She swallowed. Did he mean what she thought he did? "I cannot return home. If I return, they will all try to force me back to the altar."

"That is hardly my problem." He was impatient now. "Louie! Hurry up."

"Aye, guvnor."

She gripped his arm. "Braxton. I will go back. But when I do, I must be ruined."

He was finally surprised. His eyes had widened. "Well, well. So you wish my services in this endeavor?"

She hadn't meant it literally. She had meant that she could not return until her reputation was smeared, enough so that no one would want her, and then she would be free to continue her life without interference from her father or all the silly, useless men he kept in-

troducing her to. For then no man would want her. Annabel bit her lip. His gaze was fixed on her face.

If she told him now that she meant she wanted to be ruined in name only, not in fact, he would abandon her, she was certain of it. She would tell him that later. "I cannot go back now. Not now. It is too soon."

Silence reigned as Louie reappeared from behind the carriage, clad now in a plaid shirt and corduroy trousers. He glanced from one to the other. "We got to go, me lord." He carried the clothing he had changed out of in his arms.

Braxton gave him a piercing look, which Annabel did not understand.

"Please," she said, stepping closer to him. Her heart beat wildly. She was not a fool. What if he ruined her, not in name, but in actuality?

There were worse things, she decided, than this man's kisses.

A lifetime spent with Harold Talbot, for one-or with some idiot just like him.

Braxton's jaw set. He strode to Louie, took his bundle of clothes from him, and shoved them at Annabel- against her chest. "You can dress in the carriage while we leave the city. Get in," he said.

Chapter Three

George Boothe paced his library with savage strides. He had removed his tailcoat and was in a waistcoat and his shirtsleeves.' The John Constable landscape, which was usually hanging over the marble hearth, stood on the floor, propped up against a tufted ottoman. The metal vault above the hearth was open, forming a dark and gaping hole.

Another gentleman, clad in an ill-fitting suit and a bowler hat,, sporting a handlebar mustache, sat on one of a pair of pale green velvet armchairs, a notebook in his hand. A brass-knobbed walking stick was at his side. Lucinda Boothe sat on the gold and green sofa in her gold evening gown, a cashmere throw over her shoulders, her daughters on either side of her. The two girls' husbands stood behind the sofa, also in their shirtsleeves. Lucinda was sniffing into a hankie. Her eyes were red from hours of intermittent weeping.

"Well, Boothe, I can only say that you have been had, and that this Braxton fellow has done a damn good job of it. Oh, excuse me, ladies." The mustachioed gent stood, snapping closed his notebook and pocketing both that and his lead pencil.

"I could have told you that, Thompson. What are you doing to get my daughter back?" Boothe demanded.

"As we speak," the city's police chief said, "patrols are being sent out. He will not be able to get off Manhattan Island, I promise you that."

"What about the ferries, the bridges?" Boothe demanded, pausing in his pacing only to glare at Thompson, arms akimbo, his red face flushed. "By now he could be in Jersey, by damn!"

"Sir, we have done this before. As I said, he will not be able to get off the island." Thompson smiled in satisfaction.

"Oh, my poor Annabel," Lucinda whispered, choking on a sob.

Melissa, sitting on Lucinda's left, made a sound- something very much like a snort. She was tall like Annabel, but her build was more delicate, her blond hair darker. It was, in fact-and to her horror-more brown than blond. "Poor Annabel jumped into the motorcar with the thief, Mama."

Lucinda cried out, bursting into tears again.

Boothe turned to stare at his middle daughter. "That is enough, Missy."

"Melissa," Lizzie said in utter consternation. She was petite and had dark hair and eyes, just like her father. It made a startling contrast to her porcelain skin.

Melissa made a face. "Well, she did. We all saw it. He pushed her away, but oh no. Annabel decided to go and run off with him."

"I do not think she was running off with him," Lizzie cried, standing and wringing her hands.

"Excuse me." Thompson stepped forward, facing ^-Melissa. "Why on earth would your sister jump into the perpetrator's vehicle with him-of her own free will?"

Boothe came between them before Melissa could answer. "Annabel did not jump into that motorcar of her own free will." He gave his daughter an I-will-disinherit-you glare.

Melissa folded her hands demurely on her lap and smiled angelically at Thompson.

Thompson faced Boothe. "Sir, if there is any chance that your daughter has run off with this Braxton fellow, then I need to know it-if you want her back."

"She hasn't run off with anyone!" Boothe roared.

"Oh, dear." Lizzie popped to her feet and gently tugged on Thompson's sleeve. "She was terrified. You do understand, a bride's jitters. That is all it was. Even Annabel would not run away with a complete stranger!"

Melissa snorted again.

Her husband, John, laid a restraining hand on her shoulder from behind. Their gazes met. "Ssh," he said, low.

Thompson saw it all. "All right. What is going on here? What are you all concealing from me? I am now exceedingly suspicious. Perhaps your daughter and this man were in cahoots. Stealing the jewelry together. Why, what a clever plan!"

"My daughter is no thief!" Boothe shouted.

"Oh, no," Lizzie said, paling. "Never! And Mr. Thompson, I would swear to this upon the Bible, Annabel did not know this Braxton gent. She did not."

"Perhaps she did. And kept it from you. Why else would she go with him willingly?"

Boothe sighed. "Thompson, Annabel is impulsive. Unruly. Good God, that's why it's been so hard to get her married. She has a heart of gold, is as honest as a human being can be, but she is, well, unconventional. My own daughter did not steal from me. She did not know this thief, Braxton. But I will admit it. She was dragging her heels over her marriage. Just last night she told me she wanted to break it off, but I would not let her." Boothe's face fell. He walked over to his wife and sat down beside her, taking her hand in his.

Lucinda wept now. "This is my fault. If I had listened to her, even tried to understand, none of this would have happened."

"Braxton still would have made off with Mother's jewels," Adam said. He was Lizzie's tall, dark, handsome husband.

"Annabel had to get married," Melissa stated. "We all have married, and she is the oldest. It is not our fault that she could not find true love!" She turned to smile at her husband. John smiled back and they clasped hands over the back of the sofa.

"Well, an unconventional woman is a reckless woman, and perhaps Miss Annabel met this gent, fell in love, and rushed off with him purposefully." Thompson nodded to himself.

"She did no such thing!" Boothe cried. But then he faced Lizzie. "Did she?"

Lizzie was white. "Papa, I am certain that she never laid eyes upon that fellow before this afternoon." But Lizzie's hands toyed with the folds of her evening gown. Her face showed dismay.

"You don't sound certain," Thompson said flatly.

"No one can ever be certain about Annabel," John muttered.

"She is truly impossible to fathom," Melissa stated. "Miss Boothe?" Thompson prompted Lizzie gently but firmly.

Lizzie bit her lip. Tears had filled her eyes. "Annabel would never…" she began, then trailed off. The tip of her nose was turning red.

"Do you know something you are not telling us?" Boothe was roaring again, but his eyes were wide and he was aghast.