Blackstone shot to his feet. "What's the matter? Is she ill?" Bailey's sharp look was an admonishment-his use of the word "she" suggested a kind of familiarity that hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Lord Blackstone and I were just remarking that Miss Mirren is usually such an early riser," said Bailey, who also came to his feet. His calmly delivered remark reminded Blackstone to have a care. Part of him wanted to say "sod it." Who the hell cared if Emily's maid suspected anything untoward? But Bailey was right. This mission-and future ones-depended on absolute inscrutability.

"She isn't abed, my lord, that's the problem." Angela thrust a note forward. He stared at the maid, feeling-again, quite irrationally-that if he didn't take the letter, nothing bad could happen to Emily.

It was Bailey reaching for the note that brought him back to his senses. "Thank you," Blackstone said to the maid, "that will be all." Then, as much as he'd wanted to avoid reading the note a moment ago, now he had to know what it said. His fingers burned as he lunged for Bailey.

"Easy," said his friend. "Take it."

He tore open the seal, and his eyes raced over the now-familiar handwriting.

Lord Blackstone, I know this will all come as a great shock, but Mr. Talbot informs me that Billy is on a ship docked in Bristol, bound for America in a few days' time. We-Mr. Talbot has revealed himself an unexpected ally-have gone to fetch him.

I know you will be upset, but please understand that I had no choice. We will be perfectly safe and Mr. Talbot is practically my brother-in-law, so there can be no impropriety. We will be back in London in under a week, and I will send for Angela-and write to you with news of my success.

Mr. Talbot wants no one but me to know of his sympathies and exhorted me not to tell you anything. In fact, it pains me that I break a promise to him in writing to you now. But I could not simply leave without telling you-you have been so kind to me.

Yours sincerely, E. Mirren "What is it?" Bailey asked.

Blackstone looked down at the hand his friend had laid on his arm. It seemed a foreign object he didn't recognize, a signal from another world, one he struggled toward, even as he was held back by limbs made of lead. He handed Bailey the note. "She's gone."

Bailey scanned the letter. "You can overtake them."

Blackstone shook his head. "I can't leave."

"What? What is wrong with you, man?"

This was worse, that's what was wrong. Worse than watching Alec die. At the time, it had seemed an unendurable torture. But letting Emily careen toward a confrontation with her abuser was beyond his worst imaginings. She would not succeed. He wanted to believe in her, wanted to share her cheery confidence, but she underestimated Manning.

And, a part of him protested, she had underestimated him, too. She should have awakened him. He would have helped-wouldn't he?

The shameful answer to that question surfaced, and he sat with a thud in front of his plate as his skin began to tighten. Though he'd always known he was bound for hell, he hadn't foreseen that it would look like this. But here it was. Hell: an unremarkable breakfast room without Emily Mirren in it.

"You've got to go," Bailey said. "God knows what's going to happen to them. She can't just stroll onto a ship crawling with men who work for Manning and expect to walk off with a slave."

"Don't you think I know that?" he said angrily.

"And why is Talbot suddenly so willing to risk all to help her?" Bailey voiced the very thoughts that were ripping through Blackstone's mind.

"What choice do I have? Le Cafard might be on the next boat."

Bailey stared at Blackstone for a moment, then joined him at the table, angling his chair so he could better see Blackstone's face. "You poor bastard." When Blackstone didn't respond, he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they were trained directly on Blackstone's. "Do you love her?"

"Yes."

It was a single word, one he had not recognized as the truth until the moment it slipped from his mouth. But as soon as he said it, he knew it had been true for a very long time. "Yes," he said again, testing the sound. Though it was his voice forming the word, he could have sworn he heard her voice in his head, saying it in unison with him. "Yes."

"Then you don't have a choice. You have to go."

"I've spent years waiting for Le Cafard, for this moment. That's what this is about, this bloody business. It takes everything from you." Rage constricted his throat. How dare Bailey try to talk him into giving into sentiment? "I told you that," he said bitterly. "Denning told us both that when we joined."

"It doesn't have to be you. I'll wait for the boat."

Bailey might as well have splashed water in his face. Of course it had to be him. Blackstone versus Le Cafard. That's what it was all about. That's what he'd promised. "When I was in France, when his men had me-"

"Yes, I know," Bailey waved a hand dismissively. "You vowed revenge. He hurt you, and you want to hurt him back. But here's the thing-are you going to make the same mistake all over again?"

"What?" Blackstone sputtered, his fevered mind unable to keep up with Bailey, who was speaking in riddles. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about giving up everything for your bloody cause." Bailey's voice was low, but Blackstone could hear the barely controlled anger in it. "You've been doing it for years. Ever since you made that blasted promise to Captain Mirren. It was one thing before, but now you're going to give up love, too? You're going to give up everything so you can meet a fucking boat?"

Somebody had to do this work, he wanted to say. It's what he'd always believed, what he'd always told his men. There were promises to keep, and somebody had to be responsible for that.

And if he didn't have his work, what did he have?

For a long moment, Blackstone heard only the ticking of the clock on the mantle.

Then he stood and tore open the door. "Stanway!" He nearly crashed into the butler in the foyer. "I need a carriage. I need to leave. Now."

Chapter Twenty.

As he sped toward Bristol, Blackstone was engulfed by that same odd lightening sensation he'd experienced twice before. First, the night he and Emily had swum together and, more recently, at their picnic, when he'd confessed about her father. It was the cessation of effort, the clearing of vision, the surrender of burdens. Each time he felt it, there was more: buoyancy, emancipation, absolution.

Freedom.

It had been there all along-that was the remarkable thing. All he'd ever had to do was reach out and take it.

He huffed a bitter chuckle as he watched the green fields speed by. The irony was that he wasn't free to embrace this newfound liberation. Because without her, it didn't mean anything. She'd given it to him, his absolving water nymph, and he knew with utter certainty that without her, freedom was impossible.

He leaned forward in his seat as if he could will the carriage to move faster. He tried to tell himself that she would be all right. She was smart. She wouldn't do anything foolish-would she? The truth was, he didn't know. Billy was her biggest weakness, the crusade around which she'd shaped her life-and he knew all too well what that was like. Unable to get comfortable, he shifted in his seat.

Forcing his mind into submission, he reminded himself that he had time on his side. They couldn't be more than half a day ahead of him, and he was bound to be gaining on them. His carriage was new and well sprung, and his team of horses powerful. They, on the other hand, would have had to leave the manor on foot, and secure a conveyance of some sort in Maldon.

As the hours and miles slipped past, Blackstone occasionally found his mind wandering back to the estate, wondering if the boat would come while he was gone. He was shocked by how easy it had been, when it came down to it, to give up Le Cafard. When the veil lifted and the mist cleared, he could see that he'd given his nemesis too much power. The blackguard did not deserve the pomp and drama that Blackstone had always imagined surrounding his apprehension. Giving an enemy spy a king's welcome had never made any sense-he could see that now.

He could see everything now. He pulled the inaccurate miniature of Emily out of his pocket and pressed it to his lips. Then he leaned forward in the carriage. It couldn't hurt.

With a defeated sigh, Emily pulled her head back into her room. Craning her neck for the last hour to try to see what was going on in the inn's yard had done nothing but give her a crick.

Honestly, Mr. Talbot was worse than Eric. He'd refused to allow her to accompany him to the ship. He'd only been going to do some reconnaissance, he'd said, to find out who was guarding the ship, where Mr. Manning was, and, he hoped, whether Billy was aboard.

It didn't seem that he planned to let her do anything besides wait in this tiny, dingy room. She plopped onto her back on the lumpy bed. As annoyed as she was, she kept catching herself grinning. Kicking her legs in a little jig in the air, she shivered. Soon, Billy would be free! Sally would be able to embrace her son again, and they would all be together.

She rolled over onto her stomach and rested her chin on her hands. She hoped Eric hadn't been too angry when he read her note. What was he was doing right now? The one thing that would make everything perfect was if he would just- No. It didn't bear thinking about.

She must be ruthless with herself-she was not some green girl. She'd had her chance. A chance she very rightly didn't take because he'd been asking for all the wrong reasons.

Back at the window, she massaged her neck as she stretched again to watch the square. Billy and Sally. They were her family, and they would be enough.

They would have to be.

As he made his way through the docks, Blackstone feared his hastily assembled disguise was not as convincing as he'd hoped. He'd traded his coat for that of a seller of meat pies, and though the coarse woolen fabric covered his fine lawn shirt, he hadn't been able to do much about his legs. Not wanting to spare the time to beg, buy or steal a full getup, he'd settled for roughing up his breeches with dirt and scuffing his previously gleaming Hessians. Though Stan would have had a fit of the vapors, the way people stared at him suggested that his haphazard efforts had fallen short.

It wasn't that he feared anyone would recognize him-no one would expect a peer to be strolling the docks, which stank to high heaven since the new floating harbor functioned as an open latrine-it was more that they would know he didn't belong. His few attempts to initiate conversation that might have steered him in the right direction fell short.

It was the slight change in the air that alerted him. He whirled just as a boy was about to make off with his coin purse. Allowing himself a small flash of admiration-the boy was good-he grabbed the lad and hauled him over to the edge of the dock. He didn't have time to be slowed by pickpockets, so he only intended to scare the little criminal as he dangled him over the water.

"I can swim," the boy said defiantly.

Blackstone huffed a laugh and set the captive back on his feet. "You can swim, fine, but can you survive that sludge?" He inclined his head toward the dirty water.

"It's not very deep here, anyway. I know everything about these docks, and I'm telling you, if you want to drown me, this is not the right spot."

"All right." Blackstone pulled a guinea out of his purse. "If you know everything about these docks, show me which ships are bound for America, and you can have this."

The boy's eyes almost popped out of his head. He'd probably never seen a guinea before. But just as quickly, those eyes grew wary. "Why would you pay that much?"

Blackstone answered with the truth. "Because there is something on one of these ships that is worth more to me than a guinea."

"How much more?"

"Show me the right ship, and you might find out."

Grinning, the boy motioned Blackstone to follow him. "There're two ships docked now headed for America. One is a passenger ship, set to leave next week. The other-the Ruby-leaves tomorrow. It's full of glass and textiles mostly. And some furniture."

"How do you know all this?"

"They call me the mayor."

"Who does?"

The boy shrugged. "Folks."

Blackstone marveled as "the mayor" led him directly to what had to be Manning's ship.

"It's a Baltimore Clipper," said the mayor. "Small, but fast."

"I thought the slavers used Baltimore Clippers," Blackstone probed. "The better to outrun the West Africa Squadron?"

Another shrug. "They're also good for fragile cargo, and there's a lot of glassware on this one."

"You've done well." Blackstone flipped the boy a coin. "You have two choices now. You can take your money and disappear, or you can stay here and watch this ship until I get back, and I'll give you another guinea."

Blackstone took the boy's astonished grin for assent. "If you see a lady coming or going-either of her own volition or under duress-you come find me. Give me the name of an inn nearby. A decent one."

"Llandoger Trow. It's on King Street, north off Queen Square, near the Customs House."

Blackstone nodded and turned on his heel. It was time to turn himself into a proper sailor.

Blackstone didn't have much use for God. As far as he was concerned, the devil was the chap with his hands in human affairs. He might have changed his mind, though, when he walked into the taproom at Llandoger Trow and saw John Talbot nursing a pint at one end of the bar.

Blackstone slid onto the stool next to the man. "Where is she?" He kept his tone neutral, assuming that his mere presence would be enough to convey the urgency of his query.

Talbot's face registered no surprise beyond a slight lifting of the eyebrows. When he did not answer, Blackstone abandoned neutrality and slammed his fist on the bar. "Where is she?"

"I don't have to justify myself to you."

"How could you just take her here? Lead her into danger?"

The man remained unruffled. "You might as well say she took me. I'm the one risking everything to get that bloody slave of hers off that ship."

"Then why do it? Why are you here at all?"

"I might ask you the same question." Talbot took a sip of his ale, as if they were old friends out for a night at the pub.

Reminding himself that throttling the man wouldn't further his cause, Blackstone said, "I have my reasons."

"Lord Blackstone, I find myself rather pressed for time at the moment, but allow me to make one thing abundantly clear. If those reasons don't culminate in your marriage to my wife's oldest friend, I will call you out. I don't care who you are."

Blackstone had to give the man credit-he had backbone. And he seemed to have Emily's best interests in mind. What he didn't understand was why. "So you're Miss Mirren's champion all of a sudden? Why? And don't tell me because she's your wife's friend. Where were you before? Where were you when he was-"

"Sometimes a man snaps, Lord Blackstone," Talbot interrupted, his voice finally beginning to sound agitated. It rose as he added, "A man can only stand by and watch so much until one day, he just can't do it anymore."

The honesty of the declaration rendered Blackstone mute.

When Talbot spoke again, he'd gained control of his voice. Turning to face Blackstone straight on for the first time, he said, "Now you."

Looking straight into Talbot's brown eyes, Blackstone said, "Because I love her. Because I'm going to marry her. Because I'm going to help her rescue her best friend."

Talbot smiled.

Discomfited, for that was the last reaction he'd expected, Blackstone opened his mouth to say more, but found he didn't know what came next. It didn't seem to matter, because Talbot slid back from the bar and laid a coin on it. "I'd better go get her then. Wait here."

Flagging down the barkeep, Blackstone ordered a tumbler of whiskey and let its fire streak down his throat before letting his mind revisit what he'd just said.