Several other gang members had escaped the Gravesend raid. Benedict had glimpsed a few familiar faces in the crowd when the magistrate had passed down his sentence. He’d have to chase them down as soon as he was free and see if any of them had been approached for the traitorous mission.

Benedict sighed and slid down the wall until he sat on the filthy floor, his knees bent in front of him. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be clean. He rasped one hand over his stubbled jaw and grimaced—he’d let his beard grow out as a partial disguise. He’d commit murder for a wash and a razor. Even during the worst scrapes in the Peninsular War, and then in France and Belgium, he’d always found time to shave. Alex and Seb, his brothers-in-arms, had mocked him for it mercilessly.

He glanced at the square of rain visible through the tiny barred grate on the outer wall of his cell. Seb and Alex were out there, lucky buggers, playing merry hell with the debutantes, wives, and widows of London with amazing impartiality.

The things he did for king and bloody country.

And cash, of course. Five hundred pounds was nothing to sneeze at.

Tracking down a traitor was admirable. Having to stay celibate and sober because there was neither a woman nor grog to be had in prison was hell. What he wouldn’t give for some decent French brandy and a warm, willing wench. Hell, right now he’d settle for some of that watered-down ratafia they served at society balls and a tumble with a barmaid.

A pretty barmaid, of course. His face had always allowed him to be choosy. At least, it did when he was clean-shaven. His own mother probably wouldn’t recognize him right now.

Voices and footsteps intruded on his errant fancies as the obsequious voice of Knollys echoed through the stones. A fist slammed into the grate, loud enough to wake the dead, and Benedict glanced over at Silas with morbid humor. Well, almost loud enough.

“Wake up, lads!” Knollys bellowed. “There’s a lady ’ere needs yer services.”

Benedict’s brows rose in the darkness. What the devil?

“Ye promised ten pounds if I’d find ’er a man an’ never say nuffink to nobody,” he heard Knollys say through the door.

“Are they waiting to hang too?” An older man’s voice, that, with a foreign inflexion. Dutch, perhaps.

“Nay. Ain’t got no more for the gallows. Not since Hammond yesterday.” Knollys sounded almost apologetic. “But either one of these’ll fit the bill. Off to Van Diemen’s Land they are, at first light.”

“No, that won’t do at all.”

Benedict’s ears pricked up at the sound of the cultured female voice. She sounded extremely peeved.

“I specifically wanted a condemned man, Mr. Knollys.”

“Better come back in a week or so then, milady.”