Fergus MacEwen handed Lady Jane Montfort down and Perry hastened to greet her.

She hugged the older woman, relieved that it wasn’t Bakeley appearing at her door. “Why are you here?” she asked. “Oh, never mind, you are meant to be my chaperone, no doubt.”

Lady Jane held her at arm’s length and looked her over, frowning. “What has happened here?” She turned the scowl on Fox. “You. You’re Mr. Fox. The American painter.”

He bowed. “At your service, ma’am.”

“Fox, this is Lady Jane Montfort, a dear friend of Sirena’s, and my friend as well. Lady Jane, Mr. Fox and I are affianced.” She crossed her fingers. “Father has just given his approval.”

Jane’s scowl deepened and she waved a hand at Perry. “You are not the one who caused this, are you?”

“No,” Perry and Fox said at the same time.

He sent her a look that had shame roaring through her. Because of her foolishness, he was destined to be misunderstood.

And trapped in a marriage he didn’t want.

“You must be very tired,” he said, “and Lady Perry is exhausted.”

Perry nodded. Making peace with Fox would have to wait. “Come then,” she said woodenly. “I’ll take you up.”

Hours later, Perry woke to the sound of movement below stairs.

“We have visitors?” The sleep-slurred voice next to her broke the room’s silence.

Perry sat up. “I believe so.” She glanced at her bed companion.

“I know I’m not the sleeping companion you wished for, my dear, but your reputation will be safer with me,” Lady Jane had said while she’d climbed into bed earlier.

Lady Jane was a spinster poor relation of Lord Cheswick making do on a small inheritance while rescuing young ladies’ reputations. Since she’d moved into Shaldon House, Father also had apparently found a use for her.

Perry rubbed her eyes and smiled. Lady Jane’s bed cap had slipped, and the lacing on her nightrail had come undone, revealing a plump freckled shoulder. She looked like a wanton tavern wench and not at all like a lady of middling years. Straggling across the feather stuffed pillow was a long wheaten plait, the color not much different than Perry’s own, except for some fine lacings of white shot through it.

Perry threw back the covers and went to the window. The morning had gone to gray with a heavy cloud cover, but it was bright enough to be afternoon. A single horse was tied up in front.

Not a Cransdall horse, she decided, unless one of her brothers had arrived on one of the plodders that worked the fields.

She crossed to the dressing room and peeked in. Jenny was up and gone. She would just have to dress herself.

“Come,” Jane said next to her. “We’ll help each other.” She ducked into the dressing room where her trunk had been lodged.

Perry blinked back sudden tears. Her three brothers’ marriages had brought three sisters and this kind, wise woman into their family. Jane hadn’t chided or lectured her about Fox.

She would hate to be cut off from these new friendships.

Fox must keep her alive, Father had said. How hard could that be now, with Father and so many of his men here? This was Yorkshire, after all, and not some Peninsular battleground.

She peeled her nightrail up and caught her breath, a sharp pain stabbing her. She’d almost forgotten.

Well, perhaps there were dangers here, but she’d be safe if she stayed close to Fox. The need to see him, to touch him, swamped her, and she hurried to dress.

Fox ground the beans himself and carried up the coffee tray to the dining table where Shaldon, Kincaid, and Farnsworth sat.

Lady Jane’s chaise had accommodated more provisions, and this one—coffee—they all needed. The faces around the table were haggard from years of such fast travel and long nights and worries.

“I’ll need to leave soon to meet the Lieutenant,” Farnsworth said. “Seas will be calmer. They’ll try again to land tonight.”

“Sit down and join us.” Shaldon motioned Fox to a chair. “Farnsworth has just been talking about his encounter with you in the boat last night.”

Fox’s fingers tensed around the china cup, the warmth of the liquid unable to drive out the chill that went through him.

“Lady Perpetua is a brave girl,” Farnsworth said. “I was relieved to find her so well-recovered.”

Shaldon’s harrumph sent anger sparking through Fox. The man didn’t appreciate his daughter enough.

“Tell Kincaid and Farnsworth what you and Perpetua learned last night.”

As Fox opened his mouth to speak, a loud knocking at the hall door drew everyone’s attention. The others exchanged a knowing glance.

“Excellent. Things are moving along,” Shaldon said. “Coming to the main door instead of the kitchen, this will be someone of interest.”

Fox set the cup down. “Perhaps it’s Scruggs. Davy and Gaz—”

“No,” Kincaid cut in, shaking his head. “Scruggs would be at the kitchen door, as usual. This won’t be Scruggs.”

“I wonder if Scruggs can still be trusted.” Farnsworth drummed his fingers on the table. “John Black and Carvelle. Perhaps the screws are turning on him and there’s naught to be done but play it out.”

More loud knocking, this time more insistent.

“Well then, let’s find out who is this someone of interest.” Kincaid rose.

“Stay,” Fox said. “Mr. Goodfellow can answer his own door.”

His boot heels clacking along the tiled floor, Fox checked his weapons.

Bang, bang, bang. Only the stoutest of hands could make the thick oaken door rattle thus on its hinges.

Beneath the dark worsted of his unfashionably loose coats, his knives were in place, as was his pistol, all hidden away, and if this was the man who’d harmed Perry…he took a deep breath. He couldn’t kill the man just yet. Shaldon would want to question him.

He pulled open the door. The bright, sweating face of Sir Richard beamed at him.

“Goodfellow,” he said, “good day to you. A fine day to pay a call on a neighbor.”

Sir Richard’s horse, a stout fellow to carry such a weight, nibbled at the bush where it was tied. Otherwise, it seemed the Baronet had come alone.

“Sir Richard.” He beckoned the man and led him to the dining room, his back prickling. The Baronet was big, like the man who’d taken Perry, but that man’d had none of the bumbling softness of Sir Richard. Nor had he heard, in all of his travels, any hint that the Baronet did more than receive bribes from free traders. He’d not even been involved in the case of John Black. That had been another judge, a man from further south.

Kincaid looked up with interest, but Shaldon’s face betrayed nothing. No reaction. Farnsworth sat up. None of the men rose.

“Why, you have guests, Goodfellow,” Sir Richard exclaimed.

Fox looked at Shaldon, who nodded.

“Not exactly guests,” Fox said. “This is my landlord, Lord Shaldon.”

Sir Richard’s eyes brightened. “Lord Shaldon?” He bowed deeply. “Indeed, indeed. Pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

“Join us,” Kincaid said, introducing himself and Farnsworth.

Fox pulled out a chair at the foot of the table for the man.

“Well, well.” Sir Richard squirmed and blustered. “Such a pleasure.”

“Indeed,” Shaldon said.

“Fancy me paying a call on old Goodfellow and finding you here. What brings you to these wild parts, eh? A bit of shooting, I suppose. Or, are you here to check on this good young fellow?” He laughed heartily. “I assure you, he’s been a quiet one in the neighborhood. No complaints. No complaints a’t’all.”

Shaldon sat as still as death.

Sir Richard played the buffoon heartily—perhaps the man really was a person of interest.

The Baronet accepted coffee and chattered on about the weather, fishing, the coronation, accepting a few nods and grunts as encouragement.

Fox’s head ached with it and his thoughts went to Perry, glad she was in the capable hands of Lady Jane. For all he knew, that lady might be one of the many who’d served Shaldon during the war years. She had that look of quiet intelligence about her.

Jenny appeared with a fresh pot, and Sir Richard’s eyes flashed, a look then quickly veiled. He glanced from her to Fox and back again.

“That will be all,” Fox said in his best lord-of-the-manor tones. Jenny bobbed a curtsy and he heard her footsteps retreating, and then a few minutes later, growing louder.

His chest tightened. The steps and the rustle of skirts were not Jenny’s.

Lady Jane stepped into the room in a swirl of rosewater scent, clad in a blue day dress, a fichu tied high at her neck, just like the one Perry, who entered behind her, wore over the simple gown that must be another of her mother’s. They’d both dispensed with caps, their hair twisted into simple knots, even Perry’s shortened locks.

Sir Richard jumped to his feet, bumping his cup and splattering coffee. “Well,” he murmured. “Well, well, well.”

“Good morning, or perhaps I should say, good afternoon,” Lady Jane said.

“I trust that you both slept well?” Shaldon signaled, and the ladies took seats down the table from Sir Richard, Perry shielded by Kincaid, and Lady Jane by Farnsworth.

“Yes, indeed,” Lady Jane said. “After such a journey, rest is just the thing.” Her gaze traveled around the table and landed on Sir Richard.

But the man didn’t return the lady’s nod.

A pounding started up in Fox’s ears. Sir Richard’s eyes were riveted on Perry.