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With trepidation, Hugh allowed himself to be led along the passage before he was pushed into a dimly-lit room. He stopped abruptly, his eyes acclimatizing to the dimness. Lord, what den of iniquity had he landed in? he wondered as he was gently pushed into a pit of cushions. A faint whiff of scented smoke permeated the air, and when his eyes readjusted, he saw lying on a large embroidered cushion a small, large-bellied man, completely naked, playing with himself.
Hugh forced himself not to gasp with shock. Without his clothes, Lord Coulson looked like a gleaming white walrus with shaggy gray facial hair, his domed forehead topping a pear-shaped body. He started when he heard Reggie and sat up, peering through the gloom. Hugh was glad he still wore his clothes, including his mask, but then he’d no more divest his clothes in a place like this than…give up on Phoebe.
“You’ve brought a friend, Reggie?” The magistrate’s voice was slightly slurred and Hugh, tense with terror, was relieved that Lord Coulson seemed happy about this.
He raked Hugh with an appraising look. “Very nice,” he said approvingly. “But perhaps this is your first time.” He smacked his lips. “Don’t worry; we’ll make sure you enjoy your initiation, won’t we, Reggie?”
Reggie gave a high-pitched squeal of excitement as he quickly divested himself of his clothes. Throwing his arms wide in theatrical fashion, he threw himself onto Lord Coulson then, in the midst of his embrace with the magistrate, beckoned to Hugh. “Oh, do join us! Don’t be coy.”
“I…I’d rather watch first time,” Hugh said unsteadily. “I… “
“Feel guilty?
Don’t think about it. It’s the way of the world,” Reggie assured him, looking up from nibbling Lord Coulson’s nipple. “Whoopsy and I are more than happy to give you a little taste of what’s in store for you, lucky boy.” Reggie rose onto his knees and gripped Lord Coulson’s engorged member, flashing another wicked smile at Hugh over the tip.
Hugh turned his head away, his mind reeling as Reggie whooped, “Your turn next, handsome stranger,” before he proceeded to pleasure the magistrate with great enthusiasm and thoroughness.
Soon the men were entirely caught up in their own pleasure. Hugh rose to his feet and quietly made his way to the door. He felt ill, but exulted too.
He mightn’t have found Wentworth to squeeze the truth out of but he’d discovered the next best thing.
“Take the prisoner away!”
Phoebe stared at the two flunkeys who moved forward at the magistrate’s direction. She’d survived the last two hours by pretending she was in another sphere, looking down upon herself. Now, with the howls of derision and feet banging, and so many angry faces glaring at her, she had to accept the truth. She had failed to convince the magistrate of her innocence. Not that she’d been given a great deal of opportunity. Wentworth’s version was brilliantly compelling, and it all came down to the same two factors. Phoebe had been in bed with Wentworth when news arrived of his brother’s deaths, and Phoebe’s hand had gripped the paper knife used to kill Ulrick.
So she would die.
Judgment was to be passed before the afternoon was out.
In her cell in the tower, she stared at the gray sky and remembered what it felt like to be in Hugh’s arms. How sweet and treasured those memories were to her now.
Closing her eyes, her mind ran over the soft, sensual touch of his hands upon her limbs, soothing, caressing. She smiled reluctantly. What worth had her life ever really had? She’d not been born into a position of power or influence. She’d been a pawn for her father to use to better his family’s social and financial position. As Ulrick had married her for convenience, not love, she’d never had any power over him.
Wentworth had professed to love her, but how ironic was that?
As for Hugh, well, he had realised his love was based on a lie.
A waxing moon hung heavily in the sky, and she stared at it. Wondering how many moons she’d ever stare at again.
The court case had been a farce from the start. Hugh could scarcely believe the smoothness with which Wentworth’s bald-faced lies tripped off his tongue. He knew Phoebe was none of the things Wentworth had called her. Not that he even wanted to think about what had been said by others. Men and women no doubt in the pocket of Wentworth.
It was even probable that Lord Coulson was in some measure in collusion with Phoebe’s vile and undeserving relative by marriage. Hugh would not allude to the fact she’d been his former mistress. That was so irrelevant now.
He’d tried every trick he could manage to speak a few words to the magistrate before the two-faced man of the law had donned his wig and taken the stand, but Lord Coulson had waved him away each time.
Desperate now, Hugh bowed before the rotund gentleman during a rare moment he was alone. In his robes he looked very regal, standing amid a room of fawning acolytes. His word was law. He was the keeper of the rule of law, the minister of justice, arbiter of all that was right.
“My Lord, a quick moment if you please.” Hugh spoke rapidly, assessing the crowd, realizing his time was short. “I’ve come to beg clemency for the prisoner,” he responded when the magistrate inclined his head.
Lord Coulson let out an unregal guffaw. “In an hour, justice will be done and your pleas will be answered.”
“But my Lord, she is innocent.”
“And if she is, judgment will reflect that.”
“I don’t believe judgment will do justice to the truth.”
Lord Coulson stiffened. “You insult me, sir!”
