August, 1819

The Earl of Shaldon would have glorious weather for dying.

And after so many hours in the saddle, Bink Gibson would have a sore on his arse the size of Yorkshire if he didn’t reach Cransdall Hall soon.

Horizontal rays of late summer sun pierced the foliage and raised a lather on the horse’s neck, and his own. He pulled his hat low, dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at the back of his neck.

Devil take the Earl. He didn’t need Bink’s presence for his passing. Let him die in his bed with the men who’d stood by him in life.

Bink had never had a taste for death, not even when he’d been slashing his way through the muck, and blood, and smoke of the Iberian Peninsula. And this dying…

He took a deep breath and quelled his uneasiness. God’s truth, he wished he’d ignored this summons also.

His mount snorted.

“Stop your complaining,” he said. “You’ll have your rub-down soon, lad, in the Shaldon stables. Aye, with the finest of feed, and great aristocrat neighbors nipping at you.”

While his great bloody self was led into the grand palace for what was sure to be another let-down.

A low growl emerged from his midsection. He hadn’t stopped for a meal, though God only knew why not. He was in no rush for this deathbed acknowledgement, and it was well past even the town dinner hour.

Twenty-odd years ago, all hope of meeting Shaldon had been crushed by some Frog crisis on the other side of the channel. The time since had been filled with plenty of men’s pleas for their mothers and laments about disappointments.

Last year had been Zebediah Gibson’s, may he rot at his destination.

Bink gritted his teeth and touched a heel to his mount. Best get this over with. Best ignore the ambivalence stuffing his empty belly. Best be done and get on with his plans for India.

“Paulette.”

The gelding’s ears twitched and Bink straightened. He’d heard it too—a feminine voice, raised in what sounded like anger.

At the bend in the road, he spotted a faded black and yellow dog cart obstructing the way like a downed bumblebee.

“Paulette. I’m famished and sweltering. I cannot abide another hour of this heat.” A woman sprawled in the driver’s perch, directing her complaints forward.

The two wheels of the cart appeared to be whole and moveable and a large cob stood peaceably in his traces. If his name was Paulette, someone had a strange sense of humor.

A rustle in the brush drew Bink’s hand to his pistol.

“Sure and it’s summat about here.” Another female voice, this one disembodied, floated up. “T’was that last rut made it fly off.”

He eased out a breath. Nothing but women here, of course. Only the stupidest of highwaymen would lurk on the road to the Spy Lord’s estate.

“Leave it,” the harpy called over her shoulder. “It’s sure to be broken in pieces anyway, and I’ll die from hunger or this heat if I must sit here much longer.”

She unfurled a fan and set a vigorous pace, while he swallowed a chuckle. A lack of food would not take her any time soon, and if the heat did, at least she’d be silent.

“We’ll find it, missus,” the bush woman said. “T’won’t take but a minute.”

A large harrumph rumbled over the cob’s back.

An angry mistress and her clumsy servant—well, and wouldn’t he rather cross swords with the first and help out the other than stand by a bedside wringing his big stupid hands?

He cleared his throat. “May I be of assistance?”

Silence fell. The shrew’s head swiveled, puffy cheeks framing an open mouth. The bushes parted and a plump, plainly clad woman popped through.

“Did you lose a trunk then?” he asked.

“It’s here.” Another woman shouted from the trees. “Come help me.”

“Wait here.” His command stayed the maid. Nerves prickling, he dismounted, handed her the reins, and pushed back a veil of branches.

A few yards down the sharp slope, a woman straightened into the only beam of light filtering through the thicket.

Bink’s breath hitched. Young she was, but no man who’d gone without as long as he had would miss the plump breasts or the rounded bottom under dusty skirts. No man who’d spent as much time on the Iberian Peninsula as he had would miss the eyes, dark as black olives, skin the color of the sand at La Coruña. Dark curls fought to escape her loose bonnet, and when she lifted her chin, her mouth clamped shut, but not before he’d seen the pure white of her teeth.

The air buzzed and his vision fogged. Many such girls had crossed his path during his time in hell. No matter the state of his own sorry self, his desperation had been no match for theirs. He’d come close to bedding a few—except, the Duke’s proclivity for hanging men who strayed with the locals had been a powerful deterrent for any poor foot wabbler who could manage to think with the head on his shoulders.

The French command hadn’t had such scruples. He’d seen a few such girls after the chasseurs had got through with them.

He blinked, chasing the nightmares away. “Troubles, miss?”

Her gaze narrowed and the corners of her full lips turned down. “Are we blocking the road, sir? Surely there is plenty of room for you to go round us.”

A haughty bit, then, well-spoken, but from the state of that yellow cart, not an aristocrat, he’d wager. Not the older woman’s servant, either. Impoverished gentry, he’d guess.

Three women in a dog cart on a road that was not a main thoroughfare. An old scold, a maid, and this snappish young miss. And no man to journey with them, during a time when England was abuzz with dangerous, unhappy laborers.

They’d be locals, surely, and when he was through with his duty, he’d give whatever man was responsible for them a piece of his mind.

“There’s plenty of room for me to stop and rescue a lady in distress.” He sidled down the embankment drawing closer.

The sharp chin eased higher. “I don’t need rescuing.”

He glanced around. “Now, where is this item you’ve lost and found?”

“There really is no need. My maid can help me.”

“She’s minding my horse.”

Her eyes lifted as he neared, and her scent rose to greet him, some mixture of florals and woman. Blood-stirring it was. Far more enticing then the odor of death awaiting him at Cransdall.

“Has it fallen then into that brook below?”

“What brook?” Her frown slipped lower, and she tipped her head. “Oh, bother. No, it hasn’t.”

“Lucky, that. Well, then.” He scanned the brush again. “Point me to it and I’ll retrieve it for you.”

Paulette Silva Heardwyn fisted her skirts and tried to beat down her chattering heart.

The man was as tall, and as broad, and as ruddy as some wandering Highlander from one of Scott’s stories, yet there’d been no tell-tale Scots accent to his words. His speech, his grooming, even his boots, were proper and gentlemanly.

The glint in his eye was not, nor was the quiver she saw about his lips.

But, tall—he was that. She glanced up at the thick clutch of box tree branches, and his eyes followed hers.

“That’s quite the tallest box bush I’ve ever seen,” he said. “And is that wee brown box lodged in it yours?”

She winced. The wee brown box was precious to her. It had bounced from Mabel’s arms onto the road, down the embankment, and into this great bloody bush that years of wind had tilted more than an arm’s reach away from the slope. And, blast it all, she wasn’t going to leave it.

“It’s my writing case. My lap desk,” she said. “I quite need it back.”

“Your wee box popped out of the cart box, into the box tree, did it?”

Annoyance sparked in her, and the upturn of his lips made it flare higher. He stepped around her.

The scent of soap and horses curled around the warmth rising in her. While he gazed up at the tangle of branches, her eyes fixed on the broad shoulders rippling under dark coats.

She shook off her fluttering. He was a great bloody ox dressed up in fine clothing, this man. That was all.

“My maid was holding it.” There’d been no more room in the cart’s box after Paulette and Mabel’s small cases and all of Mrs. Everly’s trunks.

“She was careless.”

“And how would you know? It wasn’t her fault. We hit a great rut.” A great rut that roused the dozing Mrs. Everly, knocking her into poor Mabel.

His gaze sent her skin squirming, raising the heat in her up a notch.

He wasn’t handsome, exactly, not like the smith’s new apprentice, or the poetically thin dancing master who came round the neighborhood for lessons, or even like Lord Bakeley, who Mabel had ridiculously mooned over on their only visit to Cransdall a few years before.

When he smiled, he cracked a few lines around his eyes, though she’d swear this man was no more than a few years older than her own self. The sun wore on freckled skin, Mabel always said, and wasn’t it true in his case. Lucky he was born male—the wrinkles only made him look rugged.

“And just how were you planning to have your maid help you get it down?”

More irritation welled in her. “I could shake the tree and Mabel could catch it.”

“She might miss it entirely, or fumble it, and plop it right into the brook.”

If there was truly a brook. “I don’t see water.”

“But you hear it.”

Grrr. She’d only noticed the sound when he’d mentioned it.

“Or it might hit the ground and crack all to pieces.” He turned his gaze back to the box. “And there’s no shimmying up that tree without taking an axe to the branches.” He sidled lower and reached a hand.

Her breath caught. He was only a bit short of the mark. On horseback even she could reach—but she wouldn’t risk any horse on this slope, and certainly not Horace. And then there would be the time wasted unhitching and hitching—

“Paulette.” Mrs Everly’s screech pierced through the thicket, bouncing off rocks, drowning the sough of the summer breeze.

Nerves itching, she looked up. The writing case was the one thing she had of the man she couldn’t remember. She wouldn’t lose it to a brook or her companion’s impatience, or her own rush to get where she must go.

“Well?” he asked.

In spite of the heat, a shiver went through her.

She straightened her shoulders. She wouldn’t lose that lap desk to fear either.

“Fine, then.” She’d let him help her.

His steady gaze sent her heart pounding like the beat of a downpour. Who was he? She didn’t even know his name.

He crossed his thick arms and her breath eased. The man could hold her down with one finger and do the terrible things Mrs Everly always alluded to but never truly described. Yet he hadn’t really flirted. He hadn’t grabbed at her. He hadn’t as much as stared at her bosom.

She took a deep breath. “You could boost me.”

His lips lifted into a full grin.

She took a step back, and he frowned.

“You’ve naught to fear, miss.” His jaw tightened. “I’ve never hurt a woman, and I won’t start with it now.”

“Paulette. Leave it Paulette.”

“Not even that woman,” he muttered. He shed his gloves and coat and tossed his hat atop them.

She gasped. “I’ve never seen hair quite that—”

“Red. Yes.” Color rose in his cheeks, but his eyes looked merry. “Now,” he linked his fingers and leaned down. “Step up. I’ll not need to touch more than the wee soles of your boots, though you may wish to steady a hand against my shoulder.”

She swiped at a bead of sweat on her lip. “Shall you put on your gloves?”

“Have you stepped in sh…manure?”

“Of course not.”

“Well then, my hands will clean up quicker than gloves.” He raised an eyebrow.

She eased in a breath. She must get back Papa’s case, and she must get to her destination. Both were important. Both were parts of the mystery that held the key to her future. And even if this man were to touch her improperly, what did it matter? No one would see.

What would Mama have done in her glory years?

His gaze caught her dithering and sent her blood higher.

“Well, and perhaps I can boost your maid instead.”

“My maid?” Mabel might well drop the box all the way into the brook just to have more of this man’s attention. “Right, then.” Nerves jangling, she lifted the skirt of her brown traveling gown and set a foot onto hands as firm as a granite stepping stone.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Put a hand to my shoulder and steady yourself.”

She flexed her knee, reached for him, and he propelled her high. Her other foot groped for his cupped hands, her fingers landed in handfuls of thick hair, and she wobbled against him.

“Steady, then,” he said, his voice muffled.

A gasp escaped her. He’d buried his face in her skirts at a level that sent damp heat washing through her.

“What are you doing?” she squeaked.

She wiggled and almost toppled.

A large hand clapped against her bottom. “Stop moving. I’ve got you.”

The words vibrated through her most private parts. Heat sparked in her everywhere, turning her brain to mush.

“I see it,” Mabel shouted. “Don’t drop her, sir. A bit to your right and she’s got it.”

He shifted a foot sideways, and Paulette gasped, cupping his ears.

They were big ears, on a big, thatch-haired head.

Her heart lurched, and she wobbled again.

“Hold on,” Mabel shouted. “A bit more t’other way.”

“Quiet, Mabel. Blast it, will you stop moving, sir?”

She bit back more oaths and caught her breath. The bank fell away to a tumble of leaves below, but just above her and a bit to the side, the wooden box nestled, looking secure.

It was not secure. She knew that. One slight nudge, one shift in her rescuer’s stance, one wobble on her part, and it would slide from her hands and she would lose her father forever.

He took a step and she swayed. His hand squeezed her bottom again.

Raw heat surged through her, and she shivered. “Stop moving.” She gritted her teeth. “And stop squeezing me.”

“And you stop wobbling,” he grumbled.

She tilted again and shrieked. “Don’t drop me, you nodcock.”

“Nodcock?” he mumbled into her skirts. “Reach for it. I’ve got you.”

She glanced down. His legs were like tree trunks. His head was as thick as a boulder. He was solid.

Breath rasping, she looked around. From this better view, she could see where the slope fell off sharply. A tumble—her own or the lap desk’s—would dash either to pieces.

She bit her lip, stretched her arms to their full length, slid the case from its nest, and handed it down to a grinning Mabel.

“I won’t drop it again,” Mabel said. “I can’t speak for the gentleman and you.”

His hand was still burning her backside.

“Don’t worry,” he mumbled.

In a heartbeat, he flipped her into his arms and set her onto her feet. She staggered and caught at a sapling.

Heavens. His hair stuck out in tufts and his neck cloth had crumpled, and as he brushed his hands, his gaze pinned her again.

Her cheeks burned. He’d locked on her eyes, not her bosom or her backside, but he might as well still be gripping her bottom the way heat poured through her—now what would he think to do?

And who was he? A gentleman, on this road that ran right by the Earl of Shaldon’s estate.

He might be a villager. Or one of the Earl’s men. Either way, he might cause her trouble.

She steadied herself and took the box. “Go and get the gentleman’s hat and coat, Mabel.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you, sir, for your help. I hope we’ve not held you up too long.” Clutching the case, she charged up the slope.

A fine horse was tied to the back of the cart, where Mrs. Everly still sat grumbling.

“We’ll be off.” Paulette opened the cart’s box and swapped the writing case for a satchel, setting the bag next to Mabel in back.

“But that’s the bag with my medicinals,” Mrs. Everly said. “If it flies off—”

“Then you sit in back and hold it,” Paulette said.

“It’s a great view from the back, missus,” Mabel said grinning.

The man’s scent wafted her way, his big hands untying his horse.

He smiled at her.

“Well, then,” she said, moving away. “Please don’t let us hold you any further.”

“I’ll accompany you.”

The warmth in his voice promised nothing but trouble, and the last thing she needed was a meddling man poking around in her business.

“No.” She walked around checking the lines and gave Horace a final stroke on his long patient nose. “We’ll be on our way soon.”

“Where are you headed?”

Mrs. Everly opened her mouth, and Paulette shot her a glare. “We’re visiting friends.” She hoisted herself into the seat. “Not a syllable,” she hissed to her companions, then said as pleasantly as she could muster, “We don’t require an escort, for we could easily walk to our destination if we have need.”

Next to her, Mrs. Everly groaned.

“And we’ve already interrupted your journey,” Paulette added.

He pulled his horse next to her. “I’m not in such a hurry I can’t offer escort.”

Her teeth chattered, even as her face burned. She was in a hurry, and she’d wasted a great deal of time. And she didn’t know who he might know. He might know the man she was visiting. He might know Mr. Cummings, the dog cart’s owner, and no friend to the man at Paulette’s destination. She didn’t want her journey talked of, not now. And she didn’t want this man telling tales about fondling her backside.

He leveled a long look at her, eyes glittering in the sharp light like the Baltic amber earrings she’d seen on a visiting lady at services one Easter Sunday.

Perhaps their circumstances called for an introduction, but it was wiser to remain anonymous. And he hadn’t offered his name either.

She held herself tight on a shiver. No, she had no need for niceties. She had serious business ahead.

He tipped his hat. “Very well, miss. I shall go ahead then, and flush out any highwaymen who are likely to bother you ladies.”

“Foolish girl,” Mrs. Everly said. “A gentleman’s protection is not to be dismissed so readily.”

“If he is a gentleman,” Paulette said, watching his departing back. “And highwaymen won’t bother three poor women like us. And what could one man do against an armed attacker?”

“That man could do something,” Mabel said. “I’d wager he has a pistol somewhere or a knife stuck in one of them boots. Aye, and those hands could make great big fists. And, that jaw—he could crack chestnuts with it. The man can take a punch, and give back in kind. And strong. The way he—”

“Leave it.”

Mabel’s shoulders were shaking. She would think it was funny, but dear God—Mrs. Everly didn’t need to hear the details of her mauling. The whole county would know.

She set Horace in motion.

“Did you get his name, Polly?” Mabel asked.

Mabel found something attractive in almost every man. Her maid needed to find a husband, instead of flirting with every stable boy, shop man, and farmer she met.

“He’s no-one I want to know, Mabel.”

“He looks prosperous enough,” Mrs. Everly said. “And he did seem interested.”

Mrs. Everly hadn’t been much inclined to the idea of Paulette marrying, at least not until her own sister’s husband had passed a few weeks before.

She’d been with Paulette as companion and chaperone since shortly after Paulette’s mother’s death. Shaldon’s heir, Lord Bakeley, had sent his poor relation to Ferndale Cottage, in lieu of inviting her to reside at Cransdall after her husband’s death.

If the lady wanted to keep the small pension Bakeley paid her, she’d stay until Paulette married. And after that…well, Mrs. Everly would have been homeless again. Except that now she’d have a home with her widowed sister.

Paulette was of age now, but she hadn’t had the heart to kick the older woman out. And, not to mention, if she were to do that, she might find her own self evicted from Ferndale Cottage, since it was one of Lord Shaldon’s properties.

Blast it all, she needed her own money.

“Whether he’s interested is neither here nor there.” She flicked the reins for Horace to move faster. “Because I am not.”

She would reach Cransdall soon and put all thoughts of the tall stranger behind her. With any luck, she’d never see him again.

Bink listened for the faint thuds and scrapes, the rattles and crunches behind him. The girl might be a shrew, but he’d go to her aid, if need be. This road was desolate, just the way the owner wanted it, and he wouldn’t leave three women alone, at least not until he reached his own destination.

She had no man in her life, surely, to set off all alone like that.

Unless she was running away.

No. She might run with the maid, but not with the old windbag. He would have to ask Bakeley about her.

Soon enough a stone wall ran beside him, its layer of thick moss going grey in the dimming light. An ornate opening rose from the vegetation, the iron gates thrown open and surprisingly unguarded. The old Spy Lord truly had given up.

Two wheel ruts sliced turning lines in the damp verge. There’d been traffic along here recently. Most likely a physician had been called.

Bink halted and took a long breath. Lavender trickled into his senses. He grasped the reins with prickling hands, took deep breaths against the squeeze in his chest, and swallowed a laugh. He’d never been a swooner, not even after a battle. He was a man, a great stupid lout of one and thirty, not that bloody hopeful boy who’d passed here before, all wound up inside.

The faint rattle of wheels still reached him from much further back, out of sight. If the ladies weren’t locals, there’d be an inn in the village, and if not, they could turn back and seek shelter at Cransdall. In fact, he’d send one of the grooms to make sure of it.

He tapped his mount’s side and followed the wheel tracks through the opening.

The lane leveled, and when he came round a bend, lights shone from every main floor window of the long, sprawling mansion. Cransdall Hall looked as though a dance was afoot, not a dying.

Though the quiet told the true tale. The reverential hush about the place was broken only by the slap of his mount’s hooves on the graveled drive. A footman stepped soundlessly out onto the porch and a groom slipped out from somewhere.

Noise broke the silence, and Bink craned his neck. A carriage was creaking up the lane. Had there been someone else behind the ladies?

He bit back an oath. Well, why not? Some other poor bastard had likely been summoned by Shaldon, for whatever final sorry-saying the great lord required to wedge open the pearly gates.

This other by-blow had taken the guilt offering and equipped himself with wheels.

Bink could have taken his employer’s coach. The Earl of Hackwell would not have minded. But a man could think clearer on horseback.

Not that his mind was any less muddled now, not when it came to Shaldon. This final summons was one he hadn’t been able to bring himself to ignore. And unless he was too late, he and the man would at long last meet.

And what the devil did Shaldon really want?

He waved off the groom and turned his mount toward the massive stables where he’d played with his half-brother that long-ago summer. It would buy him more time to settle his thoughts.

Except that his thoughts only stirred up more. Nothing had changed in this well-kept environ. A long row of ornate stalls stretched endlessly to house the family’s famous prize-winning cattle.

Grooms rushed up quietly, as though he was the bloody master himself. He spoke just as quietly, giving instructions for his horse, and for the ladies on the road.

Moments later, a lanky young footman found him. “Mr. Gibson, Lord Bakeley says to hurry.” The footman took his bag and led him to the house.

A new greenhouse graced the back garden area, but not much else had changed. An elm they’d once climbed looked larger, its limbs now beyond the reach of his longer adult arms.

Bakeley had followed him up that tree. At that age, Shaldon’s heir had had a devil in him that no amount of canings could stop, possibly because Lady Shaldon promptly sacked those who didn’t spare the rod to her first-born. She’d been a practical woman, tolerant of the male species, with an iron will that carried her blithely through running the Shaldon empire, and bringing the next generation to heel. His lordship himself visited when the demands of state allowed him to take time off to plant a seed, and then he was off again to save the world from the Corsican.

All that cultivation had given Shaldon two little lords and one little lady. And at least one lowly bastard, but of course Bink had come along well before her ladyship.

He followed the footman into a familiar side entrance, down a corridor, and into the grand entry hall with its marble floor and ornate wainscoting.

And caught his breath. There, in the great hall, was the woman herself, Lady Shaldon. A life-sized portrait, exquisitely crafted, brought her vibrantly to life.

Servants moved about in hushed voices, and his guide cleared his throat. He ignored the man.

The portrait must have been taken some years after his visit. She looked older, her smiling eyes plagued by some worry.

“Sir,” the footman said. “Lord Bakeley—”

He nodded and turned away. He’d find time to study the portrait later. Perhaps get the name of the artist for Hackwell, who wanted his wife and infant daughter painted.

Bink followed the servant up the stairs. At the landing, he heard the grand front door open. A woman squawked, another quietly calmed her, and the servants fluttered around two figures, plucking garments from them.

Gripping the railing, he peered down.

His ladies from the lane had arrived. The dark, wee one with the plump bottom and sharp tongue took a step, and a footman moved in on her. Bink felt the tension all the way up these stairs, his hands clenching the polished wood more firmly.

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, and the servant backed away. Bink let out a breath.

“I will see him now.” The demand echoed through the hallowed hall, as though she were a daughter of the house.

“But, Polly, why not shake the dust off and freshen up first?” Her maid had emerged from the huddle of servants.

“No. I must speak with him. Before…” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat.

Before he dies, Bink finished her thought.

Her sharp gaze moved to the staircase, her chin lifting, her scrutiny traveling up and up, sending a prickle through his spine.

She spotted him and locked gazes.

Fierce warmth uncoiled in him. Prickly, she was that. Defiant. And damned pretty.

And she most definitely had the look of the Peninsula about her.

In the course of his travels, Shaldon might’ve once been in Spain.

The thought washed over him like a snow shower they’d endured one Iberian winter. Stand down, man. This one wasn’t beddable.

She was his sister.