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Job’s own luck? Coincidence? Not bloody-well likely.

Dammit. Why hadn’t he considered this before? Lucinda had always been obsessed with power and position. Her erratic behavior and even more irrational speech this morning pointed to one thing—she meant him harm. An image of Vangie’s pale face in the south tower loomed to the forefront of his mind.

Not only him, but his wife.

“How could I have been so blind?” he muttered aloud.

Because, altogether foreign sentiments had crept into every fiber of his being. They’d muddled his good sense and distorted his sound judgment, making him impervious to everything but winning his beautiful gypsy wife’s affections.

Rot and rubbish? Not anymore, the devil take it. Love was indeed hazardous.

Pericles snorted and impatiently shifted his stance as if to say, Let’s get on with it, shall we?

“Aye, my friend, let’s be about it then.” Ian clicked his tongue while giving a light twitch of the reins. Pericles lunged forward, eager to run, but Ian held him to a slow canter, still mulling over his epiphany.

The pieces snapped neatly into place now. Lucinda’s intent at last became glaringly apparent. His stepmother sought to secure through any means what, in her unhinged mind, she believed rightfully belonged to her. Another nasty niggling taunted the recesses of his conscious, but he dismissed it as the Romani camp loomed before him.

His practiced gaze efficiently scanned the clearing. Vangie wasn’t in sight. A score of brightly-painted wooden caravans and several simple tents were neatly arranged beneath the towering trees. An equal number of laughing children and barking dogs played beside the wagons or cavorted throughout the encampment.

Two larger vardos, one at either end of the glen, drew Ian’s attention. A handsome woman sat within the opening of one of them, watching him with keen, assessing eyes. She tilted her head when their gazes met, almost as if she were greeting him across the distance.

In a roped-off area near the river, two score horses and mules milled about. Several nickered upon catching Pericles’ scent. The stallion shook his head and neighed a greeting. Highly impressed, Ian took in the magnificent horseflesh. Tattersalls boasted no finer horses than many of these. Making a mental note to pursue that avenue later, he returned his attention to the encampment.

Several men and women were engaged in various activities along the river’s edge. Others gathered in small groups around fires, some smoking pipes, or strumming mandolins or violins. A few Roma, settled against the massive trees, played cards.

Conversations ceased, and even the children stopped their joyful antics, as he rode to the camp’s center. As a single entity, the Roma turned their dark, expressive eyes to stare at him.

Four men separated themselves from the others, including the striking gypsy who’d taken Vangie behind him on his horse hours ago. Who the devil was he? A relative? A would-be-lover? Jealousy ripped a jagged course through Ian.

Steady old chap. Keep your head.

A distinguished-looking man, his hair peppered with gray and sporting a neatly-trimmed mustache and beard, approached him. The Roma bowed. “Sastimos, Lord Warrick, I am Yoska Bailey.”

So, they had been expecting him. No surprise there.

Yoska made a sweeping gesture, “I am bandolier to these noble people. Please, won’t you dismount, and join us in a cup?”

Ian gave a sharp nod. As he dismounted, he combed the area of any sign of Vangie. He searched in vain. If she was here, and from the greeting he’d just received, he’d wager Somersfield she was, she hid from him.

“I’ll see to your horse, your lordship.” The lad reaching for Pericles’ reins looked vaguely familiar. “Thank you. He would benefit from a drink…”

“Milosh, my lord.” The boy gave him a toothy grin before leading the stallion away.

Ah, he was the boy Vangie had spoken to in Brunswick. Ian watched him with the horse. The lad knew what he was about. Pericles would be fine.

He turned his attention to the man who’d carried Vangie off.

The man elevated an arrogant eyebrow, and returned Ian’s bold perusal.

He wanted to punch him. “Where’s my wife?”

Smiling, his white teeth a stark contrast to his dark skin, Yoska gently chided, “In good time, your lordship, in good time. Come, sit with us,” he cordially invited gesturing in the direction of the other, larger vardo. “My nephew, Besnik, brought Zora to us.”

Ian met Besnik’s hard, unyielding stare. No contrition gleamed in his black eyes, and Ian curled his hands into fists. He really, really wanted to punch him. Scowling, he said, “Zora?”

Still smiling—did the man perpetually wear a smile?—Yoska explained, “Evangeline is Zora’s Gadžo name, her Christian name. All Roma have one.” He angled his head toward the other men trailing behind them. “The brothers Zimmar, Nicu and Tobar.”

Each man inclined his head though they, like Besnik, remained silent.