After they'd docked, she'd dawdled on the ship because she'd stupidly supposed he'd relent and summon her to Bramwell's cabin before he departed. But he hadn't, so there was no reason to linger, but she couldn't force herself to leave.

She had no money and nowhere to go. And she was very, very sad. She tiptoed to the rail and peeked over, and from her higher vantage point, she could observe the whole scene. Tristan fought through the throng, and ultimately, he arrived at a coach. A fetching young woman greeted him, and he kissed her on the lips.

If the Lord Jesus had suddenly appeared in the sky, Harriet couldn't have been more stunned. A wave of jealousy swept over her, then a wave of hurt.

In all the times they'd been together, in all the times they'd talked and loved and reminisced, he'd sworn there was no one special in his life.

The lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d!

Reality was a bitter tonic to swallow, and she stumbled down to the wharf, barely able to maintain her footing. Immediately, an obnoxious drunkard hustled up to her, the odor of alcohol strong on his breath.

"Did you come off the ship?" he inquired.

"Yes."

"Is Harcourt's doxy still on board?"

"His doxy?"

"Yes," another man said. "We heard she lured him to his doom-like one of those mermaid creatures the sailors fear."

She was peppered with questions: "Is she beautiful...What's she wearing...Is she dressed or naked?"

They were leering and offensive, apparently watching for her-for no purpose she could fathom-but they were expecting a flamboyant and gaudy person, so they didn't realize who she was.

"I don't know anything about Captain Harcourt or his acquaintances," she claimed, and she hurried away, traveling in the opposite direction from Harcourt. She was so intent on escape that, at first, she didn't notice someone calling to her.

"Harriet! Harriet!"

She whirled around and-to her astonishment-she saw her cousin, Nigel.

While she'd previously found him to be fussy and cruel, she was so relieved to see a familiar face that her dislike vanished in a thrice.

"Nigel? What are you doing here?"

"The gossips kept saying that Harcourt's companion was named Harriet. I don't know why, but I took a chance that it might be you."

"Oh, Nigel, thank you, thank you. That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

She staggered, her knees weak, and he reached out to steady her.

"I'm here to take you to Brookhaven."

"But Uncle Richard! He won't-"

"My father died, so the estate is mine now, and I get to decide who resides there. Mother and I want you to come home."

"You're joking."

"No. And Helen is there. She's waiting to welcome you."

"Helen is there? I'd hoped to find her, but after so much time has pa.s.sed, I had no idea where she might be."

"Don't fret, Harriet. I've got everything under control."

With a palm at the small of her back, he urged her down the street until they'd left the uproar far behind.

"I'm so glad you came for me, Nigel. I'm just so glad."

"I thought you might be."

There was a carriage parked on the corner, and as they proceeded toward it, a man climbed out. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place him.

"Here she is, Mr. Radley," Nigel declared. "As promised."

Radley studied Harriet and grinned. "Harriet Stewart, you've led me on a merry chase."

"Who are you? What's happening?"

She started to back away, but Nigel grabbed her.

"Don't fight it, Harriet," Nigel said. "You can't win."

"Win what? What are you talking about?"

"Get in nice and quiet like," Radley commanded, "and you won't be harmed."

"Harmed!" Nigel scoffed. "No one is to be harmed. Just take her and go. I'll be by shortly to pick up my money."

Harriet gasped. "Your money."

"Yes," Nigel replied, calm as can be. "Did I neglect to introduce you to Mr. Radley? He works for Bentley Struthers. You're a dangerous felon, and I'm collecting the reward for your capture."

Harriet whipped away and tried to run, but Radley was on her in a second, her wrists bound with a tight rope.

She glared at Nigel. "You despicable little weasel."

"Sticks and stones, Harriet. You shouldn't have been so mean to me when we were growing up. I never liked you."

"I'll get even for this," she vowed. "If it's the last thing I ever do, I'll get even."

"You never will." He stared at her wrists and laughed. "I'll give Helen your regards. So sorry you'll miss the wedding, but it appears you'll be...tied up."

"Wedding? What wedding?"

"Helen has had some bad luck too, but it's over. She's marrying me. Goodbye."

He sauntered off, and though she attempted to lunge at him, to break free and pummel him into the ground, Radley simply scooped her up and tossed her into his coach. She landed with a thud as he shut the door and raced away with her locked inside.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

"It's strange to be back."

"I can imagine."

"I feel so different, yet everything here is exactly the same."

"You'll get used to it. You've only been home for a day. Give it some time."

James was relaxed in a chair by the fire, drinking a brandy and gazing at Tristan. His brother's return still seemed bizarre, and James kept expecting to awaken and find that he'd been dreaming.

"I'm glad you wouldn't let Bramwell give up on me," Tristan said.

"He certainly wanted to. He pestered me constantly not to waste the money."

"A true friend!" Tristan chuckled. "I suppose the search cost you a fortune."

"You'd suppose rightly."

"And we lost the ship and cargo to boot."

James waved a hand. "It was insured. We've recouped most of the loss."

"How about our investors?"

"They've been reimbursed. They're happy; don't worry about them."

"I'll pay back every penny," Tristan said. "Once I marry Miranda, it's the first thing I'll do with her dowry."

"I told you not to worry. I've been playing cards more often than usual. I've made sure I'm winning."

"But you have so many other projects that need funded. I hate to have you frittering away a.s.sets on my behalf. I'm not your burden; I'm your partner."

"Tristan, you're my brother. I'd have moved heaven and earth to have you found. Cost was the last thing on my mind."

Tristan stared into his gla.s.s and frowned. "You heard who attacked us."

"Yes. The wily little b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Did Bramwell tell you his name?"

"No."

"Jean Pierre."

"You're joking."

"No."

Jean Pierre was a French version of John Peter. Their father's name was John Peter Harcourt. Would their mother have named her b.a.s.t.a.r.d son after the man she'd deserted? It made no sense.

"He'd been following us," Tristan said, "although I have no idea how he picked up my trail."

"Don't torment yourself. You couldn't have known he was out there. We both thought he was dead, remember?"

"I should have been more careful."

"Could he have been lying about his ident.i.ty?"

Tristan shrugged. "He looked just like Trent, just like Phillip Sinclair."

"It galls me to have a blood relative in common with them."

"Yes, it does. Do you want me to hunt him down?" Tristan inquired. "Do you want me to kill him?"

James sipped his brandy, and he pondered long and hard. "Shall we blame the son for the sins of the mother?"

"A good question."

"And if he is our half-sibling, it would be awfully Biblical to murder him."

"Cain and Abel and all that?"

"Yes."

"Then I don't guess we ought."

"I'd rather kill the scoundrel who sired him," James said.

"So would I," Tristan agreed.

James snorted, knowing they'd never slay Trent. For all Trent's wicked ways, he was a peer of the realm, as was James. A British earl didn't go about murdering another British earl. It wasn't the Middle Ages; they weren't barbarians.

No, James had other plans for Trent, financial plans that involved total ruin.

The prior week, he'd nearly lured Trent into a card game, but with the excitement over Tristan's rescue, the match had been cancelled. But there would be other times, other games.

"I suppose I should push forward with my wedding," Tristan offered. As if the notion was distasteful, he wrinkled his nose. "What do you think? Should I apply for a Special License?"

"Are you ready to marry? I mean, you just got back. Wouldn't you like to settle in?"

"We need the money, and Miranda is here in London. We could have it accomplished with very little effort."