Chapter Twelve

I’VE PACKED A WEE LUNCH FOR YE.” EUNICE handed Haydon a colossal bundle wrapped in a blazing red cloth. “I know ye canna go for long without a wee bite.”

Haydon stared in disbelief at the bulky package, which looked as if it could have fed the entire household for a week. “Thank you, Eunice.” He had no idea how he was going to pack it.

“Surely ye’re nae thinkin’ of leavin’ behind this fine evening coat and trousers,” objected Oliver, running his gnarled hand over the woolen fabric of the garments still hanging in the wardrobe. “They’re scarcely worn.”

“You may have them, Oliver.” Haydon pulled a shirt and waistcoat out of his bag in a vain attempt to make room for Eunice’s food. “I doubt I shall be attending any evening affairs for a while.”

Oliver chuckled. “An’ just where would I be wearin’ such a fancy set?”

“Wear it around the house,” Haydon suggested. “You’ll be the best-dressed butler in Inveraray.”

“It’s a wee bit big,” Oliver observed doubtfully.

“I can fix that, Ollie,” Doreen assured him. “A nip here and a tuck there, and ye’ll be as bonnie as a prince.”

“Ye think so?” The idea intrigued him. He slipped the jacket off its wooden hanger and pulled it over his wizened frame, then looked in amazement at how far the sleeves flapped below his fingers. “I’m thinkin’ it’ll have to be more than a wee nip and tuck.”

“Are ye sure ye have to go now, laddie?” fretted Eunice. “I dinna think Miss Genevieve understood that ye intended to take yer leave while she was out. She’s certain to be upset that she missed saying good-bye to ye.”

Haydon kept his expression neutral. “It’s better this way.”

He and Genevieve had returned from Glasgow late the previous evening and had spent the night passionately entwined in her bed. Haydon had risen well before dawn and retired to his own chamber. That morning they had greeted the children and elders in the dining room and regaled them over breakfast with tales of Glasgow and the dazzling success of Genevieve’s premier exhibition. It had been a moment filled with happiness and warmth, tempered only by the knowledge that Haydon would soon leave.

After breakfast Genevieve had gone to meet with Mr. Humphries at the bank, to work out the details of the first payment she was going to make from the sale of her paintings. She had asked Haydon to accompany her but he had declined, explaining vaguely that he had some other matters to attend to. She had regarded him uncertainly, no doubt fearing that he was going to depart in her absence.

He had smiled and told her not to be gone too long, as if he meant to see her upon her return.

It had pained him to mislead her like that. But he had already watched her suffer deeply over the past three nights, and he had no desire to put her through any more torment than what she had already endured. It was better this way, he told himself. It would be hard enough to say good-bye to the children and Oliver, Eunice and Doreen, without having Genevieve there as well. Once he had bid them farewell, he would go down and board the coach for Edinburgh. He had instructed Genevieve to tell people that her husband was on his way to France by way of Edinburgh and London. He would book his fare and travel to Edinburgh first, so that there would be evidence that Maxwell Blake had indeed gone there.

Once in Edinburgh he would shed the identity that had become so comfortable for him and head back north to Inverness.

His only hope of reclaiming his previous life and not spending the rest of his days as a fugitive was to find out who had hired those men to kill him on that fateful night. Once he had done so, he would have to prove to the authorities that he had been the victim of a failed murder plot. He had already been working out a list of who might have reason to want him dead.

The possibilities were frustratingly numerous.

He had bedded scores of women during his life, many of whom were married at the time, so there was a bevy of disgruntled husbands out there who might well prefer to see him nailed into a coffin. Victor, of course, was one of them, but he had already had his revenge on Haydon by destroying Emmaline, so Haydon did not consider him a likely candidate. Add to the husbands the ladies themselves, some of whom had been less than pleased when their affair with Haydon came to an end, and the possibilities became overwhelming. Then there was a parade of his cousins, aunts, uncles, and other vaguely attached relatives, all of whom had shuddered with fear when he had inherited the title of marquess of Redmond. They had quite rightly worried that he would quickly lose the Redmond holdings to drink, gambling, and his complete lack of interest in business matters. In fact, he had spent much of the last two years after Emmaline’s death in a drunken haze, burning his way through as much of his fortune as possible. Surely that had to infuriate his cousin Godfrey, a pompous little arse who was all polished and ready to inherit the title should anything happen to Haydon. He doubted Godfrey was capable of murder himself, but buying the services of someone else to carry out the task seemed eminently plausible.

When he returned to Inverness, he would begin by focusing his investigation on him.

“Here now, ye’re squashin’ my buns,” complained Eunice, watching as Haydon tried without success to cram the victuals into his bag. “Why don’t ye just put yer food in another case?”

“I may have to move quickly, and I can’t be burdened with two pieces of luggage.” Haydon withdrew yet another shirt and a pair of trousers from his valise, then squeezed Eunice’s precious lunch in and buckled the straining case closed. “There.”

Doreen regarded him glumly. “All set, then?”

He nodded.

“Come on, then, laddie.” Oliver shrugged out of Haydon’s evening coat and carefully hung it back inside the wardrobe. “I’ll leave this coat here for ye, in case ye ever find yerself back this way an’ needin’ it again. Can’t say I fancy black much anyway—makes me look like a corpse.” He closed the wardrobe door and leaned against it a moment, as if he were trying to coax the errant door to stay shut. “Ye will try to come back to her, won’t ye, lad?” he demanded quietly.

“Once I succeed in clearing my name, Oliver, nothing will keep me away,” Haydon vowed.

Oliver absorbed this a moment, then nodded. “I’ll try to fix this door for ye while yer gone.” He gave the door a final push, then turned away as it stubbornly crept back open. “Now, let’s go down and have ye say yer good-byes to the children afore I drive ye to yer coach.”

 

THE CHILDREN WERE SEATED ROUND A LITTLE FIRE IN the drawing room, watching in fascination as Jack showed them pictures of ships from the book that Genevieve had given him.

“…and this one is a Spanish galleon,” he said, pointing to a painting of a splendid ship with its sun-bleached sails puffed and taut as they harnessed a powerful wind. “They were used by the Spanish for war and exploring. They needed lots of room in the belly of the ship, so they could cram it with gold and silver and jewels to take back to Spain.”

Jamie frowned. “Wouldn’t all that gold and silver make the ship sink?”

“Not a ship like this,” Jack assured him. “The only thing that could sink her would be if she ran aground during a storm, or if pirates blasted a hole in her hull while trying to rob her of her riches.”

“How could they steal her riches if they sank her to the bottom of the ocean?” wondered Grace.

Jack shrugged. “I guess they would try to move them onto their own ship before she sank.”

“That doesn’t seem like a very sound plan,” objected Simon. “It would take a long time to move chests of gold from one ship to another. They might find themselves sinking into the ocean with her.”

Jack furrowed his brow in frustration. Why were they all so obsessed with the cargo? Weren’t they impressed by how beautiful the ship itself was? “I suppose most of the time the pirates got the riches off before they sank the ship,” he theorized, trying to be patient. “Now, if you look over here—”

“And then they would bury it on some remote, deserted island where no one could ever find it,” Annabelle exclaimed. “Then the evil pirate captain would take his sword and skewer everyone who knew where it was buried, so that the secret would die with him.” She grabbed the poker from the hearth and lunged at Simon, pretending to run him through. “Die, you black-hearted knave!”

“That’s completely daft,” objected Grace. “What good were all those riches if they were stuck in the ground?”

“They could always go back for it later, if they really needed it,” Jamie decided. “You know, if they were having trouble with the bank.”

“But suppose the pirate captain forgot where he had put it?” wondered Charlotte. “Or what if he died before he could go back and dig it up?”

“They always made a treasure map,” Annabelle informed her. “And it would be found years later by a brave, handsome captain who would take the treasure home to his beautiful, sick wife, thinking now that they were rich he could buy her the medicine she needed to save her life.” She tossed the poker to Simon, then raised the back of her hand to her forehead and swooned theatrically against the cushions. “Except it’s too late,” she continued, her voice breathy and fragile. “He returns home to find her dying, and all he can do is give her a final kiss before she closes her eyes and fades away, leaving him alone to mourn her forever with a chest of riches and a broken heart.” She sighed and closed her eyes, her hands prettily clasped over her chest. “I think that would be a wonderful part for me to play—don’t you?” she demanded, bolting upright again.

“’Tis a fairy yarn if ever I heard one,” sniffed Doreen, shaking her head as she entered the room. “More like the rogue would be off the next day wastin’ his fortune on gambling, fancy drink, and low women.”

“Hush now, Doreen, ye mustn’t fill the duckies’ wee heads with such twaddle,” chided Eunice. “Here, sweetlings, have a biscuit.”

Jack eyed Haydon suspiciously as the children flocked around Eunice. He had seen him drop his leather valise near the front door. “Are you goin’ somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“Where?” chirped Jamie, excited by the prospect.

Haydon hesitated. He did not want to lie to them. But there was risk to revealing the truth. If Constable Drummond grew suspicious of his absence before Genevieve declared her husband dead, he might decide to pay a visit and question the children about the whereabouts of their supposed stepfather. One of them might accidentally divulge that Haydon had planned to return to Inverness.

“I am taking the coach to Edinburgh.” That part was true, at least. “I have some matters to attend to there.”

Jack arched a skeptical brow. “When will you return?”

“I’m not certain.”

“You mean you’re not returning.” His tone was flat.

Simon regarded Haydon in shock. “You’re leaving us?” He sounded wounded.

“Don’t you like it here?” demanded Jamie, his mouth rimmed with sugary crumbs.

A helpless feeling began to seep over Haydon. He didn’t want to leave. But he had no choice. How could he possibly make them understand?

“There was a problem in Glasgow. Someone there recognized me. It is too dangerous for me to stay here any longer.”

“But Glasgow is so far away,” protested Charlotte, her small face pale. Haydon sensed that of all the children, she was the one who would suffer his absence the most. “No one from Glasgow ever comes here.”

“Charlotte is right,” said Annabelle. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t that simple,” Haydon replied.

He seated himself beside Charlotte and wrapped his arm around her, holding her close as he tried to make the children understand. “The person who recognized me is certain to tell other people about it, and he will mention the fact that I was with Genevieve at the time. The authorities will come here to question her. If they find me here, living under the guise of being Genevieve’s husband and your stepfather, they may arrest her as well.”

A glint of fear crept across their faces. He cursed himself. He did not want to frighten them. But he wanted them to understand that he wasn’t leaving because he wanted to, but because he had no choice.

“From the moment I arrived here, that has always been a risk. For a while it was a risk we were willing to take, because I had to regain my strength and be well enough to travel. Now that I have healed, it is a risk I can no longer justify. It is time for me to go.”

The children regarded him in dejected silence. It was obvious that they were well versed in abandonment. They had each suffered many betrayals during the course of their short lives. First by the parents who created them, then by the families who were unable or unwilling to care for them, and finally by a social system that viewed them as little more than refuse that should be locked away in prison and reformatory schools so that the rest of society could be spared the sight of their misery.

The only person who had been relentlessly steadfast and true and faithful to them from the moment she came into their lives was Genevieve.

“Are you going to come back to us?” ventured Jamie.

Haydon hesitated. He wanted to say yes. But the children had suffered enough false hope and feeble promises in their lives. He would make no assurances that he could not keep.

A sudden pounding at the door prevented him from answering.

Oliver cocked a white brow at Haydon. “Shall I answer it?”

Haydon’s mind began to race. He didn’t think anyone could have heard Rodney’s story, made the connection that Maxwell Blake was in fact the marquess of Redmond, and traveled all the way from Glasgow to Inveraray to inform the authorities here. It was within the realm of possibility, but given the time constraints and travel involved, it seemed extremely unlikely.

He nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Give an old man a minute,” Oliver snapped as the banging on the door continued. He shuffled over and opened it a little, grumbling irritably, “What in the name of all the saints can be so important that ye feel ye should be breakin’ down my—”

“We’re here for the marquess,” snarled an enormous, heavyset police officer with a greasy hank of gray hair leaking out from under his hat. The tarnished buttons of his uniform looked as if they were about to blast from his coat with his next breath of air.

“We know he’s in here,” added the stocky police constable next to him. He was an ugly brute, with a battered, flat nose and flared nostrils that made him resemble a pig.

“Let us in and there’ll be no trouble.” This dubious assurance came from a skinny young constable with a rat’s nest of red hair and a profusion of pimples dotting his pale complexion.

“I dinna ken what ye’re blatherin’ about.” Oliver idly scratched his head as he blocked their entrance with his scrawny frame. “There’s no marquess here. Ye lads must have the wrong—”

“Move aside, ye bloody old fool!” The bear-framed officer heaved his shoulder into the door, sending poor Oliver reeling backward as the constables stormed into the house.

“Oliver!” cried Doreen, watching in horror as he crashed into the hall table and fell to the floor. Blood began to trickle down his forehead.

“Goddamn bastard!” raged Jack. He flew at the beefy policeman and attacked him with his fists.

“Jack—no!” shouted Haydon, bolting forward. “Stop!”

Jack landed a powerful blow squarely in the constable’s face before the remaining two officers grabbed him by his shoulders and tore him away. The lad responded by sinking his teeth deep into the wrist of the one with the pig face.

“Help!” the constable squealed, whacking Jack on the shoulders as he tried to disengage his mangled wrist. “Ewan—help!”

“Get off him!” The pimply constable grabbed Jack by his hair and roughly jerked his head back. Once he had pulled him off, he wrenched Jack’s arms behind his back. “Are ye all right, Harry?”

“Christ, the pissing little turd bit me like a wild animal!”

“How about you, George?”

“That wee shit broke my nose!” George raged.

“I’m going to rip his goddamn ballocks off!” Harry drew back his fist to pound Jack in the face.

“Take your hands off him,” commanded Haydon savagely, “or I’ll smash your friend’s skull like a ripe melon.”

Slowly, everyone turned to see Haydon standing in the center of the hallway, brandishing directly over George’s head the brass poker that Annabelle had wielded during her swordplay.

“Let the lad go,” Haydon ordered curtly. “Now.”

The two constables holding Jack regarded each other uncertainly.

“For Christ’s sake, do as he says!” shouted George, who was cradling his profusely bleeding nose, and had no particular desire to be bleeding from his head as well.

“We’ll let him go,” Harry relented, “if ye drop yer weapon.”

“It’s useless tryin’ to escape,” Ewan added, sensing Haydon’s hesitation. “All of Inveraray knows who ye really are, yer lordship,” he drawled sarcastically. “Ye canna get away.”

Haydon felt his grip on his primitive weapon tighten. It’s over, he realized, not quite able to accept it.

“Don’t do it!” Jack was squirming wildly against his captors. “Just go!”

Haydon looked at the frightened faces of the children, who were clearly traumatized by the display of brutality they had just witnessed. All but Jack, who had not yet spent enough time away from the savagery of the streets to be intimidated by it.

No more, Haydon thought, staring with heartbreaking fondness at Jamie, Annabelle, Grace, Simon, and sweet little Charlotte. I cannot put them through any more.

“I will have your word,” he began in a low, steady voice, “that if I go with you willingly, you will leave the others here unharmed.”

“No!” Jack pleaded. “Don’t do it!”

“Fine,” snapped George, whose hands were now dripping with the blood still pouring from his nose. “Drop yer weapon, and we’ll just leave—with you.”

Haydon felt the smooth brass rod in his palm grow warm. He had no choice, he realized grimly. He would have died rather than see harm come to any of his family. He savored the bittersweet taste of near-freedom barely a moment longer.

And then he dropped the poker.

“Got ye,” snarled Harry, pouncing on him like a tiger on its prey. “Come on, Ewan, put the manacles on his wrists so he can’t try anything.”

The pimply youth gave Jack’s arms a final painful wrench before he shoved him forward. Jack cast him a look of pure loathing, then went and knelt down before Oliver.

“Are you all right?” he demanded anxiously, dabbing at Oliver’s bloodied forehead with his sleeve.

“Dinna worry about me, lad.” Oliver’s gaze was sober. “’Tis his lordship we need to be worryin’ about.”

“I’ll be fine.” Haydon forced himself to appear calm as his hands were manacled behind his back.

“Sure ye will,” sneered George, who was holding his arm against his nose in a clumsy effort to stanch the flow of blood. “Fine and dead.”

Eunice gasped and pulled Jamie, Grace, and Charlotte tighter against her, while Doreen held fast to Annabelle and Simon. Charlotte began to cry.

“Shut your mouth,” Haydon intoned softly to George, “or I’ll smash in that skull of yours yet.”

“That would be a pretty fancy trick, yer lordship,” said George, sniffing against his sodden sleeve, “since ye’re the one wearin’ the manacles.”

Haydon regarded him with dark fury, saying nothing.

“For God’s sake, George, let’s just get him in the carriage and go,” said Harry, who was still nursing his mutilated wrist. “I need a bloody drink.”

“Come on, then.” Ewan shoved Haydon toward the door.

Haydon took one last look at the horror-stricken faces of the family he had come to love. There was much he wanted to say to them, but suddenly there was no time. Beyond that, any words of affection in front of the police would only incriminate them. And so he just gave them a brief, reassuring smile.

Then he turned and permitted himself to be shoved down the stairs and into the carriage waiting for him on the street.

 

BLACK SMOKE WAFTED IN SOOTY PLUMES ABOVE THE rooftops, weaving a shadowy veil against the leaden winter sky. The day had suddenly grown cold, and people were trying to ward off the advancing chill by tossing more precious wood and coal onto their fires. Genevieve quickly mounted the steps to her home, anxious to tell Haydon about her meeting with Mr. Humphries, the bank manager.

It had gone exceptionally well. Mr. Humphries was delighted to hear of her husband’s good fortune regarding his commission on the sale of Monsieur Boulonnais’s work. He was even more elated by the check Genevieve had presented to him. As the money from the sale of her paintings continued to flow in, she would eventually be able to pay off all her loans and use her earnings to support her family. Perhaps she could even afford a few special treats for the children as well. They all could do with new clothes and shoes, and there were a number of books that she wanted to purchase for their studies. She lifted the latch and hurried inside, trying not to think about the unbearable fact that Haydon would be leaving shortly. She did not want that to destroy what little time they had left together.

One look at the raw noses and scarlet-rimmed eyes of Eunice and Doreen told her that something terrible had happened.

“What is it?” she demanded abruptly, fighting to bridle her fear.

“He’s gone, lass.” Oliver looked old and defeated as he took her slim hand into his. “We did everythin’ we could, but ’twas no use.”

Genevieve stared at him blankly. “Haydon left—without saying good-bye?”

“Poor lad didn’t have the chance.” Eunice blew her nose noisily into her handkerchief. “Those nasty constables just shoved their way in here and dragged him out the door.”

No, she thought, feeling as if her heart had been torn from her chest. Please, God, no.

“I tried to keep them out, lass.” Oliver’s aged face was twisted with remorse. “But I couldna fight the three of them. Like giants, they were, and twice as fierce!”

It was her fault, she realized bleakly. She should have made Haydon leave the minute he had been recognized in Glasgow. She should have threatened to report him to the police herself if he didn’t go. Instead she had permitted him to stay with her, had permitted him to lie naked with her at night and accompany her back to Inveraray, because deep in her heart she had not been ready to give him up.

She had been a fool. A selfish, stupid fool.

“Miserable bleedin’ buggers,” swore Doreen in a scathing tone. “Pushed poor Oliver to the floor and cracked open his head.”

“Our Jack attacked the lout who done it.” Eunice dabbed at her eyes with her crumpled handkerchief. “Then the three of them started to give the poor lad a thrashing.”

“So Haydon took the poker and vowed to smash the skull of the biggest bugger if they didn’t unhand the lad.” Oliver regarded her miserably. “He went with them quietly then, after makin’ them promise that they would leave the rest of us be. He didn’t want to see any of us hurt.”

No, of course not. Genevieve remembered how Haydon had fought so valiantly to help Jack the night she had found him lying broken and bleeding in prison. Haydon would never stand by and watch someone else suffer. It didn’t matter if it meant he would be beaten nearly to death himself.

Or led away to be hanged.

She grabbed on to the nearest chair, feeling as if she was going to be sick.

“Here, lass, sit down, ye’re white as chalk,” said Eunice, pulling Genevieve over to the sofa. “Doreen, be a love and fetch Miss Genevieve a glass of water. I fear the shock is too much for her.”

“I’m fine,” Genevieve murmured. The floor beneath her was roiling and the room had suddenly gone blazingly hot and white. She closed her eyes and sank down onto the sofa, resting her cheek against the chilled wool of her cloak. Gone. Haydon was gone. And now he would be hanged. She had heard horrible tales about how a person suffered when they were hanged. How their bodies wrenched and jerked about as they struggled helplessly for air. About how their faces turned hideous colors. She thought of Haydon, so handsome and strong and powerful, dangling helplessly at the end of a rope, fighting to fill his lungs with air.

An agonized sob escaped her lips.

“Hush, now, take a wee sip of this,” soothed Eunice, easing Genevieve up so that she could drink from the glass of water.

Genevieve obediently sipped at the cool liquid.

“There now, that’s better.” Eunice wrapped her plump arm around Genevieve and pulled her head onto the soft pillow of her plentiful bosom. “’Tis just the shock, lass, that’s makin’ ye feel so ill. Give it a moment and it will pass.”

Genevieve leaned against Eunice, drawing comfort from the warm roundness of her as she held her tight.

“If only he’d had a wee bit more time,” Doreen reflected sadly, “perhaps he might have been able to learn who set those ruffians upon him that night. Then this whole bleedin’ mess could have been cleared up.”

Had Constable Drummond and his forces been interested in doing their job, they would have made some effort to find the other men who attacked Haydon, Genevieve reflected bitterly. But because Haydon had not reported the crime himself, he had been condemned as a drunken murderer from the moment of his arrest. The authorities had no interest in trying to unearth the truth. A man was dead, and all they wanted to do was assure the frightened public that they had captured and executed the villain responsible. The scum who assaulted Haydon had failed in their attempt to kill him that night. Now the justice system would finish their work for them.

It wasn’t right, she reflected, feeling anger suddenly surge through her. And she was not going to just stand by and let it happen.

“Oliver, please bring the carriage around,” she said, extricating herself from the shelter of Eunice’s embrace. “We’re going to the prison.”

Oliver regarded her with concern. “Seein’ him again is only going to make ye suffer even more than ye already are, lass. I dinna think—”

“Lord Redmond isn’t guilty of murder, Oliver,” Genevieve interrupted. “I’m not going to let them hang him for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“But how will ye be able to stop them?” asked Eunice. “His sentence has already been passed by the court.”

“I don’t believe the court understood all the facts surrounding Haydon’s case, because it went to trial so quickly. I shall speak to the judge and ask him to delay the execution on the grounds that we can provide new evidence in Lord Redmond’s defense.”

Oliver frowned. “And what new evidence might that be?”

“I don’t know yet,” Genevieve acknowledged. “But at least if we gain some time, we can do some investigating—starting right here in Inveraray. Someone must know something about the men who attacked him that night. I intend to find out who those men were and why they wanted to kill Haydon.”

 

GOVERNOR THOMSON WAS SITTING AT HIS DESK WITH a pair of silver scissors in hand, poised to trim an obstinate strand off his otherwise impeccably manicured beard.

“Where is he?” Genevieve demanded, throwing open the door to his office.

Startled, his hand jerked, causing a gray shower of hair to fall onto the polished surface of his desk.

“Look what you did!” he cried, staring at the amputated hairs in dismay. He held his elegant hand mirror close to the damaged area and gasped. “You made me cut a wedge in my beard!”

“Where is he?” Genevieve repeated coldly.

Governor Thomson stared forlornly at his reflection, raking his fingers through his remaining hair to see if it could be coaxed to cover up the crudely chopped gap. “Who?”

“You know very well who. Kindly take me to see Lord Redmond immediately.”

He regarded her in complete bewilderment. “Lord Redmond?”

She could not understand why he was being so obtuse. “He was arrested this morning. I want to see him to assure myself that he has not been mistreated in any way, and I promise you that if I find he has been—”

“I’m afraid there must be some mistake, Mrs. Blake,” Governor Thomson interrupted, laying down his mirror. “There have been no new prisoners brought here today.”

“Of course there have,” she insisted. “The marquess of Redmond was captured over two hours ago.”

“Really?” He looked genuinely intrigued. “By whom?”

“By three police officers—I don’t know their names. They must have brought him here.”

Governor Thomson shook his head. “No prisoner is put into a cell without my direct authority. I have been here since seven o’clock this morning, and he has not been brought to me.”

Genevieve frowned. “If he is not here, then where would the officers have taken him?”

“I can assure you that if a dangerous fugitive such as Lord Redmond had been captured, he would have been brought here and locked up forthwith.”

“But he was captured—”

“How do you know?”

She stopped, suddenly uneasy. If the police had arrested Haydon, then why hadn’t he been delivered here directly?

“Where is Constable Drummond?” she asked, deciding that Governor Thomson was obviously ill-informed. Constable Drummond had been leading the search for Haydon. Surely he would know about the officers who had descended upon her house that morning.

“I’m afraid you just missed him,” he replied, picking up his mirror once again. “He was testifying at a trial in the courthouse, and stopped by afterward to discuss how the search for Lord Redmond is faring. Constable Drummond has been in contact with the police forces in both Glasgow and Edinburgh, as he believes the marquess may not be in Inveraray at all, but has likely escaped to—”

No, thought Genevieve, shutting out Governor Thomson’s ramblings.

Like giants, they were, and twice as fierce.

Oliver hadn’t said he recognized the police constables. But it didn’t make sense that he wouldn’t have recognized at least one of them. After all, Oliver had been a criminal in and about Inveraray for his entire life. He had been arrested and imprisoned numerous times over the years, and had made acquaintance with most, if not all, of the men who comprised its police force. Moreover, if Constable Drummond was leading the investigation to find Haydon, how could he possibly not have known about the raid on Genevieve’s home? Even if he hadn’t been aware of it beforehand, why hadn’t he been informed by now?

Terror surged through her as the answer became horribly clear.

“—therefore he is preparing to travel to Glasgow himself tomorrow, to investigate whether any of these reported sightings might be reliable….”

Governor Thomson blinked in confusion as Genevieve tore from his office, leaving him alone to contemplate the debacle of his ridiculously clipped beard.