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I hoped referencing Abigail’s father would remind her of where her true loyalty ought to reside. She paled further, her gaze darting between Mr. Barron and me.

He waggled his eyebrows, enjoying himself far too much at my expense. “Does it really matter who ends up with everything?”

“Of course it matters. Mr. Perry will be devastated.”

He pulled me close, pressing the cold tip of the barrel against my temple until it hurt.

“Don’t put ideas into her foolish head, Miss Littleton.

Abigail’s loyalties lie with me first. Keep speaking, and I’ll kill you.

” His hot breath fanned over my ear as he lowered his voice for my hearing only. “Or maybe her.”

“I beg you not to harm her or her father,” I said through stiff lips.

“You lied to me, Jim. If you loved me, how could you lie so?” An anguished moan ripped from Abigail as she covered her face with her hands while he cruelly laughed.

“Aye, I loved you, lass. Loved you well enough that no other man will touch you now. Go back home and wait for my signal. Don’t think for a moment that your father won’t pay the price if you refuse me.”

My gut roiled at the sordid implication, but Abigail pressed a fist against her mouth as if to contain her anguish. Our eyes met briefly before she spun on her heel and fled, dust whirling beneath her slippers before she disappeared from sight.

There was nothing I could do against Mr. Barron’s brute strength and a pistol pressed against my head. Somehow, I would wait for the right moment and make my escape.

Pocketing his gun, he tossed me onto the saddle and clambered quickly behind with an iron arm wrapped about my middle.

So unlike Rafe’s, Mr. Barron’s grip terrorized.

I reached into my apron and tugged the handkerchief free, sneaking my hand down to let it drop to the field while the horse charged into a gallop away from the field.

Would Father notice I was late? At least at twilight Mr. Spencer and the Dixon boys would arrive to camp and watch over the field.

Maybe one of them would spy the handkerchief.

But by then I could be hidden far from reach, or worse... dead.

I had relied on myself in the past, but now I had only God to hear my cry.

I had never been inside Mr. Cobb’s cottage, but it reeked of unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke, along with a burned cast-iron pot moldering with leftover stew.

I sat on a hard chair, my hands tied behind my back while the two men stood guard outside.

Although the door remained shut, I could easily hear their conversation through a broken, grime-covered window stuffed with a rag.

I tried to wiggle out of my restraints, but that and reaching the knife in my apron proved impossible.

To my left, wooden crates were stacked and pushed against a soot-covered wall.

“But what of the bailiff and the groundskeeper?” Mr. Barron sounded frustrated, his voice tight with barely suppressed anger.

“They went runnin’ to the fields to put out the fires, just like you wanted,” Mr. Cobb replied. “But I haven’t seen you leave with any papers. Did you find what you were after?”

“No,” Mr. Barron snarled from the other side of the door. “And I’ve been through that blasted abbey for weeks. There’s nothing but chaos and disorder. The viscount’s records are as worthless as the man himself.”

“It don’t matter none,” Mr. Cobb replied carelessly. “I’ve done my part, settin’ fires and causin’ enough distraction. What about the money you promised me?”

Mr. Barron hesitated, his voice lowering. “I’ll pay you what I owe, once I get what’s mine.”

“And that is?” Mr. Cobb’s voice took on a dark edge. “You promised me a share if you claimed the estate. You can’t pull back now.”

“I told you—without those papers proving I’m Randall Hawthorn’s son, I have nothing!

A record in a Bible or some will or testament.

Even a diary entry. It’s as if I never existed.

You think I want to be crawling around that cursed place every night?

You think I enjoy pretending I’m less than what I was born to be?

” Mr. Barron’s tone was sharp with frustration.

“I deserve Hawthorn Abbey after everything my mother endured. But no—he made sure it all went to the one child he actually cared about, leaving me, the bastard, with nothing!”

“What a jolly it would be to see you scrape a bow before the Prince Regent, claiming Hawthorn Abbey belongs to you. Don’t rook me on the money you owe.

I did as asked, releasing the sheep and horses, placing a thorn in that saddle, and beating the viscount to a pulp.

You’ll have nothing to worry about other than your light-o’-love. ”

“She’ll hold true. She dares not see her father hurt.” Mr. Barron snarled. “After that, we shall see if I keep her or not.”

Their voices dipped too low for me to discern, but I caught snatches of it. Viscount trapped... Items taken from the abbey... Payment owed. My runaway horse.

“You’ll have no abbey to claim, my fine lord. I set fire to it as well.”

“What?” cried Mr. Baron. “You set fire to the abbey?”

“Just a wee one, mostly smoke and not much else. I needed the women gone before I put Hawthorn in the brewery. Never knew if they’d hear him hollerin’.

You pay me tonight or I’ll tell the constable you’re Randall Hawthorn’s whelp and that you’ve had your sights on the estate.

He’ll be interested to know of the accident with the horse and the vicar’s daughter.

Murder charges may be waiting, aye? Arson, aye?

” Mr. Cobb’s voice contained a razor’s edge of threat.

“Oh, and I’ll share how you’ve crept around the abbey at night in search of proof of your parentage.

You swore you could frighten the new viscount away. A fool’s errand, if I ever saw one.”

“Enough,” Mr. Barron’s voice came out eerily flat.

I froze on the uncomfortable stool, no longer straining to slide out of the ropes fraying the tender skin of my wrists.

My muscles seemed to liquefy at what I had just overheard.

Mr. Barron the half brother of Rafe? Payment owed to Mr. Cobb?

For what? Killing Rafe? A jolt of fear surged through my body, strong enough to set my teeth chattering.

Agony pierced me as I pictured him collapsed and bleeding in the courtyard or abbey, and poor Mrs. Whittle and her daughter, injured or worse.

The palpitations in my heart increased and again I jerked on the ropes to no avail.

The two men spoke louder now, hassling over the cut of profit with Mr. Cobb demanding forty percent for keeping the mosaics within the crates. The conversation turned feral and their voices climbed in fury.

Someone yelled. A tussle against the side of the house and a body hitting the door with a violent shudder.

Grunts. Curses. A shout. And then a gunshot echoed, the sound piercing right through me.

I screamed. But Mr. Cobb’s cottage lay the farthest from the other tenants, hidden within the rolling hills of the valley and nearly a mile away from the closest tenant. If only someone had heard that gunshot.

An involuntary shiver worked through me as I strained to hear if anyone had survived.

My wrists ached from the rope constricting my flesh until my fingers felt thick and useless.

A sound rasped against the door, as if someone dragged something away.

No one entered the cottage, but the steady beat of horse hooves soon brought a cry of relief. Had rescue come at last?

My relief turned to bitter disappointment when I heard a familiar voice, rich and cultured.

“You shot him! Barron, how uncivilized of you. Why must you seed so much chaos?”

“You may blame the chaos on Cobb. I only wanted vengeance. Why should you care about one less person to divide the spoils? We have no further use for Cobb, and he has done us more harm than good. What would you have me do with Miss Littleton? I found her wandering the site. And where, pray tell, is Ainsley during all of this? Don’t tell me it’s just the two of us getting our hands dirty? ”

“He is waiting in the carriage, out of sight. A lord has a reputation to protect, after all. You should have let Miss Littleton go. You’ve complicated things, Barron, and I hate complications.

” Mr. Beaumont’s presence brought a roil of nausea clambering up my throat.

“We were to steal the mosaics, as you had promised, not kill the vicar’s daughter.

I ought to punish you for putting me in this predicament. ”

A cold sweat broke out on my forehead as I listened to the men casually discuss their heist and their plans for me.

“She’s in the cottage right now. It’s too late to let her go.

” Mr. Barron sounded petulant. “I brought you the mosaics. I’ve ensured several distractions for the field hands.

At this moment, Mr. Perry is playing cards at the Jolly Wench, gambling on what he owns.

He will lose his farm, which puts you in the position of renting from me once I’m viscount.

If you ask me, I deserve far more coin than you’ve offered so far. ”

The delusion of Mr. Barron to assume the Crown would ever extend him the title! But then, I was not eavesdropping on a sane man.

Mr. Beaumont laughed, the sound hoarse. “Wretch. You cannot sell those mosaics without my help. May I remind you, you approached me, not the other way around. I never agreed to murder, nor did Lord Ainsley.”

“But you will get those lily-white hands dirty by the end of the night. How can you, the second son of an earl, jeopardize your family or your father’s political career?

What will he say when he discovers the extent of your gambling?

Or the extent of your deeds in Bramnor? No, my fine jackanapes, you will do as you are told. ”

Mr. Beaumont cursed.

“I’ve killed Cobb. You take care of your end of the bargain and leave the rest to me. And when I become the next viscount, you will remember me and all I’ve done for you.”

A long pause. And then Mr. Beaumont’s low answer, “Put her with Hawthorn in the brewery. Let the fire Mr. Cobb started take care of the rest. You will leave the ring to me.”

Despair filled me, tasting of ash. Would they burn Rafe and me alive together?

Before I could brace myself, the door flew open, hitting the wall and dislodging a chunk of plaster. A man filled the narrow space of the doorway. And at his feet, the dead body of Mr. Cobb.

My gaze traveled up to see Mr. Beaumont’s ruthless smile.