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abduction.
    She’d decided she would have to rely on
Breckenridge, have to count on him following her. She’d wondered if he’d yet
risen from his bed. He was one of the foremost rakes of the ton; such gentlemen
were assumed to see little of the morning, certainly not during the Season.
    Then Fletcher had climbed in, shut the door, and
the coach had jerked, rumbled forward, and turned north—and she’d discovered
that trusting in Breckenridge wasn’t all that hard. Some part of her had already
decided to.
    She bided her time, lulling her three captors as
planned, letting a silent hour pass as the miles slid by. She waited until
sufficient time had elapsed to allow her to lean forward, peer out, and somewhat
peevishly inquire, “Is it much farther?”
    She looked at Fletcher, but he only grinned. The
other two, when she glanced questioningly at them, simply closed their eyes.
    Looking again at Fletcher, she frowned. “You might
at least tell me how long I’ll be cooped up in this carriage.”
    “For some time yet.”
    She opened her eyes wide. “But won’t we be stopping
for morning tea?”
    “Sorry. That’s not on our schedule.”
    She looked horrified. “But surely we’ll be stopping
for lunch?”
    “Lunch, yes, but that won’t be for a while.”
    Adopting a put-upon expression, she subsided, but
“stopping for lunch” suggested they would be heading on afterward. She debated,
then asked, “How far north are you taking me?” She made her voice small, as if
the thought worried her. Which it did.
    Fletcher considered her but volunteered only, “A
ways yet.”
    She let another mile or two slide by before
restlessly shifting, then asking, “This employer of yours—do you normally work
for him?”
    Fletcher shook his head. “We work for hire, me and
Cobbins, and as we’ve known Martha forever, she agreed to assist us.”
    “So he approached you?”
    Fletcher nodded.
    “Where did you meet him?”
    Fletcher grinned. “Glasgow.”
    She met Fletcher’s eyes, grimaced, and fell silent
again. She’d eat her best bonnet if either Fletcher or Cobbins hailed from north
of the border, and from her accent, Martha was definitely a Londoner
. . . did that mean the man who’d hired them was Glaswegian?
    Were they actually imagining taking her over the
border?
    Heather longed to ask, but Fletcher was watching
her with a faintly taunting smile on his face. He knew her questions weren’t
idle, which meant he’d tell her nothing useful. At least, not intentionally.
    Yet from what he’d let fall, she had at least until
sometime after lunch to quiz him and the others. Folding her arms, she closed
her eyes and decided to lull him some more.
    There were really only two answers she needed
before she escaped—who had hired them, and why.
    She opened her eyes when the houses of St. Neots
closed around the coach. They passed a clock tower, the dial of which confirmed
it was only midmorning. Stretching, she surveyed the view outside, then settled
back and fixed her gaze on Fletcher. “Have you and Cobbins always worked
together?”
    That wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. After
a moment, he nodded. “Grew up together, we did.”
    “In London?”
    Fletcher’s smile returned. “Nah—up north. But we’ve
been down in London a lot over the years. Lots of jobs there for gentlemen like
us.”
    She wondered, then decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask,
“I don’t suppose you’d consider earning more than your employer is paying you by
turning the coach around and taking me home?”
    Fletcher shook his head. “No. Much as I wouldn’t
say no to extra money, double-crossing an employer is never good for
business.”
    She frowned. “Is he—your employer—paying you so
well then?”
    “He’s paying all he needs to get the job done.”
    “So he’s wealthy?”
    Fletcher hesitated. “I didn’t say that.”
    No, but you believe he
is. She sat forward. “I’m curious—how does a man like your employer
go