Walking up from Darby’s cottage, Jo stopped and stared across the fields at the horses being whipped to a breakneck pace along the lane toward Baronsford’s front door. Only an emergency would necessitate such reckless speed. Then she recognized the carriage and tension immediately pooled between her shoulder blades.

Lord or Lady Nithsdale.

Whatever the reason for this visit, the first thought to run through her mind was disappointment that Hugh wasn’t here to put these people in their place. After all, it was their guest, Mrs. Douglas, who’d endangered Grace with her careless hints and invitations. If Jo were only strong enough, brave enough, she’d call to task the annoying earl and countess herself.

As she hurried along the path, however, Jo knew she wouldn’t. Propriety always silenced her. That and the gnawing shame that the Nithsdales knew all about her past—about her murky origins and the public scandal that would dog her forever, regardless of the protection of the Pennington name and wealth.

Just as Jo reached the graveled courtyard, the carriage careened through the gates and the frenzied horses were reined in.

“M’lord,” she called out as the portly earl leaped to the ground. “Has something happened?”

“Where is Greysteil?” Nithsdale demanded, moving past her toward the door without so much as a bow.

More proof of how insignificant she was in these people’s opinion, she thought bitterly. Without her family nearby, the man omitted even the most rudimentary courtesies.

“He’s not at home,” she said.

Nithsdale spun around. “But I must speak to him at once.”

How she desperately wanted to tell him how little she cared about his wishes! Sharp words struggled to break free to the surface. Jo searched her inner resources for even an ounce of Hugh’s strength to remonstrate the earl for his ungentlemanly manner of greeting her. But nothing left her lips and she stood silent, frustrated and constrained.

“Speak,” he ordered. “Where can I find his lordship?”

“Melrose Village,” she answered finally, unable to say more.

Without another word to her, Nithsdale shouted to his driver and scrambled into the carriage. As Jo watched the vehicle race down the lane, she tried to convince herself that her bone of contention lay with Lady Nithsdale and not her husband.

That was a lie, Jo admitted silently a moment later. The truth was that she was a coward.

She’d been only a girl at the time, but after news of Wynne Melfort’s proposal circulated, she’d allowed the gossip and the petty arrogance and the envy of people like the Nithsdales to destroy her happiness. Wallowing in the shameful uncertainties of her birth, she hadn’t had the courage to fight the accusations and the innuendo. She had retreated into a cowardly silence.

Fifteen years later, she was still hiding.

* * *

Grace looked through the small, barred window in the door of the cell.

They were definitely the three men who attacked her and Darby on the lane. The leader, with the distinctive M tattooed on his hand, was standing beneath the high window, scowling at the others. The one who’d come at her sat on a cot. The man who kicked Darby crouched in a corner, staring at nothing.

She didn’t want to stay here one moment longer than she had to. She was satisfied that they’d caught the right ones.

After their ride into the village and all that was said by the man standing beside her, Grace wanted this business finished, but there was no chance of that until they knew for certain the motive behind the attack. Hugh touched her elbow and she nodded. He had the look of a leashed hound. He wanted answers.

He led her outside the jail, where Truscott waited. The other Baronsford men were milling about near the market cross and lounging at the corner by the George Inn.

“How did you find them?” Hugh asked.

Truscott sent Grace a look. “We went to the limestone mine and talked to the operator. As bad luck would have it, the mine was shut down for the past week. A partial cave-in of one of the tunnels. We couldn’t narrow it down at all because no one was working but a wee crew shoring up the works. They started operations again just this morning.”

“And no one knew anything?” Hugh pressed.

“While we were talking to the operator, one of the foremen came in. He said that there was a brawl between two fellows last night.” Truscott looked at Hugh. “And not one of your bare-knuckle bouts. The lads had been gambling at cards fairly heavily earlier in the week, as they tend to do when the mine is shut down. One of them lost a tidy sum to another, and when the winner wanted to collect, the other fellow said he’d pay him when he got back from doing a ‘big job’ up by Melrose. Turns out the job didn’t work out the way he’d hoped, and when he came back last night, he didn’t have the money to pay his debt.”

“We know what the ‘big job’ was,” Hugh put in.

“They called the man out of the mine,” Truscott continued. “As soon as he saw us, he ran for it and then fought like the devil when we caught him. He gave us an earful about laying hands on an innocent working man, but soon enough he was singing like a magpie.”

“Did he give up the other two?” Hugh asked.

“He did. His confederates were still in the mine, and the operator brought them out, as well. Once we had all three, two of them pointed their fingers at the one with the M brand—who goes by the name Quint—as the ringleader.”

Hugh glanced back at the jail door, looking like he was ready to go back in there. “Did they tell you anything?”

“The two had plenty to say, but Quint is a hard one.”

“What reason did they give for the attack?” Hugh pressed. “Why come here and wait on a country lane? They’d be fools to call that a big job.”

Grace could see he was growing angrier by the minute.

“That’s the most interesting part,” Truscott continued. “They said Quint’s brother, a manservant, came to him with the offer of good money to snatch a particular woman and deliver her to a spot on the Jedburgh road just south of Melrose. They were paid a few shillings up front, and they were to get equal shares of fifteen pounds on delivery.”

“A manservant to whom?” Hugh demanded.

“They didn’t know, and Quint has yet to talk. The two described him, though. Said he was tall and had a cast in his right eye.”

Grace knew that no manservant would be paying that much money for her abduction. He had to be acting on behalf of his master.

“I’ll have the bailiff search out every estate from Berwick to Edinburgh,” Hugh said to her. “We’ll find out who was behind this. Until then . . .”

A carriage drawn by four horses clattered into the village at high speed. As the chariot raced past them, Grace saw a round face peering from the window suddenly cry out to the driver to stop.

No sooner had the driver reined in his team than a rotund gentleman leaped from the carriage and hurried back to where they were standing. Hugh’s face darkened as the man approached.

“Lord Greysteil,” the man called. “I was just at Baronsford. Your sister told me I would find you here.”

“Lord Nithsdale,” Hugh replied in an icy tone.

Lady Nithsdale’s husband, Grace thought. The other half, for better or for worse.

“I need a moment to speak with you, if you can spare—”

“We’re busy,” Hugh growled threateningly. “This is not the time.”

Nithsdale took an involuntary step back, then seemed to notice for the first time that the viscount was not alone. He nodded to Truscott and glanced at Grace. “Oh, is this . . . ? Would your lordship be so kind as to introduce your guest?”

The lord justice’s hesitation was intimidating. In spite of the difference in rank, there was no question in Grace’s mind that the viscount was in charge here.

Hugh introduced her as “Miss Grace Ware,” but his words were clipped, and his anger was palpable.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” he snapped, turning away from the earl.

“If you have just a moment to spare, my business is quite important. You see, my—”

Hugh cut him off. “I’ve just told you this is not the time, Nithsdale. You think your business is always paramount in importance, but I am at present engaged in official business.”

Grace marveled at Nithsdale’s change in attitude. He suddenly looked like an errant, groveling schoolboy asking the master for permission to relinquish his dunce cap and rejoin the class.

“If you could spare just a moment?” he persisted meekly. “This pertains to Mrs. Douglas.”

Hugh clenched and unclenched his fists, glaring at Nithsdale. “Say it.”

The earl looked even less sure of himself, but she could see he was already in too deep.

“Perhaps if Truscott and Miss Grace would excuse us for a moment?”

Hugh steered Nithsdale a few steps away, but they were still near enough that she could hear their conversation.

The earl fumbled with his words for a moment. “Pray, take no offence, but I need to ask you what you said to the woman.”

“Bloody hell,” Hugh growled.

“I apologize that I’ve caught you at a bad time.” Nithsdale glanced at the jail door. “But . . . well, my wife is all in a dither. Her friend returned from Baronsford yesterday in a bit of a huff, where I’m told she spoke with you, and then packed her bags and left!”

“Left where?” Hugh asked sharply.

“I don’t really know. London, I think. The woman made some excuse about being called to help with some fashion crisis or other. Some letter had arrived, she said. But no letter came for her, so the whole thing is a mystery to me. In any event, the woman went off, Lady Nithsdale is all at sixes and sevens. So here I am, chasing shadows while the best salmon run the Tweed has seen in years is happening without me. Again, I apologize for detaining you, m’lord, but please understand my position. My wife . . .”

Why the hasty departure, Grace thought, unless Mrs. Douglas was behind the attack.

“Did she travel with servants?” Hugh asked.

“Of course. Several.”

“A manservant?”

Nithsdale stared for a moment, then thought about the question. “Let me see. Yes, a driver and a manservant, along with her maid.”

“What did the manservant look like?”

“See here, I don’t know that I ever looked twice at the man.”

“Think, Nithsdale.”

“We should speak with my driver. He should . . .” The earl paused nervously. “Wait, now that I think of it, there was one thing I recall. The man had a cast in one eye. Couldn’t tell if he was looking at you or looking at something behind you. Bloody annoying, I should think.”