Cally was waiting for him outside the churchyard in her mother’s sleek unmarked carriage. The newspaper had a notice of the funeral, and it had taken no great deduction to surmise that McTavish would be there. “McTavish!” she called, leaning out the open window of the carriage. “Toby.”

He came toward the coach reluctantly, but he came—though he did not come out of the wind into the warm carriage. “What are you doing here?”

She did not try to evade his scorn, but met it straight on. “I came to apologize.”

“Have you?” His brows rose in wary surprise. “How novel.”

She had the grace to feel abashed—her cheeks must be the color of cherries in the biting chill. “Yes, well. I read about the burglaries being solved, and I— Well, I am so very sorry I wrongly accused you. I’m sorry for all the things I said in my mother’s house that morning.”

He tipped his head to the side in consideration. “You were upset.”

“I thank you, I was, but that is no excuse for such a gross misjudgment of your character. That was very wrong of me to leap to such an unfounded conclusion.”

“All the best headstrong girls do it.”

There was almost enough warmth in his tone to make her feel he was teasing her. Almost. “I don’t think you mean that as a compliment.”

“I mean that I accept your apology. I am sorry, too—sorry I’m not the dashing, exciting, faultless person you thought I was.”

She would have none of it. “You’re exactly who I thought you were.” When he looked skeptical at her assertion, she tried another tack. “What are you going to do now?

“The same as I was doing yesterday—find the real thief.”

“But…the broadsheets said it was this Bolter fellow. That they caught him red-handed, as it were, at the Meecham townhouse.”

“They did nothing of the kind.” His growl was laced with impatience. “They found Bolter’s body and jumped to convenient conclusions.”

“Such as?”

“That the crime had been thwarted. But the fact of the matter is that Bolter and Mott were there to stop me, not to rob Lady Meecham’s jewels. Neither of the two men who attacked me were thieves.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know them just as they know me. And I heard them coming a mile away—they made no bones of it, coming straight to slit my throat with their knives and bash my brains in with their cudgels.”

“They came to murder you!” The realization sent a chill sinking deep into Cally’s bones like a killing frost. She shivered in her fur-lined cloak. “Why?” she asked, even though she understood him perfectly. “To keep you from finding the real thief?”

“Aye.” His voice was nothing but grim resignation.

“Then the broadsheets lied.”

“Lied,” he scoffed. “Surely you’re not that naive—they printed a convenient truth.” Toby shrugged away the injustice of it all. “Bolter was indeed there, and he was indeed tied to the thefts—as, I reckon, are several others. But the broadsheets left off several other important truths, like the fact that Bolter had a wooden leg, and could never have climbed across any roof to emulate the Wraith—he was definitely not the one leaving sprigs of heather in people’s jewel boxes.”

Cally was indignant on his behalf. “Well, that’s not right.”

He turned her concern aside. “My dear Mrs. Bowmont, pray don’t let my unfair treatment keep you up at night.”

“Of course I shall let such injustice to you keep me up at night,” she exclaimed before she could think better of it. “I have for years!”

He stilled. “Years?” He narrowed his eyes at her, but the beginning of a smile lit the corners.

“Yes.” There was no sense in trying to evade his regard now—things had gone too far, people were being murdered. “Ever since I’ve known of you—years. Years spent wondering what you were like, how you were faring in your hard naval career, what you were doing once you’d left the navy. I’ve followed your career with interest.”

“It’s no longer my career.”

“Thievery? I know that—I was only teasing before, so you would admit who you were. I meant farming.”

His smile was kind but skeptical. “What do you know of farming?”

“I know that you’re very good at it. That your Limousin cattle have taken champion ribbons for beef breeds at the Middlesex Fair, and your blackface sheep have taken Best Wooled Breed three years running. And that your spaniel dogs are prized for their keen noses and merry temperaments. And that you’re probably the nicest, most attractive farmer I’ve ever met. And I rather think I’m falling in love with you.”

He stared at her, shocked into momentary silence. “It is very nearly frightening that you know all that.”

She felt her skin flame all the way down her chest. “It is ridiculous, is what it is, not frightening.”

“The prizes, or that you know about them?”

Cally began to feel some of her normal good humor start to return at his quizzical, almost droll tone. “I had assumed you won the prizes fairly, without any bribery of beef breed judges or paying off of blackfaced sheep men.”

“The blackfaced sheep men are notoriously expensive—too rich for my blood.”

She feared she heard a warning in his voice, but she forced herself to have the courage to ask, “And me? Am I too rich for your blood, too?”

He took a deep breath before he answered. “I fear you’re just lonely and bored with nothing better to do than imagine yourself in love—”

“Is that really what you think of me? Is that why you kissed me? And made love with me—because you think I’m lonely? And bored? Have you no idea of what I’m truly like? That I manage my husband’s farm on my own, thank you very much, so my mama-in-law will have peace and comfort and good health all her days, though she wishes with every breath of her body, every single day of her life—and mine—that her son was the one providing those things for her, and not I. That these few weeks of harmless frivolity in London visiting with my mother are the only bloody frivolity I’m like to get until next bloody year. And that I love spaniel dogs even though they are notoriously hard to train properly. And I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to love you if I want to.”

Tobias McTavish was silent again for a long moment before the corners of his eyes began to soften into a smile. “Well, I suppose there is no gainsaying that.”

Hope was like a sunrise in her chest, warming the bleak chill of the morning. “There isn’t. And I don’t care who knows it.”

He rewarded her bravery by reaching for her hand. “In that case, my dear Mrs. Bowmont, I’d be very much obliged of your help.”

Caledonia’s heart did a little cartwheel of joy within her chest. She felt all topsy-turvy with relief and excitement and just a little bit of fear. Because this really was his very life they were playing with—she couldn’t let herself forget that. “What do you need me to do?”

He smiled, that knowing, this-is-going-to-be-trouble smile that warmed the improper cockles of her heart. “Get me an invitation to your mother’s masquerade ball.”

“Done. But you’ll have to have a costume,” she warned.

“Indeed.” He nodded. “What are you wearing?”

“Columbina—she’s a sort of Italianate motley—a harlequin.” Her mother had arranged it all months ago—the bright colored costume a gift in understanding of the bland sameness of Cally’s days in the Cheviot Hills. “Mama will be a Dama Blanca, and Balfour an elegant Clown. The masquerade is really more of a Twelfth Night revel than a sedate Advent Ball, but Mama knows how much I love a revel.”

“You would.” There was no censure in his smile. “I should like to try and fit into your group if I may.”

“Of course. I should like that. Do you want a full mask, so you’re not recognized? Or do you want people to be able to tell who you are?” It was so complicated, this trap they needed to set.

He kissed her hand. “And that is why I may, in fact, be falling in love with you, dear Mrs. Bowmont—your delightfully agile mind. You understand things. And as to the recognition and disguise—I think I want both.”

“Both,” she repeated, beginning to understand. “You want people to think they can recognize you?”

He leaned across the sill of the carriage window and kissed her in confirmation.

Cally’s lips all but tingled—she didn’t know when she had felt more relieved, or more alive. “I think I’ve got an absolutely brilliant idea.”