The man’s expression changed. Or rather it flickered. For just a moment, and then it was back to insolence. He was tall, almost as tall as Thomas, and of a similar age. Thomas disliked him instantly.

“Ah,” the other man said, suddenly all charm. “Well, in that case, I am Jack Audley. Formerly of His Majesty’s esteemed army, more recently of the dusty road.”

Thomas opened his mouth to tell him just what he thought of that answer, but his grandmother beat him to the punch. “Who are these Audleys?” she demanded, striding angrily to his side. “You are no Audley. It is there in your face. In your nose and chin and in every bloody feature save your eyes, which are quite the wrong color.”

Thomas turned to her with impatient confusion. What could she possibly be blithering on about this time?

“The wrong color?” the other man responded. “Really?” He turned to Grace, his expression all innocence and cheek. “I was always told the ladies like green eyes. Was I misinformed?”

“You are a Cavendish!” the dowager roared. “You are a Cavendish, and I demand to know why I was not informed of your existence.”

A Cavendish? Thomas stared at the stranger, and then at his grandmother, and then back to the stranger. “What the devil is going on?”

No one had an answer, so he turned to the only person he deemed trustworthy. “Grace?”

She did not meet his eyes. “Your grace,” she said with quiet desperation, “perhaps a word in private?”

“And spoil it for the rest of us?” Mr. Audley said. He let out a self-righteous huff. “After all I’ve been through…”

Thomas looked at his grandmother.

“He is your cousin,” she said sharply.

He paused. He could not have heard that correctly. He looked to Grace, but she added, “He is the highwayman.”

While Thomas was attempting to digest that, the insolent sod turned so that they might all make note of his bound hands and said, “Not here of my own volition, I assure you.”

“Your grandmother thought she recognized him last night,” Grace said.

“I knew I recognized him,” the dowager snapped. She flicked her hand toward the highwayman. “Just look at him.”

The highwayman looked at Thomas and said, as if he were as baffled as the rest of them, “I was wearing a mask.”

Thomas brought his left hand to his forehead, his thumb and fingers rubbing and pinching hard at the headache that had just begun to pound. Good God. And then he thought—the portrait.

Bloody hell. So that was what that had been about. At half three in the godforsaken morning, Grace had been up and about, trying to yank the portrait of his dead uncle off the wall and—

“Cecil!” he yelled.

A footman arrived with remarkable speed.

“The portrait,” Thomas snapped. “Of my uncle.”

The footman’s Adam’s apple bobbed with dismay. “The one we just brought up to—”