The Devil's Heiress

Chapter Twenty-three

Clarissa awoke to sunshine and warm, musky smells, to strangeness inside and around. And then to memory.

She turned her head slowly, but he was there, beside her, still trustingly asleep, turned away. He’d thrown the covers off down to his waist, so she could indulge in luxuriant study of the lines of his back, of his muscular arm bent close to her. She longed to ease forward and kiss it, taste his warmth and skin, but she wouldn’t wake him yet.

When he awoke she would have to tell him, and it pricked at her. It wasn’t precisely wrong not to have told him. It couldn’t make any particular difference to him. It wasn’t as if she was in danger of being arrested.

But she wished this moment was enshrined in perfect honesty.

On that thought, she reached out to touch his arm.

He stirred, rolled, then his eyes opened sharply. She saw that second of disorientation before he relaxed and smiled. But guardedly. Such shadows behind his smile. Why?

Ah.

She smiled for him. “I have no regrets. I love you, and this was the first night of our life together.”

He took her hand, the one wearing the rings, and pressed it to his lips. “I love you, too, Clarissa. This will be as perfect as I can possibly make it.”

She almost let go of why she’d awakened him, but she would not weaken now. “Almost no regrets,” she amended. As he became suddenly watchful, she added, “I have something to tell you, Hawk, and I think it requires clothing and cool heads.”

He kept hold of her hand. “You’re already married?”

“Of course not!”

“You’re not Clarissa Greystone, but her maid in disguise.”

“You’ve been reading too many novels, sir.”

He pulled her closer. “You eloped only because you were consumed with carnal lust for my luscious body.”

She resisted. “You’re beginning to sound like The Annals of Aphrodite,” she said severely, “and of course I lust. But I also love.”

“Then nothing troubles us.”

“I could have lost all my money on wild investments in fur cloaks for Africa.”

His smile deepened. “You’re a minor.”

“I gammoned my trustees.”

“I’m not at all surprised.” He gently tugged her closer. “Would you care to gammon me?”

She went, let herself be drawn to his lips, but in a moment she tugged free and clambered out of the bed. “Later,” she said, but then froze, suddenly aware of her total nakedness.

Then she laughed and faced him brazenly.

He sat up equally brazenly, completely splendid, tousled, smiling.

“Carnal lust,” she murmured, and made herself turn away to search for her shift, her corset, and her lamentably muddy stockings.

When she looked back he was already into his drawers. “I wish I had a clean dress to wear.”

“We’ll find you one in London. Much though I’d like to linger here, beloved, we’d best have breakfast and be on our way.”

Awareness of the world, of pursuit, drained delight.

She hurried into her shift and corset, then went to him to have the strings tied. A sweet and simple task, and yet to have a man tie her laces seemed a mark of the complete change in her life.

As he tied the bow, she turned in his hands and started what must be done. “I was present when Lord Deveril died,” she said, intent on his expression.

It hardly seemed to change at all. “I guessed.”

“How? Why?”

“Perhaps because I’m the Hawk.” But his lashes lowered as if that might not be the whole truth.

She put that aside. “I need to tell you about it. I should have before, but I couldn’t until now. You’ll see why.”

His eyes were steady on her again. “Very well. But you wanted clothing and cool?”

She hurried to put on her dress and stockings, though she had to hunt for her second garter. He was dressed by then, and she went to him to have her buttons fastened. As he did the last one, he brushed her hair aside and she felt heat, wet heat, up the back of her neck.

“When I saw you in this dress, Falcon, you made me think of dairy cream, and I wanted to lick you.”

She laughed and turned, pushing him playfully away. Something she could do when she knew there would be tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Even, perhaps, later. They’d clearly eluded any pursuit. There was no real need to rush on to London.

Once her conscience was clear.

She sat on the rather hard chair at one end of the table and indicated that he should sit on the other, at a safe distance. His brows rose, but he obeyed.

“You were present at Deveril’s death,” he said obligingly. “I assume he was doing something vile and his death was deserved. I also assume that you did not kill him, but if you did it would only make me admire you more.”

She bit her lip on tears at his understanding.

“You don’t have to tell me any more, Falcon. It really doesn’t matter.”

She smiled. “But I want to. I have many failings, and one is an incurable urge toward honesty.”

“I don’t see that as a failing, beloved.” And yet something somber touched him.

Beloved. She plunged into it. “I don’t need to tell you that Deveril was an evil man. After he kissed me, I ran away from him.”

“When you threw up over him.”

“Yes. Perhaps I should have been able to control myself better…”

“Not at all. We use what weapons we have to hand.”

She laughed. “I see what you mean. It certainly stopped him! Well, then, I escaped through the window in my brother’s clothes, but Deveril hunted me down and caught me at… at a friend’s house.” Even now she faltered about telling him everything. “He had two men with him, so we couldn’t do anything, and he threatened… He was going to do horrible things to us both, but he was going to kill my friend. So… he was killed.”

She paused for breath and pulled a face. “That wasn’t much of a tale, was it?”

“It does rather skip the who, the where, and especially the how—which I admit fascinates me. But I understand, and you bear no guilt.”

“You won’t feel obliged to pursue justice about it?”

He reached a hand across the table. “What is justice here? I award your noble defender the medal.”

She put her hand in his, knots untangling that she’d hardly been aware of. “I knew you would think like that. I’m sorry, Hawk, deeply sorry, that I didn’t tell you everything before.”

“Before?”

“Before we committed ourselves.”

He tugged, and she understood and went to sit in his lap, to be in his arms. “There is no shame in this, Falcon. But I confess to Hawkish curiosity. About the how, and how it was concealed.”

“The how comes mostly from Deveril’s being taken by surprise. And from reinforcements.” She reached out to touch a silver button on his jacket. “I’m not sure how much else I can tell, even to you.” She looked up. “There are secrets we are bound not to share. Does that apply to husband and wife?”

“Not if it affects both husband and wife. But take time, love. Our only urgency now is to eat and be on our way.”

“I long for complete honesty between us,” she said. “On all things. But would you tell me something truly secret that Lord Vandeimen shared with you?”

He thought for a moment. “I might not.” He touched her cheek. “Do what you think is best, love. I trust you.”

Trust. It was like a perfect golden rose. She sat up slightly and faced him. “Then I have to tell you one thing, Hawk. I did not behave at all like a Falcon last year. I was frozen with fear. Paralyzed. I did nothing. And afterward… Afterward, afterward I was heartless to the one who saved me. Shocked because others weren’t shocked—”

He put his fingers over her lips. “Hush. It was your first battle. Few of us are heroes the first time out. I threw up after mine.”

His understanding was so perfect. She took his face between her hands and kissed him, without words to express the wholeness that she felt.

She drew back at a tumultuous pealing of church bells. “Is it Sunday and I didn’t notice?” she asked.

“Not unless we’ve spent days in heaven instead of just one night. And it’s very early for a wedding.”

Hawk eased Clarissa off his lap and went to open the door. There were many innocent explanations for the bells, but his instinct for danger was at the alert.

It could be nothing to do with Van, surely.

A sparkle-eyed maidservant was just running up the stairs and paused to gasp, “Not to worry, sir! It’s the duke’s heir born at last and all safe! And free ale to be served in the tap in celebration!”

“Duke?” Hawk asked, alarm subsiding, but trying to think what ducal estate was in the vicinity.

“Belcraven, sir! Not the duke’s heir, of course, but his heir’s heir. His estate is here. A fine, handsome boy born to be duke one day, God willing, just as his father was born here twenty-six years ago!”

“A true cause for celebration,” Hawk said, amazed that his voice sounded normal.

Arden here? What strange star had brought this about?

He’d discovered that the marquess had a Surrey estate called Hartwell, his principal country residence. He’d not troubled to find out precisely where. Details, details. It was always in the details.

“The marquess’s estate is very close?” he asked in faint hope.

“Not a mile out of the village, sir! And he and his lovely wife as easy as can be with everyone here.” She gave him a sly look. “Not like in the old days, when the company was very different, let me tell you.”

“Marriage reforms many a man.”

“And many a man it don’t!” she flashed back with a grin, and hurried off on her errand. An increasing babble could be heard below.

Hawk turned slowly back into the room, rapidly absorbing the situation and the implications. Could they get away undetected? From what he knew about the Marquess of Arden, his displeasure was likely to be expressed physically and effectively.

Clarissa, however, did not seem to realize their danger. Her eyes were shining. “Beth’s had the baby and all is well! She’ll be somewhat put out at it being a boy, of course.”

“Put out that it is a boy?” he asked, swiftly gathering their few possessions.

“She doesn’t approve of the aristocracy’s obsession with male heirs.”

It was sufficiently startling to make Hawk pause.

“She’s a firm believer in the equal rights of women, you see, and of a rather republican turn of mind.”

“The Marchioness of Arden?”

“She wrote that it would be bad enough having a son born to be duke without him being the eldest, too. She hoped for a few older females to keep him in line. Apparently Lord Axden was the youngest and has two older sisters, and she said that might have been the saving of him.”

Hawk laughed. “Very likely. I’m sorry about breakfast, but we should be away from here. I doubt there’ll be much service here soon, anyway.”

“Oh, I suppose so.” She unhooked her cloak, but said wistfully, “It does seem a shame not to be able to visit Beth, being so close.”

“No,” he said firmly and guided her out of the room.

“I know. I know. And she’s doubtless resting. But it does seem… A note? No,” she said for him.

“No,” he said again as they went downstairs, wishing he could give her this small indulgence.

In the plain hall, he grabbed an excited potboy and asked him to find the landlady. People were streaming toward the inn from all directions.

“It’s a bit like the Duke of Wellington, isn’t it?” she said.

“I hope not.” Come on. Come on.

She turned suddenly, the scarlet cloak clasped to her. “You said Deveril’s death was justified,” she said quietly. “So I want to tell you who killed Deveril.”

Trust and honesty. Hawk wished that he could tell her now. But she could still back away. “Arden,” he said, looking around for the landlady. “It doesn’t matter except that we don’t want to be caught by him here.”

“Why… ? But no, it wasn’t the marquess.”

He turned to look at her. He had given up the plan of blackmailing the marquess and duke, but even so, it was as if solid ground disappeared from beneath his feet. Had he been wrong about everything?

“It was Blanche Hardcastle,” she whispered.

“The actress?” It was probably the stupidest response he’d ever been guilty of.

“Yes. I know why you’re so shocked. A woman, and one who seems so delicate. But she was a butcher’s daughter, apparently. And now, of course, she’s playing Lady Macbeth.”

“Zeus!” He wasn’t actually shocked that a woman had ripped Deveril open. A man has to be dense indeed to preserve illusions about the gentler sex during wartime. For some reason, however, the image of the killer going on to play the part of the woman with the bloody knife did outrage him.

Clarissa was looking at him slightly anxiously, and he was relieved to be able to say with honesty, “Mrs. Hardcastle is in no danger from me, Falcon. I salute her.”

Wryly he acknowledged, however, that he’d held a sharper weapon than he’d known. Belcraven and Arden might well have called his bluff, secure that if he did seek a Pyrrhic victory, they stood behind high walls of power and privilege. An actress, however, was another matter entirely. An actress with a somewhat dubious past would hang for the bloody murder of a peer.

“You see, don’t you,” she said slightly anxiously, “that Blanche must never suffer for her gallantry. She took him… she took him up to her bed to get him away from his guards… She was so brave.”

“I see. Don’t worry about this.” She smiled, a hint of tears in it again. “I’m so glad I told you. I feel truly free now. Free to be happy.”

“ ‘And ye shall know the truth,’ ” said Hawk, “ ‘and the truth shall set you free.’ ”

He teetered on the edge of taking the great gamble, of trusting to her love, to the magic they’d shared. She did love Hawkinville. She did love him. If that survived the strain. But years of caution tied his tongue. What if he was wrong?

He’d heard of men sentenced to death spinning out the moments with one slim excuse or another, against all reason delaying the inevitable. Now, at last, he understood.

Another moment of her untarnished admiration and trust…

Then a tall, athletic blond man strode into the inn smiling, gloves and crop in hand. Hawk knew instantly, fatally, who it must be. Pre-ducal arrogance radiated from every pore.

People rushed forward to bow, to congratulate. Then the smiling gaze hit Clarissa, moved to Hawk, and changed.

No chance of escape. Hawk put Clarissa behind him as the marquess smiled again, escaped his well-wishers, and came over to them, cold murder in his eyes.

Clarissa, however, slipped around him. “Congratulations on the baby, Lord Arden.”

Damnation, she was trying to protect him, and he could hear the fear in her voice. Arden would never hit a woman, but Hawk pulled her back to his side.

Arden, however, softened to concern when he looked at her. “Thank you. Clarissa—”

“I do hope Beth is well,” she interrupted, a tone too high.

“Beth is a great deal weller than is seemly.” The marquess’s voice took on an exasperated edge. “The baby was born at four in the morning, but the mother is already out of her bed and well enough to fight the midwife about the need to lie down, and me about the appropriate establishment for a future Duke of Belcraven. Having lost a night’s sleep and years of my life, I wouldn’t mind even a few hours in bed, never mind a week of rest and loving attention, but how can I even sit down and try to recover when Beth is bustling about? And now I find this!”

At the return of fury, Hawk expected Clarissa to falter, but her chin went up. “Are you planning to hit someone again?”

Color flared in Arden’s cheeks. “Probably.”

“Typical!”

Hawk forced Clarissa behind him. “Did he hit you before?”

By Hades, he’d take Arden apart!

“No!” Her hands clamped around his right arm, and he realized his hands were fists. And so were Arden’s, though he looked more startled than enraged.

Then Arden looked at Clarissa, eyes narrowing. “Stop trying to deflect the conversation.”

And he was right. Clever Clarissa.

“Don’t you think we should move this into privacy?”

A new voice. Hawk looked behind Arden and saw that Con had come into the inn. And that a bunch of villagers were sucking in every word.

Con was standing at the door to a small room. Hawk took Clarissa in there, feeling something sizzle and die.

Con had come in pursuit and somehow managed to be close. Being in the area, he’d sought a bed with his friend, which must have been interesting when it turned out to be a night of accouchement. Now they were discovered, and surely Con’s steady eyes were disappointed.

Perhaps worried, too. About the role he’d have to play?

Second at a duel? He wouldn’t let it come to that.

If only, though, he’d seized the moment to tell Clarissa the truth.

Arden strode in, and Con closed the door. “Want to explain, Hawk?” He stayed close to Arden. A show of support, or readiness to control violent impulses?

Clarissa replied before Hawk could. “We’re eloping, Lord Amleigh. What need of explanation?”

“Why would be a start,” Arden said.

Silence fell, and then Clarissa looked at Hawk. “Tell him why.” She was clearly confident that he could.

Hawk smiled wryly, and looked at Con rather than Arden, seeing the firm resolve of an executioner. It wasn’t a matter of Rogues versus the Georges for Con. It was simply the right thing to do.

Slippery slopes. From right to wrong as well as from virtue to sin.

“Why, Hawk?” Con asked. It wasn’t a repetitive demand for an answer, but an opening offered so that he could tell Clarissa rather than have someone else do it.

So he turned to her and put the noose around his own neck.

Chapter Twenty-four

“Because,” he said, “if I try to marry you in the ordinary way, you won’t do it.”

She blinked at him. “I won’t?”

“You won’t.” It was Arden’s voice, cold and relentless.

Her eyes flicked to him, then back to Hawk, and she smiled slightly, as if any impediment was a laughing matter. “Tell me, then. It can’t be as bad as you think.”

“It is, Falcon.” He took a last breath and kicked away the stool. “My father was born a Gaspard. You may not know, but that was Lord Deveril’s family name. After much effort, he has managed to establish his claim to be the next Lord Deveril. And I, of course, am his heir.”

In a way it sounded silly put into words. No hanging matter at all. Just a name, as Van had said.

But it was more than a name.

And just at the name, she paled. “Deveril!”

“Which means,” said Arden moving to her side, as if protecting her from him, damn it, “you would have one day been Lady Deveril.”

The tense he used neatly put an end to all hope, and when Arden put his arm around her, she did not resist. She did, however, stammer, “But…” confusion in her eyes.

“As you see,” the marquess continued, his eyes suggesting that he was talking to a slug, “this raises questions about Major Hawkinville’s attentions all along.”

“Luce,” said Con quietly, moving between them. “There’s more to this than that.”

“Is there?” Arden asked, his eyes still on Hawk.

“Yes.” Everyone else in the room spoke at once, and the shock of it broke the tension. Clarissa laughed, then bit her lip, eyes still shadowed by shock and uncertainty. She pulled free of Arden, but made no move closer to Hawk.

This had snatched away her elusive beauty. All he wanted in life was to make Clarissa beautiful, each and every day, and yet by his actions he had doubtless thrown away the chance.

He spoke to her alone, without hope. “My father thought he should have inherited Deveril’s wealth along with the title, and he spent in expectation of it. That’s where the debt came from. I sought you out looking for evidence that you were involved in Deveril’s murder because then the will would be overturned and the new viscount—my father—would inherit the money.”

“You thought me a murderer! I suppose in some ways I should be flattered.”

“Clarissa…”

But her hand covered her mouth. “I’ve just given you the evidence.”

“You have?” Arden asked, sharply.

“I told him everything. Just as he planned.”

“No!” Hawk exclaimed, but there seemed nothing left to pin hopes to except honesty. “At the beginning, yes.”

“Do I have to slap you with my gloves?” Arden asked coldly. “I’d have to burn them afterward.”

“Not now!” Hawk commanded, aware of Clarissa’s sudden pallor. “Con—”

He put his hand on her arm to push her toward Con, but she twitched away. “Don’t try and get rid of me! Don’t you dare! Any of you. I’m not a child.” She whirled on Arden. “You are not to fight over me.”

“You have no say in this.”

“I demand a say. I insist on it.” When Arden stayed tight-lipped and resolute, she said, “If you duel him, I’ll shoot you.”

“Clarissa,” said Hawk, wanting to laugh and cry at once. “I’m sure you don’t know how.”

“It can’t be so hard as all that.” She stared at him, eyes brimming with tears. “You said it was an honorable act for someone to kill Deveril. How could you even think of destroying people over it? Even for Hawkinville.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then what drove you?”

“The will,” he snapped. “Forgery is hardly cloaked with honor, Clarissa, no matter how you care to deceive yourself.”

She stared at him and the elusive truth dawned even as she whirled to face Arden.

“It was a forgery!” She laughed. “Of course it was. How very stupid I’ve been. Deveril—Deveril!—leaving me all his money. He’d have rather left it to the Crown, or scattered it in the streets if it comes to that.” She suddenly struck out at the marquess with both fists, pummeling him.

Arden stepped back, and before Hawk could reach her, he grasped her wrists and spun her to face him. “Hit him if you’re feeling violent. He’s the villain of the piece.”

She staggered forward, weeping, and Hawk caught her, held her for a precious moment. “I have committed no crime.”

Except breaking a heart.

“Abduction, for a start,” Arden said.

“Stop.” Con took Clarissa from Hawk, keeping an arm around her. She wasn’t crying, but she seemed ready to collapse. “There’ll be no duel,” Con said, in an officer’s unquestionable voice, “and no violence.” Then he looked at Arden with a frown. “I gather criminal acts are not to be shared among the Rogues these days.”

The marquess looked to be at the end of his tether. “Not lightly, no. And you came back from Waterloo in a bad way. We weren’t about to add to your burdens.”

Con pulled a face and sat Clarissa in a chair. He went to his haunches in front of her. “What do you want to do?”

She looked at him, pallid, then up at Hawk. “I want to arrange to give the money to the new Lord Deveril.”

Arden took a step toward her. “Don’t be foolish.”

Without looking, Con put a hand out to stop him. “It will be as Clarissa wishes.”

“On Hawkinville’s side, I see,” said Arden coldly.

Con was steady as a rock. “It is Clarissa’s choice. That has been decided.”

It seemed to stop Arden’s fight, but he said, “Perhaps she’ll see sense when the shock’s worn off.”

“Do I have any say?” Hawk interrupted.

They all looked at him, but he spoke to Clarissa. “Hawkinville only needs some of the money—”

“Damn your eyes!” Arden exploded. “How much filthy money do you need?”

Hawk faced him. “Legally, the money belongs to my father. But twenty thousand pounds will suffice.”

The arrogant disdain was designed to annihilate. “I will provide it for you on agreement that you leave Clarissa in peace.”

There was nothing left but icy invulnerability. “Within the week?” Hawk inquired.

“Within the week.”

Clarissa started to say something, but Arden overrode her. “We can discuss your situation later. Come along now. Beth will want to take care of you.”

“But the baby…”

“Is not enough to tax my Amazon.” He turned to Con, acting as if Hawk was not there. “Coming?”

“No. I’ll deal with Hawk.”

“He can’t be allowed to harm Blanche.”

“He won’t.”

“Of course I won’t,” Hawk snapped. Arden had drawn Clarissa to her feet, but she looked stricken still. “Clarissa, you don’t have to go.”

It was a faint hope, and her blankness denied it. She made no protest as the marquess took her out of the room, but then she suddenly stopped.

Hawk watched in faint beating hope as she turned back. She pulled off the two rings and put them on a table against the wall. And then she was gone.

Hawk was left with Con and could collapse into a chair and put his head in his hands. “I’ve known battles that have been easier.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“She was innocent,” Hawk said, to himself as much as to Con. “All along, she was completely innocent.”

And thus his treatment of her had been atrocious from first moment to now. He’d hunted down a sheltered young woman who’d been forced into an engagement with a depraved man. She’d been abused, terrified, threatened, and then witness to his bloody murder.

Arden was right. He deserved to be shot.

“You’re not totally the villain, you know,” Con said in a steadying voice.

Hawk looked up. “Oh, please, explain why not.”

“You can’t let Slade rape Hawk in the Vale.”

“So I rape Clarissa instead.”

“I am sure you did not.”

Hawk sighed. “No, but I’ve used her shamefully.”

“Last night was unwise, but understandable. And you planned to marry her.” Con smiled a little. “If you wish, you can lay most of it at the Rogues’ door. We came up with the forgery.”

“You weren’t even there.”

“All the same.”

“Ah,” said Hawk, suddenly wracked by a weariness he hadn’t felt since Waterloo, since after Waterloo with the chaos and the wounded and the mounds and sweeps of bodies and body parts so that victory, for the moment, was valueless. So one only wanted to turn back time for a few brief days to restore life and joy to the thousands of dead, and to their families still to hear the news, and then change history so that such battles never happened again.

Events, however, are written in ink the moment they occur, and cannot be erased.

“In that case,” Hawk said, standing and beginning to pull together what was left of his life, “can I ask you to deal with Arden about this? A duel, though I can understand his feelings, would serve no one. You can assure him that I will do nothing to endanger Mrs. Hardcastle or anyone else involved in Deveril’s death. For the sake of Hawk in the Vale, however, I must take his money. In strict honor, I should not let the matter of the forgery go.”

Con rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Nicholas arrived at Somerford Court yesterday. You know who I mean? Nicholas Delaney? Apparently his Aunt Arabella summoned him to Brighton.”

“Arabella Hurstman? Good God, a Rogue dragon as well. I was doomed.”

“I’m afraid so, but since she was largely kept in the dark, I think the doom will fall on us. But when Van explained about the Deveril title, we agreed immediately that the money had been improperly redirected.”

A crack of laughter escaped Hawk. “Now that’s a way to describe forgery. And a damn good forgery, too.”

“But of course,” said Con with a smile. “You have to understand that everyone, including Deveril himself, thought he was heirless. The money was going to buy the Regent another gold plate or two, and without money, Clarissa’s situation was desperate. You may not know, but Nicholas has an interest in that money. It was originally gathered by a woman called Therese Bellaire—” Con must have caught a reaction. “That name means something?”

“Oh, yes,” said Hawk with another laugh. The debacle was beginning to take on an absurd humor. “I recruited Delaney for that job. He must be enjoying this turn of the wheel.”

“Not particularly. But at least I don’t need to dance around the details. The Bellaire woman gathered the money from Bonapartist supporters. She was supposed to take it to France to be ready for Napoleon’s return. Instead she planned a new life in America. Nicholas distracted her sufficiently that Deveril was able to steal it.”

“Gad. And she didn’t kill him then and there?”

“She was, as I said, distracted. And by then, England was not safe for her. But Nicholas could hardly be happy leaving that money with a man like Deveril. When Clarissa’s affair erupted, it was simply too good a chance to pass up.”

Still swimming in lunatic humor, Hawk asked, “I wonder what happened to Therese Bellaire? She managed to work her way back into Napoleon’s inner circle, you know, but Waterloo must have ended her hopes.”

“I pray that’s true. I’m sure she’s never forgotten or forgiven any of this. I remember her. Honeyed poison. But the forgery was done under the assumption that no one had a better claim. Right is on your father’s side and the money should be his. We agree on that, but Clarissa’s situation makes matters difficult.”

Hawk sighed. “I don’t want all the money, Con.”

“Fifty fifty,” Con suggested.

Hawk laughed. “I see. You were sent here with power to negotiate, were you? How does Delaney plan to get around her guardian and trustees?”

“The Rogues can raise that much money until Clarissa comes of age. If she insists on having it all, so be it.”

Hawk pressed his hands to his face. “On what’s left of my honor, I’d not take a penny if it weren’t for the people of Hawk in the Vale.”

“I know that.”

He pulled himself together. “I need the twenty, and I have to take a bit more for Gaspard Hall. Not for the place itself, and certainly not for my father, but for the people there. Something needs to be done to correct the decades of neglect. The Deveril tenants are probably the most innocent victims of all. But I want Clarissa to have the rest. Try to persuade her of that.”

Con nodded. “She may not be willing to take anything now.”

“I wish to heaven I’d never let that slip, but I didn’t know— I should have known. She should have the money, but if she’s difficult, point out that if the Devil’s Heiress turns suddenly poor it would raise awkward questions.”

They were talking so calmly of the future. The future with Hawkinville, perhaps even with his father at Gaspard Hall.

But a future without Clarissa.

Unendurable, except that like a soldier with a shattered leg, he had no choice but to endure the amputation and then—if that was God’s choice—limp on.

“Are you all right?” Con asked.

With Con he could let the exasperation show. “No, of course not! I’m stuck in hell. Some of it is my own fault, but most of it isn’t. It’s my father’s, and Slade’s, and Deveril’s, and your damned Rogues‘. It’s like being under the control of an insane and inept commanding officer who sends his men marching straight into a battery of enemy guns. And there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, one can do but march.”

Con, who had doubtless been in that situation, pulled a face. “What will you do now?”

“March back to Hawk in the Vale and arrange to pay off Slade. What else?”

Con nodded. “Nicholas would probably like to talk to you about this.”

Hawk wanted nothing to do with the man, but he would go where the insanity sent him. “We didn’t part on good terms back in ‘14, and I’m not sure I’m in the mood to be conciliating.”

“He’ll cope.”

Hawk looked around and picked up the rings. “I knew my mother’s ring was a bad omen.” He put them in his pocket, then turned to go. But he stopped. “Dammit. I need to write to her.”

He had to hunt down the innkeeper to get paper, pen, and ink—a slightly bosky innkeeper, who gave him a very suspicious look. Then he went back to the bedroom, out of Con’s sight, though he didn’t suppose his friend would be able to tell anything from simply looking at him as he wrote.

A wounded animal seeking a hole in which to lick its wounds.

There was no lasting privacy in any of this, however.

It was going to have to be acted out on an open stage. Could he mitigate things for her?

Writing was part of his expertise. Writing clearly, precisely, and succinctly so the recipient would understand the information or instruction without delay. Now, the blank sheet of paper was as daunting as a well-armed garrison, impossible to conquer.

He shrugged and dipped the rather unpromising pen. No words were going to create a miracle here, but he could not ride away without at least expressing himself clearly.

Honestly.

Yes, at this point at least he had honesty, with all its sharp tangs.

My dear Clarissa…

Then he wished he’d said “Falcon.” No, it was better as it was. Or perhaps he should have written “Miss Greystone.”

Perhaps he had better be more careful, or less particular. He’d been able to acquire only one sheet of paper, and he could hardly keep Con waiting for hours as he tried to form a miracle. He must also phrase this so it would not cause disaster if it fell into the wrong hands.

My dear Clarissa,

Please read this letter to the end. I understand how you must feel, but you will not, I believe, find anything maudlin or embarrassing here.

I wish to outline first what I have proposed to deal with our situation. Please believe that I sincerely wish only the best for you, but that I also have others to consider. You said that you had fallen in love with Hawk in the Vale, and I hope therefore that you will not mind providing money to dispose of the odious Slade.

In addition, there will be a small sum to begin the restoration of the Deveril estate, which has suffered greatly, through no fault of the people there.

The rest is yours. At your majority, you will be able to dispose of it as you will, but I hope you will feel able to enjoy it.

As for our personal affairs, I cannot apologize for everything, since I was striving to protect the innocents who would be harmed by Slade, but I do truly regret ever thinking less than the best of you. I should have known, as soon as I knew you, that you were always beyond reproach.

He paused, knowing he should sign it there, but unable to forgo a little gesture toward hope. And also, maybe to salve her hurts. He knew, like a deep wound, that he fragile confidence would be cracked. Pray God, no shattered.

Perhaps I will sound maudlin here, so by all means cease to read if you wish. The necessary part is over. I give you my word, my dear Falcon, that as I once promised, I have never flattered you. My delight in you—

Hawk halted to contemplate a tense. Whoever would have thought that tenses could be so crucial?

My delight in you has been real, my admiration of you deep and true. I am, alas, cursed with a future as Lord Deveril, but perhaps that fate will not arrive for many years, and perhaps it will seem less appalling by that time. Perhaps, too, you will one day be able to forgive my many deceptions and trust me enough to venture into the wilderness again with me.

He paused again, wanting to write “I will wait,” but he knew that might place a burden on her, and above all, he wanted to preserve her precious, hard-won freedom. And so, in the end, he merely signed it, “Hawk.”

He resisted the urge to reread it, which would lead him to want to rewrite it, he was sure. He folded it with his usual precise edges, then realized he had no means to seal it. It didn’t matter. Con wouldn’t read it—and what matter if he did?

He looked once at the room, at the disordered bed with the slight, telltale splash of blood, and a lifetime’s worth of memories. Constantly, constantly, like a manic millstone, his mind ground round and round, seeking things he could have changed, paths he could have logically taken.

He shrugged and went back downstairs to where his friend patiently waited.

Perhaps still his friend, though he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

“You always were the steadiest of us,” he said as he passed over the letter.

“Someone had to try to steer us away from disaster. But I’m not doing very well by my friends, am I? Dare, Van, you—”

“Dare was not your fault. War is a temperamental bitch who gives no care to good or bad, justice or injustice. Look at De Lancey, killed by a ricocheting cannonball by my side, almost at the end of the battle. There was no point to it. And it could have hit me, or even Wellington, as easily.”

“I know. But I’ve been too wrapped up in myself.”

Hawk gripped his arm. “Perhaps none of us came out of Waterloo with anything in reserve for the other. We just chose different ways of hiding it.”

Con’s gray eyes searched him. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course. I certainly have plenty of work to do.”

“Including saving Clarissa’s reputation. You were seen racing out of the village.”

Hawk grimaced. “Damn. I’ll come up with something.”

After a moment, Con clasped hands. “I’ll take care of Clarissa for you. I have a horse in the stables here. Take it. I’ll see you in Hawk in the Vale.”

Con left, and Hawk took a moment to steady himself. The mill was still grinding, and probably would do so for the rest of his life, but even if it came up with the most brilliant solution, it was too damn late.

Chapter Twenty-five

Lord Arden had apparently ridden to the village— simply to accept the congratulations of the people gathered at the inn. To return, he commandeered Hawk and Clarissa’s gig. She was slightly amused by seeing his lordly magnificence in such a lowly vehicle pulled by the placid cob. Only slightly, however, for she did not have the heart for humor of any kind.

She was trying very hard not to think about all that had happened, all she had learned, but it surrounded her like a chill wind, or an overcast day.

Hartwell. Thank God there was somewhere to go now, some haven. It had been a haven before. Beth had taken her there a few days after Deveril’s death, and it was there she had made decisions about the future. If they could be called decisions. All she had wanted then was a place to hide.

She did not let the bitter laugh escape. She’d thought that she’d grown so strong, so brave, so able to deal with life, but here she was, rushing back to a safe place, and she could no more stay here this time than last.

Last year Beth had invited her to live with her, at Hartwell and elsewhere. Clarissa would have been safe inside the de Vaux family, but she had not wanted to be anywhere near the marquess, who had blacked Beth’s eye.

As they rolled along the country lane, she glanced at him, realizing that she felt differently now. Though she’d been stupid, gullible, and weak about Hawk, she had changed over the past year. She understood more about emotions, about control, and about how easily strong emotions could explode control.

She had hit Arden. A feeble hit, but only because she was feeble. If she’d been able she might have knocked him to the ground.

In an uncontrolled moment Hawk had shattered a gate, and he had not believed that his beloved had been with another man.

“I’m sorry for what I said back there, Lord Arden. As you guessed, I was deflecting the conversation.”

“Next time choose another weapon.”

She pulled a face. They had never been on good terms. She had indirectly caused his violent moment, and guilty people blame others if they can. Even so, he’d worked hard and taken risks for her, and she knew he would continue to do so. It was nothing to do with her, but all to do with Beth, whom he loved.

That was the point.

She understood now what Beth had been trying to tell her last year, that the love was true and deep, and that therefore he would make sure that such lack of control never, ever happened again.

“Beth won’t be happy if we’re at odds, my lord,” she said. “And even if she’s weller than she should be, I’m sure tranquility is good for a new mother.”

He did glance at her then. “Her tranquility would be undisturbed if you’d behaved properly.”

She swallowed an instinctive retort. “Yes, you’re right. I was foolish. But… I didn’t want to lose heaven, you see.”

She bit her lip, determined not to cry. Now she certainly had lost heaven in all its aspects—both Hawk and Hawkinville. It had probably all been an imaginary heaven, anyway, but for a little while it had felt astonishingly real, as if it could, truly, be for her.

Lord Arden reached over and gently squeezed her hand. He was gloved, but still it was the most human contact she remembered with him. “My instinct is to tear Hawkinville limb from limb, but it’s not so long since I did questionable things. I have some sympathy for him, pressured by the needs of his family and his land.”

“So do I.”

He glanced at her again, clearly expecting more, but she couldn’t speak it. Deep inside she felt raw, where trust had been uprooted from her. Did Hawk want her now that he could have the money regardless? Last night she would have laughed at doubt, but now, swirling in the awareness of deception, it ate at her.

If he protested on his knees that he loved her, would it be pity, or obligation?

And then there was the problem of Lord Deveril. It should be a little thing, but it simply wasn’t.

Deveril!

It was as if a ghoul had risen from the grave to drool all over her.

Lord Arden turned the gig between open gates and into the short drive through lovely gardens to the house. Hartwell was what people called a cottage ornee. It looked like a thatched village cottage, only grown to three times the size. Clarissa couldn’t help comparing its pretty perfection unfavorably with Hawkinville Manor, which was real even to its warped beams and uneven floors.

Beth had joked that Hartwell was a bucolic toy for the wealthy aristrocracy rather like Queen Marie Antoinette’s “farm” at Le Petit Triannon, but Clarissa knew Beth loved it, probably because it was home to her and the man she loved.

She’d told Hawk that she would live with him in love anywhere. And it had been true.

As Lord Arden turned the gig down a side drive toward the stables at the side, she swallowed tears. She was not going to turn into a wailing fool over this. She’d lost her virtue, her beloved, her heavenly home, and her fortune all in one day, but crying wouldn’t bring any of it back.

She went into the house with the marquess somewhat nervously, however. She was not so strong as to ignore what Beth would think of her adventures. They were still more teacher and student, and she had always been awed by Beth’s intelligence and strong will.

When they found that Beth was asleep, she was as relieved as the marquess.

“And thank heavens for that,” Lord Arden muttered. He looked at Clarissa, and she saw that he hadn’t a notion what to do with her. Beneath the gloss and the highly trained ability to be the Heir to the Dukedom under the most trying circumstances, he was, quite simply, exhausted.

She was astonished to feel a need to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to go and have a nice rest. She settled for saying, “I know the house, my lord, so you may feel easy leaving me to my own devices for a while.”

His look was, if anything, kind. “I’m sorry, Clarissa. I can say he’s not worth it, but at this moment you won’t believe that.”

“This certainly isn’t how I want things to be.” But she looked him in the eye. “I wouldn’t give up the past few weeks, Lord Arden, even had I known it would bring me here.”

He reached out and touched her cheek. “I know that feeling. You have friends, Clarissa. You will be happy again soon.”

“I’m ruined, you know,” she said, wondering if he didn’t quite understand.

“No, you’re not,” he said with a smile. “Just a little more experienced. You know Beth wouldn’t disapprove of experience. Ask the servants for anything you need. Amleigh will be here soon, I have no doubt.”

He’d made her laugh, and she watched him go upstairs, astonished by a touch of affection. Truly her experience seemed to have stretched her mind in some way, giving her glimpses of subtleties and, more important, understanding.

What to do?

She should be hungry, but she was sure food would choke her. She probably should ask to borrow a dress of Beth’s. They were, or had been, much of a size.

Perhaps she should write to Miss Hurstman, or even to the duke. Would the duke have to know about this?

In the end, aimlessly, she drifted out into the garden, wandering down to the river, where ducks busily paddled and dipped under the surface for food.

In her mind she was immediately back at another house on another river.

With Hawk in Hawkinville.

She sat down on the grass to think, to try to see what had really happened.

Hawk had gone to Cheltenham to find a criminal. She thought back over that day, tried to see it through his eyes. He must have been telling the truth when he said he changed his mind then. She’d been the most unlikely villain.

He’d drawn her to Brighton so he could dig for more evidence. She remembered wryly the number of times their talk had turned to London and Deveril, and the things she’d let slip.

The knife in the tent.

He was good. Very good.

But had the connection, the friendship, the passion, all been artifice?

What about the wilderness? That she would swear was real.

Ah. She remembered the splintered gate, and was suddenly sure that yes, it had all been real. Hawk would not lose control like that as a stratagem.

And last night. Surely there had been nothing false about last night.

But what did she really know about these things? He’d planned to marry her for her money and so he would have wanted her bound by passion.

And love.

And trust.

She grimaced at the way she’d babbled about perfection and honesty and trust. And told him everything.

She could only pray that he’d told the truth, that he had what he wanted. That Blanche would be safe.

She watched the river, thinking stupidly that it must be much easier to be a duck.

She heard footsteps and turned, thinking it would be the marquess, hoping against hope that it would be Hawk.

It was Lord Amleigh.

“There are suddenly a lot of titled gentlemen in my life,” she said, and it was silly.

He smiled and dropped to the grass by her side, dark-haired, square-chinned, and steady-eyed. “Just me and Arden, isn’t it?”

“And Lord Vandeimen.”

“And, indirectly, Lord Deveril.” He was still smiling, but there was something in his eyes that made demands of her. “Perhaps if you called me Con it would simplify your life.”

“You’re his friend. Have you come to ask me to forget it all?”

“I’m a Rogue, too, remember, and you are the one person who least deserves to suffer. Everything will be exactly as you wish.”

She laughed, hiding her face against her skirt, into the deceptively simple cream muslin gown that she had chosen yesterday morning with such hopes and dreams, and that now held only stains, and memories.

“That does assume that I know my own wishes.”

“You will, but perhaps not now. I know that at the moment it probably seems urgent, but it will all wait.”

She turned her head sideways to look at him, this virtual stranger who was so intimately linked with her affairs. “But will the world wait—before condemning me?”

“The world won’t know. Who’s to tell them?”

Strange to think about that. Not the Rogues. Not Hawk, or Lord Vandeimen or Lord Amleigh. Althea? Hardly. Lord Trevor? Miss Hurstman would cut his nose off.

“The village of Hawk in the Vale?” she asked.

“Hawk will deal with them. He’s gone back there.”

She studied him. “You trust him.”

“With my life and all I hold dear.” After a moment he added, “That doesn’t mean he’s without faults.”

She looked forward at the river. “So I can return to Brighton, and assemblies, and parties. It seems completely impossible, you know.”

“I know. But life goes on. He sent a letter and asked that you read it.”

She sat up and took the folded paper, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to read it.

“It doesn’t have to be now, if you don’t want. But I think you should, when you’re ready to.”

Clarissa looked at the folded sheet. There was nothing on the outside, not even her name. There’d been no need of name or direction, of course, but it struck her as very Hawkish to be so precise about the necessities.

It was also, she realized, folded in half and then in three with impressive precision. Every angle was exact, every edge in line. How distressing it must be to a man of such discipline and order to be thrown into such discord.

She looked at his friend. “Is he all right?”

“No more than you.”

“I’m in love with him, so even more than I want him, I want to make everything perfect for him. But I’m not sure what that perfect would be, and I am sure that I mustn’t… melt myself into him for his comfort and pleasure.”

“An extraordinary way of putting it, but I know what you mean. I don’t have any wisdom to offer.” After a moment he said, “I’m not even sure there is any wisdom when it comes to the heart, except the old nostrum that time heals. It heals, but healing is not always without scars, or even deformities.”

She stared at him. “I’m certainly not being treated as a silly child, am I?”

“Do you wish to be?”

“Doesn’t everyone wish to be, sometimes?”

“There you have an excellent point.” He opened his arms, and she went into them. It was fatherly, or perhaps brotherly. She, who had never had father or brother interested in holding her.

She remembered that after Deveril’s death, Nicholas Delaney had held her in the same way. But none of these men, even if full to brimming with goodwill, could solve her dilemmas for her.

“I suppose I have to return,” she said. “To Brighton.”

“Certainly Miss Hurstman will want to see you safe.”

“Miss Hurstman is a Rogue.” She said it firmly but without resentment.

“No, she’s not. She’s a Rogue’s aunt. Lord Middlethorpe’s aunt, to be precise. If you think she’s on our side against you, you don’t know her very well. She’s a fierce defender of women in any practical way. There’ll be skin lost over our mismanagement of this.”

She pulled free of his arms to look at him. “She didn’t know any of this?”

“Not unless she’s a fortune-teller. Nicholas asked her to take you on because he thought you needed special help to win your place in society. That’s all.”

“But she wrote to him. Reporting, I assume.”

“Ah, that. She wrote demanding his presence. She has an encyclopedic knowledge of society that exceeds Hawk’s. As soon as he appeared she remembered that his father had been born a Gaspard, and that Gaspard was the Deveril family name. It rang enough of an alarm bell for her to send for him, but not enough of one to take any action. She had no idea—probably still doesn’t—that Hawk’s father has the title now.”

“Then I’d like to go back there.” She stood up and brushed off her hopeless skirt. “Life goes on, but it hardly seems possible.”

Like a claw scratching at the back of her mind, she wondered what she would do if she was with child. All very well for Lord Arden to brush off her ruin, but a swelling belly would be a very obvious sign of experience.

Would that mean that she’d have to marry Hawk?

He’d argued with her about just this. About her changing her mind, being with child.

Had he really tried to resist? Or had that simply been more cunning on his part?

She wanted him too much to make sense. Wanting was not the guide.

A child can want to grasp the fire, an adult want to throw away a fortune on cards.

Something popped up from the jumble of her mind. “You mentioned fortune-telling… It’s tugging at something… oh, Mrs. Rowland!”

He frowned slightly. “The woman in the village with the invalid husband?”

“Yes, I felt as if I knew her, but now I see she reminds me of that fortune-teller in Brighton. Madame Mystique.”

Who had talked about the money not really being hers, and death if she did not tell the truth. She’d told the truth, but she still felt half dead.

“What is it? Are you faint?”

“No.” She couldn’t deal with another stir of the pot. “I think I need to eat something. And probably borrow a clean gown. Con,” she added as a mark of appreciation for his kindness.

He smiled. “Come along, then.” They began to walk back to the peaceful house.

Most people would prefer Hartwell, with its picturesque charms around a thoroughly modern and convenient interior.

But Clarissa knew that Hawkinville still held her heart.

Chapter Twenty-six

Hawk rode south almost by compass, driven by duty alone. It might be pleasant, in fact, to become lost. He’d looked into some cases of people who simply disappeared. Perhaps they too found themselves in a dead spot of life and went away. Went anywhere so long as it was not here.

He might collide with Van by pure accident on this journey, but that encounter could not be avoided. It really didn’t matter when. It mattered whether Van, like Con, could hold on to old bonds in spite of present insanity, but he couldn’t affect that.

He could affect Clarissa’s reputation, and he put his mind to that.

He made Hawk in the Vale without incident, and saw everyone in the village turn to stare.

The Misses Weatherby popped out of their house, agape. Good.

Grimly amused, Hawk touched his hat. “Good evening, ladies.”

They gaped even more, and he waited for them to frame a question.

But Slade marched out between his ridiculous pillars right up to his saddle. “Where’s your impetuous bride, Major? Fled to warmer arms?”

Rage surged. Barely resisting the urge to kick the man’s teeth in, Hawk put his crop beneath Slade’s wattly chin and raised it. “One more word, and I will thrash you. My father’s folly is to blame more than your greed, but you are very unwelcome here, sir. And your comments about a lady can only be attributed to a vulgar mind.”

As if breaking a spell, Slade dashed away the crop and stepped back, puce with choler. “Lady?” he spat, then stopped. “May we know where the charming Miss Greystone is, Major?”

Very well. Slade would do, and the Weatherbys were all ears.

“It’s none of your business, Slade, but she heard that her dear friend the Marchioness of Arden was in childbed and wished to be with her. As you said, she is somewhat impetuous.”

Slade opened, then shut, his mouth. “And the happy event?” he inquired with a disbelieving sneer.

“A son. The heir to Belcraven, born just before dawn.”

He heard the Misses Weatherby twittering, as women always did at these events, and of course at the slight vicarious connection to the birth of such an august child.

The birth was just the kind of incontrovertible fact that could glue together almost any lie.

Slade was certainly believing it.

“And the money?” he asked stiffly.

Hawk permitted himself a disdainful sneer. “Will be yours, sir, before the due date. I must thank you for being so obliging to my family.”

With that, he turned his horse toward the manor, which apparently would survive, along with the heart of Hawk in the Vale. At the moment, he felt no satisfaction. He did not dismiss the value of preserving the village, but he did not dismiss the cost, either.

As he dismounted in the courtyard the scent of roses met him—sickeningly. He left the horse to the groom and strode swiftly inside.

“George? Where’s your bride?”

His father stood in the doorway to the back parlor, leaning on a stick.

“Isn’t it more a case of where’s the money?”

“Definitely, definitely. You have it? If so, we can start planning the celebration.”

“Go to the devil,” Hawk snapped, then quickly reined in his temper before it drove him into something else to be ashamed of. “I have the money to pay off Slade, but there is no extra, my lord.”

“There is always more money, my boy! I thought a fete similar to that one Vandeimen threw for his wedding. But more regal. Full dress. A procession—”

Hawk turned to go up the stairs. “You will, of course, do exactly as you wish, sir. I have no interest in it.”

“Damn your eyes! And where is your bride, eh? Lost her already?”

Hawk paused on the landing. “Precisely, sir.”

He entered his room tempted to sink into the darkness, but he had done this for a cause, and the cause went on. He opened his campaign desk. The familiar paper and pens swept him back to his other life. He thought there might even be a trace of smoke and powder trapped in the wood.

Why had the skills that had carried him through challenging and even torturous tasks in the army failed him here?

He picked up the flattened pistol ball that had been his constant reminder that blind luck played a huge part in fate. Perhaps this time his luck had run out.

But, no, that wasn’t it. In the army he’d usually worked toward a single imperative. He’d had no personal stake, and a good part of his skill had been in blocking out all distractions of fact or sentiment.

In fact, this campaign was a resounding success.

Hawkinville was safe.

He deserved a medal.

He wrote a Spartan letter to Arden thanking him for his assistance and requesting that he arrange for the money to be available at his Brighton bank before the end of the month. Then, with distaste, he wrote a note to Slade requesting the name of the institution where his money should be deposited.

He went downstairs and sent a servant off with it.

And that, pretty well, was that.

All that was left was the rest of his life.

He walked out of the house at the back, and down to the river, but the ducks must have been enjoying some other part of the water, and heavy clouds were drifting between the earth and the sun. It seemed symbolic, but he knew the sun would shine another day and the ducks would return.

Only Clarissa would be perpetually absent.

Was there any chance that she would relent once the shock wore off? He couldn’t bear to hope. If he did, he thought he would be frozen in time, waiting.

He heard a footstep and turned.

Van’s fist caught him hard on the jaw and flung him backward into the river.

He sat up spluttering, hand to his throbbing jaw, tasting blood from the inside of his cheek. Van waited, icy.

“If you hit me again,” Hawk said, “I’ll have to fight back.”

“You think you can win?”

“Would anyone win?”

Van glared at him, but the ice was cracking a little. “What’s this claptrap about Clarissa going to Lady Arden’s lying-in?”

Hawk decided he could probably stand up without having to kill Van and did so. “As a story it can hold if not challenged too strongly.”

That was a hint, and he saw Van take it.

“What did happen?”

His boots were full of water. “I tried to elope. I evaded pursuit, but made the mistake of staying the night in Arden’s home village.”

A crack of laughter escaped Van. “Wellington would have your guts!”

“The thought has occurred to me. I forgot, I assume, that I was at war.”

The ducks chose that moment to scoot quacking along the river, perhaps drawn by the splash. One duckling scuttled over to peck at his boots.

Hawk looked down contemplatively. “It seems to be my day for being attacked by animals.”

“Are you referring to me?”

Hawk smiled slightly. “Is a demon an animal?”

With a shake of his head, Van stuck out his hand. Hawk took it and climbed out of the river to drip on the bank.

“What happened?” Van demanded. “The whole truth.”

“I’m not going to add pneumonia to my other follies. Come inside and I’ll tell you as I change.”

Hawk discarded his boots by the back door and left wet prints as he padded along the flagstoned corridor and up the stairs. “Mind your head,” he said as he went into his room.

Van ducked just in time, then flung himself into the big leather chair with old familiarity. The three of them had rarely chosen the manor over Steynings or the Court, but they had spent some time here, mostly in this room.

“You gave me your word that you wouldn’t ruin Clarissa.”

Hawk stripped, piling his sodden clothes in his washbasin to spare the wooden floors. “I said, if I remember, that I would not ruin her that day.” He kept a careful eye on Van’s fists. “I did not mean to be specious, but as it happens, I kept to the letter of my promise.”

“And yesterday?”

“And yesterday, I did not.” He toweled himself dry. “We were, however, on our way to our wedding. Except that we were stopped.”

“By Arden. You don’t seem to have been bruised before now.”

“My golden tongue.”

“Against Arden, when he found you bedding a woman he has to regard as being within his protection?”

“We weren’t bedding at that moment,” Hawk pointed out, pulling clean clothes out of drawers. “And,” he added, “Con was there. And Clarissa.”

“Didn’t want to create a fuss in front of her?”

“Couldn’t get through her would be more exact. This was before she realized the truth, of course.” He pulled on his breeches, fastened them, and sat down. “She had no idea the will was a forgery, Van. No idea at all.”

Van looked at him for a moment, unusually thoughtful. “What now?”

“Now I pay off Slade with Arden’s money. It must be pleasant to be able to afford such lordly gestures, and it seems the Rogues wish to arrange to cover it.” He explained the arrangements.

“But what of your father? He accosted me in the hall, chortling about outranking me. And going on about a grand fete to beat my wedding celebration.”

Hawk sighed. “I deserve a penance, and I certainly have one.”

After a moment, Van said, “At least you’re free of that Mrs. Rowland. She packed her household into Old Matt’s cart yesterday and headed away.”

The part of him that was still the Hawk stirred at that. “Do we know why?”

“Not that I know. The general feeling is, good riddance.”

“I agree, but I meant to visit her poor husband in case something could be done for him.”

“I tried a few weeks back. I forced it as far as a glimpse into his room. I think he’s done for. Haggard and frail. I gather there was a dreadful blow to the head.”

“Poor man.” But at the moment Hawk couldn’t feel strongly about it. He couldn’t feel very much of anything except loss and pain.

“Do you love her?” Van asked.

Instinctive defense almost had him denying it. “Yes, but it’s completely impossible. Apart from my behavior, can you imagine her here with my father insisting on being Lord Deveriled at every turn, and complaining endlessly of not enjoying his true splendor at Gaspard Hall?”

“But her money… ?”

“The clear impression is that she would rather eat glass than take a penny of stolen money, and knowing Clarissa, I’m sure she’ll stick to her guns.”

Hawk couldn’t speak of her without becoming maudlin. He surged to his feet and put on his shirt. He couldn’t be bothered to go further than that. “Convey my apologies to Maria. What of Miss Trist?”

“Maria and Lord Trevor returned her to Brighton, I understand. Doubtless not looking forward to explaining the situation to Miss Hurstman.” Van rose too. “Nicholas Delaney is here, by the way. Staying at the Court with his wife and child. I suspect he’ll want a word with you, too.”

“So Con said. I’m sure I have enough unmarked skin to go around. Are you off for Brighton, since Maria’s there?”

“Yes. Will you be coming in?”

“What for?”

Van grimaced, gripped his arm for a moment, then left.

Hawk went to his window to contemplate ducklings.

Clarissa, dressed in one of Beth’s simpler gowns, was attempting to consume a bowl of soup in a spare bedroom while waiting for Con to return with a carriage. She’d suggested that they use the gig, but he’d insisted that she have something better for the journey to Brighton.

The soup was a tasty mix of chicken broth and vegetables, and doubtless nourishing, but she was having trouble finishing it. Tears prickled around her eyes almost constantly, and Hawk’s letter was a sharp-edged presence in her pocket.

After a rap, the door opened and Beth came in.

Clarissa leaped to her feet. “Beth, you shouldn’t be up!”

“Don’t you start pestering me,” Beth said, sitting at the table. “Sit down. Eat.”

“You look very well,” Clarissa said, and Beth did. She was in a loose dressing gown with her hair in one long plait, but she looked much the same as always.

“I am well. It went easily, and I have done considerable research. There is no reason for women to lie around for days or even weeks after a healthy birth. Such a practice quite likely encourages debility. That and lack of fresh air and exercise during pregnancy. I walked at least a mile every day.”

Clarissa chuckled, and some of the sodden sadness lifted. “And the baby?”

Beth’s face lit up. “Perfect, of course. You must come and see him when you’re finished.”

Clarissa had no reluctance about abandoning the soup. “I’m finished. I can’t wait.”

Beth beamed and led the way down the corridor to the nursery. “This is next door to our bedchamber,” she said softly, as a maid rose from a chair by the cradle to curtsy.

She led the way over to the grand gilded cradle swathed in blue satin. Inside, a tiny swaddled baby slept. To Clarissa he looked rather grumpy, but she whispered that he was beautiful.

Beth picked him up, and the tiny mouth opened and shut a few times, but then the baby stilled again. She carried him into the bedroom and shut the door. “It’s ridiculous, but I feel as if I am stealing him,” she said to Clarissa. “He has a staff of three, and that was only after a battle royal. Lucien can’t imagine why he shouldn’t have his own liveried footman! I have had to be very firm to have time to myself with him.”

Clarissa smiled. “He’s only eight hours old and you’re already at war.”

“I’ve been establishing the rules for months, but they still must be implemented.” She grinned, however, as she sat down in a rocking chair, her baby in her arms.

Once settled, she gave Clarissa a clear look. “Now, tell me everything.”

“Won’t we wake the baby?”

“Not unless you plan to shriek. Anyway,” she said, looking down at her child, “I won’t mind if he wakes. He has the most beautiful huge blue eyes. I’m feeding him, you know. It’s a bit sore at the moment, but it’s wonderful.” She touched the baby’s cheek, and he made little sucking movements but didn’t wake.

Clarissa was sure Beth didn’t really want to hear about the distressing debacle. But then Beth looked up, all schoolteacher. “Out with it, Clarissa. What have you been up to?”

By the end of the story the baby had awakened, squawked a little, and been put to the breast, with some winces. Beth had told her to keep telling her tale.

Now she asked, “What is your intention now?”

“Not to take any of that money. I’m resolved on that. I still can’t believe the Rogues would steal.”

She thought that Beth was wincing at the suckling, but then she said, “It was my idea, actually. Forging the will.”

“Yours!” Clarissa exclaimed, close enough to a shriek for the baby to jerk off the breast and cry. By the time Beth had him soothed and on the other breast, Clarissa was calm again. Astonished, but calm.

“Why?”

“Why not? Everyone said Deveril had no heir. You needed money. I was afraid even Lucien wouldn’t be able to stop your parents from selling you in some way or another.”

“But it’s a crime.”

Beth pulled a laughing face. “I must be of a criminal inclination, then. I even took part in the planting of the will at Deveril’s house. Blanche and I acted the part of whores.”

Clarissa gaped, and Beth chuckled. “Lucien was dumbfounded too. I wore a black wig, lashings of crude face paint, and a bodice that just barely covered the essentials.”

“Dumbfounded” summed it up, especially since Beth seemed to be recalling a delightful memory.

“Do you think I should keep the money, then?”

Beth sobered. “It is more complicated now, isn’t it? There is a new Lord Deveril, and without our interference he would have inherited it all.” She considered Clarissa. “I am not clear how you regard Major Hawkinville at this time.”

“Probably because I’m not clear either. My heart says one thing. My mind shouts warnings. We were warned often enough at school about the seductive wiles of rascals and the susceptible female heart.”

“True,” said Beth, but with a rather mysterious smile. “But it’s as much a mistake to expect perfection from a man as it is to tumble into the power of a rake. After all, can we offer perfection? Do we want to have to try?”

“Heaven forbid. He wrote me a letter.”

“What did it say?”

“I haven’t read it yet.”

“There’s no need to make a hasty decision, my dear, but reading the letter might be a good start.”

The door opened then and Lord Arden walked in. He halted, and looked almost embarrassed, perhaps because he was in an open-necked shirt and pantaloons and nothing else. Not even stockings and shoes.

But then he looked at his wife and the baby, and Clarissa saw that nothing else mattered.

As he went over to Beth, she slipped out of the room, certain of one thing. She wanted that one day. To be a new mother with the miracle of a child and a husband who looked at her and the child as Lord Arden had looked.

And she wanted it to be Hawk.

She went back to her cold soup to read his letter, then cooled the soup some more with tears. Neat, crisp folds and neat, crisp phrases, but then those poignant perhapses.

Or were they simply the pragmatic analysis of the Hawk’s mind?

If only she had some mystical gift that would detect the truth in another person’s heart.

Chapter Twenty-seven

The trip by carriage took a lot less time than the wandering journey that had carried Clarissa and Hawk to the fateful village. Con, wonderful man, did not attempt conversation, but eventually she weakened and asked him about Hawk.

His look was thoughtful, but he talked. She saw their childhood from another angle. The bond was still there, and the fun, but they were shaded by Con’s exasperation with his wilder friends. Lord Vandeimen, it was clear, had always been given to extremes, inclined to act first, think second. Hawk, on the other hand, had thought too much, but relished challenges. He had also lacked a happy home.

She learned more about his parents. Though Con was moderate in his expressions, it was clear that he despised Squire Hawkinville and merely pitied his wife.

“She was hard done to,” he said, “but it was her own folly. Everyone in the village agrees that she was a plain woman past any blush of youth. Would the sudden appearance of a handsome gallant protesting adoration not stir a warning?”

He clearly had no idea how his words hit home to her.

“He must have been very convincing,” she said.

“Such men usually are. When the truth dawned, she would have been wiser to make the best of it.”

“Why? To make it easier for him?”

He looked at her. “That was her attitude, I’m sure. But she only made matters bitter for herself, her child, and everyone around her. There was no changing it.”

“And she couldn’t even leave,” Clarissa said. “It was her home.” And perhaps she, too, had loved Hawkinville.

Con said, “It’s made Hawk somewhat cold. Not truly cold, but guarded in his emotions. And he’s never had a high opinion of marriage.”

Clarissa was aware of the letter in her pocket. Guarded, perhaps, but not well. And not cold. And he wanted marriage.

Could it all be false?

She didn’t think so.

Con called for the carriage to stop, and she saw they were at a crossroads. “We can turn off here for Hawk in the Vale,” he said.

“No.”

She wasn’t ready yet. She was determined to be thoughtful about this.

“I was thinking more that we could go to my home, to Somerford Court. We don’t even have to go through the village to get to it from here. Nicholas Delaney is there, and I’m sure he’d like to speak to you. We can send a note to Miss Hurstman and go on to Brighton tomorrow.”

Clarissa was certainly in no rush to return to Brighton. “Why not? I wouldn’t mind a word with him, either.”

The Court was almost as charming as Hawkinville Manor, though centuries younger, but Clarissa was past caring about such things. Con’s wife, mother, and sister were welcoming—Con’s wife insisted on being Susan— but it couldn’t touch her distraction. Nothing in the world seemed real except her and Hawk and her dilemma.

And stopping where he was mere minutes away had not been a good idea.

Nicholas Delaney took one look at her and suggested that they talk, but ordered a wine posset for her. As she went with him into a small sitting room, she said, “I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat. You can’t fight well on an empty stomach.”

“I’m likely to fight you. This is all your fault.”

“If you wish, but I think the blame can be well spread around. There’s nothing so weak as ‘I meant well,’ but in this everyone meant well, Clarissa.”

“Not Hawk. Hawk wanted my money. I’m not touching it.” That should shake his complacency.

“As you wish, of course,” he said. “I’m sure Miss Hurstman can find you a position pandering to a not-too-tyrannical old lady.”

She picked up a china figurine and hurled it at him.

He caught it. “It would be foolish to be wantonly poor, Clarissa, and no one has a greater right to that money than you.”

“What about Hawk’s father?” She made herself say it. “The new Lord Deveril.”

“Only by the most precise letter of the law.” He put the figurine on a small table. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you where that money came from.”

She sat, her revivifying anger sagging like a pricked bladder. “From Lord Deveril’s unpleasant businesses, I assume.”

“He might have increased it a bit that way, but even vice is not quite so profitable in a short time.”

Clarissa listened in amazement to a story of treason, embezzlement, and pure theft.

“Then the money belongs to the people this woman got it from. Except,” she added thoughtfully, “they would hardly want to claim it, would they?”

“They could be found. Therese happily gave up a list of their names once she had no more use for them. In the end the government settled for letting them know that they were known. Many of them fled the country, and I don’t think those that remain would want to be reminded of their folly.”

“The Crown, then.”

“The Regent would love it. It would buy him some trinket or other. But by what excuse can the money be given to the Crown?”

She was arguing for the sake of arguing, because she was angry with them all. “When I’m twenty-one, I can do with it as I wish.”

“Of course. I arranged it that way. In retrospect, that was an indulgence. It apparently gave Hawkinville reason to doubt the will.” He smiled. “It does seem unfair that women at twenty-one are considered infantile, when men at the same age are given control of their affairs.”

“That sounds like Mary Wollstonecraft.”

“She made some good points.”

There was a knock on the door, and a maid came in with the steaming posset. When she’d left, Clarissa decided not to be infantile. She sat at a small table and dipped in her spoon.

Cream, eggs, sugar, and wine. After a few mouthfuls she did begin to feel less miserable. “This will have me drunk.”

He sat across the table from her. “Probably why it’s excellent for the suffering invalid. There are times when a little inebriation helps.”

She looked at him. “What do you want me to do?”

He shook his head. “I have put you in charge of your own destiny.”

She took more of the posset, and the wine untangled some of her sorest knots.

“I’m afraid of making a fool of myself.”

“We all are, most of the time.”

She glanced up. “For life? How does anyone make choices?”

“Of marriage partners? If people worried too much about making the perfect choice, the human race would die out.”

“Not necessarily,” she pointed out, and he laughed.

“True, but it would be a chaotic system. Marriage brings order to the most disorderly of human affairs.”

“But there are many bitter, corroding marriages. Hawk’s parents, for example. And mine.”

“True fondness, goodwill, and common sense can get us over most hurdles.”

She spooned up the last of the sweet liquid, and the wine probably gave her courage to ask a personal question. “Is that what your marriage is like?”

He laughed. “Oh, no. My marriage is one of complete insanity. But I recommend it to you, too. It’s called love.”

Love.

“Perhaps I should see Hawk,” she said, a warm spiral beginning to envelop her in betraying delight.

But Delaney shook his head. “I think we’ll wait an hour or so to see if that’s only the wine talking.” He rose. “Meanwhile, come and meet my insanity. Eleanor, and my daughter, Arabel.”

As they went to the door he said, “Would you be able to call me Nicholas?”

“In what circumstances?” she teased.

“Damned tenses. I would like it if you would call me Nicholas. I think you are by way of being an honorary Rogue.”

Con, and Nicholas. New friends. And her acceptance of it was something to do with Hawk, and with Lord Arden.

“Nicholas,” she said, but she added with a giggle, “I’m not sure I can call Lord Arden Lucien, though.”

“Definitely the wine,” he said, guiding her out of the room. “The number of people to call Arden Lucien is small. If not for the Rogues it might be down to one— his mother.”

“And Beth, surely.”

“Perhaps.”

She understood. Without the Rogues, Lord Arden might not be the sort of husband Beth would call by his first name. He might be the sort who expressed every sour emotion with his fists.

“Perhaps I should call Hawk George,” she said. “Less predatory. But then he wouldn’t call me Falcon.”

Nicholas shook his head. “We must definitely wait an hour.”

Eleanor Delaney was a handsome woman with a rooted tranquility that Clarissa admired. Of course, it must be easy to be tranquil with a husband such as Nicholas. Clarissa was sure he had given her no trouble, told her no lies.

Arabel was a charming toddler in a short pink dress showing lace-trimmed pantalettes. Her chestnut curls were cut short, and she was playing with a cat that Clarissa recognized.

“Jetta!”

The cat reacted to the name, or perhaps to her. Whichever, Clarissa certainly received a cold stare. Lord above, was a cat capable of fixing blame for the loss of its hero?

“It was thought to be in danger from the manor dogs, so I brought it up here.” Nicholas swooped up his daughter and carried her, laughing, over to be introduced. Clarissa saw identical sherry-gold eyes.

Arabel smiled with unhesitating acceptance. “ ‘Lo!”

“Not the beginning of an ode,” said Nicholas, “but her greeting.”

The child turned to him, beaming, to say, “ ‘Lo! ’Lo! ‘Lo!” But then she said, “Papa. Love Papa.”

Clarissa almost felt she should look away as Nicholas kissed his daughter’s nose and said, “I love you too, cherub.”

Insanity.

Love.

Heaven.

But then Arabel turned to her and stretched out. Astonished, Clarissa took the child and duly admired the wooden doll clutched in one fist. Nicholas went to talk to Eleanor, and the child didn’t turn to look.

What blithe confidence in love that was, that never doubted, or feared the loss of it. Would she ever feel that way?

Then Arabel squirmed to get down and led the way back to the cat and some other toys. Clarissa sat on the carpet and played, discovering one certainty.

She wanted a child.

She wanted to be married to Hawk and have Hawk’s children, but if that didn’t happen, she wanted to be a mother. A married mother.

She tried to imagine being married to someone else.

It didn’t seem possible, but time must have an effect on that. What was the difference between a wild passion and an eternal love?

Easier by far to play with the child than to tussle with adult problems.

But then Mrs. Delaney insisted that it was bedtime. When she came to pick up her daughter, she said, “I understand that you are a Rogue now. I hope you will call me Eleanor.”

Clarissa scrambled to her feet, not quite so comfortable with this informality, but she agreed.

“And if you want a woman to talk to,” Eleanor Delaney said, “I am a good listener. No hand at good advice, you understand, but we can often work these things out for ourselves once we start, can’t we?”

She carried the child away, and Clarissa glanced at the clock.

“Still half an hour to go,” Nicholas said.

She pulled a face, but said, “Then I think I’ll walk in the garden and talk to myself.”

She expected a comment, but he only said, “By all means—if you promise not to sneak down to the village.”

She glared, but the thought hadn’t occurred to her. It was a very little time to wait, and she knew it was wise to see if her forgiveness seeped away with the effects of the posset.

When she left the room, the cat came with her. She looked down. “I thought I was the enemy.”

The cat merely waited. Perhaps the clever animal had decided she was the key to Hawk. It would be nice if true.

The Somerford Court gardens were pleasant, though rather formal. She crossed a lawn and wandered down a yew-lined path, greeted by a gardener busy keeping the hedges trim. It was a warm but heavy evening. Even the birds were quiet. Apart from the snick, snick, snick of the gardener’s shears, it was soundless.

She came to a round fishpond dotted with water lilies and sat on the stone edge to trail her hand in the water.

A fat carp came to nibble, then swam away, disappointed. Jetta crouched on the rim, also disappointed.

No food.

No fortune.

Her slightly inebriated mind didn’t want to focus, not even on talking over her problem with herself.

She looked around, but nothing offered wisdom or inspiration. The pond sat in the middle of a hedge-lined square, with four neat flower beds set with bushes in the center and lined with low white flowers. It struck her as amusing that Hawk of the neatly folded note had the lush, willful garden, while Con owned such precision.

Both had been formed by previous generations, however.

Each side of the square hedge had an opening leading to another path. None of them invited.

Then a figure crossed over one of those paths. A maid in dark clothing with a large bundle. And Jetta rose to hiss.

Clarissa looked at the cat. “Another rival for Hawk’s affections?” But the cat was simply twitching its tail restlessly.

Clarissa frowned at it. “Now you have me twitchy.” She scooped it up and went down the path to catch another glimpse. The woman was far ahead, going briskly about her business, which was probably to take laundry to the village. Jetta gave another, almost huffy, hiss; the woman turned right and was out of sight.

Clarissa turned back toward the house, but something about the woman was on her mind now. She hurried in a direction that should provide another view, giving thanks for the straight lines of the garden. She came to the abrupt end of the garden, with countryside before her.

The woman was already across a pasture and climbing a stile, bundle under her arm, to follow a footpath along the edge of a harvested field toward the village. It wasn’t a servant. It was that Mrs. Rowland.

“Still don’t approve?” she muttered to the tense cat. “Misfortune turns some people miserable, you know. And see, she has to take in laundry to put food on the table.”

Or she might be stealing. An unfair thought about the poor woman, who’d shown no sign of furtiveness, but Clarissa decided she had to tell someone. She turned back to the now rather distant house.

Somerford Court was a rambling place, and when she eventually entered, she found herself near the kitchens. She stopped in there, faced by half a dozen female servants who didn’t know who she was, and feeling very foolish.

“I’m Miss Greystone. A guest.”

Then Jetta leaped down and was immediately the center of attention. “Wonderful mouser, it is,” said the woman who was probably the cook, smiling. “Can we help you, miss?”

Clarissa felt that she had been properly introduced. She almost didn’t want to spoil it by saying anything, but she made herself speak.

“I just saw someone in the garden. I think it was Mrs. Rowland, from the village. Does she take in laundry, or mending, perhaps?”

And what business is it of yours? she could imagine the servants saying.

“Her?” said the cook. “Not likely. She has been here now and then, to speak to her ladyship—the Dowager Lady Amleigh, that is. Begging, if you ask me, for all her airs. But not today, miss.”

Protesting that would do no good. Perhaps she should speak to the dowager.

She left the kitchen and headed toward the front of the house. The Court, however, was the sort of rambling place built in stages, where no corridor went in a straight line. She was beginning to think she’d have to call for help, but then she tentatively opened a door and found herself in the front hall.

Now what? Her alarm about Mrs. Rowland was beginning to seem very silly, but she decided she would find the dowager.

At the moment the house was as sleepy as the gardens, but she’d seen a bellpull in the small room where she’d talked with Nicholas. She was heading there when Nicholas came out of another room. “Ah, your hour’s up,” he said, smiling.

If she’d wanted to block her decisions from her mind, she’d certainly succeeded. For the past little while she hadn’t thought of Hawk at all. Perhaps that was why her mind had eagerly clutched the little mystery.

Now that the idea was back, it pushed out all others. “I still want to see him,” she said.

“Very well—”

“Nicholas!” They both turned to see Eleanor racing down the stairs, white-faced. “I can’t find Arabel!”

Nicholas caught her in his arms. “She likes to hide—”

“We’ve searched her room. The ones nearby. I’ve called.” She turned, searching the hall. “Arabel! Arabel!”

He pulled her back into his arms. “Hush. She can’t have come down here. We’ll get everyone to search.”

Con and Susan had emerged from the room where Nicholas had been. They immediately went off to set all the servants to the search, inside and out, and a message was sent to the village for extra people.

The Delaneys hurried upstairs, calling their daughter’s name. Clarissa raced after them, caught up in the alarm at the thought of that sweet child perhaps stuck in a chest, or having tumbled down some stairs.

It was only upstairs, wondering helplessly where to look, that the thought struck. It was too ridiculous to bother Nicholas with, so she ran in search of Con, finding him in the front hall marshaling affairs. Quickly, she told him about Mrs. Rowland.

“You’re sure it was she?”

“Mostly,” she said, less sure by the moment. She almost said, “Jetta hissed,” but that would make her seem a complete idiot.

“But she was carrying something?”

“I thought it was laundry. Or mending.”

But then his eyes sharpened. “Didn’t you mention her earlier? That she reminded you of someone?”

“Of the fortune teller.” But then she inhaled with shock. “She talked about Rogues. And she gave me Nicholas’s initials!” She quickly sketched that encounter.

“Who could be interested in Clarissa’s money and in the Rogues?”

Clarissa turned to see Hawk there, hat, crop, and gloves in hand. Their eyes met in a sudden collision of need and problems.

Con said, “Madame Therese Bellaire.” But then he added, “It’s insanity. Why would she even be in England?” He was already turning to run upstairs, however. “We have to tell Nicholas. Dear God…”

Clarissa and Hawk ran after him.

They found the Delaneys opening and shutting drawers and armoires that had to have been searched before.

Con told them, and they both turned impossibly paler.

“Therese,” Nicholas said. “Please, God, no.”

Eleanor clutched his arm, and then they were wrapped with each other. Clarissa remembered that Madame Bellaire was the woman who had gathered the money, then lost it to Deveril. She’d thought when Nicholas told her that there was more to the story.

If only she had pursued. Or done something.

“We have to follow it up,” said Nicholas, coming back to life. To Clarissa he said, “Which way did you see her go?”

“Down to the village.” She described it exactly.

Before she could say she was sorry, Hawk said, “That path splits three ways. And I doubt she took the village one. She moved her whole household out at crack of dawn.”

“Where?” Nicholas asked.

“No one knows, and we won’t until Old Matt returns to say where he took his cartload. Madame Mystique must have some base in Brighton, but there’s no saying she’s returned there. If it is she.” He added, looking at Clarissa, “Fortune tellers can be uncanny.”

“I know! I’m not sure of anything.”

Clarissa could almost feel Nicholas’s need to rush off, but he looked at Hawk. “I’m in no state to think, Hawkinville. I gather this is your forte. Will you take command?”

Clarissa saw a touch of color on Hawk’s cheeks. She remembered then that he and Nicholas could be seen as on opposite sides in respect to her. All that was unimportant now.

“Of course,” Hawk, said. “I’m sure you want to do something, however. Why not follow the route Clarissa described? Look for clues or people who saw the woman. Take a couple of Con’s grooms to follow other routes when it splits.”

Nicholas hugged his wife and left. Susan went to hold Eleanor’s hand.

Hawk turned to Con. “I’d like you to head for Brighton by the most direct route, looking for the Frenchwoman or Old Matt. If you get there without a trace, find Madame Mystique’s establishment and check it out. Take a couple of armed grooms—and be careful.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” said Con ironically, but without resentment, and hurried out.

The salute brought a slight smile to Hawk’s lips.

“Shouldn’t someone check Mrs. Rowland’s place here?” Clarissa asked.

“Yes, I’ll do that. It won’t take long, and it needs a careful eye. I’ll see if my father knows anything about the woman, too. He was mightily upset to hear of her leaving.”

He turned to go, but Clarissa grabbed his sleeve. She wasn’t sure what to say except that she had to say something. “Find her.”

He looked at her with deep darkness, then touched her cheek. “If it is humanly possible—”

Then in a black streak, Jetta leaped in to sit on his boots, as if trying to pin him down. Clarissa wondered for a mad moment whether the cat knew he was going into danger. He picked it up and moved it, and strode out. After a shake, Jetta strode after him. There was no other word for it. Clarissa felt as if he had a guard.

But then she turned back and saw Eleanor’s face. “I’m sorry. I should have gone after her.”

But Eleanor shook her head. “She would have killed you. Or taken you with her if she could.”

“Then I should have raised the alarm! Immediately.”

“Why?” Eleanor had lost all that placid calm, but she came to take Clarissa’s hands. “Why should you imagine anything so extreme? Life would be impossible if we all jumped to such conclusions every time we saw something out of the ordinary.”

“But,” Clarissa said bitterly, “I should have learned from experience. Everyone who has anything to do with me ends up in disaster.”

Eleanor gathered her into her arms. “No, no, my dear. Everyone who has anything to do with Therese Bellaire ends up in disaster. Really,” she added, with a touch of unsteady humor, “Napoleon would have been well advised to wring her neck.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

The women continued the search for a while—Clarissa even ran out to the fish pond in case the child had escaped the house and drowned—but no one’s heart was in it. They were all sure that Arabel had been stolen away.

Clarissa took a moment in the garden to let out her tears, and she felt better for it, if drained. But, oh, the thought of that sweet, trusting infant, who seemed innocent of anything but adoring kindness, in the hands of “Mrs. Rowland”! If only she’d not acted sensibly for once. If only she’d been impetuous, and pursued. Perhaps she might at least be with the child and able to protect and comfort her.

The only “if only” that mattered now, however, was if only she could do something to speed up the child’s safe return.

She returned to the house and discovered that Hawk also had returned and taken over Con’s study for what could only be called a command post. She entered to find that he’d set the women to work, even the dowager and Con’s sister.

A map was spread on the desk, and Hawk was studying paths and roads under the eye of a watchful cat. Eleanor was taking notes and seemed much steadier. Everyone else seemed to be drawing. Clarissa soon gathered that they were drawing rough sketches of routes, with churches, houses, streams, and such as markers.

She was given a piece of paper, and Eleanor read off some details for her.

“We’re going to send out riders along all these routes,” Eleanor said. “It will cover everything from here to a five-mile radius.” She glanced at Hawk. “He is very meticulous, isn’t he?”

Clarissa looked at him too. “He has that reputation.” She couldn’t help adoring him for his control and discipline. Knowing him, she realized that inside he was probably as achingly worried and anxious as they all were, but he was intent on his goal. Rescue.

He said something to Eleanor, looking up, and his eyes found Clarissa. Something flashed there—a need, she hoped—but immediately it was controlled. “The Henfield road goes through two tollgates,” he said to Eleanor. “The second should be far enough. The river blocks any roundabout route. Who has that one?”

Eleanor looked at her list. “Susan.” She went to relay the instructions to Susan, who was using the deep windowsill to work on.

Then Nicholas returned, looking exhausted but better somehow for racing around. She realized that Hawk had sent him for exactly that reason, and had probably put Eleanor to work to help her, too. So many threads in his fingers, each one to be done perfectly, because failure was impossible.

Then the maps were finished, the waiting grooms summoned, instructed with crisp precision, and sent off.

“They can be back within the hour,” said Hawk, but he glanced out of the window at the overcast sky. “If the weather holds.” He looked at Nicholas. “The woman may have gone to Brighton, but it might be too obvious. What do you want to do?”

“Ride hell-bent for Brighton, of course,” said Nicholas. “Or to London. Or to the Styx to bargain with Charon—” He stopped himself. “We will wait until the riders return, and hope there’s a clear path. It would be worse, after all, to go in the wrong direction entirely.”

“Then we must eat,” Hawk said. “Susan?”

Susan left, and everyone moved restlessly, waiting for something that could not come for a while.

“If Con finds anything along the road,” Hawk said, “he’ll send back word. What’s the woman like? From all I’ve heard of her, devious but not stupid.”

Nicholas rubbed his hands over his face. “No, not stupid. But she can be foolish. She prides herself on her arcane plans, but then gets lost in them. Certainly following a straight line is unlikely to find her. You’re going about it the right way. Spin a web.”

Now that the immediate work was done, Eleanor Delaney had sunk into a chair, staring into nowhere. Nicholas went to her.

Clarissa turned to look out of the window. Evening was beginning to mute the day. Realistically speaking, it was no more terrible for the child to be in the hands of a madwoman at night, but it felt as though it was.

Hawk came to stand nearby. She knew it even before she looked.

“Is she mad?” she asked.

“Probably not. But there’s a kind of madness that thinks only of itself. All controls to do with decency or humanity are lost, and only the desires and pleasures of the person matter. I suspect she is that sort of woman. What do you think?”

“I think of her with her children.”

He put out a hand to her, then stopped it, lowered it. She did not protest. There was no place in this for them, for the tangles and dilemmas still to be sorted out.

Susan returned, followed by maids with trays holding tea, wine, and plates of hastily made sandwiches. Certainly, thought Clarissa, sitting down to dinner would be macabre. The maids left, and everyone was busy for a moment, pouring, passing, taking plates. But then stillness settled.

“Eat,” Hawk said. “You can get it down if you try, and strength is needed. And don’t get drunk.”

After a moment, Nicholas put down his wineglass and picked up a sandwich. Eleanor was drinking tea, but she started to eat too.

Hawk ate two sandwiches, but he seemed to be thinking throughout the meal. Then he said, “The most likely situation is that the Bellaire woman has taken the child to hold for ransom. I gather she has reason of sorts to think that Clarissa’s money is hers. My father was under the illusion that she was going to marry him as soon as she was widowed. No illusion, actually. That doubtless was her plan once he had the money. I suspect I was her hunting dog, sent to sniff out the villains. An interesting mind. I assume that my elopement told her the plan was dead—so we have this.”

Nicholas put down his food. “But we only arrived yesterday. This has to have been an impulse. Had she no other device? It is unlike her.”

“She prefers multiple plans?”

“She adores them.”

“Mrs. Rowland had two children,” Hawk said, “a boy and a girl. Are they hers?”

Nicholas laughed. “Therese? Impossible to imagine, and two years ago she boasted of the perfection of her body, unmarked by birth. Good God, has she kidnapped others?”

“Or adopted, to be fair. She’s been here for months with them. A strange ploy if she took them for money. No,” Hawk said.

He picked up Jetta and stroked the cat as if it helped him think. “I suspect the children were simply disguise. Perhaps poor Rowland was too. Intriguing, really. She must have been left in a very difficult situation after Waterloo. Stranded in Belgium, without her powerful protectors, and thinking of her money in England. If she found a wounded officer and persuaded him to claim her as his common-law wife—perhaps in exchange for nursing him—and acquired a couple of the stray orphans that always wander after battle, she would have an excellent cover for a Frenchwoman to enter England.”

“You sound as if you’re falling under her spell.”

Hawk looked at Nicholas. “I’ll wring her neck if need be. It’s often necessary to enter into the mind of villains to decide what they will do. And villains rarely see themselves that way. They see themselves as clever, as entitled to what they seize, as justified in the evil that they do. You’re right about her having some other plan. Knowing what it is would be useful, but the main point is that she will demand money. A great deal of money and in short order. Can you raise it?”

Clarissa stood. “I wish I could give her all of mine! I don’t want it. She was right when she said it was poisoned.”

“But you can’t get it in a day or two,” Hawk said, as if the money was of no importance to him. “Arden offered me twenty thousand, so I assume he can put his hands on that quickly.”

“The Rogues,” said Nicholas, suddenly alert.

But then pounding feet had them all turning to the door. It burst open, and a panting groom raced in. He looked around the crowded room in confusion. “Sirs, letter from his lordship!”

Hawk took it and opened it. It contained another sealed paper. “She went through the Preston toll,” he said, reading. “A woman fitting her description in a fast carriage. Bold. And, even bolder,” he added. He looked at Nicholas. “The woman paid the tollkeeper to give this letter to anyone who asked.” He held it out. “It’s addressed to you, but of course Con read it.”

Nicholas was already reading. “She wants a hundred thousand pounds before eight o’clock tomorrow evening.” He gave it to Eleanor.

“Impossible,” gasped the dowager Lady Amleigh.

“And she has her other string,” Nicholas carried on, looking strangely stunned. “She claims to have Dare.”

Clarissa looked around in confusion. Hawk said, “It’s not possible—” But then he breathed, “Lieutenant Rowland.” He cursed, which, given the presence of ladies, showed how deeply shocked he was.

“She wouldn’t lie,” Nicholas said. “It has to be true. Pray God it doesn’t make Con do something wild. We have to go.”

“Yes, of course.” But Hawk held up a hand. “What of the money? We have to think now how to raise it.” But then he looked at Nicholas. “If it’s Dare, he’s in bad shape. Van saw him briefly. He thought he was dying.”

“We get him and Arabel back,” said Nicholas flatly. “By all means, let’s think how to get the money. If Therese can be easily found in Brighton, Con and Vandeimen will do it.”

Hawk sat at the desk and put a clean sheet of paper in front of him. “You have all I can raise, but it’s precious little, even with jewels included. Arden’s twenty thousand, of course.”

Clarissa bit her lip, thinking what that meant for Hawk in the Vale, but there was no choice.

The dowager suddenly stood and took off her rings and a brooch, putting them on the desk. “I’ll go and get my jewel box.”

Con’s wife and sister did the same. Eleanor said, “Everything I have with me, of course. But most is back in Somerset. There’s not time, is there?”

Nicholas took her hand. “We can try. But there are those closer. Arden,” he said to Hawk. “He’s good for more. Beth has diamonds worth a good part of the amount.”

Clarissa had seen Beth’s diamonds. They were part of the ducal estate and not really Lord Arden’s to give, but she knew he would.

“Leander’s probably in Somerset, but we’ll send to his Sussex estate in case. Francis. Hal’s in Brighton, but he has little. I think Stephen’s in London. If there are ways of raising money, he’ll find it. We have to contact the Yeovils too.”

“Dare’s parents?” Hawk said. “Yes, of course. Though he may not be a pretty sight.”

“If he’s alive, do you think that matters?”

“No.” Hawk added the name.

The two Lady Amleighs and Helen Somerford returned and put jewel boxes on the table, Clarissa didn’t think the contents would be worth a vast sum, but they would be treasured pieces given up in this cause.

“I have some jewelry in Brighton lent me by the Duke of Belcraven,” she said. “You can have that. When I come of age,” she added firmly, “Deveril’s money will go to repay all these debts. I am determined on it.”

She said it looking at Hawk, afraid of objection, but he nodded. “I hope to get through this without paying a penny, and with the woman locked up for her crimes.”

“Not wise.”

They all looked at Nicholas. “We really don’t want Therese on trial. She knows or guesses far too much. I’m sure she’s counting on that. Of course, if she harms Arabel in any way, I will kill her. I hope she’s counting on that, too.”

The first grooms began to return with their pointless reports on their routes. They were sent to eat while Nicholas wrote letters to the Rogues and the Yeovils, asking for the money and jewels, and a message to his home in Somerset instructing a trusted servant to bring the contents of his safe.

Clarissa couldn’t help thinking that some lucky highwaymen might make the strike of their lives.

“Where shall we ask that it be sent?” Nicholas asked.

After a moment, Hawk said, “Van’s house in Brighton,” and gave the address. Once the letters were on their way, he said, “And now we can go. She’s gone to ground in Brighton, but by God, there has to be a way to find her.”

Clarissa, Eleanor, and Susan jammed into the Amleigh phaeton, Eleanor driving, the gentlemen on horseback. Again Jetta insisted on riding with Hawk, sitting upright in front of him.

“She’ll fall off at speed,” Clarissa said.

“I doubt it,” said Nicholas, his horse sidling impatiently, doubtless a reflection of the rider. “The Chinese trained cats to ride into war exactly like that. They would leap at opponents and blind them.”

Clarissa shivered at the thought, but all in all, the more protectors Hawk had, the better.

Then they were off. Five grooms not needed for other duties rode with them. Heads turned as the speeding cavalcade whipped past. Clarissa could only think of all the people with small problems, all the parents whose children were safe.

In a short while Nicholas drew alongside to tell Eleanor he was riding ahead, and she gave him her blessing.

“If I were any rider at all, I’d go with him. It is so intolerable not to be racing to do something, no matter how futile.” She cracked her whip, and the horses picked up pace as the sun set sulkily behind heavy clouds.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Brighton. Clarissa remembered entering Brighton a short while before, full of nerves and hope. How different now, with so much at stake. How trivial all her earlier anxieties seemed. The past hours of stress had scoured away her uncertainties about Hawk. In this uncertain world, what did twenty, forty, sixty years matter?

Carpe diem, for indeed, one could not know what the morrow would bring.

The sunlight had almost gone by the time they entered Lord Vandeimen’s house, finding the Vandeimens there, along with Con and Nicholas. Con seemed afire with new purpose, and it was all to do with Lord Darius.

“Madame Mystique has a house on Ship Street,” he said, “but it seems deserted. I hesitated to break in.”

“Good,” Hawk said. “We can’t be precipitous. We risk triggering her to do something undesirable. No sign of Old Matt?”

Clarissa had to think who that was. Oh, the carter who had transported Lieutenant Rowland and the children.

No, she corrected. He’d transported Lord Darius Debenham and the poor waifs picked up from who-knew-where and subjected to Therese Bellaire’s cold heart for a year. She desperately regretted returning the children, but couldn’t see how she and Hawk could have done anything else.

“Not on the road,” Con said. “I’ve sent the grooms to check on all the inns and taverns. He likes a drink. But how do we search all Brighton?”

“Meticulously,” said Hawk with a hint of a self-mocking smile.

“We don’t have enough people to comb thousands of households!”

There was a rap on the door and they all turned. They were all, Clarissa realized, still standing in the narrow hall.

The nearest person opened the door—Susan.

Blanche and Major Beaumont came in. Blanche went straight to Eleanor and put a bundle in her hands. “Lucien’s necklace is the most valuable piece, but I’ve put in some stage trumpery too. Perhaps she won’t have time to study it.”

“Good idea,” said Nicholas. “Maria, which jewelers here are most likely to keep paste for people to wear?”

Everyone flowed into the front parlor and soon Maria had a list, but it was too late to visit jewelers today.

“We have to do something,” said Eleanor fiercely, desperately. “Dear heaven, if she’s awake, she will be so frightened!” Nicholas went to her, but he was haggard with the same need.

“We try to find her,” Hawk said steadily. “Maria, may I have some of your servants?”

“Of course! Which ones?”

“A few who are Brighton born and bred.”

She hurried out and soon returned with a maid, a sturdy young man, and a frightened-looking boy, whose eyes seemed to be trying to go all ways at once.

“Listen carefully,” Hawk said in a clipped, military voice. “We need to find a woman in Brighton. The main thing is that she is French. She was last seen looking sallow and dressed in black, but she may have changed. She’s slim, dark-eyed, and about thirty. She will probably have one or three young children with her. We’re also looking for a very sick officer, who might go by the name Lieutenant Rowland. The last person is a carter called Old Matt. Old Matt Fagg. He might simply be drunk in one of the taverns. All three people are somewhere in Brighton. You are to alert as many people as possible— children too—that anyone who brings me news of where any of these people are will receive ten guineas.”

The maid and groom came to sharp attention. The lad gaped. That was probably his yearly wage.

“What’s more, if any of these people are found by anyone, you three will each receive ten guineas for yourself. Mind, though, everyone is to be careful. We only want to know where she is. We do not want her disturbed. Do you understand?”

All three nodded, though “dazzled” might have better described their state than “comprehending.”

“Do you have any questions?”

The lad said, “Ten guineas, sir?”

“Yes.”

The three servants backed out, but then Clarissa heard one set of running footsteps. She was sure they were the boy’s.

“I do hope no one will get hurt,” she said.

“You wouldn’t make a general, love.”

It slipped out and they looked at one another.

“I have this constant urge,” said Nicholas, pacing the room, “to go and search the streets. It’s irrational.”

“But perfectly reasonable,” Hawk said. “Waiting—and watching—are always the hardest parts.”

Clarissa guessed that he referred to his army career.

“What about Madame Mystique’s house?” she asked.

“She might try to hide in open view?” Hawk asked. “I doubt it. It would be a trap. But it certainly should be checked. Who’s best at housebreaking?”

“I’ve done it,” said Nicholas with a wry smile, “but I wouldn’t say it’s a skill of mine.”

“I’ll do it, then,” said Hawk, picking up a satchel he’d brought and taking out a ring of strange-looking keys.

“You must have had an interesting war,” Nicholas remarked.

“That’s one way of looking at it. As I pointed out recently, however, it was nothing so dramatic as chasing down spies. More a question of checking out warehouses.”

Clarissa remembered, and knew he’d said it deliberately, as a kind of connection.

He took Nicholas with him, as a kindness, she was sure, and Jetta by necessity, but they were soon back to say that the house was deserted and no clue could be found there. “Except traces of opium,” Hawk said. “So she probably does have Lord Darius and the children drugged.”

“It can be so dangerous,” Eleanor whispered. “I’ve never given her it. Not even for teething.”

The door suddenly opened and Miss Hurstman stood there. “Ha!” she exclaimed, fixing Clarissa with a dragon’s eye. “Maria, I told you to tell me if she turned up.” But then she looked around. “What’s the matter?”

Nicholas went and took her hands. “Therese Bellaire has kidnapped Arabel.”

Miss Hurstman, who Clarissa had thought was made of pure steel, went sickly sallow and sat down with a thump. “Oh, heaven help the poor angel!”

Clarissa thought the woman might cry, but then she stiffened. “I assume you men are dealing with it?”

“As best we can,” said Hawk dryly.

A knock on the door brought the maidservant who’d been sent out to search. “I found the carter, sir!” she declared, flushed with excitement as if this was a treasure hunt. For her, Clarissa supposed, it was. “At Mrs. Purbeck’s lodging house, sir, but dead drunk. Really drunk. She thinks he’s drunk uncut brandy, sir, for there was a half-anker nearby.”

Maria gave the woman her ten guineas and told her to go and find a way to bring the unconscious man here.

“Uncut brandy?” she asked when the maid was gone.

“Smugglers ship it double strength in small casks,” Susan said. “It saves space. Then it’s watered to the right proof over here. There’s many a man drunk himself to death sneaking a bit from a smuggler’s cask.”

Clarissa had learned that Susan was from the coast of Devon. Did all people there know such details?

After that, it was merely a question of waiting. Old Matt was trundled over in a handcart and put to bed in the kitchen, but it was clear he would not wake soon— and perhaps not at all.

The Delaneys left to go up to the room prepared for them.

Clarissa realized that she would have to return to Broad Street. Foolishly, she didn’t want to leave Hawk, and she didn’t want to leave the center of the action in case some miracle should occur.

But then, after a short interval, the other two servants straggled in to say that no one seemed to have seen a trace of the Frenchwoman, or the invalid officer. Hawk gave the lad and the man their ten guineas anyway, and rubbed a hand over his face.

“She can’t have hidden that thoroughly. It’s not possible.”

“Unless it’s a blind,” Con said, “and she’s not in Brighton at all.”

Hawk considered it, but then shook his head. “She wants her money, and this is the place she appointed. I’m missing something. We all need sleep.”

Clarissa couldn’t imagine how anyone could sleep, but Miss Hurstman rose, a very subdued Miss Hurstman. Clarissa realized that there hadn’t been a word about her elopement. It was a very minor thing.

She turned to Hawk. Minor or not, it seemed strange to leave without something meaningful between them. “Can you sleep?” she asked. Good heavens, it had been only last night that they’d slept together.

It was Lord Vandeimen who answered. “He can sleep through anything when he decides he needs it. We thought it would be a nice nostalgic touch to share quarters before Waterloo. We didn’t realize then what kind of work Hawk really did. Con, Dare, and I couldn’t get a moment’s rest for the coming and going. Hawk, on the other hand, would suddenly stop, lie down, and go to sleep, telling whoever was there to take messages.”

Hawk winced. “Was it as bad as that?”

“Yes.” But then Lord Vandeimen added, “We wouldn’t have missed it, all the same. I hope to God it is Dare, and we can save him.”

Hawk picked up a pen from the table, turning it restlessly in his fingers. “He came to speak to me that last night. He was leaving for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. You two had already gone to your regiments, and I was busy, but Wellington wanted as many officers as possible there to keep up appearances.

“He came into my room and said he wanted to thank me. I asked what for, of course. Probably rather shortly. I was busy, and his gadfly antics in the past weeks hadn’t endeared him to me. He gestured at all the papers in that way he had that made it seem that he took nothing seriously. ‘Oh, for all this, I suppose,’ he said. ‘An excellent education in the complexities of military affairs.’ Then he said that if he lived, he planned to take a seat in Parliament and work to improve army administration.

“I suddenly took him more seriously, and I worried. Men do get a premonition of death. I asked him, but he shrugged and said something about it being reasonable to consider death on the eve of battle. Flippantly, in his usual way. Then he asked me to take care of you, Con, and I realized that most of his gadfly japes had been a deliberate attempt to carry you through the waiting time.”

Con’s mouth was tight with suppressed tears. “But he’s alive. And we’ll find him and make him well again.”

“Yes, we will. I didn’t look after you, Con, but we’ll get Dare back, so he can berate me about it.”

Clarissa couldn’t be cautious or discreet. She went over to Hawk and pulled his head down for a gentle kiss. “Tomorrow is the battle, but I will be by your side.”

He cradled her head for a moment, his eyes telling her what she knew, that there was a great deal to be said but that this was not the time. Then he kissed her back and said, “Sleep well.”

She nodded and left with Miss Hurstman.

She arrived back at Broad Street exhausted from an astonishing few days, but not ready for sleep. She wandered into the front parlor.

To find Althea in the arms of a dashing gentleman.

“Althea!” Clarissa gasped, absurdly shocked.

Althea and the man broke apart, both red-faced and appalled.

Miss Hurstman let out a crack of laughter. “It’s as well I don’t plan a career as a chaperone. I’m clearly a total loss at it. You, sir—who are you, and what are you doing? Oh, forget that. It’s clear what you’re doing.”

The man had struggled to his feet and was pulling his waistcoat down. He was not a young gallant, but he was a fine figure of a man, with short, curly hair, a handsome face, and good broad shoulders. Althea leaped up and stood beside him in a protective posture that Clarissa recognized.

How on earth had Althea got to this point with this man with her none the wiser? She’d never seen him before.

The man tugged on his cravat, then said, “I am extremely sorry. Carried away, you see. But Miss Trist and I have just agreed to marry.”

“Very nice,” said Miss Hurstman. “But who are you?”

“The name’s Verrall,” he said, swallowing. “I do have Miss Trist’s father’s permission.”

Clarissa gaped. This was Althea’s hoary widower?

He stood straighter, chin set. “I thought I was prepared to wait while Althea had her holiday here, but her letters began to worry me.” He turned to Althea. “I hope you don’t mind your father sharing them with me, my dear?”

Althea shook her head, blushing beautifully.

“I did not like to push my suit too strongly, but I became convinced that it would be folly to delay with so many handsome gallants around. So here I am.”

“So here you are,” Miss Hurstman said. “Excellent, but there’s no bed for you here, Mr. Verrall, so off you go. You can return in the morning.”

Mr. Verrall took his leave, not even daring to take a final kiss under Miss Hurstman’s eye. Despite everything that had happened, Clarissa felt like giggling, and she was truly delighted for her friend’s happiness. Incidentals like age didn’t matter. Only trust and love.

But then Althea obviously gathered her wits. “But you, Clarissa. We heard… Maria Vandeimen said…”

Clarissa made a decision. “Oh, that was all a misunderstanding.” She used the excuse Hawk had apparently spread around. “I went to attend Beth Arden’s lying-in.”

“You, an unmarried lady!” Althea gasped.

“I was always somewhat rash, Althea, you know that. Come up to bed.”

She glanced at Miss Hurstman and saw that the woman understood. There was no point in disturbing Althea’s happiness with a crisis she could not help with.

It was dark in the small space, and windowless, but a tight grille in the door let in glimmers from a lamp some distance away. A swaying lamp.

Lord Darius Debenham lay propped up on the narrow bed, watching the two older children play with their food. Exactly that. There was bread here. They’d eaten some, then molded bits into little animals with practiced skill. So few proper toys they’d had.

They spoke in whispers. They always spoke in whispers, probably because Therese Bellaire had punished them if they didn’t.

Therese Bellaire. The whore who had tormented Nicholas for fun. She would have no sweet ending planned. They were to die here, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it except pray.

And keep the children at peace as long as he could.

He gently touched the hair of the one cuddled against him. Therese had said she was Arabel, Nicholas’s child. He’d last seen her as a baby, but in the uncertain light he thought she had Nicholas’s eyes. Dear God, what he must be suffering.

And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to help.

Little Arabel had awakened crying and had called for her mama and papa, but she’d calmed. Lord knows why. He couldn’t think he was a sight to soothe a child. Perhaps it was Delphie and Pierre, who’d hovered, whispering their comforts and their admonitions to be quiet.

So she was quiet, but she stayed close by his side, and the trust pierced him when it was so misplaced. The child might well be stronger than he was. He’d made himself eat some of the food left here, but when had he eaten before that? Food had no savor for him, no importance.

His recent life seemed like pictures glimpsed in darkness. She’d said it had been a year. A year! That he’d been close to death.

He remembered the battle, but not whatever disaster had ended it for him. A bullet in the side and a hoof in the head, she’d said. Certainly he had headaches. He could remember the pain so fierce that he’d welcomed the drug, begged for it.

But had it been a year?

And had he really believed he was another man? He couldn’t think clearly about it all, but he remembered a time when everything had been blank. He’d welcomed the facts she put in his memory, meaningless though they had been. When he’d begun to doubt, there had been the children. If he wasn’t Rowland, they weren’t his. So they weren’t his.

How could he save them?

Did he want to be saved?

He looked at his bony, quivering hand.

He thought of his parents, his friends. He thought of them finding him like this, a weak husk of a man, already shaking with the need of the stuff in the bottle she’d left.

Perhaps he’d be better dead. But he had to stay alive to take care of the children.

He ached for the laudanum, but she’d left only a spoonful, maybe less. A calculated torment. He didn’t need it badly enough yet. She’d given him a lot before she moved him here. Enough for deep dreams, enough for thought. But all he had was in that bottle. Once that was gone, it was gone, and the need would tear him apart. He couldn’t let the children see that.

He would kill himself first. It would be kinder.

If he had the strength.

He looked at the bottle again, could almost smell the bitter liquid through the glass. He started to sweat, belly aching.

No. Not yet.

They needed to escape.

He would have laughed if he’d had the energy. He could hardly walk. He’d checked the space, crawling, sweating, and aching every inch of the way. When he’d tried to stand, his legs had buckled under him. Delphie and Pierre had helped him back to the bed.

The door was solid and locked. If he could smash out the tiny grille, not even Delphie could escape through it. And he’d be hard-pressed to gather the strength to pick up the damn bottle and pull out the stopper!

Delphie scrambled to her feet and came over to him, holding the rough doll he’d made for her one day. It was just sticks and rags, but it had been the best he could do. It was their secret, always carefully hidden.

“Mariette’s arm is broken, Papa,” she whispered in French.

He looked at it as she climbed up beside him. “I can’t fix it now, sweetheart. There’s no need to whisper. She’s gone.”

Delphie looked up at him with huge eyes. “I like to whisper.”

He held her close as weak tears escaped.

Delphie looked at Arabel, then put the doll into her hand. “You can have her for a little while.”

Arabel doubtless didn’t understand French, but she clutched Mariette as if the doll could take her back to her loving home.

Dare leaned his head back and did the only thing he still could. He prayed.

When Clarissa woke the next morning she was thrust abruptly back into the horrific situation. She sat up, wondering where the poor children had spent the night. She looked at the window and realized it was raining. That seemed suitable. This was the day of battle. Presumably at some point Therese Bellaire would tell them where to send the money. The money Clarissa prayed had been coming in through the night.

Then she would tell them where the prisoners were.

If Hawk hadn’t found them beforehand.

Althea stirred and smiled, clearly full of more pleasant thoughts. “Clarissa,” she said, turning sober and sitting up, “would you mind very much if I returned with Mr. Verrall to Bucklestead St. Stephens? He can’t be away long, you see, because of the children. And… and I want to go home. I’m very sorry, but I don’t like Brighton very much.”

Clarissa took her hands. “Of course you must go. But all the way with only Mr. Verrall?”

She was teasing somewhat, but Althea flushed. “I’m sure he can be trusted.”

“Ah,” said Clarissa, “but a chaperone is not to keep the wolves away. It’s to keep the ladies from leaping into the jaws of the wolves.”

“Clarissa!” gasped Althea. But then she colored even more. “I know what you mean. But,” she added, “it’s not like that with Mr. Verrall and me yet, and I’m sure I can trust him to be a gentleman.”

Clarissa smiled and kissed her. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy, no matter what happens.”

They both climbed out of bed, and Althea asked, “What of you and the major? It all seemed so strange.”

Clarissa didn’t want to lie. She looked at Althea and said, “I’m not sure you want to know.”

Althea blushed again. “Perhaps I don’t. But are you going to marry him?”

“Oh, yes,” Clarissa said. “I’m sure I am.”

As soon as she was dressed, she hurried downstairs and told Miss Hurstman about Althea’s plans, and that she herself was going over to the Vandeimens’ house. She was braced for battle, but Miss Hurstman nodded. “I’ll come over myself when Althea’s on her way. Take the footman, though. Just in case.”

So Clarissa was escorted all the way, astonished that she had never considered that she might be in danger. After all, she was the one who was technically in possession of Therese Bellaire’s money.

She arrived without incident, however, to find that wealth had poured in, but that nothing new had turned up to tell them where the hostages were.

There was a heavy sack of jewels. Some were Blanche’s theatrical pieces, but most were real. A great deal of it had come from Lord Arden, including, originally, what Blanche had referred to as Lucien’s necklace, which was a ridiculously gaudy piece with huge stones in many colors; it had to be worth thousands.

Clarissa smiled at the friendly, understanding love that had given the White Dove something she would never wear but something that would amuse her, and keep her if she ever fell into need.

A strongbox had come from someone in London, and more from Lord Middlethorpe in Hampshire. Clarissa looked at it all, remembering with some satisfaction that all these people would be paid back from her money.

But then she realized that would mean that Hawk would lose Hawkinville. She could bear that, but she ached for the poor people there, and she knew the pain must be ten times worse for him. Ignoring the presence of all the others, she went to where he sat, clearly furious at himself for not being able to solve the problems singlehandedly. Jetta was curled at his feet. Tentatively, Clarissa put her hand on his shoulder.

He started and looked up, then covered her hand with his. “Where do we stand?”

She smiled. She too wanted this clear. “On our own two feet? I suppose that should be four. I meant what I said about using my money to pay everyone back. Even if they resist.”

He turned to face her. “I know. It’s all right.”

“What about Hawkinville?”

“That’s not all right, but if it’s the price, I’ll pay it.”

She raised his hand and kissed it. “If you happen to have a ring, I’d be proud to wear it.”

He stood, smiling, and produced it, slid it on her finger.

She smiled back at him, not teary at all, but firmly happy that things were right. About this, at least.

“And now,” she said, “please solve all our problems, sir.”

He groaned, but said, “I don’t expect always to do miracles, but in this case I feel that I’ve missed something.”

She sat down beside him. “What if I go over it? She snatched the baby from the Court and brought it to Brighton. Lord Darius and the children had already been brought here by Old Matt. I assume he hasn’t said anything?”

“He’s dead, love. The alcohol killed him.”

It sent a chill through her. One death could so easily be followed by more.

He took her hand. “She might not have meant to kill him.”

“But she didn’t care, did she?”

“No,” he admitted. “She didn’t care.”

She pulled her mind straight and tried to help him again. “She sent a note…”

But he said, “Wait! Smuggler’s brandy! Smugglers,” he said to the room at large. “Of course! She’s linked up with smugglers. She’s on a boat.”

The room suddenly buzzed, and Susan said, “I know smuggling.”

“Do you know any smugglers here?” Hawk asked.

She pulled a face. “No, but my father’s name will count.”

Even more interesting, thought Clarissa. But she was fizzing with excitement, too.

“Go out and see what you can learn. Con—”

“Of course I’m going with her.”

The two men shared a look, then laughed.

The Amleighs left and Hawk paced. “She’s on a boat, ready to take off for the Continent as soon as she has the money. I’ll go odds she has her hostages on the boat too. No, not on the same boat—on another boat. We need to check the fishermen as well as the smugglers. They’re not always the same thing. Van? And see what there is that we can hire. We need to be on the water.”

Lord Vandeimen left, and Hawk looked around the room. “I wonder if anyone but Susan knows how to handle a boat.”

“She’s a smuggler?” Clarissa asked tentatively.

“Just closely connected,” said Hawk with a smile that was partly excitement. “We’ve cut through her lines at last. We’ll have this all tight by evening.”

Time returned to creeping in halting steps. Clarissa kept thinking of the children, wondering if they were still drugged—which would be dangerous—or frightened, or hungry. If they were on a boat, were they safe or could they fall overboard and drown? Were there rats?

She knew it must be much worse for the Delaneys, but they seemed to have found a stoic calm as they waited.

Con and Susan returned first. “I made contact eventually,” Susan said. “I had to persuade Con to go away. He has far too much of a military look about him. I put the word out and offered a reward, but no one would say anything directly. They’ll send word here if there’s anything.”

“Can you sail a fishing boat?” Hawk asked.

“Of course,” she said, as if it were the most common thing.

“We weren’t all raised by the sea, you know. With any luck, Van has found us a boat. We need to be on the water this evening when the payment is made.” He looked out of the window at the sea, choppy and gray on this miserable day. There were plenty of boats bobbing at anchor. Clarissa wondered which ones held the villain and the hostages, and what would happen if they searched them all.

Disaster, probably.

Then Lord Vandeimen returned. “The Pretty Anna,” he said, eyes bright. “I can point it out.”

“We’ve hired it?” Hawk asked.

“No. We’ve hired the Seahorse. The Pretty Anna is probably where Dare and the children are. The young man who owns it has been acting strange recently. Not going out fishing on good days, disappearing now and then. Talking about traveling. Yesterday he talked to one man about selling the Pretty Anna to him.”

“Show us.”

Everyone crowded to the window, and Lord Vandeimen pointed out one small boat among many, but that one had the dull glimmer of a lantern, showing that someone must be on board.

“Can we go?” Eleanor asked. “Now?”

But there was a new knock on the door. There seemed to be a confusion of footsteps, then the door opened. “A message for Mr. Delaney,” the footman announced, the paper on a silver tray.

Nicholas strode over to take it.

“And,” intoned the footman, “there’s a man at the back door asking after Lady Amleigh.”

Susan rushed out, pushing the footman out of the way. Someone shut the door on him. Everyone looked at Nicholas.

“She must have caught wind of our tack. It’s the Pretty Anna, now, with whatever valuables we have. No promise of telling us where the hostages are.” He looked at Clarissa. “You and I are to take the ransom, dressed in only the lightest clothes.”

“Clarissa?” said Hawk. “That’s not acceptable.”

“I agree,” said Nicholas. “I’ll go alone.”

“No. If she wants me, I have to go. We can’t risk the children.”

“She probably has no intention of telling us where they are,” Hawk said. “And with luck, we can find them with the other boat.”

“Luck is not acceptable.”

“Use some sense! She’ll probably take you as a new hostage.”

“I’d die first,” said Nicholas.

“So you’d be dead. What good would that be?”

Silence crackled.

Clarissa put her hands on his arm. “Hawk, I have to go. With or without your blessing.”

He glared at her, but then brought himself under control. “All right. I go with Susan. I’m a strong swimmer. If we can close, I can swim over.”

“You’ll need weapons,” Nicholas said.

Hawk’s knife appeared in his hand.

Nicholas said, “I have something similar upstairs. But Clarissa could do with one too.”

Clarissa shook her head. “I can’t use a knife on someone.”

“You can if you have to.”

“I’ll get something from the kitchen,” Maria said and hurried away.

Susan came in, bright with excitement. “We’ve got her! She’s paying Sam Pilcher to take her to France. He has a fast cutter he claims can outrun the navy. He was taken with her charms, but he’s beginning to wonder.”

“Is she on the boat now?” Nicholas asked.

“No. He’s just been sent word that she’ll be there in the hour. But,” she added, “he swears there’s no one else on the boat now. He’ll take someone of ours out there to capture her.”

“I’ll go,” said Lord Vandeimen, clearly itching for action.

“And I,” said Major Beaumont.

Susan went out with them to introduce them. Clarissa heard her instructing them not to act like military men.

“So,” said Hawk, “she has them on the Pretty Anna. She’ll plan to take the money there, then probably be rowed over to the other ship. Susan can block that as soon as we have the hostages. I don’t think it will be so easy.”

“She’ll take Arabel with her,” Nicholas suggested.

“It’s possible. You have to kill her, you know. She’s a viper. You can’t take her to court, and if she gets away you’ll never know when she’ll be back, more vengeful than before.”

“You can’t doubt I will if necessary.”

Maria came back with a handful of knives. “Cook’s in tears.”

The note specified that Clarissa was to wear only a dress—no spencer or cloak. Nicholas was to be in breeches and shirt. Few places to hide weapons. No place to hide a pistol.

Soon Clarissa had a narrow knife tucked down her gown in front of her corset, carefully pinned in place in a kind of sheath. The heavy linen protected her from the blade, but she could feel it, hard and unnatural.

“I still don’t think I could use it,” she said to Hawk, who had put it there without a hint that he found it arousing.

He looked at her, all officer. “Don’t let her hurt you without a fight. Go for the face. She’s vain. For the eyes with your fingers and nails. If this works properly, however, I’ll be there to take care of you.”

He kissed her fiercely and left with Con and Susan for the Seahorse. Clarissa saw Jetta streak to catch up and hoped the cat truly was descended from an ancient Chinese warrior line.

Nicholas had two knives tucked away. They gathered the money and jewels into a heavy leather bag.

“We’ll delay a little,” he said to Clarissa. “Give the others time. But we can’t wait too long. All right?”

Clarissa felt the electricity of fear, and wasn’t sure if it was bad or good. “Yes. I suffer terribly from impatience, though. I want to get on with it.”

“Let’s go, then.” He went to kiss his wife.

As he swept Clarissa out of the room, however, she saw the expression on Eleanor Delaney’s face. She looked as if she feared that she would never see her husband again.

Chapter Thirty

The rain was a weary drizzle, soft but chill. They crossed the deserted Parade to the seafront, then headed right. “Now that we’re out here there’s no need to hurry. She’s probably watching through a telescope, and if she sees we’re doing the right things, it will be all right.”

Clarissa scanned the choppy gray sea for Hawk and Susan, but there were so many boats, and she couldn’t even tell if most of them were moving or not.

“Why did Eleanor look so very frightened?” she asked. “Did she think we’re to be murdered?” She was proud of her level tone.

Nicholas looked at her. “It’s old history. I got on a boat with Therese Bellaire once before and she didn’t see me for six months. She thought I was dead. We’re on a basis of truth, aren’t we? The truth is that Therese might want me dead, but she certainly wants to taunt me, to finally prove that she can win. I don’t think she wishes you harm. I think she wants a witness, and she’ll be as unpleasant, as lewd, as she can be. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Who can say? If I’d had the sense not to dally with her so many years ago… Hawk was right, though. If necessary, don’t hesitate to hurt her.”

He stopped and looked out to sea. “That’s the Pretty Anna, and there’s our boat.” He pointed to a dinghy tied up at a wooden jetty.

“All details taken care of,” she said, and they hurried in that direction.

Clarissa shivered. In part it was because the rain had soaked her light dress, and the breeze was cold. It was also because of that waiting boat, because they were walking a path created by the evil Madame Bellaire.

She scanned the water again and saw no other boat swooping in. Of course it was too soon.

Their footsteps rattled on the uneven planks of the jetty, and then they were above the boat, a rough wooden ladder leading down.

“Can you manage it?” Nicholas asked.

“I’ll have to, won’t I?”

“I’ll go first,” he said, and climbed nimbly down with the bag of loot.

Clarissa took a deep breath and eased herself over onto the ladder. “Give thanks,” she said, “that Miss Mallory’s School for Ladies believes in physical exercise and womanly strength.”

The ladder was rough beneath her hands, and the wind swirled, seeming to snatch at her, making her skirts snag on rough edges. She went steadily down, letting the fine cotton rip if it had to. Another dress ruined.

At the bottom, Nicholas gripped her waist and eased her into the swaying, bouncing boat. He settled her on one bench, then took the other and swung the oars over the water.

She clung to the sides, feeling sure it would tip with the next wave. “I’ve never been in a boat before.”

“There are worse things,” he said with a smile, and started to pull.

“I can’t swim, either.” The boat bucked, and she held on tighter, determined not to scream. Were they making any progress against this rough water? And how was everyone else? The children. Lord Darius. Hawk.

From above, the sea had seemed choppy. From down here, the waves seemed huge.

“Hawk said he would swim in this?”

“He’ll be all right,” Nicholas said, rowing in an easy rhythm. “He said he is a strong swimmer, and I don’t think he’s the boastful type.”

A wave slapped and drenched her hand. They were getting nearer to the Pretty Anna, but not quickly enough for her. A viper waited, and perhaps a test of courage, but it looked so much more solid than this swaying, bouncing little boat.

Nicholas’s drenched shirt clung to his body, a body, she noted, as well made as Hawk’s. It pleased her, but it didn’t excite her. Please, God, let Hawk be safe. Please, God, let them save the children and Lord Darius.

Please, if that’s what it takes, let the Frenchwoman have the jewels and money, and go. Go far, far away. She knew Hawk wanted her stopped, but Clarissa was with Nicholas in simply wanting this over.

“Do you see anything?” Nicholas asked.

Clarissa snapped out of her thoughts and looked at the boat, twenty feet away. “No sign of anyone.”

“Keep looking.”

She scanned the simple boat with the small shedlike room and a tall mast. A lantern bobbed, but the vessel looked completely empty. If Nicholas was right that Therese Bellaire wanted to gloat, she had to be there somewhere.

Their boat jarred against the Anna, and Nicholas tied it up close to a ladder. “I’d better go first,” he said.

“No,” said a familiar French voice. “The girl first, with the ransom.”

Clarissa started to shake and tried desperately not to. After a shared look with Nicholas, she put the satchel across her chest and gripped the ladder. It was harder going up than down. She felt heavy, and her hands were aching with cold. She made it, though, and scrambled over the top to tumble awkwardly onto the deck.

She struggled to her feet. “I’m here,” she said, wishing her voice didn’t shake. “With the money.”

She heard a sound and whirled, but it was only Nicholas beside her.

“Therese?” he said, sounding completely at ease. “At your service, as always.”

A woman ducked out of the small covered area. She wore an encompassing cloak, but Clarissa could hardly believe it was Mrs. Rowland. The skin was clear, and even glowing in the chilly air. The eyes seemed huge, the lips full and red. In a chilling way, she was very beautiful.

“Nicky, darling,” she said. And he’d been right. She was gloating. Clarissa fought a desperate battle not to look around for the Seahorse, which carried Susan and Hawk.

The woman stepped a little closer, and a man emerged behind her. A handsome man. Young, but tall and strong, and with a pistol in his hand.

“These the ones, then?” he said in a local accent. “The ones who stole your money?”

“Yes,” she purred. “But they have returned part of it, so we need not be too harsh. Come forward, my dear, and give me the bag.”

Clarissa shrugged it off so it was in her hands, then walked forward. She suspected what was going to happen here. When she got close, the man would grab her and Nicholas would be at the woman’s mercy.

She dropped the bag on the deck a few feet from the Frenchwoman’s feet.

The dark eyes narrowed. “Bring it to me.”

“Why? That’s it. Take it and go.”

“If you don’t bring it to me, I will not tell you where the children are, where Lord Darius Debenham is.”

“Do I care?” Clarissa asked, drawing on experience of the most silly, heartless schoolgirls she’d ever known. “You’re taking my money. You say it’s yours, but it’s mine, and you’re stealing it.”

The young man started to speak, and Therese hissed at him to be silent. “It is mine. I worked hard for that money, and you did nothing. Nothing! You didn’t even kill Deveril. Now pick up that bag and bring it to me.”

“Make me.”

Therese smiled. “Samuel, shoot the man.”

The young man blanched, but his pistol rose.

Clarissa snatched up the bag from the deck.

“That’s better,” said Therese. “You see, it does not pay to fight me. You cannot win. Bring it here.”

Clarissa walked forward as slowly as she dared, willing Hawk to appear. She was about to put the bag into the Frenchwoman’s hand, when the man said, “Here! What’re you doing?”

Clarissa turned to see that Nicholas had unfastened the flap in his breeches and was undoing the drawers beneath. “This is what you want, Therese, isn’t it?”

The Frenchwoman seemed transfixed. Not by the sight—Clarissa could tell that—but by satisfaction. “Yes. Strip.”

Nicholas continued to unfasten his clothing, slowly, seductively. Clarissa realized she was gaping and looked quickly at the young man. He was red-faced. He suddenly jerked the pistol up and aimed it.

Clarissa swung the heavy bag and knocked the weapon flying into the sea.

Samuel howled and rushed at her. She dodged, fell, and quite by accident slipped behind Madame Bellaire so he ran into her.

He howled again, staggering back. Clarissa saw blood.

“Oaf!” the Frenchwoman spat, a bloodstained knife in her hand.

Nicholas had a knife out too, and Clarissa saw a boat sweeping close, sails full. It looked as if it was going to crash into them. Not with the children surely here!

She scrambled up and ran for the shed, but she was grabbed and hauled back. She saw the knife in Madame Bellaire’s hand and knew she should be terrified. She thought she heard someone bellow, “Clarissa!”

Hawk.

Go for the eyes. She scratched the woman’s face as hard as she could.

The Frenchwoman shrieked and Clarissa was free. She ran, but tripped over the bag of treasure.

Then Madame Bellaire was coming at her again, livid scratches on her face, a face ugly with furious hate.

Nicholas was running forward, but the man Samuel, blood still streaming down his side, threw himself at him.

It all seemed slow, but Clarissa did the only thing she could. She threw the bag.

It hit the woman, staggering her, then fell, spilling gold and jewels.

Madame Bellaire froze for a moment, staring at it. Clarissa fumbled for her knife, catching it on every edge, it seemed, as she struggled to get it free.

Then something jarred the boat, and Hawk landed on the deck. He grabbed the woman’s arm, but she twisted, knife lunging. A black shape flew through the air at her face, and she screamed.

Hawk tore the spitting cat away, trapped the woman in his arms, turned her…

And threw her, suddenly limp, over the side.

When he turned back, the knife was gone.

It wasn’t quiet. The wind rattled the assorted bits of the boat, and the waves slapped hard at the sides. But the people were silent, even the young man, Samuel, who’d been fighting Nicholas in the cause of the woman who had stabbed him.

“What have you done with her?” he cried, and staggered over to look out at the sea.

Hawk and Nicholas looked at each other.

“She was beautiful to me once,” Nicholas said, fastening his clothing. “But thank you.”

Samuel was weeping.

But then a faint voice cried, “Papa!” and Nicholas ran for the shed that must contain the steps.

Clarissa watched in a daze as the Amleighs climbed over the side of the boat. They must have rowed over. Susan began to do things to the boat, but her husband raced below.

Clarissa looked at Hawk.

He said, “Yes, I killed her. I’m sorry if that upsets you.”

“I’ll grow accustomed.”

He pulled her into his arms. “God, love, I pray not!”

They clung together as things happened around them, and then Nicholas was on deck, a wan child clinging to him, and the boat was under one sail and moving carefully toward the jetty.

Con brought the other two children up, and they huddled close to each other, but Clarissa separated from Hawk and sat down to hold out her arms. After a moment they came forward. Hawk sat beside her, and soon Delphie was in her lap, Pierre in Hawk’s.

“Mrs. Rowland,” Hawk said gently to them in French, and their eyes dilated. “She is dead. She will not return.”

The two children looked at each other, and the boy said, “Papa?”

Clarissa bit her lip.

“Your papa will be fine,” Hawk said, but he gave Clarissa a helpless look.

She mouthed, “Perhaps we can take care of them?”

He smiled and nodded.

The boat bumped gently against the dock, and Hawk and Clarissa scrambled off, each with a child. She, for one, was deeply grateful for a solid surface beneath her feet. Eleanor was already there, and Nicholas put Arabel into her shaking arms, then held her close. Blanche wrapped a cloak around them both.

Major Beaumont and Lord Vandeimen ran up and helped carry Lord Darius gently off the boat. Though it took three men, it was clear that he weighed little.

The children pulled away from Clarissa and Hawk’s arms and pressed close, whispering, “Papa, Papa,” and he touched them with his trembling hands, telling them in French that it would be all right. That all these people were their friends. That he would make sure they were all right.

A black cat wound around from Hawk to child to child to child…

And Clarissa wept. She wept for love, and courage, and trust, and hope. She wept for weariness, cold, and death. She wept in Hawk’s arms as he led her away from horror, back to the Vandeimens’ house.

And the Duke and Duchess of Yeovil were there.

At the sight of her son, the duchess half fainted, and then crawled to him. The duke was pale and trembling, but he helped her to sit up, and gripped his son’s hand. Delphie and Pierre were tucked close to Lord Darius, as if they’d never leave. Clarissa didn’t think they would accept any other home, or that Lord Darius would easily let them go.

She heard him struggle to say, “It’s opium, Mama. I’m addicted to opium,” and his mother say that it was all right, that he was home now, and she would make sure it was all right.

Clarissa turned to Hawk. “We’re home now,” she said. “And I believe it will be all right.”

“You have my solemn vow on it, my love. Marry me, Falcon.”

“Of course.”

Heaven suddenly seemed possible, but it was rather alarming, even so, when a knock on the door produced the Duke and Duchess of Belcraven. Slim, cool, and elegant, the duke raised his quizzing glass and looked at her. “I hear alarming things of you, young lady.”

Clarissa couldn’t help it. She curtsied and said, “Probably all true. I’m delighted you’re here, your grace. You’ll make it easy for me to marry Major Hawkinville as soon as possible.”

“I gather that is a necessity.”

“Completely,” she said. The duchess laughed and came over to hug her.

The duke’s lips twitched, and he looked around. “From the general tone, I assume the valuable items I’ve brought are not necessary. The Rogues rule the day again?”

“And the Georges,” said Hawk, stepping forward to bow. “You doubtless have misgivings, your grace, but I hope you will consent to our marriage. I will do my best to make her happy.”

“As I will do my best to ensure that you do, sir. And my best is very formidable indeed. In moments, I wish to see you to discuss the marriage contract.” He then went over to talk to the Yeovils and congratulate them on the return of their son.

The legal discussion did not take place in moments. A doctor was summoned for Lord Darius, and rooms were arranged for the Yeovils at the Old Ship. Once the doctor assured the duke and duchess that it was safe, they all left, Lord Darius on a stretcher, two waifs attached. Clarissa recognized that Delphie and Pierre had chosen their own home. Surprisingly, Jetta had too. She leaped onto the stretcher but eyed the children, as if they were her new charges.

All who had been on the water were damp and went to change. Clarissa hated to leave, even for a moment, but Hawk escorted her back to Broad Street for a dry dress, and then brought her and a relieved Miss Hurstman back. Althea and Mr. Verrall had apparently only just left. Clarissa chose to wear the cream-and-rust dress she had worn that first day on the Steyne, the one with the deep fringe. She grinned at Hawk, and raised the skirt a little to show more of her striped stockings.

He shook his head, but his eyes sent another message.

She could wait. Now all was certain, she could wait to lie again with him naked in bed.

Back at the Vandeimens’ they found everyone in the riotous high spirits of relief. The ladies were adorning themselves with the jewelry, real and fake. Clarissa acquired a tiara, and Miss Hurstman didn’t complain when Nicholas pinned a gaudy brooch onto her plain gown. She had Arabel in her arms by then, and the child, beginning to blossom again, reached for it with delight.

Nicholas laughed and gave his daughter Blanche’s necklace, which met with her rapturous approval. Clarissa noted a shadow on him at times, however, and remembered him saying, “She was beautiful to me, once.”

She knew the death would not rest easily upon Hawk, either, though it could not be the first time he had killed. It was his way, she was sure, to deal with such problems by himself, but in time it would be her blessing to share them with him.

Then they all sat at the dinner table, with candlelight shooting fire from thousands of pounds’ worth of jewelry.

Hawk rose again, however, and raised his glass. “To friends,” he said, “old and new. May we never fail.”

Everyone drank the toast, and then Nicholas stood to propose one. “To the Rogues, who in the end, at least, never fail. Dare will be whole again.”

Con rose to add to it. “With the help of the Georges.” He grinned. “An interesting alliance, wouldn’t you say?”

“The world is doubtless tipping on its axis,” murmured the Duke of Belcraven, but with a smile, and he drank the toast along with everyone else. He even proposed one himself—a slightly naughty one about marriage, which made his duchess blush.

By the time the dinner was over, the duke remarked that no one was in a state to draw up legal agreements, and made an appointment the next day at the Old Ship, where he, too, had rooms. Clarissa insisted on being present. He gave in in the end, but insisted on seeing Clarissa and Miss Hurstman back to Broad Street.

“We’ll have no more impropriety, Clarissa,” he said on leaving her there.

She just smiled. “I will try, your grace, though I’m not sure it is in my nature.”

She slept deeply and late, awakening to an extraordinary sense of calm—like the calm of the sea on a perfect day, all the power of the oceans still beneath it. She breakfasted with Miss Hurstman and told her the details she’d missed. Miss Hurstman was astonished to find that she’d been regarded as a warder, but rather amused that she’d been thought to be part of a wicked plot.

Hawk came to escort Clarissa to the Old Ship. They strolled along the Marine Parade, by a calm sea touched to blue by the sky and sunshine.

“Do you think summer is here at last?” she asked.

“Carpe diem,” he replied with a grin.

She smiled back. “I promised the duke to try to behave. We can marry soon, can’t we?”

“Today would not be too soon for me, love.”

“Or me. But, Hawk, I would like a village wedding like Maria had. Is it possible?”

He took her hand and kissed it. “I would give you the stars if I could. A village wedding is surely possible.”

They entered the hotel in perfect harmony, but Clarissa found that she had to fight to give him enough for his father to fully restore Gaspard Hall.

“Think of it from my point of view,” she said. “I want our home to ourselves. If we give your father enough money, perhaps he’ll leave immediately to take up the work.”

“An excellent point. Hawkinville,” said the duke, “consider it settled. In strict legality, all the money should go to your father. If you present difficulties, I may make it so.”

Hawk rolled his eyes, but surrendered. “The rest of the money is Clarissa’s, however. I want it retained under her control. Once free of debt, the manor will provide for us.”

Clarissa didn’t argue except to say, “You know I will spend some on our comforts and pleasures. But I do want to use most of it for charity. It has a dark history. I thought perhaps a charity school in Slade’s house.”

Hawk laughed. “A wonderful idea! He’ll doubtless have to sell it to us cheap as well.”

“So?” Clarissa asked Hawk. “When do we marry? I am ready to fly.”

“It is for the lady to say, but the license will take a few days.”

“A week, then, if all can be arranged.”

He stood, bringing her to her feet. “It will all be arranged with Hawkish perfection. To do it, though, and to retain my sanity, I’m going to leave.” Ignoring the duke, he kissed her. “We have no need to seize the day, love. We have the promise of perfect tomorrows.”

“Alliteration?” she murmured, and he winced.

Hawk walked out of the dark church into sunshine, and into a shower of grain and flowers thrown by his boisterous villagers. Everyone smiled at a wedding, but he could see that these smiles reflected delight of an extraordinary degree. Not only was the Young Squire— as they’d decided to call him—married, but the Old Squire had already gone. His father had leased a house near to Gaspard Hall and left without a hint of regret.

The village was free of Slade, too, and the threat they’d all sensed from him. His house would soon be Clarissa’s to do with as she wished. The most important repairs to the cottages were already in hand, which was also providing necessary work.

He looked at his bride, glowing with her own perfect happiness as the villagers welcomed her as one of their own. He said a prayer to be worthy, to be able to create the happiness neither of them had ever truly known. It should be easy. She’d had her modiste recreate the simple cream dress that had marked their adventures, and she was wearing a similar hat and fichu. He could hardly wait to strip it off her, in the manor, which sat contentedly waiting, open-windowed in the sun.

He turned from that—it would wait—to accept the congratulations of Van and Con. Susan was definitely with child, and now Maria had hope. It was possible that Clarissa would also have a child in nine months. A new threesome to run wild around the area.

Unable to bear to be apart, he retrieved his bride from among beaming villagers and drew her in for a kiss.

“Give thanks,” he said, wondering how soon he could sweep her laughing into his arms and carry her upstairs to a bed covered with smooth sheets fresh from hanging in the sun. “We have hope of heaven.”

“Alliteration!” Clarissa pointed out, with a twinkle in her eye that told him her thoughts were perfectly in accord with his.

Enough! He picked her up and spun her around and around. Then, “Enjoy the feast!” he called, and ran for their home.