I had hoped—gambled—that Mulholland would assume a desperate criminal would make his escape through the back of the house, not the front door, and so he and his posse would wait for their quarry in the mews. Pritchard was, in a strange way, a welcome sight: the lone sentinel stationed to ensure Mulholland was right. Still, the man was not blind nor particularly stupid. And luck, as we had grimly learned that morning, was notoriously fickle.

From my angle, I saw Weatherly open the front door and nod to Mr. Kent. The Runner returned the nod and limped down our front steps, making his way across the road at an easy pace to where Caesar stood, tied to the garden rails. His fashionable high collar and the brim of his hat obscured his chin and half his face, but there could be no mistaking the uneven but confident gait of the Runner. Would Pritchard notice that his jacket did not sit quite as well as usual over his broad shoulders, or that his Bow Street scarlet waistcoat seemed a little loose across the chest? Or, indeed, that he wore black hussars and not black riding boots?

Across the square, Pritchard straightened from his slouch and watched the Runner untie his horse. Had I misjudged his powers of observation?

I held my breath as the Runner stroked Caesar’s neck, then stepped into the stirrup and mounted with athletic ease. With a pull upon the reins, he turned the big black horse and rode, at a sedate walk, away from Pritchard’s scrutiny and toward our house. As he passed by my window, he glanced inside, and for a second I met my love’s gaze.

Farewell for now, Renegade.

I smiled: Farewell, my heart.

Then he rode beyond my sight.

Across the square, Pritchard leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, and continued to watch the house. I released my breath.

“Well, Augusta?” Duffy prompted. I could hear the irritation in his voice. “Why do you stay silent? Harriet and I are willing to overlook your appalling behavior and allow you back to Duffield. Surely that demands the courtesy of a reply. And, I would add, sincere thanks.”

A knock upon the door forestalled any answer.

“Come,” I said.

Weatherly entered carrying the silver mail salver. He presented the note upon it with a bow. “My lady.”

“Thank you.” I took the note and opened it. The writing was as neat as the man.

He has departed safely. Mulholland is still out in the mews. I await the final part of the plan. Thank you for your father’s jacket and breeches; the tailoring is excellent. K.

I smiled—I knew Mr. Kent would appreciate the cut of my father’s clothes. I folded the note and reclaimed my chair.

“We cannot visit you and Harriet, Duffy,” I said. “We are promised to Lord Cholton for a house party. We leave tomorrow and expect to stay over Christmas.”