The moment stood suspended in time, pure, silent, and heavy. No one spoke. Grace wasn’t even sure if anyone breathed.

She looked at the highwayman, at his mouth, at that expressive, devilish mouth, and she knew that something was not right. His lips were parted, and more than that, they were still. For the first time, his mouth was without movement, and even in the silvery light of the moon she could tell that he’d gone white.

“If this means anything to you,” the dowager continued with quiet determination, “you may find me at Belgrave Castle awaiting your call.”

And then, as stooped and shaking as Grace had ever seen her, she turned, still clutching the miniature, and climbed back into the carriage.

Grace held still, unsure of what to do. She no longer felt in danger-strange as that seemed, with three guns still trained on her and one-the highwayman’s, her highwayman’s-resting limply at his side. But they had turned over only one ring-surely not a productive haul for an experienced band of thieves, and she did not feel she could get back into the carriage without permission.

She cleared her throat. “Sir?” she said, unsure of how to address him.

“My name is not Cavendish,” he said softly, his voice reaching her ears alone. “But it once was.”

Grace gasped.

And then, with movements sharp and swift, he leaped atop his horse and barked, “We are done here.”

And Grace was left to stare at his back as he rode away.

Chapter Two

Several hours later Grace was sitting in a chair in the corridor outside the dowager’s bedchamber. She was beyond weary and wanted nothing more than to crawl into her own bed, where she was quite certain she would toss and turn and fail to find slumber, despite her exhaustion. But the dowager was so overset, and indeed had rung so many times that Grace had finally given up and dragged the chair to its present location.