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T he swell stood out among the usual patrons of the Thistle like a guinea on the muck pile.

Still, there was not a man among those dregs of humanity who was willing to take a chance at him, even though there might be a fat purse for the taking; not with Abel Cole sitting beside him.

To the denizens of the Thistle a slow suicide on blue ruin was infinitely preferable to a quick end at Abel’s brawny hands.

So they did their best to ignore Abel and his guest even as they listened intently.

“I tell yer, she ain’t been about fer days,” Abel said, smashing his fist against the table “An’ them Gypsy people o’ theirs don’t talk ter nobody, even when I flashed th’ ready an’ arsked fer me fortune, like yer tole me.

Scum gives me th’ eye like t’was me who’s th’ dirt; an’ shows me th’ sharp side o’ ‘is blade, when I arsked agin. I’m tellin’ yer, it ‘urt bad, it did, ter walk away when I wanted ‘is teeth.”

“At least you have some semblance of brains,” Ropwell said impatiently. “Stir them up and we will never get the girl. I’m beginning to believe we may have to take her from the house itself.”

“Too dangerous,” Abel advised. “What wiv th’ Gypsies always about. Bide awhile, I’d say. Got ter come out sometime, she does.”

Time, however, was a commodity that was rapidly running out for Ropwell.

The duns were already banging at his doors.

Unless the Wodesby chit located his jewels soon, he was bound for Fleet or worse.

Moreover, his lordship had the distinct feeling that Abel would not take kindly to an offer of vowels as promise of future payment.

“Well, keep your eyes open for your chance,” Ropwell said, letting the last of the cheap gin burn its path down his throat as a vague plan took form.

Ironically, his only other hope lay in Lord Brand’s hands and that gentleman had shown no sign thus far of fulfilling the terms of his wager before it came to a forfeit.

If Brand could somehow be prodded, then perhaps he could remain afloat until the Wodesby chit was forced to find the jewels for him.

. . .

Lawrence Timmons frowned as the green gown slithered over his nephew’s head. “Why is this necessary, Adam?” he said, eyeing the younger man with concern, “especially tonight. If you would just wait for tomorrow, I would be glad to go with you to Gutmacher’s Hall of Wonders.”

“It has to be now, Uncle Lawrie,” Adam explained, tweaking the false bodice into place.

“The closer we draw to the final date, the more vigilant the false Professor Gutmacher will become. Besides, unless I make my effort soon, I might never be able to show my face at White’s again.

Rumor has it that I will be the loser without an effort because I have come to believe in witchcraft. ”

“But you have,” Lawrence noted. “Surely you can cease this Inquisition of yours, now that you have confirmed that the phenomenon exists.”

“To the contrary, Uncle,” Adam said, placing the wig upon his head. “‘Tis all the more important now to show up the charlatans. With so much falsehood abroad, how can anyone determine the truth? I have never forfeited an honest wager in my life; I am not about to do so now.”

“At least wait until I can go with you,” Lawrence said, his tones just short of a plea.

Nothing good would come of this, not when Adam was acting with such uncharacteristic recklessness.

Although Brand’s staff was absolutely trustworthy, there was no telling if the counterfeit professor’s minions were still on the watch.

Changing into costume in less than absolute secrecy could well be a disastrous error.

“You may go on to Wodesby House in all good conscience, Uncle Lawrie,” Adam said, thoughtfully selecting a patch from a box. Supposedly, shape and placement supplied a meaning. Which one signified a heart that was frozen? “I wish you all the luck in the world in your interview with Wodesby.”

“I would speak to him on your behalf, if you would allow it,” Lawrence proposed.

“You will not!” Adam thundered, the patches scattering upon the carpet in a black flurry. “You might well ruin your own chances to win Wodesby’s favor. It would be folly to believe that he would countenance a match with an Outsider like me.”

“I, too, am an ‘Outsider,’ as you call it,” Lawrence pointed out.

“However, the mare that you want is already past brooding.” Adam gave a humorless laugh. “The Mage of all England might well be content to let her graze on another man’s pasture.”

“You will cease to refer to Adrienne in coarse terms.” Lawrence drew himself up sternly. “If I did not know that you were speaking out of frustration, I would box your ears, m’boy, despite your age.”

“I do apologize, Uncle Lawrie,” Adam said, shamefaced as a child caught with his fingers in the jam pot. He fussed with the folds of the dress and avoided his uncle’s eyes. “My conjuring skills have deserted me, indeed, if I cannot even hide my feelings.”

But Lawrence would not be mollified. “For the past two days you have been acting more the child than the man grown. And know you this, Adam. I am not going to ask Damien for Adrienne’s hand. I am doing him the courtesy of informing him that I intend to marry his mother, will he, nil he.”

“He may turn you into a frog,” Adam warned, making a paltry attempt at humor.

“Then his mother assures me that she will be delighted to share my lily-pond,” Lawrence declared with a confident smile that faded at his nephew’s expression of utter dejection.

“When I was young, Adam, I hesitated and lost the one woman that I ever loved. Life offers very few second chances, boy; remember that. Now do me the favor of postponing your confrontation with Bob Taylor until the morrow. Or if you are adamant, I shall send a footman to Wodesby and tell him that I will be delayed, and we will face the erstwhile Herr Gutmacher together.”

“Nonsense, all is arranged,” Adam said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “You had given your notice as my abigail and I will do well enough without one, I assure you.”

Though there was a smile on his nephew’s lips, Lawrence saw shadows of long-ago in Adam’s eyes.

The man’s look of bewildered loss, the determination to hide the traces of dejection were much the same as the boy’s had been all those years before.

But Lawrence could no longer put his arm around Adam and pull him close, or reassure him.

Already, the proscribed boundaries of a gentleman’s private business had been breached. He dared trespass no further.

“Go on and give my felicitations to your lady.” Adam said, setting the wig upon his head and taking up a lorgnette. “I am sorry.”

“So am I, dear boy,” Lawrence replied, making a futile attempt to imbue those few words with the totality of his love and support. “So am I.”

. . .

For a moment, in the dim shadows of twilight, Miranda thought that Adam had returned to Wodesby House.

She grabbed hold of the baluster to steady herself, her heart leaping with hope.

But as the man handed his hat to Dominick, the sight of Mr. Timmons’ silver hair laid her momentary delusion to rest. She mustered her manners as she walked down the stair.

“How are you, Mr. Timmons?” she asked, “and how does your nephew do?”

“I am tolerably well, Miss Wilton,” Lawrence said. “However, these two days past, my nephew has been the most miserable excuse for a human being that I have had the misfortune to meet. He is rude, short of temper and close to utterly impossible.”

“It sounds as if he is afflicted by the same malady as the one besetting my Miranda,” declared a voice from the stair above.

Mr. Timmons looked up at Lady Wodesby with his heart in his eyes, causing Miranda’s throat to contract.

Was this what Adam would be thirty years hence, a trim, dapper man with a warm smile and a youthful step?

She realized that she wanted to see Adam change, to watch his hair turn from brown to grey, to be able to trace those lines of laughter at the corners of his eyes and know their history.

“I am quite pleased to hear that your daughter shares Adam’s lamentable state,” Lawrence said solemnly, taking Lady Wodesby’s hand and kissing it with courtly affection.

“And your nephew’s condition pleases me no end,” Lady Wodesby agreed with a smile. “An excellent omen.”

“He is at wit’s end,” Lawrence added. “When he was dressing for his evening at Gutmacher’s, I vow, he was surly as a bear.”

“Even better!” Lady Wodesby exclaimed, nodding toward her daughter. “She comes running every time someone knocks upon the door these days.”

“Mother, really!” Miranda fumed. “I do not! Nor do I appreciate being discussed as if I were not present.”

“Kind of you to greet me, Miss Wilton,” Lawrence said, his lip twitching as he resisted the urge to curve it. But the impulse to smile faded as the door to the library swung open. “Ah, the young lion beckons. Shall we beard him in his den, milady?” he asked, offering his arm to Lady Wodesby.

To Miranda’s surprise her mother actually giggled as she tucked her hand into the crook of Mr. Timmons’ hand.

Her mother had fallen in love with Adam’s uncle.

How had she missed the signs? She watched open-mouthed as the two entered the library, their eyes fixed upon each other.

The door closed behind them, then opened again as Thorpe and Angel made their exit, mewling and growling in their disgruntlement at being excluded.

“ Private means just that,” Miranda scolded, looking at the animals in growing alarm. “Now which one of you is supposed to be keeping watch over Adam?”

Angel barked.