“Ma’am?” Grace said, instantly taking her hand. It was cold and clammy. And limp. Utterly limp. “Ma’am?”

“What is your name?” the dowager whispered.

“My name?” Grace repeated in horror. Had she suffered an apoplexy? Lost her memory?

“Your name,” the dowager said with greater force, and it was clear this time that she was addressing the highwayman.

But he only laughed. “I am delighted by the attentions of so lovely a lady, but surely you do not think I would reveal my name during what is almost certainly a hanging offense.”

“I need your name,” the dowager said.

“And I’m afraid that I need your valuables,” he replied. He motioned to the dowager’s hand with a respectful tilt of his head. “That ring, if you will.”

“Please,” the dowager whispered, and Grace’s head snapped around to face her. The dowager rarely said thank you, and she never said please.

“She needs to sit down,” Grace said to the highwayman, because surely the dowager was ill. Her health was excellent, but she was well past seventy and she’d had a shock.

“I don’t need to sit down,” the dowager said sharply, shaking Grace off. She turned back to the highwayman, yanked off her ring, and held it out. He plucked it from her hand, rolling it about in his fingers before depositing it in his pocket.

Grace held silent, watching the exchange, waiting for him to ask for more. But to her surprise, the dowager spoke first.

“I have another reticule in the carriage,” she said-slowly, and with a strange and wholly uncharacteristic deference. “Please allow me to retrieve it.”

“As much as I would like to indulge you,” he said smoothly, “I must decline. For all I know, you’ve two pistols hidden under the seat.”

Grace swallowed, thinking of the jewels.