They made love then with quiet desperation, seeking solace and oblivion. But Hart did not neglect her. For the first time ever, as he came to his climax, she shattered around him in hers.

And they slept.

*   *   *

Hart collected the money the next morning and left the ransom in place late that afternoon, well before dusk. “I can’t risk not paying,” he told George. “The money doesn’t matter. There’s no chance to investigate or negotiate. I don’t want to antagonize them any more with any further delay.”

The following morning George and Finn rode with him to the drop-off point. Hart dismounted and lifted away the broken stone—and swore. He turned to George with agonized eyes.

“What is it?” George called.

“The money is still here.” There was no sign that anyone had been by—and no sign of Phillip.

Tears sprang to George’s eyes. “Oh, Hart, I’m so sorry.” George slipped off her horse and ran to embrace him. “You did all you could.”

But Hart wasn’t to be comforted. They had found the ransom note too late and Phillip had paid the price. All they could hope for was that the kidnappers had released him, but as Hart said, that was unlikely. The boy would be able to identify them.

They rode back in gloomy silence. As they passed the lake, Finn veered off investigating something. George ignored him at first, but when she whistled and he made no move to return to them, she became curious. “I’ll just see what he’s up to,” she told her husband apologetically. “It’s probably something disgusting and he’ll want to roll in it. I need to stop him. I won’t be a moment.”

Hart made an indifferent gesture, waving her to go.

George rode to the edge of the lake, and when she dismounted she found Finn snuffing interestedly at a small shoe. Something caught in her throat. A few feet away lay another shoe. They were small, well-made leather shoes, about the size a seven-year-old would wear.

“Hart, I think you should see this,” she called.

Hart rode over. He examined the shoes and swore under his breath. “No village cobbler made these,” he said heavily. “They can only be Phillip’s.”

They turned to look out over the lake. “What’s that?” George said. Before Hart could react, she’d waded into the shallows and pulled up a sopping pair of nankeen breeches. Again they were boy-sized, and quality made by a professional tailor. Silently she passed them to Hart.

The shoes and breeches told a terrible tale.

Poor little boy. They must have thrown him in the lake; he was probably tied up. Or already dead. Though why they’d divested him of his shoes and breeches, she shuddered to imagine.