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current age, for every piece of yours I capture." He shrugged. "Of course, if I fail to capture any..."
    "Done." Appleby smiled. Better than he'd expected. Hadn't the marquis heard? The devil was an expert gamesman!
    Adam didn't like the looks of that smile. Or that he'd won this concession so readily. But most on his mind at the moment was what he liked least of all: Appleby even remotely near his son.
    "Very well, then," he said, rising from his seat. "But I prefer to play in the library, if you don't mind."
    "Not at all, dear boy." Appleby rose, too, as his host Bast a worried look at his son.
    Again, the easy concession. Adam swore softly under his breath as he grabbed a taper to light the way. The little bastard was too bloody accommodating! He met Appleby's gaze. "I require your promise nothing will happen to Andrew until our match is over, and our bargain concluded."
    "The lad will be completely safe," the dandy replied cheerfully.
    Too damned cheerfully, Adam thought as he nodded and they made their way to the library down the hall. He's up to something, but damned if I—
    Smothering the grim irony in this thought, Adam lit a branch from the taper as they entered the library. He led Appleby to a table near the hearth, where another chess set waited in readiness. They began to play.

Chapter 3
    Caitlin trudged wearily up the stairs. The worn and splintered steps creaked when she set her slight weight upon them. Her lodgings were far from grand, but they were all she could afford. She grimaced with the thought. Her rent was due tomorrow, and she hadn't the coin to meet it.
    Worry about that in the morning, she told herself as she reached her door. Fumbling amid the sodden folds of her cloak, she found her key. She'd been caught in a devilish downpour while making her way back to the shabby chamber. Now it was past midnight, and she was soaked nearly to the skin and bone-weary.
    Yet it was a satisfying exhaustion, she thought, setting a worn leather bag down, just inside the door. Crossing the tiny chamber in the dark, she groped for the tinder-box beside the bed and lit a candle. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and felt herself relax.
    Aye, satisfying. Up at dawn, she'd seen over a dozen of London's poor before the sun read noon. And she'd left most of them better off than when she came.
    A wee tad better, she amended as she stripped off the dripping cloak. Their worst affliction was something no herbs and simples could heal: a grinding poverty that frequently led to an early grave. Yet Caitlin did what she could. Using the knowledge she'd gained under Crionna's roof, she'd become an itinerant healer. She supported herself, albeit none too grandly, as she traveled the countryside, asking for those in need.
    More often than not, they had no money to pay, and she accepted other things instead: a loaf of bread, a few eggs, some roots and greens from a humble garden. Even clothing, she thought, removing the wet half boots she had from a poor country vicar's wife she'd seen through a fever.
    She'd left Ireland more than six months ago. Buried her foster mother, mourned her, then set out at once for England. She couldn't say why, exactly, but she'd needed to get away. Sometimes, like tonight, when she was especially tired, an inner voice told her she was running away. She ignored it. The dreams hadn't come since she put her native soil behind her. That was the important thing.
    She refused to examine the strange compulsion that had drawn her to London in early April. Heretofore, she'd traveled strictly in the countryside, for she was country-bred. But it didn't matter where she plied her skills. There were poor everywhere, and ....
    The thought faded as she dropped onto the room's narrow cot with a groan. She'd spent the last six hours delivering the ragman's wife of a set of twins. Healthy babes, if a bit on the scrawny side. She smiled ruefully. Her concern for the wee mites was why she hadn't the rent; she'd