The years rolled away, and he vividly recalled that night. Visiting a pub on the outskirts of London. His surprise at seeing Cyril Owens, the blacksmith from the village near Bradford Hall. Cyril drunkenly bragging to a group of sailors about a girl he'd recently had, and how he'd used his own brand of charm to "convince" her. Filled with disgust, Robert had turned away. But then Cyril had said her name. Hannah.

He'd realized with horror whom Cyril meant. Hannah Morehouse, Nate's daughter. Nate Morehouse was more than just of one of Bradford Hall's longtime grooms-more than just a servant. Robert admired and respected the man; he considered him a friend. He recalled Nate mentioning how concerned he was about Hannah, how withdrawn and quiet she'd become over the past several weeks. And now Robert knew why.

The urge to wrap his hands around Owens' neck was strong, but he managed to control the impulse. There were better ways to see justice served. So he'd gone to Nate. Told him what he'd overheard. He'd then assured the stricken man that he would handle the situation, in his own way, vowing that justice would be done. Dear God, he'd been such a young, impetuous fool. All my fault…

He dragged his hands through his hair and blew out a long breath. His stomach clenched as he imagined Allie's reaction to the story, given her disastrous history with David.

It was not a chance he was willing to take.

Not yet. Damn it, he wished he could tell her the truth. Wished he wasn't bound by his promise. He couldn't avoid forever telling her the version of the story everyone knew, but surely he could put it off a while longer.

Yes, surely there was no harm in waiting a while longer.

Chapter 12

Redfern limped up the cobbled walkway leading to the earl's house, cursing his rotten luck. Blast that screamin' banshee of a maid. If it weren't for her, he'd have the bloody box. And he wouldn't be sportin' a sore ankle from leapin' over the damn balcony rail. Bad enough he'd landed with a bone-jarrin' thud, turnin' his ankle, but he landed with that bone-jarrin' thud right in some sort of thorny bush. Now his ankle throbbed, his best breeches and jacket were torn all up, and his arse hurt like hell. Were there any bones in a man's arse? 'Cause if there were, he knew he'd broken the bastards. All 'cause of that screamin' wench. Typical woman. Never knew when to shut up. Maybe when he'd washed his hands of the nightmare this job had become, he'd pay that screamin' wench a little private visit.

But for now, the earl were not going to be pleased he'd failed to get the box. Why the devil would he want the piece of junk? He'd considered avoidin' the earl, not reportin' in until he had the goods, but decided it were better to let Lord Shelbourne know he were on the job and huntin' for that box. Otherwise Shelbourne might get it into his head to kill first, ask questions afterward. I'll get the box tomorrow. Without fail.

He knocked on the big double doors. Shelbourne's uppity butler Willis opened the door. Damn, Redfern hated the way that pompous bloke looked at him-down his long, skinny nose as if he were his bloody majesty and Redfern were a piece of flotsam on his shoe. Devil take it, the man somehow seemed to sniff all his comments. He were nothin' but a servant! Well, when Refern collected his blunt, the first thing he were going to do were hire himself a fancy butler he could sniff orders at.

After a quarter hour wait, where he were forced to stand on his throbbing ankle-'cause in spite of all the hoity-toityness of his lordship's fancy house, there weren't one single chair in the bloody foyer-Willis finally led him down the corridor. Well, when Redfern collected his blunt, the second thing he were going to do were buy himself a fine house and fill the bloody foyer with bloody chairs so a bloody body could sit itself down. Yes, he'd set himself up right nice, and never again take orders from any nose-in-the-air nobleman.

Seconds later Willis opened a door. Redfern offered him his best sneer, then limped across the carpet. The door closed behind him with a firm click.

The earl sat in a brown leather chair near the fireplace, a brandy snifter cradled in one hand, the other hand resting on his mastiff's enormous head. Both the earl and the dog watched his hobbling progress across the room through narrowed eyes, and Redfern weren't certain which made him more uncomfortable-the man or the beast. He weren't particularly fond of dogs, especially dogs wot looked like they could chew his arm off with one bite. Shelbourne certainly seemed to love the monstrous beast, always pettin' it. He'd even heard the earl talkin' sweet to the beast several times, in a silly high-pitched voice like one would use with a tyke. He indulged in a mental shrug. Just no figurin' the Quality.

Redfern halted in front of the earl. The heat from the fire only partially eased the chill of unease snaking down his back. No, the earl didn't look happy-and he hadn't even told him the bad news yet. Maybe this was a bad idea.

"Well?" the earl asked in that icy tone of his.

Trying to inject confidence into his voice, Redfern said, "I've got me some good news, my lord. That box you want? You'll have it by this time tomorrow. You've got me word on that."

"Really? Unless you intend to rob me, I do not see how that is possible. You see, Redfern, I have the box."

"You?" Redfern repeated, confused. "How'd-"

"Mrs. Brown gave it to me."

Although muddled by all the whys and what-fors, Redfern instantly understood the ramifications. Relief relaxed his shoulders. "Well, fine, then. You've got what you wanted. Now, about my blunt-"

"I'm afraid there's a problem, Redfern. You see, the box contained a note I wanted. The note is no longer in the box, leading me to believe Mrs. Brown still has it."

"Bloody hell, wot's this now? First you wanted the ring. Then the box. Now this note. Why the blazes, if all you'd wanted was this foolish note all along, hadn't you just said so?" He clenched his hands to curb the overwhelming desire to plant the earl a facer. "You blame me for botchin' a job, but how can you expect me to succeed when I don't have all the bloody facts?"

The look the earl leveled upon him was no doubt meant to freeze his blood, but there was no cooling the anger bubbling in Redfern's veins.

"I wanted all of them," the earl said. "The ring, the box, and the note were together until you separated them. My error was in assuming you were intelligent enough to carry out the simplest of orders."

He took a leisurely sip from his brandy, then continued, "I want that note, Redfern. And you're going to get it for me. Do you understand?"

"I understand." But it's the last bloody thing I'm doin 'for the likes of you.

"Good. Mrs. Brown is traveling tomorrow to the Bradford country estate in Kent. I'm certain she'll have the note with her."

He hesitated. Blast and be damned, hopefully the earl weren't going to want him to read this bloody note. Well, if so, he'd figure some story. He'd gotten himself this far without knowin' how to cipher words. 'Course, the earl didn't know that. And none of his business it was, either. "How will I know which note you're lookin' for? You know how ladies are, always keepin' letters and such."

"This letter will be old, and will have been folded many times so it would have fit in the ring box. It will be hidden somewhere-she wouldn't keep it out in the open. Bring me the letter, and I'll make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. If you fail…" The earl shrugged. "I believe I've already made myself clear regarding that scenario."

Very clear. Still, nothin' but anticipation surged through Redfern. He would indeed be a rich man. Because the blasted earl were going to have to pay a king's ransom before Redfern would surrender that letter.


*********

Robert eyed the rough-looking character who answered his knock on Michael Evers' door. Although properly garbed in servant's attire, the man looked more like a cutthroat than a butler. No doubt because of the huge muscles evident beneath his black jacket, his shaved head, the scar that diagonally bisected his forehead, and the small gold hoop earring dangling from his left lobe. He looked as if he could pulverize stone without breaking a sweat.

"Bloody early fer a visit, ain't it?" the giant growled. He crossed his beefy arms over his massive chest and regarded Robert from his extraordinary height with an obsidian-eyed glare.

Robert handed the man his calling card, which was swallowed up in his ham-sized palm. "I need to see Mr. Evers. Immediately." Although he favored the man with his best aristocratic stare, it was damned difficult to peer down his nose at someone who stood a foot taller than him.

"Well, we'll just see if Mr. Evers needs to speak to you." With that, the door slammed in Robert's face.

Momentarily stunned, he stood on the porch, a cool gust of early morning air blowing about him. Then amusement tickled him. Damn, but Michael certainly employed a colorful group, both at his boxing emporium and his home, and it seemed some new face or another was always popping up. This giant was unfamiliar to Robert. As he recalled, Michael's last butler had been thin as a stick and sported a patch over one eye.

Robert knew his friend could afford properly trained servants, as well as a much grander residence, thanks to his lucrative career. But Michael preferred to live simply, in a part of town that, while decent, fell short of being fashionable. And he'd once told Robert that he liked to hire people who needed a second-or in some cases a third or fourth-chance in life. An admirable and noble sentiment to be sure, and Michael could certainly defend himself against any ruffian who might be foolish enough to cross him.