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another, then drank deeply until he was too sotted to continue his dishonesty.
    There was one reason he did not go back to Ireland. One reason, and four people he did not think he could face.
    Rising from his seat, he walked to the window and looked out. There wasn’t much to see—a small barn for horses, a thickly leaved tree across the road. The moonlight had turned the air translucent—shimmery and thick, as if a man could step outside and lose himself.
    He smiled grimly. It was tempting. It was always tempting.
    He knew where Belgrave Castle was. He’d been inthe county for a week; one could not remain in Lincolnshire that long without learning the locations of the grand houses, even if one wasn’t a thief out to rob their inhabitants. He could take a look, he supposed. He probably should take a look. He owed it to someone. Hell, maybe he owed it to himself.
    He hadn’t been interested in his father much …but he’d always been interested a little. And he was here.
    Who knew when he’d be in Lincolnshire again? He was far too fond of his head to ever stay in one place for long.
    He didn’t want to talk to the old lady. He didn’t want to introduce himself and make explanations or pretend that he was anything other than what he was—
    A veteran of the war.
    A highwayman.
    A rogue.
    An idiot.
    An occasionally sentimental fool who knew that the softhearted ladies who’d tended the wounded had it all wrong—sometimes you couldn’t go home again.
    But dear Lord, what he wouldn’t give just to take a peek.
    He closed his eyes. His family would welcome him back. That was the worst of it. His aunt would put her arms around him. She would tell him it wasn’t his fault. She would be so understanding.
    But she would not understand. That was his final thought before he fell asleep.
    And dreamed of Ireland.
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    The following day dawned bright and mockingly clear. Had it rained, Jack wouldn’t have bothered to go. He was on horseback, and he’d spent enough of his life pretending he didn’t mind that he was soaked to the skin. He did not ride in the rain if he did not have to. He’d earned that much, at least.
    But he was not meant to meet up with his cohorts until nightfall, so he did not have an excuse for not going. Besides, he was just going to look . Maybe see if there was some way he could leave the ring for the old lady. He suspected it meant a great deal to her, and even though he could have probably got a hefty sum for it, he knew he would not be able to bring himself to sell it.
    And so he ate a hearty breakfast—accompanied by a noxious beverage the innkeeper swore would clear his head, not that Jack had said anything other than, “Eggs,” before the fellow said, “I’ll get what you need.” Amazingly, the concoction worked (hence the ability to digest the hearty breakfast), and Jack mounted his horse and took off toward Belgrave Castle at an unhurried pace.
    He’d ridden about the area frequently over the last few days, but this was the first time he found himself curious at his surroundings. The trees seemed more interesting to him for some reason—the shape of the leaves, the way they showed their backs when the wind blew. The blossoms, too. Some were familiar to him, identical to the ones that bloomed in Ireland. But others were new, perhaps native to the dales and fens of the region.
    It was odd. He wasn’t sure what he was meant to be thinking about. Perhaps that this vista was what his father had seen every time he’d ridden along the same road. Or maybe that, but for a freak storm in the Irish Sea, these might be the flowers and trees of his own childhood. Jack did not know whether his parents would have made their home in England or Ireland. They were apparently going over to introduce his mother to the Cavendish family when their ship had gone down. Aunt Mary had said that they were planning