The regular thud of the horses’ heavy hooves, the repetitive rattle of the wheels became a soporific lullaby. Drawing her shawl about her, she leaned against Charles; he raised his arm and gathered her in. She smiled, turned to him, lifted her lips for a kiss…which was truncated by the next jolt.

His arm tightened, holding her against him. She patted his chest, then settled her cheek on the warm, resilient muscle, and closed her eyes.

She awoke at their next stop, when he left her to see to the horses. When he returned, and their rattling trip resumed, he drew her back to him and rested his cheek against the top of her head.

A fitful rest at best, yet despite the rigors, the journey was restful in other ways. They spoke little; there was no point in arguing yet.

When dawn broke and Charles took a turn on the box, spelling the coachman who’d driven through the night, her gaze fixed unseeing on the landscape flashing past, Penny grasped the chance to consider the landscape forming between them.

Within it, she felt comfortable; the farther they traveled together along their road, the more the position at his side felt right, increasingly hers. Increasingly meant to be hers. His confidence in that, that that’s what would be, remained unwavering, feeding her confidence that this time…

Once they’d dealt with Fothergill, they would see.

Charles rejoined her in the carriage at Hammersmith, leaving the coachman to tool the coach through the outskirts and into Mayfair. They came to a rocking halt before Lostwithiel House in Bedford Square.

A mansion of gray stone, it was old enough to have developed its own charm. Penny had visited there frequently in years gone by; when Charles’s butler, Crewther, opened the door, she smiled and greeted him by name.

Crewther’s face lit; he was about to bow, then his gaze went past her to Charles, giving her coachman directions to the mews. Crewther’s eyes widened. As Charles turned and strode up the steps, Crewther stepped back and bowed them in. “My lord, Lady Penelope. Welcome back.”

Charles nodded. “Thank you, Crewther. Lady Penelope and I will most likely be here for a few days.” He fixed Crewther with a direct look. “Are my mother and sisters in?”

“I believe the countess, your sisters, Mrs. Frederick and Mrs. James, are attending a luncheon at Osterley Park, my lord.”

Charles’s relief showed. “In that case…” He looked at Penny. “Lady Penelope and I have business to attend to-our movements are uncertain.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

Knowing Charles would leave it at that, she turned to Crewther. “Please inform the countess that she shouldn’t delay dinner or her evening’s entertainment on our account-we’ll speak with her when we return.”

Lips thinning, Charles nodded. “We should call on Amberly without delay.”

She glanced down at her crushed gown. “Just give me time to wash and change into something more appropriate.”

Crewther stepped in, sending a footman for the housekeeper, directing the two who’d fetched their bags to take them upstairs.

Charles gave orders for his town carriage to be brought around, then took her arm; they started up the main stairs in the footmen’s wake. The housekeeper, Mrs. Millikens, came bustling up to meet them at the stair head. She greeted Charles, then bore Penny off to a bedchamber.

“Twenty minutes in the front hall,” Charles called after her.

Mrs. Millikens looked scandalized. “Twenty minutes?” She huffed. “He’s not in the army now-what is he thinking? Twenty minutes? I’ve sent Flora to unpack your things-” Millikens paused and opened a door. “Ah, yes, here she is.” She ushered Penny in. “Now, let’s see…”

With Millikens, who’d known her from childhood, and Flora assisting, Penny was ready, gowned in a walking dress of blue silk twill, in just over twenty minutes. Descending the stairs, she saw Charles pacing in the front hall below. Hearing her footsteps, he glanced up; the set of his features, the frown that lurked, told her he’d been debating ways and means of detaching her from their pursuit of Fothergill-and he didn’t care that she knew.

He walked to meet her, taking her hand, tucking it in his arm as they turned to the front door. “I sent a message to Elaine that you were here-it wouldn’t do for someone to see you about town and mention it. She’s staying with Constance, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” Penny shot him a glance as they went down the steps. “What did you tell her?”

He met her eyes briefly, then handed her into the carriage. “That you and I both had business to deal with, so I’d brought you up to town, that you’d be staying here, that our movements were uncertain, but that you’d explain when next you saw her.”

He followed her in and shut the door, then sat beside her. She studied his face. “Nothing else?”

Turning his head, he met her gaze. “Having you involved in this is bad enough-I’m hardly likely to say anything to bring both our chattering families down on my head…” He looked forward. “No matter the aggravation you cause me.”

She smiled and looked ahead. “Better the devil you know…?”

After a moment, he murmured, “Actually, I’m not that well acquainted with this particular devil.”

She pondered that comment as the carriage traversed the few streets to Amberly House. To their relief, the marquess was at home, but he wasn’t alone.

Charles had sent a rider ahead of them with a message for Dalziel; as they were shown into the library, Penny glanced briefly at her relative as he struggled up from the chaise, then transferred her attention to the gentleman who rose from the armchair opposite.

He was tall, well built; although neither as tall nor as heavy as Charles, he was every bit as physically impressive. His hair was dark brown, almost black, his face pale with the austere planes and strong features that marked him as an aristocrat. Deep brown eyes of that shade most often referred to as soulful took her in; as his gaze, outwardly lazy yet intelligent and acute, met hers, she had little doubt of the caliber of mind behind those bedroom eyes.

If anything, she would have labeled him even more dangerous than Charles. No matter that his manners were polished and urbane, the unmistakable aura of a predator hung about him.

She curtsied to Amberly, then less deeply as she offered her hand to-

“Dalziel.” He bowed over her hand with the same effortless grace Charles possessed. “Lady Penelope Selborne, I presume.”

His gaze flicked to Charles. There was the faintest trace of a question in his eyes.

When Charles didn’t respond, Dalziel looked at her, his lips lightly lifting as he released her.

She moved on to join Amberly. Behind her, Dalziel turned to Charles. “After receiving your missive this morning, I decided my presence here might be wise.”

Charles nodded and stepped forward to greet Amberly and shake his hand. “Nicholas is well-he sends his regards.”

Amberly was over eighty years old, white-haired, his blue gaze faded. He blinked, frowned. “He’s not here?”

Charles exchanged a glance with Penny. Gently, she eased Amberly back to the chaise, then sat beside him. “Nicholas would have come with us, but he’s a trifle under the weather at the moment.”

“Perhaps,” Dalziel said, glancing at Charles as he resumed his seat, “you could bring us up to date with recent events?”

Charles drew up another chair, using the moment to marshal his thoughts. Amberly was attentive, watching and waiting, yet while his mind might still be acute, he didn’t look strong; there was no need to shock him unnecessarily. However glibly he couched his report, Dalziel would read between the lines.

Dalziel mumured, “I’ve already explained to the marquess all that happened up to the point of Arbry’s grappling with the intruder one night, the intruder’s subsequent escape and Arbry’s recovery from his injuries. Perhaps if you recount all that’s happened since.”

Charles did, relating only the bare facts in the most unemotional language. Dalziel picked up his omissions, but said nothing, just met his gaze and nodded for him to continue.

Despite his efforts, the tale left Amberly distressed. Fretfully plucking at his coat buttons, he looked at Charles, then Dalziel; finally, he turned to Penny. “It was never meant to be like this. No one was supposed to die.”

Penny patted his arm, murmuring that they understood; he didn’t seem to hear. He looked at Charles. “I thought it was all over-finished. All’s fair in war, and it was war, but the war’s ended.” Tears in his old eyes, he waved weakly. “If they want the boxes-the snuffboxes and pillboxes-they can have them. They’re not worth anyone’s life.”

Gaze distant, Amberly drew a short breath. “That poor boy Gimby, and a little maid, and now a fisherboy…” After a moment, he refocused; he looked at Charles and Dalziel. Confusion clouded his eyes. “Why? They weren’t part of the game.”

“No, they weren’t.” Dalziel sat forward, capturing Amberly’s gaze, steadying him by the contact. “This assassin’s not playing by the recognized rules, which is why, with your help, my lord, we need to bring his assignment to a swift end.”

Amberly looked into Dalziel’s eyes, then spread his hands. “Whatever I can do, my boy-whatever I can do.”

They spent the next hour discussing the possibilities. Charles was relieved to have his reading of Amberly’s abilities confirmed; although physically doddery, and sometimes vague when he became distracted, there was nothing wrong with his grasp on reality, his memory, or his courage.

Dalziel’s reading of the events to date, his prediction of what Fothergill was most likely to do next, tallied with Charles’s. The plan they agreed on was simple; give Fothergill what he wanted-the marquess at Amberly Grange.