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Wynn reined in his horse, hopped down with a groan, and stretched his back. “Prisoner transfer to Bathwick.”

“And they assigned you to see to that?” Bash frowned. “You are a mounted guard for the Prince Regent’s household.”

“They had their reasons, and my captain agreed.”

“The prisoner is a threat to the Crown?”

“To the Prince Regent’s very life, which is why they assigned only the best of the best.” Wynn gestured to himself and to Bash before fishing out a sealed letter from the inside of his coat, handing it to Bash.

“Present this to the warden of Bathwick. You are to bring the prisoner to Bristol to the Barley Pine Tavern.”

Bash sighed. It would take the remainder of the day, and he would not see Evie’s grateful reaction to his finding the dog, for which he hoped to receive a kiss on the cheek in thanks.

He’d be lucky to return by midnight, but he could not refuse a direct order, and the idea of traveling to Bristol had crossed his mind since his grandmother’s friend Bishop Clairmont resided there.

If Bash had to go to Bristol, he could easily secure a special license from the bishop in case they had need of one in the coming weeks.

He grinned at the idea of actually being wed to Evie.

“Why are you smiling? This isn’t exactly your type of adventure.” Wynn lifted a single brow in reference to Bash’s alternate identity as the highwayman.

“An adventure is an adventure—great or small. Do you want my cook to prepare you a meal before you depart?”

Wynn shook his head, the plume fluttering in the gentle breeze. “I have orders to return to London at once after delivering the prisoner to Bathwick Gaol.”

“They thought him likely to attempt escape and wanted him removed from the coast nearest France?”

Wynn nodded. “He’s a valuable informant to Napoleon. Apparently, the Organization is endeavoring to reform him and turn him into a spy for England, but that is all I know. You know how they like to break their information into fragments to avoid any one man knowing the whole of the plan.”

“I will see to it at once. I’m assuming that my yeoman uniform is not required now that you have delivered him to a prison and I am transferring him to a covert group?”

“Unless you want to parade the mission in front of hundreds, no.” Wynn stretched his arms over his head and sighed. “It would be wonderful to rest at Lark Manor after all your stories about your childhood home, but I suppose that will have to wait for another day. Godspeed.”

Within the hour, Bash was on the road to Bathwick with a spare horse in tow for the prisoner’s use.

The collection of the prisoner was easy enough, as the warden was expecting the handoff.

Bash kept an eye on the man as he mounted.

Despite the haunted circles under his eyes, the man was striking in his appearance, with his blond hair and broad shoulders.

Bash would have thought the Organization, which was what he and his friends called the covert group that trained spies, would have chosen someone who’d blend in more with the crowd …

unless they thought his looks a boon to loosen lips of the French aristocratic ladies in future missions.

The way the prisoner commanded the mount with ease spoke of fine horsemanship.

If he spoke, Bash was certain the prisoner would have the cadence of a gentleman, which made Bash wonder what led the man to risk forfeiting his lands and title, if he had one, to aid Napoleon’s cause.

But as protocol demanded, he did not engage the man in conversation during the hour-and-a-half ride to the Barley Pine.

Bash had no idea whom he was meeting, but the man would be required to provide proof. He halted Brigand in the dusty yard of the tavern, the prisoner halting at his side.

Within moments Telford strode out onto the yard, his layered cape fluttering behind him, his bicorne lending an air of governance.

Bash shook his head, grinning. “So much for becoming a barrister and enjoying the quiet life.” He dismounted and clasped his friend’s hand, clapping him on the shoulder. “I should have known that you could not stand life away from serving the Crown.”

Telford shrugged. “I tried, but when I was approached with taking over the Organization last year, I could not resist.” He nodded to the prisoner. “Osmund Deverell, are you ready to redeem yourself in the eyes of England?”

Deverell. Bash squinted at the man, trying to reconcile the name with the memory of the newssheet headline that eluded him.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to get my land, ships, and title back.”

“Good. Because everything will be demanded of you in return. If you are deemed unfit, Deverell, you will be sent back to prison for the rest of your days for your crimes against the Crown.” Telford gripped the horse’s reins and motioned for the prisoner to dismount.

“As I said, I am highly motivated.” Deverell pressed his lips into a grim line as he stood before them.

Telford signaled a man standing in the shadows of the tavern. The man gripped Deverell on the shoulder and guided him away.

Bash released a whistle. “Quite the motivational speech.”

“And every word true. The man is dangerous, but valuable.”

The headline came flooding back. “Osmund Deverell was that baron and successful merchant turned spy for France, yes?”

Telford nodded. “He lost everything attempting to secure a better title and wealth in France by using his ships as runners for Napoleon.”

Bash clenched his fists at the thought of the men Deverell placed in danger by smuggling for Napoleon. “How do you plan to redeem a rogue like him?”

“By using my army of resources, a vicar, and a healthy dose of fear.” Telford glanced at his pocket watch. “I wish I had time to visit longer than the span of a quick meal—”

“It’s the nature of what we do—we serve.” He slapped him on the back. “Now, tell me what you can in front of your latest recruit.”