Instead of dragging his confederates inside, as Geoff had expected, Byrne gestured to a pile of timber hard by the garden gate. Emmet asked something and Byrne nodded, bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet. The third man shrugged, in a way that could have indicated doubt, impatience, or simply a stiff back. It was too far away, and Emmet's lantern emitted too little light to tell for sure. If only they would go into the office of the timber yard to carry on their discussion, Geoff thought wistfully. That would make his task far easier.

Going down on one knee, Emmet settled one of the large beams over his shoulder and struggled to his feet, while the other two followed suit. Emmet, unaccustomed to such work, staggered a bit under the weight, while Byrne walked with a jaunty step and the third man, the car-man, followed steadily behind. They paraded past his hiding place, long slats of wood protruding behind them like cats' tails. Geoff pulled back to avoid being whapped in the face by the bobbing end of Byrne's plank, squared off at one end, and splattered with mud.

Geoff exited his smelly hiding place and followed them back up New Street, grateful for the labored breathing and heavy footsteps that filled their ears and masked any sounds of his own quiet pursuit. Any time they paused, he froze, ducking into doorways or between buildings. When they resumed, he resumed, like a child's game of statues. They passed the turnoff to Dean Street without stopping, and Geoff's pulse quickened with anticipation. Wherever they were going with their awkward burden, it wasn't the Marshall Lane depot.

Partway down Patrick Street, the odd cavalcade came to an abrupt halt, right in front of number twenty-six. As Geoff crouched behind a bush one house down, his chest swelled with silent satisfaction, despite the mud seeping through the knees of his pantaloons and the unfortunate smell wafting from his ruined boots. He had found the missing depot.

Of course, he still wasn't any closer to discovering the identity of their French contact, or what his business had been with Emmet.

Byrne turned his head to ask Emmet something, the plank on his shoulder swinging dangerously with the movement of his body, causing the third man to duck, stumble, and curse loudly as his own burden went crashing down to the ground. It made an odd noise as it connected with the cobbles, not a solid thunk, but an ominous cracking sound, as the entire piece of timber split down the middle. Something else hit the ground with a metallic clang, rolling dangerously close to Geoff's hiding place.

It wasn't a gun, or even a pike. It was a long cylinder of iron, and before the third man snatched the object back up, cursing beneath his breath all the while, Geoff saw that it had a pointed head, like an arrow.

Geoff had never seen one himself before, but he thought he knew what it was.

Where in the devil had the rebels acquired rockets? And, more important, how were they planning to use them?

* * *

Sparks of red, gold, and blue exploded in front of Letty's eyes.

Blinking did nothing to dispel them. They were, she realized after a confused moment, not the results of the blow to her head, but the component colors of the gaudily decorated tunic that currently filled her entire line of vision.

"Dear lady," exclaimed a rich masculine voice just above Letty's head, "this is well met, indeed."

"I can't quite agree," Letty gasped, struggling for breath. The stranger was holding her very hard, and the gold buttons on his tunic were digging into her ribs. She tried to turn her face away from the overwhelming smell of his cologne, scratching her cheek on the wool of his tunic. "Do you think you could let me go, please?"

"When you are the very woman I've come all this way to find?" he murmured somewhere in the vicinity of her hair. Letty could feel his hot breath all the way down to her scalp.

Letty's irritation turned to genuine alarm. Either she was the victim of a case of mistaken identity or she was being held captive by a madman who made a practice of wandering into parties to kidnap the first unescorted female who happened to barrel into him.

"I think you must be mistaken, sir," she objected, beginning to struggle in earnest. "Now, if you'll just release me…"

To her surprise, the crushing grip loosened, sending her staggering back several steps, fetching up against a small marble-topped table that tottered ominously on its spindly, gilded legs.

"My dear madam!" The madman flung himself at her feet. "Are you hurt?"

He reached for her hand. Letty scuttled sideways until the pressure of marble in her midriff arrested her progress. "No, no," she said rapidly. "I'm really quite all right. Please don't let me stand in the way of your going along into the party."

Much to her relief, the madman rocked back on his heels away from her and straightened. Maybe not so much to her relief, Letty amended, as the madman rose to his full height, the impression of size amplified by the breadth of the red and blue facings that made up his uniform. He probably wasn't any taller than her husband, but given her own lack of inches, it didn't take much to dwarf her.

Fortunately, he didn't seem to be preparing for another assault. Instead, he took his red-plumed hat from his head, revealing a thatch of carefully combed curly brown hair that tapered into long sideburns on either side of his face.

Sweeping a neat bow, he said, "Perhaps I ought to reintroduce myself. We met at your wedding, Lady—"

"Mrs.," gabbled Letty hastily, before he could utter the fateful name. Drat. She ought to have known this would happen sooner or later. What had she been thinking? She had been thinking, she realized grimly, that she would be reconciled with her husband, and there would be no further need for subterfuge. More fool her.

"Mrs.," she repeated. "Mrs. Alsdale."

Instead of arguing, the man regarded her with dawning understanding, and something underneath it that Letty didn't like at all. He looked oddly smug, although just what there might be about her marital difficulties to make anyone smug—other than Mrs. Ponsonby—she couldn't comprehend.

Before she could stop him, the officer took her hand and raised it. With his lips hovering just above her knuckles, he stared meaningfully into her eyes.

"My cousin is a fool."

Letty removed her hand with more force than was strictly necessary. "Your cousin?" she asked warily.

Fortunately, the stranger showed no further inclination to seize any part of her person. He merely tucked his plumed hat beneath his arm, and smiled carefully down at her. "I am Jasper Pinchingdale. I stood groomsman to your husband at his wedding. Perhaps you remember me?"

Letty did. More precisely, she remembered the way he had managed to cut through several layers of cloth with one neat flick of his eyelids—and then yawned, as if the exercise hadn't been worth the effort. She didn't like him one bit better for the recollection. At present, his eyes were focused firmly above the neck, gazing at her as guilelessly as the most persnickety dowager could demand. All he needed was a white smock over his uniform and a candle in his hands to provide a credible imitation of a choirboy at evensong.

He took a very tiny step forward, saying, with studied humility, "Forgive me for prying, but I couldn't help but notice that you and my cousin seem to be at odds."

"Oh, we just travel under separate names for our own amusement," replied Letty pithily. "It's a little game we play."

"So beautiful," murmured Jasper, reaching out to place two fingers beneath Letty's chin, "and so brave."

"You're too kind." Letty slid neatly out of the way, leaving him crooking two fingers into empty air.

Jasper rallied rapidly. "I was desolated to hear that you had left town."

"Your spirits must be easily depressed."

Jasper threw his head back and laughed, revealing very large, even teeth.

"How could my cousin not appreciate such a wit?" Letty could have told him that snippiness and wittiness weren't quite the same thing, but Jasper had learned his lesson. Without pausing for her response, he said expansively, "On the contrary, my lady—"

"Mrs.," corrected Letty.

Eyes narrowing slightly in irritation, Jasper soldiered gamely on. "On the contrary, Mrs…. er. On the contrary, I was simply disappointed by your departure. I had hoped to get to know you…better."

Letty only just refrained from rolling her eyes. That was all she needed, another rake. Another Pinchingdale rake, at that. The family appeared to breed them in excessive supply. Drat! Letty threw a quick glance in the direction of the front door, which was now firmly closed, the sound of her husband's boots no longer audible through the thick panels. While she had been detained by the suspiciously complimentary Jasper, the primary rake, the one to whom she was actually bound in matrimony, had managed to make good his escape.

There hadn't been awfully much time for Lord Pinchingdale to have arranged with his cousin to detain her, but it wouldn't take very much arranging, would it? Just a quick "Stop that woman!" tossed over his shoulder as he fled down the stairs, one rake to the other.

Letty pushed away from the wall. "Your duty to your family does you credit, Mr. Pinchingdale," she said acidly. "Now if you will excuse me…"

"I can excuse anything"—Jasper moved to intercept her—"except your absence."

It was a line straight out of The Rake's Guide to Seducing Gullible Women. It was an insult to her intelligence and to all of womankind.