A hale fellow this was, tall, well-fed, his gray hair tied into an old-fashioned queue under his old-fashioned tricorne. He was well-dressed and well-shod also, in the woolens and high boots of a hunting squire. The maid curtsied and ran to tap him a tankard, his order unspoken. The murmuring started up again.

He was a regular, and welcome, but not a mate to any of these men. Rheumy eyes under bushy dark brows scanned the room and landed on Fox.

His gut, so rarely wrong, matched a name to the beefy red face. This was the local squire, Sir Richard Fenwick.

Not, he decided, a mere tolerant recipient of bribes. He was a partner to Scruggs in the free trade. Was he also a partner to Carvelle?

The man headed straight for Fox, the strong ale sloshing onto his sleeves, splashing his boots and the poorly-swept floor.

“Goodfellow, is it?”

Fenwick cast a glance at Davy and his friend. They lifted their hats, drained their tankards, and cleared out.

“Ah, boys, thank you, thank you. How’s your young Pip, Davy? Gaz, your mother? Join me, Goodfellow?” Without waiting for answers, he plopped on a chair.

Fox swallowed a frustrated sigh. Instead of asking questions, he’d be dodging them.

Fenwick got right to it. “How come you to take Shaldon’s cottage, Goodfellow? Friends of the family, eh?” He chugged a drink. “Oh, beg your pardon. I’m Richard Fenwick. Sir Richard. Baronet.” He grinned stiffly. “Minor, very minor compared to the Earl, isn’t it? But I get on well enough. Friend of the family, are you?”

“Not at all. I’m a simple tenant. Happy to make your acquaintance, Sir Richard.”

“Is that so? From these parts?”

“No. The Midlands and then elsewhere. My father was a factor for a large estate up north.” True enough, though his father hadn’t been in service—the estate was his own, and north was in North America.

“In the same line of work, were you?”

“No. I worked as a secretary.” Also true; when he was sixteen.

“Indeed. For some great lord?”

The nosey lout. “No.”

“Here on holiday, are you?”

“You might say. I lost my employer and gained a small inheritance. And with the spectacle of the coronation, it’s a good time to be out of London.”

“You worked there?”

“Some of the time.”

Sir Richard considered that and grunted. “Detest the place, myself.” He called for another tankard. “Lonely up there at Gorse Cottage, are you?” His gaze went to the fireplace.

“I enjoy the solitude.”

Sir Richard did not immediately respond, caught up in some vision that made him frown more deeply.

Time for some probing of his own. “I understand from the estate agent it was a favorite haunt of the Earl’s wife.”

Sir Richard’s gaze came up flashing in what looked to be anger, quickly masked. “Foolish rumors.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Rumors of hauntings.”

“Ghosts? I only meant—”

“Felicity is dead. She’s not coming back.” Sir Richard swept a hand over his face.

“Do you mean Lady Shaldon?”

“Lady Shaldon.” Eyes simmering with strong emotion, he took a quick swig, frowning.

“I heard that Lady Shaldon had died. Was her death tragic then? That’s how most rumors of hauntings get started, I’ve found.”

Sir Richard’s mouth and fists tightened.

Fox leaned closer. “Not that I believe a bit in ghosts.”

“Sir Richard.” The voice calling was Scruggs’, and none too subservient, as if the men were equals. Which perhaps they were—equals in crime.

“We’ll speak again.” The Baronet’s chair squealed as he stood.

An hour and another pint later, having learned nothing more, Fox gave the gelding its head and dashed back on this well-trod path across the high Yorkshire moor. The villagers kept it up for the carts and donkeys they occasionally used for their hauls, and the footing was good.

Tomorrow, he’d send MacEwen to Charley. MacEwen could make the trip in one day, arrange for a message to go on to London, and be back to Gorse Cottage in one more day. Shaldon might be busy with King George, but his son could come and help out. It would take one of Perry’s brothers to blast her out of here, and if they could keep her visit secret, she wouldn’t be forced to marry some titled fool for the sake of her reputation.

His fists tightened around the reins. The thought of her lying under some lout like Sir Richard…

No. He had to push that picture away. He was not the man for her, and she should not be here. More than her reputation was in danger. Under Sir Richard’s fat, affable facade was a man he couldn’t quite pin down. Involved with Scruggs, most certainly, if only to turn a blind eye. Was he also attached to Carvelle?

Charley might know more about the man. If Lady Shaldon had been from these parts, the families might have been acquainted. Though he had no idea whether Sir Richard kept a wife and children at home. He should have asked that question.

Nearing the cliffs and the turn-off to Gorse Cottage, he spotted a distant rider to the south, stark against the horizon. He pulled his spyglass from his pocket.

Two riders sat atop the one horse. A long leg stretched from under a skirt of the palest green. One leg. The body seated in front was much smaller, the jacket and trousers much darker.

He cursed. MacEwen had been tasked with keeping Perry at home. They’d even hidden her sidesaddle, so of course, she’d be riding astride. And where the hell had she found a boy child?

As he spurred his horse, Chestnut shied, and they spotted him. The boy started to leap, and she caught him in time, handing him down to dart off through the brush toward town.

Perry turned her horse and cantered to him. Her bonnet had knocked back and loose curls framed her face. She looked windswept and fresh and astonishingly lovely. The perfect target for any man happening to wander by.

He slowed the gelding, trying to freeze the picture into his memory. He wouldn’t paint it, not now, not until after he’d returned to America.

He stopped, tried to slow his heart, tried to beat back the urge to pull her down from the horse and onto the ground. Her skirts were already up. His gaze traced the lines of her lovely legs. Was she wearing pantalettes? They were in fashion now, but that hadn’t always been the case.

She pulled her horse up alongside him.

The bounce of her breasts meant she had dispensed with her stays. Pulse pounding, blood flowing like liquid heat straight to his loins, he lifted his hat. “Out for a ride?”

She moved closer. “You owe me explanations.”

“About the saddle—”

“No. No, Fox. Not the saddle. I am not wholly an idiot. I worked that one out easily enough.” She spoke through tense lips, as if the words caused her pain. “And I’ll have no more of your diversions and distractions.” She raised her fist.

“Who was that boy?”

“No. No diversions. I will ask the questions, and you will answer them.”

Dear Perry. He looked around. “If that boy was here, there could be others. Can we go back to the cottage to talk?”

She nodded, tersely, and edged out of his way. “After you.”

He pulled up alongside her. “We’ll go together.”