"They were here to see Helen and Harriet."

"But why?"

"Their father, the Earl of Trent, is looking for them."

"You don't say." A shrewd gleam came into Barbara's eye.

At age thirty-six, she had a deceptive air about her that made her appear to be a tragic figure, a damsel in distress, but it was all a ruse. She was as tough and cunning as any woman alive.

Nigel had her flair for melodrama, and he yearned to exploit his personal charm to become a dashing man-about-town, and it was simply a crime that he didn't have the resources to carry on as he deserved.

He'd received an inheritance from his father, but it had been very small and swiftly spent, and he was anxious to wed a rich bride. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances, a gentleman of his status shouldn't have had a problem, but there had been several incidents in the neighborhood, a few jealous girls who'd done things with him that they oughtn't have, and because of it, his reputation had suffered.

Parents who should have been begging for a union were wary, so he had to persuade someone from outside the area, someone who wasn't cognizant of recent events. "I was thinking about Lord Trent," Nigel said.

"So was I," Barbara replied.

"I've heard that he offers dowries to his illegitimate daughters."

"He's reported to be extremely generous"-Barbara grinned from ear to ear-"and I'll bet I can guess exactly what you're going to propose."

"I'll bet you can, too. I should marry Helen or Harriet."

"Yes, darling, yes! We'll keep it all in the family. It's always best when it's done that way."

Barbara had often suggested such a match, but previously, he hadn't been as financially strapped as he currently was.

"And if I wed one of them, we could finally get Attorney Thumberton to disburse the trust fund that Grandfather set aside for them."

"I never understood why your father couldn't break the trust terms. It's outrageous that your grandfather's will was so carefully drawn. When the twins' mother caused him so much heartache, I never could fathom his affection for them."

Nigel's grandfather had provided for the twins-not a lot, but a fair amount-and when Nigel's father had learned of the bequest, he'd been livid. He'd spent the last years of his life, trying to redirect the money for his own use, but Thumberton was a wily, ethical character who'd thwarted his every scheme.

The account had languished, acc.u.mulating interest and growing in size, with Nigel and his father happy to let Thumberton believe that the twins had vanished and couldn't be located.

As with his father, Nigel intended to secure the windfall for himself, and a wedding was the perfect solution.

Helen and Harriet were not going to have that money! They were not going to marry outside the family and take it away. Not if Nigel and Barbara had anything to say about it.

"I'll probably ask Helen," he announced.

"She's much more agreeable," Barbara concurred. "Harriet is too coa.r.s.e and unruly. She'd make a horrid wife."

"I should travel to London to speak with Helen immediately."

"Yes. Fetch her home before Mr. Sinclair stumbles on her. If Trent's people find her first, they could ruin everything."

"Do we still have the information about where she's working?"

"It's in my writing desk."

Contrary to the rumors they'd spread, Nigel and Barbara were constantly aware of the twins' situations.

"Just imagine it, Mother. I'll have Trent's money, and I'll have Grandfather's money, too. We'll be back on track in a snap." "I'm so relieved." Barbara preened. "What a smart, clever boy you are!"

She pulled him into a tight hug and ruffled his hair as if he was still a lad in short pants.

"Find her!" Bentley Struthers seethed. "Find her and bring her to me."

"Where would you like me to search?"

"How the h.e.l.l should I know? You claim to be a detective, Mr. Radley. How about doing some detecting?"

"I plan to. It would simply help to have some idea of where to begin. She'll hide out, but where would she go? Does she have relatives in the city? Friends? Acquaintances? A beau?"

"She was a housemaid! She meant no more to me than a gnat. I know nothing about her."

"I'll need to question your staff."

"You do that."

"From the looks of things"-Radley scrutinized Bentley's cuts and bruises, the st.i.tched gash on his cheek, the black and blue eyes-"she appears to be dangerous. I'll have to hire extra men to guarantee she doesn't hurt anyone else."

Bentley scowled. He could swear that Radley was laughing at his injuries, and he couldn't quite figure out himself how he'd been bested by the vicious sprite.

One minute, he'd been swept away by pa.s.sion, and the next, he'd been whacked unconscious and had awakened on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood. His head throbbed incessantly, and he felt as if he'd been trampled by a herd of wild horses.

"A large reward would be beneficial," Radley said.

"See to it."

"And I'll have to have notices printed, and employees to place them around town. I'll have to have people out on the street, following up on leads."

"I don't care who you hire. I don't care what it costs. Just bring her to me. If you catch her by the end of the week, I'll pay double your fee."

Radley tipped his hat and started out. At the last second, he glanced back. "I'm curious."

"About what?"

"Once we have her in custody, what will happen to her?"

"I have a personal score to settle-"

"You certainly do."

"-and when I'm finished, I'll turn her over to the authorities." Bentley nodded to a table by the door. "Peek in that bag."

Radley picked it up, opened it, and whistled softly. "That's an expensive necklace."

"Yes, it is. When you capture her, make sure you plant it on her. I'll insist that she was stealing it on the night she attacked me."

"She'll be branded a felon."

"Yes, she will."

"She'll be hanged." Radley wrinkled his nose, his displeasure clear. "You're a cold man, Mr. Struthers."

"I'm not paying you to judge my character, Radley. Nor am I paying you to like me. I'm paying you to find her. Now get going."

"Blast it all!" Harriet fumed.

She ripped the reward flyer from the lamppost, crumpled it into a ball, then ducked into a dark alley and ran.

Hiding for over a week, she'd avoided anyone who might recognize her while discreetly looking for Helen who was nowhere to be found.

The wanted posters were everywhere, the sketch of her likeness uncannily accurate. The money being offered was enormous, so once others realized who she was, they would be delighted to betray her, and she was confused about what to do.

At the moment, several ruffians were chasing her, and she stopped, hovering in the shadows, listening for footsteps. Hearing none, she cautiously sneaked out of the alley and began walking.

Suddenly, a man shouted, "There she is, Radley! I've got her!"

And the chase was on again.

Harriet knew how the rabbit felt when the hounds were after it. She took off, her speed hampered by her dress and shoes, but desperation kept her ahead of them.

She flitted one way, then another, winding through the coven of London's meanest neighborhoods, until she had no idea where she was. She was in a frantic state: alone, frightened, bewildered, and lost.

Ultimately, she rounded a corner only to discover that she'd arrived at the docks. As far as the eye could see, there were ships lined up in both directions.

During the day, the area was very busy, but it was late and quiet. Down the wharf, the door to a pub opened, and a pair of drunken sailors exited, singing. They staggered off, and Harriet breathed a sigh of relief, but her reprieve was over quickly.

Behind her, the same man said, "Did you see which way she went?"

"No. How about you?"

"No, but she's close. I can practically smell her."

Their boots tramped toward her, and she panicked.

What to do? she asked herself. What to do?

In front of her, a sailing ship was moored, its masts reaching up to the starry sky. The gangplank was down and unguarded, and the vessel appeared unoccupied.

She glanced to the right, to the left, then she raced up the gangplank, not pausing to consider whether it was a good decision or not, whether she could land herself in even more trouble or not. She reacted on impulse. If it was a mistake, she'd worry about it in the morning.

The deck was deserted, and she searched for a spot to hide, but there didn't seem to be any. The s.p.a.ce was neatly tended, everything folded and stacked.

At the back, there was a longboat, a tarp draped over it, and she tiptoed to it and climbed in. To her surprise, it contained a blanket and other supplies, but it was too dark to see exactly what.

She snuggled down under the blanket, her cheek resting on her hands, and she lay still as a rock, calming her ragged nerves. She took stock: She was alive; she'd escaped from the brigands who were after her; she was warm and dry and concealed in a furtive location.

Right then, it was more than enough.

Her eyes drifted shut, and she slept.

CHAPTER FIVE.

"A twenty-pound bet!" a man scoffed. "With those cards? Gad, are you insane?"

"It's only money," another responded, and a chorus of male laughter rang out.

Helen skidded to a halt, not sure she'd heard correctly.

She was near the rear parlor where, that first day, she'd come upon Westwood's party, and it certainly sounded as if a game was in progress. But when he'd brought her home from Mrs. Ford's, he'd promised there would be no more wagering in the house.

She tiptoed over to the door and peeked in.

There-bold as bra.s.s-was a group of men, seated around the same table, cards arrayed, coins stacked in neat piles. Westwood was in the thick of it, his coat off, his sleeves rolled back. There was a gla.s.s of liquor by his right hand, a cheroot smoldering in his left. He looked decadent and confident and thoroughly at ease.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon.

Helen stifled a gasp and lurched away, unseen.

She felt like a fool, attired in the green dress he'd been so anxious to have her accept as a gift, and she could swear her heart was breaking.

Why? Why would it be?

For goodness sake, he was her employer! In that capacity, he'd proved he could be a dictatorial lout, and with the scene she'd just witnessed, he'd exposed himself as an untrustworthy liar, too. She couldn't rely on him. She couldn't believe a word he said.

She raced to her bedchamber, and for many minutes, she paced, trying to decide what to do, when she already knew the answer.

Westwood was a bachelor and normally would have been ent.i.tled to live however he chose, but with Miranda and Helen in residence, he couldn't behave so outrageously. No decent woman should have to tolerate the presence of gamblers.

Even Mrs. Ford would have to agree. If she didn't, Helen would find work elsewhere. She'd apply to another placement service-where the owner had better sense and wasn't in awe of the very handsome, very dynamic Lord Westwood.

The kiss he'd bestowed had altered their relationship. They were friends now, and something more, although there was no term to describe it precisely. Yet it was clear that he would never act any differently than he was at that very moment, and Helen refused to suffer the misery he'd inflict if she stayed on.

Her status as Miranda's whipping girl was bad enough. If she had to spend every second bracing for Westwood's next betrayal, she'd never survive. So she couldn't remain.

In a temper, she yanked off the new clothes, petulantly tossing them in a pile on the floor. Then she walked to the wardrobe and retrieved her old, worn gray dress, and as she did, she paused to run her fingers over the other gowns that had been delivered.

They were tasteful and fashionable, and they fit her perfectly. The garments made her feel pretty, and she'd been lured into loving them, both because of their beauty, but also because of the ident.i.ty of the giver.