Bink quaffed a large glass of ale while Bakeley droned on. His brother had convened this meeting at the table spread with hot dishes. Old battlefield habits died hard, and Bink ate. It was wise to eat when one could during a break in the fighting. He’d barely tasted the beef and the pudding, so much on edge was he from fatigue, worry, and nagging apprehension.

Kincaid had joined them, as well as Bakeley’s man, who called himself George Stewart, a man with the refined narrow face of a popinjay poet, and the silent dark eyes of a hawk.

He was, Bink decided, another of the old lord’s operators.

“They’ll be calling on Parliament to gather,” Bink said. “You’ll be wanting to take your place in the Lords.”

Bakeley winced. Stewart chewed blandly. Kincaid shot Bakeley a hard look and went back to his plate.

Bakeley’s flinch was the sparest of shudders, a mere whisper of movement, and strange. The absence of grief at Shaldon’s passing hadn’t surprised Bink, eager as Bakeley must have been to get the old man off his back and take on the full role of his Lordship. That would include donning his cloak and coronet for the Lords.

Bakeley adopted a nonchalant look and waved a hand. “Plenty of time for that.”

“Not if this bunch starts a rebellion. It will be all hands to battle if that happens.”

“It won’t.”

“I’m not so sure. We encountered a bunch on the road and had a chance to chat. They want blood back. When the choice is between starving and lopping some lord’s head—”

Kincaid cleared his throat loudly.

Bink stood and went to the window. Day was sliding into night, a sliver of a moon making its way higher.

“How many men do you have outside?”

Bakeley lolled back in his chair. “Do not worry, brother.”

“There are two with the house,” Kincaid said. “As well as the coachman and groom who escorted us here, plus our six.”

Bink lifted an eyebrow.

“The Scotsmen have returned,” Kincaid said.

“And?”

“Those two did break away from the group, but they didn’t follow us.”

Bink turned back to the window and reexamined his memory of the group on the road. The two men had been dressed just as roughly. They’d grumbled with the others when he’d asked about the demonstration. He could not put his finger on what had made them stand out.

He’d rather have heard they’d been disposed of. “Where did they go?”

Kincaid’s jaw moved. “They followed them west and then they lost them.”

His hands curled into fists. “Lost them?”

The older man grimaced. “They were good, or else lucky.”

“And then what, your men doubled back and found us how?”

“I put a man on the road,” Stewart said.

“In any case,” Bakeley said, “there’s no telling if they were Agruen’s men. They might have been weavers for all we know. Bink, your men are resting, as should you. We leave at first light for London. Paulette will be safe here.”

“And who will see to her safety here?”

“I will.” Stewart said, no emotion detectable in his narrow, cold face.

Like bloody hell, you will.

“Well, you can’t,” Bakeley said. “You’re needed at the solicitor’s office.”

“What solicitor’s office is that?” The door had opened noiselessly and Paulette stood, her head cocked.

A burst of shame burned Bink’s face. Damn Bakeley, and damn himself for being maneuvered into speaking of this with the men before he’d had a chance to talk to her.

He walked up and took her arm. “Have you eaten, love?”

She lifted her chin and let her lips turn up a fraction. “His lordship sent a tray to my room. But I found I wanted more company than my servants.” She shook off his arm. “What have we here? Ah yes. A very nice repast. And no extra plate.” She sat down in the empty chair and pulled a bowl over. “And no footmen. To preserve your private conversation, no doubt.” She reached for a bread plate and piled food on it. “Now what solicitor’s office are we visiting?”

Paulette’s insides were shaking, but she sawed at the food with utensils that must have been her husband’s, as the other gentlemen occupied the other seats at table.

They’d not yet reached their brandy course, but no matter. If they thought they were sending her away, they were mistaken. They would have to physically remove her.

She’d shocked Gibson. Good.

He’d be more shocked before this was over. They’d both married for money, but she was no Smithfield bargain cow to be penned in the barn.

She ignored him and turned her attention to the others. Kincaid frowned. Bakeley looked tongue-tied. His handsome friend’s eyes glinted, sending a shiver through her.

She inclined her head to him. “No one has taken the trouble to introduce us, sir, but I surmise you are a friend to Lord Shaldon. I am Paulette Heardwyn.”

Her husband’s throat-clearing sounded like he had a fish bone stuck. She felt his heat at her shoulder.

“Oh, pardon me. I’m Gibson now. Paulette Heardwyn Gibson.”

The man’s face didn’t move. Bakeley’s mouth parted a bit.

Hot anger rose in her. She reached for the glass on the table and took a drink, trying to wash it down.

It was a very good ale and it steadied her. “Who are you, sir? Will no one here have the courtesy to introduce me to this gentleman who is privy to the plans for my inheritance?”

Bakeley sat up straighter. “Paulette—”

“George Stewart is the name he uses,” her husband said, in the low rumble that signaled trouble. His anger felt reassuring. She was sure it wasn’t directed at her.

And if it was, blast it, she didn’t care. “I see.” She took another drink. A big hand oozed comfort into her shoulder. She wanted to lean into it.

Instead she froze. No need to encourage him. It was only a trick anyway, trying to woo her compliance. “What are the plans then?”

“You know it’s not safe for you in London,” Bakeley said.

“But it’s safe here?”

“Yes. This is one of my father’s safe houses for his people.”

“And you will all go to London and leave me here with my two maids.”

“No. Of course not. We’ll leave the four grooms and Stewart here—”

“No.” Bink squeezed her shoulder. “Paulette does not know your man here. And neither do I.”

Hope touched her heart.

Bakeley frowned. “You’ll be comfortable here. It will be only a matter of days for us to take care of business. Bink will settle with the solicitor. We’ll smoke out Agruen and see what he’s after, and Bink will be back to reclaim you. In the meantime, you may enjoy yourself. You’ll be well guarded. You can walk in the garden. You can even ride within the surrounding woods, providing you take men with you.”

“My lord,” Kincaid interrupted this pleasant vision.

She’d forgotten his presence. His eyes were not unkind.

“I believe, my lord, it is you who must stay with Mrs. Gibson.”

Pink rose in Bakeley’s cheeks.

Her breath caught. His father’s valet held sway over him. Even Stewart had more authority here. He might be as much under the thumb of these others as she was.

“We’ll discuss this later.” Bakeley glanced at Paulette and she heard his unfinished words—after Paulette goes to her chamber.

Her chair creaked under the weight of Gibson’s hand. “Tell us what you know, Bakeley,” he said. “What do you know that Paulette and I don’t?”

While the silence stretched, she leaned in and refilled her glass, willing her hand not to shake. She took a sip and pushed it away. The ale was too strong. She needed her wits about her. She rose, found the bell pull, yanked on it, and went back to her seat.

A maid appeared. “Bring a pot of tea,” Paulette said.

The woman looked at Bakeley, who nodded, and turned.

Heat rose in her and she clenched the edge of the table.

“Just a moment,” she called. “Did you know I’m to be the mistress here for the next undetermined amount of time? You’ll take instructions from me, you will.”

The woman’s face paled, but she bobbed a curtsy, said, “yes, madam,” and left.

Paulette’s head began to pound. None of this was the maid’s fault.

“So you’ll cooperate,” Bakeley said. “You’ll stay and not give Bink here any trouble?”

“Bakeley.” Bink’s voice rumbled dangerously in her ear. “Paulette is my wife, and neither of us are children to be spoken to or about thusly.”

Bakeley drummed his fingers on the table, frowning.

“Let us start with a discussion of that trip to the solicitor,” Paulette asked. “Do you have plans for my inheritance, Bakeley?”

Bakeley’s mouth firmed. “You think I would steal the orphan’s mite? Of course not. We are trying to trap a traitor.”

“And if I were to not, as you say, cooperate, stay here like a good girl, would you deny Mr. Gibson and me the settlement your father promised if we married?”

Bakeley rose and walked to the fireplace. Walked back again. Behind her, Gibson radiated tension. She glanced over her shoulder. He was as hard and as fixed as a statue, jaw clenched, brow furrowed, lips firmed.

“Of course not,” Bakeley said.

Confusion swamped her, sweeping away all her moorings, leaving her hollow and alone.

A warm weight touched her shoulder.

No, she was not alone, at least not yet, not until she left for London. And then, in spite of his words now, Bakeley might very well withhold the settlement.

The truth from Lord Shaldon? You might as well hope to get wine from a milk cow.

Bakeley was Shaldon now.

“It does not matter,” she whispered. She’d take whatever mite her father had left in trust and use it to find the treasure. Or if she couldn’t, if there was no treasure, perhaps she might, if he would still have her, follow her husband to India.

Bink turned glittering eyes on her, eyes sparkling like sunlit amber. Then he offered her his hand.

What would he do? Did he mean to take her to the room and lock her up? Or would he actually speak to her? Or…

No, she must not let the kissing start. She must not. She had to think clearly. She had to rest. She had to escape.

He practically carried her up the stairs, stopping at his room, where he tucked away his razor and snatched up his bag before strong-arming her out the door.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Where are we going?”

He stopped in the dim corridor and looked both ways. Someone had lit a lamp near the stairs.

“Which room is yours?”

His voice, husky and ragged, sent chills through her. He was upset about what she’d said. He thought she’d married him for the money. Which she had. And he’d known that. So why was he angry now? And what would he do?

She’d seen what he’d done to Agruen and Cummings. Fear traced a path down her spine.

“Why?” she asked.

He must have felt the trembling she’d been fighting because his grip on her arm eased. “We’re going to have that conversation you’ve been wanting.”

Such an inconvenient time for her vocal cords to freeze.

His face moved closer, his eyes glowing golden in the light. “We’re going to conspire together,” he said, and dropped a kiss on her nose.

“Oh.” She expelled the word on a puff of air. They would conspire.

Her eyes slid to the stairs leading up to the third floor. She had already conspired earlier with Jenny, who had promised to send Mabel to bed and go and find clothing. If she appeared now with a suit of boy’s clothing, the timing was inopportune.

“They put you a floor up from me?”

His voice was rumbling again. “Yes. Like a story our man Jock told me about a girl named Rapunzel, confined to a tower.”

His lips firmed. “We’ll see about that. Lead the way.”

She hurried up the stairs, his hand still attached to her elbow, the connection melting away her anxiety.

It was always like that with him—comforting, exciting. Still, she would need to get rid of him.

Or she could put him to sleep. After so many days in the saddle, whatever bit of rest he’d enjoyed hadn’t been enough.

At the door of her room, his hand found the small of her back. A shot of pure animal awareness coursed through her, sending her breath into short little gasps.

She closed her eyes, caught her breath, and shook herself.

She didn’t have time to make love. She needed to plan her escape and gather her things. Jenny would come soon with whatever clothing and information she’d found. The time for her to leave was now, tonight.

The bedchamber was empty—Mabel had gone to bed after all, thank heavens. A small lamp burned low on the table where her mother’s ornate hair brush and comb were arranged. She would bring only the comb. Nor would she need any of her clothes.

The door closed behind them, and he pulled her into a kiss that melted away all thoughts of packing. His bag plopped on the floor, while his lips, so firm and determined, sent shivers through her.

She opened for him, her tongue twining with his, while his arm locked around her and he brought her so close there was no space between them anywhere. Pleasure drummed through her, sending warmth spiraling. His hard shaft poked at her through her skirts.

Perhaps one very quick tumble and then he would fall sound asleep. Perhaps after so many days on the road it would take only one go around.

His fingers raked through her coiffure, sending a cascade of pins and combs, and she clutched at his strong neck, returning the favor by running her fingers through his hair.

Kisses trailed along her cheek, down her jaw, over her neck, melting her insides. And then he paused, and she heard the scratch at the door.

“Enter.”

The door opened. His gruffness would scare many servants away, but not Jenny.

She took in the scene, bobbed a curtsey, and hefted Paulette’s bundled dress. “I’ve brushed off your gown, miss. Shall I come back later?”

“No,” Bink said, and “Yes” Paulette said, both at the same time.

He groaned, and before Paulette could stop him, grabbed the bundle from Jenny, slammed the door, and tossed the dress on a chair where it fell to the floor and unrolled, spilling out dark trousers, coats and a shirt.

She spun him around, praying he hadn’t seen the garments, and pulled him back into that passionate kiss. He took the kiss deep, worked her skirts up, and found the opening in her drawers.

She choked at the feel of his fingers.

“Unfasten me,” he groaned, pushing her back against the closed door.

She reached for his coat, and a low rumble told her he’d meant his fall.

Her fingers were clumsy; her mind filled with the need to dissemble, her body filled with his fingers working into her, her heart filled with such a wish to trust and be trusted, she thought she might burst.

She pushed down the top of his trousers and wrapped a hand around his stout shaft. Gasping, his eyes fluttered closed, his free arm braced the door frame, his big chest collapsed against her, and they were one union of grunting, panting, and moaning.

Then he was shoving at her skirts and lifting her. She guided him through the slit in her drawers, and moaned when he filled her.

So wet from him, she was. He had that power, to wring her dry, to fill her again, a power that built with each drive into her until she shattered and he bellowed his own release.

They stood, joined, braced against the door, for longer minutes than they’d needed to achieve that climax, until she felt his muscles tremble from the weight of holding her. She unlocked her ankles and slid down.

And remembered the trousers and shirts spread across the floor.

“Oh, my. That was…” She straightened her gown and forced her hand to her heart when it wanted to wander back under her skirts. She did not want to stop. She did not want to put her attention back to leaving. Perhaps he didn’t want to leave either. Perhaps they should both stay here for several more days. “You must be exhausted. Do you want to sleep here?”

He tipped her chin up and kissed her nose again, his handsome face wrinkling into a curious examination. His was a strong face, the face of a man one could rely on.

Unless that was the last strong face one saw before being locked in a manor house.

But what had he said earlier about conspiring? She sorted through her sluggish brain to try to remember what had happened before he’d so thoroughly muddled her.

“Let’s get you out of this dress.” When his fingers flew to the lacings in the back of her gown, warmth rippled anew. They would make love again. Yes, she wanted that. It had not taken long. There would be plenty of time to carry out her plan.

She slipped the dress off, stepped out of it, and he helped her out of her stays and her chemise and drawers until all that remained were her stockings.

She stepped close, touched her breasts to his waistcoat and her lips to his neck.

“Ah, lass,” he said. “You’re hungry for more.”

She stilled. Was he criticizing?

“As am I. Ravenous. For you.” He stroked her cheek and looked at her.

She suddenly felt her nakedness. “You are too tired. Let me get my chemise.”

“No. I mean, tired I am, but my willingness is not in question. What’s in question is time.”

“I see.” He wanted to sleep. He was leaving within hours.

“And we haven’t done our conspiring yet.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” He set her back and everywhere his gaze touched her, she burned. When his eyes finally settled on her face, they glowed with a dark humor. “We need to talk, yes, and we need to see if those trousers and coats will fit you.”