Crooning to the horse, he took a few minutes to admire the gelding’s lines, then slipped on the bridle and saddled up.

He was tightening the saddle girth when a sound at the stall door had him glancing that way.

An old man, slightly stooped, with big, gnarled hands, stood in the aisle beyond the doorway, regarding him through bulging eyes. “Here! What do you think you’re doing? These are private stables.”

“Indeed?” Smoothly turning the roan, Daniel led the horse out. “In that case, I’ll be on my way.”

“Here-no! You can’t just take one of our horses.” The old man seized Daniel’s sleeve.

Daniel lashed out and back with that arm, his forearm colliding with the old man’s face. Releasing the roan’s reins, he pivoted, plowed his right fist into the old man’s gut, then followed up with a sharp blow to the head.

The old man went down; gasping, groaning, he fell to the straw-strewn earthen floor, curling in on himself. Daniel looked down at him, then coldly drew back his boot and kicked the old man viciously once, then again, and again in the ribs.

After gasping sharp and hard at the first kick, the old man had fallen silent.

Daniel straightened, settled his coat, grasped the roan’s reins. He’d missed the fun at Bedford; he’d been owed a little violence.

Reassembling his mask of gentlemanly boredom, he walked up the aisle, paused to mount in the cleared space just inside the doors, then, with the roan shifting and prancing beneath him, clearly anticipating a long ride, Daniel lifted the reins and trotted out of the stable.

Seconds later, he was cantering out onto the open heath.

Carruthers swore beneath his breath-he couldn’t catch enough breath to curse aloud. His ribs ached, his jaw throbbed. He managed to get his feet under him, then caught hold of the slats of a stall door and hauled himself up.

Hunched over, he shuffled as fast as he could, clutching the stall doors to keep from falling. Reaching the open space at the end of the aisle, he drew in a slow, pained breath, let go of the last stall, and propelled himself forward. Forced his legs to move.

Eyes locked on his goal, he made it to the side of the open door, gasped as he lunged and grabbed the rope dangling from the stable bell. It clanged as he slumped against the door frame. Clanged again as, his grip weakening, the rope tugged free and he slid slowly down to collapse on the floor.

With his ear to the ground, he heard the sound he’d hoped for-the heavy thud of flying hooves. Smiling was beyond him, but he smiled inside.

It seemed like only seconds, then Demon was there, crouching down beside him, hard hands gentle as his employer helped him up to sit against the door frame.

Demon peered into Carruthers’s eyes, saw he was in pain, but conscious. “What the devil happened?”

Other horses thundered up; the string had followed Demon back to the stable.

Carruthers wet his lips. “Was in the tack room. Heard a sound. Came out and found some blighter saddling up The Gentleman. Asked him what he was about-told him he had to leave. I tried to stop him when he led The Gentleman out. He lashed out, struck me. Couple of times.”

Demon took in the contusions forming under Carruthers’s mottled skin.

“Then when I fell, he kicked me.”

“What?” Demon stared, then swore. “Never mind-I heard. Stay here and get better. Leave the bastard to me.”

Swinging around and rising, Demon pointed to Jarvis, Carruthers’s lieutenant. “Take care of him.” Demon was already moving, grabbing up the spyglass kept in a holder by the door; it was usually used to watch horses training.

Striding outside, he put the glass to his eye, scanned the heath in the direction the horse thief had to have gone; he hadn’t passed Demon or the string coming in, so he had to have gone toward Bury.

The heath appeared flat, but in reality was full of gentle dips and rises, an ocean of green with low, widely spaced waves. A rider might be quite close but momentarily hidden, then reappear as they rode up the next rise.

Even as he picked out the smoky hide of The Gentleman, happily galloping east over the heath, Demon was inwardly connecting possibilities. What chance his horse thief had something to do with the mission he and his cousins were assisting with? Ferrar, thought to be the Black Cobra, had been found murdered in Bury just yesterday.

Demon shifted the glass, adjusting to bring the rider into sharper focus. Wolverstone and Devil would flay him-verbally at least-if he didn’t at least try to get a good look at the man’s face…

There . Rider and horse had to turn slightly, the rider coming into full profile. For one instant, through the glass, Demon got a good view. And managed at the last to get a glimpse of the man’s hands. They were deeply tanned.

Demon lowered the glass, then whirled back to the stable. “Go!” He pointed and waved the string on. “Get after him-follow him. Grab him if you can. I’ll catch up.”

The jockeys, shocked and furious at the treatment meted out to their old trainer, needed no further urging. In a thunderous clatter of hooves, they set off.

Back in the stable, Demon grabbed the reins of his mount. He’d left the gathering at Somersham Place and had come over for the training session; because his wife, Flick, hadn’t been able to get over for the last few days, he’d taken out her usual mount, The Mighty Flynn. The Flynn loved Flick, but would tolerate-make do with-Demon. Although retired now, the big horse was a stayer. Demon couldn’t have picked a better mount for riding down a horse thief.

Yet looking at Carruthers, now in the hands of Jarvis and two stableboys, he paused.

Carruthers saw him looking and glared as well as he could. “What’re you waiting for? Go get the bastard, and bring The Gentleman back!”

Demon grinned, saluted, vaulted to the saddle, and went.

Daniel was pleased with his new mount. A very good horse, with very nice paces. Despite the impulse to flee in a flat-out gallop, he was too wise to attract attention like that, especially not in a place like this, surrounded by locals on very fast horses.

Locals who, for all he knew, might recognize his stolen horse.

But keeping to a nice steady pace would soon put miles between him and the stable, and few around there paid any attention to a mounted man riding easily by. It would probably be an hour, maybe more, before the old man was found. Daniel hadn’t looked back, but he’d listened intently and had heard no hue and cry.

He’d already passed two strings out exercising, and hadn’t even been glanced at.

Entirely pleased-first the letter, now this excellent horse-everything seemed to be falling into his lap-he smiled and rode on.

From a vantage point on one of the higher rises some way ahead-a significant distance east, and a little to the south from where Daniel now rode-concealed by a twiggy copse, Alex watched the scene unfolding on the heath through a spyglass.

Horrified. Barely able to believe it.

All had been going so well, then Daniel’s horse had gone lame. But he’d done the sensible thing and slipped into a stable to exchange it.

Alex had used the opportunity to get well ahead, then had patiently waited, and sure enough, not too many minutes later, Daniel had ridden out on a different horse.

All well and good, but… something had happened to alert the stable’s people off exercising the horses, and had brought the trainer and his jockeys flying back to the place.

Alex had no idea what had summoned them, but the man who’d led the charge back, a gentleman by his dress, had all but immediately come out again, with a spyglass.

The man had located Daniel.

Daniel was no longer wearing his black silk scarf. His face was bare, naked, there for anyone to see.

The man with the spyglass had stood outside the stable, and looked, looked-looked for far too long to have only been interested in identifying his horse.

Alex knew without a shadow of a doubt that Daniel’s face had been studied and noted.

And now a thundering herd of men and horses was charging after Daniel-and he still hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t glanced around, hadn’t heard… Alex realized why. The wind, a nice stiff breeze, was blowing directly in Daniel’s face, pushing his dark locks back.

Alex wanted to shout and point, but Daniel was still too far away to hear. And he’d been seen. He would be recognized.

The mob of horses was coming up fast, amazingly fast, but was still some way away; the man who had wielded the spyglass was now following, too, on a massive horse whose long strides seemed to eat the distance.

By the time Daniel heard them coming well enough to distinguish the sound from that of the other exercising strings he was passing, it would be too late.

He wouldn’t escape them. He’d be taken up as a horse thief.

Bad enough, but he had the letter-copy or original-on him.

What odds that vital document would find its way into the hands of the puppetmaster, that nebulous man Alex was learning to respect, and more, fear?

Alex’s mount shifted restlessly. Eyes desperately scanning the heath, Alex reined it in without thought. Had no thought to spare.

What to do? What to do?

There! One chance, just one, one way forward, and no other.

If Alex was game to grasp it.

If…

With a vicious curse, Alex set heels to the chestnut’s sides and raced down the rise on a course that would intersect with Daniel’s at one particular spot. A place just beyond another rise, a little higher than most, that sheltered a wide dip hosting a short line of firs and pines with thick, heavy branches-one of the few effective screens on the winter heath.