Eric handed the miniature to Captain Mirren. “Jasper is done with the copy. It’s drying now.”

“Thank you. Excellent idea, that was. I’d hate to lose my only copy in all the chaos. And it makes the boy feel important.”

“How old is she in this image?” Eric asked.

“Oh, I should say about thirteen, perhaps fourteen—this was painted some years ago. It’s difficult to keep track, isn’t it? Real life recedes when one is perpetually at war.”

Eric rubbed his hands together in front of the fire. “She’s lovely. You must be very proud. Does she sing? Dance?”

“Emily? I could only wish—then perhaps she’d have a chance at finding a husband. No, she’s dreadfully serious. Studious, even. I’m afraid she’s on her way to spinsterhood.”

“Where is she now?”

“In Somerset. She stays with the family on the neighboring estate. She’s unnaturally attached to a maid there, an African slave.”

“A slave?” Eric shouldn’t have been shocked. The trade had been outlawed, but that wasn’t the same as emancipation. “Seems one sees more free blacks in London these days. One doesn’t think about slaves so much since Mr. Wilberforce prevailed.”

“There aren’t many in England, but that doesn’t mean we don’t prosper from their labor.”

Eric could not disagree. His mother was mad for the tropical fruits the islands produced.

The captain laughed. “Can you imagine? I’ve a daughter utterly devoted to an aging slave. She doesn’t sing or play an instrument. She’s exceedingly unbiddable. No wonder her prospects are so poor.”

“She’ll have to be made to see reason somehow, made to understand that she’ll never marry if she doesn’t present herself in a more flattering light.”

“Ah, but there’s the rub. The blasted girl doesn’t want to marry. I don’t know what to do with her. Never have. Says she’d sooner cut off her right hand than marry.”

Blackstone opened his eyes when the library door opened and winced at the onslaught of pain where his right hand had been. He’d grown accustomed—and resigned—to the constant low-grade ache in his lower arm. Harder to cope with were the occasional flashes of blinding pain that made him think for a split second that his hand was still there.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your slumber, sir.” Stanway came forward bearing a note on a silver tray. “But I thought you would want to see this.”

“It’s all right. I wasn’t sleeping.” It was true. He’d been suspended in one of his waking nightmares, his mind half aware of his surroundings, even as it communed with his ghosts. Blackstone massaged his arm, noting the butler’s frown. He plucked the letter off the tray and broke the seal. At last! “Manning will be here tomorrow. Where have you put Bailey?”

“On the third floor, across from your bedchamber, my lord.”

“Right.” Since Blackstone didn’t sleep in his bedchamber, visiting it only when Stanway dressed him in the mornings, he wasn’t acquainted with the specifics of where the guests had been settled.

“But I warn you, sir, Mrs. Talbot and Miss Mirren are also on that floor.”

Blackstone paused with his hand on the door and shot a questioning look back at the man. After one too many miserable nights spent sleeping on the battlefield, he couldn’t care less about the arbitrary rules that governed life in fashionable society, but it would take something extraordinary for his painfully correct butler to do something so risqué as put an unmarried woman on the same floor as Bailey and him.

“Mrs. Talbot apparently had a great deal to say on the matter.” Stanway looked pained. “She wanted a view of the back gardens, and you know the blue room up there is the best. Mrs. Sheldon thought—”

Ah, something extraordinary, indeed. Something extraordinarily annoying. “Ah, the housekeeper succumbed to Mrs. Talbot’s verbal onslaught. Completely understandable.” The butler looked even more pained, and as he began to speak, Blackstone held up his hand. “Don’t worry, Stan. We’re in the country. Everything’s relaxed here.”

Blackstone chuckled as he bounded up the stairs, imagining the silent Mrs. Sheldon finally meeting her match. Taking stock of the closed doors lining the corridor, he rapped on one with a sliver of light peeking out from under it.

“Open up. He’s coming tomorrow,” he whispered. “I want to have one more look at the beach before—”

The curls that came into focus as the room’s occupant pushed the door open inspired a thud of recognition in his gut—and an instant frisson of awareness in his cock. Of all the bloody rooms to mistake for Bailey’s. He should have heeded Stan’s warning and been more careful.

“My lord?” The candlelit room behind transformed her into a golden Medusa, wild, unconstrained curls painted with warm light. She wore a simple white night rail, and the backlighting highlighted her figure beneath it. His eyes slid down long, shapely legs and came to rest on a pair of slender, bare feet, toes on one side curled under, as if with cold.

She leaned forward and looked both ways in the corridor, brow slightly furrowed, as if she were attempting to cross a busy London thoroughfare.

He closed his mouth and swallowed, his tongue suddenly dry. “I beg your pardon. I was looking for Bailey.”

One corner of her mouth quirked up. “I don’t believe Mr. Bailey is here, my lord, but let me check.” With that, she swiveled her head so she was looking over her shoulder, back into the room. He bit his lip as her tresses hit his chest on their way around, glad his untucked shirt covered the fall of his breeches. As she turned back, the other side of her mouth joined the first in an impish smile. He noticed for the first time that she was holding a book, one finger wedged inside it to keep her place.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” He forced himself to keep his eyes on her face as he performed a half bow.

One of her hands shot out and touched his forearm. “Who’s coming tomorrow?” Her eyes shone with an intensity that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “Mr. Manning?”

“Yes,” he said, not knowing how to dislodge her hand from his arm. He had the distinct sensation of being held back, constrained, which was ridiculous because her touch was light—and she was a slight twenty-three-year-old woman, for God’s sake. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Talbot, too. Perhaps you’ll convey the news to Mrs. Talbot at breakfast. Mr. Bailey and I have some matters to attend to in the morning and will, regretfully, have to absent ourselves.”

She removed her hand. “Sea bathing?”

“I beg your pardon?” Why couldn’t she act like any other woman would upon discovering a near stranger at the door of her bedchamber—with concern for her modesty, with horror even?

“Sea bathing. You said you and Mr. Bailey needed to go to the beach.”

“You should go inside. It won’t do for anyone to see us.” Please let that have done it.

She stared at him for a few moments before nodding. “Good night, my lord.” Without waiting for a reply, she closed the door softly.

He pressed his ear against the door and heard the clang of metal against metal. He imagined her poking the embers of her dying fire and, remembering the sight of her bare feet, had half a mind to summon a maid to build up the fire. But of course the request would be accompanied by an insinuation that he knew what was happening in her bedchamber at two o’clock in the morning. Next he heard the swish of covers being pulled back. A sweet little sigh. He remembered that feeling, from a time before the world had marked him, of sinking into a comfortable bed at the end of the day, surrendering one’s cares to crisp linen and soft down.

Then, finally, the sliver of light at his feet disappeared.

Emily saw him coming before anyone else did. She was part of a group of guests that had decided to go for a ramble and explore the estate. Lord Blackstone was in his shirtsleeves as he and Mr. Bailey appeared on the horizon, no doubt having climbed the hill that led up from the shoreline. Despite the sharp contrast between his dark, serious countenance and the bright yellow buttercups studding the meadow he crossed, he seemed to belong in the landscape in an elemental way.

As the other guests saw him and he them, he shrugged into his coat and raked his fingers through his hair, which, as it curled up around his collar, he wore longer than most gentlemen.

With the addition of the coat came his signature half scowl. The man was a chameleon. Whereas a moment ago he’d seemed a creature at ease, fully in touch with the natural landscape as he strode across it unselfconsciously, now he was back to being the impenetrable, formal aristocrat.

It was Mr. Bailey who greeted them. “My friends!” he called, coming toward them with a smile. “Good morning!”

After everyone made their greetings, Mr. Bailey and Lord Blackstone joined the group on their walk. The sun was high in the sky when they approached the small hill that led to the lake. Here, Lord Blackstone, who had been leading the group, stopped. “Shall we turn back for luncheon?”

“Oh, but, my lord, I understand there’s a lake just on the other side of this hill.” Lady Hastings performed a coy pout. “We can’t come this far and not see the lake!”

Lord Blackstone’s gaze landed on Emily’s face, but it was gone before anyone else noticed—she hoped. “There’s nothing remarkable about the lake. It’s more of a large pond, really.”

“But isn’t this the lake where the previous Lord Bl—”

“Anne!” Mrs. Smythe shot a quelling look at her daughter.

“I never did much care for lakes or swimming,” the earl said mildly. “So I’ll leave you lot to explore.”

“Oh, but you were a veritable fish as a boy!” said Mr. Smythe. “Your poor parents could never get you out of the water!” The outburst earned him his own icy look from Mrs. Smythe.

Lord Blackstone did not answer, just repeated his farewell and turned toward the house, leaving the assembly a little shocked. It wasn’t that he was ill-mannered, exactly. It was just that he lacked a social sense that allowed him to put people at ease. Or, she thought, perhaps it was more that he chose not to deploy it.

Regardless, Emily found herself oddly protective of the man. He obviously didn’t want to visit the lake with the group. Or maybe she was just feeling protective of the lake itself. It was a very nice lake.

“I find myself quite tired,” Emily offered. “The sea air on the estate is invigorating, but it does wear one out. I shall return to the house as well.” She turned to Sarah. “Perhaps your father and husband have arrived by now, Mrs. Talbot.”

That did the trick. Everyone began strolling back toward the house. Sarah caught up to Emily, who led the group at a pace fast enough to keep them on course but slow enough that they wouldn’t overtake Lord Blackstone. She thought he might need some privacy.

“His brother died in the lake, you know,” Sarah whispered, looking around as if she were relaying state secrets to an enemy of the Crown. “Drowned during a storm.”

Emily had to swallow a gasp. She hadn’t known. Had he been thinking about his brother when they’d encountered each other at the lake?

“Died without an heir, of course,” Sarah went on, oblivious to Emily’s bewilderment, “which is the only reason our Lord Blackstone is Lord Blackstone.” With that, Sarah squeezed Emily’s arm, then slowed her pace as she sent her next sentence over her shoulder. “Lady Hastings! I promised to finish telling you the story of the Duchess of Devon’s modiste! And I can’t wait to introduce you to my husband! I’m so glad he’s arrived! I’ve missed him dreadfully.”

Emily walked a little faster to distance herself from the other women. Doubt began to gnaw at her. Perhaps instead of her distain, what Lord Blackstone actually deserved was her sympathy.

Miss Mirren did not like Mr. Manning. It was abundantly clear from the pained expression on her face as she watched Mrs. Talbot embrace him. Blackstone had noticed that Miss Mirren often sported a slight crease on the otherwise-smooth skin between her eyebrows, as if she were perpetually thinking very hard. But this was something more than her signature furrow.

After kissing Mrs. Talbot, Mr. Manning greeted Miss Mirren. “Emily might as well be another daughter,” he explained to the group.

The ties between them clearly were not of blood. Where Miss Mirren was slender, Manning was plump. Her graceful limbs and smooth skin stood in marked contrast to his ruddy complexion and sturdiness. There was also the matter of the hair. Manning had very little, and she…. No, he’d given Miss Mirren’s hair enough thought for one lifetime.

“How is Sally?” Manning asked Miss Mirren.

“Fine, thank you, sir,” she answered through pursed lips.

Blackstone glanced around. Was he the only one who noticed how uncomfortable Miss Mirren seemed? He wanted to ask who Sally was, but everyone’s attention was diverted when Mr. Talbot stepped through the front door.

“John!” Mrs. Talbot flung herself at her husband. Though muscular, Mr. Talbot was a good head shorter than his wife. She looked as if she might smother him with her enthusiastic embrace. The man seemed to inspire affection—even Miss Mirren’s face lightened as she greeted her friend’s husband.

Finally, the men who would lead him to Le Cafard had arrived. Blackstone’s heart raced when he thought of his enemy. True to his name, the Frenchman was an unkillable insect. After apparent eradication, he always popped up again, somewhere they least expected, leaving his taunting notes. But unlike his namesake, the Frenchman carried secrets, secrets that got men killed and changed the outcome of battles.

“End this war,” the captain had said. Le Cafard was the key. And this time, Blackstone was going to stamp on the cockroach himself, grind him into the earth, and witness his utter extinction.

The butler’s arrival pulled him from thoughts of revenge. As Stan showed the newcomers to their bedchambers, the group convened for tea on the terrace that overlooked the back gardens. Rows of rose trees mingled with plants of every size and color in a display that managed to be both formal and exuberant at the same time.

As he stood leaning on the stone balustrade, Miss Mirren came to stand beside him. Before he could speak, their attention was drawn by Mrs. Talbot, who once again, and with no less joy, launched herself into her husband’s arms when he appeared, having returned from unpacking.

“A devoted wife,” he observed.

“Yes,” Emily said. “My friend may lack a certain social polish, but her heart is big—and true.” A wistful look drifted across her face. “And hers is a love match.”

He turned to her. “A true love match is rare.”

“Did your parents have one?”

Her forwardness no longer took him aback. In fact, he was surprised only by the fact that the question hadn’t angered him. Most mentions of his parents did. He answered honestly. “No.”

She regarded him with her signature furrowed brow. One question was enough, so he changed the subject. “My garden is nearly as nice as my lake, I daresay, if you’ll forgive the immodesty.”

That earned a smile as she contemplated the vista. “Yes, I think it’s the nicest garden I’ve ever seen.”

“It has been extraordinarily well maintained. I find myself a bit surprised, in truth. I’m never here to enjoy it.”

“And you don’t think your servants are capable of enjoying it?” she said. “Perhaps the gardeners take pride in their work. At least they’re doing something useful.”

“Are they? I’m not sure I see what utility there is in a garden, to be perfectly honest.”

“A thing of beauty is always useful.”

Was there a rebuke in her words? He hadn’t meant to give offense and, uncharacteristically, found himself caring whether he had, wanting to maintain this cordiality between them. “A noble sentiment.”

The others were sitting down, so he escorted Miss Mirren to the table and proceeded to watch her watch Manning.

She seized the first lull in the conversation. “I trust your business in Bristol is concluded, Mr. Manning?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“It must have been a very important transaction…” She trailed off, as if hoping he’d take up the narrative.

“So many men of business here.” Lady Hastings glanced at Bailey as she, the highest-ranking woman present, poured the tea. “What sort of business are you in?” she asked Manning, with just the slightest sniff. Of course what Lady Hastings misunderstood was that Bailey and Manning were each far, far richer than her husband. And, more critically, that none of their wealth was tied up in entailed land. The world was changing, regardless of whether Lady Hastings and her ilk chose to acknowledge it.

“No sugar, thank you!” All eyes turned to Miss Mirren, who held up a hand as Lady Hastings prepared to drop a lump of sugar into the tea she was pouring for the younger woman.

“You haven’t a sweet tooth?” Bailey asked.

“I prefer not to consume products produced by those in bondage,” she said coolly.

Lady Hastings looked confused.

“What Miss Mirren means,” said Mr. Talbot, patting his wife’s hand before she could speak, “is that she boycotts sugar, as some of the reformers do.” He glanced at her. “Probably unless she knows its provenance. I imagine sugar from the East Indies is acceptable?”

“I thought that was all settled,” Mr. Smythe said.

“While abolishing the slave trade was of course a welcome step, I personally believe that England’s moral debts will not be settled until we achieve emancipation,” said Miss Mirren, oblivious to the dropped jaws of not only Lady Hastings, but all of the Smythe women.

“Emancipation!” Mr. Manning, whose complexion had been turning increasingly red, sputtered.

“Shipping,” Blackstone interjected, loudly. “To answer your question, Lady Hastings, Mr. Manning is in shipping.” Now was as good a time as any to begin his campaign of flattery. “Mr. Manning runs quite a successful shipping business, in fact.”

“And what do you ship?” Miss Mirren asked, turning to stare at Mr. Manning.

Mr. Manning composed his features into a mask of calm before replying. “All manner of things. I’ve recently had a ship back from India, laden with spices and tea.”

Lady Hastings sniffed again and turned her attention to a scone.

“And do you have any ships leaving soon for distant ports?” Miss Mirren asked.

“Oh, come now,” said Mr. Talbot. “This is hardly exciting enough to be the topic of luncheon conversation for such a fine group of people.”

“It’s just that I find it all so…fascinating,” Miss Mirren said, looking anything but fascinated. Blackstone glanced at Bailey. Why wasn’t anyone else noticing the gap between what Miss Mirren said and how she appeared?

Blackstone cleared his throat. It was neither socially nor strategically wise to allow Miss Mirren to start a row over tea and cucumber sandwiches. “What does everyone say to a picnic on the shore tomorrow? And for this afternoon, perhaps some lawn bowling after our tea?”

There was a general murmur of assent, with the exception—of course—of Miss Mirren. “Thank you, but I must see to some correspondence this afternoon.”

“Please feel free to use the library,” he said. “It gets sun in the afternoon. And for that matter, visit anytime and borrow whatever you wish.”

“That’s our Miss Mirren,” said Mrs. Talbot. “Always holed up indoors reading instead of enjoying the sunshine.” It didn’t seem to be a barb. Mrs. Talbot smiled affectionately at her friend as she spoke. But it did cause Lady Hastings to smirk, which in turn caused the Smythe twins to titter.

He felt compelled to defend Miss Mirren. “I, for one, think Miss Mirren’s devotion to her correspondence does her credit.” Blackstone ignored the quizzical look Bailey shot him and sipped his tea, steeling himself for an afternoon of work.

Emily laid down her quill and shook out the cramp in her hand. It was always the final paragraph that gave her trouble. She wanted to summarize her argument and rouse her audience to indignation and action. Generally, she preferred to write a column over the course of two days, giving herself time to come back to it and revise. But she would need to post the column today for it to arrive in Mr. Todmorden’s office in time for the next edition of the paper. She’d been holding off, hoping she could begin a series on the actions of an illegal slaver she was secretly investigating. She’d planned to build anticipation, to reveal facts as she uncovered them, spinning a web that would leave her readers salivating to know the identity of her target. Once she had incontrovertible proof, something concrete that would stand up in court, she would expose Mr. Manning.

But she hadn’t been able to extract anything of use. Worse, she’d allowed her emotions to get in the way, drawing unwelcome attention. What was a little sugar if it helped with her larger cause? It wasn’t as if Billy himself had picked that sugarcane.

Staring at the oak paneled ceiling, she blew out a frustrated breath. How to end? Nothing came.

Perhaps a fresh sheet of foolscap. Sometimes if she started with a new sheet, copying over what she’d already written, it jogged something inside her head, and inspiration struck. She was out of her own supply, though, so she tentatively slid open the top drawer of the desk, feeling a twinge of guilt. But surely Lord Blackstone wouldn’t have invited her to use the library if there was anything truly private here.

The drawer was full of odds and ends like sealing wax and quills and—aha! Her fingers closed around a sheet of fine parchment. Much higher quality than she was used to, but no doubt this was what passed for scratch paper for an earl.

It was folded into a letter—a letter with an odd bump inside it. She hesitated a moment before curiosity got the better of her.

“Ahh!” She jumped a little when opening it revealed a dead cockroach inside.

Lord Blackstone seemed to have a mysterious enemy. She rolled her eyes. Of course he did. The man couldn’t help it—he raised hackles wherever he went. But “the cockroach?” That was taking it a little far, wasn’t it? Even for these melodramatic aristocratic types? She put the parchment—insect included—back where she found it and rose and walked to windows. The guests were lawn bowling. To her surprise, the Earl of Blackstone was among them, pitching balls with his good arm, a dark inkblot against the green expanse of lawn. As his ball rolled to within a hairbreadth of the jack, he stood, his face conveying no triumph, no emotion at all.

Suddenly, he turned and locked his eyes on her, as if he had sensed her regard through the pane of glass and across the fifty yards that separated them. She darted behind the drape, heart hammering. Perhaps Sarah, in spite of her limited vocabulary, had been right. The Earl of Blackstone was a mysterious man. A person who sought to understand how his mind worked, or what was in his heart, might as well be looking up at the vast expanse of stars, cold, distant, and unknowable.

Enough. It was time to turn her thoughts from Lord Blackstone to Mr. Todmorden, editor of the London Weekly Comment. He would be thrilled if she managed to find something to expose Mr. Manning in his pages. The man was a reformer, but he was also an editor. He understood that scandal sold newspapers.

But there would be no newspapers to sell if the writers didn’t do their jobs. And hers, now, was to finish this column.

Sighing, she returned to the desk. Perhaps a list. At home, she was a devoted list-maker. Whether it was simply a list of mundane tasks she needed to accomplish or a collection of points she wanted to make in a column, she found that an orderly list of items inked onto paper somehow set her mind free.

1. Finish the dratted column!
2. Post to Mr. Todmorden
3. Pre-write column for next edition—Somersett case? Registration? Decide soon because
4. Post early to Mr. Todmorden to clear rest of week for investigation of Mr. M.
5. That route to America might incriminate him. How to find out more?
6. Perhaps Mr. T?
7. Is the red book here?
8. Billy. Is he still in the mill?

There. She folded the paper into a small square and tucked it into her bodice. A series of discrete tasks to perform and decisions to make that would add up to victory. She shivered a little, thinking about what success would mean. In addition to bringing down Mr. Manning, it might, she prayed, lead her to Billy. Revenge would be sweet—she was not a saint, after all—but Billy was the reason she was doing this.

There was no light under Miss Mirren’s door that night when Blackstone approached Bailey’s room just past midnight, a decanter of brandy tucked under his arm. Most of the guests had retired early in anticipation of a morning outing to the shore. With luck, he and Bailey could make Mr. Manning see the potential of the cove. The region was full of estuaries and waterways that led inland from the ocean. There was no shortage of routes to London—the ultimate market for most smugglers. But his cove had the advantage of being extremely sheltered. He’d already been laying the groundwork by asking Manning questions about his business, displaying enthusiastic interest in the smallest operational details. Bailey’s assignment was to gossip, to hint that Blackstone was staving off creditors.

“Do you ever sleep?” Bailey blinked as he stepped back to let Blackstone into the darkened room.

Blackstone ignored the question. “How did it go with him this evening?”

Bailey used Blackstone’s taper to light several candles throughout the room. “I pointed out that you don’t keep your own horses here and that you’ve worn the same coat two evenings in a row.”

“It is not the same coat,” Blackstone protested.

“I know! You’ve a closetful of black coats, no doubt, each distinguished by a slightly different thread, or size of button. Made by Bond Street’s finest, I’m sure.” He poured brandy into a glass and handed it to Blackstone. “You’re going to object because I’m impugning your sartorial sense? You were fine that time I had that French heiress believing you impotent.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” But Blackstone couldn’t help smiling. Thankfully, they almost always completed their missions successfully, so the only people who ended up thinking him short of blunt—or poorly endowed in any other sense—found themselves on ships to Australia. Or swinging from the hangman’s noose.

He took a sip of his drink. “I noticed Miss Mirren spent a great deal of time talking to Mr. Manning before dinner.”

Bailey nodded. “Yes, and after we rejoined the ladies, too. I walked in with him and she joined us right away.”

“And yet she seems to dislike him so intensely.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Haven’t you watched her?

Bailey took a slow draught of his drink, peering at Blackstone over the rim. “Apparently not as intently as you have.”

“She gets herself all twisted into knots when he’s around,” said Blackstone, ignoring the insinuation. He was supposed to notice things. It was his job. “Why would Miss Mirren seek Mr. Manning out if he makes her so uneasy?”

“I can think of a reason.”

When Blackstone didn’t reply, Bailey continued, “Do you need it explained to you, old chap?”

Blackstone choked on a sip. “Good God, you’re not saying she carries a tendre for him?”

“Try to remember what life was like before you lost your humanity, Blackstone.” Though Bailey was jesting, the jibe held more truth than his friend knew. “It is perhaps counterintuitive, but sometimes when a woman harbors romantic feelings for a man, she hides it—maybe even from herself—under apparent disregard. And he is recently a widower, is he not?”

“She was his ward!”

Bailey shrugged, drained the remains of his glass, and stood. “I merely raise it as a possibility. But I agree it’s an unlikely one. I shall endeavor to watch her more closely.”

Blackstone wasn’t sure he liked that idea, but he could hardly object, having raised the subject himself.

Bailey set his empty tumbler on the bedside table. “Some of us need to sleep. Not you, I understand, but the mere mortals among us must, from time to time, shut our eyes.”

Dismissed, Blackstone headed to the library to take up his vigil.