Stewart shook his head slowly. “The master had it right, mistress; ye’re right good with disguises. A bloody genius.”

Moira’s heart sank. “Damn it,” she snapped. “Where’s Hurst?”

“Gone,” the servant said almost apologetically.

“When?”

Stewart pursed his lips and glanced out at the sky. “An hour ago, mayhap more.”

She closed her eyes. He must have left our bedchamber the second I slipped out to change clothes, damn him! She felt betrayed, even though that was ridiculous when she’d been the first to leave. “He knew I was leaving, then.”

“Aye, mistress. He put me an’ Leeds to watching the cattle, and said that as soon as someone came askin’ fer a horse, ’twould be ye and that ye’d be disguised. Which ye are,” Stewart added, admiration in his voice. “If ye’d walked past me in the inn yard, I’d have ne’er taken another look.”

Moira scowled and yanked off her hat and wig, stuffing it into her pocket. “Damn it, I must have a horse! It is urgent that I get to town.”

“He tol’ us about Mr. Aniston and how that horrible man has yer daughter. But Mr. Hurst said ye was to stay here and not to go runnin’ into a hornet’s nest where ye could get killed.”

“Like hell! That’s my daughter. I’m going, and—”

Leeds stepped around the corner, looking embarrassed, a rope coiled in his hands.

Moira stiffened. “What are you going to do with that?”

The servant sighed. “Mr. Hurst said we might have to tie ye up to keep ye here.”

“He did, did he?” Moira fisted her hands. “That–that–ass!”

“Aye,” Stewart said apologeticly. “Sit yerself down, mistress. We canno’ allow ye to go.”

Moira looked at the chair but made no move toward it. “No.”

The two men approached, Leeds moving to her left, and Stewart to her right.

Moira watched them narrowly, her fury incinerating the fear that beat through her veins. Damn you, Robert Hurst! Her gaze narrowed on her opponents. Damn you to hell.

CHAPTER 23

Michael Hurst’s diary entry as he set sail for England on his brother’s ship.

With William’s help I finally rescued Miss Smythe-Haughton from the amorous clutches of the sulfi, and we are now under way. I won’t burden this epistle with the details; suffice it to say that the sulfi met his just deserts, and Miss Smythe-Haughton is about to receive the most severe talking-to. Which will doubtless be met with her amusement.

It is more and more obvious that her parents must have been exceptionally lax in her upbringing, for she will not listen to a word I say.

Robert halted his horse in front of a small town house on the end of Regent Terrace. The town houses, part of Edinburgh’s famed New Town, gleamed like seashells lined up in the morning sun. Robert climbed off his horse and walked it to a man across the street.

“Mr. Hurst?” The man’s voice had a strong cockney accent.