He was pushed through the doorway along a stone-floored passageway, the ceiling barely above his head, and then into another small lantern-lit room where obviously the first constable and Nack had been kept, judging from the scatter of clothes on the floor. In this room he received an initial blow from the wooden club across the shoulderblades and a punch to the belly that made his knees sag, at which point the trio of toughs went about tearing the gloves, jacket, blouse, breeches, stockings and boots off him. He tried to fight once more, and then the club got him on the back of the head and that was all he knew until he felt his arms being pulled up nearly to the edge of having his shoulders dislocated from their joints.

Now, hanging from the chains with his ankles locked into the irons, Matthew Corbett looked up toward the gallery and saw Julian sitting with Lioness on one side of him, Victor on the other and Cardinal Black behind him. The cardinal had a length of rope looped around Julian’s throat and had situated himself so that he might increase the pressure should Julian’s chin drop a fraction of an inch.

“He’s come around!” Merda said. “Go to it, darling!”

“I give the commands here, sir,” said Lash. The vice admiral leaned forward, his palms on his knees. “Well, Mr. Corbett! You shall be the last act of our entertainment for the evening. I’m sure the pleasure is all yours.”

What use was there to struggle? The sweat was running down his face and burning his eyes. His backbone felt stretched into fiery pain. It occurred to him, oddly, that upon his death he would probably have gained two inches in height.

Did he have a reply to this? Some sort of witticism that would delay the onslaught of those deadly blades? Something? Anything?

No. He did not.

Lash motioned to the musicians. The drumbeat began. The whistle started up, a different weird tune to escort Matthew to the grave.

RakeHell Lizzie stood up, leaned over to touch the blades upon the earth so as to stretch her own muscles, and then she straightened up and advanced upon Matthew like a slinky cat.

“Take him!” Montague called. “Carve his guts out!”

But Lizzie was in no hurry. It was her performance—her last dance of the evening, as it were—and she was going to take her time. Which Matthew realized was to heighten his suffering, because the end would be prolonged. As the girl circled him, Matthew cast another look at Julian, who appeared nearly strangled by Black’s rope. The bad man could do nothing but sit and watch with the others.

Hopeless, Matthew thought, and this time he knew it was true. But could he fight her off when she jumped at him? Could he get his teeth on her—

She jumped.