Trev gave his manservant a crooked smirk. "A touching encomium to my honesty. I could have used it when I was on trial."

"The Rooster knows why you did it." Jock gave a thrust of his chin toward heaven. "He knows. Mrs. Fowler's tucked up all safe and sound with her little boy, ain't she? Though she don't deserve a bit of it. You're too good a man for her, and so was Jem Fowler."

Trev shrugged. "It's the boy I cared for. And Jem. But the king won't pardon me a second time. Hell's bells, he can't. It would all come out if somebody recognized the duc de Monceaux as the same man as Thibaut LeBlanc while I'm standing in the dock. And even if they didn't, Christ, just think about it-I'm hauled before the bench while my mother's on her deathbed. What an edifying prospect for her last moments."

Jock grunted assent. He crossed his arms, his great muscles f lexing. "This officer you decked knows you's LeBlanc, sir?"

Trev shook his head. "No, thank the Lord. We've a little history of another kind. But he'll be sure to lodge a charge against me and prosecute it all the way. Nothing more certain, with his friend being the justice of the peace. At best I'll be sitting in the gaol till Epiphany if I let them catch me, and fortunate if I don't rot there until the Easter assizes."

A hen clucked from somewhere in the shadows of the single stall. Jock turned his head, alert to any odd noise. But aside from a faint scratching in the straw, there was no more sound.

"Chicken pox!" Trev said, suddenly inspired. "You can tell the duchesse that I've broken out in spots, and the doctor said I must keep a distance until the contagion is past."

The manservant gave a skeptical grunt. "Chicken pox? You don't think she's such a greenhead as that, sir. Up to every rig, Madame is."

"Hmm," Trev said. He scratched his chin with the bandage. "No, you're right. Chicken pox-I think I've had it. I can't remember."

"Yer mama will. They all do."

"You'll think of something. I'd advise spots of some sort. Something that would keep me away for a fortnight or so."

"A fortnight?" Jock lifted his thick brows. "Didn't the doctor say-"

"I know what he said! It's burned between my ears. But I can't stay, Jock. For God's sake, how can I stay?"

They both stood silent. He didn't need to explain more of the consequences to Jock. If he wanted his mother to go to her final rest knowing her only living son was a criminal condemned to hang, all he had to do was get himself arrested. Thibaut LeBlanc had been given a rare royal pardon from his capital conviction for forgery, but it was provisional, based on his obliga tion to leave the country and not return. If LeBlanc broke his exile, the pardon was revoked.

"You'd surely better not get yourself snabbled," Jock said at length. "But it might blow over, eh? If they find out about yer mama being so ill, they might think twice about taking you up for a little disagree ment between gentlemen."

"I can't chance it. I can't stay here openly."

"Aye. But if you was to go off for a few days, sir. Let tempers cool. If they come here, I can make 'em feel pretty ashamed for persecutin' of a poor lady who hadn't got long on this earth. You could come in at night to see her."

Trev squinted into the musty corner of the stable. He chewed his lip in thought. "It's risky." He nodded slowly. "But it might do. If I had a safe house."

"Lemme ask round for-"

A sharp, trilling whistle interrupted him. They both startled at the sound-familiar enough, but so close overhead that Trev had to crane his neck to see into the loft. "Barton!" he muttered in disgust. "What the deuce are you doing up there?"

His former accomplice showed his face between the rough-hewn beams, a straw of hay dangling from behind one ear. "I've got him, sir!" he hissed. "Tied up right out behind the shed."

Trev had a sudden nightmarish vision of Sturgeon-or worse, his friend the magistrate-bound and gagged behind the shed. "Who's tied up?" he exclaimed, taking a step. "Barton, I swear, if-"

"The bull, sir," Barton said. He scrambled round, causing hay and dust to drift down through the planks. He dangled from a beam by his hands, dropped, and recovered himself, dusting vigorously at his trousers.

"The bull?" Trev scowled at him a moment and then remembered. "Oh right-the bull," he said with a strong sense of relief. He watched Barton try to dig a straw from inside his neck cloth. His hand was dirty- completely black about the fingernails, and his clothes were marked with grimy dark streaks. "Well done, then. Well done, old fellow. At least something's gone right. Have you been sleeping in some bog? Clean yourself up at the pump and take the animal over to the Shelford home farm. Say it's to be presented to Lady Callista Taillefaire, with my compliments."

It was something he could do for her, anyway. He thought of how pleased she would be, and wished that he could see her face light up when she saw the creature, as he knew it would. "Try to get the manure out of your ears first," he added.

Barton fidgeted. He'd been grinning like a gargoyle at the praise, but his smile faded at this. "Present it to a lady?" he said. "I dunno if that's a good idea, sir."

"She'll be excessively pleased, I assure you. She's no common lady. How loud did you have to squeal for Davenport?"

Jock looked up sharply. Barton's glance slid side ways, an avoidance that caused a familiar drop in the pit of Trev's stomach.

"Davenport, did you say, sir?" Jock asked. "A Colonel Davenport?"

Trev glanced at his servant. "Aye, do you know of him?"

"Sir, he's the one give me the name of that London doctor. The Antlers sent me over to his place at Bromyard, thinkin' he'd know somebody in town. A very kind gentleman, took some of his time out to write me an introduction to the medical man." Jock's voice held an anxious note. "Sir… sir, he had law books in his study. And a lot of notebooks and proceedings. I think he might be a justice of the peace."

"A justice?" Trev gazed at him, slowly compre hending. "My justice?"

"Stocky gentleman, sir, with a red complexion and a mole beside his nose?"

Trev groaned. "Oh God. Let that be a lesson to me-first inquire if a fellow's done me any favors before I punch him in the bread-box. How much did you pay him for the bull, Barton?" he repeated. "I hope it was a fortune."

"Well, sir," Barton said brightly, "y'know how chancy my luck can be now and then! That fellow Davenport wouldn't take no price. He weren't kind to me, oh nossir. Had me f lung out the door. He got all heated, he did, sayin' I couldn't pay nothin' he'd take." He giggled. "And I didn't have to pay nothin', as it happens."

"Barton! Damn you, tell me you didn't-"

"No, sir! Oh no, sir! I didn't steal him. I swear I didn't." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. "Ol' Tobe an' me just found him on the road."

Trev closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the wall. But he had only a moment to consider whether he would strangle Barton or drown the man. A brusque halloo came from the direction of the garden gate, a stranger's voice with an edge of resolve in it.

All three of them looked at one another. Barton lifted his thumb and forefinger in a familiar sign, pointing toward the hayloft. Trev glanced at Jock and jerked his chin toward the gate. The manservant gave a curt nod. Without a word, they split company- Jock striding toward the house and garden, Trev and Barton scaling the ladder. Trev followed his companion across the dusty boards to the open loft door. Down in the walled yard, he saw an enormous black bull lift its head from a pile of hay, chewing calmly as it watched them.

"Barton!" Trev hissed, dropping from the bale hook to land on both feet. He stared at the black animal and then put his face into his hand in despair. "You infernal imbecile. That's the wrong bloody bull."