Beckett had watched Gwendolyn leave with both relief and regret.

Sending her back to her family was the right thing to do. He’d made a grave error in judgment when he’d enlisted her help.

She had met Lady Orpington’s needs—a card sharp with the air and grace to fit in with the Colemore’s other guests. However,

he had not anticipated his enemies would lash out at her. Or that he would learn of hidden memories and a murder.

His letter to Lady Middlebury had asked her to meet him that night at ten o’clock at the cottage by the river. It turned out

Colemore was only an hour or so cross-country from where he was now.

He looked forward to clearing the air. He had questions; she had answers. He wished to secure her promise that Gwendolyn would

always be safe. In return, he would tell her he had no designs on the title or the estate.

Then there was the question of justice. He believed he had avenged his mother’s death when he’d killed Winstead. But what of the one who had ordered the henchman to commit the deed?

Beck wasn’t certain what road he wished to take. He trusted his instincts and the belief he would make the right decision

once he understood the full scope of what had happened that afternoon years ago.

The message he had sent to Jem Wagner had instructed him to be armed and in hiding close to the cottage. He didn’t trust the

marchioness.

It was a clear night. By the light of a waning moon, Beck quietly left the cart path, moving into the woods’ shadows. He’d

left the hired horse in St. Albion’s cemetery, hobbling it to graze among the stones.

Beck had arrived early for the meeting. He wove his way through the trees, following the line of the river, until he reached

the cottage. He didn’t worry about where Wagner was. Jem was an excellent marksman and would put himself where he needed to

be.

The windows of the building were dark. The thought teased him that Lady Middlebury might ignore his summons. He didn’t believe

she would. After all, she had believed he was on his way to Australia.

He crouched by the riverbank and watched the cabin. Darkness had fallen. The hour was around nine. He waited.

The time passed slowly. However, waiting was part of battle. His thoughts drifted to Gwendolyn. She should be at her sister’s house by now. She had not been happy with his decision, but he could live with that as long as she was safe.

He’d never loved anyone the way he did her—

Light moved through the trees from the bridle path and caught his attention. They were on foot. Beck lay flat against the

earth. The marchioness held a lantern. She was early, and she had not come alone. Several other people were with her.

Interesting.

One was a man—the marquess, he decided. Another man must be a guard. No, it was the butler. He carried a lantern and a musket.

Beck smiled. That was an odd weapon of choice.

The marchioness wore a hooded cloak. Her arm was around another woman in the same sort of hooded garment. The second woman

was taller— Gwendolyn .

Beck knew without seeing her face. They had Gwendolyn. Had she defied him and turned back to be captured?

It didn’t matter. She was in danger now.

He watched as the group entered the cottage.

The lamp lit the main room. The marquess shoved Gwendolyn into one of the chairs. She sat awkwardly as if her hands were bound.

Lady Middlebury took the chair next to her. The marquess prowled around the room. They all appeared to watch the front door.

The hood over Gwendolyn’s head fell back. A scarf was tied around her mouth as a gag. She appeared pale, but determined. He

had to grin. He knew what she was thinking—that he should have kept her with him. Lady Middlebury tied her to the chair.

The butler stood on the front step. He did not appear comfortable holding the gun.

Beck wondered if they had servants hidden in the woods around the cottage as well, so he waited.

Five minutes after the Middlebury party had arrived, he heard the soft “oompf” and knew Wagner had taken his man.

He wasn’t the only one who heard the sound. The butler came off the step and started walking the perimeter of the cottage.

He’d left the lantern behind, the better to hold the musket. He didn’t call out to anyone, because he expected someone to

be there.

As the minutes passed, the butler became more confident. After all, he had a musket. He widened the circle he followed, moving

a bit past the light. He moved ever closer to where Beck had secreted himself.

When he was close enough and looking in another direction, Beck rose behind him. He tapped the servant on the shoulder. The

butler turned, and one hard strike against the side of the man’s head cause him to drop like a stone. Beck half carried the

unconscious servant down the bank, made a quick gag with a piece of the man’s own neckcloth, and bound his hands with the

rest. Beck left the musket on the ground in the trees where the butler had dropped it.

Two were down. If there were others, Beck would leave them to Wagner. He was lucky the Middleburys had not spotted his movements

out the cottage windows.

Since they were all waiting for him, he decided not to disappoint them.

Beck edged along the bank so that he could emerge from the forest in a different place. He paused a moment before coming into

view. Gwendolyn’s life might depend on his getting this right.

He marched out of the woods, whistling as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He wanted them to know he was coming. He

wanted them to believe they had the best of him.

As long as they held Gwendolyn, they did.

He was certain the marquess was armed. However, nothing was going to stop him from saving Gwendolyn. They should never have

involved her in this.

Beck went up the step. He did not wait for an invitation to enter. He opened the door and stepped inside.

Lady Middlebury came to her feet. Gwendolyn, tied to her chair, was between them. She looked up at him as if pleased he was

here.

“We shall be out of this shortly,” he assured her.

“Unfortunately you will not be,” the marquess said in his wavery voice. Beck caught the silver gleam of a dueling pistol in

his hand. The gun was cocked. His finger was on the trigger. The weapon shook slightly.

“This is it, then?” Beck said, holding his arms out to show he had no tricks to play.

“Yes, it is,” the marquess answered.

Lady Middlebury’s expression appeared strained in the lamplight, her brow furrowed. “Walter—”

“ Quiet ,” her husband barked. He didn’t sound befuddled at all.

“How did you know who I was?” Beck said, assuming that his disguise as Curran was no longer useful.

“Lady Orpington should be kinder to her companion,” the marquess said.

Beck released a sound of frustration. “Mrs. Newsome. I liked her,” he admitted readily. “I believed her loyal to her mistress.”

“You were wrong,” Lady Middlebury said. “Sooner or later, everyone tires of Ellen Orpington. And that dog of hers. I received

a message from her a few days ago not to trust Ellen. Or Mr. Curran. I will say I was hurt. Ellen would betray me over cards—”

Her voice broke off.

“And what did Mrs. Newsome receive from your generosity?” Beck had to ask.

Lord Middlebury spoke up. “A cottage of her own at Colemore and the promise that she’ll never have to see her cousin’s damned

dog ever again.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Beck conceded.

“I’m glad you approve.”

“So, now,” Beck pushed, “you are going to do your own handiwork. It never was just Lady Middlebury, was it?”

“My wife?” The marquess looked to the marchioness, who appeared miserable and anxious. “She knew nothing of my plans. Of course,

if Winstead had killed you years ago as I had instructed, we wouldn’t be in this fuss.”

“But he didn’t,” Lady Middlebury told her husband, speaking as if this was a long-standing argument between them. “And then, when I learned the child was alive—to murder an innocent is not right.”

“You were never ruthless, dear,” he answered.

“Apparently neither was Winstead,” she responded.

“True. However, you were as happy as I that Catalina was dead. Don’t deny it, Franny.”

“But I didn’t plot to kill her,” Lady Middlebury lashed back.

“What started it?” Beck wanted to know.

“ Her ,” Lady Middlebury said. “She started it. She was unreasonable. She made me angry.” Her voice grew louder with each accusation.

“She threatened to cut us off. She didn’t want us at Colemore, even though we had a right to live here. More so than she did.

We had been here longer.”

“Why did she wish you to leave?”

“She believed herself superior to us. And all because I had run up some expenses—”

“Gambling debts,” her husband corrected her.

The marchioness glared at him. Her jaw hardened.

“Whist,” the marquess said to Beck as if that explained everything. “Her downfall. Always her downfall.”

His wife straightened her shoulders and admitted, “Very well, I had run up rather serious debts. I understood”—she paused

to shoot her husband a look—“that it was not wise of me. However, they were debts of honor. They had to be paid. Your mother

refused.”

His mother. Lady Middlebury had used the words.

Beck was Robert Chaytor.

Not that he needed her confirmation. And he doubted they would stand in a court and admit their wrongdoing.

“Catalina laughed at me when I told her I was desperate,” Lady Middlebury said tightly, but then her manner changed. The anger

left her. She seemed to collapse a bit. “I didn’t expect my husband to do what he did.”

Beck tilted his head toward the marquess. “You sent Winstead.”

“I did. I had it all plotted out, too. I decided that both you and Catalina needed to go.”

“But Winstead couldn’t kill you,” Lady Middlebury said. She smiled at Beck. “You adored him when you were little. You used

to trail after him, asking questions and behaving as if he was a hero because he was strong. You were a lively lad. A favorite

of all of us. Well, except my husband. Then one day, after we all thought you dead, Winstead, out of guilt, confided in me

what he’d done.”

“Which was?” Beck prodded.

“The murder,” she answered. “He told me he couldn’t kill you. So he’d handed you over to his sister. She was a ne’er-do-well

but on her way to London. He’d told her he didn’t care what happened as long as you didn’t return to Colemore. Back then,

he’d told Middlebury you died.”

“I was disappointed to hear you were alive,” the marquess confirmed.

“More than disappointed,” his wife murmured. “You were furious. But I insisted it was a good thing you were alive. One doesn’t

want that on one’s conscience.”

“I would have managed,” her husband assured her.

“Is that why you visit this place,” she countered, “and why you come here at night to listen to Catalina sing?”

“It is nothing—”

“It is your conscience. Ever since you had her murdered, you haven’t known peace. Neither of us has.”

Beck spoke up, addressing Lady Middlebury. “Was it you who took me from the brothel and sent me to school?” He had moved several

small, unnoticeable steps toward the marquess. He needed to be closer. Gwendolyn watched. He knew she waited for some signal

from him.

Dear God, he loved her.

The marchioness nodded. “It was the least I could do,” she said, without humor. “Our family has royal blood in our veins.

It seemed a sin to leave you in such a horrid place. I wanted to give you a chance to have a good life.”

“But then something changed,” Beck surmised. “Who sent Winstead last year?”

“I did,” Lord Middlebury volunteered. “I finally learned that you were alive. It was a complete shock to me that my wife and most trusted servant would dare to disobey my command.” He sent a pointed look at his wife. “I thought you were dead, Steele, until Winstead’s sister reported to him that a man was going around brothels and asking questions about a boy who’d been taken away years ago. She’s still a whore. She likes the life. She heard you were looking for your mother and she isn’t a stupid woman. She feared what would happen if anyone learned the truth... unlike my wife—”

“Walter, I’ve apologized.”

“You have, dear... and I have forgiven you—for years of deception. But now we have to do all of this”—he waved the pistol in the air to encompass the room, Beck, and Gwendolyn—“because

my wishes were not carried out when he was small enough to be easily dispatched.”

“You sent Winstead after me to clean up the mess,” Beck said.

The corners of the marquess’s mouth tightened. “Yes,” he answered curtly.

“And being a recluse...?” Beck wondered. “Is that a ruse, too?”

“I don’t like London. Or people, for that matter. I do have research. This estate means more to me than my country.” Lord

Middlebury’s hand holding the pistol was shaking harder now. He had to brace it with his other hand. He was not a well man.

That part, at least, was true.

“Colemore even means more to you than your family,” Beck suggested, hoping to goad the man into more revelations.

The marquess grinned agreement. “It is my birthright. Franny is the one who worried because you are related to us. I didn’t have any pangs of conscience. However, she is not being completely honest. She was happy to know our sons would inherit. But what I find of interest is that, if Catalina had agreed to pay my wife’s gambling debts, you and I would not be having this conversation. If Franny had let me kill you the way I wished, we’d not be having this con versation either. Fortunately, she will not stop me now. However, I want you to know, I enjoyed our few moments together the other night. You have some habits that remind me of my brother. Rather liked my brother. And now, I have one question for you. What happened to Winstead?” His voice hitched on the name. “He never returned. I assumed he had done the job and then had been forced to flee... however, here you are. Is he dead?”

The question surprised Beck. He thought the answer obvious. “Yes. He’s dead.” He even took satisfaction in saying those words.

An unholy light came to the marquess’s eyes. “Do you think I haven’t noticed you creeping closer while we talked?” He lifted

the pistol higher—

At the same moment, Gwendolyn threw her body weight in the chair toward the marquess. Both she and the chair fell at his feet,

almost knocking the frail man over.

His pistol fired harmlessly into the air.

Beck was on him immediately. The man was not in good health, but he fought back, his thin arms and legs actually quite strong.

The heel of his hand hit Beck’s chin. Beck rolled him over, placing a knee on his back. The marquess’s flailing fist struck

the lamp. It fell onto its side. Hot wax hit the floor and spread, a line of flames feeding off it.

The flame caught Gwendolyn’s hair. Beck released the marquess as he reached over and slapped the fire out with his bare hands.

That didn’t stop other flames from continuing to spread. The marquess started shouting for his butler, “ Nathaniel. Come, Nathaniel.” He clambered to his feet. “Shoot them.”

Lady Middlebury had already run out the door.

Beck scooped up Gwendolyn, chair and all. He ran for the door. They met Wagner, who had come out of hiding and was already

half up the steps. He helped Beck carry Gwendolyn to the lawn as a coughing Lord Middlebury stumbled out of the cottage.

The fire was climbing the inside walls. Soon the place would be engulfed.

“Jem, your knife,” Beck said. He took it and cut Gwendolyn free of her bonds. She threw her arms around him, and he held her

just as tight.

“You did need me,” she said.

He did. Always.

The marchioness had fallen to her knees not far from them. She was openly sobbing.

Meanwhile, Lord Middlebury erupted in a red-faced rage. He didn’t have a pistol, but he pointed his finger at Beck. “You will

not escape me this time, Steele. I own Colemore. I’ll have you flogged—”

He went rigid as if struck by pain. He grabbed his chest. His eyes widened. He whirled toward his wife and reached out.

“My lord?” she cried and started to scramble to her feet just as he crumpled to the ground.

Lady Middlebury crawled over to her husband’s still form. Beck rose and walked over to join her, leaving Gwendolyn with Jem. The man’s eyes were open in death, his mouth wide as if he was still shouting his ugly threats. Beck knelt and felt for a pulse. There was none.

He looked to the marchioness. “I’m sorry, he’s no longer with us.”

Her response was a keening wail. It mingled with the crackle and whooshing crash of the fire consuming the cottage. She tugged

on his arm as if she could wake him up, as if she feared for him.

Gwendolyn came to her side. “My lady,” she said softly. Lady Middlebury shook her off.

Shouts could be heard. People in the main house had seen the fire. They were now rushing to the cottage to help or gawk.

Beck looked to Wagner. “Get Gwendolyn out of here. I’ll meet you at the stables.”

“Wait, what of you?” Gwendolyn demanded.

“I will join you. But right now, you must leave.”

Jem took her arm. “You do what the major says,” he assured her.

She didn’t go quickly. “Beckett—”

“Gwendolyn, I will come. But first, you need to be removed from this night. The gossip will overtake your family.”

The shouts and voices were coming closer. In minutes, this area would be filled with people asking questions.

“Come, miss,” Wagner said. “The major will manage this.”

Gwendolyn shot Beck a last look, and then she turned and went with Jem.

Beck looked down at the man he had once believed to be his father. Almost reverently, he closed the man’s lids. He put a hand under a sobbing Lady Middlebury’s arm. “They will be here soon.”

She didn’t want to move.

“This is over between us,” he said.

She stopped her wail and looked to him. “What do you mean?”

“We are done. I shall not tell anyone of what happened here.”

“Or what we did...?”

“I wanted the truth,” Beck said. “I have the truth. It is not of importance to anyone else. Besides, would you support me

if I tell it?”

“No.”

“Then it is your word against mine. And the world believes I am dead.”

“You can accept that?”

He thought of Gwendolyn, who would be waiting for him. He thought of Ellisfield, who had been raised for this life. Colemore

was not Beck’s home. It never would be. But the time had come to find a place to call home. He knew that would be with Gwendolyn.

“I accept it.”

“What do we say then?” she asked. She didn’t seem to think it strange that she would expect him to make up the story.

“You and your lord wished to go for a walk. Will the butler support your story? He and another fellow are tied up waiting

for me to release them.”

“They both will.”

“Then there you have it. You saw the fire. Middlebury collapsed.”

Another gasp of grief escaped her. “He was a good man.”

Beck didn’t agree, but he was done with it all.

Ellisfield and his trio of companions burst from the woods. They were followed by servants with buckets. Ellisfield saw his mother standing next to Beck... and his father on the ground.

His step slowed. He approached them. “What happened?” he demanded.

Beck helped Lady Middlebury stand. She wobbled a moment but regained mastery over her emotions. “He had a fit,” she said,

nodding to her husband on the ground. “We came down here to look at the cottage.”

“At night?”

“It was a lovely night,” she murmured. “You know how your father enjoyed exploring the grounds.”

Ellisfield knelt beside his father. He placed a hand on his father’s chest. He was silent a moment but then came to his feet,

his expression troubled. “And you, Curran? We heard you and Miss Lanscarr had eloped.”

There were close to sixty guests at the house party. Who would know what other guests were doing at any given moment? “Obviously

not,” he said to Ellisfield. “I have no idea where Miss Lanscarr is. Up at the house, I suppose.”

“And you were here because?”

Beck smiled to himself. His cousin was no fool. Someday he might learn the truth, but not this night. “I was riding back from

the village.”

Ellisfield’s brother joined them. The sons turned their attention to their father. Their mother joined them, and there was

weeping. Beck watched a moment, and then he walked away.

True to his word, he freed the butler and the other servant. He warned them to keep their mouths shut about the goings on this night. They were not fools.

Then, Beck made his way to the main house. For a moment, he stood in the grand entry hall, drinking in the feel of the place.

This could never have been a haven for him. It had also not been one for his mother. She would not have built the cottage

if it were.

He took the stairs two at a time. Lady Orpington met him at the third floor, where the library was located. She held Magpie

in her arms. Mrs. Newsome stood close behind her.

In a whisper of indignation, Lady Orpington said, “Mr. Steele, what do you have to say for yourself? Where is my coach? And

what have you done with the woman who was supposed to be my whist partner?”

“I don’t know where your coach is, but Mrs. Newsome may have an idea.”

The companion had the good sense to shrink back at the knowledge that he knew of her duplicity. Magpie gave a growl.

“As for your whist partner,” he continued, “I am returning her to London for her own safety.”

“Safety? What is going on?” Lady Orpington demanded, the ribbons on her lace cap bouncing with her curiosity. “They say there

is a fire. They all ran to see it.”

She wasn’t a bad sort. She had served a purpose. He took her hand in his. “It’s just a cottage on the property. And thank you for your help, Lady Orpington.”

Her brows lifted. “Did you solve the mystery? Did you find answers?”

“Yes, and I am at peace.”

She gave him a motherly smile, then abruptly turned, shifting her dog in her arms. “Well, Vera, what is he talking about?

What do you know about my missing coach?”

Beck didn’t wait to listen. There was no porter at his post on the landing. Beck imagined every available male servant was

needed at the cottage. Soon everyone would know that the marquess had died. Collapsed, they would repeat. Probably overcome

by smoke from the fire... or whatever gossip would be concocted. They might even make him sound heroic. But that would

be their tale, not his.

Beck wanted nothing from the Chaytors save for two things.

He walked into the library. The room was dark. He looked out the window, but he couldn’t see the fire.

He was not a sentimental man. He prided himself on being practical. So he took what truly belonged to him. He lifted the portrait

of his mother from its place on the wall. Then he went downstairs to the larger library and removed the portrait of his family.

He tucked the two paintings under his arm, and he left Colemore, never to return again.

By the time he reached the stables, Jem had the horses ready. Gwendolyn was still wearing the hooded cape Lord and Lady Middlebury had used to disguise her.

She noticed the portraits and smiled. “To London?” she asked.

“Most definitely,” he replied.