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sleeves of his greatcoat and jacket had to be cut open to free him from his clothes. Despite their gentleness, by the time the ordeal was over, his face white and drawn, Silas was slumped exhausted in a dark green damask chair by the fire in his room. His broken arm was once again secured against his body, this time by a wide strip of clean cloth provided by Meacham.
    Not liking Silas’s color, Luc quietly ordered Meacham to bring them some brandy. Within minutes Meacham returned with a decanter of brandy and a pair of snifters on a silver tray: an envelope lay to one side of the tray. After Silas had taken a few sips of the brandy, Luc was satisfied to see some color return to the old man’s face. Feeling superfluous now that the immediate crisis was over, he set down his own snifter and murmured, “Well, sir, now that you are safely settled here at home, I shall be on my way.”
    Silas nodded. “I cannot thank you enough, lad. If you hadn’t come along ...”
    “You would have managed,” Luc returned lightly. “As you said, your arm was broken, not your leg.”
    Silas gave a bark of laughter. “If I’d been thirty years younger, perhaps. If not for you, I suspect it would have been morning before some farmer discovered me lying cold and shivering in that ditch.” His expression grew somber. “It’s a bitter night out there. I might have died.”
    To distract him, Luc indicated the envelope on the tray. “Is that a letter for you?” he asked.
    Noting the envelope for the first time, Silas scowled. “Probably from that rascally nephew of mine—wanting me to pull him from the River Tick again.”
    Luc knew all about Stanley Ordway, and he agreed with Silas’s assessment. The younger Ordway was on friendly terms with Jeffery Townsend and appeared to be of the same ilk.
    Luc picked up the envelope and, noting the feminine handwriting, grinned. “Perhaps not. Perhaps it is from the so charming Widow Dobson, who pursued you so assiduously in London.”
    Silas snorted. “Spare me that. I’ve escaped the parson’s mousetrap this long; I ain’t about to let a silly pea goose like Kitty Dobson leg-shackle me. Hand it here.”
    Luc handed him the envelope, noting the expression of pleasure that crossed Silas’s face as he recognized the handwriting. “It’s from m’niece, Gillian, and she’s a far different kettle of fish than Stanley,” he said, glancing at Luc. Opening the envelope, Silas extracted the single sheet of paper and quickly read the contents. A smile spread across his face.
    “Good news, sir?” Luc asked.
    Silas put the note and envelope down on the table beside him and nodded. A sly expression crossed his wrinkled features. “Just what I’ve been hoping for.”

Chapter 2
    A rriving at Windmere, Luc left his horse at the stables and walked swiftly to the Dower House, where he had been living off and on these past months. Approaching the impressive house, he sighed. Living at the Dower House had been an acceptable solution when he had arrived in England within days of Emily and Barnaby’s marriage, penniless and barely alive in the bargain. Presently, however, he was fully recovered from his infected wound, gained while escaping from a French prison, and with help from Lady Luck and some gentlemen who should have known better, no longer penniless—far from it.
    When he had returned from London at the end of the Season in late June and suggested to Barnaby that he take a pair of rooms at Mrs. Gilbert’s inn, The Crown, both Barnaby and Emily had been hurt and adamantly opposed to the very idea.
    His black eyes glittering like chips of obsidian, Barnaby growled, “You’re my brother! I have a bloody house sitting empty... .” He’d paused and muttered, “God’s wounds! I have a half-dozen houses at my disposal, and you want to live in rented rooms at an inn?” His harshly handsome face annoyed, he demanded, “Are you deliberately insulting me, or is it just that your wits have gone