“I won’t fail—providing your information is better than what you gave me on Bancroft and Miss Beauchamp.”

Aniston’s mouth thinned. “Just find the damn box.” He climbed inside his coach, and the door closed smartly behind him.

Moira watched, her jaw clenched. She’d fetch Aniston’s damned box—but he wouldn’t get it until he’d released Rowena.

The coachman hied the horses and the coach lumbered forward, swallowed by the mist before the sound of the creaking wheels had faded.

A sob caught in Moira’s throat, but she swallowed it and lifted her chin. She would find a way to win Rowena back. And once the child was safe, Moira would follow her blood legacy and finish this game. Aniston might think he held all the cards, but she’d only begun to play.

When this ends, not even God will be able to help George Aniston.

CHAPTER 4

A letter to Robert Hurst from his sister Triona Hurst MacLean upon his going to Eton to study as a youth.

Father told me you weren’t taking your studies as seriously as he’d hoped, but then that’s not surprising. He’s a difficult taskmaster; no one could fulfill his hopes with their studies and still have time for things like food and sleep.

Father may worry about you, but I don’t. I know of no one more driven than you. Considering you’re but a lad of sixteen, that’s a serious statement indeed. It makes me wonder where you’ll end up once you’re a man grown. The world has no boundaries for someone who savors success and is willing to work for it.

Robert stretched out his legs and admired the reflection of the flames in the gloss of his boots. “I wondered when you’d return.”

The man who stood before him on the thick library rug merely grinned. He was a small man with wizened features and shrewd blue eyes. His back was visibly crooked, yet he moved with an unusually quick walk. “Ye said not t’ bother ye until we had some information, so I waited until we was certain.”

“So you found her?”

“Aye. Ye said she had a taste fer luxury and so she does. She’s at the George, sir.”

Robert smiled now. Aha, Moira. I know you too well. “Good work, Stewart.”

“Thank ye, sir. She is using the name of Mrs. Randolph. Och, and she’s turned into a brunette, sir. I almost didna recognize her, except she smiled at the porter and—” Stewart’s face reddened.

“I quite understand.” Moira MacAllister wasn’t the sort of woman one forgot. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, though she was, spectacularly so. It was the combination of her looks, her spirit, and her vibrancy. One never forgot how she looked, but more important, one never forgot how she made you feel. Just one smile could grab your soul . . . and she would extract it if you weren’t careful.

Fortunately, Robert was careful. He wasn’t as immune as he wished—the way she’d affected him at Bancroft’s sale proved that—but that had been a momentary lapse. He was protected by years of outrage at her perfidy and lies. “Ask Leeds to watch Mrs. Randolph this evening. I have information that she won’t leave until the morning, anyway.”