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half an hour before I went looking for the girls.” She did not want to continue—she did not want to say the words—but she understood her responsibility. “I was walking in the same direction as he was. He didn’t see me at first, but I saw him stare down in perplexed wonderment at his hands. I hurried to catch up with him, and he swung around, surprised by my footsteps.”
    Jack had hesitated for a moment, apparently startled, then grinned at her. She’d fallen into step with him, and they talked as they did at the stables sometimes, as though it was just a normal light-hearted afternoon.
    “Your sister was unharmed?”
    She’d nodded, determined not to give in to tears. Jack, why?
    “Do you believe this Jack Travers strangled both Miss Highchurch and Lady Sarah?”
    “I don’t know. I can only tell you what I saw. What I found.” But she had been sick with shock. “There are other gentlemen visiting—my brother invited them for a small house party.”
    Sir Roland studied the paper before him and read the names. “The Marquis of Deverell. The Earl of Mayberry’s eldest son, Lord Harold Blythe. Viscount Braxton. Mr. Peregrine Rhodes.” He waved his hand as though to dismiss the idea a gentleman could have been responsible for murder.
    “I want this Jack Travers fetched at once. He was seen behaving suspiciously near the scene of the crime.” Sir Roland had turned to Grandfather. “I suspect in him, we will find the culprit.”
    Grandfather had nodded with satisfaction. He had looked very pleased.
     
    Madeline picked up her pen once more. Sir Roland had arrested Jack that afternoon. Everyone had believed Jack guilty—had wanted to believe he was guilty. Jack Travers was a groom, not a gentleman. It was a much more convenient solution. Jack had never had a chance. But she would ensure he had one now.

Chapter Three
     
     
    Would she come today?
    Jack pulled a packet of tobacco from the waistband of his trousers. Using a scrap from the sheet of paper that he’d scavenged from his last trip to the governor’s office, he sprinkled a few grains along its center, rolled it, put it between his lips, and struck a light. The tobacco was constantly damp and made for a choking smoke, but he needed something to calm his hands.
    The crowd of French prisoners milling at the iron gates gave Jack cover. He kept his face ducked away from the guards and stayed in the shadows cast by the gray stone prison blocks.
    He’d used the fake key he’d carved from bone to leave his cell. To make the key, he’d patiently watched the guards use his cell key, day after day, committing the shape to memory. He’d made keys for all the cells, and they were sewn into a secret pocket in the waistband of his trousers. That set of bone keys was insurance for his life.
    Two redcoats swung open the market gates. The Frenchmen poured through. In the middle of the mass of bedraggled men, Jack let himself be swept in with the crowd, head turned away from the guards. Once beyond the gates, he had to take the risk of raising his gaze from the ground and scanning around.
    There. A white blouse, a full skirt, tousled blonde curls and a bewitching face. He tossed aside his smoke. At that instant, she saw him and . . . hell, she glowed. The sudden sparkle of delight in her eyes speared him to his soul. He’d never seen a woman’s face light up like that upon seeing him.
    His reaction? Completely unanticipated. Never would he have expected the sharp, harsh tug in his gut. The possessive sense that he was looking at his woman .
    But that was only in his dreams. In the flesh, Lady Madeline Ashby was everything but that.
    He approached her and grabbed an onion off the cart as a decoy.
    “We can talk,” he murmured. “But quickly.” In the middle of the crowded market, he had her all to himself for only a few minutes.
    Her tongue flicked over her lips. Devastating him.
    “You’re out. Thank goodness. I am so sorry.” She spoke swiftly, her