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“Father, wait,” Emily said. “We don’t even know that Lynley has left London.” She glanced at Phil. “Do we?”

Phil looked sheepish. “He brought Sultan up from the country today. I’ll send to the stables to inquire if the horse is still there.”

Emily’s common sense reasserted itself. Lynley might pretend to be an imbecile, but of all the men she knew, he was the least capable of folly. She wondered who was circulating such nonsense. She encouraged Lady Silsden to drink her wine. “Now, ma’am, you must tell me how you heard this disturbing news.”

“It was that daughter of my friend, Lady Throckmorton. She sent me a message. She heard from Lord Barksted that Ravenhurst has taken to his bed.”

Emily wanted to laugh and cry at once. Sophia Throckmorton and Lord Barksted, a pair as indifferent to truth as the worst of London gossips, the one out of giddiness, the other, out of malice.

Phil, standing at his wife’s side, cleared his throat. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.” He looked around the room. “You don’t know Lynley, but I do. He would never serve my sister-in-law such a turn as this. I regret that we must delay our celebration of the betrothal, but we can delay dinner no longer. Please, let us eat.”

Gittings appeared and threw open the doors, and gentlemen began to lead their ladies to the dining room. Roz looked up at Phil with shining eyes. He helped her to her feet. She took a step and froze, clutching his arm, her eyes wide in surprise and shock. She shuddered and took a gasping breath.

“Roz?” Phil asked.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I believe my pains have started.”

“Shall we send for the doctor?” Phil asked.

“I’ll go,” said their father.

Roz shook her head and reached out a hand to Emily. “Stop. I have Emily.”

Emily took her sister’s arm. “And,” she said, “we have Aunt Sarah with us.”

Roz smiled. “Let her have her dinner, and then send her up to me. I think it may be hours yet.”

“Of course,” said Phil. “Hours.”

* * * *

A cold wind blew, and shadows of clouds passing over the face of the moon made for a shifting, uncertain landscape. In spite of their journey earlier in the day, Sultan kept a steady pace. Lady Ravenhurst, traveling post, had stopped once to change horses. He and Sultan were perhaps two hours behind her and gaining as the weather grew bitter. He would not think of the dinner he was missing, or the embarrassment his absence would cause Em. Loving her had not been part of the plan, but with each outrageous thing she did, with each step as she followed his lead, he’d found himself in deeper. He had not really recognized what was happening until he’d pulled Barksted’s henchman from her back. It would be some satisfaction to find the papers and be done with the case he had shared with her.

Lynley found the parsonage of St. Agatha’s screened from the road by a stand of chestnuts and firs a couple of hundred yards from the church itself. A gravel carriage sweep passed in an arc in front of a plain, two-story, yellow stone house. From the road no light appeared, but a hint of smoke drifted on the wind to suggest that someone had lit a fire inside.

Lynley rode beyond the parsonage into the churchyard, dismounted and led Sultan round to the back of the church. He settled the stallion in a sheltered corner where the transept crossed the nave, made a couple of adjustments to his attire, and loaded his pistol. Every instinct told him that he had done the right thing in leaving Emily Radstock behind.

He approached the parsonage cautiously, choosing his ground to avoid giving any alarm from the sound of footsteps on gravel. A horse nickered from an outbuilding at the back of the house. Lynley stopped and waited several minutes. No one emerged, and the only sounds from inside came from horses, a pair of them, he thought. He opened the door and found a neat curricle hitched to a pair of bays. Someone was ready to leave.

He turned to the parsonage, passing through a little walled garden in the rear. Thin bars of light fell through a half-closed curtain over a bow window. He crept closer and looked in through the crack. The room appeared to be a study, lined with empty bookcases.

In front of a low fire a young man with golden hair and a strong resemblance to Allegra Walhouse sat facing another person hidden by the wings of an armchair. The man leaned forward, speaking to his companion in what appeared to be a savage manner.

Lynley saw no sign of weapons or servants. Time for the highwayman to make an appearance.

He circled the house and found a door in the front that opened directly on an empty parlor. From the parlor a passage led to the back of the house. He could hear the heated conversation as he stepped quietly along the passage, listening for any sign that he’d been detected. The study door was open, and Lynley paused to listen.

“You promised to take me away,” a plaintive female voice said. Lynley recognized the hurt voice as Lady Ravenhurst’s. She must be the party in the wing chair.

“What did you think we would live on?” the young man answered bitterly. “Your baubles?”

Lynley stepped into the shadows at the back of the room, pistol in hand. “I believe that’s my cue,” he said.

The young man jumped to his feet, his back to the fire. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

Lady Ravenhurst started. Lynley observed that although she was dressed for travel in a warm cloak and half boots, her hands and feet were bound, and a stout coil of rope secured her to the chair. A purple bruise on one cheekbone suggested that she had been beaten into accepting her bonds.

A brief spurt of rage passed through him. Apparently, in addition to betraying his country, the man meant to betray his lover. The lady’s situation was a complication Lynley had not foreseen. A fleeting thought that what he needed at the moment was Emily Radstock’s help passed in and out of his mind. He was alone.