“So Jago has been visiting you frequently in bed, has he? I must speak to him about that,” said my husband’s voice as Darcy slid into the sheets beside me.

“Darcy!” I exclaimed. Then I did the sort of thing one does on such occasions. I flung my arms around him and burst into tears. “It was you. I knew it was you,” I said. “Why didn’t you let me know you’d seen me? I thought I was going mad.”

He was stroking my hair, kissing my cheek. “Don’t cry. It’s all all right. And thank you for not recognizing me. It would not only have compromised what I’m doing but put me in danger.”

“You said you were going on a boat train,” I said, still allowing the occasional sob to escape. “I thought you’d be in South America or somewhere.”

“I did take the boat train, to Paris,” he said, “to meet up with certain gentlemen.”

“They called you Mr. O’Connor.”

“I’m an Irish gunrunner, working with the Republican Army,” he said. “And some of these gentlemen are making a good living by trafficking in arms.”

“You are dealing with smugglers?”

“It appears that way.”

“So Jago was smuggling guns! Belinda was right,” I exclaimed.

Darcy gave a little chuckle. “Jago? This is strictly entre nous but Jago is one of us.”

“As in . . . ?”

“Yes. And not another word about it. He’s in deeper than I am. And, by the way, what was that about his getting into bed with you again?”

“The first night we were here he didn’t know the cottage was occupied and he tried to climb into bed with us in the middle of the night. We were all equally scared.”

“I see. I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it—the part about being scared, I mean.” He paused. I felt the warmth of his arm around me, his sweet breath on my cheek. “I had no idea you were in Cornwall. I had as big a shock as you did. Look, I only heard a little of what’s been happening. Belinda arrested for murder of a local man? What on earth is this about?”

“Oh, Darcy, it’s been so awful,” I said, and told him the whole thing. The words came out in such a rush that I’m sure he had trouble making sense of them.

“Hold your horses a minute,” he said. “So you didn’t go down to Cornwall with the intention of staying with these people?”

“No. We came down to see this cottage. Belinda has just inherited it. We had no idea it would be this remote or so primitive. How did you get in, by the way? I locked the front door.”