He did not pass elegant comment on their predicament.

“Take their purses. And their boots. And their wigs.”

His eye did not twinkle. Mosca started to wonder if he were a real highwayman at all.

As the coach driver and footmen clambered down to be searched, Blythe’s eye passed questingly over his other prisoners. The quivering trap seller received a glance of contempt, and Blythe’s gaze slid off Mosca, to rest on Clent.

“You. Open the carriage door and hand the passengers out.”

Hesitantly, Clent laid his hand upon the carriage door.

“My lady,” he murmured softly through the window, “I fear your presence is required.”

There was a pause. The moonlike face bloomed into view behind the curtain.

“Do they mean to search us?” There was no hint of outrage in the woman’s tone. It was simply a question.

“I . . . think so. The captain has many men to pay, and seems too desperate to be nice.”

“Unacceptable.” The voice was soft, almost childish, but chill with resolution.

“Unavoidable.”

“Anything is avoidable. I have a pocket watch crafted in the shape of a pistol. If I give it to you along with my purse, you might take my money to the brigands’ leader, and then hold the watch against his head until my men are given back their pistols. You would be well rewarded.”

Clent opened his mouth until it would have taken in a potato, then closed it again.

“My lady, when a man takes a bullet, all the gold thread in the world will not sew him whole again.”

“I am carrying an object of personal value with which I do not intend to part.” Her face was now so close to the curtain that the lace left a fretwork of shadow across her cheeks. “Do you know who I am?”

Clent gave a nod. Mosca saw that he was looking at a signet ring on the lady’s hand, and she was astonished to hear his next words, low and hurried.

“My lady . . . if I can persuade the man not to have you searched, will you be willing to find employment for myself and my”—he glanced at Mosca and visibly relented—“my secretary? We are poets and wordsmiths of no mean standing.”

“Very well.” The porcelain face receded from the window. “Let us see how you work your will with words.”

“Pass me your purse, then, my lady.” A pouch of purple silk slid through the window into Clent’s waiting hand.

“Can you do it?” hissed Mosca under her breath.

“No.” Clent took a shaky breath. “I need a moment to think.” He pouted skyward for an instant, smoothing rain up his forehead and into his hair. After a few moments he gave Mosca a smile of slightly haggard hilarity. “Yes. Now I believe I can do it.”

Blythe had been supervising the searching of the footmen, but now he gave Clent an ugly look of impatience. “What are you waiting for?”