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  Lesley and Evans were more interested in the cause of Nigel's forfeit than they were in their funds. The faintly bored look in their eyes had vanished as their curiosity was piqued. Both men were in their early thirties, nearly a decade younger than Nigel Lynne, but they had gambled, wenched, and drunk with the duke for more years than they had not and couldn't remember when he had ever let business interfere with his pleasures.

  "Who are these men?" Evans asked, pouring a drink for himself. "And who is Harrity?"

  Lesley stroked his fair face thoughtfully. "Yes, Nigel. Do give over. What dealings do you have with American rabble?"

  Nigel leaned back in his chair. "Harrity is the man I hired to bring back my errant ward." No one, not even his closest friends, knew that Ashley Lynne was his niece. The duke himself did not accept the blood tie and had chosen to raise her as a distant illegitimate relative. He did not want anyone to know that his beloved twin sister, who had died birthing Ashley, had had an affair with a man so far below her station. Even now, more than twenty years after the fact, the thought of his sister's defiance in light of his wishes to see her contract a suitable marriage had the ability to enrage him. Only a hint of whiteness about his mouth gave away his feelings, and it vanished quickly.

  "Your ward?" Newbrough asked, gathering the cards and shuffling them negligently. "You mean the chit you were going to marry off to old Bosworth? Seems I remember an invitation to the wedding. Sorry business, that. Pretty thing, as I recall. Never much for joining your romps here at Linfield, though."

  A muscle jumped in the duke's hollow cheek. "Indeed," he said, calmly enough. "She took it into her head that Bosworth was too old for her."

  Lesley chuckled. "She may have been in the right of it there, Nigel. Bosworth's been dead for years, you know."

  "And his estate was inherited by some third cousin," the duke reminded him. "It should have been Ashley's." Though he did not say it, each man understood that Nigel would have managed to acquire the lands for himself.

  "Just so," Evans said. "She went to the colonies, isn't that right?"

  "Yes. And now, with Cornwallis's surrender at—where the devil was it?"

  "Yorktown," Lesley supplied.

  "Yes, Yorktown. Lord North is doing everything in his power to persuade our king it's all over. If George listens it will be nothing less than a miracle. Still, I thought the time was right to bring Ashley home. I wonder what is keeping our visitors?"

  "No doubt your man is bathing them first," Newbrough said.

  He was not far off the mark, because Stephens had refused entry to Davis and Miller before they made some effort at being presentable. Neither man had ever met anyone quite like the unyielding butler and found themselves tucking in their shirts, slicking back their unruly hair, and shaking off their road dust. They wished Sam Judge had come himself on this business.

  They had never seen anything so imposing or forbidding as Linfield House, but then they had not yet met its owner.

  "This is a private matter," Davis said, after they had been taken to the library and introduced to the duke. Hat in hand, he shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. He did not expect to be listened to, and he felt a swelling of power as Nigel agreed and excused himself from his friends.

  In the study Nigel turned on the two men, eyeing them with contempt. "You have news from Harrity, I believe."

  Davis's chest contracted abruptly at the spearing glance the duke gave him. The only eyes he had seen that cold had belonged to a reptile. "Harrity's dead," he replied shortly.

  Nigel looked thoughtful. "Then what are you about?"

  Miller spoke up. "Before he died he spoke at length of his business with you."

  "So?"

  "We've brought Ashley Lynne to you."

  Nigel appeared unmoved, but then only he could feel the pounding of his heart. "Have you?" he asked carefully.

  "For a price," Davis added. He named the sum Sam had told him to demand and noted with satisfaction that the duke did not blink. Sam Judge surely was on to something this time.

  "You'll forgive me if I am somewhat skeptical, shall we say, of your claim. You will have to produce my ward before I'm going to part with that much of the ready."

  Davis's weight shifted again. "We don't have her here; but she's safe enough, and will remain that way if you agree to the payment."

  "I see." Nigel leaned against the mantelpiece and toyed with a jade figurine. His casual air belied the alertness of his eyes. "Mayhap you will tell me how you came to have my ward."

  Davis explained the attack on the Marion and how it had led to the abduction of the people he knew as Ashley and Salem at McClellan's Landing.

  "You have Salem," he mused. "That is something I had not requested of Harrity, but certainly an unexpected... bonus. I won't pay anything for his safe release, you understand."

  "Sam Judge didn't think you would, but he said you may be interested in his unsafe release, if you get my meaning. The man is her husband, after all, and liable to raise a stink about what's happened."

  Nigel flicked at a loose thread on his jacket. Colonials were so crude, he thought distastefully. Savages, all of them. "Let us say I am appreciative of my ward's safe return, and to show my gratefulness I will add five hundred pounds to the sum you named. Do you take my meaning?"

  Miller and Davis nodded in unison.

  "Now describe my ward to me."

  "Dark hair, white skin," Davis said. "Green eyes that kind of spit at you when she's riled. Which was most of the time she was on board. Tiny gal." Davis never gave a thought to the fact that all women of his acquaintance and most men were shorter than he. "Slender thing. Not much to her but spunk."

  Nigel nodded. "She has a birthmark that I told Harrity to look for so there would be no mistaking her. Do you know of it?"

  Davis nearly blanched. What birthmark? he wondered. Had Harrity ever said anything about it? Then he remembered what Jud had told him Sam had done when Ashley and Salem were still in the hold. "On her breast," he said with more conviction than he felt. He ignored Miller's look of surprise, concentrating on Nigel's face. Apparently he had guessed correctly. Damn Sam for not telling them. "Sam Judge made certain himself. Done it real proper, too," he added quickly, relieved when he saw the muscle in the duke's cheek relax.

  "Good." He took a small key from his vest pocket and went to the desk, opened the middle drawer, and flipped a hidden spring. "In the event it should enter your mind to simply rob me, let me assure you that what I am giving you now is the limit of my resources at hand." He gave Miller a small pouch filled with gold sovereigns. "This is merely a show of goodwill."

  Miller opened the bag and could not keep his astonishment from showing. At his side, Davis was similarly impressed, but strove not to let it be seen.

  Nigel had anticipated that they would look into the pouch and regarded them as one might a maggot. They were so far beneath him that he could not be insulted by their behavior. "I wish to have Ashley brought here. When can it be done?"

  "When can you arrange for payment?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "She will be here tomorrow evening." Miller and Davis left the room, the gold sovereigns clinking slightly as Miller bounced the pouch in his hand.

  Nigel stayed in the study until he was certain Stephens had shown them the door and then he went to join his friends. On the way he saw Stephens. "Prepare Ashley's bedchamber. My ward is returning home tomorrow."

  "Very good, your grace." For a moment there was despair on his face as he wondered what manner of little cruelties the duke planned to practice on poor Miss Ashley. He glanced along the long, dark hallway, made sure no one had seen his show of concern, and then went to inform the head housekeeper of the news.

  Chapter 10

  Rae tried to lift her head but found the simple movement more than she could manage. Her cheek lay against something cool and unyielding, and her head tapped it with painful regularity. Her lids felt heavy, much too hea
vy to open, and beneath them her eyes were grainy, as if filled with sand from her desert dry mouth. Even the effort to wet her lips came to naught. Her pelisse covered her shoulders, and she wished she had the strength to pull the hood over her head to protect it from the jolting ride.

  Though she found it difficult to move, her mind was oddly clear. She recognized the subdued voices around her as belonging to Sam Judge, Davis, and Wendell. She realized she was no longer on board the ship, but that she had been transferred to a carriage, and not a well-sprung conveyance, either. Each rut in the road jolted her spine and punished her pounding temples. Occasionally a soft moan escaped her lips, but no one heard, or if they heard, paid no attention.

  Rae could not measure the passing of time. She had no idea if it had been hours or days since she had last seen Jericho. In her mind she had memories, as fleeting as a firefly's light, of Jericho moving purposefully about the cabin, of him tossing something snakelike out the windows. She recalled someone shaking her, loud and angry voices demanding answers from her, but she had been unable to speak, or even make sense of their urgency.

  Later there had been rough hands on her body, holding her up and forcing her to drink more bitter-tasting wine. She had spit it in someone's face. Sam's? A sharp slap to her cheek and a thumb and finger on her nose had made her take the rest of it. Her pelisse had been thrown around her shoulders, more as an afterthought, not because there had been any concern that she might freeze once she was taken outside. The bitter, bracing air had been her undoing. One deep breath and she fell limply to the deck. It was the last thing she remembered.

  She tried to concentrate on the conversation around her now, but kept drifting in and out of consciousness. The little that she heard and understood made her wish she had heard nothing at all.

  "You think he's dead, then?" Davis asked.

  "'Course he's dead," Sam Judge said. "Leastways for our purposes he is. And don't let on any different to that duke fellow. I aim to collect every bit of the money coming to us, so you would do well to keep your mouth shut. How far are we from Linfield?"

  Davis peered out the coach window and studied the wooded landscape. "Another five miles and I reckon we'll be at the front gate."

  Sam nodded, satisfied. "Tell Miller to pull this rig over."

  Davis and Wendell exchanged puzzled glances.

  "You don't think we was gonna march her up to the front door, do ye? Tell Miller to stop the rig. We'll leave her here, get our blunt, and escort the duke to the area. Then we're off. I'm not givin' him a chance to change his mind."

  The carriage lurched to a sudden stop as Davis relayed Sam's orders. Rahab struggled listlessly as she was pulled from the coach, but the men only laughed at her poor attempts. She was as effective as a spitting kitten.

  Wendell threw her over his shoulders, and Rae's empty stomach heaved at his roughness. She was carried from the edge of the road to a place several hundred feet into the woods. Sam pointed out where he wanted her and Wendell dropped her heavily to the ground. Judge unwound a length of rope he had been carrying at his waist and bound Rae's hands, then tied them to the base of a tree. Her shoulder and head rested uncomfortably against the trunk, and she shivered uncontrollably as cold air seeped through her cloak.

  It was on the edge of her tongue to beg them not to leave her, but her pride and a good measure of fear asserted itself. She realized that alone she was safer than if either Wendell or Davis was made to stay with her. It was a case of better the devil you didn't know.

  For a few minutes after the three men left the woods it seemed to Rae that the woods were eerily quiet. Then, over the chattering of her teeth, she began to hear sounds of the night animals prowling the area in search of prey. She felt her skin crawl over numb flesh. Her last thought before she slipped into oblivion was of what manner of beasts might be found in English woods.

  They ran about on cloven feet, she decided, and thrashed noisily through the underbrush. Their talons were long and sharp and their breath was hot. Caught in their trap as she was, there was no place to hide, and she imagined she huddled closer to the tree for protection.

  "Bring me the torch," Nigel demanded sharply of a servant. His large, powerful hand was grasping Rae's chin, forcing her face upward. Her eyes opened long enough to stare at him with fear, and then there was a clumsy rushing nearby, and finally the area was bathed in yellow light. Nigel thrust Rae's face away from him and knew a burning rage. His voice, however, caught none of the emotion coursing through him. "This is not she. This is not my ward." He straightened and began walking toward the road.

  The servant looked at the girl's pale face, her nearly blue lips, and her frozen posture. She could barely hold her head up and her wrists looked raw. Poor thing, he thought. If she was part of the scheme to separate the duke from his money, her friends had treated her most shabbily, and if she was innocent, then she had been treated abominably. Left in these woods, she would freeze to death. Before his courage failed him, he ran after his employer. "Your pardon, your grace, but what's to be done with the girl?" The torch shook slightly in his hand.

  The duke never paused in his deliberate and angry stride. "Take care of it."

  The footman stopped in his tracks as Nigel continued to where his horse was being held for him by one of the grooms. He watched the duke mount, still the horse's restless prancing, and turn it sharply toward Linfield. Slowly, mulling over the duke's curt orders, the footman retraced his steps back to the girl's side.

  Nigel whipped his horse to a full gallop that never eased until he reached the Linfield stables. Grooms took care of the horse while Nigel strode to the house, his quirt beating a tattoo against his thigh. He tossed his cape at Stephens when he came through the door and went immediately to his study where he poured himself three fingers of scotch. He downed it and was pouring another when the scratching at the door distracted him. "What is it?"

  Stephens stepped inside the study. "I've come to inquire about Miss Ashley, your grace. Is someone attending to her?"

  "My ward is not coming. It was some Gypsy wench those men sought to foist on me."

  "I see." Stephens slipped out of the room as the duke lifted his glass.

  Nigel stared broodingly at the fire laid in the hearth. His thin mouth curled derisively. Sam Judge thought to make a fool of him, but he intended to have the last laugh in the fool American's scheme. It was bound to give the man something to think about when his carriage was held up by three highwaymen and he was relieved of all the blunt and jewels he had just received. Nigel wished he could see the man's face when he returned to his ship, without anything to show for his work, and tried to explain this night's events to his crew. If his men did not accuse him of holding out on them and mutiny, the naval authorities would have Judge's ship in tow by morning. Lord Lesley had eagerly agreed to follow Miller and Davis back to their ship to find its location, and it was Evans who fancied himself a highwayman.

  "Always wanted to rob a coach," he had told the others. "Must be the greatest lark. Rather like Robin Hood in this case."

  Once Evans had put forth his plan, there was no keeping Lesley and Newbrough from joining. Nigel found he rather liked the idea of getting back his ward without straining his resources. Now he was glad for their foresight. No one, certainly not a colonial macaroni, made a fool of the Duke of Linfield.

  Laughing and good-humored voices signaled the return of the nobles-turned-highwaymen. All three men were dressed in coarse black breeches and capes they had borrowed from Nigel's servants for this occasion. Pistols were tucked neatly in their waistbands, and they wore black gloves, cocked hats, and scarves over the lower halves of their faces.

  Nigel's brow merely rose a notch at the peculiar picture they made as they entered his study. He could imagine all three showing up at the next masked ball in such a guise. "A successful venture?" he asked dryly, as they deposited several pouches of money and jewelry on the divan.

  Lesley pulled down his scarf and saile
d his hat jauntily across the room. It skidded along the smooth marble top of the mantelpiece and dropped, as if by design, on the fireplace poker. "Most successful," Lesley grinned. "May take it up as a hobby. Astonishingly good fun. They were quite put out that anyone would rob them. Put up some resistance, too. Messy business, that. Evans had to wound one of them before they gave over. How is your ward, Nigel? Annoying of them to leave her in the woods. We probably should have killed the lot of them. One would think they didn't trust you."

  Nigel handed the decanter of spirits to Newbrough and went to stand by the mantel as his friends made themselves comfortable. "It was not my ward they had."

  Newbrough sputtered on the first swallow of liquor. "Not your ward? You said they described her to you. Who—"

  "I have no idea," Nigel drawled. "She has only a surface resemblance to Ashley. No doubt she was part of their plan."

  "Did she say so?" Evans asked.

  "Think she would admit it?" Newbrough scoffed, looking down his great nose at Evans.

  Lord Evans shrugged. "Nigel knows how to make a chit talk. Ain't that right, Nigel? Where is she? Bring her in and we'll discover what she knows."

  "Forget the chit. She was near dead when we found her. I doubt she can speak of anything now." A hard glance at each of his friends told them what he had not said, and an uneasy silence blanketed the room.

  In the kitchen of the great house there was a wealth of uneasiness, but not one moment of silence. Everyone had an opinion about what should be done with the girl the footman had brought there. Mrs. Timms, the cook, made it known that she wanted no part of the goings-on. The girl was bound to be nothing but trouble. The kitchen boys knew better than to gainsay the cook, else their ears would suffer a certain boxing. The housekeeper, who had made it her life's work never to agree with anything Mrs. Timms said, decided it was their Christian duty to see to the girl. Hadn't his grace said to take care of her? The footman coughed, but thought the wiser course was to remain silent. One of the upstairs maids sided with the housekeeper, and a kitchen servant declared her soft in the head. Sides were drawn, and the dispute was gathering alarming volume when Stephens entered and demanded to know the nature of the argument.