“Who?”

Penelope was at once disappointed and transcendently relieved that the woman had no news of Nev.

“I’ve come about the girl. Miss Raeburn. She’s taken bad, calling for you.”

“Calling for me?”

“You’ve got to come and talk to her. I’m afraid she’ll do herself a hurt. She liked you, that time you came to visit.”

Penelope did not want to go. She wanted to stay here and wait for Nev. Selfish, she reprimanded herself. It did not hold the same weight it once had.

But what would Nev say if Penelope let his mistress suffer alone? What if Miss Wray were really to injure herself?

Agnes actually reached out as if she would take Penelope’s arm, though she didn’t quite dare. “Come on. I shouldn’t even have left her alone for this long. Not with the men up in arms.”

A fresh fear struck Penelope. She should not go out with only another woman, not today. It might prove dangerous. But she couldn’t take Lord Thirkell with her; she had to leave him here to protect Nev’s mother. And she could not ask for any other escort, because any gentleman present would be sure to recognize Nev’s mistress, and it would be a scandal.

“Please, you must!”

The desperation in Agnes’s voice decided Penelope. “Let’s go.” She started down the steps.

Amy, her eyes closed, leaned against one of the huge oaks that lined the long drive to the Grange. Sure enough, Kit had known the way, but it had seemed to take years to get even this far-years of putting one foot down in front of the other, sweating, and struggling for breath. She had spent the last month indoors, in rooms with tiny windows; the sun was blinding. The heat too was unbearable, even in the shade. It was at least another quarter mile to the house, and the world was already starting to wobble around the edges.

“Come ’long.” Kit tugged at Amy’s skirts. “Shilling.”

Amy opened her eyes reluctantly, seeing the little boy through a wash of blue produced by too much sunlight.

Kit waddled a few feet toward the manor and stopped, staring at Amy insistently.

“Coming, Kit.” Amy pushed herself upright and started forward. She made it three steps before she tumbled and fell, the flats of her arms hitting the gravel with a painful scraping. She lay with her cheek against the ground and stared at the rolling park that was Nev’s birthright.

Something terrible was going to happen to Nev’s wife because Amy was too weak to make it another quarter of a mile. Her last thought before she lost consciousness was that the heroine of a play would have managed it.

Nev’s arm throbbed where the rock had hit it. “Think about what you are doing,” he shouted, placing a calming hand on the restive horse. “Who is tending the harvest while you play at storming the Bastille?”

There was silence.

“I know my father didn’t treat you well. I know you have no reason to trust me. But I’m trying, and I am going to save your friends. You aren’t helping them by proving Sir Jasper right that you all wish to murder the gentry in their beds. Bring in the harvest and be patient-”

Aaron Smith looked uncertain.

Helen Spratt stepped out of the crowd. “We’ve been patient an awful long time.” The coarse tones of her voice cut effortlessly through Nev’s words. “I’ve been patient, and my mother was patient before me, and my grandmother. I ain’t going to be patient anymore. I’m getting Harry back.” She leveled her fowling piece at Nev’s face from two feet away. “Get out of my way.”

The crowd drew back, gasps and shocked whispers rising.

“Helen,” Aaron said, real alarm in his voice.

Nev’s heart pounded, and Sir Jasper’s horse snorted behind him, pacing backward. I can’t die, he thought. I have responsibilities. He had to stand aside. But if he did, they would march to Greygloss and do something unalterably foolish, and they would all be hanged, every last one.

Besides, Penelope and his mother were at Greygloss.

He straightened. “No. If you want to hang, the quickest way to it is by shooting me. Well, here I am.”

“Helen,” Aaron Smith hissed. “Don’t.”

She hesitated.

“Then stand down!” Nev roared. “If you want to change anything, we have to work together!”

“Work together my arse.” She fired the gun.

“Are you sure we’re on the right path?” Penelope followed Agnes down a little trail that skirted the edge of the Greygloss woods. Through gaps in the trees she caught glimpses of the Gothic ruin on its hill coming closer, so she supposed they must be going in the right direction. Still, she did not like being so near the spring guns. Of course the traps would hardly sneak out of the forest and ambush her on the path, but-Nev had told her never to wander the Greygloss grounds alone. She wished she had listened to him.

“I think I’ve lived here a little longer than you, my lady,” Agnes threw back over her shoulder as she hurried along ten paces ahead.

“Agnes-” Penelope began warningly.

“Just be quiet. We’re almost there.” She went round a curve in the path and was out of Penelope’s sight. Penelope hurried to catch up.

She almost ran straight into Sir Jasper. Agnes hovered anxiously at his elbow. He smiled at her, and her earlier nausea came crashing back. In his hand he held an elegant dueling pistol.

“Here, drink this.”

Amy came back to the world in a haze of blissful shade and something cool sliding down her throat. She opened her eyes. A sandy-haired, tanned face hovered over her, and a strong arm supported her shoulders.

“Good, you’re awake.” There was a faint Scots burr in his voice. “Here, have some more water.”

Amy sipped the water gratefully. She was reflexively calculating how to use her position in his arms to lay a groundwork for seduction, when everything that had happened came back to her. She sat up with a start, nearly knocking her forehead into his. They were in an elegant sitting room that seemed to be inexplicably missing half of its furniture. “Kit?” she called.

“Your little boy is fine. I sent him down to the kitchens for a snack.” The man looked oddly familiar.

“He’s not mine. How long have I been asleep? I have to see Nev-Lord Bedlow-at once!”

The man stiffened. “Lord and Lady Bedlow have gone out. I believe they went to Greygloss.”

A hot spurt of frustration boiled up inside Amy. She didn’t curse, she never cursed-but she wanted to. She shot to her feet, then regretted it when her knees refused to take her weight. Her rescuer sighed and snaked an arm around her waist, holding her up.

Amy clutched at his coat. “You’ve got to take me there. Lady Bedlow is in danger.”

The man started. “Penelope in danger? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know precisely. But I overheard Agnes Cusher talking to Sir Jasper. It sounded like they were plotting to hurt her. You must take me to her at once!”

The man frowned. “What exactly did you hear?”

Amy nearly ground her teeth together. She didn’t have time for this! “They spoke so softly that I heard very little.” She was painfully aware how thin that sounded. “But I distinctly heard Lady Bedlow’s name, and I am morally certain they were planning some mischief.”

He nodded as if she had confirmed something he already suspected. “You’ve been ill,” he said gently. “You shouldn’t be walking about alone. You might have suffered a serious setback.”

“I am not delirious! I need to get to Greygloss!”

“Why would Sir Jasper want to hurt Penelope?” His voice was the embodiment of patience and reason. “You’re sick, and anxious, that’s all. Just lie down, and I’m sure-”

It was all for nothing. She had actually made it here and now it was all for nothing because she was a female and weak and had fainted, and why would such a capable-looking male believe a word she said? Amy reached out and overturned a bowl of fruit. Porcelain shattered and an apple rolled under a far table and it was the most satisfying thing she had ever seen. “Listen to me! Why won’t you listen? I am not delirious! He’ll hurt her!”