“Or he might have killed you.” George slumped into another chair. “He seemed to know what he was about.”

Jack waved dismissively. “He’s been taught well enough, but he’d no strength to him.”

George chuckled. “We can’t all be six-foot-two and strong enough to run up cathedral belltowers with a wench under each arm.”

Jack snorted at the reminder of one of his more outrageous exploits.

When he remained silent, George ventured, “What made you think of a merger? I thought we were just there to spy out the opposition.”

“The opposition proved devilishly well organized. If it hadn’t been for Champion, we wouldn’t have found them. There didn’t seem much point in walking away again. And I’ve no taste for killing wet-behind-the-ear whelps.”

A short silence descended. Jack’s gaze remained fixed in space. “Who do you think he is?”

“Young Kit?” George blinked sleepily. “One of our neighbors’ sons, I should think. Where else the horse?”

Jack nodded. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t know of any such whelp hereabouts. Morgan’s sons are too old-they’d be nearer thirty, surely? And Henry Fair-clough’s boys are too young. Kit must be about sixteen.”

George frowned. “I can’t recall anyone that fits, either. But perhaps he’s a nephew come to spend time on the family acres? Who knows?” He shrugged. “Could be anyone.”

“Can’t be just anyone. Young Kit knows this district like the back of his hand. Think of the chase he led us, the way he rode across those fields. He knew every fence, every tree. And according to Noah, Kit was the one who knew about the quarries.”