The wife stopped dabbing. “But if he don’t remember who he is, how is he going to pay us?”

“He’ll remember, sooner or later.” The man took a pipe from his coat and shoved it into his mouth, showing missing teeth. “And the longer it takes, the more he pays.”

“But we ain’t got room,” the wife said in worry.

“We’ll manage.” The man took his pipe from his mouth and pointed the stem at Hart. “You stay, but you earn your keep. Don’t care if you’re a lord. Or a laird, I guess the Scottish call them.”

“Not the same thing,” Hart said. “A lord has been given a title by a monarch. A laird is a landholder. A caretaker of his people.”

“That so?” The man brought out a pouch of tobacco and stepped under the cabin’s eave to fill his pipe without rain dropping in it. “How do you remember that but not your name?”

Hart shrugged again. “It came to me. Maybe my name will too.”

The man slowly filled the pipe, then put the pipe into his mouth. He took out a box of matches, struck a match against the cabin wall, and touched the spurting flame to the bowl. He sucked and puffed, sucked and puffed until smoke rolled from the pipe, pungent against the smell of the river.

“Got another pipe somewhere,” the man said, seeing Hart’s gaze.

“Coffee is fine for now.” Hart took a sip of it. Very bitter, but thick enough to cut the haze in his head.

The man pulled out a dented flask, put a drop of brandy in his cup of coffee, and added some to Hart’s. “The name’s Reeve. The lad there is Lewis.”

Hart took another sip of coffee, fortified now with the brandy.

“I got something he can do,” Mrs. Reeve said to Hart. She pointed at the cabin. “Two buckets of night soil need emptying.”

Hart laid down the net. “Night soil.”

“Aye.” Mrs. Reeve’s dark blue eyes met his, daring him. Lewis didn’t register an expression. Reeve said nothing but looked on in amusement.

Earning his keep.

Hart let out his breath and got to his feet. He ducked into the cabin, removed the indicated buckets from the rear, and came back out with them. While Reeve watched with obvious enjoyment, the Duke of Kilmorgan, one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the empire, trudged down the deck of the boat to empty buckets full of English shit.


The search for Hart Mackenzie, Duke of Kilmorgan, went on for a while longer, but the police, and the journalists with them, soon concluded that he was dead. He’d been left down in the tunnels, which the rain had washed clear. Sooner or later his body would turn up floating in the Thames.

Only Ian Mackenzie did not give up. He went out every morning at first light, often not returning until the wee hours of the morning. He’d eat in silence, with Beth watching him worriedly, sleep a few hours, and then go out again. When asked about his progress, Ian would repeat his mantra that he would find Hart, and nothing more.

David Fleming, Hart’s second-in-command, stepped in to lead the coalition party. Election campaigns went on, and even without Hart, the coalition had strength. Mr. Fleming was certain of a majority, the newspapers said. Unfortunate that the duke would miss the victory he’d spent years preparing for, but that was the way of the world.

The newspapers also reported that the duke’s wife staunchly refused to wear black until she had proof of her husband’s death. Brave, beautiful lady.

Eleanor also refused to stay home and wring her hands. Each day she walked through the park in the center of Grosvenor Square, the key to its gates in her pocket. She’d make for the tree nearest the center of the park where the curving walkways came together. Her heart fell every afternoon when she found no flower waiting for her in the appointed spot.

Her common sense told her that if Hart had been able to come to the little park and leave their signal that he was well, he’d have simply come home. But Eleanor looked, every morning. Every afternoon, she pulled on gloves and hat and rode to Hyde Park in Hart’s landau. She’d descend and stroll along the walks to the crossing paths in the middle, but again, she found nothing, no sign that Hart had been there.

She would find nothing, she knew. Hart might have forgotten all about the silly signal, in any case.

But she took comfort in the ritual, in the hope that the next time she walked to any of their agreed-upon places, she’d find Hart’s sign that he was all right. She clung to the hope. She needed it.

Meanwhile, the tragic death of the duke and the grief of his family moved to the back pages of the newspaper, while dire news about General Gordon and the Sudan took the front. The journalists didn’t care about Hart, Eleanor thought in disgust. They only wanted a juicy story.

The rest of the family decided to return to Kilmorgan, and asked that Eleanor come with them. Cameron was especially grim.

“Dad might have to be duke now,” Daniel whispered to Eleanor as they held a family conference in Hart’s drawing room. “He doesn’t want to be.”

“He won’t,” Eleanor said. “I’m going to have a baby.”

The room went silent. The Mackenzies stopped jabbering among themselves and turned eyes to her—green, dark blue, and shades of gold. They were all there—Cam and Ainsley, Mac and Isabella, Daniel and Beth. Only Ian was absent, on his ever-vigilant search for Hart.

“For God’s sake, tell me it’s a boy,” Cameron said. “Hart wouldn’t be that cruel, to disappear and not leave behind a boy.”

“Leave her be, Cam,” Ainsley said. “How can she possibly know?”

“I’m certain it is a boy,” Eleanor said. “I sense it. My father would say that was ridiculous, of course, but…”

She faltered. Eleanor had kept up her resolution that Hart had survived—he was so strong, how could he not? She’d kept it even knowing she hadn’t told him about the baby. She hadn’t been certain at Kilmorgan, but every day that passed brought more certainty, as did her sicknesses in the mornings, of late. Eleanor was never sick.

She’d been looking forward to telling him. She’d imagined Hart’s joy, his hope. He’d have Wilfred send the formal announcement to the newspapers, and Eleanor and Hart could celebrate privately…

I will not break down. I will not give up hope. If I give up, then that means he is truly gone.

Daniel, next to Eleanor on the sofa, heaved himself at her and enclosed her in a warm hug. “Ian will find him, and so will the tenacious Fellows. You’ll see.”

Eleanor fought back her tears. If one tear came, then a flood would.

Beth said, “It’s doubly important that you come with us to Scotland, El. We’ll keep Hart’s baby safe at Kilmorgan.”

“No.” Eleanor shook her head. “If he’s found, I want to be here, to go to him right away. He’ll need me.” And if he were found near to death, she’d never forgive herself if she weren’t there to say good-bye.

Cam and Mac watched her, they looking so like Hart and yet so different. Hart’s nephew, again similar and yet different, had left school in Edinburgh to hurry to help her. Their wives—her closest friends—knew what they’d feel were it their Mackenzie lost and gone. Eleanor’s heart swelled with the love of this family.

On the other hand, she would not let them herd her off to Scotland and seclude her. They ought to know her better than that, by now.

At last, they stopped trying to convince her, even Beth realizing it was useless.

Later, after the family had gone, Eleanor retreated to her bedchamber, retrieved her memory book from her drawer, and opened it to the photographs of Hart. She’d pasted the ones she’d taken at Kilmorgan onto the pages following the older ones.

Eleanor studied them all, first those of Hart young and such a devil, his body beautiful. In the photograph of him in his kilt, Hart laughed out of the picture, his hand out to stop the photographer.

She turned from that to the photographs she’d taken of him in his kilt at Kilmorgan. She traced the one of him holding his kilt over himself, hiding little. The next one was of him leaning, bare, against the wall, laughing.

The flash of vision came to her of Hart over her in the dark, his body against hers, whispering, I need you, El. I need you.

Eleanor’s resolution cracked, and she lay across the book and sobbed.

Eleanor loved him. She’d lost Hart, and she loved him so much.

She thought about how she’d found Hart at the tomb of his son, tracing the letters of the lad’s name. Remembered him with head bowed, his hand on the cold stone—proud, proud Hart—anguished that he hadn’t been strong enough to save little Graham.

Eleanor put her hand to her abdomen, where life had begun to stir. Her child. Hart’s son. Tears flowed faster.

She heard someone enter the room, but she couldn’t lift her head. Maigdlin, she thought, but the tread was wrong, as was the scent of cigars and wool.

The chair next to her creaked and then a broad hand touched her arm. Eleanor pried open her eyes to see Ian next to her, his hand unmoving. Ian, who rarely touched anyone but Beth.

Eleanor sat up and snatched up her handkerchief. Ian smelled of the outdoors, of coal smoke and rain. “I’m sorry, Ian. This is not me giving up hope.” She drew a long breath. “It’s me feeling sorry for myself.”

Ian didn’t answer. He was staring at the book, still open to the page with Hart naked, his kilt on the floor.

Face heating, Eleanor closed the book. “Those are…”

“The photographs Mrs. Palmer took of Hart. Good. She gave them to you.”

Eleanor sat back, her lips parting. Joanna had said that an unknown someone had sent the photographs to her with instructions to post them to Eleanor at intervals.