The duke lay against the wall, his hands tied above his head, his booted legs stretched out in front of him. He wore no coat or waistcoat and his linen shirt was dappled with filth and what appeared to be the imprints of bloody fists and boots.

"Thank God." The duke's harsh words drew Elizabeth onwards until she knelt at his feet. His left eye was half-closed and blood ran down his cheek, soiling the front of his shirt. When he tried to speak, his breathing sounded unnaturally loud in the echoing space. "I thought they had killed you."

Elizabeth touched the back of her head and winced. "I think Sir John hit me whilst I was talking to my mother."

The duke groaned. "I should have known Vincent would never be able to hold you. Did you follow me to the Foresters?"

Elizabeth sniffed. "I went to Delamere House first, but Standish told me you were not at home and that he was not to divulge your whereabouts to anyone, especially me."

The duke grimaced and glanced up at his bound hands. "I make you my apologies, I was unavoidably detained. Can you free my arms?"

Without further thought for her thundering headache, Elizabeth stumbled to her feet. She steadied herself against the damp brick and breathed in the mingling smells of mildew and rank tidewater.

A rope was knotted around the duke's wrists and efficiently tied to an iron stake in the wall. Elizabeth tugged at the rope and the duke hissed a curse. Fresh blood ran down from his wrists to soak his sleeves. Elizabeth slid back down to the floor and studied him. Under the filth that covered his face he was as pale as milk curds.

"I don't think I can loosen the ropes, Your Grace. They are tied too tightly for me to work them free."

"Devil take it, woman, I know they are tight. I've been trying to get out of them for the past few hours!"

"There is no need to be rude, Your Grace," she fired back. "I'm not the one who put you in this predicament."

"You bloody well are!"

A sonorous clanging from the city's bells echoed along the dank subterranean passageway, mirroring the faint, rumbling roar of the crowd overhead.

"It is two o'clock," said the duke after the noise had ebbed a little. "The Prince and his fellow sovereigns are due to pass along the Strand in about an hour." He glanced at Elizabeth, his jaw set. "They didn't bother to lock the door after they brought you in here. They probably assumed you wouldn't recover from that blow to your head for hours. It might be better for you to leave me here and go and find help."

Elizabeth contemplated the duke's words. Had her mother knowingly sent her to her death? The thought was too horrific to contemplate, so Elizabeth pushed it away. She fixed her attention on the large, grated opening that allowed into their prison the dappled light reflecting off the river. Water was now gushing through the bars, lapping at the edge of the brick floor, turning it a dark, bloodstained red.

"If I leave you here, Your Grace, you will drown. From the state of the walls, I suspect that at high tide the Thames will completely flood these tunnels."

She glanced over her shoulder and her gray eyes met his. For the first time in their acquaintance, he looked away first. "The security of the nation is of far more importance than my life, Elizabeth. Leave me here."

"I would prefer you to be with me." She waded back through the rising water and, heedless of the state of her skirts, sank down beside him. "I cannot believe that the mighty Duke of Diable Delamere doesn't have a plan for his own escape."

The duke gave a reluctant smile and then sucked in a ragged breath. "If you insist on helping me, I've a knife inside my left boot. If you would be so kind as to remove it?"

With an obvious effort, he brought his left knee up toward his chest. Elizabeth tried to fit her fingers between his stockinged leg and gleaming white-topped boot. After a short struggle, she sat back and tucked her damp hair behind her ear.

"Your boot is too tight, Your Grace. I will have to take it off." She straddled him, applied all her weight to his boot, and ended up falling backwards into the rapidly rising water. She felt inside the soft, warm leather and located the thin-bladed knife. She set her teeth as the wickedly sharp blade sliced through the sodden strands of hemp and prayed she wouldn't cut him.

The church bells of London rang out the half-hour and the faint boom of distant cannon fire resonated through the tunnels to send ripples through the steadily advancing pools of tidal water.

She started humming "Oranges and Lemons" to distract herself as she tried to ignore the rising water that now reached the duke's outstretched legs and licked greedily at the soles of his boots.

"It is taking too long." Gervase's calm voice shattered her concentration and she almost dropped the knife. "Leave me and get out of here."

"No, Your Grace," she replied through her teeth as she finally managed to free one of his hands and set to work on the other. "Are you afraid I mean to release you and then lead you like a lamb to your death?"

"Elizabeth..."

"I am only freeing you because I need your help to apprehend the assassin." She sawed savagely at the remaining rope and the duke's fingers curled into a fist. "After the damage you have done to my reputation, I doubt anyone in authority will listen to me if I start to plead for help."

*** *** ***

Gervase tried to lower his hands into his lap but his muscles locked in painful response. Elizabeth stood over him like an avenging angel, an expression of disdain on her pale face. He flexed his fingers as blood suddenly returned to his useless limbs and fought the urge to cry out.

He slid his hand up his ribcage and carefully pressed, closing his eyes against the fresh wave of jagged pain. When he tried to get to his feet, he almost blacked out and splayed his fingers onto the grimy wall to preserve both his balance, and his dignity.

Elizabeth appeared alongside him and her keen gaze swept over him. "You appear to be suffering, Your Grace. Is there anything I can do to help you?"

He gritted his teeth against an urge to drop his head between her breasts and howl like a child. He would feel immeasurably better if she would only look at him, touch him, love him... How close had he come to losing her and everything else he cared about?

"I'm quite well, Miss Waterstone." He gestured to the door at the top of the stone steps. "Shall we proceed?"

He stepped away from the wall and faltered as his ribs protested. To his disgust, he would have fallen headfirst into the swirling knee-deep water if it had not been for Elizabeth's support.

She held him steady and ran her cold fingers over his chest. He sucked in a breath as she grazed the spot where Sir John's ruffians had inflicted the worst damage. After the dizziness subsided, he opened his eyes and found himself sitting on the steps, looking down on the top of Elizabeth's head. She brandished a set of wide cotton strips torn from her petticoat.

"I shall bind your ribs, Your Grace. Will you lift your shirt for me?"

He didn't have the energy to protest, although he knew as well as she did that the minutes were trickling away and that the water level was rising steadily. He grunted as she expertly wrapped her makeshift bandages around his ribs and tied them tight. On the last bandage, when her arms were wrapped around his torso, he slid his hand up to grip her chin, which rested against his chest.

"My name is Gervase," he said, his voice rough and urgent, and most unlike himself. "I'm weary of this pretense. Stop treating me like a stranger. Call me by my name, damn you."

She stepped away from him and dropped him a curtsey, graceful even in the swirling water.

"Oh no, Your Grace. I went to bed with Gervase and he betrayed me. I prefer to think of you as an arrogant aristocrat who believes me a traitor to my country." Her voice trembled as he reached for her and she flinched away. "Somehow, it is easier to bear your company if I think of you like that."

She picked up her sodden skirts and climbed the steps, her back rigid, her shoulders set. With a muttered curse, Gervase followed her, breathing more easily as he allowed the tightly wrapped bandages to support him.

The clamor of noise and excitement as they reached street level assaulted Gervase's ears like the firing of a pistol close to his head. Elizabeth stopped in front of him, apparently as befuddled as he was. Nobody seemed to notice their disreputable state, so intent were they on the slow-moving procession of kilted Scots guardsmen who paraded along the center of the street. Gervase took Elizabeth's hand, unwilling to lose her in the crush of people.

He bent to shout in her ear as a swell of anticipation rose, peaked, and broke over them. "We need to find our way along the Strand. If I remember the translated code correctly, the assassin is supposed to be by the gates of Somerset House."

Elizabeth nodded. "I know that, Your Grace. I decided that Somerset House would not be a good place for an assassin to get a clear shot at the Prince Regent."

Gervase caught her arm and swung her around to face him. "You decided?"

After an ineffectual attempt to shake off his hand, Elizabeth sighed and gazed over his left shoulder. "I altered the code, Your Grace. I suspected Sir John was in league with my stepfather. I allowed you and Sir John to bully the wrong translation out of me."

She glanced briefly at him and then looked away. He dropped her arm and stared at her, unaware of the people buffeting him or the shoves in his back to make him move on.