"Doing what?"

"She's working as a housemaid for a man named Bentley Struthers."

Westwood wrinkled up his nose. "He's an a.s.s."

"So I've heard, and I worry about her. I haven't visited her in weeks, and I'd like to check on her. I'd like to tell her about Nigel."

He frowned and dithered, then said, "Two hours. And you'll go in my carriage and take a footman with you."

"I'm perfectly capable of walking."

"I realize that, but you'll go in my carriage or you won't go."

She glared at him, but she knew she couldn't change his mind.

"All right," she relented, "but not one of the grand coaches. Something small, so I won't have people staring at me."

"What's wrong with having people stare?"

"I hate being a spectacle. I'm a normal person."

"And I'm not?"

"No, you're definitely not normal."

"Ha!" he huffed. "I believe I've been insulted."

He looked so petulant that she laughed, then rose on tiptoe and initiated a kiss of her own.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"For being kind to me."

He was embarra.s.sed by the compliment, and it occurred to her that perhaps he wasn't praised often. She thought he led a lonely life, that he had many acquaintances, but no genuine friends, and while she had found a friend that day, maybe he had, too.

He went to the door, instructing the butler to have a carriage brought round, to have a footman accompany her.

As the vehicle arrived, he escorted her out and helped her in himself. He dawdled, silently gazing at her, and she suffered from the most burning urge to touch him. She stuck her hand out the window, just the barest amount so that-if they were being observed-no one would see. He reached out and gave her fingers a quick squeeze, then stepped away.

"Two hours," he said, "and if you're not back, I'll come for you."

He signaled the driver, and the coach lumbered off.

Miranda glanced out an upstairs window, and the sight that greeted her was alarming.

James was standing in the drive and chatting with Helen Stewart as if they were bosom companions. He a.s.sisted her into a carriage, without waiting for a footman to do it for him.

Miranda had a clear view of their faces. Their expressions were filled with such painful longing that there was only one inference to be made: They were in love.

How could it be? How could it have happened? They were never alone; they hardly socialized.

She had to be mistaken!

She continued to spy on them, stunned as Miss Stewart reached out and James gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. He murmured a private, tender comment, then moved away.

Shocked to her core, Miranda bit down a gasp and stumbled off.

Nigel strolled slowly toward his cab that was parked down the street. He was fuming, but in case anyone inside Westwood's house was watching, he didn't want them to notice.

With the best of intentions, he'd called on Helen to propose marriage. She'd have been mistress of Brookhaven-in line of authority after his mother of course-and what did he get for his effort?

He'd been insulted by Westwood and snubbed by Helen.

Westwood had treated Nigel as if he was a buffoon, and he'd shown no deference to Nigel's position or family.

Helen had been even worse. Though she hadn't seen Nigel in years, she hadn't evinced the slightest excitement over his appearance.

If he couldn't lure her away from Westwood's employ, if he never had the opportunity to flirt and coerce her, how would he convince her to be his bride?

He needed the money Trent would bestow on her, just as he needed the dowry her grandfather had provided. He needed it!

There had to be a way to get her off by herself. He merely had to find it.

He approached the hackney and was about to climb inside, when he noted a handbill nailed to a lamppost.

WANTED, the paper said in big letters, information regarding the whereabouts of VIOLENT FELON, Harriet Stewart.

The name was common enough, so it might have been any woman, but there was a good sketch of her, along with a physical description that matched Harriet exactly. She was being sought on numerous charges including theft, a.s.sault with a deadly weapon, and... attempted murder?

Agog and fascinated, he read the doc.u.ment over and over.

Harriet had always been a troublemaker, so he wasn't surprised by the allegations, but even for Harriet, it seemed rather excessive.

The words on the bottom were most intriguing: LARGE REWARD OFFERED!

Nigel grinned, tore the poster from its mooring, and tucked it in his coat.

"Excuse me," Helen said. "Might I ask you a question?"

"Harriet! What are you doing?"

Helen pushed back the hood on her cloak. "I'm not Harriet. I'm her twin sister, Helen."

She'd been loitering at the gate to Bentley Struthers's mansion, hoping a servant might exit on an errand, and she'd about given up when a maid had emerged from behind the house, a basket on her arm.

"I'm Abigail," the girl said. "You're mad to come here!"

"What do you mean?"

Abigail peeked over her shoulder, checking to see if they were being observed, and she seemed terrified.

"What if you're spotted? You look just like her. What if they think you are her?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You don't know? You haven't heard?"

"No."

Helen's heart began to pound.

"Gad, it's all over London."

"What is?"

"Bentley nearly raped her"-Helen gasped-"but she fought him off and fled. But that's not the story they're telling."

"What are they telling?"

"They're claiming she stole some expensive jewelry, and when Bentley went to stop her, she almost killed him."

"Harriet? She's accused of...of...trying to murder Bentley Struthers?"

"Yes." Tears welled into Abigail's eyes. "I was with her that night-right before it happened. She was in the kitchen by herself, and he caught her there. It's all my fault. If I'd gone with her, I might have..."

Her voice trailed off, her confession at an end.

"Have you any notion of where she might be?" Helen inquired.

"No, but they're searching for her. If she's captured, she'll be hanged."

"Hanged!"

"Yes."

Behind them, the door to the mansion opened, and Abigail jumped and hurried down the street. Helen followed her, and at the corner, Abigail halted and ripped a handbill from a lamppost.

"Read this," she said.

Helen quickly scanned the doc.u.ment. "Oh, no..."

"They're all over the city, so if you have any idea where she might be, you need to find her first."

Abigail glanced over, and a Struthers's carriage was about to come through the gate. She blanched.

"Don't stop by here again," she warned. "If you do, I won't speak with you."

"Wait!" Helen begged.

"And were I you, I wouldn't let Bentley know that Harriet has a sister. For G.o.d's sake, pull up your hood and hide that blond hair."

Abigail turned and ran.

CHAPTER TEN.

Tristan opened the door to his cabin and tiptoed in.

It was very late, and he was exhausted. He worked long and odd hours, which was what he loved about sailing. No two days were ever the same.

There was no moon, so it was very dark, and he walked to the table and lit a candle.

Harriet was over on the bunk, sleeping on her side, her hands folded together and tucked under her cheek. She looked young and sweet, as if an angel had flown into his bed, and the notion made him grin. She was definitely no angel, but on seeing her there, resting so peacefully, his pulse raced with elation.

She wasn't like any female he'd ever met. She was brash and sa.s.sy and tough, but vulnerable, too. There was something about her that had him considering things he shouldn't be considering.

As a bachelor and a sailor, when he stumbled on a pretty girl, he wasn't immune, though his s.e.xual partners were usually wh.o.r.es in port towns.

Harriet wasn't a wh.o.r.e, so what should he do with her?

She delivered a spice and humor to his existence that he hadn't realized was missing, and after coming to know her, he was questioning everything.

He'd been eager to wed Miranda, eager to have her money. He'd planned to build a fleet of ships with it, to establish an import company that would stabilize his and James's situation.

He refused to be in dire financial straits ever again, so marrying Miranda-or someone just like her-was his only option. But now, with Harriet in the picture, he was having second thoughts. His future as Miranda's husband stretched like the road to Hades.

He sighed, knowing it was pointless to compare the two women. It was like comparing apples and oranges, and when it didn't matter, why waste the mental energy?

Miranda would be his bride, and Harriet would be his...what?

He had no idea.

Needing to be shed of his saber and pistols, he sat in a chair and removed them, then he locked them in his trunk. While he didn't think Harriet would shoot or stab him, he wasn't taking any chances.

After stripping to his trousers, he went to the wash basin and smoothed a cool cloth over his heated skin. The climate was growing warmer, and soon, the temperature would be uncomfortably hot. He'd rarely wear a shirt, and the prospect of being around Harriet in a constant state of undress was disturbing and exciting.

He finished his bath, made some notes in the log, and all the while, he kept watching her. She didn't stir.

She, too, was sweltering, and she'd disrobed to her chemise, which was a surprise. Whenever he arrived in the room, she was always fully attired, so he was delighted to have her so scantily covered.

The sight brought to a head the issue of an affair, rattling loose any self-discipline he still possessed. The trip to Italy was long and slow, and it would be impossible to avoid her for the duration. Why restrain himself?