Alaric and the other men reached the appointed destination before dawn. He’d rented out two stage coaches to convey the team of investigators and guards from London to Portsmouth at record speed, so that they could arrive a few hours prior to the meeting with Mercer. Will and his comrades had already taken off on a scouting mission. Disguised as porters, the four ex-soldiers were presently conducting reconnaissance on the dock.

Their goals: to find Mercer’s vessel and locate Emma and Patrice.

In the meantime, Alaric and Kent took a suite at an inn. They were guarding the trunks of ransom money and awaiting the arrival of some mysterious associate Kent had said might be helpful to the cause. From the second floor balcony, Alaric watched the ribaldry in the street below. How clever of Mercer to choose this place to conduct his nefarious business.

With all the lawlessness and depravity going on, who would care about two women being held against their will? Who would even notice?

Outside the gate of the old town, Portsmouth Point was known as “Spice Island,” not only for the scent of imported spices that came from the harbor but also for the piquant activities so clearly on display. Whores plied their trade openly in the alleys, sailors and dockhands stumbled in and out of the public houses that lined both sides of the street. Brawls broke out with regularity, cheered on by drunken bystanders.

Alaric’s hands fisted with impotence. If Mercer so much as touches a hair on Emma’s head ... He was unwilling to contemplate that possibility. He was going to get her and his aunt back. Then he was going to tear the earl apart limb by limb.

Slowly.

Kent came to stand beside him. “McLeod will find my sister and your aunt. He’s the best there is when it comes to scouting.”

“Aye. But time is running out.” Alaric gave a terse nod at the sky over the harbor.

Already, the horizon was losing its dark opacity. He could make out the forest of masts bobbing on the black water and the fleet of small barges that zipped between the larger ships, ferrying passengers and goods back and forth from the docks. The Byzantine activity of the scene frustrated him further. Which one of those hundreds of ships held Emma and Aunt Patrice prisoner? What was Mercer’s ultimate plan?

“We should review the strategy for the exchange. I still don’t like the idea of you meeting the villain alone,” Kent said.

“Mercer made it clear in the ransom note that I’m to follow his instructions to the letter,” Alaric said starkly. “If I don’t bring the gold to the quay alone and unarmed at nine o’clock, he’s going to kill Emma and Patrice. I won’t take that risk.”

“He might kill them anyway. You as well.”

Alaric saw emotion flare in the other man’s eyes. Fear. Fury. The same feelings that ran molten through his own veins.

“Whatever it takes, I will see your sister safe,” he vowed. “It’s me Mercer wants.”

“You’d trade your life for Emma’s?”

“Whatever it takes,” he repeated.

Kent studied him for a moment. “My wife was right after all.”

“About what?”

“You truly do care for Emma.”

Alaric’s cheekbones heated. He felt suddenly exposed—and he didn’t like it. “I told you my intentions were honorable,” he said stiffly.

“There’s a difference between an honorable marriage and a loving one.”

A knock on the door cut short the conversation. Alaric tensed.

Kent checked his watch. “Right on time.”

The investigator opened the door and ushered in a fellow dressed in the loose jacket and trousers of a man who worked on the water. The newcomer’s most distinguishable feature was the curly auburn hair beneath his cap. His freckled face split into a grin. He and Kent exchanged bows—and then slapped each other on the back like old friends.

“As I live and breathe, six years and you don’t look any different, sir. Except your clothes—quite dapper now, ain’t you?” The stranger winked. “Told you a wife would do you good, didn’t I?”

“Indeed you did, old friend,” Kent said with a faint smile. “But time to reminisce later. As I mentioned in my message, I’m afraid I’m here on urgent business.”

“I’m at your service, sir.”

“I’m deeply grateful to hear it.” Kent turned to Alaric. “Your Grace, this is John Oldman, a former colleague of mine at the Thames River Police. He moved to Portsmouth six years ago.”

“Call me Johnno. Everyone does,” the man said cheerfully.

“I beg your pardon,” Alaric said, “but how is it that you’re to help us?“

“Kent says you need a way to hide in plain sight on the water. I can provide that.”

“How?”

“Johnno and his brother-in-law operate one of the largest barge services here in Portsmouth,” Kent explained. “A third of the barges that travel between ship and shore are theirs. With Johnno’s help, we’ll surround the quay where you’re to meet Mercer.” The investigator’s eyes burned with a fierce light. “Unbeknownst to that blackguard, we’ll block his escape route. We’ll capture him—and get Emma and the dowager back.”

* * *

Finally, Lady Patrice stirred.

Emma had begun to lose hope, her desperation mounting as pale light seeped through the shutters of the window. She could hear the activity above, the shouts and heavy bootsteps as the villains readied themselves for Alaric’s arrival.

For the ambush.

She had to free herself and Lady Patrice before Alaric arrived. Before he fell into Mercer’s deadly clutches.

“Lady Patrice,” she said as loud as she dared, “please, open your eyes.”

The dowager’s lashes fluttered against her pale cheeks. Slowly, her head turned toward Emma. “Miss Kent? Where—where are we?” she said in a trembling, befuddled voice. “What has happened?”

Emma wanted to weep with relief. Instead, she said in calm tones, “We’ve been kidnapped, Your Grace. Mercer is holding us hostage—and he means to kill Strathaven when he brings the ransom money. We must stop the villain, and I need your help.”

“Kill Strathaven?” Lady Patrice pushed herself to sitting and though she weaved a little, she said firmly, “We cannot allow that to happen. Tell me what you want me to do.”

* * *

“Remember we’ll be watching from the barges,” Will said. “One wrong move from Mercer and we’ll move in, cut off his escape.”

“Aye,” Alaric said.

The two of them were standing on the quay Mercer had designated for the exchange. Besides him and Will and the trunks of ransom, the dock was abandoned, positioned within a small isolated cove. Near the entrance of the cove, he saw two of Johnno’s vessels patrolling the waters. They appeared like the other ubiquitous barges, and he prayed that Mercer would be fooled.

“It’s a quarter to nine. You’d best go before the bastard shows up,” Alaric said.

Will didn’t move. Gruffly, he said, “Don’t get yourself killed, all right? I’d hate to lose my only brother.”

Alaric’s chest tightened. “If anything happens to me, you’re the last of the Strathaven line. Take care of the title.”

Will’s eyes widened. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Promise me.”

“I don’t want the bluidy dukedom—”

“I know,” Alaric said simply. “But promise me you’ll look after it anyway.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you.” Will raked a hand through his hair. “But ... aye. Have no worry, Alaric, but that of saving your lass.”

Alaric clasped his brother’s shoulder in silent thanks. He was startled to find himself pulled into a rough hug. The embrace ended just as abruptly.

His face ruddy, Will muttered, “I’ll be watching from the barge.”

After the other left, Alaric turned his attention back to the mouth of the cove. Minutes later, he saw a small covered vessel approaching, moving steadily toward the inlet, churning a white line in its wake. It passed through the entrance of the cove and minutes later arrived at the quay.

Alaric’s muscles tensed as a figure disembarked onto the wharf, his face shielded by the brim of his hat. The bastard looked up.

Alaric’s gut clenched. “Where’s Mercer?”

The dark-haired ruffian casually withdrew a pistol, pointed it at Alaric. He crossed over and, searching Alaric’s pockets, removed the firearm. He made a tsking noise as he tossed the weapon into the water.

Shaking his head, the brute said, “Nobs ne’er are any good at followin’ instructions.” He gave a short whistle—and two more cutthroats emerged from the barge. “Boys, have a look inside those trunks.”

The pair opened the lids, and Alaric saw the avarice glittering in their eyes.

“I’ve brought the ransom,” he said evenly. “Give me the women.”

“You ain’t in no position to make demands, yer lordship.” To his comrades, the cutthroat ordered, “Tie ’im up, boys. We’re bringing ’Is Grace back to the main ship.”

* * *

On a barge near the cove’s entrance, Ambrose swore softly. He’d been monitoring the events on the quay through a telescope.

“I don’t see any sign of the women or Mercer,” he said. “The villain sent his lackeys to get the money.”

“Those bastards have Alaric now,” McLeod growled. “We’ve got to head them off before they leave the cove.”

“We can’t,” Ambrose said in frustration. “If Mercer doesn’t get his gold, Emma and the dowager will die.”

“If we don’t stop them now, my brother will!”

“We have no choice. Strathaven was willing to take the risk, and we must see this through.” Cursing, Ambrose pounded his fist on the barge’s railing. “Johnno,” he said in clipped tones, “signal the other barges. We’ll have to follow the bastards to their ship, but we cannot, under any circumstances, be seen.”

“Just like the old days. Don’t worry, sir,” Johnno said, “I haven’t lost my touch.”

Jaw clenched, Ambrose prayed that he was making the right decision. The lives of three people—one of them his sister—depended upon it.