Paying the Virgin's Price. Christine Merrill

      The hangman bound his father’s hands, and the Ordinary led him through a farce of meaningless prayer. And all around Nathan, the people were shouting, jostling each other and swearing at those who would not remove their hats so that the men in the back could see. Vendors were hawking broadsides, but he did not have the penny to buy one. So he picked a wrinkled paper from the ground before him, to see the lurid cartoon of his father, and his supposed confession.

      It was lies. Every word of it. Father would never have done the things he was accused of. And even if he had, he would not have told the rest of the world the truth on the final day, after lying to Nathan, over and over. But even if it was lies, there were tears of shame pricking behind his eyelids as he read.

      The hangman was placing the hood now, and a woman began to scream. He hoped it was his mother, come to take him home before he saw any more. His coming had been a mistake: there was nothing he could do and he did not want to see what was about to happen.

      But it was a strange, dark-skinned woman leaning out of a window above the gallows. She was screaming in triumph, not fear, and her face had the beauty of a vengeful goddess as she stared down at the bound man and the laughing crowd.

      And at him. She had found Nathan in the crowd, and stared at him as though she knew him. And then, she had shouted, in a voice so clear that the rabble had hushed to catch her words.

       I call guilt to eat you alive and poison your hearts’ blood. The children will pay for the sins of their fathers, till my justice destroys the wicked.

      She pointed at him as she spoke of children. And smiled. The adult Nathan screamed to the child to look away. The woman was mad. He should not mind her. And he should run from this place. If he did not, it would be too late.

      And then, there was a thump, and his father’s body dropped as the floor under him disappeared. As he fell, so did the woman in the window, dangling from the silk scarf that was wrapped about her neck.

      In his child’s mind, Nathan thought that the worst was over. But since then, the adult Nathan had seen enough in the Navy to understand what happened to a hanged man if there was no one to pull on his legs and help him to an easier death.

      The kicking had begun. His father, and the garish puppet of a woman hanging from the window above him.

      It had seemed like hours before the bodies stilled, the crowds had begun to part, and his mother had come for him.

      When Nate woke, the bedclothes were wet with sweat and tears. And there was the Gypsy’s silk rope on the dresser beside him. Why had he bothered to pick the thing up and bring it home with him? The gesture was macabre, and meant to upset him. He had been foolish to play along. And Stephen Hebden had managed to raise the old nightmare to plague him.

      But Stephen was not Stephen any more. His old friend was long gone. The man who had visited him was an enemy. A stranger. A Gypsy who was as angry and full of tricks as his mother had been. He must never forget that fact, or Stephano Beshaley and his curse would taint his present, just as the man’s mother had marked his childhood.

      He might not be able to prevent the dreams, but during the day he would keep his mind clear of emotion, just as he did when he was at the gaming tables. His waking life would be no different, because of the Gypsy’s visit. At one time or another, Nate had endured public disgrace, loss, starvation and physical hardship. There was little left that could move him to fear, anger or joy. He’d held a hangman’s noose when he was still a child. The colourful rope on the night-stand—and its accompanying nightmare—did not compare to the horror of that day.

      But his mind wandered to the people Stephen might search out when his plans for Nate failed. His sisters, perhaps?

      Even a Gypsy could not stoop so low as to hurt innocent girls. Beshaley’s mother had stared directly at Nate as she’d said her curse. And he’d felt marked by the words, as if touched by a brand. Surely he was meant to pay the whole debt. Helena and Rosalind would be safe.

      They had to be. How would the Gypsy even find them? When last Nate had seen them, they were tending their failing mother, waiting for him to come home. But he had lost them in the throng of strangers that was working-class London and had searched for them without success. Mother must have died, never knowing what had become of him, for she had been very sick, even before he’d disappeared. Helena and Rosalind were as lost to him as if they had never been born. It made him ache to think on it. But he could take some consolation in the fact that it would leave them safe from harassment.

      Then who else would the Gypsy turn to, once he had failed with the Wardales? Did Nate owe Lord Narborough and his family a word of warning?

      His own sense of injustice argued that he owed them nothing at all. They had heard about the curse as well. But they viewed it as little more than a joke. It had not scarred their lives as it had his. There was no sign that Marcus Carlow had been touched by fear. Nate should think of him as the Viscount Stanegate now that he had grown into his title. From the occasional mention of him in The Times, he had become just the man his father had hoped. Upright, respectable and honest. The sort of man that all their fathers had expected their sons to be.

      If there was fault to be found, it did not lie with Marc or his siblings. It was their father who should bear the blame. Lord Narborough had claimed to be a friend of his father, but shut his doors to the Wardale family when they had needed help.

      And Narborough had been the one to pin the blame on Father, when the murder had occurred. He had wasted no time in seeing to his apprehension and imprisonment.

      It had gone so quickly. Too quick, he suspected. It was almost as though Narborough had seen the need for a scapegoat, and chosen William Wardale. Nate was sure, with all his heart, that his father was not a murderer. But someone had done the crime. And if there was a man alive who knew the truth, then it was most likely to be George Carlow. The murder had been committed just outside his study, after all. And he had been the one who called the loudest for a hurried trial and a timely hanging. Suppose his father had blundered on to the scene just after George Carlow had struck the fatal blow?

      Nathan tried to muster some glee that the Gypsy would visit them next. The Carlow family was due for a fall. But he could find no pleasure in it. While he was sure that the senior Carlow was a miserable old sinner, the Gypsy had called for the punishment of the next generation. Would it be fair to see the curse fall upon Marc or his good-natured brother Hal? And what of their sisters, Honoria and Verity?

      Nate thought again of his own two sisters, hiding their identities from the shame of association with the Wardale name. Even if George Carlow had been the true murderer, did the Carlow girls deserve to be treated as his sisters had? If Stephano Beshaley removed the protection of the older brothers, then brought about the downfall of the family, what would become of them?

      Even if justice for Lord Narborough was deserved and forthcoming, could it not be delayed awhile? The girls were infants when he’d seen them last. They must be near old enough to make matches for themselves. If it was possible to stall the Gypsy, even for a month or two, then they would be safely out of the house and with families of their own, when retribution came.

      It went against his grain, but Marc Carlow deserved some warning of what was coming, so that he could watch out for his sisters. They had all played together as children, and been good friends—until after the trial, when their prig of a father had forbidden further association.

      Stephen had been there as well, of course. Once, they had been as alike as brothers. He forced the thoughts out of his head. With nostalgia would come sympathy and regret. And after that:weakness and fear. He could not afford to feel for the man who wished his destruction. Stephen Hebden had died in a foundling-home fire. And Stephano Beshaley was a bastard Gypsy changeling, who had turned on them the minute he had a chance.

      And the man who had once been Nathan Wardale would not let himself be ruled by curses and grudges and superstitious nonsense any more than he had already. The Carlows would be no more happy to see him than he would be to go to them. But he did not wish them a visit from the Gypsy, now that Stephano had taken it into his