“Yes,” the other man replied slowly. “But wouldn’t a nob mention he was a nob when we arrested him?”

“Not this nob,” the voice replied in a rueful tone. Griffith began to reflexively smile as he recognized who was speaking. Of course it was Robson—the son of the Duke of Northam’s steward, he was always the most serious of the Three Musketeers, as Griffith, his cousin Frederick, and Robson called themselves.

And since Griffith was by far the most adventurous of the musketeers, Robson was frequently called upon to talk him out of a difficult situation.

That was close to fifteen years ago. And Robson was still talking Griffith out of a difficult situation.

Some things never changed.

Although Griffith had; he frowned as he considered why the hell Robson was here. He would not return to that life, even if Robson tried to use his skills of persuasion on him. The queen herself might want him to resume being a lord of no fixed purpose, but he’d be damned if he’d ever agree to that. Not until he was the absolute last person that could be called upon. And even then he would have to weigh his own future happiness with what his lineage demanded.

“Griff, where the hell are you?”

Griffith rose, feeling his muscles complaining about having been in the same position all night. Neither they nor he were accustomed to this much stillness. “Down here, Robson.” He spoke in a weary, apprehensive tone. He really did not want to have to go against his old friend, especially if said friend was rescuing him from jail, but he would if it meant Robson would try to prevent him from returning to sea.

Griffith heard quick footsteps, then froze when he saw Robson’s face. He hadn’t spared a thought for Robson, nor anyone he’d left behind, since he’d gone. Likely because it hurt too much to think about who he was missing. But when he saw his friend’s familiar face?

All the feelings came rushing back, and he felt as though he’d been punched.

“What the hell are you doing here, Griff?” Robson turned to address the officer who’d scurried after him. “Release this man at once, he is required by the Duke of Northam.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Griffith echoed, his tone belligerent. He had no desire to see the duke, his father’s brother, certainly not after all this time. That would feel more like a punch to the heart, given how little love they had for one another. He glanced around the cell. “I might rather stay here,” Griffith said, “given the alternative. Why are you here for him?” he asked, feeling the sharp slice of betrayal cutting through him. Robson knew how he felt about his uncle, about his whole family except for Frederick. Had his old friend changed so much?