A Dangerous Deceit (Thief-Takers) by Alissa Johnson (1)

Chapter One

 

“Hit a miss dress a tome?”

Jane Ballenger carefully considered these six words and the gentleman on her doorstep who had just delivered them.

He didn’tlook like a madman.

To be fair, Jane had never actually met a fully grown lunatic before. It seemed to her, however, that such an infirmity would be, if not wholly obvious in a person, then at least soundly hinted upon. His clothes should be askew, his hair in disarray. His eyes should be wild. There should be some combination of fidgeting, moaning, or drooling.

The remarkably handsome man before her exhibited none of these signs. His dark brown, fashionably cut suit was notably free of wrinkles and stains. The thick black hair that brushed the tops of his ears was clean and tidy. He was freshly shaved, his sharp jaw showed not a hint of stubble, and he was watching her with clear, wintry blue eyes.

He was also smiling at her in a way that managed to be both solicitous and a just little bit rakish.

She wasn’t sure she liked that smile.

Keeping a firm grip on the door handle, she peered at him through the few meager inches she’d cracked open the door. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sir Gabriel Arkwright to see Miss Jane Ballenger.” His gaze swept over her head. “Is she at home? She should be expecting me.”

At home… A tome. 

Miss dress. Mistress.

Mistress at home…

Is your mistress at home? “Ah. That makes sense.” A lot more than his offer to hit a woman and dress a book. She really ought to have waited for one of the Harmons to answer the door.

The stranger’s smile turned quizzical. “Miss?”

“Yes. Right. I am Jane Ballenger.” She bobbed a quick curtsy when he dipped into a shallow bow, but whereas his movements appeared natural and graceful, hers felt awkward and ungainly from lack of use. “Did you say you were expected?”

He nodded once. “I sent word ahead. A letter last week and a telegram again three days ago.”

“I see.” She threw a quick glance over her shoulder at the chaos that currently reigned in the cottage. There was probably correspondence in there somewhere.

“Did neither arrive?”

“Difficult to say,” she murmured. The letter, possibly. The telegram, probably not. The young man generally tasked with delivery was afraid of the house.

“Then I apologize for the intrusion.”

“You’re not intruding.” He was standing on her doorstep, not a portion of her property about which she felt especially territorial.

“Excellent.”

There was a short pause that may or may not have been awkward. She couldn’t always tell.

He cleared his throat, and then there was another pause. This one she was certain was awkward. Why didn’t the man simply say his piece and be done with it?

He lifted his brows expectantly.

She lifted hers right back. “Is there something you want, sir?”

“Very much,” he replied with a twitch of his lips. “And if you would be so kind as to invite me in…”

“In?”In was definitely intrusive.

“I’ve come on a matter of some import,” he pressed. “It regards your late brother.”

“Oh! Are you a solicitor?” The spark of excitement she felt was unseemly under the circumstances, but it couldn’t be helped. It had been nearly two weeks since Edgar’s belongings had been delivered to her home, along with an unsigned note informing her of his demise in St. Petersburg. There’d been no mention of funds to follow, and Jane could only assume Edgar had managed to spend or lose what had once been a sizable family fortune. But perhaps this man knew otherwise.

“I’m not, no,” he replied.

“Oh.” Another thought occurred to her, immediately replacing her disappointment with fear. She squeezed the door shut another half inch. He hadn’t seen inside, had he? “Are you after a debt? Because I don’t—”

“No.”

Oh, thank God. “Were you friends with Edgar? Have you come from Russia?”

“I haven’t come from Russia.” He tapped his hat against his leg. “Could we have this conversation inside, do you think?”

She glanced around him with the idea of suggesting a walk instead. Important matters could be spoken of out-of-doors as easily as indoors. But the early morning sky threatened rain, and the mostly wooded property didn’t invite social strolling unless one cared to hike through the trees or tour the vegetable patch. Sir Gabriel looked to be the sort who preferred to keep his very fine boots on manicured paths.

“Very well.” With a resigned sigh, she stepped back and swung the door open to allow him entrance, along with a clear view of what awaited him inside.

Twillins Cottage was…undone. Not a particularly spacious dwelling to start, every inch of available space was currently occupied by a wild, untamed sea of her late brother’s belongings. There were artworks and furniture, clothes and linens, tools, glassware, several musical instruments, enormous piles of books, and a seemingly infinite number of trunks and crates in various stages of spewing their contents into the small front hall and rooms beyond. It was a mansion’s worth of items crammed into a modest home designed to fit a small family and one or two servants.

Her guest stepped inside and flicked a cautious eye to his right, where a table, several crates, and a dozen chairs with spindly, gilded legs were stacked to the ceiling in a haphazard manner, forming a sort of tangled and precarious web. The chair at the top was one hard slam of the front door away from toppling off and braining the unwary. “This is unexpected,” he said.

Jane lifted her overlong skirts to nudge a small stool aside with her toe. “My brother’s possessions were delivered here after his passing. His home was larger than my own.”

He closed the door carefully. “No apology necessary.”

“I didn’t apologize.” Why should she? It was her home; it could be in any state she pleased. Besides, it had been his idea to come inside. “It was only an explanation.”

His brows winged up again, but whether it was in response to her correction, or continued reaction to the mess in her front hall, she couldn’t say.

He wisely moved out of the web’s shadow and sidestepped an umbrella stand covered with a threadbare quilt. “My mistake. Is there somewhere we might sit?” He glanced back at the dangling chair. “Somewhere safe?”

“Of course. This way, please.” She gathered more handfuls of her skirts. The gown was one of the last she’d not yet altered to fit the current fashion of narrow skirts and bustle. It was designed to fit over a large hoop. Only she had gone without the cumbersome frame, and now the extra material dragged on the floor like an enormous dust mop. “Mind where you step.”

She led him to the crowded hallway at the back of the house, where the walls were lined with more of Edgar’s things. As she maneuvered down the narrow space, she became increasingly aware of Sir Gabriel’s presence behind her, a looming figure stepping on her shadow.

In the front hall, he’d seemed quite tall—six feet perhaps—but hardly an intimidating giant.

She felt a little intimidated now.

He was just too close. And the space was too small. And her experience with men was too limited. There was Mr. Harmon, but he was more than thirty years her senior, several inches shorter than her, and happily married to her best friend. It wasn’t quite the same.

Would Sir Gabriel be uncomfortable at the small kitchen table, she wondered? There wasn’t a great deal of room for a man of his height…

She came to an abrupt halt.

The kitchen?

“Oh, wait.” Good Lord, she couldn’t take him to the kitchen. Guests weren’t invited into the kitchen. What was she thinking? “Not this way.”

She spun about, intending to go back the way they’d come. Her foot caught on the hem of her dragging skirts, the material pulled tight, and she stumbled forward. For one terrible second, she thought she might tumble into the bric-a-brac and cause it all to come tumbling down on top of them like creation’s most ridiculous avalanche. But large, strong hands grasped her at the elbows, steadying her.

Sir Gabriel’s deep voice sounded over her head. “Easy.”

Mumbling an apology, Jane disentangled her slippers from her skirts with a few awkward kicks.

“Better?” he inquired when she’d regained her balance.

“Yes. Thank you.”

She took a deep breath to settle herself, and caught the scent of him—something woodsy. It wasn’t cologne. Mr. Harmon sometimes wore cologne. Edgar had always worn it. Cologne had a spice to it, or a flowery aroma. It tended to waft with movement. Sir Gabriel smelled fresh and subtly earthy.

His hands slid away, and he took a step back, leaving behind a strange coolness. “Are you injured?”

“No, of course not.” Just a trifle light-headed all of a sudden. Embarrassment, no doubt, with a healthy dose of frustration mixed in for good measure. She wasn’t a clumsy woman. Her faults were legion. She was easily distracted. She was rude. She lacked a proper sense of humor. She was hard of hearing. According to some, she was a proper idiot. But, as a rule, she could put one foot in front of the other without making a spectacle of herself. Until now, evidently. Theone time a handsome stranger intruded on her privacy. “I’m quite all right. Are you?”

For some reason, the question seemed to amuse him. “No harm done, Miss Ballenger.”

“Excellent. If I could just…” She took a step forward with the vague idea of moving past him to lead him back down the hall. But there wasn’t sufficient room. They would have to press together and circle each other like dancers in a risqué waltz. The image brought a flair of heat to her cheeks. “That is… If you could just…” She made a shooing motion with her hand. “Back the way we came?”

There went the brows again, nearly up to the hairline. “All right.”

She followed him out, carefully skirted around him in the front hall, then led him into the cluttered parlor. There was a nearly clear path to the center of the room, but only because Mrs. Harmon had been using the ornate, aging green settee as a sort of makeshift table. Yesterday, she’d been sorting through flatware. Today, it was occupied by a mound of shoes. Jane shoved the footwear to one side and offered her guest the miserly sliver of newly exposed cushion.

To his credit, Sir Gabriel took his seat without a word of complaint. He settled right in as if it were perfectly normal for a large man to cram himself between a dead man’s shoes and an armrest shaped like a swan’s head. He should have looked comical, Jane mused. But he didn’t. Somehow, he made his position seem completely normal, perfectly comfortable. Almost as if he wanted to be there.

Mrs. Harmon had once told her that certain individuals were possessed of such great confidence that it was nearly impossible to make fools of them. They were perpetually at ease with themselves and their surroundings, as if the world spun around them but never quite touched them.

It was, regrettably, not a trait to which Jane could lay claim.

She tried clearing an armchair for herself, but gave up halfway through the effort and perched herself on the edge of the seat instead. No doubt she looked as uncomfortable as she felt. With any luck, however, she would conclude her business with Sir Gabriel before whatever sharp object was poking into her back tore a hole in her gown. Or before she slid off the chair.

“You wished to speak of Edgar?” she prompted.

“Yes.” He reached over to place his hat atop a closed trunk, reminding her that she ought to have taken it from him in the hall. “But first, allow me to extend my condolences for your loss.”

“Thank you.” She eyed the bell pull in the corner. Should she ring for tea? It seemed the thing to do. But she had no idea if the bell pull still worked, and there was a good possibility the tea cart wouldn’t fit down the hall. “Did you know Edgar?”

“Only by reputation.”

“I scarcely knew him any better,” she admitted. They shared only a father, and there was nearly twelve years between them. “I wasn’t aware he had a particular reputation.”

“He was not well known in a traditional sense, but his work was valued—”

“Edgarworked?” The man had spent the last fifteen years in St. Petersburg. He’d earned no income as far as she was aware. He’d lived off his inheritance. And hers. “I don’t see how that’s possible unless he was some sort of diplomat.”

“He wasn’t a diplomat, exactly, but he did perform certain services for the government.”

“Edgar?” That didn’t seem at all likely. “What manner of services?”

“I’m not privy to the specifics of his work,” Sir Gabriel replied lightly. “Only that it was highly valued, and that certain aspects of it were of a sensitive nature. Hence my reason for being here. The Foreign Office wants your brother’s belongings.”

“You’ve come to take his things?”Herthings, she thought. Seventeen years ago, the Ballenger family had possessed Fourgate Hall and full coffers. Now, thanks to Edgar, their fortune was mostly gone. All that remained were the odds and ends currently occupying Twillins Cottage. It was the mere flotsam of a once grand estate, but it washer flotsam.

“I’ve come to oversee their removal to London, yes.”

“What,all of it?” Her eyes fell on the pile of shoes, then drifted to an open trunk filled with an assortment of battered kitchenware. “Surely not.”

“All of it,” he assured her. “It should have been shipped directly to the Foreign Office, but there was some miscommunication following Edgar’s death.”

“I’m grateful for the error.” If she knew the man responsible, she’d send him a thank you letter. And flowers. Chocolates and oranges, if he liked them. He’d done her a tremendous service. “This is my only inheritance. I mean to sell it, not give it away.”

“It’s not a permanent arrangement.” He began tugging the gloves from his fingers, and she wondered if she should have taken those from him in the front hall as well. “Most, if not all, of your brother’s effects will be returned to you after they’ve been searched and catalogued.”

“Searched for what? Items of worth?”

“Not exactly, but I can arrange for appropriate compensation for anything they need to keep.” He set the gloves aside and relaxed a little more in his seat, leaning against the worn cushions. “It’s a good deal for you, Miss Ballenger. The Crown is primarily interested in paperwork that holds no value to you. It’s nothing you could sell for profit. Old itineraries, lists of expenditures. That sort of thing.”

Lists of expenditures rang a distant bell, but there were mountains of papers in the house. She could have seen something like that anywhere. “If it holds no value, why are they so eager to find it?”

“It’s the government,” he explained with a lift of one shoulder and another smile. “They’re keen on paperwork.”

She shifted to dislodge the hard corner of a book that was digging into her hip. “They’re also keen on doing things in their own time. I’ll not send Edgar’s belongings with you and simply hope to get them back before I land in the poorhouse.”

His brow furrowed. “Is your situation as dire as all that?”

Jane considered how best to respond. It was possible the concern she saw on Sir Gabriel’s face was genuine, and chivalry might prompt him to be generous with a lady in dire straits. Unfortunately, it was equally possible he was pretending to care simply because it was expected of him. She wasn’t very adept at distinguishing truth from fiction. Better, she decided, to negotiate from a position of strength than desperation.

“Not yet,” she lied. “Edgar sent an annual allowance.” An allowance that was down to its last two pounds, but that was no one’s business but her own.

“How long ago did the last payment arrive?”

“Less than a year. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he echoed with a twitch of his lips. “And did you plan on immediately pawning everything?”

“Of course not.” She couldn’t hope to obtain the prices she wanted from a pawnbroker. “But we will likely sell a few common items straightaway to hold us over while we search for individual buyers for the more unusual pieces. I can’t allow you to take everything.”

He cocked his head at her, his eyes narrowing in speculation. “Miss Ballenger, do you understand that I am here on behalf of the government?”

“Yes.” He’d just told her as much. Did he think her dim-witted?

“And you imagine you can refuse them?”

Hedidthink her dim-witted. But why? Had there been a misunderstanding earlier? Had she misheard something else? Responded inappropriately? Damn it, this sort of thing was exactly why she didn’t go to the village, and why she should have called for one of the Harmons to answer the door. And why she should never have allowed himin.

Shealways managed to get something wrong.

Frustration and nerves had her twisting her fingers in her lap, but pride kept her chin up. Well, pride and the fact that understanding was sometimes facilitated by watching a speaker’s lips.

“I’m certain I can’t refuse them,” she said carefully, “but I suspect I can make the process very difficult for them. Potentially embarrassing as well. Would the government want it known it was forcibly removing personal belongings from the cottage of an impoverished family?” The very idea of creating a public scene made her feel ill, but she would do it if necessary. She would stall and distract while she hid or sold everything she could. Such an effort might land her in significant trouble, but the Harmons would be cared for.

He was quiet a moment before speaking. “It would be best for everyone involved, particularly you, if the whereabouts of your brother’s belongings remained unknown.”

“It’s rather late for that,” she returned. “The entire contents of his home were packed up, shipped across continents, and unloaded here by half a dozen men. It’s hardly a secret.”

“The individuals who packed them had no knowledge of where they were headed, and the men who shipped and unpacked them had no knowledge or interest in where they came from.”

“The man who arranged for the shipping—”

He gave a quick, subtle shake of his head. “So far, it doesn’t appear as if he’s told anyone.”

“Well he must have. You knew Edgar’s things were here.”

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “Not until you opened the front door. The assumption has been that they were shipped to a warehouse. I came with the hope you might know where to find it. This”—he indicated the room with a quick twirl of his finger—“was something of a surprise.”

She really ought to have insisted on that walk outside, and Sir Gabriel’s refined preferences be damned. “You can’t be certain the man won’t tell someone where Edgar’s things have gone.”

“You’re right. I can’t. But since no one else has shown up at your door, I suspect he has kept quiet. For now.”

The way he saidfor now sounded almost ominous. “Who are you afraid he’ll tell? Why would anyone else be interested in paperwork you claim holds no value?”

“It holds no value to you. You can’t sell it.”

Not to a pawnbroker, perhaps. But if Sir Gabriel wanted it for his employers, he’d have to pay for it.

She wished she could lean back and imitate his relaxed, confident posture, but the pile behind her refused to give an inch. She had to settle for adopting what she hoped passed for a nonchalant tone. “The Foreign Office, sensitive paperwork, and secret warehouses. This is all starting to sound very cloak-and-dagger.”

Expecting a denial, she was shocked when he studied her closely for a moment, then said, “Would you be surprised to learn your brother was involved in such work?”

“Espionage? Yes.” For any number of reasons, but mostly because the Edgar she’d known had been exceedingly lazy. “Doyou know if he was?”

“I don’t.”

“I think you’re lying.” She had no idea if he was lying, but she hoped the blatant accusation would startle him into giving something away. Something obvious, if she had any hope of catching it.

But he just smiled at her again. It was that slightly rakish smile of earlier, but this time, the solicitousness was gone, replaced by a hint of mystery. And Jane discovered in that moment that a slightly rakish, faintly secretive smile from a handsome man who smelled of the forest was a very powerful thing. It made her feel singled out, as if he’d invited her to join some exclusive game. And, clearly, it made her feel reckless. Because despite having no idea what the rules, or even the name of Sir Gabriel’s game, might be, and despite knowing that every second she spent with him endangered her own secrets, she still wanted to play.

“As I said,” he returned calmly. “I’m not familiar with the details of your brother’s work.”

Momentarily forgetting she was trying to be nonchalant, she leaned forward in her chair in eager fascination. “Doyou work in espionage?”

“No.”

She sat back with a huff. “I don’t suppose you would tell me if you did.”

“I don’t suppose I would. But deceit isn’t necessary under the circumstances, and the truth is easily verified. I’ve merely been hired to retrieve Edgar’s personal effects.”

“Is that your profession? You retrieve things?” Was there a word for such a man? If so, it escaped her.

“In a manner of speaking. I’m a private investigator. On occasion, I am called on to retrieve items, people, information.”

That didn’t completely remove the possibility that he was involved in espionage. It had to be assumed that such persons took on aliases or retained secondary professions to cover their less savory work. One couldn’t very well haveSpy Master Extraordinaire printed up on a calling card.

But Sir Gabriel’s occupation and the nature of Edgar’s work, however intriguing, were not her greatest concerns at present. And the temptation to play a potentially dangerous game with a secretive man was best ignored. She had Twillins Cottage and the Harmons to consider.

“In this case,” she said with a hint of coolness, “you’ve come to retrieve a woman’s inheritance.”

And there was that smile again. “Miss Ballenger, I only want to borrow it.”

 

 

Chapter Two

 

There were few things in life Gabriel enjoyed more than a good mystery, especially when it was a woman.

He’d done his research before coming to Twillins Cottage. He’d gathered every scrap of public and private information available on Jane Ballenger. Both had proven surprisingly elusive. She was twenty-seven years of age, and the only child of Mr. Daniel Ballenger and his second wife, Elizabeth. She’d lived in the Ballenger ancestral home a few miles to the north for approximately eight years, then spent two years somewhere on the coast recuperating from an illness before coming to Twillins Cottage. She had resided there with the older Mr. and Mrs. Harmon for the last seventeen years. She’d never been to London, never participated in a season, and reportedly rarely left her property to visit the nearby village.

The few locals who claimed to know her expressed varying opinions and theories about the woman. None of them were flattering. She was an ill-mannered snob. She was a sweet girl, but not at all clever. She was impossibly rude. She was dreadfully shy. Her family kept her hidden away because she was mad as a hatter, or deaf as post, or illegitimate, epileptic, or an imbecile.

Gabriel had given up after the innkeeper’s wife suggested Miss Ballenger might be a witch, and had come to the cottage with the notion of taking stock of the situation for himself. He would implement one of several possible plans once he had a firm grasp on the sort of woman with whom he was dealing.

He was still struggling to obtain that grasp.

Miss Ballenger defied description. There was a rudeness about her, certainly. She was a terrible hostess. She’d failed to invite him inside and failed to see to his coat and hat. She’d sat him next to a pile of shoes, made no excuses for the lack of refreshments, and openly accused him of being a liar.

And yet she was quite possibly the most attentive listener he’d ever come across. She stared at him when he spoke, as if every word out of his mouth was more fascinating than the last, as if she were afraid of missing even a single syllable.

Clearly she wasn’t shy, and yet she was twisting her fingers in her skirts like a woman riddled with nerves. She appeared to be in full possession of her faculties, and yet she’d become distracted and turned around in her own house. When she spoke, it was with great care, enunciating each word like it was a step in a complicated dance. But some of her responses were decidedly strange, as if she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to play the role of world-weary lady, plain-spoken country lass, or befuddled spinster.

Her appearance offered little insight. She was of average height and indeterminate weight. There was a fullness to her face and mouth that hinted at a lush figure, but her actual shape was impossible to ascertain beneath her enormous, pocketed apron and high-necked, loose-fitting gown of unrelenting gray.

Her hair, that undecided shade between dark blond and light brown, was devoid of ribbons, seed pearls, or jeweled combs. In fact, her entire person was without ornamentation. She wore not a single piece of jewelry. There wasn’t a scrap of lace or a mother-of-pearl button in sight.

There was, however, quite a lot else going on with Miss Ballenger’s appearance. She was a mess. Her apron and gloves were covered in dust and what he assumed was the grease of trunk hinges. The cuffs of her gown were visibly worn. There was a halo of frizzy little hairs adorning the crown of her head, and there was a smudge of dirt down her cheek, another across the bridge of her nose, and one more at the top of her forehead.

With her big eyes, dull plumage, and direct stare, she put him in mind of a small, rumpled owl.

She was just so…odd. Delightfully so.

The surprise of her piqued his interest. The mystery of her presented a unique challenge. He did his best work through manipulation, but it was difficult to manipulate someone you couldn’t quite grab hold of. It was impossible to know what persona he should adopt for her benefit, what manner of act he should put on to gain her trust and cooperation. Would she work better with a charmer, a businessman, or a scholar? Was she the sort of person who needed to feel in control of every situation, or did she prefer to be given direction?

It would take time and effort to unravel the mystery of the woman before him, and he was looking forward to the task.

“You can’t simply borrow it,” Miss Ballenger said after a moment, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. “But perhaps we might come to an arrangement that would suit us both.” She released her hold on her skirts to tap her finger against her leg in a thoughtful manner. “We’ve not yet opened all the crates and trunks, but we’ve found several that are filled exclusively with paperwork. For a price, you could take those with you today, and I’ll promise to send along any others we find.”

He shook his head. “Everything needs to be searched, and by someone who knows what he’s looking for.”

“Then buy everything,” she suggested.

“Name your price.”

“Ten thousand pounds.”

“Ten?” Was she mad? “I’ll not pay a fraction of that for a house full of items that may or may not have value.”

“They have value.” She pointed at an uninspired oil painting featuring two cherubic children playing with a spaniel. “That’s worth forty pounds at least.”

“Only to the three people on earth who could stand to live with it.”

“Your employers want it, else you wouldn’t be here. There’s a telegraph office in town. Why don’t you inform them of my offer and see what they have to say?”

Because they’d not be able to reply for all the laughing, Gabriel thought. Ten thousand pounds was absurd. “Why don’t you consider my counteroffer instead. Fifty pounds—”

“Fifty?” she cried, nearly coming out of her chair.

“If I may finish?” He waited for her to settle back in her seat. “Fifty to borrow your brother’s possessions. I suspect you’ll have them back directly, but in the event the process drags out, I’ll agree to pay fifty pounds in two-month intervals.”

“Every… Did you say every two months?” Her eyes had grown even larger at the offer. At a guess, her allowance from Edgar had been far less generous.

“I did.”

She scooted forward in her chair, dislodging a book that had become stuck between her hip and the armrest. It tumbled unnoticed to the floor and landed with a thud. “Your employers will agree to such terms?”

Never, but he had no intention of informing them. He would pay the first fifty pounds and make certain the items were returned to her in a timely matter. “Absolutely.”

She worried her lip for a moment, then announced, “I want a contact.”

A contact? That was an odd request. “Someone at the Foreign Office?”

“To sign it, do you mean?” She looked faintly confused by the idea. “Well, yes, I suppose that might be best.”

Sign it…? Ah. Acontract. “I beg your pardon, I misheard you. I could sign a contract, but I’d rather avoid the delay. I’ll give you my word as a gentleman.”

She waved the suggestion away the way one might a gnat. “That won’t do. I insist on a written contract. And references.”

“References?” She couldn’t be serious.

“Certainly. You’re offering me fifty pounds in exchange for items worth thousands. A binding contract will do me little good if you’re John Smith the confidence trickster and not Sir Gabriel… Er… Gabriel…” Her expression turned sheepish. “I’m sorry, I can’t quite recall…”

“Arkwright.”

“Right. If you’re not Sir Gabriel Arkwright, then…” She trailed off, then tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Notthe Sir Gabriel Arkwright?” She blinked twice, then snapped her head straight. “Well, I suppose you must be. Unlikely to be more than one, isn’t there? I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection sooner. My Goodness, I… Oh, wait!” She leapt up from her chair suddenly, dislodging another book and two unmatched gloves. “Wait right there.”

He rose from his seat as she hurried from the room. Minutes later, she was back, holding an oversized, yellowing piece of paper in her hands.

He scowled at it. “Is that…?” Stepping closer, he peered over the top of the paper. “Good God, it is.”

It was an old broadsheet bearing his likeness, along with the image of his two friends, and fellow police officers at the time, Lord Renderwell and Samuel Brass. More than a decade ago, the three of them had become national heroes for rescuing a kidnapped duchess from a violent gang of criminals. Renderwell had been made a viscount. Gabriel and Samuel had been knighted. The papers had dubbed them “The Thief Takers,” and for years—even after they’d left the police to become private investigators for England’s elite—their daily lives had been a subject of great interest to the entire country.

“Where did you get that? It has to be eight or nine years old at least.”

“Nearly eleven,” she said absently. She frowned at the picture, then at him, then back at the picture. “Well, you’ve aged a bit…”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied with such oblivious sincerity that he found himself smiling. “It does look like you,” she decided after another moment. “But I’d like to be certain. I’ll have Mr. Harmon contact Lord Renderwell and Sir Samuel directly.”

“Samuel is out of the country and unreachable for the time being. Lord Renderwell has retired.”

“Are neither able to vouch for you?”

“Lord Renderwell could, but he doesn’t know I’m here. If you insist on this reference, I’ll have to send a telegram ahead of yours.”

“Of course I insist. Why shouldn’t I?”

He flicked the edge of the broadsheet by way of answer.

Her mouth formed a thoughtful moue. “The fact that you were a sensation a decade ago doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a man to be trusted now.”

“I was a sensation, and I was knighted, for my part in rescuing a kidnapped woman,” he reminded her.

“It wasn’t exactly a selfless act, was it? You were paid to do it.” She went back to studying the broadsheet. “It was your job.”

He addedcynic to the short list of traits he could attribute to Jane Ballenger. “Why do you have that?”

“It was Rebecca’s,” she said absently.

“Rebecca?”

“Hmm?” She glanced up for a brief moment. “Oh. Miss Rebecca Hitchens. Or Mrs. Monroe now,” she corrected. “Mrs. Harmon’s daughter with her first husband. She stayed with us briefly some years ago. Lovely girl. She was absolutely fascinated by you and your friends. She collected every accounting of your daring deeds that she could find. She had atendre for you in particular. Until she met a handsome shopkeeper two villagers over.”

“Fickle woman.”

“What?” She gave him her proper attention once more, along with a scowl. “Did you just call her fickle?”

“I—”

“She’s not. She wasn’t. She had a silly infatuation with you as a young girl, that’s all.”

He scratched offcynic, and added,possible romantic. Also,not adept at detecting humor.

“I was jesting,” he informed her.

“Oh.” She cleared her throat and nervously rubbed her cheek, adding a bit of grease to the streaks of dirt. “Yes, of course you were.”

He tapped the paper once more. “Why do you still have this?”

“Mrs. Harmon kept a few out of sentiment after Rebecca moved with her husband to Philadelphia.” She gave the sketch, and him, one more look before setting the paper aside. “Have you agreed to my terms, then?”

He considered it. He didn’t really have to make a deal with Miss Ballenger. He’d been commissioned to find Edgar Ballenger’s effects, not remove or search them. He could ride to town, wire his contact at the Foreign Office, Mr. Jones, and be done with it. Jones could handle divesting Miss Ballenger of her inheritance.

But he didn’t do his jobs in half measure. Despite Miss Ballenger’s disparaging view of his heroic past, he took pride in his work. And in his position as a gentleman, ill-deserved though it might be. As long as Edgar’s things were in the house, the lady was in danger. As long as the lady was in danger, he’d not run off.

Besides, she was probably right—without the proper oversight, Edgar’s things would be lost to bureaucracy.

And then… He looked down into the wide amber eyes staring up at him… And then there was the mystery of her.

“I agree to your terms,” he said, and was rewarded with a remarkably pretty smile. “I’ll make sure the contract and references are completed as quickly as possible. In the meantime, I’ll send a few men from the village to begin repacking your brother’s things.”

The pretty smile evaporated like mist. “What? Absolutely not. You may send men to pack after the details are settled.”

“Waiting for the details to be settled before packing will create unnecessary delay.”

“If you pack these things and our deal falls through, it will create unnecessary work.” She indicated the room with a broad motion of her hand. “I’d have to begin this all over again.”

“I’d recommend younot begin again. This house, in its current condition, is a danger to you and your staff.” It would be a danger regardless, for a number of reasons, but some of them could be mitigated with a little organization.

“It isn’t. It just needs to be tidied up, that’s all.”

He pointed to an open trunk near the window. “There is a saber sticking out of that trunk. Blade up.”

“Well, don’t grab it and it won’t cut you.”

He absolutely could not tell if she was being facetious or not. “The chairs in the front hall are going to fall on someone.”

“Then don’t stand under them.” She gestured at the open doors leading into a modest dining room. “There’s a side door through there. You may use it if the front door frightens you.”

“It doesn’t frighten me.” For God’s sake. “You’re missing the point. It isn’t safe for you to be here. One stray spark in the kitchen would set this place ablaze.”

“We’ve not stored anything in the kitchen. That’s why I thought to take you there initially.”

The comment gave him pause. “Isthat where we were headed?” He’d wondered about that. “Why did you change your mind?”

“Well… It’s the kitchen. And you’re a guest. Obviously, it wasn’t appropriate.”

“Then why did you think to bring me there in the first place?”

“Out of habit. It’s a comfortable room. Even Edgar liked it.”

He considered this. “Too comfortable for a guest?”

“No… I didn’t mean…” Her mouth opened and closed a few times, then she leaned forward and asked, “Are you twisting my words?”

He noted that her tone was one of confusion and not accusation. “Merely teasing you a little.”

“I see,” she replied, and straightened. “Do you often tease ladies you’ve only just met?”

“Only if I suspect the lady will find it amusing and not offensive.” Or when he was determined to find out whether she was the sort of woman to take offense or be amused. “Are you offended?” he inquired.

“No.”

He grinned at her. “But are you amused?”

“Not at present,” she admitted, then frowned in thought. “Perhaps I will be later.”

She couldn’t possibly be in earnest.

Her frowned deepened for a moment, then disappeared with a shrug. “I’ll give it some thought. In the meantime, I must insist there be no packing until I’ve a contact and references in hand.”

Contract, he mentally corrected. “I’ll agree to that, if you’ll agree that this house poses some dangers.”

“It is not ideal,” she conceded grudgingly. “But there is little I can do about the state of things in the short term. I tried to take down the highest chair, but I can’t reach it. The ladder won’t fit in the house, and the stool I found doesn’t provide enough height.”

“There’s an inn in the village. I suggest you make use of it.”

“Leave the cottage?” She gaped at him, as if he’d just suggested she leave the planet.

“It appears a serviceable establishment. You’ll be comfortable there, as well as safe. And I’ll remain here to watch over the house until men arrive—”

“No.”

Her tone brooked no argument, but everyone had a price…or a weak spot. Jane Ballenger might be a mystery, but her devotion to the other occupants of the cottage was clear as day. She’d referred to the Harmons as family. “There is the safety of your staff to consider.”

He saw that hit the mark. Her lips pressed together in a frustrated line. “I suggested the Harmons stay at the inn last week. They won’t go.”

“They might reconsider if you agreed to go with them.”

Her gaze darted away. “You overstate the danger.”

He really didn’t. “If you’ll not leave, then allow me to stay on as a guest for your own protection.”

Her eyes flew back to his. “My what?”

“Protection,” he repeated, wondering if he’d mumbled.

She stared at him for a second or two, expression unreadable, and then suddenly her face seemed to light up. “Oh. Right. Yes, of course. That makes more sense.”

“Excellent. I’ll have my things brought from the inn.”

“Why would you…?No.” She reached out as if to grab his arm, then snatched her hand back. “No, I didn’t mean you could stay.”

“You just said it made sense.”

“No, not that. I was just… I was referring to something else.”

“Referring to what?” Had he missed some portion of the conversation?

“To…It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “I misspoke, that’s all. I don’t require your protection. I’ve sufficient sense not to impale myself on a sword or dally under unstable furniture. I certainly know how to run away from a fire.”

“The occupants of this cottage are threatened by more than fire and impalement. As long as your brother’s belongings are in this cottage, you are in danger.”

She blinked at him. “Because of the sensitive but valueless bit of paperwork, and all the people who don’t yet know that it may, or may not, be here?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Before he could reply, a small, gray-haired woman with handsome features and an armful of unfolded linens entered the room and came to an abrupt halt.

Mrs. Harmon, he presumed. Information on her had been easier to come by than for Miss Ballenger. She was sixty-seven years of age, had worked for the Ballenger family for more than forty years, and had been married to Mr. Harmon for nearly twenty. He was her fourth, and by far longest-lived, husband. Unlike Miss Ballenger, she made regular trips to the village, and was well liked by its inhabitants.

“We have a guest,” Miss Ballenger announced.

Mrs. Harmon offered them both a bemused smile. “I see that, dear.”

Miss Ballenger dipped her head in Gabriel’s direction. “Sir Gabriel Arkwright, may I present my friend, Mrs. Harmon.”

“Sir…TheSir Gabriel Arkwright?” The older woman looked a little closer, pale green eyes lighting with interest. “My goodness, youare,” she breathed.

Miss Ballenger moved through the crowded room to relieve her friend of her burden. “He’s here for Edgar’s things,” she explained. “He may or may not have been a spy.”

“I beg your pardon?” The older woman’s gaze darted to Gabriel as Miss Ballenger gathered the linens in her arms. “You were a spy?”

“No,” Miss Ballenger replied and turned a half circle in search of a spot to set down her load. “Well, possibly. I’ve no idea. I was referring to Edgar.”

“Edgar was a spy?”

“I’ve no idea,” Miss Ballenger said again, then turned another half circle, then began to investigate a space behind the sofa. “But possibly.”

“Possibly,” Gabriel confirmed when Mrs. Harmon continued to stare at him. “But possibly not.”

But probably so.

“Good heavens.” Mrs. Harmon brought one dainty hand up to her heart. “This is all very… Goodheavens.”

Her tone and gesture spoke of shock, but there was an unmistakable air of fascination in her expression. She patted her chest several more times, then let her hand fall away as her eyes took quick stock of the room. “Well, if you are here to obtain Edgar’s belongings, then I assume you understand”—she looked a little embarrassed as she indicated the room with a waggle of her fingers—“the unusual circumstances in which you find us? I apologize for the inconvenience, and I hope you will make allowances for—”

“Make what?” Miss Ballenger spun back, linens still in hand, to stare at Mrs. Harmon in obvious confusion.

The older woman slid an odd glance at Gabriel before replying. “I was saying, I hoped he would…be tolerant and forgiving of our current situation.”

“Oh.” Miss Ballenger scowled at her linens, then finally just tossed them atop a small bookcase lying on its side. “Yes, I believe he mostly has been.”

Mostly? Whymostly? “There’s nothing to forgive. I understand that the passing of Mr. Ballenger has put the residence of Twillins Cottage in an untenable situation. In fact, I was just suggesting to your charge that it might be best if all of you stayed at the inn for a time.”

Humor danced in the older woman’s eyes. “Miss Ballenger has not been my charge for many years, Sir Gabriel. She makes her own decisions.”

“But she is under your influence, I believe. As you are under hers.”

Miss Ballenger made a face. “Are you suggesting we each convince the other to leave?”

“I’m suggesting you both take into consideration the safety of—”

“Are we in danger?” Mrs. Harmon cut in.

Miss Ballenger pointed toward the exposed sword. “Only if you’re fool enough to grab that blade.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Harmon tsked and hurried over to the offending weapon. “That really ought to be moved.” She dug into the contents of the trunk, found the hilt of the sword and pulled the weapon free. Then she promptly stabbed the thing back into the trunk, blade down. “There we are.”

Gabriel had intended to move the blade someplace safer, but he could admit that Mrs. Harmon’s approach was efficient. “The sword is but one possible danger. There are several”—he looked about the cluttered room— “possibly several dozen other concerns. If you would agree to leave until Mr. Ballenger’s things can be removed—”

“What if we agreed to discuss the matter again when Mr. Harmon returns?” Miss Ballenger tried. “Would that appease you?”

He felt a lick of irritation at her choice of words. “I don’t press the matter for my own benefit, Miss Ballenger. You should have a care for your safety, not concern yourself over whether or not I’m pleased.”

She looked to her friend. “I did sayappease, didn’t I? Notplease?”

“You did, dear.”

“Good.” She turned to him. “I’m not concerned with pleasing you. I just want you to stop nagging—”

“What Miss Ballenger means to say,” Mrs. Harmon said quickly, and a little too loudly, “is that we shall take your suggestion under advisement and discuss it with Mr. Harmon. It would hardly be fair to make a decision without his input.”

That wasn’t what Miss Ballenger had meant to say, but since it was obvious that he wasn’t going to obtain her cooperation, Gabriel let the topic go for now. His efforts would be better spent seeing to the removal of Edgar’s belongings as quickly as possible.

And keeping an eye on the cottage, and its inhabitants, from a discrete distance.

***

Jane’s record for making polite conversation with a guest in her parlor was approximately twelve and a half minutes. She knew how long that visit had lasted because she’d spent the whole of it checking the clock on the mantle, which, in retrospect, may have been a bit rude, and probably explained why the vicar’s wife had left in under a quarter hour.

Still, Jane had been inordinately proud of those twelve and a half minutes.

She couldn’t see the clock clearly now; its face was obscured by a stack of books and an empty inkwell. But she was fairly certain she had topped her record. It had to have been at least twenty minutes since Sir Gabriel’s arrival.

She squinted at the clock. Was that the tip of the minute hand peeking out of the gap between book ends? If so, she’d made it a full twenty-five minutes. More than double her record, and it hadn’t even been particularly difficult. Perhaps she’d improved in recent years. Maybe—

“…reason with him, Jane.”

She pulled her gaze from the clock to find Mrs. Harmon and Sir Gabriel looking at her expectantly. “I… Er… Well… I think…”

Mrs. Harmon waved away her stammering and returned her attention to Sir Gabriel. “You must stay until Mr. Harmon returns at the very least.”

Jane shook her head. Is that what she was supposed to convince him of? “That might be hours yet. He can’t stay that long. He needs to send a telegram and find a solicitor.”

“Oh, but—”

“She’s quite right,” Sir Gabriel interjected. “Perhaps another time, Mrs. Harmon.”

“I insist upon it,” Mrs. Harmon returned, and turned to lead him the short distance into the front hall. “You must come again when the cottage is set to rights.”

“I look forward to it. Until then…” He caught the leg of a footstool with his boot and dragged it close, then he stepped up and, with an ease Jane envied, neatly unhooked the top chair from the web and set it on the floor.

“There we are.” Stepping down again, he studied the remaining tangle of chairs. “Appears sturdy enough for now.”

Mrs. Harmon beamed at his back. “That was most chivalrous of you, sir. Thank you.”

Jane inspected the web for herself. What if removing the top chair upset the balance of the entire system? The whole thing might shift and…

She swallowed a yelp at the sharp poke of Mrs. Harmon’s elbow in her side.

The woman gave her a pointed look and mouthed,Say thank you.

“Thank you, Sir Gabriel,” she repeated dutifully, but returned Mrs. Harmon’s glower with one of her own, along with the whispered aside, “I was getting to it.”

Only it wasn’t as aside as she’d intended, because Sir Gabriel turned to face her with a puzzled expression. “Beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. I…just… I would have gotten to it.” She motioned toward the chair. “Eventually.”

“Oh, rubbish,” Mrs. Harmon replied cheerfully. “It would have been there for ages. You’ve done us a tremendous service, sir.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Atremendous service seemed an overstatement to Jane’s mind, but she was accustomed to Mrs. Harmon’s penchant for drama. She smiled and nodded in agreement, then smiled again and dipped into another awkward curtsy as good-byes were said and Sir Gabriel took his leave.

The moment she closed the door behind him, she let out a sigh and felt her shoulders relax. No, not relax, she realized. Theysagged in a mixture of relief and…disappointment.

Her reaction confused her. Now that Sir Gabriel was gone, she felt strangely dissatisfied, as if she’d left something unsaid, or undone.

“Perhaps we should have found a way to serve tea,” she said, mostly to herself. He would have stayed a little longer for tea. What difference would an extra half hour have made? The telegraph office was open all day.

Mrs. Harmon paused in her attempt to cram the loose gilded chair between two trunks. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” Maybe it was for the best. Better a successful twenty-five minutes than a disastrous hour.

“Nothing?” Mrs. Harmon gave the chair one more hearty, and ultimately futile, shove before giving up and simply dumping the thing atop one of the trunks. “Nothing to have Sir Gabriel Arkwrighthere? In Ardbaile? In our cottage?” She brushed off her hands and turned to Jane with lifted brows. “Why, exactly, was he in our cottage? And more important, will he truly be coming back?”

“He’ll come back. He wants Edgar’s things, remember? I’ve agreed to lend them to him at a rate of fifty pounds every other month.”

Mrs. Harmon’s mouth dropped open with a gasp. “Fifty? That is extraordinarily generous.”

Jane was of the opinion that the ten thousand pounds she requested would have been a better example of extraordinary generosity, but she wasn’t given the chance to argue. Mrs. Harmon took her by the hand and tugged her out of the front hall and down the crowded hallway. “You must tell me everything. Everything. From the beginning. I’ll make tea.”

Ten minutes later, they were comfortably settled in the tidy kitchen at the back of the house.

It took a fair amount of time to relate a story to Mrs. Harmon. The woman wasn’t what one might call a passive listener. She preferred to pepper the storyteller with questions, comments, and opinions of her own, which made for energetic but lengthy conversation. Eventually, however, Jane was able to finish the retelling of events.

“Three hundred pounds a year,” Mrs. Harmon said breathlessly. “It’s more than double what Edgar provided. We’ll be flush.”

“Only if Edgar’s things are held for more than two months. Andif Sir Gabriel is sincere in his intentions.”

“Of course he’s sincere. He’s Sir Gabriel Arkwright. He’s one of the Thief Takers.”

“That was a long time ago. Besides, didn’t the papers dub him the…” She thought back to the piles of literature Rebecca had brought with her to the cottage. “The Charming Thief Taker, or some such? The Thief Taker most likely to seduce his prey? Something along those lines?”

“One can be charmingandhonest.” Mrs. Harmon scooted forward in her chair and adopted a hopeful expression. “Did he charm you?”

“I was charmed by the offer of fifty pounds.”

Mrs. Harmon snorted with amusement. “Is that all?”

Jane wasn’t going to admit that she liked his rakish, secretive smile and forest scent. “It was kind of him to take down the chair in the front hall. Charming, even.”

“Never mind, dear.”

Jane fiddled with the handle of her cup. “You’re not disappointed, are you? That I wasn’t overcome with admiration for the man?” Or willing to admit a bit of interest.

“Of course not.” Mrs. Harmon reconsidered. “Perhaps a little. But there’s always tomorrow.”

Jane took a sip of her cooled tea, and wondered if she would see Sir Gabriel again so soon. “How long it will take him to secure a solicitor, do you think? He won’t find any in Ardbaile.”

“Yes, he will. Mr. Felch set up office above the emporium. Didn’t I mention?”

“Who?”

“Carol Felch’s husband. She used to be Carol—” Mrs. Harmon gave a quick shake of her head. “Oh, I don’t suppose you’d know her. She married and moved to London before you were born. But she returned two months ago, retired husband in tow. A fortnight later, he was setting up office again.”

“Is there sufficient business in the village for him to earn a profit?”

“There is these days. The town has grown, Jane. But I imagine the only profit Mr. Felch seeks is time spent apart from Mrs. Felch. Frightful woman. Didn’t I tell you about the scene she caused at the butcher’s? No? I can’t imagine how it escaped my mind. Mrs. Archibald told me all about it last week. She was there. She saw itall…”

It was Mrs. Harmon’s habit to wiggle in her seat at the start of a story. Jane had never been able to ascertain if it was excitement that made her do it, or if she was merely getting comfortable in anticipation of a long sit.

Either way, the funny little custom never failed to make Jane smile.

No one told a story like Mrs. Harmon.

Jane had come to live with the Harmons at Twillins Cottage at the age of ten and had spent the first week in bed, recuperating from the dubious care of her previous guardians.

She’d expected no better from Mrs. Harmon. Though the woman had previously been employed at Fourgate Hall, Jane could only remember meeting her twice before, and only in passing. The Ballengers had taken great pains to keep their strange little daughter isolated, even in her own home. But Jane had dared to hope for the best at Twillins, which, in her experience, meant regular meals, the absence of treatments, and the luxury of solitude.

Mrs. Harmon had fed her, but she’d not left Jane alone. Instead, she had entertained.

Every moment Jane had stayed awake had been spent playing games, talking, and best of all, listening to Mrs. Harmon tell stories. Sometimes she read from a book, other times she told tales of her own, but always she put on a show. She narrated in a booming voice and with lots of dramatic gesturing. Dialogue was delivered in silly voices. She acted out scenes of tragedy and action using whatever props were at hand—the fire poker, a pillow, a set of pots filched from the kitchen.

In the beginning, Jane had found it difficult to follow the story amongst the noise and movement, and had simply enjoyed watching her cheerful, exuberant caretaker act out a play. But over time, Mrs. Harmon had altered the way she performed. She’d separated action from narration, took pains to speak while facing Jane, and avoided the heavier accents. Eventually, Jane was able to appreciate both the antics and the accompanying tale.

Mrs. Harmon had even dragged her reluctant but adoring husband into the act, casting him as villain and hero alike. He’d been spectacularly awful, and not the least ashamed of it. He’d laughed at himself, and Mrs. Harmon, and even at Jane when she’d proved to be equally unskilled. But there’d been no judgment in his amusement, no insult or disgust, and she’d found herself laughing right along with him.

Jane had always thought that if such a thing as true love existed, then it existed there, in Twillins Cottage. And it had been born the day Mr. and Mrs. Harmon had reminded a frightened and lonely ten-year-old girl that people could be trusted, words could be fun, and everyone should laugh at themselves now and again.

“I love you, Mrs. Harmon.”

The words popped out of their own accord, right in the middle of Mrs. Harmon’s story. But it wasn’t the first time Jane had been moved to offer the spontaneous sentiment, and she hoped it wouldn’t be the last time she saw Mrs. Harmon’s eyes grow misty in response.

“I love you too, Janey.” She leaned forward and took Jane’s hand in her own. “And now that you’re smiling again, I don’t mind telling you…”

“Telling me what?”

“You might want to look in the mirror, dear.” Mrs. Harmon’s lips curved up. “And fetch a little soap. You look”—she waved her hand about her face—“a bit mad.”

 

Chapter Three

 

Upon seeing Miss Ballenger standing outside in the late afternoon sun, Gabriel’s first thought was that Twillins Cottage was well suited to its owner. The weathered stone structure was small, pretty, and somewhat out of sorts. Its shutters required a fresh coat of paint. The thatched roof would need to be replaced soon. The drive was rutted. And there was no garden, which, now that he thought about it, was a little odd. Every cottage had a garden—a wild, romantic, overgrown-on-purpose sort of garden that looked as if it might house fairies and gnomes.

But this cottage, like its mistress, was essentially unadorned.

She stood a distance from the house, on the very edge of the thickest woods, and watched him as he approached from the stable. She’d left off the apron and changed into a simple gown of pale blue. It was cut in a more contemporary fashion, and proved he’d been right about the lush figure. The bodice, while hardly indecent, was cut low enough to draw a man’s gaze in appreciation.

As he drew closer, he noted that she’d washed the grease and dirt from her face, but her hair remained the same with its halo of fuzz about the crown.

Suddenly, his gaze couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to settle on the charming tiara of wispy hair that tempted him to grin, or the subtle display of curves that made him wish for candlelight and a soft bed. Or, barring that unlikely possibility, a stiff drink.

He settled for smiling amicably. “Good afternoon, Miss Ballenger.”

“Sir Gabriel. I was not expecting you to return so soon.” She ran a smoothing hand over her hair, as if aware of the general direction of his thoughts.

He was vain enough both to appreciate the sign of nerves and to be annoyed that he felt the need to follow suit. There was nothing amiss with his appearance. He made sure of it. Always. Mostly because he still remembered what it had been like to feel filthy, but also because a fine appearance served as a mask and shield. People rarely bothered to look deeper when they were satisfied with what they found on the surface.

“I’d not planned to return until tomorrow,” he replied. Or lied, if one wished to be precise. He’d had every intention of returning to Twillins as soon as possible. “But I thought you might like to know that I heard from Renderwell. He’ll be expecting your telegram. And I hired a Mr. Felch to handle our contract.”

“All right.” There was a slight pause before she added, “Thank you.”

The gentlemanly response at that point would have been to say something along the lines ofit was my pleasure, orthink nothing of it.

“It was what you requested,” he said instead. Because he wanted to see how she would react, and because Mr. Felch was a pompous twit. It hadn’t been a pleasure at all, and it hadn’t been his idea to hire a solicitor in the first place.

She didn’t appear the least offended, but merely eager to be done with the conversation. Her gaze flicked to the left, where a wide path led into the forest. “Indeed.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

She pointed to a steep, tree-covered rise behind the house. “To the top.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I like the view.” She shuffled a little closer to the opening in the woods, clearly impatient to be on her way.

He shuffled a little closer as well. “It appears a challenging climb.”

“Only from the front.” She took a step back. “There’s a gentle slope on the side.”

He took a step forward. “The path leads there, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Well then…” He eyed the path, the hill, her closed expression, and the charming little wisps of hair about her head. “Let’s go,” he decided, and took off down the path at a clipped pace.

“What? No, wait. Sir Gabriel!”

He neither slowed his step nor looked back. “Come along, Miss Ballenger!”

Again, the rudeness was deliberate, and a risk. She might react badly to presumptuous behavior, but he’d not know until he tried. One could learn a lot about a person by watching how they dealt with discourteous individuals. And if she took particular exception to his poor manners, he could always fall into the role of the well-meaning but simple-minded gentleman who didn’t know any better.

Also, it was the only way he could be certain she’d walk with him. She’d obviously not intended to issue an invitation, and he suspected a direct request to join her would have been rejected.

She didn’t immediately follow, however, and he wondered for a moment if she would simply ignore him and walk away. Then he wondered if that would leave him obligated to hike to the top of the hill alone. He sincerely hoped not.

Finally, he heard the crunch of her hurried footsteps behind him. “Sir Gabriel, please, slow down.”

“Was I walking too fast?” He slowed his pace once she reached his side. “My apologies.”

“I don’t require an apology. Only…” She cleared her throat. “I had intended for this to be a solitary walk.”

He heard patience layered with frustration in her voice, but no anger. “Do you often take solitary walks?”

“Yes.”

“The Harmons don’t accompany you?”

She glanced over her shoulder at the rapidly disappearing sight of the cottage. “No.”

“What, never?”

“Rarely.”

“I prefer strolling in the company of others.” In truth, he had no preference one way or the other. “The combination of fresh air and lively conversation is a fine restorative.”

She sighed once. It had the distinct air of resignation to it. “I don’t require a restorative.”

And nothing about their conversation was even remotely lively, so she’d not be disappointed.

Perversely, the less she said, the more he wanted to make her talk. About anything—the weather, the trees, what she had planned for dinner. But she refused to cooperate. Every overture he made was met with a brief, nearly monosyllabic reply.

“Do you always walk the same trail,” he tried, “or are there others?”

“There are several.”

“Does Mr. Harmon maintain them?”

“Yes, with help.”

He noted that, despite her apparent disinterest in conversation, she continued her habit of looking at him as if he was enormously interesting. Each time he opened his mouth to speak, she took her eyes off the trail andstared at him. “Do you have a particular favorite?”

“No.”

“Why did you choose this one this evening? Do you rotate—careful for the tree roots.” He reached out and caught her arm before she tripped over a particularly large one. “You should watch where you place your feet.”

“I do.” A line formed between her brows, but whether it was one of confusion or annoyance was impossible to tell. “Ordinarily.”

“But not now. Because of me? Is my conversation distracting to you?”

Annoyance. It was definitely annoyance. “I can walk and talk at the same time.”

She withdrew her arm with great care and continued on her way without another word.

This time, he was left hurrying to catch up. “I didn’t mean to cause offense.”

“I’m not offended.”

Perhaps not, but she wasn’t pleased either. He’d pushed her far enough, he decided. A typical woman might think nothing of a brief visit in the morning and a short stroll in the afternoon, but Miss Ballenger was, by all accounts, a recluse. Two visits in one day was probably two more than she cared to have in a month. Add in a spot of teasing, the occasional offense, and the fact that his visits had come without warning or invitation, and it was something of a wonder she was speaking to him at all. If he wasn’t careful, she’d leave the business of their contract to the Harmons and be done with him.

And that, he thought with glance at her pretty profile, would be a great pity.

He stopped in his tracks. “It has occurred to me that I was rude in inviting myself along. I apologize for the intrusion.”

She spun about to face him. “You’re not… Are youleaving?” She sounded surprised, and unless he was mistaken, rather disappointed. He had to be mistaken.

“You had planned on a solitary walk,” he reminded her.

“Well, yes. Initially. But…” She looked about, as if searching for inspiration, then pointed at the trail ahead. “You’ve not seen the view. It would be a shame to come this far and not see the view.”

Was she trying to convince him to stay, or was she putting up an argument just to be polite? Why the devil was it so hard to tell what the woman was thinking?

“Is the view really worth the climb?” he asked carefully.

“Yes. Unless…” She took a step toward him, her expression worried. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

“No.”

“Then it’s worth it.”

Evidently, she wanted him to stay. The realization brought a smile to his face. “It must be spectacular.”

“Well, no,” she admitted. “It’s merely pretty. But it’s a very easy climb.”

A very easy climb for a merely pretty view. How could he resist? “Then shall we, Miss Ballenger?” He offered his elbow, and was inordinately gratified when she accepted after only a brief hesitation.

They continued on at an easy pace, but despite her apparent desire for his company, she still displayed no interest in conversation. He made several more attempts to draw her out, inquiring after the Harmons, her plans for Twillins Cottage, and her impression of the villagers, but nothing seemed to work.

After a while, Gabriel was forced to accept that, if it was not annoyance or offense that kept her from engaging, then perhaps it was simply a preference for quiet on her strolls.

He could oblige her that much. He could walk with her in companionable silence for the duration of their short trip.

No, he decided as they started up a gentle slope. No, he could not.

Much like his meticulous appearance and the finely tailored clothes on his back, he was accustomed to using conversation as a weapon and a shield. A man didn’t set his shields aside on a whim. A wise man didn’t set them aside at all.

He brushed away an overgrown branch and glanced at her. “You should know that there will be men in these woods tomorrow.”

Ah, nowthat got a proper response. She came to a quick stop. “In my woods? Whatever for?”

“Initially, to keep an eye on the cottage and its occupants. When the time comes, they’ll pack and escort your brother’s things to London.”

“How many men? Who are they? Where will they sleep? Why would—”

“No more than half a dozen. They’re former police officers, mostly. They’ll sleep in the woods and stay out of sight until it’s time to move Edgar’s things. You won’t even know they’re here.”

“Of course I’ll know they’re here. You just told me they’ll be here.”

That was a fair point. “It’s for the best.”

Slowly, she withdrew her arm from his, and took a full step back. “And who areyou to decide what is best for Twillins Cottage?”

He addedterritorialandindependent to his growing list of Jane Ballenger’s traits. “Allow me to rephrase. I requested the men because I thought it might be the best way to ensure your safety and the safety of the Harmons.”

As he expected, the worst of her annoyance dissipated at the mention of her friends. “Do you really think someone else will come here for Edgar’s things? Someone dangerous?”

“It’s merely a precaution,” he replied. He wanted her to be careful, not frightened. “It’s unlikely someone will think to seek you out immediately.”

“Why not?” She tilted her head, her wide amber eyes bright with curiosity. “Why didn’tyou think to seek me out immediately?”

“Your brother had other friends and associates with whom he might have shared the location of a secret warehouse. You weren’t the most obvious choice among them.”

“No,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t be. But it became obvious to you at some point.”

“It was convenient. I was going to speak with a gentleman in Sheffield. You were on the way.”

“I see.” She thought about this a moment before continuing. “You should probably still speak with him. It’s possible whatever paperwork you’re looking for was shipped separately to someone else.”

“Entirely possible, but I’ll not leave it to chance.”

A small brown boot peeked out from under her skirts and he watched, oddly fascinated, as she quietly pried up a loose rock from the soil and kicked it off the path in a mild fit of pique. “I don’t like this idea of strange men lurking in my trees.”

“They won’t be lurking; they’ll be keeping guard. And they’ll not be strangers once you’re introduced.”

“You know them well?”

He’d handpicked every one of them. “I’ve worked with them before. They’re good men. Mr. Alexander Fulberg will be leading them. He’s a particular friend of mine.”

She made a sort of noncommittal humming noise and looked away in thought. And then, to his astonishment, she took his wrist and slipped his arm through hers in a distracted—and decidedly masculine—manner, and began leading him up the trail.

Gabriel stared at their joined arms in bafflement. He could say with absolute confidence that he’d never before been escorted about as if he were a lady.

He was less certain how he felt about the matter. Probably he should feel emasculated, or at least embarrassed. But after some consideration, he decided he rather liked the arrangement. Mostly because it was different and amusing, and maybe a little because there was no one around to see. Either way, he saw no cause for complaint.

Miss Ballenger courteously steered him around another series of roots. “I’ve some additional concerns. I was thinking that…” She glanced down, blinked at their linked arms, and then immediately jumped away, breaking contact. “Oh. I hadn’t realized. I…” Her brows lowered. “You might have mentioned.”

Oh, naturally, it washis fault.

To save her embarrassment, and because it amused him, he pretended ignorance. “Beg your pardon? Mentioned what?”

“I…” Surprise, suspicion, and confusion raced over her face, one right after the other. “You… I was…” 

“Is something the matter?”

She rolled her lips under her teeth as if to keep her mouth shut, stared right at him, and shook her head.

It was the least believable expression of innocence he had ever seen. “You’re certain? You jumped away rather quickly just now.”

“Just…a spider. There was a large spider.”

He addedterrible liarandabysmal actress to the list.

“Ah.” He made a show of scanning the ground beneath their feet. “Gone now, I imagine. Shall we?” He offered his arm yet again, and wondered if she’d take it once more. He hoped so. He liked that small connection and the nearness it afforded. “You were saying something about additional concerns regarding the men coming tomorrow?”

“No. I mean, yes.” She hesitated a second more before finally accepting his arm. “Your men do concern me, but I was speaking of an additional concern regarding our deal. One I’d not considered until after you left.”

“And that would be?”

“There was no inventory taken of Edgar’s things before they were packed and shipped. A count of trunks and crates was taken, but that’s all. There was no accounting of their contents.”

“You’re worried someone might have already stolen the paperwork while Edgar’s things were in transit?”

“Not particularly. The fate of the paperwork is your concern, not mine.”

“Ah.” No wonder she was such a terrible dissembler. She didn’t bother to practice.

“My concern,” she continued, “is that someone might yet make off with something that is of value to me, and I would be none the wiser. How am I to know if the Foreign Office has returned everything, if I don’t know what all they’ve taken?”

“Are you suggesting we wait until a full inventory has been made?” That could take weeks, if not months. It wasn’t an option.

“No, it would take too long. I’ve not yet figured out how best to solve the problem.”

“You could simply trust me.”

“Will you promise to personally oversee the search of Edgar’s things?”

Good God, no. He wasn’t going to volunteer to catalogue a man’s intimate apparel. “I can’t do that.”

“Then why should I take your word on the matter?”

“Because I know the man who will personally oversee the search, and I’ll obtain his promise on your behalf.”

She pulled a face. “That’s not very reassuring.”

“It’s the best I can offer.”

“Then I suppose it will have to do. Some of what Edgar left to me are family heirlooms. I’ll know if they go missing, of course. But much of what’s in the cottage, I’ve never seen before.”

“Pity you never visited him in Russia.”

“I suppose,” she replied with an evident lack of enthusiasm for the idea. “Do you have family? I seem to recall…grandparents in France? You were born in Paris, weren’t you?”

Gabriel ground his teeth.Finally she took interest in conversation, and what did she do but bring up the one topic he’d rather not discuss. “No, I was born in Cornwall.”

“Oh, that’s right. But you lived in France as a child, didn’t you?”

He looked her right in the eye. And lied. “I did.”

He’d been a grown man the first time he’d left English soil. The childhood years spent in France were a fiction, a story he’d told a thousand times in the past. It never failed to feel like acid on his tongue.

“What was it like?” she inquired.

“It was France,” he hedged. “France is always lovely.”

“Except when it isn’t. It’s been known to misbehave.”

“That’s when she’s loveliest,” he murmured.

A moment of stunned silence followed. “You find the guillotine lovely?”

Glancing over, he saw that her direct stare had turned to one of surprise. “That wasn’t the sort of misbehaving I had in mind,” he said on a laugh.

“What sort did you have in—” She gave the tiniest start as she finally realized the possibilities. “Never mind,” she said quickly. “No need to explain yourself.”

“Are you certain?” He wouldn’t mind explaining his notions of misbehaving to this woman. In delicious detail. “It would be no trouble. No trouble at all.”

“Quite, thank you.” She sniffed delicately. “You shouldn’t allude to such things.”

“How do you know what my intended allusions might be? You won’t let me explain.”

“Is the explanation an appropriate topic for the two of us to share?”

“Not remotely,” he replied. “It would be a shocking illustration of misbehavior.”

“I think you might be misbehaving now,” she said quietly. “Are you flirting with me, Sir Gabriel?”

Gabriel considered his response. Typically when a woman asked that question, she was being coy. She already knew the answer.

Are you flirting with me, Sir Gabriel? How delightfully wicked of you.

Miss Ballenger, on the other hand, appeared to be asking for clarification. She was genuinely unsure.

“I am a little,” he said gently. His eyes landed on several of the short wispy hairs on the top of her hair. They were backlit by the sun, and suddenly completely irresistible. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching up and smoothing them down with his hand. “Shall I apologize?”

She went very still as he touched her. “Would it be sincere?”

To his delight, the little hairs immediately began to float right back up to their original positions. “That would depend on whether I’m apologizing for the breach of etiquette, or for making you ill at ease.”

“I’m not ill at ease. That is…” She seemed to think about this a moment. “Not entirely.”

He looked down, met her gaze and held it. “Then I’m not entirely sorry.”

She flushed a light pink and quickly broke eye contact. “We’ll never get to the top this way, will we? All this stopping and going.” She turned and hurried up the trail. “Come along, then. We’re nearly there.”

He blinked at her retreating back. He hadn’t realized they’d stopped again. They’d been talking, flirting, and then, quite out of the blue, he’d wanted to touch her hair.

It was inadvisable for a man in his line of work to lose track of his surroundings, but he wasn’t sorry he’d given in to temptation. Miss Ballenger’s hair was softer than he’d imagined, not cool and smooth like silk, but light and warm, like down.

Rumpled owl, he thought again, and fell into step beside her.

A minute later, they reached a clearing overlooking a large, open meadow sheltered by a circle of rolling, wooded hills.

“Oh, look.” Miss Ballenger grabbed his arm and pointed at a dozen or more deer grazing in the valley below. “Look at that.” Her lips curved in a dreamy smile. She pointed at a wide stream that cut along the bottom of the hill. “That stream marks the boundary of what used to be the Ballenger estate. Fourgate Hall is but a few miles to the north. Those were my family’s deer. I’ve never seen them this far south.”

“It’s a pretty sight,” he said absently. He was more interested in her reaction to it. This had once been Ballenger land. These were still known as Ballenger deer. And yet here was the last Ballenger looking at both from a distance, observing it all as an outsider. If they walked to the bottom of the hill and crossed the small stream, she would be an intruder.

The sight didn’t seem to pain her, however. Instead, she seemed to be lost in happy memories.

“When I was little,” she said quietly, “I used to sneak out some early evenings and go in search of them. They could usually be found in a shaded meadow not far from the house, or near the pond. I’d watch them until it grew too dark, and then I’d listen until I grew sleepy or they moved on. I fell asleep once and woke up at dawn. It’s considerably harder to sneak back inside in daylight than it is during the dead of night.”

She had wandered about the woods in the dark as a small child? “Didn’t you have a nanny or governess?”

“Yes. Several over the years.”

“None thought to check on you?”

She gave a small shrug. “I put pillows under my blankets. I doubt it would have fooled a close inspection, but the nursery was large and my bed was on the far side of the room. The ruse held up to a passing glance.”

“Nurseries are generally on an upper floor. How did you sneak out?”

“I climbed down the stone. Contrary to recent evidence, I’m not at all clumsy.”

“Ah, then it isn’t a lack of coordination that prompts you to hide from the villagers?”

He’d made the comment half in jest, and half in a sudden desire to change the subject. The image of Miss Ballenger as a small child—or any child for that matter—climbing down a stone wall in a nightgown made him queasy. For Christ’s sake, stone gotwet. It became slippery. It crumbled with age. How far up had she been? Two floors? Three? And what had waited for her below had she’d fallen? Pavement? A balustrade? Rock?

Why had she been worth only a passing glance? Why had no one been paying attention?

She looked away, and was quiet for so long, he wondered if she’d even heard him.

“Miss Ballenger?”

“I’m not hiding,” she said at last. “My place of residence is no secret.”

“But you rarely leave the cottage grounds, I believe.”

“And why should I?” she asked a little defensively. “I prefer the company of the Harmons, and I am not well vexed in making polite conversation. So why should I—?”

“Well vexed?”

Her brows lowered in confusion. “What?”

“You’re not wellvexed in making polite conversation?”

She blinked rapidly several times, the picture of bafflement. “Is that what I…?” Then she gave that quick shake of the head he’d seen her do several times now. “Versed. I meant well versed.”

“Ah.” He thought back over their earlier conversations, recalling several points of confusion. “You remind me of Renderwell’s youngest sister. She jumbles her words as well.”

She grabbed his arm with a surprising amount of strength. “Does she? Truly?”

“Why does that surprise you?”

“Well…because,” she said, and stopped, as if the rest of the answer was plainly obvious.

“Because…?” he prompted.

“I’ve never heard of anyone else with the affliction.”

“Affliction?” That was a touch melodramatic. “It’s hardly—”

“What has her family done to help her?”

“Aside from suggesting she slow down and let someone else get a word in edgewise? Nothing. It’s an endearing quirk, not anaffliction.”

“Endearing quirk?” Slowly, she released his arm, and eyed him with a mix of wariness and something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Hope? Disappointment? Both? “It doesn’t annoy you? Or anger you? It doesn’t confuse people?”

“I’ve been confused on occasion, amused more than once. I’ve never found it annoying.” He studied her face carefully. “Did someone become angry with you in town, Jane?” Simply because she mixed up a word here or there? Surely not.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” she said stiffly.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“We’re not discussing me. We’re discussing…I don’t recall her name.”

“I didn’t tell you her name. Eliza. And wewere discussing you. It’s your quirk.”

“We are not discussing my quirks.”

“What if I told you one of mine?” he offered, and watched her shoulders relax in response to his playful tone. She liked that, he noted. Jane Ballenger might be rude herself, but she enjoyed a little teasing, a bit of fun. “Then may we continue to discuss yours? And use our given names?”

“No, thank you.”

“What if it I told you a quirk of mine that annoyed people?”

“Oh, I could tell you several.”

The unexpected jab drew a choked laugh from him. “Was that a joke, Miss Ballenger?”

She looked startled by his question. “Yes, of course it was. I’m sorry, was it not obvious? I didn’t mean to offend. I’m not very good at—”

“Conversation. Yes, you mentioned. I’m not offended.” He grinned at her. “I quite liked your joke.”

“Oh.” She smiled back, evidently pleased with both of them. “Good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, as I was saying…my quirk. I am always tidy. Always. I won’t tolerate a scuffed hem or wrinkled collar. Even if I’ve been traveling all day down dusty roads.”

“That is annoying,” she conceded. “But it’s not at all the same.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s voluntary. It’s a choice. Lord Renderwell’s sister doesn’t choose to jumble her words.”

It wasn’t a choice. It was a need. It was vital to him in a way he couldn’t hope to explain. He’d never told anyone the real reason behind his fastidiousness, not even Samuel and Renderwell.

And yet, suddenly, he had the terrible urge to tell this womanwhyhe felt the need to keep everythingjust so. Why, sometimes, it felt like his fashionable clothes and meticulous grooming were the only things that stood between him and a filthy past obscured by a thousand even filthier lies.

No doubt, the irrational impulse was the sole reason he blurted out the next thing that came to mind. “Fine. I have an aversion to large teeth.”

“What?” Her mouth dropped open a second before she burst into laughter. “As in…horses?”

“No, people,” he explained, and decided the absurd confession hadn’t been so ridiculous after all. She had a marvelous laugh. “People with large teeth and jaws make me uncomfortable. I’ll avoid them whenever possible.” Mostly, it wasn’t possible in his line of work. But he did shun the pharmacist with the oversized canines closest to his home in favor of the druggist three blocks over.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. Look.” He stripped out of his coat, unbuttoned his shirt cuff, and rolled up the sleeve to reveal a faded scar on his forearm.

She peered closer. “Is that a bite mark?”

“I’ve been bitten six times.” Not all of them had left scars, but they had left him cautious.

“Six? Good heavens, no wonder you’re afraid of teeth.”

“I’m notafraid of teeth. I just prefer them dainty and not attached to my person.”

“Do mine trouble you?” She spread her lips in a wide, slightly silly grin.

“No.” Point of fact, the image of her nibbling on him was distinctly appealing. “You’ve a charming smile, Jane.”

The smile faded, but a becoming hint of color rose to her cheeks. “I told you not to call me that.”

“But I told you my quirk.”

“It’s not a quirk. It’s a fear. And it doesn’t count because it’s not annoying.”

“I find it exceedingly annoying.” He rolled his sleeve back down and shrugged back into his coat. “At the very least, it is an embarrassing confession. Surely that earns me the right to use your given name.”

“It isn’t proper.”

“Then I’ll only use it in private.” He watched her worry her bottom lip with her nonthreatening teeth. She was wavering, and he pressed his advantage. “I’ve never told anyone that secret. Not even Sir Samuel or Lord Renderwell.”

“Really?”

“They know I loathe being bitten. They don’t know I loathe big teeth.”

She laughed softly, and he knew he had her.

“Very well. You may call me Jane, but only when we’re alone,” she clarified, then glanced at the rapidly setting sun. “Which, really, we shouldn’t be.”

***

Jane looked back at the downhill slope and was reminded why she hadn’t been eager to have Gabriel join her on her walk.

She hadn’t lied when she said she could walk and talk at the same time. What she couldn’t do was navigate her way down a rocky path and listen to Sir Gabriel speak at the same time. She needed to keep an eye on her feet. She also needed to keep an eye on his mouth.

This was a terrible dilemma.

She had two options. She could talk incessantly all the way down the hill, thereby removing the possibility Gabriel would ask a question she might not understand, orhe had to talk all the way down the hill.

“Tell me about your school,” she decreed.

“I beg your pardon?”

“As I recall, you met Sir Samuel when you were boys at school. I should like to hear all about it,” she explained, then promptly started them off at a pace that was more hurried than brisk. The sooner they reached level ground, the better.

“There’s little to tell, really,” he began.

Fortunately for Jane, however, there was enough to tell to keep Sir Gabriel talking for the entire length of the hill and, thanks to the quick pace they kept, most of the way back through the woods.

He spoke of his friends, his teachers, the headmaster. At one point, he related a story involving three turnips and a brick. She was fairly certain she had misheard that bit, but she enjoyed even that interlude of nonsense. She liked the sound of his voice, the way it floated up and down in an easy rhythm, dancing between baritone and bass.

And there was something wonderfully normal about strolling with a man on a late sunny afternoon.

There was something wonderfullywicked about strolling with a handsome knight in the secluded woods, even if those woods were but a short distance from her home.

It all felt so very…everyday. Everyday normal. Everyday wicked. The sort of thing an everyday woman might do with an everyday man.

Neither of them was everyday. He was Sir Gabriel Arkwright, one of the famous Thief Takers. And she was Jane Ballenger, the bizarre recluse of Twillins Cottage. But it was nice to pretend otherwise, if only for a little while. For a few minutes on this one fine day, she could just be Jane, and he could just be Gabriel, and they were simply taking a marginally wicked walk in her woods.

It was all so gloriously normal that by the time they reached the drive, Jane was hard-pressed not to grin like a fool.

“I’ll call on you tomorrow.”

Gabriel’s sudden pronouncement startled her out of her reverie.

“Tomorrow?” Had she heard him correctly? Tomorrow seemed awfully soon after two visits today. Surely it would take time for the solicitor to complete the contract. “That isn’t—”

He took her hand and bent over to press a kiss to her knuckles. “Until tomorrow, Jane.”

Her hand was gloved. She couldn’t feel his lips against her skin, and yet a line of heat spread up her arm to the very center of her chest.

“Tomorrow, then,” she murmured, and found herself giving in to a foolish grin as Gabriel turned and walked off toward the stables.

Jane, he’d said.

JustJane.

She stared at her hand, and basked in the warmth of that single, chaste, everyday kiss.

She could grow accustomed to beingjust Jane.

***

“Well now.” In the front hall, Mrs. Harmon set aside her bucket of flatware and gave Jane a long, searching look. “That is quite a smile.”

Jane shut the front door behind her and tried to school her face into a neutral expression. It didn’t work. “What’s wrong with my smile?”

“Absolutely nothing. It goes all the way to your ears.”

“It’s only a smile.”

“Is it?” Mrs. Harmon tipped her head to the side, her shrewd eyes narrowing. “Did something happen on your stroll?”

“No.” Jane sniffed and found something interesting to prod in a pile of clothes. “But I did meet with Sir Gabriel, and—”

“I knew it!”

A masculine voice intruded into the conversation. “Knew what?”

Both women turned as Mr. Harmon appeared from the hallway.

When Jane had first met Mr. Harmon, his short stature, portly features, and ruddy complexion had made him seem like a friendly, oversized gnome. Little had occurred in the seventeen years since to alter that impression. Mr. Harmon was the kindest man she’d ever known. A trifle gruff in his tone perhaps, but gentle at heart, and always ready for a laugh.

“Sir Gabriel returned,” Mrs. Harmon informed her husband.

“And I missed him?” Mr. Harmon craned his short neck for a view out the parlor windows. “Again?”

“Jane took a stroll with him.”

Mr. Harmon looked at Jane with renewed interest. “Is that so?”

“I shouldn’t have,” Jane admitted. “It was a risk.”

“Good.” Mrs. Harmon pointed a dainty finger at her. “There is more to life than avoiding misery and embarrassment, Jane. Youneed to take risks again.”

“I really don’t.” She winced, remembering several awkward moments. “Do you know, I tried to escort him up the hill as if I were a man?”

Mr. Harmon guffawed loudly.

“It is not amusing,” Jane grumbled.

Mrs. Harmon waved away the error. “Missteps such as that have nothing to do with your particular troubles. They’re a result of your isolation. You’re out of practice.”

“I was neverin practice.”

“Exactly so. It is time, I think, for a change. You need to go into the world again.” She looked to her husband, who gave a single nod of agreement.

Jane felt a flicker of excitement and longing at the very idea. She tried to squash the feelings as she always had, with ruthless determination. But it was too easy to picture herself strolling with Gabriel again. She could show him the eastern trail that led to the stream. They could go early in the morning and watch the sunlight dance in the water. Perhaps she’d leave her gloves at home. Accidentally, of course.

The flicker refused to die.

It was all that talk about Renderwell’s sister. There had been a second, just a second, when her heart had leapt at the idea that Gabriel not only knew, but was fond of, another individual with her affliction. But if Renderwell’s sister had never confused him to the point of annoyance, then clearly she and Eliza did not share the same problem. There was a world of difference between a young woman speaking faster than her tongue could manage, and a grown woman unable to hear the words of others, or sometimes fail to speak her own mind at any speed.

Jane shook her head. “I can’t. At any rate, I promised Edgar.”

“Devil take Edgar,” Mr. Harmon said bluntly. “He’s dead.”

Mrs. Harmon threw her husband an impatient glance. “Mr. Harmon is correct in his sentiment if not his delivery of it. Edgar is gone, dear. He no longer has any hold on you.”

“But I owe him,” she said softly. “He came for me.”

“He ought to have come for you sooner,” Mrs. Harmon returned with some impatience. “He should never have allowed your father to send you away to start, let alone leave you in such a dreadful place for so long.”

“But he did come.”

Mr. Harmon grunted in annoyance. “You’ve repaid him tenfold.”

Jane wasn’t certain about that. Seventeen years ago, she’d been rejected by her own father—banished and abandoned to Brackmer’s Asylum for the Imbecile, Feeble-minded, and Morally Defective Child. After more than two years, she’d nearly given up hope of ever escaping her miserable prison. And then, completely unexpectedly, her brother had arrived to whisk her away to the safety and comfort of Twillins Cottage.

Was it possible to repay such a debt?

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I am content with my life now. Why should I—”

“Jane.” Mrs. Harmon’s voice was gentle but firm. “Your parents are gone. Edgar is gone. Even Brackmer’s is gone. The past is in the past. It is time you did asyou please.”

“Maybe I’m not sure what that is.” It wasn’t just Edgar’s wishes that had kept her at home. It hadn’t been Edgar’s displeasure alone that frightened her. There was so much to be afraid of in the world. So much she could lose by trying to be a part of it.

“I think you are.” Mrs. Harmon returned. “I saw the smile on your face when you walked through that door. You weren’t content. You were happy.”

Shewanted to be happy. She wanted to throw caution to the wind and seek out Gabriel at every opportunity. Even if nothing came of it, even if he left in a matter of days never to be seen again, she still wanted to flirt with him while he was there, or, at the very least, give her best, untutored impression of doing so. She’d like to tease him again, and watch him smile at her cleverness. She wanted to feel her cheeks warm when he looked at her just so, like she was fascinating, maybe even beautiful. She wanted to feel the fluttering in her stomach when he’d softly brushed her hair, and that lovely, lovely heat when he kissed her hand.

She wanted all of that and more. She wanted to bejust Jane. But she wanted to do all of it safely. That’s were things became tricky.

Yes, the past was in the past. But the past had a terrible habit of repeating itself.

 

Chapter Four

 

For the first time in six years, Jane took great pains with her appearance. She chose her gown with care, deliberating for twenty minutes over her meager choices before finally selecting a dark green ready-made gown Mrs. Harmon had given to her as a birthday present last year.

She would never be a great beauty, she mused as she studied herself in her vanity mirror, but at least there were no smudges of dirt on her chin or snarls in her hair. Pity about the frizz, though. She’d never been able to tame it.

Reaching for her brush again, her eyes landed on a small oil lamp of colored glass that Edgar had sent to her over a month ago. Her hand paused midair as she suddenly remembered why Gabriel’s mention of expenditures had sounded that distant bell.

When she’d received the rare present from Edgar, she’d been surprised and excited, but her joy quickly turned to disappointment when she discovered that the base of the lamp was cracked. When Mr. Harmon had detached the base to see if it might be repaired, they’d found a great deal of paper crammed inside, presumably to protect the glass during shipping. Most of the paper had been mere scraps, but there had been a few sheets…

Jane opened the bottom drawer of her vanity, rifled through a few odds and ends, and pulled out the three intact pieces of paper she had found in the lamp base.

It certainly looked like a list of expenditures, only Edgar hadn’t been spending money on objects; he’d been spending it on people. On every page, there was a long column of names on the left, a column of sums in the middle, and a few cryptic notes written down the right side.Ivan S., groundskeeper, GR. House, 5, loyalty uncertain… C. Antonovich, maid, 3, possible mistress of Prince L.… Rurik R., driver, 10, final payment.

It could mean anything, really. Or nothing at all. He might have purchased items from each individual, or it might be a record of charitable donations. It seemed unlikely the mistress of a prince would be in need of charity, but one never knew.

When she had first found the list, she hadn’t particularly cared what it meant. What difference did it make how Edgar frittered away Ballenger money? Frittered was frittered. She’d only kept the pages because they’d been whole when everything else was torn. She’d tucked them away in case Edgar had included them by accident, and asked for their return.

But now…

She ran a finger down the top page and considered her options. She could give Gabriel the list immediately. It would be the generous thing to do, the helpful thing. It had come from Edgar, and it fit the description of what he was looking for.

But what if it wasexactly what he was looking for? The only thing? What if Gabriel knew what bit of sensitive paperwork the government was after, and this was it? What if there was nothing else amongst Edgar’s things to interest him?

He would leave. She would retain full possession of her inheritance, but she would lose the fifty pounds.

Jane had never thought of herself as a greedy or calculating woman, but as she stared at the list, a plan began to form, one that allowed her to keep the fifty poundsand her flotsam. She would wait. She would keep the list a secret until the contract was signed and the fifty pounds was in her hand. The moment she had the money, she would give Gabriel the pages. The plan wasn’t generous or helpful, but it was fair. She’d promised him Edgar’s things in exchange for fifty pounds. She would hold up her end of the bargain once he held up his.

“Jane!”

She started at the sound of Mrs. Harmon’s harried voice just outside her door.

“Come in,” she called out and shoved the list into her pocket, feeling guilty.

Mrs. Harmon popped inside and gave Jane a quick look over. “Oh good, you’re dressed. You must come down at once. Mr. Harmon has cornered Sir Gabriel in the parlor and will not cease badgering him with the most inane questions—”

“He’s here? So soon?” Jane rose quickly and pointed over her shoulder. “I can’t reach the last buttons.”

“He’s been here twenty minutes at least. I called for you, but…never mind.” She spun Jane around and fastened the gown. “There. All done. Nowcome down.” And with that, Mrs. Harmon flew out of the room.

Jane stared at the empty doorway.

Gabriel was back.

Well, of course he was back. She’d known he would be. Only she’d thought there would be a little time for her to grow accustomed to the idea, to replenish some of the courage she’d spent the day before. She’d planned to have breakfast, then go over the ledgers and devise a new budget for Twillins. She assumed he’d come back in the afternoon during traditional visiting hours, not…

“Jane!”

“Yes! Coming!”

She took a deep breath and smoothed her hands down her skirts. She could do this. She wanted to do this. She hadn’t put on her best gown to impress the Harmons, after all. She’d done it so she could pretend to be just Jane…if only for a little while longer.

***

Bzzzzzzzz … Bzzzzzzzz

She should have left well enough alone.

As Jane sat in her chair in the parlor, trying to listen to Gabriel speak, she realized that she should have accepted her small victories the day before and been content with them. Twenty-five minutes in the parlor and a stroll in the woods—those should have been enough.

But she’d simplyhad to try for more, just a little more time pretending to be a normal, everyday sort of lady. And now here she was, staring at Gabriel with what she could only guess was a completely vapid expression on her face, while he chatted away, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she had no idea what he was saying. None whatsoever.

Because of the bee.

At least, Jane assumed it was a bee trapped between the glass and the closed drapes in the window behind Gabriel. It didn’t sound like a fly. The buzzing was too insistent, too angry. Or maybe she was hearing it wrong. Did she sometimes hear insects improperly the way she did words? She’d never really thought about that possibility. She’d rather not be thinking about it now, but it was just so damnablyloud.

How had the Harmons not noticed it? Then again, neither had been in the room for very long. Mrs. Harmon had made some preposterous excuse and hauled her husband away almost as soon as Jane had arrived.

Now Jane was alone with Gabriel. And the damnably loud bee.

Bzzzzzzzzz.

Maybe loud wasn’t the right word. It wasdemanding, like a persistent whisper an inch from her ear.

Listen to me. Listen to me. Listen to me. Listen to me.

She didn’t have a choice. It was impossible to ignore a sound that drowned out half of what Gabriel was saying. She tried, she really did, but no matter how hard she concentrated, she couldn’t separate the buzzing sound from Gabriel’s voice, and her gaze and attention were continuously dragged back to the window.

Listen to me.“…whether or not…”Listen to me.  “…weather holds…”Listen to me. “…Balkerton.”

Balkerton? Was that a person? She didn’t know anyone named Balkerton, did she?

“Jane?”

Good God, he’d asked her a question, and she had no idea whom or what the man was talking about.

She leapt from her chair without the faintest notion of what she meant to do besides offer some sort of distraction. No, an excuse. She needed excuses. “I’m sorry. I… I need to… Er… Are you afraid of bees?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“There’s a bee. In the window. I’m quite terrified of them.” She wasn’t. Not remotely. “And I was…”Listen to me. Listen to me.“I… That is…”Listen to me.Maybe it was a fly. That would be terribly embarrassing.Listen to me. “Er…”

Concentrate, you stupid child.

Gabriel frowned at her, then glanced over his shoulder at the window. “Wooden lighting to get riddle it?”

“Beg your pardon?”Oh, God.

He rose from his chair and stepped closer to her. His gaze raked over her in concern. “You really are terrified. A moment.”

Gabriel moved to the window and opened it a crack, allowing an escape route for the bee. Or fly. Whatever the devil it was, Jane took a deep, calming breath while Gabriel got rid of it.

Rid of… Rid of it… Riddle it.

Would you like me to get rid of it? Maybe that was it.

“Better?” Gabriel inquired, returning to her.

“Yes.” Only not for the reasons he imagined. “Yes, thank you.”

“Did you have a bad experience with bees?” he asked gently and stepped closer.

She looked away briefly. She couldn’t nod and meet his gaze at the same time. Lying was bad enough. Fabricating a fear of bees held an element of absurdity that went beyond embarrassment. It waslowering.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Jane.” His large hand settled on her shoulder, then ran down her arm in a soothing manner. “No worse than my aversion to teeth.”

She wondered if he would offer the same comfort if he knew the truth. Perhaps not, but she couldn’t bring herself to pull away. She wanted him to stay just as he was, with his warm hand enclosed over her wrist, and so near she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

He had wonderfully kind eyes. She’d not noticed that before. They were faintly wrinkled about the corners, lending the impression of a man who spent a good deal of his time laughing.               “Jane, dear!”

Jane took a quick, startled step back from Gabriel just as Mrs. Harmon hurried into the room. Fully expecting to see a sly, knowing look from her friend, Jane studiously ignored the woman in favor of a loose thread on her cuff.

But if Mrs. Harmon noticed how close she’d been standing to Gabriel, she didn’t mention it. She brushed right past Jane without looking at her. “We’ve more visitors arriving.”

“What? Already?” Jane followed Mrs. Harmon and Gabriel to the windows, and frowned at the sight of a large group of riders coming up her drive. “Your men, I presume,” she said to Gabriel. “They’re earlier than expected, aren’t they? And there are quite a few more than you mentioned.”

There had to be more than a dozen. Her stomach knotted at the realization. A handful of strangers prowling about her woods was bad enough, but fifteen or twenty armed men? That wasn’t a guard. It was an invasion. It wouldn’t do.

Before she could make her displeasure known, however, Gabriel turned from the window and gave her a relaxed smile. “You’re all the safer for it,” he assured her with such easy confidence that the worst of her misgivings immediately dimmed.

She still didn’t like the idea of so many people intruding on her sanctuary, but if Sir Gabriel of the Thief Takers trusted these men, then surely there was nothing to fear.

***

Jane and the Harmons were in danger.

Gabriel stood on the drive and watched the approaching riders with a growing sense of unease.

These were not the men he had requested.

He recognized their leader. Tall, sharp-eyed, and whippet-lean, Oscar Kray had briefly worked for Scotland Yard before being forced out amidst rumors of corruption. His questionable sense of morality had made him a better fit for the Foreign Office, where there was a need for men who were willing to accept coin slipped under the table for work best done in the shadows.

Gabriel wasn’t so hypocritical as to judge a man for his past, nor so naive as to believe the country could function without the unsavory services men like Kray provided. But he’d never personally worked with Kray, and he’d never wanted to. He didn’t trust the man. His smile was too quick, his manners too studied, his temper too obvious beneath his jovial facade. And then there were the big teeth. Kray had always struck him as a biter.

The riders came to a stop in front of him, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Kray slid from his horse, handed his reins to one of his men, and came forward to offer an abbreviated bow. “Arkwright. You look surprised to see me.”

No, he looked mildly curious. He’d adopted the expression long before he’d come outside. “You’re not the gentleman I was expecting. Where’s Fulberg?”

“Right here,” a voice announced from the back of the group. A muscular, middle-aged man with a thick beard pushed his way to the front, and Gabriel allowed himself to relax a fraction.This was the man he’d wanted to see. Skilled, experienced, unfailingly loyal and trustworthy, Fulberg had proven his worth a dozen times over the years.

“Where are your men, Fulberg?”

“Foreign Office wanted men of their own choosing,” Fulberg explained. “I’d have sent word ahead, but there wasn’t time.” He offered Gabriel a smile that didn’t quite reach his dark brown eyes, and lifted his voice for all to hear. “Don’t worry yourself, Arkwright. These are fine lads, all. They’ll see the job done proper, eh?”

A tense, muted chorus of agreement arose from the group.

Gabriel forced a smile of his own. “If you’ve earned the respect of Mr. Fulberg, I’ll count myself fortunate to have you. Welcome to Twillins Cottage, gentlemen!”

“What there is of it,” Kray said with a cynical glance at the house. He flicked a hand at the men, sending Fulberg and the rest off toward the stables. “Ballenger didn’t do well by his sister, did he? Wouldn’t have taken him for a skinflint.”

“Did you know him well?”

Kray shook his head. “We met once years ago. Nice enough fellow. Never mentioned a sister.”

“I don’t think they were close. Did Jones tell you what to expect inside?” He asked the question carelessly, hoping Kray would confirm or deny that Mr. Gregory Jones was still the man at the Foreign Office issuing orders.

“One woman, two servants, and Ballenger’s effects. Fairly straightforward.” He lifted his eyes to the second-floor windows. “Can you get them out of the house for a time?”

“You want to search it,” Gabriel guessed. “As I explained to Jones in my telegram, Miss Ballenger has agreed to allow us access after one or two conditions have been met.”

Kray looked at him sharply. “It wasn’t mentioned to me. What sort of conditions?”

“Nothing significant. I’ll take care of them by the end of the day, and then you’ll be free to remove Mr. Ballenger’s effects from the cottage.”

Kray’s lips spread into a tight, toothless smile. “My orders are to conduct a preliminary search before their removal.”

Gabriel glanced at the group of men who’d moved off to mill about the stables. Even with Fulberg, and possibly Mr. Harmon, he was outnumbered and out-armed. This was not the time to make a stand.

Still, an easy capitulation would be suspicious. “I won’t let it be known I backed out of a deal.”

Kray studied him speculatively a moment, then grinned as if he’d solved a puzzle. “She must be pretty. What’s the matter, Arkwright? Don’t like the idea of me going through Miss Ballenger’s wardrobe?”

“I don’t care if you find something that catches your fancy and wear it home. I can’t have it said that one of the Thief Takers broke his word. I eat by my reputation.”

“You’re in no danger of starving, from what I hear.”

“As I said, I eat by my reputation. Men of means prefer to hire other men of means.” He allowed the faintest hint of mockery to enter his voice. “The prevailing opinion is that wealth makes one less susceptible to bribery.”

As Gabriel expected, Kray snorted in shared amusement. “Every man is susceptible to bribery.” He gave Gabriel a pointed look. “The only question is, what does the man want?”

“In this instance, a chance to earn his commission and keep his reputation. I’ll take Miss Ballenger and her staff out of the house, but I want your word you’ll be careful in your search. She can’t know you were there.”

Kray shrugged, and his eyes drifted back to the house. “I hear the lady is a little mad. Any truth to it?”

“They’re all a little mad. The ones worth having, anyway.” He chuckled when Kray did, and let his smile linger after the laughter was gone. “Do we have a deal?”

“I don’t see why not. It’s easily done. I’ll be in and out in twenty minutes.”

So short a time? Even if Kray was under the impression the cottage was in good order, he’d still need more than twice that for a proper search. Unless he knew exactly what he was looking for, and exactly where to find it.

Gabriel rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Regardless of what you find, it would be best if we continued on as if nothing has changed. We take Ballenger’s things to London as planned. And Fulberg can’t catch wind of this. It’ll get back to Renderwell.”

“The viscount still pulling the strings, eh? Some men aren’t cut out for retirement.”

Gabriel shrugged as if it didn’t really matter. “He likes to keep a finger in. And Fulberg isn’t a bad sort.”

“But not the sort to take a bribe.”

“Or paw through a lady’s wardrobe. Make sure he doesn’t see you go inside the cottage. Better yet, let me handle him. I’ll find something for him to do for an hour or two.” He took a step in Fulberg’s direction, then made a show of hesitating. “Damn it, was it Fulberg’s sister who married last month, or his niece?”

“I don’t know,” Kray replied in a tone that clearly implied he didn’t care.

It was exactly what Gabriel wanted to hear. “Devil take it,” he muttered. “I’ll figure it out as I go.”

He strode away, only to hear Kray call out to his back.

“Sheis pretty, isn’t she? Miss Ballenger?”

He wasn’t going to give Kray the chance to find out. He was taking Jane out the side door of the cottage, and she wasn’t coming back until Kray and his men were gone.

“They’re all pretty, Kray,” he tossed over his shoulder, then strode to where Fulberg was adjusting his mount’s saddle a good distance from the rest of Kray’s men. “Fulberg. How was Mary’s wedding?”

The man beamed at the mention of his only child. “Ah, she was a lovely bride. The loveliest.”

“Is Mrs. Fulberg still planning to join the happy pair in Paris?”

“She left three days ago. I was sorry to see her go at first, but now…” He flicked a glance in Kray’s direction and lowered his voice. “Now I’m of a different mind. This smells, Arkwright. I sent word to the men you requested. Not one of them arrived.”

“Do you think your messages were intercepted?”

“Maybe. Or maybe the men were. I’ll be honest, if it had been anyone else but you asking for my help, I’d have washed my hands of the whole business once I saw Mr. Kray. I don’t work with his sort if I can help it.”

“I’m in your debt. Kray hasn’t looked into your affairs, if that eases your mind. Your family’s in no danger.”

Fulberg ran a hand down the horse’s flank. “He may not have had time.”

“Or he doesn’t think you’re a threat.” Gabriel jerked his chin subtly toward Kray’s men. “Do you know any of them?”

“Aye, the scrawny one with the muttonchops. I saw him at Coldbath Fields not a month ago.”

“A gaoler?” He swore when Fulberg shook his head. “Convict? You’re certain?”

“I know faces, don’t I? A man can’t get by in this profession if he can’t remember faces. I remember him in particular because he was in a skirmish with another prisoner.”

“Does he remember you?”

Fulberg shook his head again. “He was too busy trying to gut his opponent and fight off the gaolers. He didn’t see me.”

“You’re certain?”

“Not completely,” Fulberg admitted. “How much does it matter, do you suppose? Nothing says a man can’t earn his release in the proper manner and take a job.”

Gabriel gave him a dubious look. “A job with the Foreign Office six weeks after he tried to stab someone?”

“Like I said, it smells. But it was Kray who hired him, and Mr. Jones seems to trust Kray.”

“Is Jones still in charge, then?”

“Seemed to be. Hard to say with him. He’s a squirrelly sort.”

“You don’t trust him,” Gabriel translated.

“I don’t trust any of them.”

Gabriel looked from Kray, to his men, to the small, isolated cottage. “Neither do I.”

“Well then…” Fulberg rubbed his beard philosophically. “What’s the plan?”

***

Gabriel had Jane and the Harmons out the door in under twenty minutes. It would have been ten, but Jane had been very resistant to the idea of leaving. She’d begged off, claiming everything from a need to go over the household accounts to a sudden headache. But then Mrs. Harmon had taken her aside, said something he’d not been able to hear, and now here they were, walking down the road side by side.

They were just out of earshot of the Harmons up ahead, but the privacy was wasted. Jane hadn’t spoken two words since they’d left. She marched silently toward the village of Ardbaile with her chin up, her eyes straight ahead, her mouth firmly shut, and her arms stuck down straight at her sides.

It was, he thought, the stride of the proud and the damned.

“Anne Boleyn,” he mused aloud. “Mary Queen of Scots. Marie Antoinette.”

She turned to give him that wide-eyed, fascinated stare. “Beg your pardon?”

“I’m imagining all the women who have looked just as you do now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You look as if you’re headed to the gallows, Jane.” He reached out and lightly tapped his knuckle beneath her chin. “With your head held high.”

She sniffed and rolled her shoulders in an obvious bid to relax them. “There is nothing wrong with the way I look.”

“You’re stiff as a board.”

“Well, I’ve a dozen strangers lurking about my house, haven’t I?”

“That’s not what’s troubling you.” That’s what was troublinghim. That, and the fact that Twillins Cottage had only two horses and one, currently defunct, pony cart for transportation. He threw a watchful eye over his shoulder. He really wished they’d been able to ride to town. “Not exclusively.”

“I had other plans for the day. I don’t see why it was necessary for me to come along.”

“Because the solicitor insists the contract be signed in his office.” Another lie. The solicitor had made a suggestion, not a demand. “And you must have a great many plans for a great many days.” He looked over and met her gaze. “You never go into Ardbaile.”

“That’s not true,” she retorted. “I’ve been many times.”

“Not recently.” Not in ages, according to the villagers.

Her brows lowered. “Have you been gossiping about me with the villagers?”

“A bit, yes,” he admitted and watched her frown. “I came here to do a job.”

“And you like to know the sort of person with whom you’re working, I suppose,” she said quietly. She chewed her bottom lip and looked away for a long time before speaking again. “Did the villagers tell you what you needed to know?”

“No. They scarcely know you,” he replied and wondered why that answer seemed to make her feel better. “Don’t you have any friends in town?”

“No one in particular.”

Orat all, if he had to guess. That was going to make it even harder to convince her to stay once they arrived. On the other hand, it could make it easier to send her out of the area completely. “Do you have friends outside of Ardbaile?”

“No. There’s just the Harmons.” She glanced ahead at the older couple. “We should catch up,” she muttered and resumed her determined stride toward certain doom.

***

Janefelt as if she were headed to the gallows. She was fighting a terrible sense of dreadful inevitability that grew with every step she took in the direction of the village. She desperately wanted to turn back, and once or twice she’d come very near to doing just that. But then Mrs. Harmon’s words played over in her mind.

One brief visit to town is unlikely to reveal your secrets, Jane. An absolute refusal to leave the grounds, however, is nothing if not deeply suspicious.

There was no question Mrs. Harmon was right. Jane’s reputation as a recluse had already sparked Gabriel’s interest. If she didn’t endure the trip into town, he would simply assume she was a lunatic incapable of leaving her home.

That wasn’t true at all. She was perfectly capable. She just hated it. And she couldn’t help but think that a trip to town was an awful lot of work and risk just to keep a secret from a man she’d known less than two days and would likely never see again once his business at Twillins was concluded.

Still, she marched onward, hoping to get it all done as quickly as possible.

“Jane?” Gabriel said her name softly and waited for her to look at him. “What are you afraid of in the village?”

“I’m not afraid,” she lied. “I simply don’t like it.”

“What is it about Ardbaile you don’t like?”

She racked her brain for a suitable answer, any excuse that might explain away the nerves she was evidently doing such a poor job of hiding.

“I don’t fit well into any part of it,” she said, and told herself it wasn’t entirely deceitful. The last time she’d tried to make a life for herself in Ardbaile society, she had found it difficult to find her proper place. “I’m a Ballenger. If I am to socialize, then it is to be with members of my own social standing. The Kinards, the Hamleys, the vicar and his wife. But they are not the people I would necessarily choose for my friends.” She bobbed her head once to the side as she reconsidered. “Except for the vicar’s wife. She’s quite nice, really.”

“Who would you choose instead?”

“Mrs. Harmon’s friends. The butcher and his wife. The Landowns. Mrs. Whitburger, the schoolteacher. Most of the other prestigious families in the area would not have the Harmons at their tables. Given how far the Ballengers have fallen, I doubt they’re eager to have me, either. How could I be friends with people who don’t like me and snub the people I love?”

“You don’t have to be. Make friends with Mrs. Harmon’s friends.”

“I can’t. I might live in a cottage now, but as far as Ardbaile is concerned, the Ballengers are still the grand family of Fourgate Hall. The butcher’s wife would never presume to invite the mistress of Fourgate Hall to tea.”

He lifted a shoulder. “So presume to invite yourself.”

“I can only assume you’re jesting.”

“I’m not suggesting you let yourself in and pour your own cup,” he explained. “I’m suggesting you visit the village and make conversation with these people. Allow the friendships to develop naturally, without the formality of invites.”

And now they were right back to where they’d started—the central reason she didn’t come to the village. Whether she was invited into a conversation or started one up for herself didn’t matter. In the end, the conversations simply didn’t go well. She looked away. “It’s not that simple.”

“Dilute snow water knee,” Gabriel said after a moment.

Her eyes snapped back to his face. “What?”

“To relocate.”

“I don’t understand.” She really, really didn’t.

“You need to start over someplace new, someplace where you and the Ballenger name aren’t quite so welcome. Animosity can be liberating.”

“Animosity?” Not welcome? That couldn’t be right. He couldn’t possibly be suggesting she move someplace she wasn’t wanted.

It was his turn to look confused. “What? Animosity?” He blinked twice, and then realization lit his face. “Ah. No.Animosity. I said animosity. Not animosity.”

Damn it, he was just repeating himself. That rarely helped.

To hide her rising fear, she dug her fingers into the side of her thigh, where he couldn’t see them, then quickly parsed his comments in search of any fragments she might have heard correctly. He’d mentioned relocating, and then starting over anew. Two similar sentiments. That probably wasn’t coincidence.

“Relocation is certainly something to consider,” she tried with a smile that probably looked as strained as it felt.

“I hope you will, though the notion is clearly an uncomfortable one for you.”

Her fingers relaxed as the nerves subsided. If Gabriel wanted to attribute the source of her unease to the notion of moving, who was she to argue? Frankly, it made her queasy. She could never leave Twillins. It was her sanctuary.

And her appreciation for it grew as Ardbaile’s first houses came into view. Her feet slowed of their own accord. This was a terrible idea for more reasons than discomfort, or even fear. Fear was temporary. Provided there were no truly horrendous mishaps, her anxiety would disappear as soon as she returned home. Even a bit of embarrassment, painful as it was, faded with a little time.

But the longing stayed. It never really left her. It was like a flame she couldn’t quite put out. It would die down to a smolder sometimes, but a trip to town was like adding dry wood to the fire. It would flare and rage and burn for months.

This is what you cannot have. A life. A world beyond her little cottage in the woods.

She loved her home. She needed the refuge it provided. But it wasn’t the life she would have chosen for herself, if only she’d been given a choice. She wanted to be a part ofthis world. The world of shops and neighbors, dinner parties and assemblies. She wanted to attend church, haggle with the butcher, engage in idle gossip over the draper’s counter. Normal things. Everyday things.

She wanted to know the people of Ardbaile, instead of just knowingof them. She’d seen their faces since childhood, but only through the window of her father’s carriage as it passed through town. She’d watched them settle there, grow up, and grow older, but always from a distance. She knew a great deal about the lives of so many of them, but she’d learned it all secondhand from the Harmons.

They were like characters in a picture book. She could see them, but she couldn’t quite reach them, couldn’t quite touch them. And any attempt she made to write herself into the story generally ended in disaster. There was suspicion, mockery, confusion, accusations, and the perpetual threat of discovery and even banishment to an asylum.
 

It was better to simply keep the book shut and hidden on the highest shelf, where it could serve as neither temptation nor reminder.

It was best just to stay home.

Gabriel, for whom a stroll into a small town was probably rather dull, continued to make light conversation as they caught up with the Harmons and made their way to the center of the village. Once they reached Main Street with its long row of shops, however, Jane found it easier to keep her eyes on the pavement in front of her feet and let the Harmons do all of the talking.

Even at the relatively early hour of eleven, the street was bustling with activity and noise. The sounds and sights weren’t entirely foreign to her, but they seemed jarring compared to the peacefulness of her woods. And the entire excursion felt…perilous. Even more than it had in the past. It felt as if—she snuck a glance at Gabriel—it felt as if she had a little more to lose. Which was preposterous. Sir Gabriel wasn’t hers to lose, keep, lend out, or give away.

Still, she exhaled a long, quiet breath of relief when she glanced up and saw the solicitor’s office just ahead.

“Chin up, dear,” Mrs. Harmon suddenly whispered in her ear. “Don’t let her intimidate you.”

Confused, Jane turned her head to ask for an explanation, but she hadn’t so much as opened her mouth when she spied the problem. Mrs. Lydia Grinsell, standing stock-still on the other side of the street with her little button nose in the air and a look of disgust on her face.

Jane tipped her chin up even as her stomach turned over in a long, slow roll.

For a horrifying second, it appeared as if the woman might cross the street to confront her, but Mrs. Grinsell ultimately settled for turning her back on the group in dramatic fashion and flouncing away.

Jane looked to Gabriel and found him engaged in a conversation with Mr. Harmon, both of them apparently unaware of the brief moment of tension.

Thank God, she thought. She had no idea how she could have explained away Mrs. Grinsell’s hatred for her.

“It’s been so long,” Mrs. Harmon grumbled in Jane’s ear. “One would think she’d have let the matter go by now.”

Jane didn’t reply. It hadn’t been all that long ago. Only six years—the last time she had tried to become a part of the outside world.

Everything had been going so well. She’d come into town every week for three months. In the beginning, she’d kept her visits brief and her interactions limited. But with every successful trip, she’d grown a little bolder, risked a little more. She’d greeted people on the street, asked after their families. She went into shops just to browse, and struck up conversations with the shopkeepers or other patrons. She’d nearly made a friend in the vicar’s wife, and had half made up her mind to accept the lady’s invitation to supper.

And then, in the blink of an eye, everything had fallen apart.

She’d been having a perfectly normal, perfectly civil conversation with Mrs. Grinsell outside the pharmacy. The new mother was well, her infant was thriving. But her hands were full with the basket and child, and she still needed to visit the drapers. Would Jane mind taking the basket home for her?
 

Jane had thought it an odd request, and perhaps a little presumptuous, but she’d agreed nonetheless.

Only Mrs. Grinsell had not asked Jane to take the basket. She’d said something else, something Jane had misheard and, to this day, could not puzzle out. And when Jane walked away with the woman’s goods, Mrs. Grinsell had made her displeasure known in the strongest, and loudest, terms possible.

Jane had been called a variety of names over the years. She’d withstood countless insults and accusations. But it was the first and only time she’d ever been called a thief.

The humiliation of it still burned. People had stopped in the street and come out of the shops to see what the ruckus was about. The constable had been called.

Jane could still remember the sick terror of seeing Mr. Cronk headed her way. She’d been certain he would take her away. She would be tried, pronounced mad, and sent back to the asylum.

But Mr. Cronk hadn’t put her in manacles. He’d sorted through the misunderstanding with a great deal of patience, and convinced Mrs. Grinsell to let the matter go once Jane issued an apology. He’d sent Jane home with a sympathetic smile and kind words she’d only half heard.

It had all worked out in the end, but the scene had been enough to convince her that no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she longed for it, there could be no life for her in Ardbaile.

 

Chapter Five

 

After ten minutes in Mr. Felch’s company, Jane decided that Mrs. Felch had been the greater beneficiary in the solicitor’s sudden decision to return to work. The man was decidedly pompous. He also seemed to have something wrong with his left eye. Three times over the course of the meeting, he blinked it at her. Under other circumstances, she might have thought he was winking. But that made no sense. They shared no friendship or secret joke. He couldn’t possibly be flirting with her. They’d only just met, and Jane spoke to him as little as possible during the transaction.

Once business was concluded, she hurried out of the office just in time to see the Harmons, who’d waited in the receiving room, head into the stairwell.

“What was wrong with his eye?” Jane whispered to Gabriel as they followed.

“Beg your pardon?”

“His right eye. He kept blinking it.”

“He wasn’t blinking, Jane.” He glanced at her when she didn’t respond. “Those were winks. He was winking at you.”

“No, he wasn’t. Why should he?”

Gabriel scowled as he opened the door for her. “Because he thought I wouldn’t notice.”

“Has winking become an acceptable way to greet strangers?” She could scarcely picture it. People walking about, batting individual eyes at each other. She peered across the street to where Mrs. Harmon was ushering her husband into the grocer’s. Winking seemed the sort of thing Mrs. Harmon would have mentioned.

“No, it’s still reserved for teasing small children and flirting with women.”

She threw an appalled look at the office windows above. “I can’t imagine why he thought I might appreciate such attention. Does he wink at all his female clients, do you suppose?”

“I doubt it.” He cleared his throat. “The thing is, Jane, we were signing a contract that stipulated I pay you for unspecified goods and service…” He trailed off, his eyes narrowing at something over her shoulder.

She glanced behind her but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “What is it?”

“Wait here a moment,” he replied, brushing past her.

“Where are you going?”

“The bookseller’s. Round the corner, isn’t it?”

“On Peregrine Lane, yes. But—”

“I’ll be right back,” he called out. “Go inside with the Harmons.”

“But…” They’d been in the middle of a conversation. He’d not yet explained why the solicitor had thought it appropriate to flirt with her.

He disappeared around the corner.

“Well…drat,” she said to no one in particular, and with a huff of annoyance, headed for the grocer’s.

Mrs. Harmon looked up when she entered. “Where is your Sir Gabriel?”

“He’s notmy Sir Gabriel,” she corrected with a worried glance at the shopkeeper. Thankfully, the man was preoccupied with assisting someone else. “And he’s gone to the bookseller’s. Rather suddenly.”

“Has he?” Mrs. Harmon craned her neck for a peek out the window. “That reminds me. Now that we’re to have some extra coin, I should like a copy of that new adventure novel Mrs. Whitburger has been talking about.Around the World in Eighty Days.” She dug into her chatelaine bag and withdrew a few coins. “Be a dear and fetch it for me.”

“Why can’t we all go?”

“I couldn’t possibly.” Mrs. Harmon fanned her face. “The walk here was so taxing. Mr. Harmon and I shall take our rest there”—she pointed to a bench outside —“and await your return.”

“Taxing? You walk to town and back twice a week. You’re not taxed.” She looked to Mr. Harmon for support, but he’d taken a sudden interest in the nearest shelf of merchandise and couldn’t be bothered to look at her.

Mrs. Harmon sniffed. “It taxed me today.” She pressed the coins into Jane’s hand and gave her an implacable look. “Fetch the book.”

“Oh, very well.” Sighing, Jane pocketed the coins and headed for the door.

Once outside, she skirted around the front of the building and slipped into one of the alleyways that ran behind the shops. It wasn’t seemly for a lady to walk the alleyways alone, but it was preferable to even a chance of facing another awkward encounter on the street. And there was no danger in it, not in Ardbaile while the sun was high, lighting the narrow dirt paths.

At least…there didn’t use to be. But the paths had changed, she noticed. They’d been tidy once, kept free of clutter and refuse. Now she was skirting broken crates and buckets, old rags, fragmented bits of furniture and shattered glass.

Had her town altered so much in six years? Had she missed more than she’d realized?

Suddenly ill at ease, she turned up the next path leading back to Main Street.

“I told you to stay with the Harmons.”

Gabriel’s angry voice sounded like a cannon blast in her ears. She whirled, heart in her throat and an involuntary scream on her lips.

She never had the chance to make so much as a peep.

He looked over his shoulder once, and then his hand was over her mouth and he was shoving her backward. The sudden, jarring movement would have tripped her, but his arm caught her firmly around the waist, keeping her upright until he’d pinned her against the brick wall of the nearest building.

He bent his head, and his voice was hot and rushed in her ear. “Stay here. Be still. Be quiet. Understood?”

She nodded, and she wasn’t even sure why, except that she couldfeel the terrible tension in his frame.

“Not a sound, Jane,” he warned, and then he was gone. One moment he was pressed up against her, taking up her entire field of vision, and in the next, she was alone and staring at the opposite wall of the alley.

She took a small, ragged breath, turned her head, and discovered she was standing beside a small mountain of crates.

He’d hidden her, she realized. He hadn’t just pushed her out of the way. He’d stashed her away. And he hadn’t gone far. She could make out his form through a small gap between two crates. He was walking away from her. Ten feet, fifteen, twenty…

Another form stepped into the alley, and Gabriel came to a stop.

“Kray,” she heard him say. “I thought I saw you about earlier. Finished with your search already?”

Mr. Kray drew a gun from his pocket and aimed it at Gabriel’s chest. “Where is it, Arkwright?”

Jane’s heart nearly stopped in her chest.

Dear God. Dear God.

She had to do something. She couldn’t just stand there, hiding like a coward. She had to get help. She glanced behind her. The alleyway veered to the left not far ahead. If she stuck close to the wall, she could move away without being seen.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” she heard Gabriel say. “Where is what?”

She shifted slightly, losing her clear view of the men. Their voices became a little muddled, but she could make out at least some of what Mr. Kray was saying.

“It’s gone… Took it… Mine …”

One cautious step backward, another…something cracked softly beneath her heel.