There was a short pause as the two visitors apparently conferred, too low for him to hear.

“I cannot wait another few weeks.” The woman sounded resigned. “Very well. Let’s see what you have.”

Keys grated in the lock and Knollys’s quivering belly filled the doorway. Benedict shielded his eyes from the lantern’s glare, blinding after the semidarkness of the cell. The glow illuminated Silas’s still figure on the bed and Knollys grunted.

“Dead, is ’e?” He sounded neither dismayed nor surprised. “Figured he wouldn’t last the week. You’ll ’ave to do then, Wylde. Get up.”

Benedict pushed himself to his feet with a wince.

“Ain’t married, are you, Wylde?” Knollys muttered, low enough not to be heard by those in the corridor.

“Never met the right woman,” Benedict drawled, being careful to retain the rough accent of an east coast smuggler he’d adopted. “Still, one lives in ’ope.”

Knollys frowned, trying to decide whether Ben was being sarcastic. As usual, he got it wrong. “This lady’s ’ere to wed,” he grunted finally, gesturing vaguely behind him.

Benedict squinted. Two shapes hovered just outside, partly shielded by the jailer’s immense bulk. One of them, the smaller hooded figure, might possibly be female. “What woman comes here to marry?”

Knollys chuckled. “A desperate one, Mr. Wylde.”

The avaricious glint in Knollys’s eye hinted that he saw the opportunity to take advantage, and Benedict experienced a rush of both anger and protectiveness for the foolish woman, whoever she might be. Probably one of the muslin set, seeking a name for her unborn child. Or some common trollop, hoping her debts would be wiped off with the death of her husband. Except he’d never met a tart who spoke with such a clipped, aristocratic accent.

“You want me to marry some woman I’ve never met?” Benedict almost laughed in disbelief. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Knollys, but I’ll have to decline. I ain’t stepping into the parson’s mousetrap for no one.”

Knollys took a menacing step forward. “Oh, you’ll do it, Wylde, or I’ll have Ennis bash your skull in.” He glanced over at Silas’s corpse. “I can just as easy ’ave ’im dig two graves instead of one.”

Ennis was a short, troll-like thug who possessed fewer brains than a sack of potatoes, but he took a malicious and creative pleasure in administering beatings with his heavy wooden cudgel. Benedict’s temper rose. He didn’t like being threatened. If it weren’t for the manacles binding his hands, he’d explain that pertinent fact to Mr. Knollys in no uncertain terms.

Unfortunately, Knollys wasn’t a man to take chances. He prodded Benedict with his stick. “Out with ye. And no funny business.” His meaty fist cuffed Ben around the head to underscore the point.