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he gave her could have frozen the Thames. She might have found the situation humorous if she hadn’t been so certain that sooner or later she’d be called upon to explain how she came to be so proficient with such as weapon.
    All that had saved her from having to make that explanation instantly was the confusion that ensued once the authorities arrived to transport the two would-be kidnappers off to jail.
    By the time that bit of business was completed and the balance of the walk to the carriages accomplished, the earl was in too much pain to question anyone about anything. In white-faced silence, he saw Moira, Elizabeth, and Charles into the ducal carriage, then limped, with the aid of his walking staff, to his curricle, where it took both the marquess and his groom to lift him onto the seat.
    “It was obvious his lordship was embarrassed that we should see him rendered helpless by his infirmity,” Elizabeth said, “even though it was his brave defense of the duke that aggravated his old injury. Men are such silly, prideful creatures they think the least show of weakness casts a slur on their manhood.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I just hope he has the sense to send for his doctor. I fear he may have done himself serious harm.”
    Moira refrained from comment, although she, too, was certain he had opened an old wound. But she saw no reason to alarm Elizabeth further by mentioning that when his coat flapped open in the breeze, she had seen blood seeping through the fabric of his right trouser leg. She trusted his friend, the marquess, would see that he had the proper medical care.
    In truth, she was still too shocked by the entire affair to think clearly about anything except the need to get Charles safely back to the town house. She had known Viscount Quentin was desperate to gain control of the boy’s fortune; now she knew just how desperate. She would have to take measures to make certain her young stepson was properly guarded at all times.
    Weary to the bone, she leaned back against the velvet squabs of the coach and closed her eyes. The sensation of immediate danger was gone, but her mind kept spinning round and round like a whirlpool, one thought chasing after another in the circling vortex…until a single, startling memory rose to the surface.
    She sat bolt upright, shocked from her lethargy, as she relived that fateful moment on the footpath when her “gift” had told her the life of someone dear to her was threatened. In the heat of the moment, she had failed to register that it had been Devon St. Gwyre’s face she had seen in her mind’s eye.
    But how could that be? The “gift” that was hers, and had been her mother’s and grandmother’s before her, had only ever warned of danger to those who were loved by the gypsy seeress. What she felt for the Earl of Langley was a far cry from love. In truth, though she was sincerely grateful for his brave defense of Charles, she could not bring herself to feel anything but an intense dislike for the insolent devil who had once called her his brother’s whore.
    For once, the Great Spirit of All Nature, which conferred the “gift” on certain gypsy women, had totally missed the mark.
    Love an arrogant gaujo like Devon St. Gwyre? Never! She might be many things, but a fool was not one of them.
     
    The weather remained sunny for close to a sen’night and Moira’s heart ached whenever she came upon Charles standing, nose pressed to the window, watching the children who lived in the adjacent town houses roll their hoops or walk with their nannies to the park. But after the fright she’d had, she was loath to take him out on the streets of London—especially since both John Footman and one of the maids had reported seeing a very suspicious-looking fellow lurking behind the lamppost directly across the square.
    Logic told her to return to Cornwall as soon as possible. Only there could she take the appropriate steps to insure Charles’s safety. But she needed