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T hrough the window of the coach, Lucinda Belair glimpsed two gentlemen in the yard of the Dragon Inn. One was Mr. Huber, the Squire, and the other someone she’d met in London, although she couldn’t recall his name. The two appeared to be arguing, but—

Then her coach swept past the inn, onward to Lord Restive’s estate.

If only she arrived there in time.

It wasn’t dusk yet, but the cool spring evening had begun to draw in.

She shivered. After receiving her sister’s note, she’d had no time to wait for rugs or hot bricks.

If she got Susannah out of Lord Restive’s house before dark, all would be well.

They could make up a story to save her foolish sister’s reputation—and, just as important in a way, Lord Restive’s.

Not that she cared much for Restive anymore. She’d had a bit of a tendre for him at fifteen, when he was nineteen and a handsome young buck, but since then he’d become a cold, unfriendly, unworthy, even louche sort of man.

Nevertheless, he didn’t deserve to be forced into marriage with her fool of a sister, nor did Susannah, however stupidly she was behaving, merit being stuck forever with him.

But if she were compromised and he refused to wed her, Susannah would be ruined—and he was capable of such ungentlemanly behavior.

He was known far and wide as Stallion, a nickname which had originated as a jest about his title, comparing him to a restive stallion—but he had made his reputation far worse by living up to it.

Perhaps the fact that he was her brother’s friend, one she’d known since childhood, would make her—and Susannah’s—presence at his house less damaging. Far better, though, if no one learned of Susannah’s folly.

Puffing and blowing, the horses pulled the old coach slowly up Restive’s drive, past yews and hollies that a few months earlier were festive with bright berries.

Ahead was Restive Manor, a stately Jacobean brick building built on the site of an older dwelling.

His family had dwelt there for centuries.

Would they continue to do so, if Lord Restive managed to avoid marriage?

Perhaps he had cousins who might inherit the title and estate, and therefore felt no obligation to sire an heir.

How inconvenient for him to be the prey of foolish women.

Admittedly, he was attractive in a dark, sardonic sort of way, but despite her childish tendre of years ago, Lucinda had never been tempted to cast herself on his manly chest (as one maiden had done), rip open her bodice (a lovesick matron), or ambush him in an alcove and cry rape (another maiden, whom he’d scolded as if she were a child).

He wouldn’t dream of forcing an unwilling woman, he said, nor would he allow himself to be forced in return.

Lucinda had no idea which variety of ruse Susannah had tried, nor did she care. She just had to take her idiotic sister out of the house, into the coach, and back home before their mother—or anyone else—found out.

The coach drew to a halt, and Lucinda waited impatiently while the groom let down the steps and assisted her to alight. She trod quickly up the stairs to knock on the door before the groom had a chance to do so. She couldn’t risk refusal to enter this bachelor household.

Although if Susannah had managed to storm the bastion, Restive’s servants might see Lucinda as the determined savior she was.

A footman opened the door. Lucinda slipped quickly past him into the Great Hall.

Its plaster strapwork ceiling, and the paneled walls upon which hung heraldic banners, hadn’t changed since she was a child.

Feeling on more familiar ground now, she said, “I am Lucinda Belair, here to fetch my sister home.”

The footman gave her a blank look. “Your sister, miss?”

“Yes, my sister, Miss Susannah Belair. She wrote to say she would await me here.”

“Er... We haven’t seen any such lady, miss.”

Fortunately, since Lucinda had no idea what to do next, a door to the left opened—the library, if she remembered correctly—and Lord Restive, tall and darkly handsome, stuck his head out. “Lucy!” He grimaced. “I didn’t expect you, but it seems I should have.”

What did he mean by that? He glowered at her, his eyes...almost accusatory. Why? She’d done nothing wrong.

“Wait right there,” Lord Restive ordered, and ducked back through the door, leaving it slightly ajar.

Lucinda glanced back at the footman, who was watching with interest. Agog for gossip, no doubt. She couldn’t afford to discuss her sister’s folly before a servant.

She scurried to the door Restive had left ajar and slipped through, closing it firmly behind her. “Algy, I—Oh. Sorry.”

His lordship, she saw now, was in his shirtsleeves, his cravat untied and hanging loose.

He wasn’t the only occupant of the library, which had bookshelves round about and a couple of desks.

A slender lad in shabby clothes, with dirt on his face and dark, stringy hair, stood by the fireplace. He frowned, his gaze watchful.

Restive eyed her with something akin to disdain. “My dear Miss Belair—"

How unpleasantly formal. She shouldn’t have addressed him by a childhood nickname, but for heaven’s sake, they had known each other all their lives! So much for a feeling of familiarity.

“I apologize for charging in here uninvited,” she interrupted, “but I didn’t know you weren’t alone. I must speak to you privately.”

“I think not,” Restive said sarcastically, and she felt herself flush to the ears. Did he imagine she had come to work her wiles—such as they were—on him ? Heaven forbid!

“I suppose you wish to collect this letter,” he said. From one of the desks, he took a folded paper sealed with a wafer. “It was delivered here, addressed to you.”

She snatched the letter and tore it open.

Dearest Lucy, I’m sorry to drag you on a wild goose chase, but it was the only way to escape Mother while keeping you free of blame. By the time you read this, I shall be miles away in the opposite direction with my darling Humphrey. Your loving Susannah.

“Oh, how could she!” Lucinda blurted. She collected herself and to Restive’s raised eyebrow said, “It doesn’t matter. Nothing to do with you.”

“It is very much to do with me, since you are here—a maiden, uninvited and unchaperoned.” He took the letter from her slackened grip, ignoring her protest, and quickly perused it. “A complicated ruse, but it won’t work.”

“It worked all too well,” Lucinda retorted. “My sister left a note at home, saying she had quarreled with Humphrey and meant to compromise herself with you instead. She knew I would come hotfoot to stop her.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to believe that.” Dear God, he was positively sneering. “Things have come to a pretty pass when even a confirmed wallflower is stupid enough to pursue me.”

“Pursue you ? I would scorn to try such a trick!” she cried, flushing with mortification.

He laughed derisively.

Furious, she snatched the letter back. “Hitherto, despite finding you unlikable, I would have given you the benefit of the doubt as my brother’s longtime friend. No longer, for now I see you are as arrogant and ill-mannered as others say. Good day, my lord.”

She nodded politely at the lad and moved toward the door—then halted at the sound of a commotion in the Great Hall. The protests of the footman were overridden by a peremptory voice. “It’s an urgent matter. We’ll show ourselves in.”

“Damnation!” muttered Restive, whilst his shabby companion was frankly alarmed. “Behind the door,” Restive hissed, gesturing. “While I keep them occupied, you’ll slip out.”

At first, Lucinda thought he wanted her to hide, but then realized he was addressing the young lad. Restive strode toward the door, beckoning to Lucinda to hasten. “Hurry up, girl, and leave quickly by the side door. This could prove disastr—”

The door was flung open almost in his face, and the man from London she’d seen earlier stormed in, followed by an uneasy Squire Huber. The London gentleman’s name, Lucinda recalled now, was Wharton.

At the sight of Lucinda, both men halted. The uneasiness on the Squire’s face turned to shock, while Wharton, who fancied himself quite the consummate man about town, was horridly smug at such a juicy scandal in the making.

Stupid men , thought Lucinda. The shabby lad peeked out from behind the door. His only hope of escape was for their eyes to remain on her. She snatched a little book sitting on a nearby desk and gazed up at Restive, doing her best to simper.

“Thank you for loaning me this lovely book of poetry, my lord. It’s just what my mother asked for. She’ll be ever so grateful.”

A wave of something like consternation crossed Restive’s face. “My pleasure, Miss Belair, but are you sure you want that one?” He gestured to the bookshelves. “Perhaps you would prefer one of your own books, which you so cleverly forced me to house.”

He was referring to her request, shortly after the death of her father, that he store two boxes of valuable books.

How she wished she could take one, or indeed all of them, but here they must stay.

“They’re not mine,” she retorted, flushing again, this time with rage.

“They were Papa’s and are now my brother’s. Mother would have burned them!”

“So you said at the time.” He rolled his eyes. “Feel free to choose something your mother won’t burn, whilst I deal with these uninvited guests.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Mr. Huber said, recalling himself to the business at hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we had word that a fugitive was in here with you.”

Mr. Wharton left his lascivious survey of Lucinda’s figure to glance suspiciously around the room.

The shabby fellow was gone, but perhaps not far enough yet. Lucinda clapped a hand to her breast. “A fugitive? Mercy me!”

“Merely a lad who’s been doing some smuggling,” Mr. Huber said nervously.

“A dangerous one,” Wharton said. “He must be apprehended at once. We must search the house.”