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Pah! Why would she? She’d liked him well enough in childhood, and in the last several years, they hadn’t exchanged more than polite greetings.

Not only that, he’d done her a favor by taking those books.

She’d claimed she was saving them from the fire for her brother’s sake, but Matthew Belair didn’t care much about books, and judging by the titles, they weren’t a girl’s sort of reading matter, either.

She was just another lovesick female, trying one ruse after another. For some reason, that disappointed him, although he couldn’t say why.

Not only that, she’d behaved with unexpected aplomb today, giving a plausible reason for being there while at the same time distracting the unwelcome callers, thereby helping Davis to escape.

Why would she give a damn about Davis? And yet she’d kept their attention a bit longer by feigning shock—a ploy he recognized from long experience with foolish women. If Restive hadn’t been so anxious for Davis, he would have laughed at her ‘Mercy me!’

Most likely, she didn’t care a jot about anyone but herself…but if so, why hadn’t she pretended to swoon from fright? Any other woman would have tried to collapse into his arms. Maybe she’d known she wouldn’t succeed.

Huber and Wharton rode away. A couple of hours after dark, Davis slipped in through the library window. “Just come to fetch my valise. Mmm, that smells good.”

Restive had only moments ago sat down to a solitary meal. It did smell good, but the lad needed the food more urgently than he did. “Help yourself,” he said, pouring another glass of wine.

Davis wasn’t one to make empty protests. He ate with gusto, while Restive drank and pondered how to get the damned book back.

“How d’you manage to evade them?” he asked at last.

“Rode in the girl’s carriage. Big old coaches like that have enough room under the seat.”

Restive laughed. “Damned uncomfortable, even for a smallish chap. The girl never knew?”

“She did once I came out,” Davis said. “She took it in stride, and when Wharton and the other fellow held us up, she routed them in fine style. Didn’t much like my gun, though.”

“You threatened her with your gun?”

“What do you take me for?” Davis rolled his eyes. “When I hid under the seat again, I told her to stay out of the way in case I had to shoot. But as I said, she got rid of them.”

Restive ran his hands through his hair, imagining the uproar if Davis had used his gun. The groom fumbling for his blunderbuss, the coachman trying to control the frightened horses, the lady shrieking…

Maybe she wouldn’t shriek. She seemed unusually poised. But there was no point in remonstrating with Davis. He was a bit of a loose cannon, but excellent at what he did. “Good thing you didn’t have to shoot. My neighbor Huber is a decent man, and Wharton is an ass, but he has his uses.”

Davis shrugged. “I’ve been seriously pondering knocking him over the head and tossing him in the Thames.”

Restive doubted Davis could do this on his own—he weighed several stone less than Wharton—but he had plenty of unsavory friends who wouldn’t balk at murder.

“I daresay, but we need him blundering about,” Restive said. “As long as the French worry about him, they won’t suspect you or me.” Wharton was a rival of sorts, seeing espionage as a contest rather than a patriotic duty—which, in the pursuit of success, made him careless to the point of stupidity.

“I cadged a ride to the Dancing Pig,” Davis said. “As you anticipated, Monsieur Fortin was there, very friendly with some of the smugglers.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“Hard to say. He’s too clever to be obvious. However, money did change hands. He made no effort to hide that.”

“So, he doesn’t particularly care who knows.” Restive paused. “Because it was something unimportant, as items sent via smugglers go? Or because he’s playing a deep game?”

Davis shrugged. “My mates there said he received some lace, but the packet could have contained a message. He rode away towards London, and I returned here.”

Davis took a final swig of wine, wiped his mouth on a napkin, and stood. “I’d best be on my way. Want me to keep an eye on Fortin or wait till you decipher the code?” He paused. “Oh,” he said slyly. “You’ll need the book for that.”

“I don’t suppose it occurred to you to get it from her,” Restive said bitterly.

“It’s safer with her than with me. How did Wharton know I would arrive today?”

“Because I came down here, I assume. He’s been following me about for weeks.” He sighed. “I’ll get it from her. Why the devil did she have to take that one?”

“It was on the desk in full view.” Davis retrieved a valise from the corner, shucked his clothing, and a few minutes later was transformed into a woman—a slatternly sort with a blond wig.

“For that matter, why did she help you?” Restive asked. “Most women would have gone into hysterics.” After a moment, he asked, “You don’t think…”

“That she’s one of them? Working for Wharton?” Again, he rolled his eyes. “No, she’s just a courageous sort of girl. Not a fool, either. She knew I wasn’t a smuggler, but she didn’t ask why they were after me.”

“Why not? Why doesn’t she act like a normal female?”

“Because she isn’t one. And she loathes Wharton. Told him in no uncertain terms to stop ogling her. I was hard put not to laugh out loud. She’s a good sort—but she would dearly like to make you suffer for your rudeness.”

“She told you that?”

Davis shook his head, smiling. “Before I revealed myself, I heard her muttering to herself about revenge.”

Restive snorted. “She’s in company with a great many foolish women.” A pity, for he’d never thought of Lucy Belair as foolish, until now. “Yes, keep an eye on Fortin and his associates, please.”

“Will do.” Davis climbed through the window, blew Restive a loud, smacking kiss, said, “See you in Town, sweeting,” and was gone.