THE SOUND OF HOOFBEATS seems to come from nowhere, and gets louder so quickly I drop my pen to the floor in surprise. Father did not say that we would be receiving company, and now I cannot recall if the beds are made—

The hoofbeats get closer by the second. They must be headed here, for the nearest farm is two miles in the other direction.

“Father!” I call, as I half run to the kitchen to put away the breakfast things. “Someone is coming! Shall I prepare a meal? Shall I make tea?”

It has been almost a week since Father stole (for in my mind he did steal them) and planted the belladonna seeds. We have not spoken of it, nor have we spoken of much else in the intervening days. But the excitement of an unexpected guest makes me forget my resolve to punish him with my silence.

“Father!” I call more loudly. “Are you expecting company?”

We do not get many visitors at the cottage, only the occasional tradesman trying to sell us tin pots or a matron from a neighboring farm seeking a cure for the toothache. But every now and again the duke himself will appear, unannounced, with a small hunting party in tow. This land is the duke’s land, as is most of the acreage in Northumberland, and the fields and forests that spread over the site of the old monastery have long been the duke’s favorite hunting park. After an afternoon’s shooting, he and his guests have sometimes stopped here to gaze at the ruins, water their horses, and brag about the day’s kill.

Father lurches into the parlor with his hair standing every which way, as if he had spent hours running his hands through it in deep concentration. “I expect no one. And I do not wish to be disturbed, so whoever it is, bid them be gone.”

“But what if it is the duke?”

He listens. The hoofbeats are insistent, a hard gallop coming straight this way.

His face turns grim. “Whoever comes travels alone, and at reckless speed. It is not the duke, but it might be a highwayman. Stand back from the door, Jessamine.”

Father grabs his gun from the wooden box on the floor beside the entrance to the cottage, and unbolts the heavy arched wooden door.

He steps out into the courtyard. I am frightened, but my curiosity is greater than my fear, and I follow. We emerge just in time to see our visitor gallop up and pull his horse to an abrupt stop directly in front of our door, raising a choking cloud of dust.

The horse has been ridden too hard for too long; its mouth drips foam, and its neck and flanks are flecked with sweat. It whinnies and rears high in complaint at the brutal pull on the reins. The rider curses and yanks the horse’s head hard around.