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H E KNEW SHE ’ D FIGURED OUT who he was as he grasped her shoulders, desperation lining his piercing eyes. “My lady.”

“You.” She strained against his hold on her shoulders. “Don’t you dare ‘my lady’ me.”

He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Don’t struggle. People will see. I promise that I will explain all soon. In detail.”

“Yes. You will.” She hardly refrained from clenching her fist and marching away that instant. The moment she turned, the crowd would spot her fury. That would not do. “They will know I’m angry the moment they see my face.” She dipped her head, drawing a breath.

“I can fix that.” He wrapped his hand about her waist, bent, and stole a second kiss, making the crowd roar in delight.

She whirled away, her cheeks burning, but the crowd would only think it was her maidenly sensibilities and not ire causing the blush.

She had to keep her tears at bay. She had been an utter fool.

Is the man even Sir Larkby? She shook her head.

There was no way everyone in the countryside of Bath would address him as a knight and him not truly be a knight.

But what was a knight doing parading as a highwayman one moment and supposedly serving as the Prince Regent’s right-hand guard the next? It made no sense.

She joined the crowd lining the pistes, her mind whirling.

Muriel’s husband was no stranger to subterfuge.

And in a time of war, appearances were not always true.

And then, there was Baron Deverell, Muriel’s former gentleman of affection, who was aiding Napoleon!

Sir Sebastian the highwayman could be into all sorts of traitorous deeds.

She wrung her hands around the neck of her parasol.

How could she stand here in the crowd and act like her world had not been upended once more?

Here I have been romancing that I have been rescued by a true knight in shining armor, only to discover that he is a wolf, a rogue, a-a common highwayman.

She pressed a hand to her churning belly.

No matter his faults, there was nothing common about Bash Larkby.

She turned from the fenced-off area and sought out the tents.

“Are you quite well, my dear?” Grandmother clasped Vivienne’s hand as soon as she reached her side. “With a kiss like that, I suppose it does make a girl lightheaded,” she teased.

Vivienne shook her head, dreading what she needed to do.

She might have lied about being a titled authoress, but she did not cause anyone true harm.

But if a man lied about something so dire as being a highwayman who held up people at gunpoint, she could not trust him …

no matter how much she needed him. “I need to return home.”

“But the match is about to begin again! Don’t you want to see the defeat?

” Grandmother whispered, her eyes sparking with concern.

“Did you eat something spoiled by the hot sun?” Her eyes widened.

“I hope not. Soon, the nobility will be running every which way, seeking privacy to cast up their accounts. Shall I attend you home?”

Vivienne laughed weakly. “Oh no, I do not want to give anyone cause to gossip, and we are so near to home that the walk might do me good. I am simply overwhelmed.” She patted Grandmother’s arm.

“Please express my thanks to the hostess. I shall take my leave of you, Grandmother.” She bent and kissed her on the cheek. “Goodbye.”

Grandmother pressed her lips into a thin line and nodded. “Very well. I hope you feel better soon, my dear.”

Vivienne took care not to race as she headed toward the edge of the property, where a copse of trees would offer her shelter from prying eyes as she lengthened her walk to a run.

Five miles was nothing for a country lass.

As she crested the hill, she glanced behind her to see the contestants begin the final match on the pistes.

For someone who could leap so fearlessly from a racing horse onto a moving carriage, he should win with his eyes closed.

At least Sir Josiah would be put in his place.

She marched past the trees and down the hill toward the stone bridge to Lark Manor, intent on packing her bags the moment she returned to the manor.

The thought of what he could yet be hiding sent her into a dead run.

If Baron Deverell, a man who’d proclaimed to love Muriel, could poison her and attempt to abduct her, what could Bash do to her now that she knew of his part in the robbery, when he was supposed to be an honorable yeoman?

In her days in Chilham, the run would be nothing—but she had not run in too long, and the ever-growing stitch in her side begged her to slow her pace.

She ignored it. A stitch would disappear, but Bash catching her alone could cause irreversible damage.

If he was a highwayman, she had stumbled into something far bigger than she had thought.

She pumped her arms, readying herself to leap over the short stone wall that separated the Waterburys’ land and the Larkbys’.

The top of her foot struck the stones, and she tumbled forward, catching herself with her hands as she rolled boots over bonnet.

She lay in the grass, nearly giggling at her foolishness.

What if the servants saw her sprawled out and laughing?

They would think she was in need of a trip to Bedlam.

She rolled to her side and brushed off her skirts as she stood.

She removed the bonnet she had refinished with the express intent to make Sebastian admire her eyes.

The bonnet was crushed, and it would take a great deal to repair it.

She tossed it into the tall grass and raced down the hill and crossed the bridge.

Had he been laughing at her? Had he known how much she thought of the highwayman?

Or of how her hopes had changed from the highwayman to having a fond relationship with her husband to …

a hope for love? She brushed a fist over her eyes.

She should never have fantasized over the highwayman returning to her—things never turned out in real life how she would have written them.

She should have never agreed to this insane scheme.

The time for trust was over. Despite how much it would pain her to leave Grandmother Larkby, she would have to change her name again to avoid the scandal and run from him.

She would have to sell her terrace home to fund her escape.

She strode through the tree-lined path to the gardens to the side entrance of the parlor and raced up the stairs to her room.

Charlotte sat up in bed, her hair mussed from her nap. “My lady? Whatever happened? Why is your hem—”

“Sir Sebastian Larkby is not who he says he is.” Her voice broke as she sank into a heap before the fireplace. “And I fear he is part of something that we can never recover from.”

Charlotte hurried to her side, grasping her hands. “What happened? Did he harm you?”

“You are going to laugh at this.” She giggled through her fear, noting Charlotte’s growing concern. “He’s the highwayman.”

“No.” Charlotte gasped, sinking back on her heels. “No! How on earth do you know that?”

She sighed. “He kissed me.”

“And how did a kiss reveal he was …” Charlotte’s lips parted in realization. “You kissed the highwayman, Vivienne Poppy? What were you thinking? You cannot go around kissing men.”

“I didn’t mean to, but he had just rescued me from two horrid men, and I was near hysterical from relief at his saving me, and I-I kissed him in my thanks.”

Charlotte rested her face in her hands, groaning. “Vivienne! What am I going to do with you? How am I to possibly protect your reputation when you do such things? Imagine. Kissing your captor?”

“I know! It was reckless and foolish.” She lifted her fingers to her lips. And entirely the thing of dreams … or nightmares now. She slapped her cheeks, desperate to spur herself into action. “And with this knowledge, I have but one course. I need to escape and seek an annulment.”

“B-but wouldn’t him being the highwayman be a dream come true?” Charlotte shook her head. “I thought you were fond of him? So why this sudden need to run?”

“We are in a time of war, Charlotte. If a man who is supposed to be head and shoulders above all others in character and honor is robbing nobility, there is something traitorous afoot. I doubt the Prince Regent would look kindly on Bash’s alternative identity.

I hardly need to remind you of Baron Deverell and his obsession with Muriel. ”

“That is a good point.” Charlotte shuddered, spurring into action. “I will pack at once. How much time do we have?”

“Mayhap an hour before their return? The tournament should be ending then.”

“I shall send for the carriage while you pack. We shall leave in a quarter of an hour.” Charlotte pulled the bell cord.

The women rushed about the room, tossing clothes into the satchel.

The trunks would have to wait until she and Charlotte were safely away in her townhouse, where Vivienne could fortify herself until she made a plan of escape.

They could not stay there for longer than absolutely necessary—not with Bash knowing her whereabouts.

She would have to send her trunks to a friend’s estate to keep him from following her.

She’d move to the other side of England if needed, mayhap even the Scottish Isles.

Tess was forever recounting her long holidays there with her father in their cottage.

Vivienne hated to sell her darling home, but if she needed funds to start over, she had to do what she must.

A grating twenty minutes had passed by the time they fled the manor, a bag in each hand, and into the awaiting carriage as a fine mist coated their pelisses.

“Wonderful. At least now I know what I put my heroine through whenever I make her trudge through the countryside in the rain before the hero saves her.” She shivered, settling back onto the tufted seat.

“Let us pray that Sir Sebastian does not find us thus,” Charlotte muttered, pulling the plaid over their laps.

“Sir Sebastian is no hero,” Vivienne whispered, so as not to be overheard by the driver.

“Surely there is an explanation, but I am struggling to think of one at the moment. I shall hail a hired carriage the moment we return to your townhome. Though I do not know where we shall flee from there.”

“We shall return to Draycott Castle and seek the duke and duchess’s counsel. There, we will be protected, and his grace can reach out to the Prince Regent to discuss Sir Sebastian’s activities.”

She grasped Charlotte’s hand and stared out the window as they approached Bath, taking the road to her terrace home in the Circus. Haste was of the essence if they were to leave Bath before Sebastian Larkby, or whoever he was, showed up to claim his wife.