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competence and discretion for many years now.
    Morley leaned hard on his cane for balance and turned from the window. He said nothing, simply looked a question at Bob.
    "Nothing, sir. Searched every bloody cranny, opened all the upholstery, opened up every drawer, went through every bit of furniture. Went over the whole place, stables and outbuildings, too. And you know I'm a professional." He puffed out his chest a bit.
    Relief was perhaps an overstatement for what Morley felt, because he'd been certain all along Makepeace had been bluffing. Blackmail was usually a desperate act; Makepeace had been crippled by debt. And he'd been neatly, thoroughly, remorselessly dealt with before he could become any more of a nuisance.
    Plink . The sound of a chess piece knocked from the board. That was Makepeace.
    "Very well"—he turned back toward the window�"Thank you, Bob." A dismissal.
    But Bob, irritatingly, cleared his throat. "Sir… there's something else you should know."
    Morley turned around again, waited, grinding the tip of his cane into the plush carpet beneath his feet in impatience.
    "The girl… Makepeace's daughter—"
    "Yes?" He didn't like to spend more time than necessary in the presence of men like Bob; it reminded him too much of his own origins, which pulled at him, sometimes, like a great wave coming to take him back out to sea.
    "She's the image of Anna Holt."
    The jolt through his body was extraordinary. For a moment he couldn't breathe.
    "Were like seein' a ghost," Bob added, with an illustrative shudder.
    "Are you sure?" Morley hated the uncertainty in his own voice.
    "I'm & professional , sir." Bob sounded wounded. "I've a memory like a trap, you know. And I saw Holt often enough when I was following Lock—"
    Morley lifted a hand. He didn't like to be reminded of… well, he thought of them as previous chess moves. Maneuvers planned and executed, literally.
    "And anyhow, there were letters."
    "Letters?" Morley repeated sharply. "What do you mean?"
    "Letters to James Makepeace. They all just said just one thing: 'I beg news of the girls.'"
    The girls. Morley had forgotten about the girls. He'd known about the daughters, of course, but they'd been so small, seemed so unimportant in the scheme of things. They'd disappeared along with their mother. Morley had always assumed they were together, Anna Holt and her daughters.
    Apparently not.
    His mind was moving quickly now. "Where did the letters originate?"
    "Couldn't tell you, sir."
    "Were they signed?"
    "No, sir."
    "And did you burn them?" Morley asked.
    "Of course." Bob almost sounded wounded by the question. "Went right up in flames, sir."
    Morley's thoughts tumbled through the past. "Where is she now? The girl? Susannah?"
    "Barnstable, heard her say. She was going to stay with an aunt. Pretty thing. She tried to brain me with a vase," he added, half-awed, half-resentful. "Wanted her dresses, so I left her to them."
    The girl must be one of Anna Holt's and Richard Lockwood's daughters. But how had she come to live with Makepeace? In his methodical fashion, Morley swiftly riffled through potential scenarios in his mind.
    There were two possibilities that he could discern: Perhaps Makepeace had been bluffing in the letter he'd sent, and knew nothing at all about Morley's past or Richard Lockwood. Perhaps he'd adopted the girl. Perhaps the entire thing was a coincidence.
    He dismissed this out of hand; he didn't believe in coincidences.
    The other possibility was that Makepeace had known all along that the girl was Richard Lockwood's daughter, and very recently had come to some sort of conclusion, or come upon some clue, some exceedingly damning evidence.
    But Makepeace had been an agent of the crown. And Morley found it difficult to believe that an agent of the crown would have resorted to blackmail if he'd truly uncovered any evidence. Although desperation and debt could play havoc with a man's sense of reason.
    "Is she married? The girl?" he asked Bob. "Has