Three

Dinner at Winstead Hall that evening was much as usual. Harriet’s grandfather preferred a monologue at this heavy, formal meal, punctuated by meek agreements, which her mother provided. He never asked a question or, still less, solicited an opinion. He was the sole source of those, reacting to the newspapers or communications from his employees. Now and then, he directed a glare at his companions, emphasizing a point, and every time, Harriet’s mother flinched.

Harriet had tried placing herself in the line of fire, so to speak, to shield Mama. But it didn’t help. When she spoke, her mother grew even more anxious over what she might say. Harriet had thought this worry would lessen as time passed and they were settled in her grandfather’s household. But in fact, it was growing worse. Her mother’s fears spread more widely each day. Trivial matters overset her. The lines in her face had deepened; her hands shook. She was no happier than she had been when they were poor, squeezing every penny. Indeed, she was less so. Harriet didn’t know what to do. When she tried to speak of it, her mother pretended that none of these signs existed.

“Filthy Travelers,” said her grandfather.

Harriet’s attention snapped back to him.

“They’ve camped not far from Ferrington Hall, bold as brass. The thieving scoundrels. Heard the earl was away, I suppose, and rushed in to take advantage. That fellow is shirking his responsibility. But I shall speak to the magistrate and have them driven off.” He raked the room with a petulant frown. “On no account are you to go near there.”

“Of course not, Papa!” said Harriet’s mother.

Harriet made no reply, knowing silence would be taken for obedience. But behind her blank expression, her mind raced. The camp must be warned. Her grandfather would raise a gang of men to harry the Travelers away. She’d heard of that being done, sometimes violently. The thought of Mistress Elena and little Samia and the others being beaten made her cringe inside. “Who is the local magistrate, Grandfather?” she asked.

Brought up short, the old man said, “Eh?”

“He is a great friend of yours, I expect.” Harriet made herself smile.

“I am acquainted with him, naturally.”

The hint of bluster told Harriet that they were not friends, which was good. “He is one of the neighbors?”

“Sir Hal Wraxton, over at Hentings. It would be the earl, if he was here to fulfill his responsibilities. Don’t know what the man means by staying away so long. It’s irresponsible!”

“I suppose he has business to attend to.” Harriet spoke at random, planning how she would hurry to the camp first thing tomorrow to let them know. It occurred to her that the Travelers might pack up and leave when they learned of this threat. And most likely Jack the Rogue would go with them. Her heart sank to think she might never see him again. Their brief…idyll was over.

“Business!” The word exploded from her grandfather’s lips. “These noblemen know nothing of business. Won’t raise a finger in any honest trade. They’re happy to spend the money that comes from it though. Runs through their hands like water. Thousands of pounds lost to gambling!” He said the last word like a curse. “Lunacy!”

And yet he insisted that she marry one of these feckless men. Harriet might have pointed out this logical flaw, but she was conscious of her mother’s reproachful gaze. She replied with a small shrug. This wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t meant to set him off.

“Ruling class, indeed. Time to make some changes there.” He descended into a mutter.

Power was what he wanted, Harriet realized then. Social climbing was just a stepping-stone on the road to influence and position. She should have seen this, would have, if his schemes hadn’t involved her own future happiness. She’d been fixed on the idea of marriage. He had been thinking of extending his financial and political reach, ruthlessly. He would yoke her to a fool, a libertine, a tyrant, if the connection advanced his ambitions. A chill ran through her. Her grandfather wouldn’t care how she was treated in such a marriage. She was a pawn to be sacrificed, a mere tool. Remembering his talk of deals, she shivered. He thought he could force her to do as he wished.

Well, she wouldn’t, Harriet decided then and there. She would not give him what he wanted. Harriet set her jaw and raised her chin, utterly determined. And she found her mother staring at her. Mama had read the resolve in her face, and now she was terrified. Her eyes begged for surrender.

Harriet felt an uncomfortable mix of sympathy and annoyance. It was true that her grandfather could make their life even worse than it had been before he swooped down and lifted them into luxury. If she defied him, he would hound them as he had her father. She didn’t see how he could take away the small income Papa had scraped together. But he knew far more about such things than she did. She would have to take care. All right, she would. But she wouldn’t be used. Glancing at her grandfather, who was still silently fulminating, she thought she might be smarter than he was, when it came down to it. They would see, when she pitted her wits against his.

Mama was actually wringing her hands. Harriet offered what was meant to be a reassuring smile. It didn’t appear to help.

***

Jack was surprised to see Harriet Finch hurrying into the camp quite early the next morning. She didn’t even have her parasol. She rushed over when she saw him, which was pleasant. But her expression was not. She looked worried.

“I’ve come to warn you,” she said, breathless from rushing.

“Come and sit down. There’s herbal tea brewing.”

“I can’t stay. My mother will be looking for me as soon as she wakes. You must listen.”

She raised her hands like a supplicant. Jack took them in his own. “And so I shall, to be sure,” he replied.

His reaction seemed to startle her. She flushed and gazed up at him with wide eyes. Whatever she saw in his face appeared to calm her a bit. “My grandfather is going to urge the local magistrate to chase you off,” she said then.

“Me?” Jack wondered if someone had seen him in the gardens of Winstead Hall. He would have sworn he hadn’t been observed.

“The Travelers. The camp.”

“Ah.”

“He doesn’t… He isn’t…”

“He thinks Travelers are thieves or worse.” He’d heard of such persecutions from his mother. They were probably worse in this stuffy little country.

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t want them anywhere near you, I suppose.”

She brushed this aside as if it was irrelevant. “They will bring men to chase your people off. Samia and everyone.”

Jack’s brain went to work on the problem. The grandfather seemed unlikely to relent from all he’d heard of the man. “This magistrate? What is he?”

“Magistrates are leading local men who are charged with keeping the peace. His name is Sir Hal Wraxton.”

“Lives nearby, does he?”

“Yes, but you can’t call on him. He wouldn’t… I don’t think he would receive you.” She looked worried at the possibility, which was gratifying.

“No, I won’t do that,” Jack replied. A visit would do no good in his present state. He might be an earl, but he had nothing to prove it. “Tell me where he lives though.”

“Why do you want to know?”

She was a stubborn girl. “Matter of information,” said Jack. “Lay of the land, so to speak.”

Miss Finch frowned over this, as well she might, for the story was thin, but she gave him the magistrate’s location. “What are you going to do? I can see you are planning something.”

“I’m not certain just yet.”

“There is nothing you can do!” she declared, pulling her hands away.

She looked distressed, and Jack dared to hope it was because he was to be run off. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“You are here without permission.” She gestured to include the whole camp.

“Permission?” The word implied a possibility.

“Gypsies, and Travelers, I suppose, can camp if they have permission from a landowner,” she added. “He has the say on his own property.”

“Ah.” Jack seized on this. “And in this case, that would be the Earl of Ferrington?”

“Who is missing. So you can’t ask him for permission. Not that he would agree.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I’m sure he is as snobbish and closed-minded as my grandfather. More so, probably. He won’t give a snap of his fingers for anyone else.”

“Are you so sure then?”

The lovely Miss Finch glared at him. “That’s how they are. You don’t seem to be taking this matter seriously. The magistrate will bring a gang of men, and they will force the Travelers to move.”

“Clubs and horsewhips instead of polite requests,” Jack replied. He knew such things happened.

She grimaced. “I hope they would ask first. I don’t know this Sir Hal Wraxton at all. I don’t think my grandfather does either, which is one good thing.”

“I understand,” said Jack.

“Good.” She let out a sigh and seemed to deflate with the expelled air. “So you will go then.”

“That’s what you suggest? That I just give up?”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“There’s always something.”

“No, people who have power delight in using it against those who don’t.” Harriet had seen egregious examples of this during the season in London.

Jack decided that her grandfather must be quite a piece of work. “We shall see,” he replied. “Will this scouring of the neighborhood be today, do you think?”

She frowned. “My grandfather is writing to Sir Hal this morning. He will address the complaint in a day or two.”

“Right.”

She looked around the camp as if bidding the place and its people farewell. “So I won’t see you again. This is goodbye.”

“I think perhaps you will, Miss Finch.”

She didn’t seem to hear. “It’s not fair,” she murmured.

“I would have thought you more of a fighter,” said Jack.

Her green eyes flashed up at him, suddenly fierce. “Do you fence, Mr. Whoever You Are?”

This was an odd question. “I never have,” he replied.

“But you could learn if you liked.”

“I suppose I could.”

“Boxing as well. My friend Charlotte’s brothers are always talking of tipping someone a leveler. Which means knocking them down with one punch, I believe.”

“I know the phrase. But I don’t understand…”

I can’t learn such things,” Miss Finch said. “Any more than I can enter a true profession. I have no way to fight unless you imagine that scathing words affect a man like my grandfather.”

They were affecting him. He felt beleaguered.

“If you do, you are wrong,” she added. “He…squashes opposition. Crushes the least sign of it.”

Jack became conscious of a desire to show this man the meaning of defeat.

Miss Finch looked away as if she regretted saying so much. “I must go. Mama is keeping a closer watch on me after this news. She is very…susceptible to worry.”

She held out her hand. Again, Jack took it. Her fingers were firm in his. “Goodbye,” she said. Did he see a trace of a tear? He thought he did. And that settled it. He had to stay. He squeezed her hand. She returned the pressure, swallowed, and pulled away. It seemed she might say more, but in the end, she simply turned and rushed back the way she’d come.

Jack watched until she disappeared around a bend in the path, acknowledging he was well and truly smitten with this lovely girl. Who despised earls, seemingly. Most of them. He would have to be sure he was an exception.

Returning to the central fire, he gave the Travelers the news and suggested they set a watch. Some wanted to pack up and leave at once, but others were reluctant to abandon such a snug camp. Jack asked for and was granted a day to see what he could do, so long as no threats were spotted. He sat down with a mug of cider and put his mind to the problem.

With more time, he might have tried something elaborate. But in the span available, his thoughts finally narrowed to one possibility. It might well work.

He waited for darkness and then set himself to watch Ferrington Hall. He knew from previous observations that the old couple who took care of the place slept in a room near the kitchen, which was in a wing that jutted out from the rear of the house. Unfortunately, this was on the ground floor. However, it seemed well away from what he judged to be the haunts of their former master.

He saw the light in their bedroom extinguished. Unmoving, he let an hour pass. When he was reasonably certain they were asleep, he approached the house from the other side, aiming for a door that led out into a walled garden. He carried a small, dark lantern, which had been easily available at the camp. Suspiciously so, perhaps. Jack hadn’t asked.

The wall was no serious obstacle, and Jack knew how to pick a lock. A disreputable friend of his father had taught him when he was ten years old. The men had roared with laughter over it. Until his mother had looked in, and they’d gone sheepishly silent. He didn’t think any of them had told her of her son’s new skill. He’d certainly known better than to confess it.

The lock was old and not complicated. Jack focused a narrow beam from the lantern on it, and soon he had it undone. He eased the door open. The hinges creaked, sounding loud in the quiet night. Jack closed the lantern and froze, listening with all his might. Minutes ticked past. At last, hearing no reaction, he slipped inside.

He had to dare the lantern again, to avoid colliding with ghostly sheeted furnishings, but he used the smallest possible beam as he made his way to the room he had recognized as a study from the outside.

Once there, he closed the door and unlatched a window, in case he had to run. Then he pulled off the sheet covering the desk. None of the drawers were locked, and in the third he tried, he found some crested stationery featuring the coat of arms of the Earl of Ferrington. He lifted out a few sheets, found a quill, and uncorked an inkwell, fortunately not dried out. Jack wasn’t certain what he would have done if it was.

After listening again and hearing no sounds, he sat down at the desk and began to write a letter. Having thought about it all day, he had the words ready in his head. He wrote quickly, signed the unfamiliar name with a flourish, and then produced a second exact copy. One would go to this magistrate, and the other would be entrusted to Mistress Elena for safety’s sake.

Jack found a stick of wax and a seal in another drawer. He softened the wax with the flame of his lantern and sealed one of the notes. This one would be delivered to the magistrate’s house first thing tomorrow by a Traveler lad who had assured Jack he knew how to drop off a packet without being noticed.

Returning everything to its previous state, Jack latched the window and slipped out the way he’d come, relocking the door behind him. Then he was over the wall and away into the quiet darkness.

***

Harriet sat with her mother in the small parlor Mama liked to use at one end of Winstead Hall, well away from the din of construction on the new wing. Late-afternoon sunlight poured through the tall windows like golden honey, illuminating the flowered wallpaper and comfortable furnishings. This space was less crammed with opulent objects than the rooms her grandfather frequented, which was restful. Sweet scents from the garden and the twitter of birds drifted in. Altogether a peaceful scene, with no reason for melancholy, and yet Harriet’s spirits were low. She imagined the Travelers packed up by now and moving along the road away from here, Jack among them. When she walked that way again, the field would be empty, crushed grass and fire-blackened stones the only signs of their lively presence. She would never see him again. She wished she had done…something more during their brief acquaintance. She might have kissed him. Harriet blinked, startled by this unprecedented idea. Why was she thinking of kisses? She didn’t do that—either the thinking or the kissing.

For that matter, asserted this errant part of her mind with blithe disregard, he might have kissed her. But no, he wouldn’t have presumed. He was a gentleman. Despite his vagabond state, she was certain of that. He would never take her in his arms and capture her lips and send her dizzy with desire. Unless he was encouraged, of course. Which she could not do. Because he was gone. And because, of course, she did not do such things. And never would. Harriet put a hand to her burning cheek, wondering if she had gone slightly mad.

“What is that noise?” asked her mother.

Harriet became conscious of a sound echoing down the corridor. It was her grandfather’s voice, roaring in the distance.

“Oh dear,” said her mother. “I wonder what has happened now.”

“Some news from London, I expect,” replied Harriet. Her grandfather often railed at the young men who traveled up from town with reports on his business.

But the sounds were rising in volume.

“He’s coming this way,” said her mother. “He doesn’t come here.” She shrank back in her chair even as she gazed at the window as if she might climb through it and escape.

Harriet rose. “I will go and see.” She didn’t enjoy her grandfather’s temper tantrums. But they didn’t frighten her as they did Mama.

“No, no. Let it be. Don’t annoy him.”

“Clearly, he is already annoyed, Mama. And coming to tell us why. I will try to stop him.” Harriet went out into the hallway and intercepted her grandfather before he reached the parlor. He was red-faced and glowering. “What has happened?” she asked.

“The earl has given permission for those wretched Travelers to camp on his land,” he answered. “It is an outrage.”

“What?”

“Sir Hal received a letter from him, saying as much. Nothing he can do, he says, if a landowner approves. Not that he seemed to care very much, the dolt. He thinks ‘the Travelers rarely do any harm.’” The old man shook a sheet of paper in his hand. His cheeks trembled with rage. “He writes that I shouldn’t worry. The man is an imbecile.”

Harriet realized that her mouth was hanging open. She closed it. “I…I thought the earl was missing. Has he come home?”

“He has not! I sent someone over there as soon as I got this ridiculous note. The idiots at Ferrington Hall know nothing about the matter. They claimed they didn’t even know the Travelers were there. Which is impossible, of course. No one is that stupid.”

Harriet’s mind filled with questions. How had the earl learned about the camp? Or the complaint about it? Where had he written from? Who had brought the letter? Were they certain of its authorship? She asked none of these, because she didn’t want her grandfather to begin wondering about the letter’s origins. As she was. With a growing sense of horror and a touch of admiration, she suspected that any investigation would lead straight to Jack the Rogue. “How…odd,” she said.

“Odd? It’s unconscionable. The end of the matter, Sir Hal says. Letter on the earl’s special, crested notepaper. Hopes the fellow will return home soon. Blast them! They think themselves above us all.”

Harriet wisely held her tongue.

“You are not to go beyond the gardens, Harriet. Not with a pack of tramps given free rein to roam the countryside.” He stomped away without requiring her promise, which was a relief since Harriet did not like to lie. She would have, but it was good not to need to. Her mother called anxiously from the parlor, wanting to know what was amiss, and Harriet had to go to her rather than rushing over to the camp as she really wished to do.

In fact, Harriet could not get away until early the following morning. Her grandfather was with his London messenger in his study, and her mother lay abed late. She evaded the eyes of several servants and a trio of workmen carrying planks from a wagon, slipped out through the shrubbery, and nearly ran across the woods to the camp.

They were all still there—the wagons and tents and brush shelters. The scent of woodsmoke wafted over them. People went about their daily tasks with no sign of concern. Harriet scanned the peaceful scene, spotted Jack setting down a load of wood near the central fire, and hurried over to him. “What did you do?”

“How splendid to see you,” he replied. “And that we did not have to say goodbye after all.”

“You forged a letter from the Earl of Ferrington,” Harriet accused. He must see it had been a dangerous thing to do.

“I did not. I give you my solemn word.”

She was brought up short. She heard truth in his voice. But believing him would bring down the whole edifice of her explanation. “You know that the magistrate received a letter of permission from the earl?”

“So we heard. Good news, eh? Perhaps they’re friends, and this magistrate asked him about it.”

“No one knows where the earl is,” Harriet pointed out.

“Someone must.”

Harriet brushed this diversion aside. “And how could he know the camp was here? Since he is not.”

“Perhaps he keeps tabs on the place.”

“From quite nearby?” Harriet asked sarcastically. “Close enough to send a letter on the heels of my grandfather’s complaint?”

“That’s it.”

“Why would the earl stay near Ferrington Hall but not in it?”

“Some of these noblemen are eccentric, are they not? I’ve heard they are.”

“Do you imagine they hide in caves like ancient hermits? From which they can nonetheless send letters on crested notepaper?”

“Are there caves hereabouts?” he asked with what seemed genuine interest.

“No, of course there aren’t! The countryside is quite flat.”

Jack burst out laughing, and Harriet was tempted to join him. But the mystery nagged at her. “I don’t see how this came about.”

“It was just a matter of good luck, it seems,” he said.

Jack smiled down at her. Harriet refused to melt. “No, I don’t believe that. I am convinced you wrote that letter.”

“Well, perhaps I am the earl,” he said.

She snorted. “And I am the princess royal.”

“You are to me.”

“Will you be serious?”

“I could be the earl,” he answered. “Journeying incognito.”

“With a troop of Travelers? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“If I were…”

“You are not!” Harriet exclaimed. “Fortunately, you are nothing whatsoever like an earl.”

He flinched as if something had hit him. Harriet actually looked over her shoulder to see what the threat might be, but there was nothing there. When she turned back, Jack the Rogue seemed rueful and perhaps sad.

For the first time in their acquaintance, Harriet felt uneasy. Jack was always so lighthearted. He’d given no sign of caring about rank, and he’d appeared impervious to insults. Not that she’d meant to insult him. Nearly all the noblemen she’d met were arrogant and vain, and some were positively despicable. The few exceptions merely showed up the others. She should tell him her remark had been a compliment.

“Look at that then,” he said before she could speak. He pointed.

Harriet turned, becoming aware of the others around them. All around. Their conversation had certainly been overheard by a number of Travelers.

“There,” said Jack.

Following the direction of his arm, Harriet saw Samia sitting beside Mistress Elena on the steps of the old woman’s caravan. The little girl threw back her head and loosed a peal of youthful laughter.

“Mistress Elena is finally teaching Samia palm reading,” Jack explained. “Samia’s nagged the life out of her to learn.”

Harriet looked up. He was smiling now. There was no trace of sadness in his expression. She must have imagined it. Jack the Rogue could not be dejected.

“Come and see,” he added.

Harriet wanted to say something more, but she couldn’t decide what exactly. And then he had walked away. She followed him to the caravan.

“Just what we need,” said Mistress Elena when Harriet reached them. “Samia will look at your hand.” Her dark eyes gleamed with humor. “Mine has too many wrinkles.” She made an imperious gesture. “Rolf, bring a chair.”

A boy went to the central fire circle, turned a bit of log on its side, and rolled it close. He set it upright in front of Mistress Elena and plopped a cushion on top with a flourish. “My ladies,” he said. Samia giggled.

“Sit, sit,” said Mistress Elena.

Harriet sat.

“Give Samia your hand. The one you write with.”

Harriet obeyed, and the little girl bent over her open palm, earnest and yet also ready to laugh. “This is your Life line,” she said, tracing a crease that ran diagonally down Harriet’s hand. “And this is your Heart line.” She indicated a more horizontal mark with a twinkling glance.

“What do you see?” asked Mistress Elena.

Samia bit her lower lip. “There’s a kind of wiggle here near the beginning. A big change in her life maybe?”

The old woman bent to look, nodded. “Remember what I said.”

“Watch their eyes when you speak, but don’t let them notice,” Samia replied. “You will see when you have hit upon a true thing. I forgot.”

“And Miss Finch has had a change, I think.” Mistress Elena’s smile was sly.

“You saw that in my eyes?” asked Harriet.

The old woman’s smile broadened.

“Or I just told you so.” Harriet shook her head. “Do you just make it up?”

“We find a story together, engraved in the hand.”

“Isn’t that fooling people?” Harriet didn’t believe in fortune-telling, but she had thought those who did it would pretend to, at least.

“It is not,” replied Mistress Elena crisply. “Many people have no one who pays close attention to them. Not a single comrade. I watch and listen and encourage their thoughts. They can learn much, if they wish to.”

For some reason, Harriet thought of her mother. But that was silly. She did listen to her.

“Your Heart line is very strong,” said Samia. “It goes all across your hand. And look here, near the beginning, it crosses your Life line. Some great thing did happen then.”

When her father had died, and she thought her heart would break. Harriet shook her head. They were simply playing on her imagination. “I must go back,” she said. If she was caught outside the gardens, her grandfather would prevent her from ever returning.

Samia gave up her hand reluctantly.

Jack walked with her toward the path to Winstead Hall. She thought of questioning him further about the letter, but somehow her thoughts drifted back to the idea of kissing him. He was right here, at her side. They’d come under the trees, so no one could see. But how did one go about it? One didn’t simply throw oneself into a man’s arms. What if she tripped? He would catch her. And then… But what if he didn’t wish to kiss her? The possibility made her cheeks burn.

Jack put a hand on her arm, making her jump. Had he read her thoughts somehow?

“Your grandfather has set watchers,” he said.

She hadn’t been paying attention. Without Jack, she would have walked right into the man posted on the border with the Ferrington lands—one of the Winstead Hall gardeners, she thought. On the other hand, if Jack hadn’t been there to distract her, she would have seen him. She was usually quite observant!

“This way,” he murmured.

He showed her a way to evade the patrol, through a thicket that had an open space down the center. It was perhaps better than the hidden route Harriet would have taken on her own. A little.

When they paused at the end of the bushes to make certain the way was clear, he said, “Could you come back tonight? There’s to be a bit of a festival.”

“After dark?”

“I would wait in that shrubbery by the house to escort you. And bring you back as well, of course. Not too late. It will be a fine evening.”

An automatic refusal rose to Harriet’s lips, born from a lifetime of genteel poverty and its precarious social position. She’d always known that the least breath of scandal would ruin her, as it would not a better-placed young lady. She could make no missteps, even as a certain sort of man saw her as an easy mark. She’d built up a wall of cool distance to fend them off, and her defenses had served her well until a few months ago at the start of the London season. Then, suddenly, Harriet was expected to welcome the attentions of a host of young men. She was to be flattered and sweetly accessible. Even her best friends hadn’t understood how difficult she’d found this. Some nights Harriet had seen her suitors as a kind of ravening horde vying for—not her, but her grandfather’s money. At those moments, she’d simply wanted to run.

“Miss Finch?” said her companion.

This thicket in the woods wasn’t society. This politely charming rogue knew nothing of her dowry and cared less. No one would know what she did in the Travelers’ camp. “I will try to come after dinner,” she heard herself saying. “I can’t be sure I will be able to get away.”

“I’ll wait for you where the path forks into three.”

He said it as if he meant he would wait forever. Speechless, Harriet raised her hand in a half wave and hurried away.

She made it into the garden and then inside, finding no sign her absence had been noticed. It would be harder tonight, but Harriet made up her mind to find a way.

***

Hours later, Jack waited in the shrubbery of the Winstead Hall garden and hoped. At one moment, he thought she would come. In the next, he doubted. This wasn’t the sort of invitation that a high stickler like Lady Wilton, for example, would approve. But Harriet Finch was nothing like that crotchety old lady. She’d shown him that. Hadn’t she?

Jack had glimpsed her family at the dinner table before the servants pulled the curtains closed. The meal hadn’t looked like a happy occasion. The fat old man who faced the window had looked like an evil-tempered tortoise. He’d appeared to be holding forth on some unpleasant topic. Miss Finch, on the fellow’s left, was stiff and solemn. The small lady opposite, surely Miss Finch’s mother, had been plucking at her napkin in what looked to Jack like nervous terror. If that had not been so unlikely. Nobody was smiling.

It had been some time since then. Dinner was surely over, but he had no idea what they did afterward. The festivities at the camp had certainly begun, but he didn’t care much about them without her. And so he waited.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Jack heard footsteps approaching. Surely this could only be Miss Finch at this time and place. Still, he didn’t take a chance but stood still and silent in concealment.

“Are you there?” came a murmur. Her voice.

His heart leaped. He couldn’t remember ever being so glad to see someone. “Here,” he replied, stepping out of the interlacing branches.

She started, a dim figure in a hooded cloak. “It’s so dark.”

“It’s nearly moonrise. Take my arm.”

She did, and he led her along the twisting path to the edge of the garden and on toward the camp.

“The watchers,” she whispered.

“They went home with the sunset,” Jack replied. He’d observed their restlessness as the day waned, a muttered conference, and their somewhat furtive departure.

“What? They only patrol in daylight? That’s silly.”

“I think many of them find the task silly.” It certainly was. The Travelers were no threat to Winstead’s large, prosperous holding. He’d told them of the man’s hostility, and everyone was staying well away. And if they had wanted to get close, the patrols were ridiculously simple to evade.

Jack had continued his wandering around the neighborhood, talking to people of varying degree, trying to learn his new terrain. He’d found that the poor opinion of Mr. Winstead was widespread. He wasn’t much liked or respected. His quick temper had roused resentment. On the other hand, his money and the work he brought were appreciated. He made hard bargains, but he paid his bills in full and on time. It seemed the late Earl of Ferrington was far more erratic about such matters, particularly when he’d been drinking. As he quite often had been, apparently. And yet the earl was remembered with fondness. Generally, the neighborhood was eager for his replacement to arrive. Jack didn’t completely understand these sentiments. The mere fact of an earl seemed to matter to people. They desired such a figure in their midst. An earl’s individual qualities were as unpredictable as the weather and treated rather the same, as far as Jack could make out. Constantly talked of and accepted as beyond anyone’s control.

“How can you find your way?” whispered Miss Finch. Her hand was warm in the crook of his arm.

“My eyes have become accustomed to the dark.” The path was just visible in the starlight. It was fortunate they didn’t have to slip through the thicket, however.

They passed into the band of woodland, where it was dimmer, and had to walk more slowly. But as they neared the Travelers’ camp, light from a great fire in the center painted the trees. Lively music rose ahead. Jack pulled his prize into the open and enjoyed the look on Miss Finch’s face as she took in the scene.

Three of the Travelers sat atop one of the caravans and played a violin, a flute, and a small drum. They were skilled, and the music made one want to move. Below them, circling the fire, the camp danced. Couples, children, oldsters revolved about the flames. Tossing heads, upflung arms, a rainbow of fluttering scarves, and stamping feet blended into a thrilling picture. Off to the side, there was a large keg of cider with mugs ready to be drawn.

Jack was glad to see Miss Finch greeted with nods if not smiles. He took her cloak, laid it aside, and offered a hand. “Come and dance,” he said.

“I don’t know the steps.”

“You are free to make up your own.”

Harriet saw he was right. Some pairs seemed to be executing a stamping, bowing pattern, but others were twirling, romping, hopping, apparently improvising according to their temperaments and abilities. Harriet spotted Samia capering like a wild elf and Mistress Elena gesturing and swaying at the far edge of the circle. She couldn’t resist. She let Jack the Rogue pull her into the melee and gave herself up to a dance that couldn’t have been less like a society ball.

He held her as if they were waltzing, one hand warm at her waist, the other pressing her fingers. But they moved far faster than any waltz, skipping and spinning and sliding until her head swam.

Then, suddenly, the violin and flute fell silent. The drum boomed out a staccato rhythm, and there was a general shout of, “hey!” Jack lifted her off her feet, swung her around in a dizzying arc, and set her down facing the opposite direction. Harriet nearly tripped as she lit, but he caught her. Pressed close against him, she looked up. His dark eyes held their own fires. His smile flashed white, and elation shot through Harriet. She was drawn to him as she’d never been to anyone. She longed to throw her arms around his neck and give in to the attraction that shook her.

The music started up again, and the dance went on with the direction of the circle reversed.

Harriet moved to the music. A heady sense of freedom ran through her veins, more intoxicating than any glass of champagne. In that moment, she thought people should always dance under the stars rather than in stuffy ballrooms. And when the music paused and the drum called and Jack swung her through the air, the feeling was glorious.

After a time, the musicians took a rest. Harriet thirstily drank down a mug of cider and then blinked at its strength. The Travelers around her spoke to each other in their own language, which she couldn’t understand, but she joined in the laughter that rose with the sparks from the fire. Then, the dancing resumed, and she threw herself into its pulsing rhythm with an unfamiliar joy.

It seemed only a little time had passed when Jack the Rogue said, “I should take you back now.”

“Is it midnight?” Harriet asked, feeling like Cinderella, the magic that had buoyed her about to dissolve.

“Well past that, I would think.”

“Oh.” Of course she had to go. She’d sent Slade to bed early, so there would be no one waiting. She’d purloined a key to a side door. But her time was still limited. She’d had her escape. Now she must return to what had begun to feel like a kind of prison.

Melancholy built with each step back toward her grandfather’s house. In the garden, with the darkened pile ahead of them, Harriet paused and gazed up at her escort. She couldn’t really see his expression in the dimness. Did he regret the end of their escapade as much as she did?

Harriet moved closer to him, breathing in his masculine scent along with the sweetness of flowers. She raised her chin. Surely he would kiss her now, after the way they had danced. The whole evening had led up to this moment. He bent his head. Her lips parted, awaiting the touch of his. The world seemed to teeter in the balance.

But then he stepped away. “Good night, Miss Finch,” he murmured. He moved farther off, nearly disappearing into the darkness of the shrubbery.

One of Harriet’s hands rose in unconscious supplication. She snatched it back. She would not beg! Bitter with disappointment, Harriet fled to the building that was not her home.