Do you honestly think you treat every defendant the same?

Hugh spent much of the night bleeding from Grace’s razor-sharp words.

His first reaction was one of denial. She didn’t know him. She was a stranger. She was no lawyer. She was a guest in his house. She owed him and the family her life. What would motivate her to attack him so stridently? Pacing back and forth in his suite, he stewed over her charges.

As his anger began to subside, he kept mulling Grace’s motivation. She’d been hesitant until he baited her, and there was nothing dishonest in the straightforwardness of her words. Considering the vulnerability of her position at Baronsford, he had to accept that her comments were objective, based on what she’d read.

As the clock on his mantle chimed midnight, the possibility that she was right was what stung the worst.

He questioned whether he did indeed have an unconscious failure to see certain things that affected the way he dispensed justice. Whether his compassion failed to encompass the influx of destitute foreigners who were searching desperately for a place to live and work and raise their families. Was he sensitive only to the plight of the oppressed people he’d been instructed about in his youth? It cut him deeply that his sense of fairness might fail to extend beyond the Africans in England and the colonies, and the Scots displaced by the land clearances.

Speaking with Grace, he’d boasted of his principles and had given credit to his parents. But they weren’t the only ones who shaped him. Ohenewaa, the African healer who lived with them, had provided another powerful foundation during his childhood. Purchased by Hugh’s mother at an auction in order to free her, Ohenewaa spent her final years subtly educating the next generation of Penningtons in the rights and wrongs of the world. And at Melbury Hall in Hertfordshire, he’d grown up among former sugar plantation slaves—Jonah, old Moses, Amina, and the others. Hugh had idolized Israel, only ten years older, and watched him as he struggled fiercely to find a place in society, regardless of having been raised by an earl.

When it came to the evils of the Scottish land clearances, Hugh had his sister Jo as a daily living reminder of the malevolent outcome of landowner’s greed. She had survived, but her own birth mother had not.

Staring out at the moon descending in the western sky, he contemplated the possibility that Grace was forcing him to consider.

He recalled how he’d put off Truscott in hiring the Irish vagrants. What reason had he offered? He didn’t know them. And in his courtroom, he thought of the deaf-mute woman who’d been awaiting trial for six months. He remembered now; she was born in Dublin. She was sitting in that jail while the justices wrangled over . . . what?

He’d made certain that Darby had been freed from the local bailiff’s custody. And yet, many Irish were sitting behind bars for no reason except tardiness in being granted a hearing.

Hugh knew he couldn’t change the justice system. Those wheels turned exceedingly slow. But the specter Grace had raised was how much injustice he himself had been responsible for.

Dawn was still far off when he went down to his study. In his law clerk’s office, he found the latest pretrial record and the prison registers on Kane Branson’s desk. The pages included cases on the docket for the lower courts. The name of each person was followed by the place of birth, occupation, age, height, and religion. Reading the alleged offences, he saw exactly what Grace was speaking of. The majority of the cases involved an Irishman, and many of these men should have been in and out with minimal reprimand. Even worse, many of the offences were a poor man’s crime, theft for food.

In most instances, these cases wouldn’t reach his court, but Hugh started taking notes, instructing Branson what needed to be done to either release the prisoners or expedite the hearings.

When he was through with the list, he stood and stretched. He knew he wasn’t done yet. The deaf-mute woman. The murder case would finally reach the High Court this autumn. He dug out the file that had been sent to him at Baronsford.

The woman, Jean Campbell of Dublin, accused of throwing her three-year-old child into the River Clyde from the Saltmarket Bridge on the nineteenth of November of last year. Witnesses had come forward reporting the crime, and she was arrested with strong evidence against her.

Hugh paged through all the material he had. There was very little here. No statement from the accused. Notes indicated that Mrs. Campbell couldn’t read or write. She couldn’t hear or speak. As far as he could see, no further attempt was made to communicate with her.

He recalled the issue causing the impasse. If she was not fit to stand trial, she’d be sentenced to an asylum for life. A fate worse than death, in Hugh’s opinion. But if Jean Campbell was fit to stand in court, she had no defense. She’d end up hanging. But keeping her locked away, month after month, because of legal squabbling was not advancing her case, either.

Hugh started a new list for his law clerk. Information he needed. Records of testimonies against her. A report that provided information about where she lived in Glasgow, names of her neighbors and family members. Where were her other children?

He thought about the key issue itself, her inability to communicate. How did her family and neighbors communicate with her? By the time he was done with his instructions, he had enough to keep Kane Branson busy in Edinburgh for a few days. The young man was training to be a barrister. Idealistic and eager, he shared Hugh’s passion for defending those who could not defend themselves. He’d do well on this.

Hugh finished by writing a message to Walter Truscott about the dam. He was to hire whomever he needed, including able-bodied Irish workers.

Putting down his pen, he leaned back in his chair and saw the candles had burned down to stumps. Without his help or notice, the sun had already risen and was shining outside. He felt good. The unsettling start of the night had turned to a productive one.

Done, he thought. But now he needed exercise. Something to get his pulse to match the speed of his thoughts. Leaving the instructions on Branson’s desk, he came back into his study to find Jo knocking and entering.

“This is early, even for you,” she said, glancing at the disheveled condition of his dinner clothes. “Oh, I see. Never went to bed last night.”

“I had to right a few wrongs first.”

“Well, I won’t harass you for working too hard if you agree to do me a favor. Though I hate to ask, considering you haven’t slept.”

“Don’t give it another thought.” Jo rarely asked favors. “What is it you need?”

“You and I were to take Grace out after breakfast riding in the deer park.”

Hugh said nothing. Grace had obviously not seen his sister this morning to tell her of his change of plans.

“You gave me the impression that you did want to go,” Jo said, reading his reluctance. “And I think this would be good for her. She appears much happier when she’s outside. Yesterday, I thought she improved tenfold by just taking a walk.”

Last night, he’d forgotten she’d been at death’s door so few days earlier. The image of her sprawled on the rug, books spread around her, flashed in his mind. Once he knew she wasn’t injured, he readily rushed headlong into an enjoyment of her charm, her beauty. Her dress was far from risqué in comparison to many women’s evening wear, but on Grace it became a standard for sensuality. Her bare arms, the deep neckline that gave him a generous view of her perfect breasts. He’d looked into her face and admired the perfect symmetry of it. As before, her eyes and lips fascinated him.

Hugh had enjoyed enough liaisons in the past to recognize when a woman was interested in him. Grace showed him all the signs. Except, he was the one in possession of his past. He knew what was right and wrong. Whatever temptation either was feeling, he needed to act responsibly.

And he’d done so, in spite of the fact that she appealed to him physically. But then he’d seen the strength of her mind. It was astonishing to realize anyone could glean so much from only one reading, and the blunt power of her argument enthralled him.

“Please tell me I don’t need to disappoint her and postpone the outing.”

Hugh brought his attention back to his sister. “What are you doing this morning?”

“A note just arrived from Lady Nithsdale. She’s planning on paying me a visit this morning.”

“Oh well, the world must change its orbit if Lady Nithsdale is coming to call.”

“You know it’s the truth,” Jo said, smiling. “She’s bringing her friend and houseguest, Mrs. Douglas, with her. Don’t you remember her telling us about it last week?”

Hugh didn’t remember. He paid no more attention to that woman’s endless chatter about social engagements than he paid to her husband’s rambling boasts about his prowess as a sportsman. He only tolerated the two of them because they were neighbors.

“If this were only a social call, I would not be troubled by it.”

“Why is she coming?”

“Her note makes me believe she knows about Grace.”

“How could that be?”

“She could have heard it from Dr. Namby’s wife. She and Lady Nithsdale are confidantes.”

Too many people passed through Baronsford. There were few things that remained secret, and the news of Grace was too extraordinary to expect anyone to keep it to themselves.

“I need to receive them. And I don’t want Grace here.”

“No sense throwing her unprotected into a den of vipers,” he agreed.

She motioned to the door. “Which means you barely have enough time to change and have breakfast before meeting our lovely guest outside.”

“You’re assuming that I am going.”

“I saw the way you were looking at Grace yesterday.” Jo’s eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief. “You’re definitely going.”

“Only as a favor to you.”

Hugh knew his sister saw through the lie by the look she gave him.

“But you might want to keep in mind that, any day now, we could have a husband showing up at Baronsford to claim her.”

* * *

It wasn’t for fear of losing the Pennington family’s protection that Grace tossed restlessly in her bed for much of the night. It was because of her own imprudence in speaking out when she’d hardly been provoked.

She could have let the viscount’s opinions on James Macpherson drop unchallenged. The writer was dead and buried; he needed no protecting. She shouldn’t have allowed herself to be riled. Who was she to lecture him on justice in this country? She was an accidental trespasser in these people’s lives. A former member of the French emperor’s court. An enemy. How Hugh Pennington dispensed the law, equitably or not, should not have mattered to her at all. She’d given him the credit he deserved, but she had no right to be so critical.

Guilt’s sharp-edged teeth continued to rip away at her. Considering all the good he did and continued to do, the charges she leveled at him were unfair. She’d been petty in striking out at him. Her passionate nature had once again run away with her. With all the good things she’d inherited from her father, she’d also been cursed with his temper.

As she descended the steps to the door, her thoughts turned to the diamond that sat in Baronsford’s iron chest. The jewel had brought violence and sorrow to her door. She had no possible use for it, either. She couldn’t even use it to secure a passage out of Scotland without bringing far too much unwanted attention on herself.

She’d be content never to see it again. Joseph Bonaparte had with him in America a fortune in jewels like this one. In sewing that diamond into her dress, they had lied to Grace and used her. Far worse, her father was dead because of it. It didn’t matter to her if the diamond was a gift from Joseph to his wife. If she were ever fortunate enough to make it to Brussels, she’d tell the Bonapartes it had been left behind with her dress. Lost. Gone forever.

Stepping outside, she breathed in the fresh morning air and shrugged off her troubles. Grace would have liked nothing better than to walk away from Baronsford today, but she had to bide her time and do it in a way that would allow her to reach the Continent. This ride would give her a clearer understanding of the countryside, and that would help her to escape when the time came.

She was too early for her ride with Jo, so she walked around the corner of the house and up a slight incline to where the gardens lay glistening in the morning sun.

Wandering along the green paths between bordered beds filled with flowers, Grace breathed the scent of thyme and peonies. In one large section, the rosebuds on dozens of plants were getting ready to open, and a sundial gleamed at the center. Two gardeners were busy digging in a far corner, where spring cutting flowers of every hue were in bloom. In a protected corner, she found a section of azaleas ablaze with red and pink flowers.

Slowly, she retraced her steps. She was to meet Jo by the stables at nine, and she was still early. Walking down the path, she passed the carriage barn and remembered the basket inside. She was alive, she told herself. She’d survived. Now it was time to take control of her future.

Grace thought about the viscount, wondering if he’d told his sister that he wasn’t riding with them. She blushed to think he might have already told Jo about the lecture he’d received from the ungrateful woman they snatched from death’s door.

In the yard across from the stables, a blacksmith was shoeing a huge Irish draught horse. He was a beautiful horse, chestnut-colored with a white blaze and half stockings. The smith came around the animal and tipped his cap to her, and she smiled back. This had to be the new man Anna told her about.

As she watched him work, a groom came out of the stables leading a small gray. Exchanging pleasantries with the man, she stepped toward the pretty mare. The mount turned her head to Grace, and her ears pricked forward alertly.

“She’s a lazy old girl, mistress,” the groom said. “But she likes the exercise, and she’s kindly enough with a body who don’t know riding.”

Grace held out her palm and waited until the mare stretched down to smell it. She was not new to horses or riding. As the only daughter of a cavalry officer, she’d learned to ride at a young age and was an able rider. She glanced dubiously at the sidesaddle on the horse. Death traps, Daniel Ware used to call them. He would never allow her to ride one. She always rode cross saddle.

For what she wanted today, Grace decided it made no difference. This was her first opportunity to travel any distance from the castle. She was hoping she could convince Jo to forget about taking her to the loch, and instead perhaps ride to Melrose Village.

“Would ye care to give her a treat?”

She accepted a chunk of an apple from the groom. The mare took it from her palm and turned her soft brown eyes toward Grace. Whispering sweet nothings, she nuzzled her cheek against the horse’s neck. She missed this smell. The bond that existed between horse and human was unique. Her fingers combed through the coarse mane. She’d had horses to ride her entire life, but never one of her own. They were always moving on to another palace or army encampment, and when she had to part with a horse she’d grown fond of, she’d left a piece of her heart behind.

“I’m thinking ye are a natural, mistress. Ye must be a rider.” The groom’s voice jerked Grace out of her daydream. “But I’m thinking she might be too tame for ye.”

Before she could reply, another groom led a majestic black stallion out into the yard.

“If you’ve a mind, I’ll take her back in and bring you another more likely mount. Ye’ll be wanting to keep up with his lordship’s stallion.”

She stepped back. “There must be some mistake. I am riding with—”

“Good idea, lad,” came the deep voice from behind her. “Change the mistress’s horse and be smart about it.”

“Right away, m’lord.”

The sound of Hugh’s voice lit a flame of embarrassment deep inside her. Grace watched the groom lead the mare away, and she was left staring at the restless stallion. She’d watched the viscount ride the beast up from the meadow the first day she was well enough to look out the window.

He was standing too close. The sharp words she’d spoken last night, the cold glare he’d directed at her as he’d walked out of the library were lying heavy on her.

“M’lord,” she said as she turned and curtsied.

“Miss Grace.” He doffed his wide-brimmed hat and bowed.

A knot was quickly forming in her belly, but Grace forced herself to look into his face.

His eyes were tired, but they showed none of the resentment she’d seen last night.

They studied each other in silence for a long, ponderous moment. She felt awkward at his scrutiny of her gray riding habit and feathered hat. All of it a gift from the Penningtons. And Grace was wearing them the morning after insulting the master of the house.

“I was expecting Lady Jo.”

“My sister sends her regrets. She had some last-minute visitors coming. She asked me to pass on her apologies to you. I’m here as her replacement.”

She looked in the direction the groom had disappeared.

“I don’t want to inconvenience you, m’lord. I’ll take a walk toward the river. I know the way now. You needn’t bother.”

“This is no bother.”

“No, we mustn’t go. Surely, there’s no need for us to go riding this—”

“We are going. It’s settled,” he said, glancing at the horse that was being led out of the stables.

The entire situation was awkward, to say the least. She couldn’t refuse him, however, without delivering another insult. And she did want to go. The apology she’d practiced during the night started rolling off her tongue. “Then before we start out, I need to retract the wor—”

“Not now,” he commanded. “We’ll have time to discuss that later.”