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He sounded…gentle. Almost sympathetic. And stern, as if he did not approve of the dowager’s treatment of her.

“I am not used to holding a woman such,” he murmured in her ear. “I generally prefer a different sort of intimacy, don’t you?”

She said nothing, afraid to speak, afraid that she would try to speak and discover she had no voice.

“I won’t harm you,” he murmured, his lips touching her ear.

Her eyes fell on his gun, still in his right hand. It looked angry and dangerous, and it was resting against her thigh.

“We all have our armor,” he whispered, and he moved, shifted, really, and suddenly his free hand was at her chin. One finger lightly traced her lips, and then he leaned down and kissed her.

Grace stared in shock as he pulled back, smiling gently down at her.

“That was far too short,” he said. “Pity.” He stepped back, took her hand, and brushed another kiss on her knuckles. “Another time, perhaps,” he murmured.

But he did not let go of her hand. Even as the dowager emerged from the carriage, he kept her fingers in his, his thumb rubbing lightly across her skin.

She was being seduced. She could barely think—she could barely breathe—but this, she knew. In a few minutes they would part ways, and he would have done nothing more than kiss her, and she would be forever changed.

The dowager stepped in front of them, and if she cared that the highwayman was caressing her companion, she did not speak of it. Instead, she held forth a small object. “Please,” she implored him. “Take this.”

He released Grace’s hand, his fingers trailing reluctantly across her skin. As he reached out, Grace realized that the dowager was holding a miniature painting. It was of her long-dead second son.

Grace knew that miniature. The dowager carried it with her everywhere.

“Do you know this man?” the dowager whispered.

The highwayman looked at the tiny painting and shook his head.

“Look closer.”

But he just shook his head again, trying to return it to the dowager.

“Might be worth something,” one of his companions said.

He shook his head and gazed intently at the dowager’s face. “It will never be as valuable to me as it is to you.”

“No!” the dowager cried out, and she shoved the miniature toward him. “Look! I beg of you, look! His eyes. His chin. His mouth. They are yours.”

Grace sucked in her breath.

“I am sorry,” the highwayman said gently. “You are mistaken.”

But she would not be dissuaded. “His voice is your voice,” she insisted. “Your tone, your humor. I know it. I know it as I know how to breathe. He was my son. My son.”

“Ma’am,” Grace interceded, placing a motherly arm around her. The dowager would not normally have allowed such an intimacy, but there was nothing normal about the dowager this evening. “Ma’am, it is dark. He is wearing a mask. It cannot be he.”

“Of course it’s not he,” she snapped, pushing Grace violently away. She rushed forward, and Grace nearly fell with terror as every man steadied his weapon.

“Don’t hurt her!” she cried out, but her plea was unnecessary. The dowager had already grabbed the highwayman’s free hand and was clutching it as if he was her only means of salvation.

“This is my son,” she said, her trembling fingers holding forth the miniature. “His name was John Cavendish, and he died twenty-nine years ago. He had brown hair, and blue eyes, and a birthmark on his shoulder.” She swallowed convulsively, and her voice fell to a whisper. “He adored music, and he could not eat strawberries. And he could…he could…”

The dowager’s voice broke, but no one spoke. The air was thick and tense with silence, every eye on the old woman until she finally got out, her voice barely a whisper, “He could make anyone laugh.”

And then, in an acknowledgment Grace could never have imagined, the dowager turned to her and added, “Even me.”

The moment stood suspended in time, pure, silent, and heavy. No one spoke. Grace wasn’t even sure if anyone breathed.