They pushed forward again, and Sebastian spotted a familiar face in the mob—Susan, who had been their housemaid until they’d had to let her go along with most of the other servants. Her face was streaked with tears, her cap askew.
“Susan!” Sebastian called out.
She turned, and her expression crumpled when she saw them. Without hesitation, she began shouldering her way through the crowd, her voice rising above the din: “They’re Lord Ashford’s children! For God’s sake, let them through!”
“Stay strong,” she whispered in Sebastian’s ear as the crowd parted. “We all know the truth. Someday everyone will too.”
The path Susan had opened led them closer to Newgate’s towering stone walls, blackened with soot and age. In the courtyard beyond the gates, a wooden scaffold stood like an altar of death. The black-draped cart waited nearby, and the hangman’s noose swayed gently in the morning wind.
Sophia made a sound—not quite a sob, not quite a whimper. Something broken and small. James cursed under his breath, words he’d learned from the stable boys, his hands shaking now as well as clenching.
Then the prison gates groaned open.
Their father emerged into the gray morning light.
He was thinner than even Sebastian had feared, his clothes hanging loose on his frame. His skin had the pallor of a man who had not seen proper sunlight in months, his once-muscular figure now gaunt, his intelligent eyes hollow. But even with the heavy shackles around his wrists and ankles, even surrounded by guards, he carried himself like the duke he was. His head was high, his step steady.
When his eyes found his children in the crowd, his composure almost broke. Sebastian saw it—the way Papa’s breath caught, the way his lips parted as if he might cry out. For just a moment, the Duke of Ashford was simply a father seeing his children for the last time.
“Papa!” Sebastian raised his hand, his voice carrying over the crowd’s murmur. “We are here!”
Relief flooded their father’s face, erasing years from his grizzled visage. For an instant, Sebastian could see the man who had taughthim to ride, who had read him stories by the fire, who had promised that everything would always be all right.
Papa’s gaze locked on Sebastian first, and a silent question passed between them: Will you take care of James and Sophia?
Sebastian nodded. “I shall do my best, Papa,” he called out, his voice steady despite the tears streaming down his face. “I give you my word.”
Next, the duke’s gaze moved to his middle child. James lifted his chin, his eyes flashing with love that mirrored their father’s. Papa had often said James was like their mother—fierce, loyal, and protective of those they loved. As the two communicated without words, it became obvious to Sebastian that his father was asking James to forgive, to live without bitterness.
And finally, he turned to his little Sophia. She broke away from Sebastian’s grip and stumbled forward. “I love you, Papa!” she sobbed. “Please do not forget us!”
“I could never forget, Poppet!” Papa’s voice carried clearly across the courtyard.
Then Sophia asked, in her sweet, high-pitched voice that somehow carried over the crowd’s murmur, “Will you tell my mother I said hello? Does she know me, do you think?”
Papa’s face softened impossibly. “She does, love. I’m sure of it. In fact, she visits me often in my dreams and tells me how proud she is of her pretty, smart daughter.”
The clergyman stepped forward then, a thin man in black robes who began to murmur the familiar words of final prayers. Papa listened with bowed head, his lips moving silently. When the time came for his last words to the crowd, his voice was calm, measured, dignified.
“I am an innocent man,” he said, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd. “Someday, God willing, the truth will be revealed. You need only look to Viscount Wentworth to see who really killed his wife.”
Then his voice softened as he turned to his children. “Each of youhas brought me more joy than a man deserves. You have blessed me beyond measure. Never forget how much I love you. And please, do not let my fate make you bitter. Live with truth and integrity. Let your hearts lead your decisions. Be happy, knowing I shall be watching you from heaven. So very proud.”
The executioner stepped forward—a massive man whose face was hidden behind a black hood. His movements were swift and practiced, horrible in their efficiency. Sebastian found himself thinking, with strange detachment, that this was the man’s job. Afterward, he would go home to his wife and children and forget that his actions had torn a family apart forever.
The noose went around Papa’s neck with a sound like whispered death. The trapdoor yawned beneath his feet like the mouth of hell itself.
Sebastian’s breath stopped in his chest. The world narrowed to this moment, this terrible, final moment. Beside him, Sophia whispered the Lord’s Prayer through her tears, her small voice barely audible.
Without warning, Sophia tore away from Sebastian’s grasp and ran toward the scaffold, screaming Papa’s name. A guard caught her before she could reach the steps, his hands gentle but firm as he held her writhing, desperate form.
“My little love,” Papa called to her, his voice impossibly tender. “It is all right. I am not afraid. Go to your brothers.”
Sebastian gathered Sophia into his arms, feeling her small body shake with sobs that seemed too large for her fragile frame. James dropped to his knees on the cobblestones, his hands pressed flat against the stones as if he could somehow anchor himself to the earth.
Papa closed his eyes. His lips moved in silent communion with his God. Then he opened them once more and looked toward his children with a smile that was both heartbreaking and somehow, impossibly, peaceful.
“I love you,” he mouthed one final time.
