"When was the last time someone saw him here?" Ross barked to the dazed-looking gaol-keeper.

"An hour ago, I think," Eldridge mumbled, his eyes bulging from his sweat-drenched face.

Staring through the inner window, Ross saw that Gentry had broken through the moldy wall of the next cell, probably using the window bar. He strove to recall the details of the Newgate layout that was tacked to the wall of his office.

He shot a murderous glance at the gaol-keeper. "Does that key work for all the cells on this floor?"

"I-I think so--"

"Give it to me. Now get your fat arse to the ground level, and tell the runners at my carriage that Gentry is escaping. They'll know what to do."

"Yes, Sir Ross!" Eldridge fled with surprising speed for someone of his girth, taking the lamp with him and leaving Ross in darkness.

Gripping the key, Ross left the devil's closet and unlocked the adjoining room. Swearing profusely, he climbed through the hole in the wall, following his brother-in-law's tracks. "Damn you, Gentry," he muttered as rustles and squeaks of unsettled vermin greeted his intrusion. "When I catch you, I'll hang you myself for putting me through this."

Breathing hard from exertion, Nick Gentry pushed a swath of damp hair from his eyes and emerged onto the roof of Newgate. Cautiously he placed a foot on an outside wall that connected to a neighboring building. The wall was about eight inches thick, and so old that it was crumbling along the top. However, it was the only route to freedom. Once he made it to the other side, he would enter the building, find his way to the street, and then be unstoppable. He knew London as no one else did--every alley, every corner, every hole and crevice. No one could find him if he did not wish to be found.

Slowly Nick proceeded along the wall like a cat, heedless of the possible fall that would see him crushed on the ground. He squinted fiercely, the dense sky relieved by a mere glimmer of moonlight. One foot after another; he tried to keep his mind clear. But a thought broke his concentration--Sophia. Once he left London, he would never be able to see her again. Nick did not identify his feelings for her as love, because he knew himself to be incapable of that emotion. But he was conscious of a rip in his soul, a sense that to leave her for good would mean the loss of the fragment of decency he still possessed. She was the only person on earth who still cared for him, who would continue to care, no matter what he did.

One step, another, right foot, left...Nick shoved the thoughts of his sister away and considered where he would go when he was free. He could make a new start somewhere, take a new name, a new life. The idea should have been cheering, but instead it sank him into gloominess. He was tired of the balancing act that never allowed him to relax for a minute. He was weary, as weary as if he had lived a hundred years instead of twenty-five. The thought of starting again revolted him. It was his only choice, however. And he had never been one to wring his hands over what he couldn't change.

Part of the wall crumbled beneath his right foot, sending chunks of mortar and showers of dust to the ground. Silently Nick fought for balance, his arms outspread, his breath hissing between his teeth. Regaining equilibrium, he continued more cautiously, using instinct more than vision to cross the wall in the dark. There was little movement from the ground below, only a few foot patrols crossing back and forth. The groups of demonstrators who tried to gather were quickly ushered away. It was a mere fraction of the crowd that Nick had expected to protest on his behalf. He grinned in ironic appreciation of the obvious wane in his popularity. "Thankless bastards," he muttered.

Fortunately, no one noticed the figure poised high above on the prison wall. By some miracle of God--or whim of the devil--Nick finally reached the neighboring building. Although he could not quite get to the nearest window, he found a carved lion's head jutting from the stonework. Settling a hand on the ornamentation, he deduced that it was not real stone but Coade stone, an artificial material that was used for quoining and sculpture when using real stone was too expensive. Nick had no idea if the thing would hold him. Grimacing, he grabbed at a tattered blanket he had draped over one shoulder and tied it around the lion's head. Jerking hard to tighten the knot, he focused on the window, three feet down. Good, he thought, it was open, and he didn't care much for the prospect of breaking through glass.

Holding his breath, Nick gripped the blanket, hesitated for one reluctant moment, then jumped from the wall in a decisive plunge. He swung through the open window with an ease that stunned him, as he had bargained for a bit more difficulty. Although he landed on his feet, the momentum brought him forward until he fell with a pained grunt. Swearing, he rose and shook himself off. The room appeared to be an office of some sort, the window left open by some careless clerk. "Almost there," Nick murmured, striding through the office and hunting for the stairs that would lead him to the ground.

Two minutes later, Nick eased through a door he had found at the side of the building, which had turned out to be a furniture factory. Armed with a turning-blade and a heavy stick of wood, he kept to the shadows as he moved forward.

He froze when he heard the click of a pistol being cocked.

"Stay there," came a woman's quiet voice.

His breath hitched in astonishment. "Sophia?"

His sister stood there alone, the gleam of a pistol in her hand, her steady gaze pinned on him. "Don't run," she warned, her face tense.

"How the hell did you get here?" he asked incredulously. "It's dangerous, and--For God's sake, put that away or you'll hurt yourself."

She did not move. "I can't. If I do, you'll run."

"You wouldn't shoot me."

Her reply was very soft. "There's only one way to find out, isn't there?"

Nick braced himself against a rush of utter despair.

"Have you no care for me, Sophia?" he asked hoarsely.

"Of course I do. That is why I had to stop you. My husband has come to help you."

"Like hell he has. Don't be a fool! Let me go, damn you!"

"We are going to wait for Sir Ross," she said stubbornly.

Out of the corner of his eye Nick saw patrols and a pair of runners coming toward them. It was too late now. His sister had ruined any chance of escape. With fatalistic acceptance, Nick forced himself to relax and drop his makeshift weapons. All right. He would wait for Cannon. And Sophia would learn that her precious husband had lied to her. It would almost be worth it, to expose Cannon for what he was, rather than have Sophia worship him. "Fine," he said evenly. "We'll let your husband help me--right to the gallows."

CHAPTER 18

Ross was covered in filth by the time he followed Gentry's trail up to the prison roof. Feeling as if he would never be clean again, he climbed into the open air, which was indescribably sweet after the stench inside. Walking along the edge of the roof, he found a prison wall that connected to a neighboring building. At first there was no sign of Gentry, but then Ross saw the flutter of the dark blanket dangling from the stonework. He growled in frustration. There was no telling how far the man had gotten by now.

Leaning over the wall, he tested it with his foot, discovering that it was as unstable as shifting sand. At this point, following Gentry's path to freedom was no longer an option. Ross would be damned if he would try a feat that even a circus performer would have rejected. Before he could draw back, however, he heard a woman calling from the ground. "Ross?"

His heart stopped as he saw the tiny figure of his wife from his vantage point four stories above her.

"Sophia," he thundered, "if that is you, I'm going to beat you senseless."

"Gentry is waiting with me," came her voice again. "Don't try to cross that wall!"

"I wasn't planning to," he retorted, struggling to contain his fury as he realized that she had disobeyed his request to stay safe. "Stay there."

It seemed to take forever to make his way back through the prison. Ross moved in contained panic, running when possible, ignoring the screams and epithets that filled the air as he passed floor after floor. Finally he went out through the entrance and headed around the building in a full-tilt run. He saw a small crowd of onlookers, horse and foot patrols, and Sayer and Gee, all waiting at a respectful distance from his wife and her captive.

"Sir Ross," Sayer said anxiously, "she got to him before any of us saw him--she told us to stay back here or--"

"Keep everyone away while I deal with this," Ross snapped.

Obediently the runners steered the crowd back several more yards as Ross strode to his wife. Sophia's face relaxed when she saw him, and she yielded the pistol to him without a murmur.

"Where did you get this?" he asked mildly, his voice . strained with the effort to keep from bellowing.

"I took it from the footman," Sophia said apologetically. "It wasn't his fault, Ross. I'm sorry, but I heard the gaol-keeper tell Mr. Sayer that Gentry had escaped...and then they left, and I was looking through the carriage window, and I happened to see my brother on the rooftop--"

"Later," Ross interrupted, yearning to apply his hand to her posterior until she howled. Instead he focused on solving the problem at hand.

He glanced at Gentry, who observed them with a sneer. "So this is how you take care of my sister?" Gentry demanded. "Well, she's in good hands, isn't she? Traipsing around Newgate at night with a pistol!"