"A bit naive, is she?"

"No." Harry's tone hardened.

"Not particularly. She's merely incapable of recognising her own vulnerability but, conversely, has infinite confidence in her ability to prevail."

The planes of his face shifted, his expression now mirroring his tone.

"In this case, I would rather not have her put it to the test."

"No, indeed." Salter nodded.

"From what little I've heard tell, this Joliffe's not the sort for a lady to tangle with."

"Precisely." Harry rose; Salter rose, too. The ex- Runner was a stocky man, broad and heavy. Harry nodded.

"Report back to me as soon as you have any word."

"I will that, sir. You may depend on me." Harry shook Salter's hand.

Dawlish, who, at Harry's intimation, had silently witnessed the interview, straightened from his position by the door and showed Salter out. Turning to the windows, Harry stood idly flicking the pen between his fingers, gazing unseeing at the courtyard beyond.

Salter was well-known to the intimates of Jackson's saloon and Cribb's parlour. A boxer of some skill, he was one of the few not of the ton with a ready entrte to those tonnish precincts. But it was his other skills that had led Harry to call him in. Salter's fame as a Runner had been considerable but clouded; the magistrates had not approved of his habit of, quite literally, using thieves to catch thieves. His successes had not ameliorated their disapproval and he had parted company from the London constabulary by mutual accord. Since then, however, he had established a reputation among certain of the tott's gentlemen as a reliable man whenever matters of questionable~ possibly illegal, behaviour needed to be investigated with absolute discretion. Such a matter, in Harry's opinion, was Mortimer Babbacombe's apparent interest in Lucinda's well- being.

He would have handled the matter himself but was at a loss to understand Mortimer's motives. He could hardly let the matter rest and, given his conviction that it was linked with the incident on the Newmarket road, he had opted for caution, to whir, the discretion and skill for which Salter was renown.

"Well, then!" Dawlish returned and shut the door.

"A fine broiling, altogether." He slanted a glance at Harry.

"You want me to keep an eye on her?" Slowly, Harry raised his brows.

"It's an idea." He paused, then asked,

"How do you think her coachman-- Joshua, isn't it?--would take the news?"

"Right concerned, he'd be."

Harry's eyes narrowed.

"And her maid, the redoubtable Agatha?"

"Even more so, unless I miss my guess. Right protective, she is--after you took them away from Aster Icy and organised to cover the ]ady's tracks, she's revised her opinion of you."

Harry's lips twitched.

"Good. Then recruit her as well. I have a feeling we should keep as many eyes on Mrs Babbacombe as possible--just in case."

"Aye--no sense' in taking any risks." Dawlish headed for the door.

"Not after all your hard work." Harry's brows flew up.

He turned--but Dawlish had escaped

Hard work? Harry's lips fir reed into a line. His expression resigned,.

he turned back to the greenery outside. The truly hard part was yet to come but he had charted his course and was determined to stick to it.

l When next he proposed to his siren, he wanted no arguments about love.

"Oh!" Dawlish's head popped back around the door. "Just remembered--it's Lady Mickleham's tonight.

Want me to organise the carriages and all when I 'see Joshua? "

Harry nodded. The skies outside were a beautiful blue.

"Before you go, have the greys put to."

"You going for a drive?"

"Yes." Harry's expression turned grim.

"In the Park." Fergus opened his aunt's door to him fifteen minutes later.

Harry handed him his gloves and shrugged off his greatcoat.

"I.

a.s.sume my aunt is resting? "

"Indeed, sir. She's been laid down this hour and past."

"I won't disturb her--it's Mrs Babbacombe I wish to see."

"Ah." Fergus blinked, his expression blanking.

"I fear Mrs Babbacombe is engaged, sir."

Harry slowly turned his head until his gaze rested on Fergus's impa.s.sive countenance.

"Indeed?"

He waited; Fergus, to his relief, deigned to answer his unvoiced question without insisting on an embarra.s.sing prompt.

"She's in the back parlour--her office--with a Mr Mabberly. A well-spoken young gentleman--he's her agent, I understand."

"I see." Harry hesitated, then, quite sure Fergus understood only too well, dismissed him with a nod.

"No need to announce me." With that, he mounted the stairs, reining in his impatience enough to make the ascent at least appear idle. But when he gained the upper corridor, his strides lengthened. He paused with his hand on the parlour doork.n.o.b; he could hear muted voices within.