Following the ball, during the hours she spent in his arms, she’d decided she could trust him with anything. She’d prayed that Eleanor had not possessed the strength to carry through with her part of the plan. She was going to convince her sister that they needed to tell James everything, that he would help them see justice done.

But when she’d been arrested, she knew it was too late. The deed was done, their course was set.

James would despise her for her role in Rockberry’s demise. How could he not?

So she and Eleanor had packed their trunk. Emma had gone to the street and hired two boys to carry it out. Then she asked Mrs. Potter to make her a meal for the journey, and while Mrs. Potter was in the kitchen preparing it, Eleanor had sneaked out.

Simple. The three sisters had always found it simple to switch roles, to pretend to be each other.

But never had Emma regretted their skill more.

With a sigh snatched by the wind, she turned and began walking back to the cottage. A few sheep, cows, and chickens grazed about. They had long ago sold the horses. The only place they needed to go was to the village, and it was reached with an hour of walking. They’d had a light buggy for traveling when their father and Elisabeth were alive. But now it sat unused-the same as their laughter.

Opening the door into the front room, she felt the loneliness of the house even more. Perhaps tonight she would write a letter to James and thank him for the wonderful time he’d shown her in London-even if his ultimate goal hadn’t been to impress and charm her, he’d given her precious memories she’d never forget. Perhaps this time she would send it.

Remorse and guilt gnawed at her, and she wondered if James had deduced everything. How long would it take him to realize he’d been duped? And when he did-dear God, she didn’t share Eleanor’s conviction that they were both safe.

She walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. “Well, I do believe we have a storm coming up.”

She came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Eleanor pumping water into the sink, then scraping a rough brush over her hands with a vengeance.

“Oh, Eleanor,” Emma said as she hurried over and wrenched the now red-stained brush free of her sister’s hold.

“I can’t get his blood off, Emma. No matter how hard I scrub. My skin feels so slick and dirty.”

“It’s not his blood, sweeting. It’s yours.” Gingerly, she guided Eleanor to a chair at the table. “Sit down while I fetch things.”

After gathering up the cloths and salve, she joined her sister and very carefully took her hand. Then, as gently as possible, she cleaned the raw, oozing flesh.

“It’s not my blood, it’s his,” Eleanor insisted.

“I’m going to clean it off, put salve on your hands, and wrap them up. His blood won’t come back after that.”

“You said the same thing yesterday.”

Emma lifted her eyes to Eleanor’s. “I’ll do it properly this time, but you mustn’t remove the bandages until the wounds heal.”

“They start to itch and burn. They hurt.”

“When that happens, come to me and I’ll take care of them.”

Nodding, Eleanor turned her head to look out the window. “Oh, my God, Emma, he’s here.”

Emma didn’t have to ask who. She heard the despair in Eleanor’s voice. And when she dared to peer out the window, her heart leapt at the sight of James riding astride a large brown horse. How often had she imagined him arriving to sweep her away and into his arms? Just as quickly, her heart crashed into the pit of her stomach. If he swept her away at all, it would be toward gaol.


Swindler owed Greystone another debt. The sketch Greystone provided had allowed Swindler to much more easily follow Eleanor’s trail from the train station to this nice stone cottage near the cliffs. It also helped that Greystone had made some inquiries of his peers and managed to discover the location of Viscount Watkins’s residence.

Swindler had ridden the train as far as it would take him, and then hired a horse for the remainder of the journey. At a nearby village he’d managed to garner precise directions to his destination.

He wanted to remain level-headed until he questioned Eleanor. Presently, he only had suspicions regarding her duplicity. He held out hope that another explanation existed-that she’d not in fact arranged Rockberry’s murder and then used Swindler as her alibi. But if she hadn’t, why had she left him? Had she been overcome with shame for coming to his bed? Was it her reputation she was striving to protect?

His head and his pride were in a continual argument. He was not a man prone to emotions, but he wavered between boiling rage and crushing disappointment. Then he’d remember the wonder of her in his arms, before remembering that she had shattered the fragile trust developing between them.

Then there was the matter of the dagger. He’d only caught of a glimpse of it in the shadows. Perhaps his memory of it wasn’t clear. But he’d taught himself over the years to pay attention to details. It was unlikely now that he’d become careless.

He’d barely brought the horse to a halt when she opened the door. She wore a simple dress of pink, her hair held in place with a pink ribbon.

As he dismounted, the emotions roiled through him like some sort of tempest. He was angry, yet still he desired her. He wanted the taste of her, the scent of her, the feel of her. He wanted her naked beneath him. He wanted her asking for his forgiveness, wanted her sharing her secrets. He wanted her arms wound around his shoulders, her fingers in his hair, her legs wrapped around his hips, her eyes holding his.

He barely remembered striding to the door, but suddenly she was in his arms, her mouth greedily greeting his. He’d been searching a fortnight, and every minute of every day had been hell, knowing what his duty would require of him when he found her, selfishly fearing he might never again set eyes on her. Desperation clung to him now, to yearn to have this forever and to know that he couldn’t.

She still smelled of roses. That much was real. She still moaned softly as he deepened the kiss. No deception there. Her body molded against his as though it belonged, and damned if he didn’t want it to.

But she’d betrayed him, betrayed his trust.

Breathing harshly, he tore his mouth from hers and cradled her face between his hands. “Why in God’s name did you leave?”

She merely shook her head.

“You did it, didn’t you?” he demanded. “Arranged for his murder. You had an accomplice. You used me to establish your innocence.”

She shook her head only slightly this time.

“Don’t lie to me, Eleanor. For God’s sake, tell-” Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he jerked his head up and saw a woman standing just beyond the doorway. The resemblance between the two women was uncanny. Frannie had the right of it. “Elisabeth,” he whispered.

“No,” the woman in his arms said quietly. “Eleanor.”

He studied more intensely the woman he held. Everything about her was familiar. The taste, the fragrance, the feel of her in his arms, the way she molded against him. He shook his head. “No, you’re Eleanor.”

“No, I’m Emma. I’ve always been Emma.”

He remembered that first meeting in Cremorne Gardens-how he’d rescued the woman, yet been anxious to bring the assignment to an end. How during the light of day the following afternoon she’d taken his breath, how he’d been struck that something about her was different. “So you deceived me from the beginning?”

“You deceived me,” she said tartly. “You claimed to be a scoundrel. You didn’t reveal you worked for Scotland Yard.”

“I am a scoundrel. But I never once lied to you. Not about anything.”


Three sisters. There had been three identical sisters!

Swindler wasn’t certain he’d ever heard of such a thing.

The fury had shot through him as the depth of their deception became clearer. He’d hardly been able to stand to look at either woman, so he decided to see to the horse, to give himself some time to calm down. He couldn’t recall ever being as furious, to know that the sisters had planned to use him, to wonder how much of Elean-no, Emma’s action had been devised to lure him into her carefully devised trap. The deceitful wench!

The irony did not escape him. He-who was so very skilled at planning and executing the swindle-he’d been effectively swindled.

Removing the saddle from his horse, he draped it over one side of the stall, near where he’d earlier hung the bridle and bit. Having rarely ridden a horse, he wasn’t a skilled horseman. Nor did he have any experience in actually caring for the creatures. He’d expected to at least find a groom here who could see to the matter for him. He patted the horse’s neck. It shied away from him. The closer they’d come to the sea, the more skittish it had become. Damned big brute, but then Swindler needed it to accommodate his size.

He went in search of oats. The barn was small, in need of repair. There didn’t appear to be any servants about anywhere. Perhaps Emma hadn’t lied about her circumstances. She’d not had the means to have a proper Season.

Where once he’d felt sympathy with her plight, he was no longer certain what he was now experiencing. He cursed Rockberry for bringing Scotland Yard into his personal mess. He cursed Sir David for deciding Swindler was the best man for the job. And he cursed himself for failing miserably at ensuring that a lord was not killed.

He’d given no credence to Rockberry’s claims or fears. Eventually his duty had become secondary to his desire to be with the lady. He’d put his own wants and needs first.

He finally located a nearly empty bin of oats. After scooping some into a feed sack, he walked back toward the stall where he’d left the horse. He was in the process of slipping the sack over the horse’s head when he heard a large clap of thunder. The horse whinnied and reared up. He had been so distracted with thoughts of the woman he now knew as Emma that he was slow to react. He twisted-