Sighing, she returned to the desk. Perhaps a list. At home, she was a devoted list-maker. Whether it was simply a list of mundane tasks she needed to accomplish or a collection of points she wanted to make in a column, she found that an orderly list of items inked onto paper somehow set her mind free.

This week I. Finish the dratted column!

a. Post to Mr. Todmorden II. Pre-write column for next edition-Somersett case? Registration? Decide soon because a. Post early to Mr. Todmorden to clear rest of week for investigation of Mr. M.

III. That route to America might incriminate him. How to find out more?

a. Perhaps Mr. T?

b. Is the red book here?

IV. Billy. Is his still in the mill?

There. She folded the paper into a small square and tucked it into her bodice. A series of discrete tasks to perform and decisions to make that would add up to victory. She shivered a little, thinking about what success would mean. In addition to bringing down Mr. Manning, it might, she prayed, lead her to Billy. Revenge would be sweet-she was not a saint, after all-but Billy was the reason she was doing this.

There was no light under Miss Mirren's door that night when Blackstone approached Bailey's room just past midnight, a decanter of brandy tucked under his arm. Most of the guests had retired early in anticipation of a morning outing to the shore. With luck, he and Bailey could make Mr. Manning see the potential of the cove. The region was full of estuaries and waterways that led inland from the ocean. There was no shortage of routes to London-the ultimate market for most smugglers. But his cove had the advantage of being extremely sheltered. He'd already been laying the groundwork by asking Manning questions about his business, displaying enthusiastic interest in the smallest operational details. Bailey's assignment was to gossip, to hint that Blackstone was staving off creditors.

"Don't you ever sleep?" Bailey blinked as he stepped back to let Blackstone into the darkened room.

Blackstone ignored the question. "How did it go with him this evening?"

Bailey used Blackstone's taper to light several candles throughout the room. "I pointed out that you don't keep your own horses here and that you've worn the same coat two evenings in a row."

"It is not the same coat," Blackstone protested.

"I know! You have a closetful of black coats, I've no doubt, each distinguished by a slightly different thread, or size of button. Made by Bond Street's finest, I'm sure." He poured brandy into a glass and handed it to Blackstone. "You're going to object because I'm impugning your sartorial sense? You were fine that time I had that French heiress believing you impotent."

"Oh, for God's sake," said Blackstone, but he couldn't help smiling. Thankfully, they almost always completed their missions successfully, so the only people who ended up thinking him short of blunt-or poorly endowed in any other sense-found themselves on ships to Australia. Or swinging from the hangman's noose.

He took a sip of his drink. "I noticed Miss Mirren spent a great deal of time talking to Mr. Manning before dinner."

Bailey nodded. "Yes, and after we rejoined the ladies, too. I walked in with him and she joined us right away."

"And yet she seems to dislike him so intensely."

"What makes you say that?"

"Haven't you watched her?

Bailey took a slow draught of his drink, peering at Blackstone over the rim. "Apparently not as intently as you have."

"She gets herself all twisted into knots when he's around," said Blackstone, ignoring the insinuation. He was supposed to notice things. It was his job. "Why would Miss Mirren seek Mr. Manning out if he makes her so uneasy?"

"I can think of a reason."

When Blackstone didn't reply, Bailey continued, "Do you need it explained to you, old chap?"

Blackstone choked on a sip. "Good God, you're not saying she carries a tendre for him?"

"Try to remember what life was like before you lost your humanity, Blackstone." Though Bailey was jesting, the jibe held more truth than his friend knew. "It is perhaps counterintuitive, but sometimes when a woman harbors romantic feelings for a man, she hides it-maybe even from herself-under apparent disregard. And he is recently a widower, is he not?"

"She was his ward!"

Bailey shrugged, drained the remains of his glass, and stood. "I merely raise it as a possibility. But I agree it's an unlikely one. I shall endeavor to watch her more closely."

Blackstone wasn't sure he liked that idea, but he could hardly object, having raised the subject himself.

Bailey set his empty tumbler on the bedside table. "Some of us need to sleep. Not you, I understand, but the mere mortals among us must, from time to time, shut our eyes."

Dismissed, Blackstone headed to the library to take up his vigil.

Chapter Five.

Emily followed Lord Blackstone and Mr. Manning as they strolled the beach, twirling a piece of sea grass in her hand and trying very hard not to appear to be eavesdropping. So far all she could make out was that Mr. Manning admired the sheltered nature of the cove, and Lord Blackstone had found, since he inherited the title, that his brother and father before him had run up considerable debts. She was a little shocked to hear a peer so openly discussing financial matters, but Lord Blackstone was not the average peer. Lord Blackstone was not the average anything.

Her walking companion, Miss Gillian Smythe, seemed to agree. And this was the problem-Miss Smythe's excited chattering prevented Emily from devoting her full attention to eavesdropping. Unlike Sarah, Miss Smythe expected a conversation to be at least moderately two-sided.

"Why do you think he's decided to hold this party, Miss Mirren?" Miss Smythe asked, having just recounted her mother's theory that Lord Blackstone was finally turning his attention to the succession.

Because he has business with Mr. Manning. The thought flew into Emily's head out of nowhere as she watched the men walking together. "I'm sure I don't know." She smiled at the younger girl, who, dressed in a periwinkle walking dress and carrying a matching parasol, looked every bit the fresh-faced country maiden.

Please don't let him be involved in the slaving. Another rogue thought, arising without warning. Ruthlessly, she pushed it away. She had no reason to care what Lord Blackstone's interest in Mr. Manning was. She turned to Miss Smythe. "Perhaps you are right. How old is Lord Blackstone?"

"I think he is nearly thirty. Did you hear him compliment Anne on her pianoforte playing last night?"

"I can't say that I did, but she was very good! Do you play, too?"

"Not nearly as well as Anne." Miss Smythe sighed as she gazed at Lord Blackstone with open longing.

"Surely there are qualities more important than musical ability when it comes to settling on a wife? If, in fact, that's why you bring the matter up," Emily added hastily, fearing that perhaps she shouldn't have spoken so directly. She was not accustomed to the subtle rules and unspoken norms of polite society. It was impossible to keep track of what one was and was not supposed to talk about.

"Oh, do you think so, Miss Mirren?" Miss Smythe performed a little skip of excitement. "What qualities do you think are important in choosing a wife-or a husband?"

Emily glanced at Lord Blackstone. "I don't intend to marry, so I can only speak theoretically."

"You don't intend to marry?" The girl furrowed her brow as if this pronouncement had been delivered in a foreign tongue. "Why ever not?"

Emily suppressed a shudder as she thought back to poor Mrs. Manning's suffering. Even without the miserable example of the Mannings' marriage, she had Sally to think about-and, God willing, Billy. A husband would almost certainly interfere with her ability to protect her little family. Not to mention her reform work and the fact that what money she had was her own. To marry would mean saying good-bye to everything that was important to her.

But Miss Smythe didn't need to know all that. "I enjoy my freedom, that's all, and I don't plan to surrender it. It isn't worth it, to my mind."

"It's not worth children? A family?"

The question hit Emily like a physical blow. But no. It wasn't worth even that.

"All right," said Miss Smythe, "I shall press you more on this subject at a later time, but please do tell me the qualities you think important. Theoretically speaking, I mean."

"Hmm," Emily said, giving up on her eavesdropping, "A husband should be kind."

Miss Smythe nodded enthusiastically. "And handsome!"

"Handsome would not be unwelcome, but I don't think it's ultimately that important." Lord Blackstone was getting farther ahead of them, his long legs striding easily over the wet sand. "Besides, handsome is rather subjective, don't you find? The same person can appear differently at different times, in different light. No, I think the ideal husband would be kind, and would possess the ability to make one laugh."

"Laugh?"

"A lifetime is very long. It could get rather boring rubbing along with the same person day after day, don't you think? A little humor would help."

"I daresay you're right! What else?"

A husband should treat you like a person. A husband should be interested in what you have to say-and in what's inside your heart.

But no doubt she'd scandalized Miss Smythe enough for one day. So she settled for saying, "Love. Love is essential."

"A love match!" Miss Smythe exclaimed. "You would hold out for a love match!"

"Wouldn't you?" Emily asked, even though she knew most women were lucky if love grew after they married.

Miss Smythe gazed at Lord Blackstone. "I'm not an idealist like you." She patted Emily's hand. "But I will say a prayer tonight that you find a love match." When Emily started to protest, Miss Smythe winked and added, "Theoretically speaking, of course."

Blackstone let his candle burn out, gazing at the flame as it sputtered. It was too early to expect any sleep. In this limbo between the waking world and the fraught sleep that was to come, he sometimes couldn't tell what was real. This was when the ghosts visited, their accusations ringing in his ears. Willing the ghosts away, he ran through a list.

1. Manning needs to see some of the inland creeks. He knows the area is riddled with them, but he needs to see how easy it would be for his goods to flow to London. Tomorrow, perhaps.

2. Did they have enough men on the ground in Essex? Assuming Manning took the bait and started landing in his cove, they wouldn't necessarily recognize Le Cafard. They'd need men to trail anyone who came off Manning's boats. A lot of men.

3. He'd have to write to Whitehall with a report. They were close-he could feel it.

4. Confirm what the business in Bristol was. Miss Mirren is right -slaving is a crime, both moral and legal. Might as well have him brought up on charges of illegal slaving, too, when this is done.

5. Miss Mirren. It would be good to see her married. Mr. Leighton, though he'd seemed a prospect, is probably too dull for a lady like her.

6. Speak to Bailey about other prospects for Miss Mirren.

7. No, speak to Catharine about other prospects for Miss Mirren.

The door clicked open, and he sat bolt upright in his chair. Who would enter at this hour? Stanway had long since taken his leave, and the other servants knew not to bother him in the library. He peeked around the high back of his chair. Ah, who would dare to enter the library but the very person he'd insisted should make it her own?

She wore a white night rail covered by a dark wrap, the color of which he could not make out in the moonlight. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, and bare feet peeked out from beneath the hem of her gown. Carrying a book under one arm, she made her way into the shadowy, book-lined space. He watched her return the book to a shelf on the far side of the room. Then she turned, giving him a brief view of her face, lit by the branch of candles she carried. He drew in a quick breath, belatedly praying it had not been audible. She was nothing less than stunning when unguarded, without her furrowed brow. She looked exactly like the girl in Captain Mirren's miniature.

She must have, on a past visit, identified the book she wanted to read next, because she knew where she was going. After rolling a ladder to her target shelf, she began to climb. When she'd reached the correct height, she extended her arm toward the book she wanted. Ahh!-She could almost touch it. He held his breath as she leaned to one side to gather momentum. He could see that she meant to roll the ladder into range to reach the volume. She heaved and the ladder rolled. It moved only a few inches to the right, but it was enough. A small hand darted out and plucked the book. He bit his tongue.

She started down. He waited until her feet touched the ground, but only just. "What are you reading?"

She shrieked, though she recovered her composure immediately, brushing her hands against her wrap. "I have just returned a book that explains how to breed horses if one wants to encourage certain characteristics."

"And was it enlightening?"

"Not particularly." She fastened the front of her wrap, which he could now see was moss green. "Though it was more interesting than a book I dipped into yesterday about how to tat."

"Tat?"

"To make lace."

"Ah. I must say, you don't strike me as the sort of lady prone to...tatting."

She shrugged. "One never knows if one might develop certain interests unless one does some preliminary investigative work. Your library is extremely well-endowed. I feel it's something that I should take advantage of while I'm here."

"I'm glad to be of service," he said, swallowing a laugh. He'd been praised for being well-endowed before, but never quite in this way. "So now that you've done some 'preliminary investigative work,' as you say, in this case we can safely conclude that tatting is not among your interests?"

She pursed her lips as if she were trying not to smile. "I think that is a reasonable conclusion."

"And horses?" he teased, sparing a thought for whether he was flirting with her. He hadn't intended to-flirting was not something he did, other than when necessary in service of the cause.

"Riding, yes. I do enjoy riding, though I hardly ever get to do it. Breeding horses, perhaps less so."

He rose and went to her, reaching for the book she held and angling it toward the candlelight. "A Practical Guide to Pistols?" He couldn't help grinning. "I would have imagined you more as a reader of novels, poetry. What can you find among all these instructional volumes to entertain you?"

"It's not about entertainment as much as..." She paused, staring at the ceiling. "Self-betterment."

"But you've discarded the last two topics."

"Potential self-betterment," she amended. "If one has latent interests or skills, how can one know enough to begin cultivating them without exposure to some background material?"

Blackstone sent an eyebrow up in an exaggerated smirk. His mood had lightened considerably. He was flirting with her-there was no denying it. And he should stop. Just that it was so easy to talk to her when they were alone like this.

"You can learn a lot from books," she said defensively.

"And practical experience isn't necessary?"

"Of course it is. But one must start somewhere. And isn't it more expedient to start here in the library than to amass all the necessary items for a practical experiment?"

"You, Miss Mirren, are a veritable one-woman literary society. I suppose this is exactly how you learned to swim. Did you take the book to the lake with you, or did you make notes?"

"How is it generally done?" She still sounded a little miffed-she was delightfully easy to tease.

"I imagine most people learn to swim by having someone teach them."