Page 17

"Right. I did see a man leaving the stable, in a very suspicious manner. Perhaps he was your horse thief."

Her expression grew uneasy. "Was there really another man?" she asked, then blushed. She thought he had lied to her.

He let it go. "Yes. A big fellow, creeping rather furtively about before running into the woods. I presume he doesn't work for you."

"No," she murmured. "I—I expect it was someone from Mr. Bickford's stables."

Bickford would come to the front door, or at least announce himself, if he had reason to call on them. Alec added that mysterious skulking figure to the list of things he must look into.

“I doubt he was a horse thief. It was broad daylight, after all, which is an odd time to steal a horse.”

“Having never stolen a horse,” she said tartly, “I wouldn’t know the best time to do it.”

“I recommend after dark. Even better, in a pouring rainstorm, for no one wishes to chase after you then. Of course, you should take care to choose a placid horse, who won’t be frightened of the storm.”

She looked at him in alarm. “You seem well-versed in the matter.”

He met her eyes. “Such knowledge comes in handy from time to time.”

She shifted away again. “I wonder why Colonel Pickering sent you to help us. Since we don’t, in fact, need any horses stolen.”

“And I wonder why you’re so reluctant to accept a well-meant offer of help. Perhaps you’ve reconsidered your desire to locate your father.”

Her mouth dropped open. “I have not! How dare you! Why would you think that?”

He pulled up the horse, stopping the carriage with a jerk that made her clutch the seat, and turned to face her. “According to your account, he left four months ago. You waited three months to contact Pickering, and when Pickering sent someone—me—to your aid, you gave every appearance of being unpleasantly surprised instead of delighted or relieved.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he draped one arm along the back of the carriage. She shrank away from him, clutching the basket protectively against her chest. “A suspicious man might wonder if perhaps your father’s disappearance suits you rather well after all and you’re merely going through the motions of searching to avoid revealing just how satisfied you are without him. Or perhaps you know exactly where he is. Perhaps your query to Pickering was part of a plot to extract funds from him, or from the army. I certainly hope not,” he added as her mouth dropped open. “People who try that sort of thing risk Newgate.”

It was hardly an ingratiating thing to say. She and her sister were his best chance of learning useful information. This was why he preferred to be anonymous. His real name and history had put her back up, and provoking—no, goading her—to lose her temper might be the only way to get her to tell him something he didn't already know.

“That’s dreadful!” she gasped. “What kind of man would ask that?”

His gaze wandered over her face until he could almost feel her skin against his fingertips. Her outrage was real, underpinned with shocked horror. He had to squeeze the reins in his fist to keep from reaching out to touch her, soothe her, apologize. This had been a bad idea, inviting her to sit so close beside him. He should have known to keep his distance the moment he saw her and felt that electric charge crackle through his nerves.

“A thorough one,” he replied. “All too often the more dreadful a possibility, the truer it is.”

“It’s not true in this case! I’m appalled you would think so.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Did I say I thought so? I never assume the answers to questions like that.”

“Then why did you bring it up?” she demanded furiously. “My family certainly doesn’t need the help of someone who would leap to that sort of conclusion!”

“No, but you need the help of someone who will ask that sort of question.”

“I don’t think we do!”

He could tell she wasn’t so certain of that by the tone of her voice. She didn’t trust him, didn’t like him—and he found that bothered him. “Miss Turner, we began badly, for which I apologize. I believe you do want to find your father, or you wouldn’t have written to Pickering. I was sent to act on his behalf, fulfilling your request. I understand you might wish Pickering had chosen differently, but he didn’t. And for that, I apologize again.”

He knew it was a gamble to be so blunt with her. Normally he acted in the shadows, listening here and prying a little there. It felt odd to be so open and brazen about his purpose, but there was no way around it. Everyone knew who he was now; no more hiding. There was little doubt in his mind that she’d heard all the gossip about him, and his aggressive tactic would be enough to send most ladies into an outraged fit—or a dead faint.

But this lady. . . He thought not. Between the pistol and the fact that she had accepted his offer of a ride into town, Alec sensed that Cressida Turner was made of sterner stuff. In fact, although she was obviously shocked by his words, her reaction appeared to be more anger than anything else. A flush of fine color had come into her face, and her glorious eyes were positively smoldering. He realized his shoulders had tensed in anticipation of being slapped, and that the possibility was more intriguing than irritating.

“What the devil do you want from me?” she snapped, biting off each word. “What am I supposed to say?”

Alec smiled thinly, gathering the reins. “The truth, Miss Turner. That’s all I ask.” He snapped the reins and the gig jolted forward.

“What if the truth is that I don’t want to speak to you ever again?” She raised her voice over the rumble of the wheels. She had clapped one hand to her bonnet, and gripped her basket with the other. She no longer held herself so stiffly away from him.

“You don’t have to.”