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“Why is that?”

“Freddie Payne’s eyes are as cold as the sea and about the same color. I’ve never seen the like on anyone else.”

“The sea presents itself in a variety of shades, Mr. Dobbs.”

“Gray,” the merchant said. “Pale, watery gray—the way the sea looks when a storm’s comin’ in.”

It was not much, but it was something. And it corroborated the other accounts Adam had gathered from those who’d met Payne. Over the years, the crook had done much to alter his appearance, but his eye color was unchangeable.

“Do you know of anyone else who may have had contact with Payne in recent years?”

Mr. Dobbs shook his head. “Word around these parts is that ’e took hi’self off to the Dutch Republic so as to escape the London authorities.”

Adam had heard the same rumor. It was not especially helpful to him now.

Mr. Dobbs offered Adam an apologetic look. “I wish I could ’elp you more, m’ lord. We’d all be better off with the scoundrel off the streets.”

“Indeed,” Adam said. He turned to go. “If you hear of anything that might offer a clue to Payne’s whereabouts, I’d be obliged if you would get word to me at Dunsbourne Manor.”

“Very good, m’ lord.”

Adam stepped out of the hosiery shop. Discouragement settled on his shoulders like a heavy, wet blanket. He had wasted a full day only to hit yet another dead end.

Directly across from him, Adam’s groom stood beside his carriage with the door open. Adam crossed the short distance quickly and stepped inside as rain clouds glowered in the sky, casting a dark shadow over Ironmonger Lane.

“Back home, Oliver,” Adam said.

“Right you are, m’ lord,” the groom said, closing the door behind him.

The vehicle swayed slightly as Oliver climbed onto his seat, and moments later, the wheels started rolling. Ignoring the men and women going about their business in the bustling Cheapside district, Adam leaned his head back on the worn seat and closed his eyes. The return journey to Berkshire would take several hours, but it could not be helped. His family’s townhouse in London had been one of the first things to go when he’d discovered the full extent of the financial loss incurred after Payne had tricked his father into risking the bulk of the family’s fortune on a nonexistent bakery.

Adam pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as anger, despair, and frustration waged an all-too-familiar battle within his chest. The carriage wheels rumbled over the cobbled road, and Adam released a long breath. He may be no closer to capturing Freddie Payne today than he had been yesterday, but he had overcome disappointment before. He would press forward. If not for himself, then for Emily.

His thoughts turned to his sister, who, at age sixteen, was eleven years his junior and needed so much more than he could give her. She had never known their mother, who had died at her birth, and her memories of their father were limited to childish recollections. At age twenty-two, when his father’s heart had failed, Adam had been required to step into the role of Emily’s parent, and he was only too aware of how woefully unequal he was to the task. Especially now that she was coming of age.

Thankfully, his small but prudent investments were beginning to pay dividends, and his gardener, Henry, remained encouraging about this year’s apple harvest. Indeed, Adam was doing everything humanly possible to retain his family estate and recoup sufficient funds for Emily to have a modest dowry when she married. But what good would that do if she were never seen in social circles?

It was likely that very few gentlemen were even aware he had a sister—let alone one who was so sweet and so good. She would need at least one Season in London, but he had not the faintest idea how to go about organizing such a thing. And he had a horrible suspicion that her aging companion and former governess, Miss Glover, was equally unknowledgeable on the subject.

He sighed and gazed out at the passing scenery. Night was falling, and they were coming to the fringes of the city. Tall buildings lined the road, their even edges blurring in the twilight. The way forward did not seem as simple as it once had.

For five years, Adam had prioritized traveling to London at the faintest whisper of a sighting of Freddie Payne. Other than a desk full of documented evidence that the man had gone from being a wily thief to one of the most skilled forgers in the country, however, he had nothing to show for it. Adam was weary to his bones. He could not continue chasing down the elusive felon at the expense of all else—especially if the greatest casualty of his demand for justice was Emily. Like it or not, it was time to put aside his quest to right the wrongs of the past and focus his attention more fully on the future.

The late afternoon sun shone through the drawing room windows at Charwell Park, touching the furnishings and the two occupants of the room with a soft glow. Phoebe Hadford paused her needlework to watch a beam of light dance across the wall and smiled. The beam was a small thing, but it was cheery and bright, and it signaled the end of several days of rain.

“We have another dinner invitation, Phoebe,” her mother said, looking up from the small pile of correspondence on her knee.

“Really? Who is it from?”

It seemed to Phoebe that they had dined with almost all their new neighbors at least once since moving to Berkshire almost five months earlier. That constituted over two dozen engagements, and she had to confess, she was becoming a little weary of them. It wasn’t that she disliked social events—quite the opposite, in fact—but being the newest residents in the neighborhood meant that she and her parents were often singled out for special attention. And that was not always the most relaxing position to claim.

“Colonel and Mrs. Palmer are hosting a party to celebrate the colonel’s birthday.”

Phoebe’s heart sank. The colonel was a large, jovial man who was missing his left index finger, and whenever he could claim an audience, he took great pleasure in relating the details of the battle at which he’d lost that particular appendage. His wife’s temperament was similarly enthusiastic, but her particular passion was her garden, and she delighted in showing each and every plant therein to her guests.

“When is it?” Phoebe asked. Perhaps if they arrived a little late, they would be spared a third tour of the lady’s prize-winning rose bushes.

“Saturday at seven o’clock.” Her mother folded the note back into its envelope. “I shall write to accept the invitation, of course.”