She shook her head in disagreement. "My brother's life has been very difficult--"

"I know," he interrupted as gently as possible. It was apparent that any arguments concerning Nick Gentry would result in nothing but frustration for both of them. Sophia would never stop hoping that her brother's ruined soul could be salvaged. He smiled slightly, stroking the fragile sweep of her jaw. "Only you would continue to love a brother who blackmailed you."

"No one has ever given him an opportunity to change," she said. "If he had just one chance at a different life...think of the kind of man he could become."

"I'm afraid my imagination fails me," came Ross's sardonic reply. Rolling over, he pinned her beneath him, his muscular thighs straddling hers. "Enough about Gentry. He has occupied my thoughts enough for one day." "All right," Sophia agreed, although it was obvious that she wanted to discuss him further. "How shall we pass the rest of the evening?"

"I'm hungry," Ross murmured, bending over her naked breasts, "I want supper...and then more of you." His mouth covered one swollen nipple, his teeth catching at it gently. "Does that sound agreeable?"

Thanks to Ross's preparations, there had so far been no violent demonstrations from agitators on behalf of Nick Gentry. The following day, however, he expected a few public skirmishes. Therefore Bow Street had been blocked off with troops and militia, and a party of three runners and a dozen constables was busy clearing away onlookers who tried to gather at Newgate. Families of magistrates had been given notice to barricade their homes, while employees at banks, distilleries, and other businesses were given guns to help defend against possible looting. Sophia had vehemently refused Ross's attempts to send her to the country until the situation was resolved. She did not want to be bustled off to Silverhill Park to sit helplessly with Catherine, Iona, and Ross's grandfather while her brother's fate was being determined.

As the day progressed, Sophia sat in the private parlor in Bow Street No. 4, frantically considering what might be done for her brother. Her head ached and throbbed. Ross did not take luncheon, only sent repeatedly for jugs of coffee while a stream of visitors came to the magisterial office. Gradually evening approached, and the city swarmed with armed foot patrols that kept a lid on the simmering rookeries and flash-houses. On his way to deliver a message to a justice in Finsbury Square, Ernest stopped at No. 4 to give Sophia a brief report of the situation. "I 'eard Sir Ross and Sir Grant talk as 'ow they're surprised the public 'as taken Gentry's arrest so quiet-like. Sir Ross says it's a sign that many opinions 'as swung against Gentry." Ernest shook his head at the masses' disloyalty. "Poor Black Dog," he murmured. "Bloody ingrates, all o' 'em."

Were Sophia not so miserable, she would have smiled at the lad's ready defense of his tarnished hero. "Thank you, Ernest," she said. "Be careful when you go out. I would not like for you to be hurt."

He blushed and grinned at her concern. "Oh, no one'll lay a finger on me, milady!"

He dashed off, and Sophia was left to brood alone once more. The sun set, leaving London covered in hot, black night. The air was pungent with coal and the stench of a foul east wind. Just as Sophia considered changing into her nightgown in preparation for bed, Ross strode into their private apartments. He stripped off his sweat-dampened shirt as he crossed the threshold.

"Is there any news?" Sophia demanded, following him into the bedroom. "How is my brother? Are there any reports? Has there been agitation near the prison? I'm going mad from the lack of news'."

"Everything is relatively calm," Ross said, pouring water into a washbasin. The long muscles of his back flexed as he sluiced water over his face, chest, and beneath his arms. "Fetch me a clean shirt, will you?"

She hurried to comply. "Where are you going? You must eat something first. At least a sandwich--"

"No time," Ross muttered, donning the fresh linen shirt and tucking it into his trousers. Deftly he positioned the collar and tied a cravat around his neck. "An idea occurred to me just a few minutes ago. I'm going to Newgate--I expect to return soon. Don't stay up on my account. If I have news of any significance, I'll wake you."

"You're going to see my brother?" Quickly Sophia pulled a patterned gray waistcoat from the wardrobe and held it up for him to slide his arms through. "Why? What is this idea? I want to go with you!" "Not to Newgate."

"I'll wait outside in the carriage," she insisted desperately. "You can give the footman a brace of pistols, and the driver as well. And there are patrols all around the prison, aren't there? I'll be as safe there as I am here. Oh, Ross, I'll go mad if I have to wait here any longer! You must take me with you. Please. He'smy brother, isn't he?"

Pelted by the flurry of anxious words, Ross gave her a hard stare, a small muscle jumping in his cheek. Sophia knew that he wanted to refuse her. However, he also understood her anguished concern for her brother. ? "You swear that you will stay in the carriage," he demanded.

"Yes!"

His gaze held hers, and he muttered a curse. "Get your cloak."

Afraid that he might change his mind, she obeyed with alacrity. "What is your idea?" she asked.

Ross shook his head, unwilling to explain. "I am still considering it. And I don't want to raise your hopes, for it will probably come to naught."

As a temporary lodging for those awaiting trial or execution, Newgate was often called the stone jug. Anyone who had ever visited or been incarcerated in the place swore that hell itself could not be more wretched. The ancient walls echoed with the constant howls and jeers of prisoners chained like animals in their cells. No furniture or comforts of any kind were allowed in the open wards or solitary cells. The gaolers, who were supposed to maintain order, were often corrupt, cruel, mentally unbalanced, or some combination of the three. Once, after depositing a condemned man in Newgate, Eddie Sayer had returned to Bow Street with the comment that the gaolers alarmed him more than the prisoners.

Although the prisoners suffered mightily in the bitter cold of winter, it was nothing compared to the unholy stench that accumulated in the hot summer days. Armies of cockroaches scurried across the floor as Ross bade the head gaoler to take him to Nick Gentry's cell. It was located in the heart of the prison and nicknamed the "devil's closet," from which there was no escape.

As they proceeded through one of the twisted mazes, lice crackled underfoot and squeaking rats fled from the approach of heavy boots. Distant cries of misery rose from the cells on the lower floors. It unnerved Ross to think that he had allowed his wife to wait in a carriage just outside, and he sorely regretted his decision to bring her here. He comforted himself with the knowledge that she was in the company of an armed footman, a driver, and two runners bearing cutlasses and pistols.

"That Gentry, 'e's a quiet one," Eldridge, the head gaoler, commented. An enormous, stocky individual with bulbous features, he reeked almost as badly as those who were incarcerated. The top of his head was bald, but long, greasy strands trailed from the sides of his scalp and fluttered down his back. Eldridge was one of the rare prison-keepers who appeared to enjoy his job. Perhaps that was because he made a nice profit each week by selling his accounts of prisoners' experiences within Newgate, including the final confessions of the condemned, to London newspapers. No doubt he would make a pretty penny with his tales of the infamous Nick Gentry.

"Nary a peep from 'im all day," Eldridge grumbled. "I ask ye, what kind o' story can I sell if 'e keeps 'is gob shut?"

"Inconsiderate of him," Ross agreed sardonically. Apparently gratified by Ross's concurrence, the gaol-keeper led him to the entrance of the devil's closet. A six-inch-wide window had been cut in the heavy oak-and-iron door to allow the prisoner to speak to visitors. "Gentry!" Eldridge grunted through the hole. "Visitor!"

There was no reply.

Ross frowned. "Where is the guard?"

Eldridge's oily face turned toward him. "There is no guard, Sir Ross. 'Twasn't needed."

"I specifically ordered a guard to be placed at this door at all times," Ross said curtly. "Not only to prevent escape attempts, but also for Gentry's own protection."

A deep laugh rose from Eldridge's pendulous gut. "Escape?" he scoffed. "No one can escape the devil's closet. 'Sides, Gentry's been handcuffed, an' irons fitted on his legs, an' 'e's weighted with three hundred pounds o' chains. 'E can't move to pick 'is nose! No man alive could get in or out o' that cell, wivoutthis" He brandished a key and worked to unlock the door.

The thick slab of oak and iron groaned in angry protest as it was pushed open. "There," Eldridge said with satisfaction, the lamp in his hand jangling as he walked into the cell. "Ye see? Gentry is--" His huge frame jiggled from a start of surprise. "Bloody 'ell!"

Ross shook his head slightly when he saw that the devil's closet was empty. "My God," he muttered, filled with a combination of admiration and fury at his brother-in-law's resourcefulness. A bent iron nail gleamed beside the massive pile of chains on the floor. Gentry had managed to pick the locks on his handcuffs and leg irons--in the dark, no less. A bar was missing from the inner window on the other side of the room. It was inconceivable that Gentry could have loosened that bar and squeezed his large frame through such a narrow space, but he had done it. There was every likelihood that he'd had to dislocate a shoulder to accomplish it.