The next day, Paulette was in the shed tending to Horace when she heard the rustle of horses and the rumble of wheels in the lane.

Mr. Cummings was dismounting. Behind him, his factotum climbed down from the box of an open wagon.

On a Sabbath, and before breakfast…it must have to do with the dog cart, which she was planning on returning on the morrow. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to greet them.

“I’m so very sorry, Mr. Cummings. My visit lasted longer than I expected, and I just arrived home very late last night. I’ll bring your cart back to you today after services. Will you come have some tea? Mabel is making a pot.”

“You dinna tell me the truth of your visit, did you, miss?” His hard eyes pierced her, and he moved too close, forcing her back a step.

“It was no lie. I was visiting an, er, acquaintance.”

“Lord Shaldon.”

His factotum, a thin rangy man, spat into the dirt at his side.

Cummings laughed, and she could see the gaps where he had teeth missing.

She took another step back. “I will return the dog cart today.” She turned, and a hand clamped on her arm.

“Why are you here?” she asked, willing her voice not to shake.

“Why are you here?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Didna the Earl tell you before he kicked up his heels?”

Blood thrummed in her ears. Tell me what? Cummings knew Shaldon was dead, and his eyes glittered as she had not seen them do before, except when he’d managed to turn a family out of their home, or watched a mother sell her child into servitude to pay a debt to him.

When his eyes ceased their glittering and began to glow, her heart shrank within her. Mr. Cummings had always been the crotchety tight-fisted neighbor, gentry, but not really gentlemanly. He was at least twenty years older than her, and she’d never seen this particular light in his eyes. Not once.

She clenched her fists. To hell with what Cummings thought Shaldon had told her—she needed to make him leave.

Easing in a breath, she fought for composure. “Yes, I spoke with the Earl briefly. Now, as you’re a gentleman, Mr. Cummings, please let go of my arm. I want to go in to my breakfast.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes, and you are welcome to join me, though my table is humble as I don’t often have guests.”

“Guests? But you don’t own this house.”

Her heart sickened. Shaldon had not left her the house, nor had he said anything of her continuing to live here. “Of course not. It belongs to the Shaldon estate.”

“No. It belongs to me.”

Coldness slammed her, and she felt the blood drain from her head.

He owned the house? How could that be? No. No, he was mistaken, or trying to take advantage of the Earl’s death. She would write to Bakeley. Bakeley would set him straight.

She drew herself up. “You certainly do not. This house belongs to the Earl of Shaldon.”

“The Earl’s dead. He sold it to me weeks ago, possession to take place upon his burial, which was yesterday.”

A weight pressed against her pounding heart and the chill numbed her hands beyond feeling. This could not be. And yet…It would fit. Shaldon, the wicked man, wanted to arrange things his way. This was his not-so-gentle shove into a marriage of his arranging.

“I will need to take an inventory,” Cummings said.

“And I will need to see a document.” She turned on her heel.

“Stop right there.” His hand gripped her again.

“What’s to do?” Mabel had turned the corner of the house and was advancing, her thick butcher’s knife in her hand. “Good morning, Mr. Cummings. Did you stop to pay your respects on the way to services? I’m just cutting a piece of the ham I put up.” Her voice pleasant, she pointed the sharp tip at him. “Has Mrs. Cummings fed you your breakfast? Och, I see not, considering the way you’re gripping my miss’s arm.”

Cummings pulled his hand away and wiped it with the other. “That will be my ham. I might as well eat some of it.”

As Bink passed the small church, worshippers spilled out and mingled, most of them turning to watch him. He pulled up his horse and called over a young boy.

“Which is the way to Ferndale Cottage?” he asked.

All conversation at the church stopped, and the boy’s mouth gaped.

Bink searched the crowd for a particular reaction. If Mr. Cummings was among them, he should shove his way through the crowd of mostly ladies right about now.

“You are looking for Ferndale Cottage?” It was the vicar who plowed through, a harried-looking man of middle years.

“I am,” Bink said.

“It is not right, sir,” the vicar said. “It is the Sabbath. Your employer—”

His employer? He sat up straighter and searched the crowd, his heart pumping harder. Cummings had set upon her already, this day.

“Cummings is not my employer. I’m here on behalf of Lord Shaldon. Where is Cummings? I would speak with him.”

“He took his man and a wagon this morning and—”

Bink pointed at a lane leading east. “This way, Vicar?”

“Yes. A mile or so.”

Bink was already spurring his horse.

Outside the village the lane was not so well maintained. Shallow muddy tracks showed a wagon had passed here. That it had not passed again heavily laden meant he might be in time.

When he rounded a bend, he saw that he was not. Two women, laden like the refugees he’d seen in Spain, trod along, trying to find purchase in the muck at the side of the road. Paulette’s skirts had a band of mud a foot thick, and the burdens she bore were surely too heavy.

“Miss Heardwyn,” he called, quickly dismounting.

She ducked her head, and when he reached her, turned away.

“Oh sir,” Mabel said. “That Cummings—”

“Mabel.” Miss Heardwyn spoke tersely, her voice gravelly.

“He’s evicted you?”

The young lady nodded without looking at him.

“Yes, and taken everything, even the ham my Miss bought with her money. He’s left us a few shifts and a change of clothing and not even our horse to carry them out.”

“Mabel.” The lady’s chin came up and he saw tear tracks on her dust-spattered face.

Something twisted inside him. Miss Heardwyn—Paulette—would end up on the streets somewhere, if not in London, then York, or Manchester.

His insides roared, and he all but strained himself to speak gently. “We’ll see about that. Let me help you.” He tugged at the lady’s parcels until she released them, and tied them onto his horse.

Her hands fisted and she looked away while he took the maid’s burdens also. Anger rippled off Miss Heardwyn, but it was overlaid with grief, and astonishment, and an icy kind of fear.

He’d seen this before, women and children wide-eyed, stunned, hungry, cold. Homeless.

But now you can do something about it, man.

He was not under orders now, not really. His business at home would just have to wait. Hackwell would understand, and if he didn’t, his lady most certainly would.

“We’re going back and getting what’s yours.” He circled his hands at her so-tiny waist and hauled her up onto his horse.

“What—” she gasped and clung to the horse’s mane.

Her long skirts rode up, revealing a nicely turned ankle and calf, and the anger inside him stirred to something more feral.

That comely ankle and calf could be his, to look at, to touch. He had only to press her a bit. He inwardly shook himself.

“Hold on, miss.”

He swung the maid up next, eliciting a shriek.

“Quiet now, Miss Mabel. You’ll startle the horse.” Though he’d doubt much would shake this doddering old eunuch. When his own mount had stumbled in last night’s violent rain, this gelding had been the only saddle-horse left at the inn where they’d sought help. “He’s a sweet enough goer. If you’ll pull up your skirts you may sit astride with more comfort, and no one’s the wiser. We’ll take you down before anyone can see.”

The maid hiked up her skirt and scooted around her mistress’s grumping.

“Are we going back then?” Miss Heardwyn’s voice, now that she’d found it, was laced with danger.

“Aye.” Bink took the gelding’s reins and led him off.

“And then what, Mr. Gibson?” Her voice trembled with suppressed fury.

He looked straight ahead, through the overhanging trees hedging the fields.

Then I shall introduce Mr. Cummings to my fists.

“We’ll get your things, then.”

The horse stumbled and Mabel gasped again.

“Don’t worry ladies. Just hold on.”

There was nothing untoward about Mr. Gibson’s touch when he lifted Paulette down from the mount, yet the strength of his hands seared her and incited a burn in her cheeks.

She bent and straightened her skirts, and more blood rushed, making her dizzy. Mabel gasped when the horse side-stepped and prattled about being too heavy. Mr. Gibson grunted—Mabel was no light-weight—and muttered a polite reassurance.

When she’d straightened herself and had the opportunity to look, Mr. Gibson was frowning.

No. Not frowning. Frowning implied some minor disturbance. A deep line creased his set-in-stone forehead, running between his eyes like a water-carved cliff she’d once seen in an illustration, and tension radiated off him like the rays off the sun, sending some of its heat her way.

Mabel was right—he was a handsome man. He bent and checked the horse over, the tight curve of his buttocks inspiring more blushes, and she imagined his back muscles bunching and moving under his tightly fitted jacket as he tested the girth and the leather.

He went to a bag strapped to the saddle and pulled out a pistol.

Her heart soared with hope, even as she knew she was on the brink of something unknowable. She wanted her home back, and yet she didn’t. The future was a black yawning hole, but with any luck, Mr. Gibson would shoot Mr. Cummings and she’d have that tiny bit of reckoning.

“Surely it won’t come to pistols, sir,” Mabel said in a small voice.

“No, surely it won’t,” he said carefully. “But one can never be absolutely sure with a thief. Are you ready, ladies?”

Dismay overtook her in the small yard. Her lap desk sat haphazardly in the wagon, leaning against a crate. Cummings’ man had yanked it from her, and when she’d slapped him, well…

She took a breath. Cummings had raised a hand to her. That, she would never forget. That, she would find a way to avenge.

Two other men, farmers who leased from Mr. Cummings, met her eyes and looked away quickly.

Mr. Gibson handed the reins to Mabel. “Where is Cummings?” he asked.

Their gaze slid toward the door. Cummings stepped out, coatless and hatless, his bristled grey hair pulled tight across sunken temples into a queue.

He launched himself across the green toward Paulette. “I told you to leave.”

Mr. Gibson stepped in front of her. “Hold there. Miss Heardwyn is not leaving without her belongings.”

Cummings’ stinging gaze flicked from her to Mr. Gibson, and a shrewd smile turned his lips up. “Who be you?”

“My name is Gibson, and I speak for the Earl of Shaldon.”

The factotum appeared behind him and spat into the dirt.

“Who was buried yesterday,” Cummings said.

Paulette sidestepped her champion. “And succeeded by his son. And that is my lap desk. It was a gift from my father and it is rightfully mine.”

Let Cummings try to hit her with Gibson by her side.

“You think so.” Cummings drew closer. “I don’t know who your man here is, Paulette, but this cottage and all its contents are mine, as of yesterday.”

“He told you who he is. And you’ve offered no proof of ownership,” she said.

“I don’t need to show you proof.”

“Yes. You must. Otherwise what you’re doing is theft.” She looked at the men loading the wagon and the factotum. “And you men are complicit. If there is no proper bill of sale, I’ll bring charges against all of you.” She crossed her fingers under her skirts. “I’m not without means.”

Cummings laughed. “I see. You have your big fancy-man here—”

Cummings’ head popped back, the impact of a large fist toppling him backwards into his man.

“A right good one,” Mabel said from behind her. “Land him another, Mr. Gibson.”

Mr. Gibson brushed his hands together. “I have a copy of the document. I’ll share it with you later, Miss Heardwyn. For now, I need you to instruct these men which items you wish them to remove from the cart.”

“I’ll bring charges against you,” Cummings spluttered, his man helping him up. “You assaulted me.”

“And you impugned this lady’s honor.”

That deep line appeared again creasing his brow.

“And mine, Cummings. But very well, send your man for the magistrate. I’ll share my documents with him, and bring charges against you. Theft. On a scale large enough to have you transported.” He nodded at the workers. “And them as well.”

The men looked at each other, their countenances going grim, but at a look from Cummings, they hunched closer.

She feared for Mr. Gibson’s safety. Surely he couldn’t take on the two farmers, Mr. Cummings, and the squirrely factotum. His pistol would have only one round.

She stepped up next to him and fisted her hands.

The creaking of wheels in the lane drew everyone’s attention.

The men on the box of an open wagon she recognized—Lord Shaldon’s manservant held the reins, and next to him on the box was the vicar. “Sorry for the delay, sir,” the manservant said. “The man of God wanted to come along.”

A rush of relief mingled with a profound embarrassment as she greeted the vicar. He’d found a new mother for his ever-increasing brood, and they’d remained friends, yet he was probably pitying her.

The vicar nodded a greeting to the two laborers. “Are you evicting Paulette on the Sabbath, Cummings?” he asked in the sonorous tone he used for his sermons.

“Good of you to finally make it, Kincaid.” Mr. Gibson introduced himself to the Vicar and said, “Cummings was indeed throwing Miss Heardwyn into the road and taking her possessions, even down to her clothing, I believe. Although what a man would do with a young lady’s clothing I have no idea.” He cast a glance her way. “Though he’s only a bit taller than you, Miss Heardwyn. Perhaps the dresses will fit.”

She covered a laugh, and Cummings spluttered. “See here—”

“Now. Let’s make a short Sabbath job of this. Miss Heardwyn. Tell Lord Shaldon’s man what is yours and have your maid pack your things. Kincaid, make sure everything is properly loaded.”

“My pots. And the ham.” Mabel walked past them, stopped, and turned. “And Horace.”

Paulette’s heart swelled. Cummings was a harsh master, even to dumb beasts. It was parting with Horace that had started her tears.

“Horace is mine.” Cummings cried.

Mr. Gibson raised an eyebrow.

She forced down another giggle threatening to rise as a great weight was lifted. “He’s my horse. My Horace. It was a great joke when I named him, you see? He was a gift from Bakeley on my eighteenth birthday. He and a gig I, er, no longer have.”

She had overturned it, attempting to get Horace to move a little faster on unsuitable terrain. Mr. Gibson did not need to know that story.

And yet he seemed to read her mind. His face softened and humor glimmered golden in his eyes. “Not the great beast that brought you to Cransdall Hall?”

Her heart floated higher. She nodded and pressed her lips together. She did not want to smile, not in front of Cummings.

He signaled to one of the men. “Get the lady’s horse.”

Before Cummings could grumble, more rattling wheels sounded as two riders in Cransdall livery preceded a post-chaise with its postilion riding one of a pair of greys.

* * *

The bright afternoon sun hit Paulette squarely in the eyes.

“Where are we going, Polly,” Mabel asked. “Did he say?”

She’d been wondering the same thing. “I don’t know.”

They’d turned west when they should have turned north if they’d been headed back to Cransdall, and she’d not had a chance at either of the inns where they’d changed horses to talk to Mr. Gibson. He’d sent the groom to hurry them along at each stop.

Well. That wouldn’t work at the next one. He would speak with her there.

She saw the clump of pretty buildings nestled in a valley and knew this must be an inn. It looked to be grander than the last two, the stables forming three sides of a square around it.

When the post-chaise drew up in front of the door, one of Shaldon’s grooms appeared at the side, tipping his hat and extending a hand.

The half-timbered building rose to three well-maintained stories. “What is this place?” Paulette asked.

“I don’t know the name, miss, but the mail coach comes through, and the Edinburgh coach, and I heard Mr. Gibson say it’s the only inn in ten miles without bed bugs.”

Her foot landed in a puddle. “Blast it,” she said. She still wore her gown with its fringe of mud. “Watch your step, Mabel.”

She glanced back and saw an inn servant unstrap her valise. A stableman led the chaise off, and the wagon, piled with her trunks and small bits of furniture, followed behind with Horace tied to the back.

Alarm coursed through her. No bed bugs. He meant for them to stay the night here in this great, likely high-priced, establishment. “Where is Mr. Gibson?”

“I don’t know, miss.”

“You don’t know much,” she snapped.

She closed her eyes and took a breath. It was not his fault. He was only a groom.

But when she opened her eyes, he was smiling. He was missing a tooth, and was, she realized, quite a bit older than her first estimation. Another redhead, only this one had the lean lines of a hunting hound.

“It’s what me mum always says, miss, but I’ve told you true. I’m to lead you inside to a private dining room and stay with you like a footman until you’re settled and safe and your tea is brought in.”

“Those are very specific instructions.”

“Yes, miss.”

“From Mr Gibson?”

“No, miss. From Mr. Kincaid.”

Her heart sank just a little, and she chided herself.

Mabel caught up with them. “Johnny—”

“Johnny?”

“Well, it’s his name.” Mabel studied the cobblestone entry. “I’ll look after my miss, Johnny, and you can go find your dinner.”

“I allow as I can, Miss Mabel, but I haven’t lasted this long doing what I can instead of what I’ve been told to do. And me seeing Mr. Gibson talking to Mr. Kincaid, afore Mr. Kincaid talked to me.”

Paulette’s heart beat a little faster.

Mabel opened her mouth, preparing for one of her speeches, like when she’d been Paulette’s nursemaid eons ago. Her plump cheeks went rosier than usual and her lips trembled somewhere between a smile and a scolding.

Johnny’s eyes twinkled, focused solely on the maid.

A groan found its way up her throat. She’d seen one or two of Mabel’s romances over the years. They’d come to naught, as would this, if the maid planned to stay with her.

“We’ll not have an argument on the steps of this inn, Mabel. Johnny, deliver us into the parlor and then go and find Mr. Gibson. I must speak to him immediately.”