Perry turned up the lamp she’d left burning as a night light and carried it to the table.

She traced a finger over the first picture. The neckline of the gown was the same as the one she’d worn the day he’d brought her the designs she’d commissioned for the ballroom floor. Had she smiled like that? Not for him.

The second and third were from her brother’s wedding ball, where Fox had danced with her, a waltz, holding her breathlessly close the entire time.

She turned the page. It was another sketch of her, on a street, her maid at her side, as if he’d spotted her through a window.

She stared into the lamp’s flame. After she’d seen his painting in the shop window and discovered his direction, she’d escaped from her carriage one day, and hurried off to his street, looking for his lodging. The landlady had said he wasn’t at home. Perry had scribbled a note and handed it over with a few coins to the happy woman, who had no doubt already extracted another coin from Fox for his lie.

The dressing room door squeaked.

“What’s that, miss?” Jenny leaned over her shoulder. “Why that’s you and Gladys!”

“Yes.”

“It’s Mr. Fox’s work?” Her eyes were saucers.

“Yes. Did I wake you?”

Jenny bit her lip. “I heard you go up the stairs.”

She flipped through more pages. They were all sketches of her. Some from several months ago, some of her as a young girl at Cransdall.

“And he gave you that?” Jenny’s voice held awe. “They are very like.”

“I took it. I don’t think he wanted me to see it.”

Jenny clasped her hands together. “He’s sweet on you, miss.”

Jenny’s eyes held a look far too dreamy and romantic. “There is nothing sweet about Fox.”

The girl pressed her lips together on a smile. “He’s handsome, miss. And a good enough cook. But you would know best.”

A door opened somewhere below.

Jenny straightened and glanced to the door. “I don’t think I can sleep in this house.”

They went to opposite windows.

“Over here, miss,” Jenny hissed.

Perry turned down the lamp and hurried over. The stable door that she had latched so securely stood open.

Alarm bells rang in her head. Chestnut and the other horses might be in danger.

“Mr. Fox went down, do you think?” Jenny asked.

“Or he might be in the kitchen ready to spring out. I should join him.”

Two men exited the stables, a tall one and a very tall one.

Her nerves jangled. There was no mistaking Fox. “Fox has a visitor.”

Jenny drew in a sharp breath.

“What?” Perry whispered.

“That’s Fergus MacEwen.”

“Who?” She shook her head. “How could you possibly recognize the man from this distance?”

“You recognized Mr. Fox, miss, clear as a bell. On account of him being so tall. And Fergus—I mean, MacEwen—well, look at him. No one else walks with that swagger, as if he’s God’s gift.”

She pressed her nose to the window. The second man did look familiar. Fergus MacEwen. “One of Kincaid’s men.”

“Yes. He and his cousin Boyd work for Mr. Kincaid. He brought them back from Scotland with Mr. and Mrs. Gibson after their wedding. Fergus has been gone from town for the last few months.”

Kincaid’s man. Who would also be her father’s man, a rough and ready man, somewhere between a soldier and a spy.

Her head pounded. Fox and his guest were heading for the kitchen entrance.

“I’m sorry, miss. Looks as though we’ve been discovered by your father.”

Found with Fox in a house with naught but a maid to shield her reputation. She would, if word got out, be ruined enough that Father would rush her and her substantial dowry into a marriage of his choosing.

Except, Father had sent one of his spies. It wasn’t her brothers raging through the door.

Of course, not a one of them would force her to marry the man she was caught with: Fox.

A thought niggled at the back of her mind. Her father had, somehow, manipulated all of her brothers into the marriages he wanted. He’d been most forthright with Bink Gibson, her eldest brother. But then, Bink, being a by-blow, was the one least under the forceful thumb of the Earl of Shaldon. Father had been devious with Bakeley, and manipulative with Charley.

Last month, he’d begun dropping the names of men he’d welcome into the family as her husband, and Fox’s wasn’t one of them.

Which, with Father, proved nothing. If she was contrary, like Bakeley, she might work directly into his plans. If he’d maneuvered her into visiting this house, as he’d set Charley on the mission that’d led him to his bride, she’d suspect Father wanted her to marry Fox. But he hadn’t.

Except…it had been easier than she’d expected to find the papers naming the property that would come to her when she married. As well, he’d joined in on a discussion of the names of Yorkshire families with Sirena’s dear friend, Lady Jane Monthorpe, and Charley’s wife Gracie. And Father knew she planned to travel north with Charley and his new bride to their estate not much more than a long day’s journey from here. And Fox claimed he was here by Father’s instruction.

Could Shaldon want her to marry Fox?

Pure heat rippled through her again, and then she remembered Bakeley’s hard stare when Fox had led her onto the dance floor the night of the ball. Fox was not good ton. Heavens, Fox had no place in London society—he was an American. And a mere painter of portraits and landscapes. As bad to some as a tradesman.

She, on the other hand, was the Earl of Shaldon’s only daughter. No matter her age, her extravagant dowry would allow her to entice a peer to the altar—if she would but forfeit all prospects for happiness.

No. Father had sent this Fergus MacEwen to ferry her back to whatever lord he had in mind for her. And she was not going.

“He’ll want a hot meal. They’ll be in the kitchen.”

Jenny pulled the ugly black shawl around herself. “Will we need the pistols, miss?”

A laugh bubbled up. She pictured Fergus MacEwen trying to carry her off into the dark night.

It wouldn’t come to that. She would refuse to return, and if they tried to force her, well, she had a set of men’s clothing packed in her bag and a very good horse. Just let them try to catch her.

“We’ll forgo the pistols tonight. What do you know about this Fergus MacEwen, Jenny?”

“He’s handsome as a devil and knows it, miss. Cocksure and full of himself.”

Something in the girl’s tone made her stop on the stairs. “A flirt?”

“Oh, yes, miss.”

Fox stirred the embers of the fire and started a kettle. “There’s a stew in that pot over there.”

MacEwen lifted the lid, sniffed, and grunted. “’Twill do. Have you not got something stronger than tea?”

“Some rotgut brandy from the local smuggling ring. I’ll have to fetch it from upstairs.”

“Never mind.” MacEwen pulled a bottle from one of his many pockets, took down two cups and poured. “Who made the stew, then?”

“I did.”

“Good. I’d not trust one made by someone from this shire. His lordship sends his steward all the way from Cransdall to look over this wee house. Kincaid comes himself sometimes. Boyd and I have been here at times, checking for squatters.”

They’d found loads of smuggled goods piled in the stables: casks of brandy, reams of silk cloth, and lace straight from Holland. Fox had heard the stories already when he’d first met Boyd and Fergus in Rotterdam.

MacEwen grinned at him, reading his mind, probably. Tough and strong, he’d be a good man in a fight. Shaldon trusted him, and Kincaid. He, on the other hand, was not well-acquainted, nor did he know why MacEwen was here.

Unless he’d come after Perry.

His protective instincts kicked in. Whether she realized it or not, the girl’s lust for him had matched his own for her, which was probably why she hated him.

He watched MacEwen stirring the stew, belting back shots of whisky. Handsome, tough and tall, he was a bit taller than Perry. She would like that.

Blast it. Perry was having a moment of freedom. If anyone took her back to her father, it would be him, not some Scottish spy.

“I’ve information for you,” MacEwen said, “Gregory Carvelle was spotted in Rotterdam two weeks ago, waiting for a boat.”

“Two weeks ago? No boats other than fishermen arriving since then. The weather’s been bad or the coastal patrol has been lingering. No words of any cargo arriving either. What news from Scarborough?”

“None. The coastal boys have been making their presence known there.”

So, no news, more waiting. “I’ll work on my report tonight.” He needed to do the blasted encryption. “You can take it back to London with you in the morning.”

Without Perry. The girl would have a few more days of freedom.

But that left him alone to defend her, and this might be a very dangerous place very soon.

MacEwen raised one eyebrow. “I’ve not been in London these past months. My orders are to stay here with you, play the servant. Our man doesn’t know you or me. When he shows up here, I’ll take a message. We’ll have some others along as soon as Fat George gets his crown.”

It was Fox’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Such disrespect for your king.”

The other man snorted. “We Scots warmed up his majesty’s troops at Culloden. Got them good and comfortable and overconfident so you Americans could win your revolution a few years later.”

“We are allies then?”

“Aye and both of us working for Fat—” MacEwen’s gaze flew to the door and he shot to his feet. “What the—”

Fox took the kettle off the fire. “We have guests, MacEwen.”

“My lady.” MacEwen bowed, his face unreadable. Then Jenny walked in and his mouth went slack.

Holy hell, the man was about to drool over the maid. Fox swiped a hand on his face, squashing a smile. It just lacked this, it did.

“Jenny,” Fox said, “Fetch two cups and the tea and whatever biscuits you brought.”