She squeezed his arm. “I see what you mean about pieces that don’t fit.”

She sensed a sharpening of his attention, felt the subtle steeling of the muscles under her hand.

“Speaking of such pieces…”

She followed his gaze to a tall, thin figure standing on the wharf below in deep and animated discussion with two fishermen.

“The Chevalier.” She searched through the others thronging the wharf. “I can’t see Mark Trescowthick, or any others of that group.”

“No.” Charles was watching the exchange between the seamen and the Chevalier. “I have the feeling that while Mark might think he and the Chevalier are close friends, the Chevalier might describe matters differently.”

She considered. “The Chevalier’s rather older than Mark.”

“And far more serious than an overindulged pup like Mark Trescowthick. I’m sure the Chevalier is charming when he needs to be, but I doubt they have much in common.”

“If the Chevalier is just using Mark as his excuse to be down here, that rather raises the question of why.”

Charles studied the Chevalier for a minute more, then stirred. “With any luck Dalziel will help us with that-he has contacts enough to find out what the Chevalier’s real purpose here might be. Meanwhile, I should speak with Dennis, maybe tomorrow, and give him the names of our five visitors. Let’s see what he and the Gallants can learn.”

Together, they turned and started the climb back to the High Street.

“Perhaps we should ride to the Abbey and see if Dalziel has sent any word.”

Charles shook his head. “Not enough time has passed since I sent my report. The reply will come late tonight at the earliest, but most likely sometime tomorrow.” He looked at her. “Let’s have a quick lunch at the Pelican, and then, given Nicholas had a delivery this morning, I think a stint in the folly might be wise.”

They walked on in silence. As they neared the Pelican, she said, “On the way back, I’m going to stop off at Essington Manor. If I’m not seen about, visiting as usual, people will start wondering where I am-”

“And what you’re doing.” Charles sent her one of his devilish grins. “Good idea. I’ll endure the folly on my own. Who knows?” He arched a brow at her as he held the door of the Pelican wide. “I might even catch up on some sleep.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, elevated her nose, and swept past.

And hoped, in the dimmer light inside, that he wouldn’t see her blush.

That blush hadn’t owed its genesis to any prudish start but to her realization of how reluctant she was to forgo an afternoon in the folly with him.

But reason had to prevail.

When she rode into the Wallingham Hall stables at five o’clock-and not a minute earlier, as he’d instructed-he was waiting. Together they walked up to the house.

“Did anything occur this afternoon?”

“No. Nicholas is sitting tight.” Charles looked toward the wing that housed the library. “I’m inclining to the notion that he doesn’t know who to contact any more than he did when he first came here looking for Granville’s friends. If that’s so, it’ll be pointless to arrange to give him something worth another pillbox to sell. However, I think he’s very much afraid someone knows to contact him, and he doesn’t know what to do.”

“So he’s being extracareful.”

“Indeed. I’m going to try to rattle him this evening.”

Reaching the garden door they entered, and once again went their separate ways. She repaired to her room, bathed and changed for dinner; given Norris was in Charles’s confidence, she expected he was doing the same. Certainly, when she walked into the drawing room fifteen minutes before the dinner hour, he appeared immaculately groomed.

He was standing with Nicholas by the fireplace, dwarfing Nicholas more by vitality than size, and appeared to be in expansive good humor-a fact Nicholas, it seemed, had learned to view with suspicion, as well he might.

She did her best to provide the right foil for Charles’s machinations; it didn’t truly matter which of them Nicholas decided to trust. If he ever did; despite Charles’s best efforts-not overtly intimidating but in a vein any scion of Eton or Harrow would instantly recognize and correctly interpret, such as a largely one-sided discussion of the type of secrets that Gimby might have assisted in ferrying across the Channel-Nicholas remained tight-lipped.

Indeed, his resistance seemed to have hardened. The antipathy between the two that Charles had originally remarked seemed to be resurfacing.

When, hours later, she went into the front hall to farewell Charles, much to Nicholas’s transparent relief, she murmured, “He’s more…dogged, don’t you think?”

Charles nodded, the line of his lips tending grim. “We’re going backward with him. He’s come out of his funk and realized we have no evidence whatever. If he just sits tight, he’ll escape any net.”

“I wonder,” she said, walking toward the front door left open to the pleasant night, “if something in those papers he received might account for his change of heart. Perhaps we could look at them later?”

“He’s keeping them in his room, but there’s nothing there other than what he suggested-memos he needs to approve.”

When she turned to stare at him, he smiled. “Norris has missed his calling. He looked, and remembered enough for me to be sure.”

She sighed. “In that case…” Raising her head, she met his eyes and gave him her hand. “I’ll bid you…au revoir.”

His smile deepened. “Indeed.” Lifting her hand, he pressed a kiss to her fingertips, paused, his gaze on hers, then turned her hand and pressed a much more intimate kiss-one she felt to her marrow-to her palm, then gracefully bowed, released her, and went out and down the steps.

Leaning against the doorframe, a smile curving her lips, she listened to the scrunch of his boots as he headed around the house toward the stables. Outside, the night was peaceful, serene but dark; the moon had yet to rise. She drank in the silence, let the aura of home wrap her about. And thought of how long it would take Charles to circle the house and slip upstairs.

Her smile deepening, she straightened and turned inside. As she crossed the front hall, Nicholas came out of the drawing room. He halted; a faint frown shadowed his face.

Drawing near, she raised her brows in easy query.

“How does Lostwithiel come and go? I haven’t heard wheels on the gravel when he leaves.”

She smiled in understanding. “He’s most at home in a saddle. Knowing him, he rides over the fields-he never was one to stick to any straight and narrow.”

“Indeed?”

Faintly disconcerted, as she’d intended, Nicholas nodded a good night and headed for the library. According to Norris, he’d lost all interest in the local area and was now leafing through her father’s books on pillboxes.

Inwardly frowning, she climbed the stairs.

Ellie was waiting. Penny thought about dismissing her, but decided to stick with her usual routine.

Eventually, Ellie left. Rising from her dressing stool, Penny snuffed the candles, then went to the window and opened the curtains. The moon was just rising over the escarpment, sending fingers of silvery light into the room. She remained at the window, looking out as the light strengthened and the familiar landscape was reborn, transfigured by the play of moonlight and shadow.

A minute later, Charles materialized from the shadows behind her. She hadn’t heard him enter, but knew he was there before he stepped near.

Reaching past her, he unlatched the window and pushed it open. In the same movement, he stepped close, one large hand sliding across her waist to ease her back against him.

Smiling, she relaxed and crossed her arms over his hand, holding him to her; leaning back into the haven of his strength, she rubbed her temple against his jaw. “Nicholas asked how you traveled back and forth from the Abbey. He noticed the lack of carriage wheels on the drive.”

“What did you say?”

“I intimated that, unconventional as you were, you probably rode.”

There was a moment’s silence. “Unconventional?”

“Hmm.”

She could almost hear his mind working.

“You don’t like conventional.” Statement, not question.

“Conventional is well enough in its place, but there’s a time and place for everything, including the other.” She turned in his arms, looked into his face. “And the other is certainly more…challenging.”

His smile would have beguiled an angel. “And,” he said, bending his head, “you like to be challenged.”

“I do,” she whispered, and kissed him.

She’d learned long ago the art of dealing with him, treating with him. It was imperative to stop him from grabbing the bit of their interaction and running with it, leaving her forever trying to catch up. Instead, as before, she boldly seized the reins.

Opened her mouth to him, lured him in, sank into his arms, pressed herself to him, drew him deep, then turned the kiss on him. Let her fire rise and pour through her into him; let her desire-the desire he’d shown her she had-freely rise and take her, and claim him.

She dropped all pretense; she knew what she wanted of him-she let it show. Knew that would provoke him as nothing else could.

Winding her arms about his neck, she held him to the kiss. Pressing into him, she swayed, flagrantly caressing his already rigid erection, deliberately taunting its hardness with the giving tautness of her belly, sliding her thighs against his, sinuously shifting her peaked breasts against his chest.

He stilled, then surrendered, yet even as he gave way, as he let her will dominate and ceded control to her, she knew she hadn’t, this time, succeeded in stunning him long enough to seize it; he’d been waiting, ready for her, but had made a deliberate decision to let her lead. To allow her to script their play.