Rain streaked the carriage windows, the cold making the glass steam with its passengers’ breath. Mrs. Reynolds, prim in dark cloak and hood, sat opposite Alec, her gloved hands in quiet repose.

Alec was anything but composed. He craned to look out the window as the carriage bumped over the rutted and rain-soaked road, the outline of a house near the estate of Sir Amos Westwood in the distance.

Mrs. Reynolds and Lady Flora had concluded this house was a possibility for where Scottish soldiers might be held. They knew every estate within a hundred-mile swath outside London, and they’d pared down the possibilities to three. This was one of them. Mrs. Reynolds offered to look it over herself—very few noticed what a widowed lady’s companion did—but Alec insisted on accompanying her.

Was Will inside the crumbling brick walls of the Cambridgeshire estate, held in chains? Alec pictured Will’s long, lanky body, his red hair coated with dirt and blood, lying on an earthen floor, beaten and starving. Bloody hell.

His worry had escalated earlier this morning when Lady Flora had wordlessly handed him a letter from his brother Malcolm.

Mal had written in French, being fluent in the language, and smuggled the letter to Alec via friends of Lady Flora. Very few excise men were willing to search the baggage of an aristocratic English lady landing after a sojourn on the Continent, especially ladies who were close to the daunting Lady Flora.

I don’t know whether to give credit to this tale, Mal wrote, but I heard it from a Borderland lad newly arrived in Paris who was acquainted with Will. He says Will was arrested in the west of Scotland while helping Teàrlach mhic Seamas escape.

I didn’t believe it, but the lad insisted Will jumped in front of a horde of English soldiers, declaring he was Prince Teàrlach himself, and they should bow before the rightful heir to the Scottish throne. The soldiers promptly clapped him in irons. When it was pointed out later by their commander that he wasn’t Teàrlach but an unknown Highlander, they took Will off, and the Border lad doesn’t know where.

I don’t know why Will would do such a daft thing, and the lad might be mistaken, but he swore by all that’s holy it was Will.

Dad’s out of his mind with worry, and Mary fears he truly is going off his head. Now Dad is convinced King Geordie’s men have you as well. Write and tell me it isn’t so, so we don’t have to lock him in the basement and feed him gruel and weak whisky until your return.

Mary sends her love to you and Jenny.

Your distracted brother,

Malcolm

Alec had committed the letter to memory and burned it.

He could imagine Will popping up in front of British soldiers to mockingly claim he was Charles Edward Stuart, son of the rightful King of all Britain, because that was the sort of thing Will would do. Why was beyond Alec’s understanding, but Will did things for his own reasons. If he’d let himself be arrested in the prince’s place, it meant he was following some mad plan he’d concocted.

Will would not sacrifice himself out of compassion and loyalty to the prince, Alec knew good and well. Damn and blast him. Will couldn’t be bothered to get a message to the rest of them, let them know what he was doing, could he?

“How the bloody hell are we to know if he’s here?” he growled at Mrs. Reynolds.

“We don’t.” She spoke coolly, as calm as Alec was agitated. “We are taking in the lay of the land, reconnoitering, if you will. We should do the same at the other houses and then decide which is best to approach.”

“Meanwhile, they drag Will off to a sham trial and hang him,” Alec said, scowling at the rainy window. “Or transport him, if they haven’t already. Will might not be in any of these places.”

“If you rush in and demand to know whether the owner of the house is holding prisoners of war, you’ll only be captured yourself,” Mrs. Reynolds pointed out. “Wise heads must prevail, my lord.”

Alec’s father would laugh that a woman was more collected and competent at the spy game than his sons—or maybe he would not. Their mother had been the calm one. It was said that Allison Mackenzie had great intelligence and could debate most men under the table in matters of science, mathematics, astronomy, and studies of the humors. Mal had inherited her logic and intellect, while Alec had been graced with the volatility and restlessness of their father.

No, they all had that restlessness, Alec reflected. Which was what had gotten Duncan and Angus killed, Mal looked upon as a terrifying demon, and now Will taken God knew where.

What would Mal do in this circumstance? Alec missed his favorite brother, but at the same time was glad Mal was in France with Mary, waiting for his first child to be born, all of them well out of danger.

Alec knew exactly what Mal would do, because Will had taught both brothers all his tricks. Mal would sneak through the countryside in the dead of night to lay traps or play pranks to scare the life out of the guards, and slip in to rescue Will.

So Alec would. He’d return, with the help of those he or Lady Flora had already contacted, and reconnoiter, as Mrs. Reynolds termed it. Or Alec would come alone, trusting to his own instincts.

Working with others had already proved perilous. The Glaswegian friend of Will’s had been killed, and the two ruffians who’d waylaid the Marquess of Harrenton and beaten him thoroughly last night had nearly been caught. The fools had rushed to Lady Flora’s house for sanctuary—and payment—and Alec had sent them off with their money.

Mayhap scouting alone was best.

“I’ve seen enough,” Alec said abruptly. “We should go.”

Mrs. Reynolds frowned. “Patience. Let us continue. If there are sentries, that will tell us something here is important enough to be guarded.”

Alec meant he’d seen enough to know the lay of the land. He was good at memorizing spaces—he’d noted the position of every window in the house, every tree on the ground, every possible entry into the building, and he would not forget.

The nearby fields, most of which lay fallow, were empty, no farmers tilling them. They’d seen no riders on the road, nobody going into or out of the house. It was strangely quiet here, a good place for highwaymen to lurk.

Highwaymen would get more than they bargained for if they attacked this carriage. Alec was on edge enough to become the berserker Highlander, and Mrs. Reynolds carried a pistol tucked somewhere about her person—the woman was reputed to be a dead shot.

They rolled along the tree-lined road, tall grasses bending in the wind and rain. Rain drummed on the carriage roof, and the vehicle bumped hard through ruts, at times nearly dislodging Alec from his seat.

Alec spied a man in a long coat and wide hat leaning against a tree, not doing much of anything. He could barely be seen with his dark garb against the rain-soaked trunk, and Alec might not have noticed him at all if he hadn’t been looking.

The man gazed across the rainy fields and didn’t turn his head to study the carriage as it went by. It would be less strange if he did stare at them, Alec wanted to tell him. A carriage trundling down a back country road should be of interest to the local men, an event to speculate on. The man’s seeming lack of interest betrayed him.

“Well, we know they have a sentry,” Mrs. Reynolds said after they’d passed him. “Something to guard. Interesting.”

Alec boiled with anger and impatience. “Far more than interesting. The Duke of Crenshaw knows about these places? Were the prisons his idea?”

“I have no notion, my lord.” Mrs. Reynolds gave him a steady look. “I can only report what I heard from Sir Amos and his colonel.”

“I will shake the duke until he tells me.”

“And be arrested alongside your brother or killed where you stand? We must go softly.”

“There’s no time for that.” Alec moved restlessly. “Who knows when the prisoners might be moved or simply executed? And Lord knows what Will Mackenzie will get up to inside a Sassenach gaol. He’ll get himself killed before he knows it.”

“You must continue as you have. Gain Lady Celia’s trust. Her father dotes on her.”

“Celia is no fool,” Alec said. He already admired her for that.

Thinking about her calmed him slightly. Celia also had a beauty he’d not encountered before in his life, like the sudden gleam of a candle in the darkness.

He’d kissed her in Lady Flora’s anteroom in rage and passion, and he’d kissed her in the studio for the fun of it, when he’d showed her the camera obscura. Both times he’d found her kisses soothing, healing.

“No, but she is unworldly and lonely,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “Her mother is the foolish one for not recognizing her worth. You are a handsome gentleman, Lord Alec. You could make Lady Celia your servant if you chose—she will be malleable because she’s been raised to be. She showed her good sense when she turned down the Marquess of Harrenton, a disgusting man, but that act reveals her romantic notions. She wants a marriage of equals and one of love. She has yet to learn, as I did, that there is no such thing. Her sense of romance is where you will win.”

Mrs. Reynolds’s words were bleak against the already bleak day. Yes, Celia might have romantic notions, but Mrs. Reynolds’s description made Celia sound like a silly ninny, waiting to be swept off her feet, and Alec knew she wasn’t. She already had a fairly clear-eyed view of marriage truly in her world.

Mrs. Reynolds continued. “You are not exercising your charm enough on her. You are too angry. Show her the Alec Mackenzie I have heard of, who had the ladies of Edinburgh and Paris happily surrendering.”

At one time, before all the sorrow, Alec had been quite the rogue. Now he was a father, sober and responsible, his roué days behind him.

Except Celia was drawing out the rogue again.

“Seducing information out of Celia will take too long,” Alec said. “Lady Flora is a grand plotter, but her plans take time.”

“We shall have to think of a way to increase the pace, then.” Mrs. Reynolds gave the house receding into the distance one last look. “Celia already watches you with much interest. When she spirited you out of the salon the other night, I wager you rewarded her. She certainly looked flustered when she emerged. One hard push, and you will have her.”

“Aye, maybe.”

Before he’d met Celia, Alec had planned exactly what Mrs. Reynolds suggested—draw her into his power, no matter what he had to do. But now that he knew her better, his tactics had changed. Celia had been hurt—she was like a wounded bird, afraid to fly again.

Alec no longer had the desire to break her. If he hastened the wooing, as Mrs. Reynolds urged, he would do so in earnest, no pretense. He would make Celia his in all ways, and no matter what happened with Will, he would not give her back.

Regardless of the fact he was supposed to be dead, his family name anathema, his home burned, Alec had money—his mother had settled it on all the brothers long ago. He had plenty squirreled away in many places, including Paris. But he’d have to live out his life there, in exile. Would Celia agree to that?

He’d leave that up to her. Unlike Malcolm, Alec considered himself a simple man. Mal went through machinations and manipulation to get what he wanted. Alec simply took it.

As the carriage rolled through the rain toward London, Alec laid his plans, which he did not share with Mrs. Reynolds. They were none of anyone’s business but his own.

* * *

When the soldiers departed and Jenny was quiet, Celia tucked the babe into her cot, kissed her soft hair, and left the nursery.

She descended the stairs, instructing a footman to call a sedan chair for her and have someone fetch her portfolio. Rain had begun in earnest, and Celia had the feeling she’d not see Alec today.

Rivers met her at the bottom of the stairs, his face drawn, his eyes red-rimmed. Celia halted in surprise—she’d never seen Rivers distressed before.

“Is everything all right, Rivers? The soldiers didn’t hurt anyone, did they? Or arrest anybody?”

Rivers made a correct bow. “No, my lady. I beg your pardon. Things are a bit at sixes and sevens, but no harm has been done.”

Celia frowned at him. “Clearly something is the matter. What has happened?”

Rivers remained stiff, looking down his long nose. “Nothing, my lady.” He started to say more, but then his eyes swam with sudden tears. “Truth to tell, my lady, her ladyship has taken to her bed. She is very upset. Mrs. Reynolds can usually soothe her, but she is not here. I’m a bit worried.”

The shock of Rivers revealing he had such a human emotion as concern stunned Celia a moment, then she took a breath.

“I can look in on her if you like.”

Rivers hesitated, as though wondering what sort of comfort Celia could offer, then he deflated in relief. “If you would be so kind, my lady. It is this way.”

He started up the stairs, Celia gathering her skirts to follow.

Rivers led her to a bedroom that was as large and grand as a ballroom. Two floor-to-ceiling windows faced the garden in back of the house, the ceiling painted with the same blue skies and cavorting cherubs as the morning room below it. A circular molding had been placed in the middle of the ceiling, the illusion of a dome with an oculus painted inside it.

Beneath this dome was a bed with gold damask hangings. The bed’s canopy was gathered in a ring in the very center, draperies flowing from it over the four bedposts in an elegant cascade.

The rest of the chamber held sofas, chairs, and a writing table. A double door led to an equally sumptuous dressing room where Lady Flora conducted her public toilette, though Celia had never been invited to one.

Lady Flora lay in the bed, her slim form nearly lost among pillows, sheets, and velvet bed coverings. The sound of quiet sobbing reached Celia as soon as she stepped through the door.

The fact of Lady Flora weeping was even more stunning than Rivers’s worry. Celia gave a nod to Rivers to leave them alone.

Celia waited until Rivers, with a look of reluctance, quietly pulled the chamber door closed behind him before she approached the bed.

“Lady Flora?” Celia asked softly. “Can I help?”

Lady Flora sat upright with a gasp, her sobs breaking off. Her face was blotchy and swollen, her eyes red and wet, her hair tumbling down her shoulders in tangles. Her poised beauty had vanished, and Celia gazed upon an exhausted, unhappy woman.

“What are you doing in here?” Lady Flora’s usual stentorian tones were weak and scratchy. “I will sack Rivers. Get out.”

“What is it?” Pity moved Celia to climb the bed step to sit on the mattress and reach for Lady Flora’s hand. “Did the soldiers upset you? Did any of them hurt you?”

“No!” Lady Flora sniffled and groped for a handkerchief that was just out of her reach. Celia plucked it up and handed it to her. “It is nothing. I am tired, that is all. I have been staying out too late and not sleeping enough.”

Her wretchedness surely had more to it than missing sleep. “Mrs. Reynolds is certain to be back soon. Where did she go?”

Lady Flora snatched her hand from Celia. “Never you mind. Yes, she will return. Rivers will send her to me. She will understand …”

She broke off, a sob working up through her chest and out her mouth before she could stop it. She squeezed her eyes shut, hiccupping for breath.

“I will stay with you until she comes.” Celia rested her hand on Lady Flora’s thin back as the woman bowed her head, her body shuddering. “You should not be alone.”

Lady Flora tried to shake her off again. “You don’t understand. How could you? I miss her. I miss her with every breath. Why did they take her away from me?” The last words rose into a wail.

Celia knew she was not speaking of Mrs. Reynolds, but Sophia, her daughter. Tears of sympathy stung Celia’s eyes as she put her arms around Lady Flora and gathered her close. This time, Lady Flora collapsed onto Celia’s shoulder and sobbed brokenly.

“I’m so sorry.” Celia stroked Lady Flora’s hair, no longer timid with her. Lady Flora was a lonely woman, and she grieved. “So sorry.”

There was nothing more to say. Sophia had been a beautiful and kind young woman, and she’d died far too young. The cold emptiness of the house was due to her absence.

Celia puzzled over the words Why did they take her away from me? Lady Sophia had died of a fever, as had several others in London that year. Celia’s father had moved his family to the country to avoid it.

She could mean the men who had taken Sophia’s body to be buried in St. George’s burial ground in Mount Street. There had been a tomb prepared at Lady Flora’s husband’s estate in Hampshire, but the new Marquess of Ellesmere, her deceased husband’s great-nephew, and Lady Flora did not get on, as everyone knew. Lady Flora insisted Sophia remain in London, where she would be near, as Flora had use of the Grosvenor Square house for her lifetime. Ellesmere had argued, but Lady Flora had prevailed.

Celia mulled all this over as Lady Flora continued to cry, and Celia rocked her, but she was no more enlightened.

* * *

By the time Alec arrived home, it was dark. He went straight to Jenny, happier once he could hold his daughter close.

She was quiet tonight, and when he remarked on it, Sally told him Lady Celia had come upstairs to calm her earlier.

“Did she, now?” Alec bounced Jenny, making her laugh. “Did ye like her, Jenny? She’s a bonny lass, isn’t she?”

Sally gave him an aghast look. “She’s a duke’s daughter, sir.”

As far as Sally knew, Alec was Alden Finn, drawing tutor from an impoverished gentleman’s family from Ireland. Not good enough for the likes of Lady Celia Fotheringhay.

Alec grinned at her. “Doesn’t make her less comely, does it? Don’t worry, lass, I’ll hold my tongue around my betters.”

“She was right good with the babe,” Sally admitted. “Jenny took to her, didn’t you, Jen?”

Jenny shoved her fingers into her mouth and gurgled around them. She already knew she was endearing and strove to use that fact to her advantage. She was a Mackenzie all right.

It was time for Jenny’s supper and bed, so Alec relinquished her to Sally, kissed her good night, and went down to find Mrs. Reynolds to continue their council of war.

Mrs. Reynolds and Lady Flora were at table in Lady Flora’s private dining room, the footmen waiting motionlessly near the sideboard heaped with food. Alec was a bit surprised Lady Flora had not left for her nightly round of social gatherings, but no, she sat in her place at the head of the table, nibbling on a feast.

Not eating much, though, Alec saw as he seated himself and accepted a large portion of fish and meat from the footman. Lady Flora appeared pale and unwell, though her eyes sparkled with her usual guile.

Lady Flora dismissed the footmen after they’d served Alec, waiting until they pulled the doors closed behind them before she spoke.

“Mrs. Reynolds told me all,” she said as she traced patterns in the butter sauce with her fork. “I agree with her that you must cease dilly-dallying about Celia and bring her under your power.”

“I’ll not be harming the lass,” Alec said quickly, his irritation rising. “She’s been through too much for that.”

Lady Flora sniffed. Her eyes were strangely pink, her face puffy, which explained why she hadn’t gone out. She never left the house unless she was the picture of beauty.

“Celia is resilient,” Lady Flora said. “And I did not mean she should be harmed. She has kindness in her—” She broke off and swallowed. “You are quite wealthy, are you not? If you make her your mistress, you could arrange for her to paint leisurely away at a seaside spa for the rest of her life, out of reach of her foul family. How far are you willing to go?”

Alec recalled the ghostly fog surrounding the abandoned house in the country, the rain staining the carriage windows like tears. He thought of Will Mackenzie’s sunny smile as he beguiled with one breath and bested you in the next. Was Will in that house, or another like it, waiting to face execution? His smile would be gone, his charm extinguished.

Alec had already resolved that his father would not have to face losing another son. He and Mal would make bloody certain of that.

“As far as I need to,” Alec said grimly.

Lady Flora gave him a decided nod. “Good. I have an idea. But you must follow it to the letter. Agreed?”

The shot that had killed Duncan rang in Alec’s mind, as did his father’s broken voice when he’d looked at Alec moments later and called him by the name of his dead twin.

“Aye,” Alec answered, his heart burning. “I’m agreed.”