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grim reaper. Yet, oddly enough, the only regrets that came instantly to mind were that he would break his promise to the lad about living a long time…and he would never again see the beautiful Moira.
     
    The premonition of danger that Moira had sensed since leaving the safety of her town house had temporarily stilled when the earl and marquess joined her party, and she had been lulled into further complacency by the earl’s fortuitous decision.
    She knew now she had made a serious mistake when she had urged Charles to walk with his new guardian and then had purposely hung back, slowing the progress of the two walking with her, to allow them a few moments to become acquainted with each other. For, as she, Elizabeth and Stamden approached the bend in the footpath around which Charles and the earl had disappeared moments before, stark cold terror surged through her.
    “Something is terribly wrong,” she said, starting forward on a run.
    The marquess quickly caught up with her. “Devil take it, madam, explain yourself.”
    “They’re in danger. I can feel it,” she gasped—and rounding the curve, saw the proof of her frightening intuition. Without a moment’s hesitation, she stopped, raised her skirt and unsheathed the knife she kept strapped to her calf. With the calm, deadly aim that had been painstakingly drilled into her since the day her Gitano grandfather first decreed her old enough to hold a lethal weapon, she hurled it straight into the upper arm of the thug drawing a bead on the Earl of Langley.
    The force of the blow sent him catapulting forward with an unearthly scream, his head struck the rocky ground with a resounding thud, and the bullet discharged harmlessly into a nearby tree trunk, sending a flock of nesting starlings into frantic flight.
    “Holy Mother of God!” Stamden rushed to the side of the earl and drew his pistol on the larger of the two ruffians, who was moaning piteously and rolling about on the ground like a great beached whale. A few meters away the miscreant whom Moira had felled lay face down in the gravel with her knife protruding from the back of his scrawny arm.
    The young duke, his face white as parchment, walked straight into Moira’s outstretched arms, while Elizabeth leaned against the same tree the bullet had penetrated just moments before, held her head in her hands, and sobbed quietly.
    “Devil take it, lad, I told you to run,” the earl growled, but the look he bestowed on his young ward held such pride it negated the censure in his voice.
    “I couldn’t, my lord. My feet wouldn’t go.” A single tear rolled down Charles’s cheek and spilled onto the front of Moira’s sprigged muslin gown. “I—I was scared.”
    The earl laughed softly. “So was I, lad. So was I, and if not for the marquess and his prowess with a knife, I’d not be around to admit it.”
    He turned to the marquess and held out his hand. “Once again I owe you my life, my friend,” he said gruffly. “But where and when did you learn to wield a knife with such expertise? That’s one weapon I’ve never seen you use.”
    Stamden’s shrug was eloquently nonchalant. “With good reason. I’ll stand against any man with swords or pistols, but the art of knife throwing completely eludes me.”
    He stepped forward, pressed the heel of his boot on the back of the smaller felon’s neck, and withdrew the knife from his arm. With two broad swipes, he wiped it clean on the fellow’s shirt, took the blade between his thumb and forefinger, and handed it, handle first, to Moira.
    “Your property, I believe, your grace,” he said with a devilish grin.

Chapter Three
    M oira felt certain that if she lived a hundred years she would never forget the look of shock and disbelief on Devon St. Gwyre’s face when the Marquess of Stamden returned her knife to her. He had thanked her for saving his life in the same polite tone of voice he might have thanked her for passing him a biscuit at teatime, but the look