had any idea of his real age—somewhere between eight and fourteen was Nick’s guess, and this was the first time he’d been caught after a long and successful career as one of Nick’s best pickpockets.

No, they were making an example of him because of Nick, the untouchable, the head of the notorious Beggars’ Ken.

Nick did not appreciate examples, and he had a certain fondness for young Skittle, as he did for all the children under the sponsorship of the Beggars’ Ken. It wouldn’t look well for someone in his care to face the nubbing cheat, and he didn’t intend to let it happen.

He could have sent others out to see to it that brisk fall morning, but it was his name that was being called into question, and his own peculiar honor, and it was up to him to see the boy clear.

Jem was ready beneath the gallows to catch the lad as he dropped, and the girls were all out, soliciting their wares, ready to get in the way if need be.

Even his arch-enemy Rafferty would be milling about, ready to cause a dust-up.

But it was up to Nick, and he’d be in place, opposite the Beggars’ Door and the gallows for the last hour, bored out of his mind.

The door finally opened, and a roar erupted from the crowd as the prisoners shuffled out.

He recognized two of them—old Lolly who liked to take his pleasure with young boys and occasionally killed them, and Meg Harper, the abortionist. Too bad about her—she performed a needed service, but Lolly could go to hell.

Nick’s eyes met Jem’s over the heads of the crowd, and with only a faint jerk in Meg’s direction he sent the message.

He couldn’t rescue them all, not this time, but he could at least give the others a fighting chance, particularly Meg.

He hated the damned drums as they marched the prisoners to their individual gibbets, and he focused on Skittle.

He was looking defiant like the brave lad he was, though definitely the worse for wear.

Someone had clouted him hard across the head, and there was blood coming from one ear.

Maybe Skittle could remember who’d done it, and Nick would have a chance to teach the man a lesson.

He leaned forward, calm, ready, as they placed the rope around Skittle’s thin neck, and then he heaved his package over the heads of the people to land directly in front of the gallows.

The bright explosion, followed a second later by a thundering crash, set it all in motion.

The fancy carriages had paid for prime placement, and they were nearest the explosion, the horses wheeling and jerking in panic as their owners tried to control them—apparently it was a morning’s jaunt to drive out to watch a young boy die.

Women screamed, his own as well as the other morbid voyeurs, and the traps crashed open beneath the prisoners, letting Skittle suspend in mid-air for one breathless moment.

He threw the knife, straight and true, and it sliced through the rope holding Skittle aloft, so that he dropped straight through, into Jem’s waiting arms if things went according to plan, and things always went according to Nick’s plans.

He sent the other one sailing over to slice through Meg’s—it would be up to her to escape—and then he was recognized, damn it.

“It’s Nick the Butcher!” someone in the crowd cried, and others took up the chant, like the crowd at a horse race.

They may have been perfectly willing to watch a child twitch on the end of the rope, but they were just as glad for a rescue and a chance to put one over on the brutal staff of Newgate.

“It’s Nick himself.”

“He’s a witch, he is!”

“Wouldn’t let his men down.”

“Cheers for Nick the Butcher!”

Christ, he thought, disappearing into the crowd effortlessly. He was getting too well known. He ducked down an alleyway, slid behind a loading cart, mixed in with a group of gypsies, and a moment later, he was gone, into the vast, swirling underworld that he ruled so well.