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His sister’s impassioned question struck a new spark of alarm.

“You will do nothing,” he said firmly. “The Earl of Bloxley and I will continue to ferret out the identity of the nobleman responsible for the gang’s activities. If we can bring down the Midnight Master, his network will crumble. Some of the older smugglers might still remember what happened all those years ago. Without the threat of reprisal hanging over their heads, they may be persuaded to talk.”

For a few moments, his sister said nothing. She took a sip of her tepid tea, a look of intense concentration on her face. “The Grangers’ dinner invitation,” she said. “That shall be our first step.”

“There is no we or our in any of this,” Jonas reminded her.

She waved off his concern with a flick of her hand. “I’m not doing anything I was not already going to do,” she said. “While you were ill, we received an invitation to have dinner with the Grangers. You remember their oversized dining room? They will undoubtedly wish to make a grand gesture and fill every place at the table, which means that there will be at least ten noblemen in attendance.”

“Rosalind, if you remember, I’ve already sent our regrets to the Grangers due to Jonas’s illness,” Lady Langton said.

“When has Arabella Granger ever turned down an opportunity to have the handsome and eligible Viscount Langton dine at her home?” Rosalind’s impish look had returned. “If I write to her today explaining his rapid recovery, she will be thrilled to accommodate us.”

“What if I do not wish to dine at the Grangers?” Jonas said. In his current condition, he could think of little he’d like less. “I can barely manage a cup of tea and a biscuit.”

“You have three days to practice using a knife and fork,” Rosalind said. She looked at him pointedly. “And three days to generate some suggestions for what might help us identify the Midnight Master amongst the guests.”

“All I know is that his mount is black and fast and he uses a walking stick.”

“Then we make discrete inquiries at the dinner and eliminate all those who ride brown or white horses,” Rosalind said as unperturbed as Alexander had been dissatisfied. “It would not be so very difficult to watch for walking canes as the gentlemen arrive.” She gave a smug smile. “Those who are eliminated will miss out on an invitation to Finley Park; those who remain suspects can join other possible suspects when I host a party of my own.”

“There is no need for this. The Earl of Bloxley has already taken it upon himself to make inquiries as to which noblemen may have unexpectedly missed important social evenings in London, and he will be on the lookout at every event from now on.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Rosalind said. “With the earl’s input, we shall be able to discount even more suspects.”

Jonas gave a sigh. Believing that his sister would be intimidated by Alexander’s involvement and resume a spectator role had been a forlorn hope at best. He’d unleashed a monster, and there was no calling it back.

“Do you feel up to attending the Grangers’ party, Jonas?” Lady Langton’s voice was gentle, and he knew she would support him if he declined. Indeed, with the exception of Rosalind’s husband, their mother was the only one capable of dissuading Rosalind from following through on any of her schemes.

Dinner at the Grangers sounded absolutely awful. The novelty of being the target of all eligible young ladies and their domineering mothers had worn off years ago. Making conversation with simpering females whose opinions rarely moved beyond the latest fashions or gossip was one of his least favorite activities, and he would undoubtedly be called upon to do just that. But he could not fault his sister’s logic. The sooner he started narrowing the search, the better. And it was quite possible the Midnight Master’s roots were in Kent. It would explain his ability to travel to and from London without suspicion.

“I will go,” he said.

“Very well.” Lady Langton turned to her daughter. “Write to Arabella directly, and tell her we would be happy to attend her dinner party after all.” She set her hands calmly on her knee once more. “My eyesight may be failing, but there is nothing amiss with my hearing. I shall spend the evening listening for clues.”

Chapter 10

Elizabeth made her way up the lane from the parsonage, grateful that this afternoon’s tea with Mrs. Parkin had been more successful than the previous one. True, the vicar’s wife had cut short her conversation about the butcher’s septic thumb and had pursed her lips on more than one occasion afterward, but Elizabeth considered those minor stumbles a vast improvement over her social debacles of the past.

The sun was warm, and bees buzzed, flitting from one blossom to another on the hawthorn in the hedgerow. Tilting her head to one side, she listened for any bird that might be in the nearby trees. A mistle thrush trilled from the branches of the oak, its call answered moments later by a blackbird perched atop the hedge. Their songs were so similar. Elizabeth slowed her steps and gazed up into the oak tree’s branches.

“Is that really you, Mr. Mistle Thrush?” she called.

In a flurry of feathers, the speckled brown bird took flight, and Elizabeth smiled. It had been years since she and Mr. Crawford had walked the nearby fields and lanes together, but she still remembered the birdcalls he’d taught her. Perhaps, if she was not too exhausted from serving guests this evening, she would steal a minute or two before going to bed to read from her bird book. It had been a long time since she’d allowed herself that pleasure.

The road bent, and up ahead, The Fox and Hare came into view. A carriage was parked outside, and Elizabeth’s heart sank. More guests would mean extra work, and she was already behind in her meal preparations. She glanced at the upper left window. The lamp still sat on the windowsill, but it had remained unlit for over three weeks now. For the time being, all smuggling activity in the village had ceased. The government men had stayed in the area for over a week after the raid on the beach that had wounded Reynard. They’d checked the inn twice more but had not discovered the hidden room. Elizabeth had scrubbed all traces of blood off the cot and the floor, and now there was no sign that anyone had ever been there. But she often wondered what had become of the injured man. Had he made it to safety? Had his wounds healed or worsened? By now he could have lost a limb or lost his life. She would likely never know, and for some reason, that saddened her.

Horse hooves hitting the ground drew her attention to the courtyard. Georgie was leading a familiar horse out of the stable, and two men were approaching him from the inn. She recognized Mr. Cummings’s green coat before she saw his face. Running the few remaining feet to the waiting carriage, Elizabeth ducked behind the large vehicle. The men were talking. She was too far away to catch their words, but they both seemed in good spirits. Her father laughed, and Mr. Cummings joined in.

Peeking out from around the rear wheel, she saw the men shake hands before Mr. Cummings mounted. He turned his horse to face the road, and Elizabeth saw his face. That the magistrate was pleased needed no interpretation; his self-satisfied expression bordered on gloating. She moved again, pressing herself against the side of the carriage as Mr. Cummings rode by and set off down the road toward the village. It was obvious that the men were in collusion. Over the last few weeks, the magistrate had visited the inn more than ever before. She did not know what they were scheming, but it undoubtedly omened no good.

Elizabeth waited until the sound of hooves disappeared, then breathing a sigh of relief, she headed for the inn’s rear door. She’d been gone long enough that no matter her father’s jovial interaction with the magistrate, he would voice his displeasure over her late arrival loud enough for all to hear.

***

Silver candelabras ran the length of the long table, their flickering light reflecting in the mirrors strategically positioned on the dining room walls and making the cutlery sparkle. The chink of glasses, silverware, and china punctuated the hum of conversation and occasional laughter. Jonas set his knife and fork down and allowed his gaze to follow the footmen moving silently around the table, replenishing glasses and serving dishes.

At the head of the table, Mr. Granger sat in deep conversation with Lady Langton, who was seated at his right. On the other end, Mrs. Granger was listening with rapt attention to Mr. Travers’s discourse on the majesty of the Italian coastline. Between the two, sixteen members of the nobility and gentry were engaged in at least half a dozen conversations that, as far as Jonas could ascertain, ranged in subject from the intricacies of Belgian lace to the weather in Cornwall to the cost of good help. He could not know if his mother or sister had managed to direct a discussion toward anything equestrian, but it was probably time that he made the attempt.