along the ridge of her collarbone. That wasn’t a good idea. Such questions might reveal too much about her own state of mind.
Tilting her head back against the edge of the tub, she stared up at the painted plaster ceiling, feeling oddly adrift in the world.
Her feelings for Marco would be another secret to hide, even from her closest friends.
Alice’s return quickly doused any further musings. Wielding a towel and hairbrush, the maid soon had her dried and bundled into a flannel nightrail.
“Drink this,” she commanded, adding a splash of whisky to the fragrant tea. “Then it’s into bed with you, and I’ve given orders that you are not to be woken up until suppertime.”
Kate yawned. “Maybe an hour or two of sleep,” she said drowsily, allowing herself to be tucked under the covers.
But her dreams were soon interrupted by the early-morning arrival of the magistrate, who, despite the duke’s vehement protests, demanded another session of questioning.
Exhausted, and unwilling to reveal any hint of the truth, Kate stumbled through the interview, knowing her terse answers did her case no good.
Cluyne’s snappish temper only made things worse.
Sure enough, when Sir Reginald stood, he eyed them both with a look of supreme satisfaction. “I have to warn you, Miss Woodbridge. Things look bad—very bad—for you. Unless new evidence comes to light by the end of the day, I shall be forced to take you into custody and hold you for the next assizes.”
“Bastard,” muttered Cluyne, clenching his fists as the baronet left the study. “I don’t give a damn about his orders that none of us are to leave the grounds. I intend to ride to London and find Lynsley—”
“No need for that, Your Grace.” Marco entered the room and shut the door behind him. “The marquess should be arriving soon.”
“Not soon enough,” grumbled the duke.
“The meeting must be at a secret rendezvous spot,” continued Marco. “But given the circumstances, I think you ought to be allowed to attend. The three of us—”
“The four of us,” corrected Charlotte, as the door opened yet again.
Kate rubbed at her brow, feeling a little dizzy.
“My step may have slowed a bit in my old age, but that does not mean that you can outmaneuver me,” went on Charlotte. “Whatever you are planning in order to help Kate, I demand to be part of it.”
“Lady Fenimore, we cannot take a carriage. We have to go by horseback through the woods to a ramshackle inn off the beaten path,” explained Marco. “It will be rough going.”
“I can ride,” she replied grimly.
“Charlotte,” murmured Kate. “You haven’t been in a saddle since the last century.”
“A horse still has four legs, does it not?” she shot back.
“Don’t bother arguing,” said Cluyne in resignation. “You would have a better chance of shifting the Rock of Gibraltar than Lady Fenimore’s mind when it is made up.”
Charlotte looked as if she wasn’t sure whether to be angry or amused.
“There is a very docile mare in the stables,” conceded the duke. “But if you fall on your arse, we will have no choice but to leave you in the mud.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can dig myself out of trouble.” Charlotte looked at Kate, her gaze clouded with anxiety. “It’s Kate who we need be concerned about. An arrest must be avoided at all costs.”
• • •
Slumping wearily against the tavern’s sooty wall, Marco sighed and ran a hand through his disheveled locks. No rest for the wicked, he thought wryly, recalling the luxurious bed standing empty at Cluyne Close. But time enough for sleep later.
He had dispatched an urgent message to London, then returned to the duke’s estate just after dawn. But any hope of closing his eyes for a few blessed hours was quickly dispelled by an early-morning visit from the magistrate. After yet another round of questioning, the baronet had made it clear that he was on the verge of having Kate taken into custody.
Marco’s fingertips lingered at his temples as he mentally reviewed the wild twists and turns the night had taken. Things were moving with dizzying speed… a rogue assassin threatening to destroy the peace conference in Vienna… a traitorous British diplomat on the loose… a murder charge hanging over Kate’s head.
It might take a miracle to keep the mission from spiraling out of control.
But then, the Marquess of Lynsley was the consummate magician.
“Where is he?” growled the duke as he eyed the squalid room with undisguised horror. Aiming an irritable swat at the oily cloud hanging over the