“It was so very dark, and the faces were blackened. You cannot possibly expect me to remember.” Perry stood and walked to the fireplace, away from the distracting ripple of Fox’s muscles as his hand flew across paper.

He’d removed his coat and peeled back his sleeves, refusing to meet her eyes. All she wanted was to make better use of these moments alone, before Father, or one of his henchmen returned.

“Perry.”

When she looked, that muscled forearm and wide hand were extended.

She went.

He smoothed those hands, with their sprinkling of dark hair, up her arms, slipped them around her waist, and pulled her to him.

She would surely melt. She had certainly died and gone to heaven. They should run off now, to Scotland, to the Lowlands, to France, anywhere. To hell with Prinny and his coronation, and the men who wanted to kill him.

“Your father is right—a sketch may help. The others may recognize the men. Perhaps we’ll even be a step closer to learning what really happened to your mother.”

Her chest tightened. Yes, of course.

“And we’ll certainly be a step closer to punishing them for what they did to you.”

He pulled out a chair for her, quickly turning back to business.

It was all so confusing. “Shall we really solve the mystery of Mama’s death?” she mused.

Fox’s mouth firmed. “We shall try.”

While she gazed over his shoulder, his pencil flew again over the paper, sketching a hulking black figure, as if he’d dipped into her brain and funneled out her only impression. The skin on her neck crawled, tension constricting her spine. The form was exactly right, the posture heavy, as if the man’s shoulders and head were too much to prop up straight.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “How do you do that?”

“It’s what I do,” he said, without stopping. Perspiration glimmered on his forehead.

Another figure began to emerge, slimmer, shorter, slighter, taking the shape of her other tormentor. She clutched the edge of the table and tried to breathe.

The pencil dropped. Fox’s arms came around her again and she buried her face in his neck, taking deep gulps of his comforting musk. His hand slid along her back, easing her breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He growled the words, as if he couldn’t breathe either. She touched her lips to the smooth spot of his neck below the place where his stubble started. A shiver went through him, and her body answered with a wave of pleasure.

He shared this with her, the bad and the good. They were partners in the events of the previous night. Well, up to a point.

She squeezed her eyes together, sat up, and mustered the courage to look at the partially disguised figures. It was her job to add eyes and brows. She passed a hand over her face and looked hard again at the picture that reared up in her mind.

Eyes that burned coldly and bushy brows bowed like the horns of a devil. Her imagination added lips contorted with the foul taste of malice, nostrils flared with evil intent.

All in shadows, like they’d been spit forth by the moor’s demons.

He’d brought down a clutch of pencils. She reached for one. “Let me try.”

Fox watched as she sketched, his heart swelling. She was a brave one, her hand with the pencil clutched too tightly for her to be wholly competent, her teeth clamped over her lower lip with the effort. As a girl, she’d not been fond of drawing, he recalled, not because she had no skill, but because her competitiveness got in the way. He’d apprenticed with Peale in Philadelphia, and Copley in England; hell, he’d even studied for a brief time in France, and he had the added motivation of needing to draw well enough to eat. Of course, his work would be more competent than hers.

She closed her eyes a moment to let her mind’s eye see for her and took a breath, hitching it around what must be the pain in her back.

Anger overwhelmed him. He shoved it down, trying to concentrate on her breasts under the gray cotton. She was alive. Her wounds would heal, and he’d do whatever it took to make up for his failures the night before, to avenge her, and to keep her safe. And after that…

He wouldn’t think about what might come later.

She added a few more strokes and dropped the pencil, frowning. “I doubt myself, Fox.”

He pulled the paper over and stared at it a long moment, his gut clenching. The mind’s eye could be nearsighted, could even be blind, the memory mistaken. It was how some artists got away with the lies they painted to accommodate the vanity of patrons.

She tapped her fingers on the table. “It was very dark. And I was frightened out of my wits.”

“Let us try something. Close your eyes. I promise I will not hurt you.”

She did as he asked, so quickly that it humbled him.

“Keep your eyes shut and see.” He put his hands to her throat so gently he was barely touching. Still she froze, squeezing her lips and eyes in a grimace.

When he dropped his hands, her eyes shot open, shining with tears.

“Oh, Fox.”

He pulled her against him and stared down at the paper where the face of Sir Richard stared back.

Perry’s head settled on his shoulder again, the soft plumpness of her breasts on his chest sending his blood churning. It was a miracle the men on the road had not unmasked her. And if she but touched her lips to his neck again—

“Fox.”

The whisper into his neck cloth sent him from half-staff to full erection. His hands slipped down to her buttocks and carved handfuls of softness.

“Oh, Fox,” she said, tilting her head to touch his lips.

He matched her demand and guided her off the chair and onto his lap. His hands were busy, inching her skirts up, while she clutched his head at an awkward angle and plundered his mouth.

The sound of footsteps and men’s voices floated in the hall and stilled them. Jane had left the door ajar when she’d walked out. Perry sighed and rested her cheek on his shoulder.

Fox groaned. “He can move more stealthily than that. He’s giving us fair warning.” And thank God for it.

A tremor went through her and she sat up, her eyes searching his. “I believe Father arranged for us to meet here.” She sat up, her eyes searching his. “Did you expect me?”

“No. In fact, your brother warned me away from you.”

She looked away a moment. “Bakeley?”

“Yes.”

“Bakeley was upset that we danced twice at his ball.”

“It was before the ball, when he visited my rooms with your father.”

She sat up.

Perhaps she hadn’t known about the visit that preceded Bakeley’s wedding ball. There had been undercurrents then between the Earl and his heir, frustrations that Bakeley took out on the drunken artist. He was drunk that day, as he’d been most days when he wasn’t working.

Fox had considered not attending the ball, though he’d designed the chalk art for the ballroom floor and was curious to see its execution. When he’d stepped into the ballroom, Perry had drawn him a like a moth to a flame, and all of the threats and warnings had been nothing to him.

A rumbling throat-clearing came from the doorway. Perry sighed, but he was grateful for the interruption.

“I see I’ve come just in time.” The voice was Kincaid’s, not the Earl’s, after all. “Leave off comforting the lass, will you now, Fox? His lordship wants you to join us.”

Perry’s chin went up.

“Lady Perry is coming also.” Fox patted her bottom and moved her off him.

She looked up, a world of love in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said.

“Well, you are part of this.”

“Of course, she is,” Kincaid muttered. “Stop your mooning and come on. And,” he called over his shoulder, “bring along the sketches.”

In the study, Davy stood fingering the brim of his hat, while Pip gawked at the wall of books. Fox hadn’t spent much time in this room, tucked under a stairwell and poorly lit by the tall slender window that squinted north. It had no use for a painter, but it was the perfect sort of cave for Shaldon’s plotting.

He and Farnsworth had arranged themselves around the desk.

Perry gaped at the bookshelves—apparently, she’d not yet seen this room—and then spotted Pip. She went to the boy and turned him around by the shoulders. He dropped his cap, and she picked it up. “Are you quite all right?”

His face scrunched in a freckled frown, and he stared at her neck.

“Pip,” Davy said, “her ladyship asked you a question.”

So, Davy had been apprised of the rankings and pecking order.

“Aye, miss,” Pip said. “That’s a right big bruise you have.”

She nodded. “It will go away.” She set her hand to his forehead and the boy visibly flinched. “I feared you would have a fever after that dunking last night, but you feel all right.”

Shaldon cleared his throat. Fox handed him the drawings. The room went still, as it always did when the spy lord was thinking.

The man’s face revealed nothing. He’d mastered the art of concealment needed to survive the veiled knives of his class. His work for the government had required him to firm up that mask even more.

But Fox saw the grimness forming as Shaldon lifted each sheet and examined it.

He silently slid the sketches to Farnsworth, seated across the desk from him. Farnsworth looked and passed them to Kincaid.

“Come here, lad.” Kincaid took an empty chair and beckoned the boy. “Tell me what you think.” He laid the sketches out on the desk.

Pip scrunched his face over them, leaning in close. The boy was, quite possibly, nearsighted, which made for questionable testimony.

Though they didn’t need his testimony. Perry’s was enough.

Davy stood stock straight and unmoving near the bookshelf. Pip cast him a quick look, and Fox realized it wasn’t nearsightedness driving him, it was fear.

Pip had known the big man all along. In the way of the children within any criminal enterprise, he had kept his mouth shut.

Davy nodded.

“Aye,” Pip said. “That be them.”

Heat pounded through him. He’d recognized the man who assaulted Perry, and yet neither he nor his father had said anything. What the hell was afoot here?

“Who is the short man?” Fox asked, trying to keep his tone even.

Another look was exchanged between father and son.

Davy let out a long breath. “The Squire’s groom, Harv. I don’t know the last name. Not from these parts. I’ll need to get going soon, sirs. Scruggs is calling all to the inn.”

Shaldon nodded. “Take the boy to the kitchen. The ladies will look after him.”

“I want to go, Da,” Pip said.

Perry took a step toward the boy, but Fox touched her arm and shook his head.

“You’ll stay here like I told you.” Davy’s voice was firm, and surprisingly gentle. For once, Davy appeared totally sober.

“And your women?” Kincaid asked.

“Gaz isn’t here today, is he? Scruggs won’t finger him as a traitor so my aunt and the girls will be fine. And I’d best get myself to the inn before he notices I’m missing. You’ll stay here, Pip.”

“Go with Davy, Perpetua,” Shaldon said.

“She’ll go in a moment,” Fox said, putting steel into his voice. If he and Perry were to marry, he must begin as he planned to go on, else Shaldon would have both of them jumping through hoops. “For now, she is part of this discussion.”

Shaldon’s jaw tightened and he gave a cursory nod. “Very well.”

“The informant said they will land further south, in this cove.” Farnsworth’s finger settled upon the map laid out on the desk, and Perry moved closer to peer around his shoulder. On Farnsworth’s other side, Fox was frowning down at his lordship’s fingertip.

“You have an informant?” Perry glanced at Fox who was staring hard at Father.

“Do you know the area, Fox?” Father asked.

Fox took an audible breath.

“Mayhap they will find that Frenchman’s body when they land,” Kincaid said. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

Her heart began to race and she leaned closer. How could anyone tell one craggy inlet from another? And last night, she’d not been paying attention. She’d not thought of anything except trying to survive the trip in her wet clothing in the breezy skiff.

And who was this informant?

Father slid the map her way and settled a fingertip on one rocky point down the coast from where Farnsworth had indicated. “Here is Gorse Cottage,” he said. He stretched his arm further and a bit inland. “And here is Sir Richard’s.”

Her pulse rattled. The night’s landing place was closer to the Baronet’s estate than to Gorse Cottage. “Will you take him tonight then?” she asked. She must get her chance at him. She must.

The three older men exchanged looks.

“Tonight, it is Carvelle and his cargo we are after,” Father said.

Anger spiked in her. “Why?”

Father’s face hardened and he lifted his gaze to her, his eyes a dark agate, his look binding up her tongue. She was here at his allowance, his gaze was telling her. They would carry on according to his schedule, not hers.

“Are they working together, then?” she asked. “I should at least like to go with you when you go after Sir Richard. I should like to assist you.”

Father reached for her hand, his touch warm and firm, sparking moisture behind her eyes. “Revenge will endure, Perpetua,” he said, “until the time is right.”

She blinked several times and swallowed hard. Agents of the Crown did not cry, nor would she.

And Father knew quite a bit about pursuing revenge.

“Yes, Father,” she said.

Just as quickly, he dropped her hand and went back to the map. “Now. Our source points us at this cove, but Davy says Scruggs has his men going here.” He pointed at a spot to the north of Gorse Cottage. “What say you, Perpetua? You wish to be involved—what do you advise? Go north, or south?”

Davy was not their informant. Was it perhaps Scruggs misdirecting them? “They are both claiming the same cargo?” she asked.

Father blinked once, no doubt with the effort of deciding how much information to share. “Davy does not know what the cargo is, only that Scruggs has been seen working with Carvelle.”

“And thus, he thinks Carvelle will be at the north point?”

He didn’t nod or shake his head.

“And thus, you are guessing Carvelle will land to the south,” she said. “As your informant said.”

His lips quirked ever so slightly, and she leaned over the map again. Smells swirled around her—damp wool, leather, horses, shaving soap. The smell of men; not the dandified men of the ballroom, but honorable men working at something important and washing whenever they could.

And she was part of this important work. Her blood raced just a little faster.

The point south was a further distance away, close to Sir Richard who was a villain…and likely a smuggler. She stood up and rubbed her forehead. A source had pointed to this cove.

“Who provided the information?” she asked.

“I’d rather not say, just now,” Father said.

Of course, he wouldn’t. She wondered if Fox knew. She would ask him later. “Do you trust this person?”

The only noise in the room was a scant rustle of wool as Farnsworth uncrossed his leg.

“His intelligence has been reliable so far,” Father said.

Well, that was nicely parsed. “But Davy is more trustworthy since we have his son below in our kitchen.” Did they have enough men to split up and go to both locations?

No, belay that. They were four here, plus the MacEwens and two more men. Eight split two ways—she would not want to risk Fox in either fight. She’d seen how dangerous these men could be.

“Well?” Father asked. “Your advice?”

“The north, so close to Gorse Cottage, might be merely barrels of gin or crates of dry goods. The south may be a feint, or a trap.” She leaned on the edge of the table. How would Father think? “I would rather go south and see what that is about. Have your cutter keep them away from the north or force them to go south.”

He nodded. It was as much approval as she would ever get, and it emboldened her. “I should like to go with you, Father.”

“I know, my daughter. Another time. I thank you for your thoughtful counsel. Tonight, I need you here to prime your pistols and protect Lady Jane, your maid, and the boy.”

With the men all away, they could be in danger.

She nodded. “Very well.”

Farnsworth cleared his throat and the men began talking about dragoons and the coastal patrol cutter. When she lifted her eyes, Fox was watching her. She went to stand next to him, and Father’s momentary pause was gratifying.

She had withstood Father’s test regarding the landing spots. She would protect Gorse Cottage and defer her revenge, but she would have her reckoning with Sir Richard and his groom. Perhaps, if she was very, very lucky, Father would capture them and it would be tonight.

“We should all rest now,” Father said. “It’s likely to be a long night.”

He nodded to her. He meant for her to leave, but no one else was stepping away.

Next to her Fox, stirred. “I’ll be in the stables.” He glanced her way and held her gaze for a moment.

She followed him out.

Fox tugged her up the stairs to the door of her bedchamber and turned her to face him. Dark smudges hollowed his eyes.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“You didn’t sleep at all after Lady Jane’s arrival.” He was dead on his feet and she’d only just now noticed.

Selfish, spoiled aristocrat.

“I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will.” She opened the bedroom door and pulled him in.

“Your father—”

“Won’t find us in this comfortable bed together. Much as I’d like that. I’m going to help Jenny and Jane in the kitchen.”

“Perry.”

She dropped a kiss on his chin. “We can’t talk sensibly when you’re exhausted and going into battle. Take my bed and sleep.”

She hurried out and leaned back against the closed door, trying to still her hammering heart, blinking back tears.

Boots clacked on the stairs and she hurried down, greeting her father and Kincaid as she passed.

“Are they all right, do you think?” Jenny asked. The girl glanced at the case clock for the hundredth time, sending Perry’s nerves skittering. It was well after midnight in the short summer darkness, but not one of them would sleep.

“Do pay attention to the game,” Perry said, trying to keep the crossness from her voice. She was as much on edge as Jenny. She dealt another card in their game of hearts.

“Do be patient, girls,” Lady Jane echoed, pulling a needle through the fabric of Perry’s trousers as peacefully as if she were embroidering a chair cushion in the morning room at Shaldon House. The window rattled and Lady Jane jerked her head up frowning.

So perhaps her calm was a deception. She certainly had seemed a bit restive when she’d yanked the mending from Jenny’s hands and ordered both of them to play cards. And the expression on Lady Jane’s face when she’d seen his lordship in his black jumper and trousers had inspired a great deal of speculation and questions that Perry had put aside until now―now when the time wore at her nerves like the waves wearing away the cliffs.

Like, for example, why had Jane followed Father here? Father could have ordered Charley and Graciela here, or Bink and Paulette.

“It is kind of you to stitch my trousers, Lady Jane,” Perry said.

“Well, I ply a good needle, if I do say so,” Lady Jane said, “I can repair anything from fine lawn to stiff leather.”

“But I must say, Jenny is far better at hearts than you,” Perry teased.

“Then it is a fair exchange. Jenny, if you are to be a sought-after lady’s maid, you are going to have some sewing lessons with my maid.”

“Your former maid,” Perry said. Lady Jane’s maid, Barton, had left to go into trade with a French modiste, Madame La Fanelle. “And if you engage Barton to train Jenny, Barton will want an investment to start a school for ladies’ maids.”

Jane laughed. “To be sure. She has an excellent mind for business. I shall be seeking employment from her someday.”

The wistfulness in her voice caught Perry up again. Lady Jane had very little income. She was living on charity and she hated it.

Perry had not fully realized that until now.

A soft rumbling snore came from the sofa, and Jenny giggled. “My brother used to snore like that when we could find a bed to sleep in.”

Perry looked over to where Pip lay, the huge black shawl cocooning him, and she thought about their interview earlier. Pip had recognized Sir Richard and kept silent.

Like her brothers had kept silent about Father’s business, or what they’d known of his business. It was an art she must learn if she wanted Father’s trust.

She sighed. Father’s trust was hard-earned. Likely he’d obliged Davy to leave Pip with them, because he didn’t trust Davy entirely. For his part, Davy had seen that Pip, who was inclined to run about on his own, would be safer with them.

Pip had settled in well, eating his way through two plates of a very acceptable dinner Jenny had prepared herself from provisions brought in by the new arrivals. She’d hinted that MacEwen had been teaching her more skills in the kitchen.

Perry smiled. And perhaps on the kitchen cot, as well. Jenny seemed happy. She’d brought up their tea and they’d compelled her to join them. They’d built a fire in this parlor against the evening chill, and Jenny had listened closely as Perry read Pip to sleep from a book of fairy tales she’d found in the study.

Jenny pressed her hand against a yawn.

“None of that.” Perry tapped the table. “Wake up now. It’s your draw.”

She would not sleep until the men returned.