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Restive ignored them. “The bookshelves, Miss Belair?”

Didn’t he want her to leave quickly? Her excuse about a book for her mother was feeble at best. “Thank you kindly, my lord,” she said, “but Mother awaits this poetry with bated breath.”

“Farewell, then,” he said to her retreating back. “I shall call to see how your mother and sister go on.”

“Unnecessary, my lord,” she retorted and hurried out the door, pulling it shut behind her to the sound of irate male voices. The Great Hall was empty. The footman lounged outside, having a chinwag with Lucinda’s groom, who came forward and helped her into the coach.

“Foul man,” she muttered to herself, and slipped the book into her reticule.

“He was tolerable, even rather fun as a boy, but he has grown to be utterly odious.” She gnashed her teeth.

“If I were a vengeful person, I would make him regret his behavior.” She snorted at her own foolishness.

What possible effect could she have on Restive, even if she wanted to?

The coach lurched into motion. She set dark thoughts of revenge aside as useless, and instead mused upon what had just happened.

Something very odd was going on. A smuggler, Mr. Huber had said.

That was likely enough. Here in Sussex, everyone was connected to smuggling in one way or another, but they all took care of each other.

No wonder the Squire was embarrassed. He got his brandy from the local free traders and would never try to apprehend a man he knew.

Not only that, what did Mr. Wharton, a Londoner, have to do with arresting such men? And how dare he demand to search a nobleman’s house?

At last, she sighed. “Well,” she said aloud, “I hope he escaped, whoever he is.”

“He did,” said a voice below her. She muffled a cry, as the door on the under-seat compartment popped open and the fugitive’s untidy head appeared. “Where are you bound, miss?”

“Just to the next village,” she said faintly. He must be awfully cramped in that tiny space. “Upper Middle Deighton.”

“Good enough,” he said, sliding out and stretching his legs. “Thank you kindly for the assistance.” He paused. “Despite Lord Restive’s bad manners.”

Drat, she was flushing again. He must have heard her muttering about revenge. “His horrid insinuations are not your fault.” Was it proper, she wondered, to ask the man why he was fleeing? Perhaps not, so she settled on, “They said you’re a smuggler.”

“Well now, miss, I have done some smuggling, but that’s not what Wharton wants me for. He’s a bad ‘un, is Wharton.”

“Ghastly,” she agreed. The fugitive was, she realized, even younger than she’d thought—little more than a boy.

“Restive’s a good sort, though I don’t expect you to believe it.”

“I’m sure he’s excellent in many ways,” Lucinda said, “just not where infatuated women are concerned. Frankly, I don’t see what’s so appealing about him.” Not anymore, in any event. As a lad, he’d been kind to her. What a pity he’d changed. “But most of my gender disagree.”

“He’s a fine friend in a fix,” the young man said, “and so are you, miss, and I thank you.”

“You’re most welcome,” she said, although unsure whether this was the truth. It really depended on what he’d done. She couldn’t bring herself to ask—it seemed impolite somehow—and could think of no other subject of conversation.

The fugitive remained on the floor, half in and half out of the box—with good reason, for a few miles further on, the sound of galloping horses sent him sliding back into it.

He pulled a pistol from under his coat. “If they find me, keep away from the window. I’ll shoot if I must, so you’d best stay out of the way.”

He disappeared before she could respond—not that she could have managed more than a frightened squeak. She took a deep breath. Maybe the galloping riders would pass.

“Halt in the name of the law!”

Drat, it was Mr. Huber again. As the local magistrate, he perhaps had the right to make such a demand, but it infuriated her all the same, and with the fury her courage returned.

Her coach came to a halt. Lucinda let down the window. “What in heaven’s name is going on?” she cried.

“We’re still searching for that fugitive, Miss Belair,” Mr. Huber said. “Have you seen him?”

“No, of course not. I don’t even know what he looks like!”

Mr. Wharton peered in the coach window, glanced quickly about, and rested his gaze on her bosom. “You sure about that?”

“I’m not in the habit of aiding smugglers,” she retorted.

“Seems to me,” Wharton said, “that a lady who’ll visit Stallion Restive unchaperoned will do almost anything.”

“Now, now, Wharton,” Mr. Huber said, “that’s going too far. Miss Belair is a well-respected young lady.” He paused. “Although you shouldn’t go to Lord Restive’s alone, my dear, even on an errand for your mother.”

“I shan’t do it again,” Lucinda said, and then to Wharton, “Stop ogling me, you disgusting man!”

Wharton laughed, Mr. Huber admonished him again, and they rode away. Lucinda ordered the coachman to carry on. Once they were in motion, she lay back against the squabs and let out a long, slow breath. “You may come out now, but I don’t know how you’ll get far. They seem determined to find you.”

“It’ll be dark soon,” he said. “I’ll do fine.”

D uring the remainder of the ride home, Lucinda came to the reluctant conclusion that she would have to tell her mother the truth.

She’d hoped to relate only the bald story of Susannah’s elopement, but the more she thought about it, the more she knew it would be impossible to stop there.

The coachman and groom knew she’d called on Lord Restive.

Worse, so did Mr. Huber, who would certainly tell his gossipy wife.

The fugitive stayed in his hiding place when the coached pulled up at the house to let her down. She hoped he would manage to get out and away. She only wished she could escape the impending hysteria.

“I heard an arrival. Is it one of my daughters?” A pause, while one of the servants responded, and then mother’s voice again, a sharp cry. “Lucinda, where have you been ? Where is your sister ? Is she with you? You girls will be the death of me.”

Lucinda trod wearily into the drawing room, where Mother was on the chaise longue, swathed in shawls. In one hand she clutched a handkerchief and in the other a vinaigrette.

There was no point in trying to break it gently. “Susannah has eloped with Humphrey Ball.”

Mother shrieked. “With Humphrey Ball ?” (As if they knew any other Humphrey.) “No, she gave up on him. She decided on Lord Restive, which would have been such a brilliant match! How could she prefer Humphrey Ball? Why didn’t you stop her?”

“I tried, but she tricked me. She sent me a note saying she was going to Lord Restive’s house to compromise him, but it wasn’t true.

When I got to Restive’s, all I found was this letter addressed to me.

” She thrust it at her mother, exchanging it for the vinaigrette, and plumped herself down on the sofa. “I should have known.”

Mother read the letter and tossed it down. “This is a disaster. Her reputation—ruined. Our family’s honor—besmirched. Your chances of marriage—gone.” Her cheeks grew red with rage, and her cap fell askew, exposing wisps of faded hair. “I wash my hands of her. I want never to see her again.”

“It’s not quite that bad, Mother. Mr. Ball may not be a prize, but he’s a respectable gentleman, and Susannah will be safely wed. If there is talk, it won’t last long. As for me, I’m not likely to marry anyway. I never did take.”

“Because you didn’t try ,” Mother said. “Despite being quite a pretty girl, you were awkward and shy, when with a little effort you could have been charming. You deliberately avoided eligible men, and when you were obliged to dance, you made no attempt to appeal to your partners. Where is my vinaigrette?”

“I didn’t try because I shouldn’t have to.

” Lucinda passed her the little bottle. “A woman shouldn’t have to flirt and simper and—and try to catch an eligible man.

” It had taken quite an effort to pretend to be shy—which she wasn’t, not at all—and she’d endured the balls because she had to, apologizing to any gentleman who was forced to ask her to dance.

‘I’m not interested in marriage,’ she would say, which was rather fun, as it astonished or embarrassed some, whilst others laughed and jested with her.

“What other way is there?” Mother uncorked the vinaigrette and sniffed. “Don’t start prosing about mutual affection or any such nonsense.”

“I shan’t, Mother, because I prefer not to marry at all.”

In fury, Mother threw the vinaigrette in Lucinda’s direction. She caught it before it broke, and only a little of its contents dripped onto the floor. She set it on a table well out of Mother’s reach.

“Stupid, unnatural girl!” Mother cried. “I wash my hands of you as well.”

Good , thought Lucinda, and then Mother sat up, light dawning in her narrowed eyes. “Unless…” What she said next was no surprise. “Did you say you were at Lord Restive’s house?”

R estive got rid of his unwanted guests with a curt refusal to allow them to search his house. “No smuggler would try to hide in here.” He shook his head. “I hesitate to insult you, Mr. Huber, but are you intoxicated? For I don’t see any other explanation for such an outrageous demand.”

Wharton let out a long bray of a laugh. “Spoiled your little tryst, did we?”

“That was no tryst, Wharton. The lady is far too straightlaced—and she doesn’t even like me.” For some absurd reason, that rankled. He’d been rude to her, perhaps undeservedly so, although he wasn’t convinced of that—but then she’d made that remark about already disliking him.