Shannon Drake
Beguiled

MILLS & BOON

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For Linda Haywood, Alice Dean and Paula Mayeaux—and morning coffee on the Carnival Pride.

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

COMING NEXT MONTH

PROLOGUE

God, do not save the queen!

THE PEN WAS INDEED MIGHTIER than the sword. His fingers might work upon a typewriter, but the sentiment was the same.

Giles Brandon felt his power as he worked in blessed silence. And thank the Lord, he was just coming to the end.

By God, he was good.

Giles pulled the final draft of his article from his typewriter, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. It might be said he was smirking, he thought, amused, but this was probably the best and most inflammatory piece he had done yet.

He set the paper down, leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his chest for a moment, basking in his achievement and this moment of silence in which to savor his own talents. His London town house was one of the few set back from the busy street, so he didn’t have to deal with the sounds of the common man hurrying about on business, the clatter of hooves on the pavement that came with horse-drawn vehicles, or, by God, the growl and heave and obnoxious horn-tooting of the new-fangled automobiles now becoming more and more popular among the monied classes—and even those not quite so monied, as well. Thick damask drapes covered the windows, adding to the insulation. Indeed, he could hear nothing from the street.

He lifted a hand whimsically. “Indeed,” he said aloud. “The pen is truly a far more lethal weapon than the sword.”

Of course, there was no one to answer. He’d sent his wife—God bless her, the fortune she had brought him, and the fact that she was easily browbeaten by his genius—to her sister’s. Talent such as his demanded total concentration. He’d also given the skinny old bag of a housekeeper the night off. He was in his element now. Alone.

He laughed and spoke aloud again. “Alone with my favorite companions, sheer intelligence and cunning—and myself.”

Reverently, he picked up the typed sheet of his own brilliance. “This will have them all riled up in the streets.” He made a chortling sound. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to be in the midst of such upset himself, but he certainly enjoyed the concept of bringing it about. He had been mocked one time too many, his name had been left off one too many invitation lists when it had certainly deserved to be there.

So now…those in power would pay.

He read his headline out loud with dramatic intonation.

“‘Has the Monarchy Resorted to Cold-blooded Murder?’”

Yes, people would be grumbling in the streets. There was already suspicion brewing. Well, naturally. It was those who were campaigning to rid the country of the monarchy who had met such a sorry demise.

If he weren’t so well mannered, he would certainly have rubbed his hands together in glee.

He stood back from his chair and looked around, reveling in what he had accomplished. This incredible house—of course, it had come through his wife’s family, but no matter. His desk was the finest cherrywood. The lamp on his desk was a Tiffany. His carpet was rich and thick and from the Middle East. Yes, he had done well, and all because of the brilliance of his written word.

Tomorrow, the article would run.

And by mid-afternoon…

“By George, I am…” For all of his dexterity with the English language, he could think of no other word. “Brilliant!”

The sudden sound of clapping from just behind him startled him so badly that his heart skipped a beat. He swung around, stunned. He had been alone for hours, so who…?

A figure stood at the rear of the room, right in the corner where the rows of bookshelves met, clapping not with enthusiasm but slowly, rhythmically, with…mockery.

“You!” Giles said, his eyes narrowing with fury. He glanced at his office door. It remained closed, as it had been. The house was locked up; of that he was certain. The housekeeper knew he would have her ears if she ever dared leave without locking up.

So…?

“Brilliant, Giles, oh, yes, just brilliant,” the intruder said. “What are you doing here? How the hell did you get in?”

The visitor shrugged, walking from the shadows into the pool of light cast by the lamp on the desk.

Though Giles could now see his unwelcome caller—and could see no weapon—he felt a sudden sense of acute terror. It was impossible that anyone had gotten in. Impossible that they were alone in a vast world of shadow.

He could not hear the world inside this haven of his…

And no one could hear him.

“I serve the greatest good of this country, and I do it well,” Giles flared.

“You serve yourself, and you are an egotist,” replied the figure. A slow, wry smile touched cruel lips. “But you are about to perform a far greater service. After all, as you have written, we must all be willing to sacrifice.”

Giles Brandon’s eyes widened.

Only now did he see the weapon.

“No!” he roared.

“You will serve your country, and I promise you, your eulogy will be…brilliant.”

Fight! he told himself.

He was a big man.

But, sadly, not an agile one.

He was barely aware when his feeble attempts at defense were thwarted. He didn’t even feel the pain.

He was aware of his own terrible scream…

Thoughts, madly, insanely, rushed through his head.

The pen was mightier than the sword. But a well-honed knife in the hands of a madman…

He felt the hot spill of his own blood; the darkness that had encircled the little haven of light surrounding his desk began to encroach. It flooded his eyes with gray and shadow. And then…

He reached for the paper on his desk. His article. Brilliant. Oh, yes, he was brilliant. His hands spasmed; his fingers shook.

He touched the paper.

He heard his own scream growing fainter, fading….

Scream, he ordered his mouth, his throat, but his body disobeyed.

He choked and gurgled, a horrible gasping sound.

That, too, went unheard beyond the walls of his office, isolated so that a mind such as his would go undisturbed by the annoying clatter of humanity.

Outside the world went on, the sound of hoofbeats on cobblestones and pavement loud. An automobile horn blasted. Music blared from one of the restaurants. A horse whinnied….

And behind the heavy draperies, in the office far from the street, all was finally silent.

Giles Brandon’s blood seeped into the fine Middle Eastern carpet as he stared with unseeing eyes.

He heard his heartbeat slowing.

Thump, thump…thump…

And then no more.

He died in quiet, in the silence he had craved, his last thought still an insistence that he was all powerful, the pen, mightier than the sword….

But flesh was weak and a knife sharp.

CHAPTER ONE

“DOWN WITH THE MONARCHY!”

Ally Grayson could hear the shouting as the carriage slowed. They were passing along the main street of the small village of Sutton, and she had suspected, even as they neared the town, that there might be trouble. Both saddened by the mood of the country and curious, she drew back the curtain of the carriage window.

People were milling about in an angry mood bearing placards that read “End the Reign of Thieves!” and “Royal Murder!” Some trudged the street in silence; others shouted angrily before the fine redbrick building that housed the sheriff’s office.

Sour stares met the carriage, but no one moved against it. Ally was on her way to see her godfather, Brian Stirling, Earl of Carlyle, an admired and beloved figure despite the fact he was an ardent supporter of sad and aging Victoria. No one would wield a finger against him, his property or those beneath his protection, as his carriage proclaimed her to be.

Still, the tension in the streets was ugly.

Ally saw several people she recognized. Just outside one of the decaying Tudor houses that were so common in the area, she could see the journalist Thane Grier, not taking part in any way but observing avidly. She took time to observe him herself. He was a tall, handsome man, eager to move up in the world and be recognized as a writer of note. She wasn’t at all certain what his opinion on the matter at hand might be, nor would he himself think it mattered. She thought—having read many of his articles—he would report objectively. He was not so determined to be an essayist as he was to be known for his acute eye and sound evaluation of the facts.

“See here!” came a shout from the sheriff himself as he emerged onto the steps in front of his office. “You will all stop this nonsense and go about your business!” he roared. “By God, what have we come to? Circus shows?”

Ally felt sore that the sheriff, Sir Angus Cunningham, would have the power to quiet the crowd. He was a war hero who had been knighted for his service in India. A big man, tall, broad-shouldered—and in the process of acquiring an ample girth—he had a head full of snow-white hair, muttonchops and a distinguished mustache.

Even so, there were a few more rumblings, despite the sheriff’s words. “Murder,” a woman cried out weakly. “Two men murdered—and them men who spoke out against the waste in Her Majesty’s court. Something must be done about a queen who condones—no, orders—such heinous and foul deeds.”

Ally couldn’t see the woman’s face. She was clad in black, a veil observing her features. She was wearing widow’s weeds. She did recognize the woman standing next to her, who tried to hush her and draw her into her arms. It was Elizabeth Harrington Prine, widow of Jack Prine, a valiant soldier who had died in South Africa. Through her husband, she owned thousands of acres just west of the forest surrounding the village.

“Murder!” the woman in black shouted again.

Sir Angus didn’t get a chance to reply. He was joined on the steps by an ally in the cause of justice, the elderly Lord Lionel Wittburg. Wittburg was taller but thinner, and his hair was pale silver rather than solid white. His reputation, however, reached back almost as long as the queen’s reign, and the country had always loved him as a stalwart soldier. He echoed the words that were in Ally’s own mind. “How dare you?”

But though he spoke the words full force, Ally sensed he was about to start crying, and she knew why. Hudson Porter—a man with whom he had little in common but who had been a dear comrade from his days in India—was one of the anti-monarchists who had so recently been slain.

A third man joined them. He was far younger, very attractive, a gentleman often seen on the society pages— a man who had the ability to charm those around him. “Please, this is unseemly behavior for good Englishmen. And women,” he added with a roguish smile. “There is no call for this, no need for this.” He was Sir Andrew Harrington, cousin of the widow trying to give solace to the woman in black. Hudson Porter had not been married, Ally knew, so the woman could not be his widow. A sister, cousin…lover? The other activist who had been slain, Dirk Dunswoody, had been eighty years old if a day at the time of his murder, and in all those years he had remained a bachelor, studying law and medicine, traveling abroad with the queen’s army for much of that time. Why he had turned so violently against the monarchy, no one knew, unless it was because he had felt he should have been knighted for his service. Ally knew there had been a strange scandal associated with his name, and in its wake he had been passed over.

“Please, please, everyone. Go about your business. We will solve nothing here, and all of you know that,” Sir Angus told the crowd.

There were continued murmurings, but there was movement, as well.

The crowd was apparently dispersing enough for Shelby, Lord Stirling’s coachman, valet, assistant and man of all work to drive the carriage through the streets. As he carefully wended his way, Ally saw that Thane Grier, still keeping his silence and his distance, was busy scribbling notes on a pad he pulled from his vest pocket.

She dropped the curtain as they left the small village square behind and headed along the road through the forest.

She didn’t notice at first when the carriage began to pick up speed. She had dropped deep into thought, worrying about the state of the realm, then about her own situation. She couldn’t help but wonder about the summons that was bringing her to the castle. It undoubtedly had something to do with the fact that her birthday was fast approaching. Though she had considered herself an adult for quite some time, her guardians had wanted to protect her from the world as long as possible, and it was only on this birthday that she would finally be considered an adult in their eyes. She loved those who had raised her and cared for her, but she was eager to have a say in her own life. Though her upbringing had been sheltered, she thrived on newspapers and books, and had savored each of her few excursions into the city, to a world of theaters and museums. She certainly considered herself intelligent and well educated, even if most of that education had taken place in a small school in the country or from the private tutors who had been sent to her humble home deep in the woods.

She had managed a bit of a peek at the real world. Though she had grown up in the care of her three “aunties,” she’d also had the benefit of her three sets of godparents. How she had been so blessed, she couldn’t even imagine. Three wonderful, sweet women to actually raise her, and as an incredible addition to her life, three couples numbered among the peers of the realm to see that she received the best education and many benefits. Those latter three ladies—Maggie, Kat and Camille—were amazing, unique, and had once been hellions, she dared say to herself, even if not to them. She was glad of their wild past, because if they were to become angry when they discovered she had been taking her future into her own hands, she could remind them they were rather modern women themselves. Lady Maggie had defied all convention to minister to the prostitutes in the East End, Camille had met her Lord husband through her work in the Egyptology department at the museum; and Kat had already ventured out on several expeditions to the pyramids of Egypt and even into the Valley of the Kings. They could hardly expect her to be meek and mild and not want to make her own way in the world.

As she brooded, the carriage began to go faster and faster, and finally it began to career madly down the road.

Ally was roused from her meditations when she was slammed from one side to the other. She struggled to find her seat once again, and then held on for dear life. She wasn’t afraid, just puzzled.

Was Shelby worried that the protesters who had filled the village square might be coming after them? That couldn’t be. Surely he knew that frightened farmers and country shopkeepers would offer no real threat. Especially not when there were such illustrious men as Sir Harrington, Sir Cunningham and Lord Wittburg there to assure them.

So why was Shelby suddenly driving like a maniac?

She frowned, scrambling for balance, and realized that the deaths that had brought on the fear and frenzy in the village were certainly frightening enough. Two men murdered, public figures whose views opposed the Crown and who had pushed for an end to the monarchy. The deaths were terrible, and the times in general were hard. The poor queen, Victoria, aging and still so sad; Prince Edward taking on more and more duties; the threat of war in South Africa again…naturally, people were distraught. For many, poverty and ignorance superceded the amazing progress that Victoria’s reign had brought in the fields of education and medicine. Workers were protected now, as they had never been before. There were those who protested the allowance given the Royal House. Those who felt that the royals did not do enough to warrant the money spent on the upkeep of their many properties and lavish lifestyle. England had a prime minister and a Parliament, and many felt that should be enough.

With a sharp thunk, a wheel went into a pothole, and she nearly hit the ceiling. What was going on? Shelby wasn’t the type to be easily alarmed. He wouldn’t be frightened by law-abiding protesters. Then again, the protesters were not the ones actually causing the tremendous unease in the streets and the press at the moment. That unease could be laid at the feet of those trying to inflame the crowd by making people believe that the monarchy was behind the murders of those politicians who were speaking out against them. There were far too many people willing to believe that the Crown was silently behind the murders.

She knew from her studies that anti-monarchists were not new to English politics, and she even understood, at least to some degree, why such a movement had come to the forefront again now. Despite Queen Victoria’s determination to bring abstinence and goodness back to the Crown, her children, including her heir, had behaved scandalously. Back in the days of Jack the Ripper, there had even been a theory that her grandson, Prince Albert Victor, was the murderer. Since that day, a very vocal faction of anti-monarchists had not hesitated to step forward. These current murders, said by many to be the monarchy’s attempt to quell that faction, had brought the political fever to such a rabid pitch that many of the country’s sanest politicians were warning that there must be compromise and temperance, or there would be civil war.

Ally had never met the queen, but from all she had seen and heard, she couldn’t believe that the woman who had brought such progress to her empire and still mourned a husband lost decades ago could be guilty of such horror.

But for all her knowledge of history and politics, she realized, she still had no idea why the carriage was racing so terrifyingly fast.

Suddenly, with a jerk, the carriage began to slow.

Surely, she thought, this could have nothing to do with the furor going on because two men, two politicians and writers who had viciously slandered the queen, had been found dead, their throats slit. Or with the distraught people in the streets, bearing their signs to protest the queen and Prince Edward. No, the cause of this had to be quite different, and if so…

If so, she knew the answer.

They moved slower, the horses walking now, not galloping. She heard the sound of a gunshot, and froze. There was shouting from nearby; then she heard Shelby calling hoarsely in return, but she couldn’t understand his words.

“Stop the carriage!” a deep, authoritative voice thundered.

Tense, knowing that they were nowhere near the castle, Ally leaned toward the window, pulled back the drapery and looked out.

Her eyes widened in surprise, and it was then that icy rivulets of fear at last snaked through her system.

She had been right.

There was a rider right by her side, a man seated upon a great black stallion, clad in a black coat, hat and mask. Other riders shifted restlessly behind him.

The highwayman!

She had never dreamed that such a thing could happen in her humdrum life. As a devotee to several newspapers, she’d read about this man and his accomplices. In an age when more and more automobiles were finding their way onto the roads, they were being threatened by a highwayman on horseback.

He hadn’t killed anyone, she reminded herself. In fact, some were comparing him to Robin Hood. No one seemed quite able to say just which poor people he was giving to, although shortly after the Earl of Warren had been held up, churches in the East End had suddenly been offered large sums to feed and clothe their flocks.

The highwayman had been stopping carriages for the past several months, and had stolen several things here and there, items of sentimental value, that had mysteriously made their way back to their owners. A thief, but not a murderer….

In fact, he had begun his depredations just after the first murder had taken place. As if the country had not had enough to worry about.

The wheels ground to a halt; she heard the whinnying protest of the horses, drawn up so short. And then she heard the coachman’s words.

“My man, you’ll not be harming the lass. You’ll be shooting me first.”

Dear Shelby. Her bulky champion and guardian for as long as she could remember. He would protect her to his dying breath.

And because of Shelby, she found courage.

She threw open the carriage door and called out to him. “Shelby, we’ll risk no lives for the likes of this thief and his brigands. Whatever the fellow wants, we will give it to him and be on our way.”

The highwayman reined in his great black steed and dismounted in an agile leap. His accomplices remained seated upon their horses.

“Who else is in that carriage?” he demanded.

“No one,” she said.

He clearly didn’t believe her. Striding to the open door, he reached in, seeking no permission. His hands landed upon her waist, and she was lifted unceremoniously from the elegant carriage and set upon the ground. The man apparently believed there must be some hidden compartment within, for he disappeared into the carriage, then jumped out to stand beside her.

“Who are you, and what are you doing, traveling alone on the road?” he demanded. His face was hidden by a black satin eye mask, but he had dark hair, pulled back in a queue at his nape. He wore a wool cape, and his riding boots reached his knees.

At first she was shaking, but she was not going to be cowed. If he meant to change his methods and kill her, he would do so one way or the other. Therefore, she would go down fighting. She would not grovel. He was a thief, a brigand, a wretched excuse for a human being.

“You are nothing but riffraff,” she informed him, “and I don’t see why my travel arrangements should be any of your business.”

“Miss!” Shelby protested, afraid for her.

The highwayman nodded toward one of his men—also masked and dressed in black, a color that meant camouflage in the night—who approached Shelby as the coachman tried to ease a hand toward his pistol.

“Don’t do it,” the first man warned softly. “No harm will come to you—or the lass.”

Ally wondered if it was the word “lass,” coming from a man who had no idea of her accomplishments, that both irritated her and gave her such great courage. She was always dismissed as “the lass.” Everyone was always doing what they considered best for her. Her accomplishments were applauded, yet her future seemed to belong to everyone but her. Thanks to her privileged upbringing, she knew Latin, French and Italian, geography, history and literature. She could play the piano much more than competently, sing due to the tutelage of Madame D’Arpe, dance because of Monsieur Lonville, and ride as well as any woman living, she was certain, despite an effort to remain humble. She was also very aware that women were beginning to take their places in many previously forbidden arenas; helping to form society and, indeed, the world. She was going to make her mark on the world. Somehow.

She was also the most guarded orphan in the empire, she was quite sure.

“You’ll not touch that girl—” Shelby began angrily. But he did not finish. The highwayman had cracked the whip he carried, a long and lethal-looking thing that snapped through the air with the sharpness of a shot. The pistol Shelby had reached for went flying through the air as he cried out, not so much in pain as in surprise.

“My dear fellow,” the highwayman said. “We’ve no wish to harm you or the girl. You’ll step down, please.”

Stiff, angry, wary, Shelby did so. Ally heard a soft expulsion of breath, and when she looked, he was no longer standing. He had sunk easily to the ground, as if he had simply been so tired he had gone to sleep standing.

She started to run toward him, crying out in alarm.

She did not reach him. The highwayman caught her by the shoulders. When she kicked and fought and tried to bite him, he swore softly.

“What is the matter with you, girl? You are playing with your life here.”

“What have you done to him?”

“He will awake soon enough, none the worse for wear,” he assured her.

“What did you do to him? You’ve killed him!”

“He isn’t dead, I assure you.”

She tried again to bite the hand that held her. “This is ridiculous,” he hissed, and before she knew it, she was thrown over his shoulder and he was striding quickly off the open road and along a forest trail.

What had she done?

A trickle of fear slipped along her spine, despite her resolve.

“If you think you’re going to slit my throat in the woods, you’ll be truly sorry,” she warned him. “They’ll come after you. You are already wanted for your crimes. They’ll revive public executions—indeed, they’ll bring back drawing and quartering. I’m warning you—”

“You should start begging me,” he warned.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded. “You don’t even know who I am!”

They had apparently reached his destination. She was quickly and unceremoniously set down on a tree stump next to a small stream through the woods. Oddly, the water bubbled melodiously. The sun was almost gone for the day, just disappearing into the horizon, so they were surrounded by pale glimmers through the canopy of the trees and the coming shadows of the night. He set a foot on the log and leaned close to her. “Seriously, lass, I don’t know who you are. Had you answered that question for me at the start, you might well be on your way again already.”

“Don’t call me ‘lass.’”

“I should be calling you an idiot.”

“I? An idiot? Because I protest a wretched criminal who will surely end his days at the end of a rope?”

“If I’m to hang, anyway, what would it matter if I were to add your body to the list of my trespasses?” he demanded.

“You will hang,” she said icily.

“Perhaps, but not today. Today, you will answer to me.”

She fell silent, staring at him, once again forcing down any sense of fear. She would not go easily.

She stared at him, eyes burning, head high. “You are young and able-bodied. You might have found legitimate work easily enough. Instead, you have chosen a life of crime.”

He laughed softly, truly amused now. “Indeed, lass, of all the young women I have encountered, you are definitely the most brazen. Or the most stupid. I haven’t decided yet.”

“I told you not to call me ‘lass.’”

“You are a lass.”

“Then you are nothing but a boy, playing at being a man.”

He seemed to take no offense; indeed, he smiled slightly.

“Have you a title, then?” he inquired.

She stared at him coldly. “You may call me Miss.”

“Miss. So who are you and where are—were—you going?”

“Are you an idiot, that you don’t recognize a carriage belonging to the Earl of Carlyle?”

She couldn’t tell whether he had recognized the carriage or not, for his next question was not an answer.

“What are you doing in his carriage?”

“I haven’t stolen it,” she retorted.

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

He leaned closer. “But it is not the answer I am seeking.”

“I’m ever so sorry.”

“Pray, don’t be sorry—yet. Simply provide me with the information I seek.”

“You are a bully and a thief. I owe you nothing.”

“I am a highwayman. And your life and safekeeping are in my hands.”

“Shoot me, then.”

He shook his head, irritated. She lifted her chin. She was afraid, true, but she was oddly excited, as well. The blood was rushing through her veins. Ridiculous as it might seem, she felt up to the challenge.

Strangely, she didn’t believe he would really harm her. There was something too…decent?…about his manner.

Perhaps this was simply what she had wanted: something had finally happened in her life. She felt as if she were really living, perhaps for the first time. How sad if it were all about to end.

He laughed aloud and the sound was easy and pleasant. “Let me start over. Dear mademoiselle, pray, please, tell me what you’re doing in the earl’s carriage?”

“Obviously I am going to see the earl.”

“Ah. You’re good friends, then?”

“He is something of a godfather to me,” she explained.

“Indeed?”

“Yes, so you had best take care, lest you truly offend me.”

“I’m afraid it matters not at all to me whom I offend.”

“The earl will see you skewered through.”

“The earl will have to catch me for that, don’t you think?”

“Don’t underestimate him.”

“I never would.”

“Pray, tell, exactly what do you want from me? I’m afraid I’m not carrying any riches.”

He was still smiling, and his foot continued to rest on the log as he leaned close. She found herself wondering how such a man, well spoken, well dressed, smelling clean but with a hint of musk and leather, could have come to such a pass in life.

“Riches may be attained in any number of ways. If you’re beloved of the earl, you’re worth a pretty penny.”

“I’m not that well loved,” she said sharply.

His smile deepened. She wished she could see more of his face.

“Tell me more about yourself,” he commanded.

She folded her hands in her lap. “Tell me more about yourself.”

“I asked first.”

“But you already know more about me than I know about you,” she reminded him primly.

“Ah, but I am the highwayman, and you are the victim,” he said.

“Precisely. Victims are not required by any social standard to be cooperative,” she informed him.

He leaned closer. “Victims are supposed to be frightened.”

“Do you know what I think?”

“Pray, tell me.”

“You are not at all dangerous.”

“Really?”

“It appears to me that you have at least a modicum of intelligence, and that someone raised you properly. And that, if you chose, you could certainly do well enough without resorting to highway robbery and accosting random victims.”

“I’m afraid,” he murmured, “that you weren’t a random victim.”

She was startled, and a trickle of fear began to ice her blood.

“I have nothing. Why would you choose me?”

“You were in the earl’s coach.”

“Again, I tell you, I have nothing worth stealing,” she assured him, more determined now than ever that he believe her.

“You might be quite valuable as a hostage,” he informed her.

“Oh!” she cried in frustration. “You are a fool. What is the matter with you? There are grave things going on in the world. We may well find ourselves in a state of anarchy. Men have been murdered. People are in an uproar. And you are worried about nothing but yourself.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm? That’s all you have to say?” she demanded.

“Are you going to challenge all the evil in the world?” he asked her softly.

“Are you willing to do nothing about all the evil in the world?” she countered.

He shrugged. “Let’s see…can I change the world at this moment? Probably not. Can I change my own situation? I think so. Because I have you, whoever you are, a passenger in the Earl of Carlyle’s carriage.”

“Please, I have already informed you, I am not worth anything.”

“Come, come. You cannot be that naïve. Not a woman of your obvious…worldliness.”

She flushed, looking away. She felt as if fire were rushing through her. How could she be so ridiculous as to feel such a tide of emotion because of a highwayman? Good God, how pathetic. She would not allow it.

“I’m telling you, whatever you may wish to think, there is no threat you can make that will change me into a rich swan. I live in the company of several widows, gentle and kind and sheltered. They have little. I seldom leave the woods.”

“But when you do, it seems, you leave in style.”

“I am lucky to have landed friends who took interest in me as a child.”

“Do you work for the earl?”

“No.”

“Do you…?” He looked her up and down meaningfully.

“What are you implying?” she demanded indignantly, so angry that she rose, pushing him aside. “The lord’s lady is one of the kindest and most beautiful women I have ever met, and I do assure you, he feels the same. How dare you…? Ah, you are but a highwayman, and anything of gentility I’ve sensed in you is nothing but a mask, far more concealing than the one upon your face. I believe I’ve quite finished with this ridiculous tête-à-tête, and I would sincerely appreciate it if you would return me to the carriage now.”

At first she was afraid he would respond with violence—she had shoved him hard enough to send him reeling backward. For a moment she stood still, very still, regretting her action and wondering, as well, if she dared to run. She was unfamiliar with her surroundings, but running anywhere would have to be preferable to being his prisoner.

But he didn’t respond with violence; he didn’t even touch her. Laughing, he took a seat upon the fallen log himself.

“Bravo!”

“Bravo?”

“The earl is a lucky man to have such a staunch defender.”

“The earl is known for his strength, ethics and honesty, something you would know and appreciate—if you weren’t a rogue.”

“Ah, that I were only such a man.”

“Any man might strive to initiate his attributes.”

“Might any man have such a castle?” he asked with amusement.

“A castle does not make a man,” she told him primly.

“Nor riches?” he inquired.

She wasn’t sure what it was in his tone—a certain bitterness perhaps—but it suddenly made her realize that she might well be in serious peril after all.

She had managed to put some distance between them when she had pushed by him, and now that he was seated, cocky, comfortable, quite certain he was the one in charge, it seemed like the right time to run.

There were many advantages to growing up in a cottage in the woods. She had spent endless days exploring the trails close to her house, playing with imaginary friends, running from place to place. She had often played with the children of the woodsman down the lane, and there had been a time when she was young when the son thought she was quite a hellion. So she was strong, fit and fleet. She thought that she could leave him in the dust.

At first, she did.

Heedless of the water, she bounded across the little rivulet and tore down one of the forest trails. There was a moment when she dared to take pleasure in the sound of his startled oath as she disappeared.

Then she realized not only that she was being followed but followed swiftly.

She tore under a canopy of trees, dexterously flying over roots, rocks and fallen branches in her way. She kept running and running, following what appeared to be a path, then turning to crash through thicker foliage, hoping to lose her pursuer.

As she ran, the sound of pursuit diminished. Or perhaps it was the thundering of her heart that made all else silent in comparison.

Eventually, she had to stop. Her lungs were burning, her heart pounding in revolt, and her calves cramping. Her delicate boots were far from the perfect footwear for running through the forest.

She gripped a tree, inhaling, exhaling, trying to ease the pain in her chest and limbs. Her hair had come loose, and a wayward strand now teased her nose. She puffed at it, then drew it back, thinking she must look an incredible mess, and yet, at the same time, realizing with pride that she had done it.

She had eluded the highwayman.

Just as that pleasure began to sink in, she heard a soft chuckle.

She spun around.

He was leaning against a tree, arms crossed, as relaxed as if he had not a care in the world. Not a strand of hair had escaped his queue. He wasn’t breathing hard. He didn’t appear as if he had exerted himself at all.

She straightened, staring at him defiantly.

“You can’t escape, you know.”

“Actually, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

She considered her position. Yes, she could run again. But how had he done it? Caught her in this place so easily?

Her heart sank as she realized her mistake. She had been so determined not to follow a clear trail that she had run in circles. He had realized her error and simply waited until she had come around through the trees.

She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“Don’t do it. Such a waste of time and energy,” he told her.

“I’m so sorry. Am I being inconvenient?” she asked sarcastically.

He shrugged. “Actually, I had no other pressing engagements for the day.”

“You do realize that when the Earl of Carlyle realizes his carriage hasn’t arrived, he’ll begin searching?”

“Certainly…but not for a while yet, I don’t believe.”

“And why is that?”

“I suspect he’s in the city. There’s a celebration at Buckingham Palace today. Someone’s birthday. I don’t think he’ll be home until the evening.”

“You know so much about the Earl of Carlyle?” she asked, playing for time. She needed to catch her breath. She was certainly not going to tell him that he was mistaken as to the earl’s whereabouts.

“I read the newspapers, Miss…ah, yes, that’s right. You’ve not yet furnished me with your name.”

“I don’t remember you furnishing me with yours.”

“You don’t really want to know my name. That would make you dangerous to me, wouldn’t it?”

“Then I shan’t give you mine.”

He smiled. “Caught your breath yet?”

“I’m quite fine, thank you.”

“Don’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Run again.”

“What else would you have me do?”

“I’ve told you that I don’t intend to hurt you.”

“And I should trust you?”

“If you run, I’ll merely have to catch you again.”

“But perhaps you cannot.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “I can. And you won’t like it when I do.”

“I don’t like being told what to do, I don’t like being held up, and I most certainly don’t like conversing with a bandit.”

He lifted his hands in a fatalistic gesture. “You must do what you must. And I must do the same.”

She lifted her chin again, trying to bring some semblance of order to the streams of tangled blond hair now falling down her back and into her face, impairing her vision. “You could abandon your life of crime. Walk away now. Become a legend. Find gainful employment. Turn over a new leaf.”

“I could….”

“Then you must do so,” she insisted urgently.

“I’m sorry. I think not.”

“Oh…” She let out a sigh of irritation. She saw his muscles beginning to tense, realized that in seconds he would be coming for her.

And so, with little other recourse, she ran again.

This time he caught her quickly.

She felt him behind her before he touched her. Felt the wind, the heat and the power of him.

Then his arms were around her.

The momentum of her desperate flight carried them both forward and down, onto the ground, into the dirt and pine-needle carpet of the forest floor. Her mouth seemed to fill with pine needles and the rich earth. Coughing, sputtering, she tried to turn, but he was on top of her. She managed to get faceup, but no further. He straddled her, still breathing easily and, the greatest insult, still merely amused.

She coughed, staring at him furiously. A greater fear seeped into her, for now she was truly caught.

She didn’t try to argue with him; didn’t urge him to get up. She simply slammed her fists against his chest with the greatest strength she could summon, twisting frantically at the same time. That managed only to bring forth his own temper at last. He caught her wrists and pinned them high above her head, leaning close as he did so.

His amused smile was gone at last, she was pleased to note.

Yet in that small victory, she realized, she herself was even more the loser.

“Would you stop?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer him, only lay perfectly still, looking to one side.

He eased up, still straddling her but no longer pinning her so tightly to the ground.

“I told you that you wouldn’t like it if I had to catch you,” he said softly.

“You truly are a cad,” she whispered.

“I’m a highwayman,” he said impatiently. “Hardly a proper escort.”

She became aware of his touch, the pressure of his thighs, the way he sat atop her without causing her pain.

Then he touched her.

He reached down, sweeping a wild strand of her hair from her face. His fingers seemed to linger ever so slightly on her cheek.

The touch was gentle, yet he had seized her with real power and did not intend to let up.

She didn’t look at him. “What now?” she demanded. “Where do we go from here?”

“You tell me your name and purpose, all I have wanted from the beginning,” he said.

She stared at him suddenly, brows knitting in a frown, fear seeping deeply into her again. She knew she should keep her mouth shut, but she could not.

“You’re not…one of the anti-monarchists?” she breathed.

She was startled when he smiled, his knuckles brushing her chin with an almost tender assurance.

“No, I’m not. God save the queen. I’m a good, traditional English rogue,” he swore softly.

She believed him. Flat on her back, totally his prisoner, completely at his mercy, she believed him. She let out a soft breath.

“And you’ve no intention of killing me…or anyone?”

“Never, lass.”

“Please stop calling me ‘lass.’”

“You won’t give me your name.”

She stared hard at him. Their position was intimate, and the thought brought a swift flush to her cheeks. He was a complete blackguard, and she loathed herself for thinking his voice was husky, alluring, his touch the most tender she had ever known.

“If you would be so kind as to get off me…?” she suggested.

He rose and reached a hand down to her, lifting her to her feet with no effort. His hand lingered, then dropped from hers.

“My name is Alexandra Grayson.”

“What?” he demanded sharply, frowning with such quick tension that she was momentarily taken aback, frightened once again.

Why?

There was nothing about her name, or herself, that should mean anything to anyone.

“I’m Alexandra Grayson, a nobody, I assure you. I have told you. I live in a cottage in the woods with several aunts. The Earl of Carlyle and his lady are like godparents to me. They, and others, have seen to my welfare for as long as I can remember.”

“You—you are Alexandra Grayson?” He still sounded as if he were choking.

“What does my name mean to you?” she demanded uneasily, afraid that he had lost his sanity. His hands had tightened into fists at his sides.

He shook his head, easing his hands open. A second later, he was smiling again, amused once more.

“Nothing…it means nothing to me.”

“Then—”

“I had thought you were someone else.”

He was lying, she thought.

But she had no time to ponder his reasons, for he reached out a hand to her. She stared at it, swallowing hard, uneasy. He was very tall and strong in the green darkness of the forest. She felt the vibrancy and fire of him, though he was still. She had the strangest feeling that if she moved, leaned against him…

It would be good…sweet. Exciting.

So alive.

She stiffened, lowering her head, clenching her teeth. He was nothing but a common criminal!

She looked up. He was still staring intently at her.

“Come,” he said at last. “I’ll take you back to the carriage and send you on your way.”

CHAPTER TWO

THE CARRIAGE SENT ON ITS WAY, Mark Farrow remained in the road, staring after it.

“Mark,” Patrick MacIver said, removing his black silk mask, “we must move, and move quickly. That was the Earl of Carlyle’s carriage. The minute they reach the castle, the earl will be out like a bloodhound.”

The three friends who rode with him as the highwayman’s band—Patrick MacIver, Geoff Brennan and Thomas Howell—were all staring at him. Mark nodded.

“We’ll split up,” he agreed. “Geoff, Thomas, take to the western woods. Patrick and I will travel the eastern route. Make sure you stop at the checkpoint and change horses. We’ll do the same. We’ll meet up at O’Flannery’s, as planned.”

They nodded but didn’t move immediately. “Well,” Thomas said at last, “who was she?”

“Alexandra Grayson,” Mark replied.

Patrick let out a gasp. “That was her?”

“Quite attractive,” Thomas said.

“Stunning,” Geoff noted.

“Um…rather self-assured,” Patrick noted. Minus his mask—sewn to cover most of his head beneath a hat, Patrick was a blazing and all-too-noticeable redhead.

“Interesting,” Geoff said lightly. The son of Henry Brennan, an esteemed member of the House of Commons, Geoff was hailed among their foursome as a thinking man. Tall and lean, with a surprising amount of strength for his build, he was dark-eyed, dark-haired and often grave.

Thomas was the opposite. Sandy-haired, hazel-eyed and possessed of a mercurial sense of humor, he was serious only when necessary. At that moment, he burst into laughter. “You, Sir Farrow, are in trouble, I imagine.”

“Shall we get out of here, and laugh at whatever situation I might find myself in later?” Mark suggested dryly.

“O’Flannery’s,” Geoff said, and by tacit agreement, they all turned their horses and started on their assigned routes for the City of London.

Mark and Patrick moved swiftly until they reached the clearing known as Ennisfarn, where the Farrow family had long maintained a hunting lodge. Though the only one guarding the stable there would be Old Walt, the men entered from the rear, quickly dismounted, stowed their cloaks, found their waistcoats and jackets, and unsaddled the horses. New tack was taken from the racks as they readied new mounts, all in haste and silence.

At last, remounted and on the trail again, their outlaw gear stowed in their saddlebags, Patrick spoke again. “I must say, having seen the girl, I believe I would jump at such a chance as yours, but…well, we are moving into a new world. It’s quite archaic that your father insists upon arranging your marriage.”

“He made the agreement with Brian Stirling when I was just a lad and the girl a babe,” Mark said with a shrug. “I don’t know why. She’s not Lord Stirling’s child, rather his ward. I’ve always assumed there must be a skeleton in the closet somewhere.”

“Ah, yes. Illegitimacy, no doubt,” Patrick murmured.

Mark scowled at him. “Don’t think of starting such a rumor.”

Patrick laughed. “I promise to do nothing of the kind.” He grew serious. “Your impending marriage aside, I daresay we’re not going to have much of a reputation left soon. We didn’t even steal a piece of the girl’s jewelry.”

“Don’t worry. We’re going to O’Flannery’s.”

“And…?” Patrick inquired.

Mark grinned. “Why do you think I warned you against rumor? I intend to start one myself. Trust me—by nightfall, we shall be the most dangerous figures since the days of Jack the Ripper.”

THERE WAS NOTHING WRONG with her, Alexandra thought, but from the moment the carriage arrived at the castle, Shelby created such a stir that she was treated like fragile glass. At the gates, before they set off along the long winding drive to the castle, Shelby started shouting for help. Several members of the earl’s household rushed out, the countess among them, as they neared the front door.

“The police, my lady!” Shelby cried to the countess. “We must inform the police! We were held up by that despicable creature all the newspapers write of—the highwayman. I was knocked unconscious, and he kidnapped Miss Grayson. He is on the loose but cannot be far. The earl must be informed immediately. This is an outrage. And the poor girl! The gall. The utter gall. How dare he? Anyone in England should recognize the coat of arms on Lord Stirling’s carriage.”

The countess, Lady Camille, was instantly concerned, but thankfully, she had always been wise and levelheaded and not one to give in to the vapors. Before her marriage to the earl, she had been a commoner and had worked for a living, and she still gave time to the Egyptian department of the museum. She frowned, looking at Ally as Shelby distractedly helped her from the carriage.

“Shelby, please, calm down so we can ascertain all the facts. Ally, were you injured? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, perfectly fine.”

The earl, tall and exceedingly handsome, came up beside his wife. “You’re quite sure?” he asked, reaching out to touch her hair. “You’re wearing leaves.”

“I swear to you, I’m absolutely fine,” Ally said.

“I shall call the police,” Camille said, turning to head back up the steps to the main entrance to the castle. “Ally, come along. Fine or not, it must have been quite an ordeal. Brian, please, make her come in quickly.”

“Yes, in just a moment. Shelby, see that my horse is saddled and ready. If this fellow is on the roads now, I am going after him.”

“Oh, but you must not!” Ally protested. “He is—he is armed and dangerous.”

Brian Stirling watched Ally with an arched brow and a look that caused her to flush. As if the concept of danger would so much as make him hesitate when a member of his circle had been threatened.

“Come in. While my horse is being saddled, you must give me what details you can.” He offered her his arm and called over his shoulder, “Shelby—call three of the men to ride with me.”

She accepted his arm, and followed him into the castle. In the foyer, he called for his housekeeper, then led Ally on into the massive kitchen. It was a place she loved dearly. When she had come here as a child, she had often played in the kitchen. There was a huge hearth, and something was always cooking in a pot over the fire. These days it was something dreamed up by Theodore, the “new” cook, as he was called, despite the fact that he had been at the castle for ten years. He was a big man, with cheery red cheeks, and he always had something special and delicious waiting for her when she arrived.

“Theodore, if you please, a brandy for our young miss,” the earl requested.

Theodore, who was standing at the great chopping block, his large hands mincing herbs into amazingly small pieces, frowned, wiped his hands off on his apron and hurried to the cabinet.

In a moment, Ally found herself seated by the fire, the earl before her, taking her hands, staring into her eyes. “Now, slowly and completely. What happened?”

“Well, as Shelby said, we were waylaid by the highwayman.”

“And what did he want?”

Ally shook her head. “Actually…he took nothing. All he wanted was to search the carriage—and then to know who I was and where I was going.”

The earl looked very anxious for a moment. “And he didn’t hurt you in any way?”

“Not at all,” she murmured.

The earl stood, running his fingers through his hair. He was a tall man, well built, and though his title might well have brought him anything he desired without the least effort on his part, he was a scholar, a patron of antiquities and ready to delve into the day’s social issues. He had done his duty in the army, as well. Ally adored him, as she did Camille, and wondered how she had come by such amazing luck as to have them choose to take her beneath their wings. She wasn’t being as forthright as he deserved, and she knew it. Had the highwayman hurt her? Indeed, he had wounded both her pride and her ego. But…

She was loathe to say too much.

She realized that she did not want the man caught. She could not bear to imagine such a gallant thief hanging by the neck until dead.

“Honestly, my lord, there was not much to it. After the first few seconds, I knew I was in no danger.”

“The man is a criminal,” he said sternly.

“Yes, of course. But I wasn’t harmed in any way, and nothing was taken.” She hesitated. “I’m afraid that poor Shelby prides himself on his courage and ability, and he is truly a wonderful man and an expert guardian. He was ready to die for me. But the highwayman carries a long whip, and he used it to disarm Shelby. I imagine that he is as much embarrassed as anything else,” Ally said.

The countess came into the kitchen. “I have reached the police, and Inspector Turner is on his way. Sadly, he spoke quite honestly to me. There’s little he can do now. The ruffian and his fellows have surely long fled the scene. But, Ally, the inspector will be anxious to learn what he can from you about the man’s look and manner. So, now, please, tell me what happened.”

Ally looked at the earl. He gave her a slight smile. “I’m afraid that you’ll be repeating your adventure over and over, my dear.”

“Adventure?” Camille protested.

“Well, indeed, it seems that she is none the worse for it,” Brian said.

“That does not in the least alleviate what she must have endured,” Camille protested. A stray lock of hair fell across her forehead, and she looked at her husband indignantly, hands on her hips. “Well, the police will do what they can. It’s quite frightening, though.”

“Ally!”

“Ally!”

Two little voices called out to her. Brent and William, six and five, respectively, came running into the kitchen, skirting around their mother to throw themselves at Ally.

“Boys!” Camille protested.

“They’re fine,” Ally assured her, hugging the children, delighted with their cheerful smiles. They weren’t worried or asking her to repeat herself; they were just happy to see her, and she adored them. Brent, the future earl, was continually full of mischief, and William was delighted to follow along, a worthy companion for all his brother’s exploits. At the tender age of five, William had already announced that when the time was right, he would be heading off to the Americas to make his own fortune.

“Brian,” Camille implored. “Please tell our young gentlemen that they must not crawl all over Ally right now.”

“They’re fine,” Ally insisted. She wanted the boys there to distract her questioners.

“Boys, Ally will be along to play with you after you are bathed and settled for the evening,” Brian said, picking up the children, one beneath each arm. They giggled as he walked them to the hallway. “Up to the playroom, my loves,” he commanded. “And no dismantling the new telephone today, eh?”

“No, Father,” William swore. He was still laughing.

“Really, this is not insignificant,” Camille said softly. “What if the children had been in the carriage? What if…if they had tried to run? Or fight?” she asked worriedly.

“The children weren’t in the carriage, Ally was, and she apparently handled herself quite well,” Brian said, releasing the children and turning back. “My dear, we’ll see that two men ride with the carriage at all times now,” he told Camille. “Will that make you feel better?”

Camille nodded. “Yes, it will. Until the rogue is stopped. Anyway, Lucy has run a bath for you, Ally, and taken out your clothing for the party tonight. I do wish your aunts would have agreed to come…well, I can’t make those darlings do a thing they don’t want to do. But it’s disturbing that this should happen on such a day, when we’ve guests arriving so soon.” She smiled at her husband. “But then, I suppose people would be quite disappointed to come here without some excitement going on.”

“Ally must go up right now and refresh herself,” Brian said. “I’ll ride out, and, Camille, you must speak with the inspector first when he comes, and by then, perhaps Ally will have remembered more about what happened.”

“What exactly is going on tonight?” Ally asked, glad that they seemed to be putting her “adventure” into some sort of perspective. “Your summons was quite mysterious.”

“Something terribly exciting,” Camille assured her. “So, as Brian suggests, perhaps we should start preparing while we await our policeman.”

“Yes, a bath would be lovely,” Ally agreed. She didn’t add that she would also dearly love a few minutes of privacy. The earl’s eyes had seemed to look into her soul, and she was very afraid that she was giving away the fact that she felt as if she’d had an adventure. She was stunned by the way she had felt, talking to the man. The thief.

Was her life so truly sheltered and dull that she could be so easily swept away by such an encounter?

Sadly, that answer was yes.

“Come, Ally. Brian, perhaps she should have another brandy in the bath, a bit more to steady her nerves?”

“I rather think her nerves are quite steady already,” Brian said. “But she’s more than welcome to another.”

He turned, shaking his head over the fact that highwaymen could be terrorizing the countryside in this modern age. Theodore was already pouring out a new measure of brandy.

Ally murmured “Thank you” as she hurried after Camille, lowering her eyes to keep the earl from seeing so much.

“I’m off in search of this brigard. I’ve read that he rides with three companions, Ally. Is this true?”

She nodded. Shelby would tell him anything she didn’t, anyway. He would no doubt be riding out with the earl, as well. “Yes, there are four in all,” she said.

“And you can tell me nothing else?” he pressed.

She shrugged. “They wore cloaks, hats and masks. I’m afraid there’s very little I could say that would help.”

“Could say? Or would say?” Brian murmured very softly.

“Brian! The men are criminals,” Camille said.

“Yes, they are,” Brian said firmly, staring at Ally.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I can’t even tell you their height or hair color. I’m sorry.”

“When this fellow took you off…what happened?” Brian demanded.

“I was angry. We walked and talked in circles until I gave him my name.”

“And then?” Brian demanded.

“He returned me to Shelby, and we drove straight here,” she said.

The earl nodded and headed toward the door as Camille took her by the arm. “Come along, your bath will grow cold.”

“THERE’S FLORENCE,” PATRICK said cheerfully as they entered the smoky miasma of O’Flannery’s Pub.

Florence Carter, the barmaid, was busy at work behind the taps. She was in her mid-thirties, a woman who had fallen on hard times but found her calling at O’Flannery’s. Here she worked very hard for hours a day, but never found herself reduced to prostitution, a common fate for poor and uneducated women in the East End. She was attractive, with red hair and bright green eyes, and a fierce attitude that warned her customers to have fun but behave. Robert O’Flannery, the big Irishman who owned the place, knew that he had found a gem in Flo. She could move like lightning and easily handle the university students who habituated the pub after classes. Florence could tease, she could jest—but she could also stop a brawl before it ever got started, though she was slim and appeared somewhat delicate. She was possessed of a fierce and wiry strength that had taken many a man by surprise.

“What will it be, boys? A pint apiece?” she called out to them.

“Aye, Flo,” Mark called. “And have you seen—”

“Your partners in crime are in the booth,” she teased back lightly, pointing.

“A bit too close to home, eh?” Patrick murmured.

“Not at all. She merely jests,” Mark said.

The pub was crowded, with most men grouped around the bar. Mark and Patrick wove their way through people—workers, fresh from their jobs in the city; students, some laden with books; soldiers; and a few young members of society, sons who would one day claim their fathers’ titles—and found Geoff and Thomas.

“Any problems?” Geoff asked.

“Not a one,” Mark said, waving at Flo, who was already on her way over, balancing a tray of pints. She dropped off a few en route, easily avoiding the pats that would have fallen upon her posterior, and came to their booth. As she set their pints down, Mark said, “Did you hear? We passed a fellow on the road who heard that the highwayman has been busy again. Apparently he had the audacity to hold up a carriage belonging to the Earl of Carlyle. Luckily, he let the lass within it go her way, unscathed and unrobbed.”

“I heard,” Patrick said, leaning closer, “that he isn’t usually so merciful.”

“The newspapers downplay his exploits. The people are up in arms as it is,” Geoff whispered.

“They can downplay it all they like,” Flo said, whispering as well. “But I’ve heard he’s murdered a victim or two and hidden the bodies, weighted down with bricks, in the lakes and streams.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that, too,” Mark said. “If the people in the carriages give him no trouble, he robs them and sends them on their way. But if they protest, fight back…It must be true. You’ve heard it…we’ve heard it. He is savage in response to those who fight back. Flo, you must take care.”

“Well, now, O’Flannery can be a hard taskmaster, but I have the room above the taproom, you know.” Flo shivered. “I need not travel the roads.”

“You should be drinking up and heading home,” Patrick reminded Mark. “Don’t you have a soiree to attend this evening?”

“I do,” Mark murmured. “But with Flo here, I’ve no desire to be heading anywhere.”

“You’re a flatterer, Sir Mark Farrow, you are. And an earl you’ll be one day. You’ll be having your way all the time, so it’s a good thing for you to be learning a bit of humility now. So, you’ll be attending the gala at the Earl of Carlyle’s castle, then, will you?”

He smiled and pressed a sizable coin into Flo’s hand. “It is where I’m supposed to be. But, Flo, be careful, with that highwayman on the loose. Make sure you travel safely. And warn your fellows at the bar.”

“You’re a kind man,” she told him, fingers closing around the coin. “You’ll make a fine earl one day. And yes,” she said, changing her tone, “I will warn them all.”

As she started to turn away, a man burst through the entry. “Murder!” he roared. “There’s been another murder!”

“Who?” someone shouted from the bar area.

“Giles Brandon. The police just found the body. Word is just out on the street. Throat slit, just like the others.”

A roar arose in the room, one voice trying to out-shout another.

Finally the newcomer’s voice rose above the rest. “He had it in his hand, he did. His last fine bit of writing. A blast aimed at the monarchy.”

“It will still make the papers,” someone predicted.

“Aye, words covered in blood,” shouted another man.

“A pox upon Queen Victoria” came another hoarse cry.

Mark started to rise in anger.

Patrick set a hand on his arm. “Let me. I’m a commoner through and through, remember?” he said quietly.

Mark fought to control his temper, lowered his head and nodded.

Patrick rose. “God bless Victoria. The queen will find out who is at this wickedness.”

There was silence. Then someone said from the bar, “She’d have no part in this, God save her.”

And with that the cry of “God save the queen” went up, and the grumbling turned to whispers….

Mark rose then, looking at the others. “It doesn’t appear as if I will be attending that gala this evening after all, gents. We’ll talk soon,” he said.

The others nodded.

With some men grumbling about the murders and others defending Queen Victoria, the pub was alive with conversation as Mark hurried for the door.

ALLY WAS GRATEFUL FOR THE hot bath, in which she spent all the time she could, indulging herself in the warmth—and privacy. At last she emerged, wrapped herself in the soft linen towel Lucy had left for her and stepped back into the bedroom. A large figure of Isis sat on one side of the dressing table, a canopic jar on the other. In between was a set of silver combs and brushes. Reliefs and statues decorated the room, and papyrusi lined the walls, handsomely framed. It was her room; it had always been so, as long as she could remember. Like the rest of the castle, it was stunningly decorated with both ancient and modern Egyptian art and artifacts. The earl’s parents had been explorers, beginning the family fascination, and he had met a passionate proponent in Camille. He knew that the treasures of a poor country could too easily be spirited away by foreigners, and he was a firm proponent of leaving the most valuable in their native land. He was willing, however, to take some of the less valuable pieces for his own pleasure, but he always paid handsomely for his finds. He had told Ally once that for every ancient treasure he purchased, he also looked to the present, hiring artists and artisans to create new pieces for his collection. She remembered when she had been here with the daughter of Lord Wittburg, now a princess in Eastern Europe. Poor Lucinda had been terrified of the mummy cases, and at first Ally had teased her. She had actually hidden in one and jumped out, then been horrified to see how she had frightened the girl. It had taken her hours to calm her down, and she’d been worried that she was going to be barred from the castle forever if her prank was discovered. But Lucinda was kind at heart and never told on her. The episode had made Ally realize that perhaps she was the one who was a bit odd, but she’d grown up around the mummy cases and other artifacts and thought nothing of them. She even knew that in Egypt, mummies were so common they were used for kindling at times, and many people there used the massive stone sarcophagi for planters. Still, she was aware that a passion for all things Egyptian was definitely an acquired taste.

She realized she was feeling a sudden sense of loss, of nostalgia, as if something were about to change forever, but she didn’t know what.

She slipped quickly into a silk shift, bloomers and stockings. She was still only half dressed when there came a knock at the door. It was Molly, one of the upstairs maids, and she had come to help Ally complete her ensemble for the evening.

“Have you seen the gown?” Molly asked, her blue eyes bright.

Ally’s attention was drawn to the dress that had been laid out on the big four-poster bed. It was an elegant shade of yellow, almost gold, and it was glorious with subtle nips and tucks to emphasize her youthful figure. The embroidered handwork was exquisite.

“The aunties made this?” she asked softly.

Molly nodded. “They giggled like girls when they brought it.”

Ally touched the fabric, shaking her head. “And still they would not come tonight,” she said sadly.

“Ah, you can’t change them,” Molly told her.

“I pleaded,” Ally said. “You know, if there is such an occasion here again, I will tell them that I will not come if they don’t. I know that the earl and his wife argued and wheedled, as well, but those old dears are so stubborn. Still, I swear, next time I will out-stubborn them.”

Molly sighed. “Well, there will not be a next time such as this,” she said softly, carefully lifting the gown to slip it over Ally’s head.

At first Ally couldn’t reply—she was muffled by the elegant length of the dress going over her head. When at last she could speak, she demanded, “Molly, just what is this occasion? Why was I summoned here tonight?”

Molly flushed, then shrugged. “That is for your godparents to explain.”

“Molly…”

“Come, come, they will be here any minute,” Molly said, twirling her around to tie her into the gown. “You know, of course, that it was Lady Maggie, one of your own dear grandmothers, who came up with the design, and she took the aunties shopping for the fabric. Of course, there was never any question of hiring a designer for this. Lady Maggie has the most exquisite taste in clothing, and she said there were no finer seamstresses in the land than the aunties.”

Ally smiled, proud of her dear aunties in their little cottage in the woods. They loved their simple life. She knew that they could have done very well, out in the world of high fashion. Instead, they chose to remain as they were, living their quiet and happy lives. “Lady Kat’s sister is gaining quite a name in the fashion industry. She had a showing in Paris, you know, and even she comes to the aunties for her most important work.”

“I know.”

“Molly,” Ally tried again, thinking to take the woman off guard, “what is going on tonight? Is it an early birthday celebration?”

“You could say so, I suppose. Now, sit and let me fix your hair.”

Ally sat, ready to try again, taking another tack.

“The kitchen is overflowing with caterers,” she said.

“When Lord Stirling decides to throw a private party,” Molly said with pride, “there’s no one who would not toss all other offers, business and pleasure, to the wind in order to attend. Of course there are caterers everywhere. Now, sit still. People are beginning to arrive. We need to get you ready.”

Another tap sounded at the door, and Lady Camille looked in. She was dressed for the evening in a midnight-blue gown that hugged her body and sported a very small bustle that made it look as if she were gliding when she walked. As always, she was stunningly beautiful and regal. Camille had been born to poverty, then rescued from the streets, and in Ally’s mind, she was proof that nobility lived with the heart and soul, and did not spring from a title. She was truly the perfect mate for the earl, since both were strong-willed and also compassionate to the extreme.

“Oh,” Camille said, standing by Molly and surveying Ally. “It is perfect. I am so angry at the aunties. They should be here this evening. But I have to commend Maggie the minute she arrives—she chose the color and the fabric. Ally, your eyes look golden and your hair, just a shade darker. My dear girl, you have grown up.”

“Thank you,” Ally said. “Camille, is this a birthday celebration? Or is there something more going on tonight? I thank God that I am important in your eyes, but—”

The older woman was silent for a moment, then said, “Brian has returned and is downstairs already. He’s in quite a state. He and Shelby retraced the carriage route, and he tried a dozen forest trails but was unable to find any sign of that wretched highwayman. Still, we must get on with the evening. And Theodore is feeding the inspector from the Metropolitan Police in the kitchen. We must speak with him at some point. And Angus Cunningham will be here later, so he must be informed about this new development.”

“One last touch,” Molly said, setting a studded pin into place in Ally’s hair. She stepped back and clasped her hands. “Like a princess!” she exclaimed.

Ally kissed Molly’s cheeks. “Not a princess, a commoner, Molly, and one who loves you and thanks you.”

Molly sniffed suddenly and reached into her pocket for a handkerchief.

“Molly, stop that,” Ally said. “I’ll stay up here with you, shall I?”

“Nonsense, you’re going downstairs,” Camille said, laughing. “Come along, lass.”

There it was again. That word. Lass. She would probably remain a lass in the eyes of those who had helped raise her until she dropped dead of old age.

“There’s something I must speak to you about this evening, as well,” Ally told the duchess.

“Is there?”

“Yes. I should tell you all at once, I suppose,” Ally said. “Because you’ll all be here tonight, all of you who have been so kind, taking me in almost as your own child. Sir Hunter and Lady Kat, Lord James and Lady Maggie, and you and Lord Stirling.”

“Let us hope,” Camille said, glancing at the delicate gold watch pendant she wore around her neck, “we will have a few minutes together before the castle begins to fill, but first, to the kitchen. Inspector Turner is waiting.”

“MARK, YOU’RE JUST COMING IN?”

Joseph Farrow was standing by the fire. He was a tall, dignified man, and, Mark thought proudly, he still appeared handsomely fit.

Mark was an only child. His mother had died of fever when he had been but a boy, and though he remembered her gentle smile, the feeling of love with which she had enveloped him, and the scent of her perfume, it was his father who had guided his life.

It was because Joseph was so fine a man that Mark had always allowed this bargain. He would break his father’s heart if he were to be the cause of Joseph Farrow breaking his word. Still…

“Father, I cannot attend tonight,” Mark said.

He saw the frown that instantly began to furrow his father’s brow.

“Mark, this event has been planned for years—”

“I know.”

“There was good reason for me to give my word.”

“I have no intention of doing any less than promised, Father. But—”

The phone began to ring. Though theirs had been one of the first townhomes in London to have a phone, it seemed that Joseph Farrow still could not accustom himself to the sound of it. He winced at the shrill clang.

Jeeter, Joseph’s valet and butler, hurried into the drawing room to lift the receiver off the cradle. He answered with complete dignity, announcing that the caller had reached the home of Lord Farrow. Then he was silent as he held the receiver and looked toward Joseph.

“Detective Douglas,” he said quietly.

Joseph looked at his son as he walked over to speak. “Lord Farrow here.”

He listened, his eyes still upon Mark.

“Indeed,” he said at last.

Jeeter took the receiver from Joseph to return it to the hook.

“Well, son,” he said softly, “it will be awkward to express your regrets, but…Giles Brandon, dash it all,” he said sadly. “Jeeter, please see that my coach is ready.”

When Jeeter had left the room, Joseph looked at his son.

“Go, then. There is a dead man calling your name.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE KITCHEN REMAINED ALIVE with movement. Theodore called out directions, and at least two dozen workers and servers were scurrying about.

All movement stopped when Camille first walked in, Ally in tow. Heads bowed in acknowledgment to the lady of the castle.

“Please,” Camille murmured, a tinge of color in her cheeks. “Don’t let me disturb your hard work.” She steered Ally quickly toward a large butcher-block table, where Inspector Turner was waiting.

He’d been well fed. Theodore would have seen to that.

He stood as the women approached. “I’m sorry to be a nuisance on such an evening,” he apologized.

He had the look of a sad old basset hound, Ally thought. He had dark eyes that had seen too much, and a heavily lined face. But his bearing was tall and dignified, and he spoke softly. She believed he took his work to heart.

“How do you do,” she murmured.

“Inspector, my ward, Alexandra Grayson.”

“Miss Grayson…I have spoken to Lord Stirling, but you are the one who can really help me. I need a description of this man, the highwayman.”

“I wish that I could help you more, Inspector,” Ally said. “But as to a description…it’s quite difficult.”

“All right, let me ask you questions, then. Was he tall or short?”

“Tall.”

“And his build?” the inspector queried.

She hesitated.

“Certainly not a skinny chap? Though it’s true that a gun can make a small man seem more powerful than he really is,” he said.

“No, not skinny,” she said. They were both staring at her. She had to give them more than this. “He was built something like Lord Stirling, I suppose….”

“Rides well?” the inspector asked.

“Very.”

“Perhaps someone who has served with the queen’s forces,” the inspector said, more to himself than to Ally or Camille. “Now, what about his face? His coloring?”

She frowned. “Inspector, I wish that I could be more helpful. All of them wore masks, hats and cloaks.”

“But according to Lord Stirling’s man, Shelby, the highwayman himself took off with you.”

She shook her head. “He wanted only to know my name, and I was perhaps being a bit stubborn. He took nothing from me.”

“And…he did not hurt you in any way?”

If she weren’t feeling so uncomfortable herself, she would have felt sorry for the inspector. He was trying to ask the question so delicately.

“I was not harmed in any way at all,” she assured him quickly, wondering if she was flushing.

“And nothing was stolen?”

“Nothing.” Ally hesitated. “Perhaps it occurred to him that he had stopped a carriage belonging to Lord Stirling, and that Lord Stirling is a man who would come after him himself, and with a vengeance.”

“Perhaps,” the inspector mused.

He stared at her hard again, and Ally felt even more acutely uncomfortable. This was a man whose job was to question people. It was as if he read her every movement and nuance as he listened to her words.

“So…you can’t tell me his eye color?”

“I wish I could. They were dark, I believe, though the mask caused shadows, you know.”

“And you must have been very frightened,” Camille murmured, loading another layer of guilt upon Ally’s shoulders.

“Surely you’ve had other descriptions,” Ally murmured.

“Always the same,” Inspector Turner said with a sigh. “Even in broad daylight. People remember the mask, and a cape or a cloak…riding boots. Who in England does not possess a pair of riding boots? But don’t fear, Miss Grayson. We will apprehend this culprit.”

“I believe we have guests arriving,” Camille said as she noted waiters, clad in tuxedos, heading out of the kitchen with trays bearing crystal flutes of champagne.

“Then by all means attend to your company. I believe that Miss Grayson has told me all that she can—all her mind will allow—for the time being,” Inspector Turner said.

And what exactly did that mean? Ally wondered.

“It’s amazing,” Inspector Turner said, shaking his head sadly. “At least, Miss Grayson, you do not sound addled, as do some of the ladies who have been stopped by the highwayman. One would almost think they found the loss of a diamond trinket or the like to be well worth the price of an encounter with the man.”

“What?” Camille exclaimed, astonished.

Inspector Turner shrugged. “They tell me he is polite and charming as he robs them.”

“Ally is no silly child to have her head turned by such a brigand, no matter how courteous,” Camille said.

“Of course,” the inspector agreed. “Well, I thank you for your assistance. And I beg you, please, enjoy your soiree.”

“Inspector, you are most welcome to join us,” Camille said.

“Duty calls, Lady Stirling, but I thank you. I have already partaken of your hospitality. Your cook has seen to it that I’ve had the best meal I’ve enjoyed in…ah, well, maybe forever. I will bid you good evening.”

“I thank you for coming, Inspector,” Camille said.

“Yes, thank you,” Ally murmured.

Camille had her arm. Ally smiled uneasily at the inspector as Camille led her from the kitchen. In the hallway to the foyer, Camille shook her head, saying, “All this, on such a night.”

“Camille, please, why is tonight such an occasion?” Ally implored.

Camille opened her mouth to answer, but Brian had disengaged himself from a portly gentleman to come toward them. “Camille, my dear, I need you for a moment. Ally, come along and meet Lord Wittburg.”

Ally didn’t make it across the great hall. There was a mischievous tap on her shoulder, and she spun around.

It was Hunter MacDonald, another of her self-proclaimed guardians. She loved Hunter dearly. He was, in his way, a total rogue—or had been until he had fallen head over heels in love with his wife, Kat. They were a reckless couple, daring and a bit outrageous, ever ready to head out on an adventure.

“My dear, look at you!” Hunter exclaimed, eyes brilliant and teasing. “All grown up. Why, you will leave a horde of swains languishing wherever you walk.”

“That’s quite kind, Sir Hunter,” she said. “But I’ve been all grown up for some time, you all have simply not noticed.”

“I’m wounded.”

She laughed. “I’m so glad you’re here. I had thought you might be off on another adventure in Egypt.”

“Ally, Ally, has all my teaching been in vain? Way too hot in Egypt at the moment. Perhaps you can join us this year. It may be your one chance.”

“My one chance?” she inquired.

But he didn’t answer her. Kat had swept past him to give Ally a fierce hug. “Incredible,” she said with delight. “I must paint you in this gown.”

“Indeed, what a lovely picture,” Hunter agreed.

“Perhaps my father should have the honor,” Kat said.

“Your father is a great artist, but never doubt that his talent lies in you, as well, my love,” Hunter told her.

Ally felt a flash of longing, watching them. She felt a sudden deep craving to know the kind of love they shared. To know someone who would look at her as Hunter looked at Kat.

“Ally,” Kat said, drawing back, “whether you are captured in oil by me or my father, it must be done.”

“Thank you.” And then, before either of them could bring up some other subject, she asked, “Just what is going on tonight?”

Once again, her hopes for an answer were dashed.

“There she is!” cried a voice.

They were joined in a moment by Lady Lavinia Rogers. The widow of the earl who had owned half the lands in the northeast corner of the country, Lavinia was allowed to be bold and curious and quite outspoken. “Did you hear?” she demanded, after pecking cheeks all around with little kisses. “Our Ally was attacked by the highwayman.”

Ally could have groaned aloud.

“Good God!” Hunter said angrily, looking ready to stalk out of the house that very moment and comb heaven and earth to find the culprit.

“I wasn’t attacked,” Ally protested.

“Not attacked?” Kat said.

“He waylaid the carriage, and that is all. I am fine.”

“Ah, that I believe,” Lady Lavinia said. She was short, a bit stout and possessed bright blue eyes and hair that seemed to be a true silver. She was clad in a mauve ball gown and adorned with jewels. Some might have said that her couture was too much, but Ally thought that being a bit over-jeweled was perfect for the woman.

Lavinia, she knew, couldn’t care less what was said about her. She knew who she was. She loved people and life, and she let it be known.

“I was quite taken by the rogue, too,” Lavinia announced with a wink.

“You were waylaid by this man, as well?” Hunter demanded, frowning fiercely.

“I was. But here’s the thing. The police are after him, but I don’t believe they should be seeking him at all. They need to find the horrendous fellow who is going about murdering people. There has been a third murder. You do know that, don’t you?”

Hunter and Kat nodded grimly. Ally frowned. “A third murder?”

“Giles Brandon. His throat was slit. The police have nothing. Nothing. Or so I’ve heard,” Lavinia said.

“Lavinia, please. Give them a chance,” Hunter said.

Lavinia sniffed. “Give them a chance? By the time they have hunted down this murderer, the country will have collapsed. You do know who Giles Brandon was, don’t you, my dear?” she asked Ally.

“Yes, of course. I’ve read his columns. They are quite incendiary,” Ally said.

Lavinia nodded gravely. “I find it quite amazing that we—those who support dear Queen Victoria and her family—must always be so noble, despite the way we are baited. He was found with his last article clutched in his bloody fingers. That article will run in tomorrow’s paper—along with the news of his murder. The anti-monarchists are in a howl as it is, can you imagine the damage that will come by tomorrow?”

“Ally!”

This time, her name was being called by Lady Maggie, who was threading her way through the crowd, graciously nodding to those she passed, with Lord Jamie behind her.

Maggie, mindless of all around her, gave Ally a hug, and Jamie did the same. There was confusion again as they greeted Hunter and Kat, and Lady Lavinia, and then Maggie was assessing Ally’s gown with pleasure. “The color is just perfect.”

“Perfect for tonight,” Jamie said, tilting her chin, and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“What is happening tonight?” Ally asked again.

“Did you hear about the third murder? We were just discussing it,” Lady Lavinia said.

“Did you know that Ally was waylaid by the highwayman?” Hunter asked Jamie, his voice angry.

“I have just heard,” Jamie said.

“About the murder or the highwayman?” Lavinia demanded.

“I was called about the murder, and we just heard about Ally being stopped by the wretched thief,” Jamie said.

“He’s not wretched, dear,” Lavinia said. “He’s quite charming, really. Now, as to the murders…”

“Atrocious. Of course, there will be a greater outcry against the monarchy now—as if the queen could be behind such heinous brutality,” Jamie said indignantly. “But, Lavinia, you may rest assured. The fellow will be apprehended.”

Lavinia sniffed. “As if the bobbies ever caught that Jack the Ripper fellow.”

“Lavinia,” Jamie said quietly, looking oddly uncomfortable, “the Ripper murders are long past, and no one ever really believed that the monarchy was involved then.”

“Jamie, don’t be so naïve. That theory will go down in the history books, along with others. But we all know—” Lavina began.

“The murders stopped. I think it’s obvious the police knew more than they could say,” Maggie told Lavinia.

“Silence only enrages people all the more.”

Camille swept suddenly up to their group, linking arms with Lavinia. “Shall we move into the great hall? Dinner is being served, and then, after the dancing begins, the announcement will be made. I must move all these people into the dining hall…. Hunter, Jamie, would one of you be so good as to escort Lady Lavinia?”

“What announcement?” Ally inquired.

“Oh,” Camille said, “there is Lord Farrow, Earl of Warren. Ally, you must come with me for a minute. Strange, he is alone, it seems. Come, dear.”

“Camille,” Ally begged. “What announcement?” She spoke seriously, her voice full of determination.

Camille stared at Ally, her lovely cheeks reddening. “One we should have told you about long ago, I’m afraid. We meant to. It’s just that we all wanted to be together, and one thing came up after another….” She lifted her hands. “Life, you know,” she murmured softly. “I suppose one of us should simply have spoken. This came about years ago, before you were old enough to understand, and then you were old enough, but it always seemed as if the right time had not yet come.”

“Lady Camille, what is the announcement?”

But they were interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman. “Dearest Camille,” he murmured. Tall, white-haired, and with a fascinating, lined face, he seemed to be one of those men who needed no title to command respect. Ally recognized him as Lord Farrow, the man Camille had indicated only moments before. He sat in the House of Lords, and was continually fighting for shorter hours and better pay for laborers. He was, if she recollected all she had read properly, a peer of the realm, an avid supporter of the queen, and a very good friend to the common folk, as well.

She was pleased to meet him.

“Lord Farrow, may I present our ward, Miss Alexandra Grayson?” Camille said.

He bowed courteously and took her hand, studying her curiously with dark, gentle eyes. She felt the warmth of his touch and also a strange sensation, as if he saw her as an exceptional artifact someone had brought back from an archeological dig, as if he found every aspect of her fascinating.

“How do you do?” she murmured.

“Quite well, and quite pleased to meet you,” he said. He smiled at her, then glanced at Camille. “Miss Grayson is indeed a rare beauty.” He looked pained for a moment. “I’m terribly sorry that Mark could not be here. He is on the queen’s business. Nothing else could have taken him away, I do solemnly swear. You’ll have to forgive him.” He addressed his final words to Ally.

I don’t even know him, Ally thought, but she answered politely, anyway. “Naturally the queen’s business takes precedence over any party, my lord.”

“Horrid, isn’t it?” he said to Camille. “Giles Brandon was a braggart and an oaf, but I fear his death will but inflame the masses.”

“So do we all,” Camille said.

“Well, I will not dwell on such things in the midst of such beauty,” Lord Farrow said.

“Would you escort Ally into the dining room?” Camille asked. “You are seated together, of course,” she said, and then she was gone with a whirl.

Of course?

“Giles Brandon was a braggart but a powerful writer,” Ally said gravely to Lord Farrow.

“You have read his work?” Lord Farrow demanded, frowning.

“I read everything, my lord. To dispute an argument, one must know what it is.”

He arched a brow. “Intriguing. I am fascinated to get to know you, my dear. Let’s move in, shall we? I see that Camille is anxious to have her guests seated.”

She accepted his arm. The party slowly moved into the great dining hall. They were seated at the north end, surrounded by Brian and Camille, Maggie and Jamie, and Hunter and Kat. As the meal was served and consumed, the conversation covered the next season’s expedition to Egypt, the state of museums in London, art and literature, and even the weather.

Ally smiled, replied and offered a comment or two. She longed to stand up and shout. She knew she had the strength of will to demand an answer to the question she had been asking all night.

What was going on? What announcement?

But as she looked around at those near her at the table, she knew she would not. Lady Maggie and Jamie had been the ones who had taken her in when she had been abandoned to the care of a local priest. Maggie’s butler, a dear man, now gone several years, had been a relation of her “aunties,” so she had been given into their care in the forest, where she could be raised with no stigma because of her orphan beginning. The property where the cottage lay belonged to Lord Stirling. Kat and Hunter, as very good friends of the Stirlings, had adopted her as a godchild, as well, out of sheer love. She owed them all so much. They were all anyone could ever want in a set of guardians—even if it was difficult at times to have quite so many de facto parents. They were all beautiful, powerful and compassionate. They felt a keen sense of responsibility because of the positions life had granted them.

She would never dishonor any of them, and therefore, she would not be rude at Camille’s dinner table.

Still, as she looked around, pretending to chat lightly, to smile, to enjoy the evening, the question still raged inside her.

What was going on?

A sense of dread filled her.

She had intended to make her own announcement that night, to confess she had taken her life into her own hands, and done so with a passion. Something told her she would not get the chance.

THE MORGUE SMELLED SHARPLY of antiseptic, which did not, however, mask the underlying stench of death and decomposition.

Mark stood next to the operating table that held the earthly remains of Giles Brandon. Despite the naked lightbulbs above the corpse, the room seemed shadowed. He was there with two men, Dr. Evan Tiel, the coroner, and Detective Ian Douglas.

Detective Douglas was one of the finest men Mark had ever had the pleasure to meet. Big and gruff, he could handle himself against any man. The fifth son of a minor Scottish landowner, he had spent time dabbling in the law at Eton, then returned to his native land to study medicine in Edinburgh. By the end of his studies he’d realized he was most interested in bringing killers to justice and seeing that the innocent were never mistakenly convicted. He was a handsome man, strong and broad-shouldered, but showing the telltale stress of a man who fought a losing battle—defending the innocent and seeking to uproot evil. It might well be a grand and glorious age in which they were living, but poverty was rampant in London, and poverty was a sure breeder of crime.

Dr. Evan Tiel was an equally laudable man. Shorter, slim, wiry, he had the energy of a hummingbird. He was fascinated with the growing field of using science and medicine in the search for justice. He and Douglas had both attended classes in Edinburgh taught by Dr. Bell, the surgeon and teacher who had been Arthur Conan Doyle’s inspiration for the character of Sherlock Holmes. While some men might mock the idea of paying heed to a writer of fiction when seeking truth, both Tiel and Douglas saw the wisdom in the methods Holmes propounded. While Bell devoted his observations to ascertaining the causes of disease, such methods were equally applicable in other matters.

“He was found slumped across his desk, his fingers clutching his last article,” Ian Douglas said.

“Indeed,” Tiel added, “from the way the blood set, it appears that his head was drawn back as his throat was slit, then the body cast forward onto the desk as he bled to death.”

“But he fought?” Mark asked, indicating slashes on the arms.

“I surmise,” Dr. Tiel said, “that he saw his attacker and fought, but the killer got behind him in the end. He must have stood thus.” Tiel demonstrated, using Douglas as the victim. He mimed holding a knife in his hand, showing how it had been drawn against the throat.

“All right,” Mark theorized aloud. “Giles Brandon was at his desk, typing. He finished his piece. The killer came into the room, and there was a scuffle, but the killer managed to get behind him and slit his throat.”

Ian Douglas cleared his throat. “Here’s the problem. The door to the yard was bolted from the inside. The entry gate to the yard was locked. And Giles Brandon kept his office locked. I don’t believe the killer simply entered by the door and took Brandon by surprise. I believe he was waiting there for Brandon’s return.”

“Then it would seem that the killer stood in the back of the room, in the shadows, for a long time,” Mark said.

“Yes, that could be so,” Ian agreed.

“It’s…almost more like an assassination than a simple murder,” Mark mused.

Ian Douglas stared at him. “Yes, maybe.”

Mark stared down at the sad remains of Giles Brandon. Many had hated the man, but few would wish anyone, even their worst enemy, such an ending.

He studied the slashes on the arms, looked at the deep gash on the neck.

“There are no other injuries to the body? No damage done after death?”

“None,” Dr. Tiel assured him.

Mark stood back. “So if the killer was in the room all the time, he—or she—must have had a key,” Mark said.

Ian Douglas shook his head. “His wife adored him. He was by all reports a bellowing wretch who abused her verbally, even in public, upon occasion. But she adored him. She thought he was a genius.”

“Something he probably told her himself,” Mark said sardonically.

Douglas nodded. “No doubt. But there is simply no way she could have done this, nor that she would have allowed it to happen.”

“Who else had a key?” Mark asked.

“Only Brandon himself, and the housekeeper, Tilly. And when you meet Tilly, you’ll know she didn’t do this, either. She is a frail bag of bones, hardworking, but hardly capable of overpowering a man such as Brandon. In addition, she needed the income she received from him, and despite his temper, there was an element of prestige for Tilly in being the housekeeper of such a man.”

“If the wife is not guilty and the housekeeper is not guilty, then one or the other was used by the killer. I would say that one of them had her key stolen, then replaced. This was not a random act of violence, obviously, and the killer took his time planning it,” Mark said.

“It’s another attack on the anti-monarchists,” Douglas said, shaking his head. “Doesn’t this fool zealot realize he is only making matters worse for the queen?”

Mark was quiet for a minute. “I believe,” he said, “that the killer is an anti-monarchist.”

“What?” Douglas demanded. “Then why kill…?” His voice trailed off as he realized Mark’s point.

“Precisely,” Mark murmured. “The idea is to make the populace believe the monarchists are killing these men because they are speaking out. What better way to win a cause then to create an army of martyrs?”

“Then…?” Douglas said, eyes narrowing.

“I think we need to look at Giles Brandon’s friends and contemporaries. Because I’m certain of one thing,” Mark said.

“And what is that?”

“Giles Brandon knew his killer. I’d say he knew him very well.”

WITH DINNER OVER, IT SEEMED that the long table disappeared in an instant. New tables were set against the walls, with elegant little demitasses of coffee, small dessert plates and aperitifs. As the dancing began, Ally began to recognize more and more guests she either knew or knew about.

The first to whisk her out on the floor was Brian Stirling. She danced very well with him, since, as a child, she had learned her first dances by standing on his toes, laughing as he swept her around the room.

As they moved across the floor, she whispered, “That journalist is here—Thane Grier.”

“Yes.”

Brian didn’t sound pleased.

“You invited him?”

“Of course. Had I not…Well, it’s best to befriend the enemy.”

“He’s the enemy?”

“Anyone who rules the press can be a dangerous enemy,” Brian said. “So of course I asked him here tonight. Especially tonight.”

“Brian, I beg of you—”

Brian halted. She realized he’d been tapped on the shoulder. “Lord Stirling, if I may?”

It was Sir Andrew Harrington. She remembered seeing him only that morning, on the steps along with Sir Angus Cunningham and Lord Lionel Wittburg. They had crossed paths a few times through the years, once at a fund-raiser for the antiquities department, and once at one of Maggie’s parties to draw attention to the plight of the poor in the East End.

Brian bowed courteously, though he seemed stiff as he graciously ceded her to Sir Harrington.

The man smiled charmingly at her as he took her hand and slipped an arm around her, easily sliding back into the waltz. “You have certainly come of age most beautifully, Miss Grayson,” he said.

“Thank you. And you, sir? How are you doing? I saw you this morning.”

“You did?”

“In the village.”

“Ah, yes…. It seemed Angus could use all the help he could get.”

“Military men stand together,” she murmured.

He smiled, then looked grave. “I heard you were accosted by that monster, the highwayman.”

“I’m quite all right.”

“Would that I had been there,” he said, sounding angry. “Someone needs to skewer that fellow through.”

“Thank you. I am fairly capable, however.”

He shook his head and said softly, “You underestimate your beauty and your allure, my dear, and the wickedness in the minds of some men. I tell you now—and I say this passionately, and even knowing that you have strong guardians—if you are ever in need of assistance, I would be there willingly.”

He was very good-looking, with rich brown hair and topaz eyes. Strong, tall, not heavily muscled, but still…she could feel the steely power in his hold.

She smiled, inclining her head. “Thank you.”

“So…what is the mysterious announcement to be made tonight?” he asked.

She didn’t get a chance to tell him that she didn’t know herself, for, as if aware that he had just been discussed, Sir Angus Cunningham was the next to cut in.

For such a large man, he danced very well. His voice was gruff when he said, “My dear sweet lass, I am ashamed by what befell you. As sheriff of the village and the surrounding forests, I failed you. Forgive me.”

“Angus!” She had known him since she’d been quite young. “You had your hands full this morning. The highwayman is no real threat. An ugly mob is.”

“You saw that,” he murmured.

“And I was very proud of you—you and Lord Witt-burg and Sir Harrington. You quelled that crowd quite nicely.”

Angus glanced across the room, his expression brooding. “Yes, well…Thane Grier was there, as well. We’ll see what rubbish he puts in the paper tomorrow. Of course tomorrow may well be worse…another murder, perhaps.” He seemed to catch himself. “Forgive me. We’ll not speak of it tonight.”

“It is of dire importance,” she said softly. Then, her mind suddenly taking a new direction, she frowned.

She had noticed several women there that night in black. Since Queen Victoria had mourned her dear Albert for so long, wearing black had become a trend. Even now, women wore black long after losing someone beloved. There was nothing odd about seeing a woman in black.

And yet…

Staring past Sir Angus’s massive shoulder, she caught sight of someone who gave her pause. She didn’t know why, but she was suddenly reminded of the woman in the village who had been crying out against the queen.

“Sir Angus?” she said suddenly.

“What, dear?”

“Who was that woman this morning?”

“What woman?”

“In the crowd, shouting so angrily about the monarchy.”

“Who wasn’t shouting angrily?” he asked rhetorically. “I swear, someone riled up that crowd. There were placards everywhere. Our citizens are normally peaceful and law-abiding, other than that wretched highwayman. Though I believe he hails from London and merely uses my roads for his despicable deeds.”

“There was one woman in particular, don’t you remember? She was next to Sir Andrew’s cousin, who was trying to calm her, I believe.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but again the dance was halted. This time it was Lord Joseph Farrow, Earl of Warren, cutting in. Angus relinquished his position.

“You dance beautifully,” the earl informed her.

“Thank you.”

“I understand that you also have the voice of a lark and play the piano beautifully.”

She smiled. “I play the piano—whether beautifully or not is in the ears of those who are listening.”

“I am well pleased,” he murmured, his eyes bright, and he seemed amused.

She smiled, wondering whether or not it mattered if he was or wasn’t pleased.

The music came to an end and did not start up again. She turned around. Lord and Lady Stirling, Sir Hunter and Lady Kat, and Maggie and Lord James were gathered in front of the musicians. Brian, holding Camille’s hand, began to speak.

“Friends, we thank you so much for coming. As you know, we have all been privileged to play a part in raising a beautiful young woman. Tonight, we are privileged to announce the engagement of our ward, Miss Alexandra Grayson.”

She was certain that her mouth simply gaped open. She shut it swiftly.

“Come, dear,” Joseph Farrow said, taking her arm.

She stared at him, but she was so stunned that she didn’t protest when he walked with her toward Brian and the others.

Him? she thought. They’re marrying me off to Lord Farrow?

Luckily, she realized that Lord Farrow intended to speak. He held her hand, turning her to face the crowd. “I am delighted to come here tonight, to stand in for my son, Mark, who is not able to be here. This is an event long planned by Lord Stirling and myself. Tonight, we announce the engagement of my son, Mark, to Miss Alexandra Grayson.”

The round of applause that rose was thunderous.

But no louder than the pounding of Ally’s heart.

She felt as if she had been struck by a train.

Engaged? And not to a man who could easily be her father, but to a man who could not even be bothered to attend his own engagement party!

Of course, it did not matter who the man was. It was…archaic. She had her own plans, dreams, aspirations. She had already set those plans into motion….

She was numb. Barely aware that her godparents were hugging her, kissing her cheek.

Barely aware that Lord Farrow had taken a ring from his pocket, that somehow it fit her finger perfectly. Suddenly there was a diamond flashing brilliantly on her hand.

“And,” Camille announced loudly over the flurry in the room, “here is our first gift to the newly engaged couple. My goddaughter sings like an angel, and her fingers are pure magic on the keyboard, so…”

Shelby and several of the servants rolled in a glorious piano.

Ally’s mouth moved; she tried to thank Camille.

“There is no woman in all of England who looks so lovely in a gown,” Maggie announced next. “Lord Jamie and I have arranged a trousseau.”

Ally blinked as Molly, smiling broadly, came in bearing an array of stunning materials. Again, the room filled with applause, and Ally found herself hugging Jamie and Maggie, all the while feeling like the worst hypocrite in the world.

It was Kat’s turn to speak. She walked forward, eyes dancing. “Hunter and I—”

A horrendous scream cut across her words.

The whole room seemed to freeze.

Another scream, followed by an unintelligible spatter of hysterical words, echoed from the entry hall.

“Excuse me,” Brian murmured, starting in the direction of the uproar.

As a body, the guests followed.

Ally, still stunned, found herself swept along in the sea of people.

In the entry, Shelby was trying to hold and calm a woman. She appeared to be perhaps forty and was dressed totally in black. Her hair was silver-gray, and her eyes seemed to be a matching color, burning with insanity.

“He’s dead!” she screeched. And, with madness lending her strength, she broke free from Shelby.

Brian lifted a hand, telling Shelby it was all right, to let the woman be.

“Eleanor,” he said softly, reaching out to her.

She looked at him; then her eyes narrowed and she let out another terrible scream. Her black mourning attire sailing around her, she spun, looking at the gathered crowd. “He’s dead! And you, all of you, supporting the queen. Damn you! You will kill and kill again for your own aims. He is dead. My husband is dead. Giles Brandon, worth dozens of the likes of you. He is dead!”

“Eleanor,” Brian said again, but when Shelby would have moved, he silently shook his head, once more allowing the woman her moment of pain and fury.

Again she spun, as if looking for someone in particular.

Ally was startled when the woman’s wild eyes suddenly settled upon her and she stretched out a bony, black-clad arm. “You!” she shrieked. “You would-be child of the elite. Curse you! May you die a thousand deaths. So this is your birthday? And you are newly betrothed? Then again I say, curse you! May you die a wretched death before your wedding day ever falls.”

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