It was most vexing.

Which was why he was here today. In Harry’s estimation, fate was never fair—she smiled on those who had already possessed her and remained elusively out of touch for those who desired her more than life itself. He picked his way down the street to a dingy pub, glanced around, then entered.

Five minutes later, his pockets much lighter, he emerged and made his way to his carriage, satisfied that he’d given fate the nudge she needed.

It hadn’t been all that difficult, really. Harry had simply greased a few palms and information had come tumbling out. St. John never traveled without a change of horses, so it had been simple to discover which roads he’d taken. And it had been equally easy to see if St. John had yet left the country—he hadn’t. The private cabin that had been reserved in his name had been empty when the vessel had set sail.

Which meant that Chase St. John was somewhere in England, perhaps close to London. And that was not a good situation for Harry at all.

And so here Harry was…in a part of town he deplored, hiring a man he detested, to do a job that he wished didn’t have to be done.

He hadn’t made any suggestions as to how the deed was to be accomplished. He had no desire for the dirty details. Let other, less sophisticated men deal with that sort of thing. All he’d asked was that Chase St. John not return to London anytime in the near future. Or ever, if need be.

The coachman opened the door and stood aside. Harry climbed inside and nodded. The door was closed and within seconds, they were rumbling down the narrow, squalid street, toward the bridge where fresh air and genteel amusements awaited.

Harry settled back in the corner of his coach, smoothing a hand over the velvet seat, breathing deeply of the scent of waxed wood and polished brass.

The fetid stench of the street where he’d been born faded with each cleansing breath.

“Time to rise, Captain!”

Stephen’s jovial voice rang hollow in Chase’s ear, dispersing a lovely dream wherein the intractable Miss Harriet Ward was being neither prim nor proper, but had somehow turned into a lush siren with a wealth of rich brown hair and the supple body of a dancer.

“C’mon, Captain! We’ve work to do.”

Chase reluctantly opened one eye. Bloody hell, it wasn’t even dawn. And what did Stephen mean about “work”?

There was no way Chase was getting up. Not at this ungodly hour of the morn. He rolled over and pulled the covers over his head.

But Stephen was a Ward, and unfortunately that horrid name seemed to indicate a preponderance of stubbornness. Within what seemed like seconds, Chase’s blankets were yanked away and a candle rudely thrust into his line of vision.

“Captain,” Stephen said cheerily, “whatever is wrong? Not ill, are you? Come, the sheep awake.”

Chase snatched his blankets back. “I will come and tour the barn after I’ve had some sleep.”