“Fletcher won’t be there.” He laid out her plan aloud as he imagined it. “He is here now. Then he will call on his sister and the infant, perhaps for the remainder of the day. It’s a clever plan.”

“Merci.”

“But it will gain her nothing. Fletcher isn’t such a fool to leave proof of his misdeeds lying about. He will have hidden it well. Have you a horse here?”

“A very good one.”

“Take me to it.”

Christos followed him across the gun deck. Arabella’s younger sister came clattering down the companionway. Her gaze darted between him and his brother.

“Did you tell him where she’s gone?” she demanded of Christos.

He slapped a hand over his heart. “I made a vow, mademoiselle.”

“Well, I didn’t, you chou.” She turned to Luc. “She went to the bishop’s house near Richmond.”

He was already mounting the stairs three at a time.

“Hurry!” she called after him.

He needed no encouragement. But he paused and looked back down at his brother.

“Christos, how might Fletcher have acquired a portrait that you drew since December?”

His brow creased. “In March I found myself without funds. I sold all my work on the street in Paris to a Sicilian and his English companion. After, I drew a picture of the Englishman. That man, he was a beast, but he was an interesting study: he had only one thumb.”

The Sicilian assassins from Saint-Nazaire had been with Fletcher’s coachman in Paris.

“Did the work they purchased include a portrait of me?”

“Mais oui. I liked that picture. You looked fierce. Comme un pirate.” He shrugged. “But I can draw another.”

“First you will do that portrait of my wife.” Luc went swiftly up the steps. “As a princess.” As she deserved.

“YOU ARE MISTAKING me for somebody else,” Arabella said. “My name is Mrs. Bradford. I have called on his excellency to—”

“Your name is Westfall. And you called to poke into his excellency’s private matters.” The man slid the toothpick from between his lips and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. “Can’t be having that.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I was simply very tired after waiting at such length for his return and the housekeeper told me I could rest here.” She dropped her pretty pink and ridiculously impractical wedding slippers to the floor, slipped her feet into them and started toward him. “Now that I know this is the bishop’s personal chamber, however, I don’t think that is a good idea after all.” She halted before him. “I should like to return to the parlor now.”

“I don’t think you’ll be doing that.” He stood before her like a great big rock of malice. Joseph was at least as tall and less round. But Joseph was in the carriage.

She had failed. She had now effectively shamed Luc twice, heaping scandal upon scandal, this one by her own volition. Even if he had not been planning to throw her off, it was entirely possible he would now. But what a feast for the gossips! Governess-turned-comtesse is accused by bishop of infidelity to her comte then found in said bishop’s bedchamber with her shoes off. Ravenna’s lending library novels could not invent better.

The squinting rock clamped his fleshy hand about her arm and dragged her across the corridor to another bedchamber and locked her in, and her amused musings fled.

She banged on the door. “Let me out of here this instant,” she demanded in her grandest voice. “This instant!”

“We’ll wait for his excellency to decide that,” he said through the door.

“But the housekeeper said he would not be home for some time. You cannot leave me locked in this chamber until then. It is outrageous.” And terrifying in a manner she had never before considered. The room was small, and now she saw the bars across the window, quite like the sort one saw on houses in certain neighborhoods of London. But the bishop’s house sat on a private park. Thieves could not be plentiful here.

Unless the bars were intended not to keep thieves out but to keep guests in.

She backed away from the door.

“This is kidnapping.” she called. “You will be jailed for it. Or hung.”

“Only if you live to tell about it.” Heavy footsteps receded along the bare boards of the corridor and down the stairs.

Arabella sank down onto the bed and began trembling.

A QUARTER HOUR later, after having lifted the window sash and tested the width of her body against the bars, and found them far too narrow, she started banging on the door and shouting. The housekeeper might hear, or even Joseph.

Her jailer returned quickly, so she guessed he had not gone far.

“Be quiet or I’ll tie your hands and mouth,” he grunted through the closed door.

“All right. But first I would like to ask you something.”

No sound came from the other side of the panel.

“Does the bishop pay you well?” she said. “That is to say, are your wages from him commensurate to the income he illegally culls from my husband’s family’s estate?”

“My wages are my own business,” he said like a surly cur. But he didn’t walk away. Arabella did a silent little leap of victory.

“I wondered,” she said, “because those papers under his bed, the ones that I was poking through, they make it quite clear that your master is now a wealthy man. Much wealthier than this house suggests. Why, with his annual income now,” she fabricated, “he could have a house four times this size if he wished. Go see for yourself. It’s all in the papers he hides.”

Silence.

Then the man said: “Must use it on that school he’s got over there in Reading.”

“Yes. The Whitechapel School,” she gambled.

“Poor brats’ families can’t pay, and they’ve got to eat, I suppose.”

Poor children?

“Mm. I daresay.” She worried the inside of her lip between her teeth, her nerves frayed. “But one would suppose he could share at least a little of the surplus with you and his other servants, wouldn’t one?”

“There’s nobody but me and Mrs. Biggs,” he said. “And I ain’t no servant. I drive the coach, is all, when there’s a job.”

“If you drive a coach for him, I am afraid you are his servant,” she said, tiptoeing the fine line between instigating rebellion against his master and inspiring antagonism toward her.

“He says I’m his partner.”

He sounded angry. Not ideal.

“He is not your partner if he is not paying you a fair wage according to the work you do.” She paused for a moment. “But I can.”

There was another silent interval, this time lengthy.

“What’re you offering?”

She took a deep, fast breath and closed her eyes tight. “A ring of ruby and gold.” Her heart thudded. “A ring of inestimable value. The ruby is very large. You could remove it, melt down the gold, and sell it, and no one would be able to trace you,” she said quickly. “And if you agree to the trade, I won’t tell a soul. It isn’t in my interests for anyone to know I have been here, and I could never explain how you had gotten it otherwise, could I? Imagine: you could buy a new waistcoat to replace the one you wear now that does not fit. You could buy ten new waistcoats and a house of your own too. You would never have to work for another man again. That is how valuable this ring is.”

By the time she completed this speech her hands were damp and shaky. One of them slipped to her pocket and the only thing of value she had ever owned . . . until she became a comtesse and the lord who had stolen her heart tried to give her a tiara fit for a duchess. She’d taken the ring from the house before her hasty departure for Richmond. She didn’t know why at the time she had done it.

She knew now. Destiny.

She waited for his response with a sick stomach.

“What d’you want to trade it for?”

“My freedom and the documents. Let me go, and let me take those papers with me, and I will give you that ring.”