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Leona, not a small woman in her own right, was amazed at the gentleman’s height.

Nothing Chrissy told her in her artless prattle adequately prepared her for the Honorable Mr. Nigel Deveraux.

He seemed to fill the entire parlor. His stained and muddy great coat sported only two capes, but given the breadth of his shoulders, any more would have made the man appear wider than he was tall.

His face was all harsh planes and angles.

Lines of experience bracketed firm lips and an arrogant, square-cut jaw that defied argument.

His hair was close-cropped and gleamed softly in the morning light like a rich Chinese black lacquer.

It was the only softness discernible in him.

When he finally raised his head and looked across the room at Leona, she felt gripped by the sweeping, suffocating intensity of emotion she glimpsed on his face.

It was a panoply of emotions so swiftly veiled as to deny their very existence if it weren’t for the residual watery gleam in his blue eyes.

In the next moment, Leona found herself assessed and weighed by eyes turned gem-hard.

Her own eyes flared wide in surprise, then faded back into calculated cool disinterest as she tilted her chin up and invited him with a sweep of her hand to sit down.

Nigel Deveraux carefully assessed the woman in the parlor.

From what Sir Nathan Cruikston said, he gathered this woman was Chrissy’s supposed rescuer, a Miss Leonard.

His mouth firmed into a grim line. Was this woman the heroine of the day, or was she somehow involved in the conspiracy?

What did she hope to gain? She was neat as wax and simply dressed, but her posture and the arrogant little lift of her chin spoke of another position in life.

His eyes narrowed. Why was her color so high, and why that unusual glitter in her large hazel eyes?

Eyes that reminded him of forest paths. Now, however, was not the best time for speculation.

Chrissy was the one who needed all of his attention, not some conniving woman.

He nodded curtly to Leona’s unspoken invitation. Carrying his crying niece, he took the chair nearest the fire.

Maria Sprockett frowned at the pantomime between Leona and Mr. Deveraux, but other than pursing her lips, she said nothing before hurrying off to the kitchen to fetch refreshments.

For several moments the only sounds heard in the parlor were the ticking of the clock on the mantel, the crackle of the fire in the grate, and the slowly subsiding sobs of a little girl.

The large man helplessly patted and rubbed the child’s back until the sobs slowed to an occasional hiccup and then ceased.

Finally, Chrissy lifted her head from her uncle’s shoulder and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Swiftly Leona pressed a handkerchief into her hand, winning a faint smile from Chrissy.

“Thank you,” she murmured, then sniffed.

She looked up into the concerned face of her uncle and then into Leona’s.

Her lips compressed, then her tongue slipped out to touch her upper lip just as Leona saw it do last night.

She slid off her uncle’s lap to her feet, carefully shaking out the folds of Leona’s old dress that Maria had hastily altered for her.

“Miss Leonard, I’d like you to meet my uncle, the Honorable Nigel Deveraux,” she said slowly and carefully as she’d been taught. “Uncle Nigel, this is Miss Leonard.”

A proud smile curved up the corners of Nigel Deveraux’s lips as he rose to his feet to treat the introduction with all the solemnity with which his niece had endowed it. Uncomfortable with his towering presence, Leona rose as well.

“I saw the local magistrate when I stopped at the inn to ask directions. He told me of your actions last evening.” His dark voice rumbled along Leona’s nerve endings like an approaching thunderstorm.

Though spoken calmly enough, his words held a wild electricity that crackled in the air between them.

Leona felt her breath tighten in her chest.

“She was wonderful, Uncle Nigel,” Chrissy enthused. “She melted a candle on the door hinges to keep them from squeaking and made shoes for me out of a woolen cloak. Then we ran through the woods as fast as we could.”

Leona felt color rise in her cheeks. “Chrissy, please! It was nothing. I only did what had to be done.” Disconcerted, she sat down again and fumbled with her handkerchief to blow her nose, missing the quick frown that came and went from Nigel’s face.

He sat down again and pulled Chrissy onto his lap, anchoring her firmly against him with a broad, well-defined hand.

There was something about his manner that unsettled Leona.

He was polite enough. Perhaps that was it—he was too polite, too distant toward her, while toward Chrissy there were evident close bonds of love and affection.

Leona had not expected him to show love and affection toward herself, but a modicum of respect and gratitude toward the person who rescued his niece would surely not be out of place!

Unless he didn’t want her rescued.

Nonsense. She banished that thought from her head. His feelings for Chrissy were too genuine to desire her abduction. Maybe he was naturally a taciturn man around strangers.

Or perhaps he thinks me involved with the kidnapping.

Tensely she admitted to herself that that was not beyond the realm of possibility.

Leona’s blood ran cold at the thought. Chrissy was held on Leonard property, property heavily encumbered and in need of cash.

Furthermore, the Norths had very conveniently managed to escape sometime during the night or early morning hours.

The evidence, though circumstantial, could be damning.

Leona slowly raised her head to stare at Deveraux whispering to his niece and earning giggles in return.

He must have sensed her regard, for he looked up at her.

The rough planes of his face appeared formed of granite.

His black brows pulled together, and his eyes narrowed until only slivers of blue ice gleamed from behind the coal-black fringe of his lashes.

Instantly Leona understood what Chrissy meant.

Nigel Deveraux would not be a man to cross. And he suspected her of wrongdoing!