CHAPTER NINE

Velvet stood in front of the cheval glass mirror in her room. Like most of Windmere, the halls abovestairs were barren, the rooms decidedly stark. Even her bedchamber had fallen victim to their lack of funds, her beautiful rosewood armoire replaced by one of simple oak, the exquisite gilt-framed paintings gone from her walls. The peach silk moiré curtains remained, as well as the matching bed hangings and counterpane.

Velvet smiled inwardly, thinking she might wind up wearing the draperies in the fashion of a gown if their finances didn’t change soon.

But today was not the time to think of it. Today they were leaving Windmere for the costume ball at Carlyle Hall, the final step in severing her connections with the duke. She thought of him now and an icy shiver ran through her. There was something of menace in Avery Sinclair, something he had kept well hidden until that day in the Queen’s Salon. For the hundredth time she silently thanked the highwayman for saving her from a terrible fate in marrying him and wondered where the tall handsome outlaw had gone.

The minute she thought of him, her cheeks heated up. Memories of his hard, burning kisses rose up, visions of his hands on her breasts. Sweet God, she had tried to block them, knelt in the small parish church and silently prayed that the wicked images would go away.

Instead each night she tossed and turned, wishing she could see him again, wishing he wasn’t an outlaw, wishing he would ride to her defense as he had swooped down and stolen her that night from the carriage.

Velvet sighed. She had to marry and soon, and it couldn’t be to an outlaw, or even a displaced nobleman, if that were indeed what he was. Jason couldn’t save her, no matter how attractive he was. She had to find someone else, a wealthy, suitable husband who didn’t really need her dowry. Her search would begin at the costume ball.

She would have to be subtle in her efforts, of course. Her main objective was to set the wagging tongues to rest, but with Avery’s grudging assistance, she believed the gossip would end. Meanwhile, the Season would begin in earnest very soon. Perhaps there would be a fresh face among the suitors seeking the hand of a wealthy heiress, someone of money and position. If she were lucky, maybe he would spark some feeling in her.

Perhaps one day, those feelings might even turn to love.

Velvet sighed and turned away from the mirror just as her lady’s maid, Tabitha Beeson, hurried in carrying her costume for the ball, all that remained to be packed for the journey.

“Just finished, my lady. Lud, ’tis beautiful. You’ll be the loveliest gel at the ball.”

Velvet hoped so. She had work to do at Carlyle Hall. She smiled to think how disappointed the duke must be that she wasn’t the one footing the bill. Pity the poor wretch who would be. Velvet didn’t doubt that the duke of Carlyle would be gaining a wife—and soon.

“Thank you, Tabby. Tell Martha she did her usual splendid job.” Especially splendid, considering what little she’d had to work with. Which wasn’t really surprising. The servants who remained at Windmere had learned to do myriad jobs. Martha sewed splendidly, when she wasn’t working as the upstairs chambermaid, and Tabby often helped with the dusting and cleaning. “Tell her the costume is lovely.”

She would dress in medieval garb, as the young maid, Gweneviere, in a plum velvet tunic above an underskirt of amber silk embroidered in gold. A golden girdle had been fashioned for her waist, a small jeweled dagger suspended from it, though the brilliants in the hilt of the ancient family blade were now replaced with paste. The long, pointed sleeves of the gown hung nearly to the floor, and her hair would be loose down her back in the medieval style of an unmarried girl.

A noise in the hall drew her attention from the lovely costume she held in her hands.

“What goes on up there?” Her grandfather’s voice rose with impatience. “The carriage awaits us. The footman grows concerned. ’Tis well past the time we should be leaving.”

Velvet hurried to the top of the stairs. “We’re ready, Grandfather. We won’t be another minute more.”

True to her word, they were on the road within the quarter hour, barreling along the lane that would carry them to Carlyle Hall. The week before had been bitterly cold, but yesterday a breath of early spring weather had set in. A dome of blue rose above the fields, and a warm sun filtered through the branches of the trees lining the road.

Their late departure had them arriving at the inn midway there well after dark, but their rooms were ready and the fire in the hearth was warm. In the morning they resumed their journey, bowling along the lane at a faster clip than she had expected. Near the Wealdon Forest, they passed a small hamlet constructed mostly of reddish brick, and a skinny gray dog, its ribs, protruding, raced along beside the carriage, barking to drive them away.

Carlyle Hall grew nearer, and the closer they got, the more Velvet began to fret. Her mind kept returning to the last time she had traveled this road, the night she had been abducted.

He wouldn’t come, would he? Surely he would not dare to accost her again. But she found herself wishing he would, that he would ride out of the woods on his tall black horse, that he would force the carriage to a halt and sweep her up in the saddle in front of him.

By the time they reached the bend in the road where he had appeared before, Velvet was biting her lip, squeezing the fingers she gripped in her lap. A trickle of perspiration slid between her breasts.

Her grandfather eyed her from beneath his bushy white eyebrows, catching the nervous glances she kept tossing out the window. “You look worried, my child. I can see it in your face. You mustn’t be afraid, my dear Velvet—this time the bounder will not find us unprepared.” He grinned with satisfaction. “We are ready, should he appear. This time the coachy is armed.”

“Armed?” Velvet squeaked. “Oh, dear Lord.”

“That is correct, my dear. Should the scoundrel accost us again, the man will face the wrong end of a pistol.”

Velvet thought of big John Wilton, the coachman seated atop the carriage, and her wish for the highwayman’s appearance faded away. Don’t come, Jason, don’t come. Sweet God, she didn’t want him killed! She had merely hoped to see him one last time.

She stared at her grandfather, mouthing a silent prayer. She was amazed the aging earl had taken such an action, amazed he remembered the previous trip at all. Then again, that was the way of his illness. One moment he was lucid the next he was not. His memory of the distant past remained crystal clear, but his day-to-day thoughts were as hazy as a London fog.

Riding on the edge of her seat, Velvet fixed her eyes on the trees at the side of the road and tried to control her pounding heart.

In the end, all her worry was for naught. Jason did not appear and the carriage rolled unimpeded toward Carlyle Hall. Apparently, the highwayman had forgotten all about her.

Velvet vowed that once and for all, she would forget about him.

*   *   *

Music filled the magnificent salons and lamp lit corridors of Carlyle Hall. Notes of the harpsichord fluttered delicately across the gilt and mirrored ballroom. Standing in the flickering light of a golden sconce, one of a hundred that lined the majestic ballroom, Avery Sinclair stood for a moment alone, enjoying the brief respite from his guests—and his so-called betrothed.

He caught a glimpse of her small figure dancing, her wavy dark auburn hair gleaming like polished wood in the candlelit ballroom. Avery gritted his teeth until a needle of pain shot into his jaw. The sight of the woman infuriated him. He had been so careful to maintain his image of wealth and power. How had she discovered the truth? Where had she been those days before the wedding when supposedly she had been abducted?

He hadn’t the foggiest notion and didn’t really care. Wherever she had gone, one thing was certainly clear. She was a conniving little baggage, smarter than he had imagined, and he had underestimated her sorely. He would not do so again.

Avery straightened his black velvet, ermine-trimmed beret, cocking it forward over a thin blond eyebrow, the long wispy feather on top rather dashing, he thought, as he caught his reflection in the mirror. He was dressed as Henry the Eighth, complete with slashed, full-sleeved overjacket, silver brocaded waistcoat, white silk stockings, and silver embroidered codpiece.

He smiled grimly, thinking of the king he portrayed, wishing he could lop off the head of that little bitch Velvet Moran.

He shifted the codpiece to a more comfortable position over his sex. Or perhaps he would do as Henry did—swive the wench a time or two and then behead her.

He mulled over the idea with a surge of satisfaction, his gaze darting toward where she danced the minuet with the aging earl of Whitmore, the earl’s randy old eyes fastened wolfishly on her bosom. Good luck and good riddance, he thought, his attention shifting to a far more intriguing target.

A slender blond woman he had seen a few times before, a girl in first blush, attending her first London Season. Her father, Sir Wallace Stanton, was known, on matters of finance, to hold the ear of the king. Over the years, he’d been wildly successful in his business dealings, one of few men known to have actually made money before the South Seas bubble burst. In the decades since, he had turned those profits into a rather large fortune. Stanton had wealth and power, but only one daughter, eighteen-year-old Mary, who would inherit all of his vast holdings.

The aging Sir Wallace had everything most men wanted, but what the old man desired above all else was a title for his little girl. He longed for her to become a member of the nobility, the one thing he had, so far, been unable to give her.

In the past few months, Avery had heard rumblings about her, rumors that the girl and her fortune were for sale. At the time he wasn’t interested. He had thought to marry the Haversham heiress. Marriage to a woman not of the peerage was unthinkable, completely out of the question.

Unfortunately, with the loss of his bride and the threat of impending ruin, he was forced to reconsider.

Avery took a delicate pinch of snuff as he studied the young blond girl, then tucked the jeweled silver box back into his waistcoat. He could not say he found her lacking. In her simple milkmaid’s costume, she was clear-skinned and comely, in a plain sort of way, not so vibrant as Velvet Moran, but she would also be far more tractable. Last week he had gone to London for a secret meeting with her father. Sir Wallace had nearly overset himself at the notion of his Mary wed to a duke.

A tentative agreement had been reached, including a king-sized dowry and a provision that marriage to Mary would make the duke of Carlyle heir to the vast Stanton fortune.

There was only one catch. Mary Stanton had to agree.

Avery smiled at her across the gleaming marble floor. She was dancing, he noticed, with the earl of Balfour, a handsome wealthy man whom, it was said, had finally decided to enter the marriage mart. He was in need of an heir, and by the end of the Season, he meant to see the problem resolved.

Avery frowned. He didn’t want Balfour anywhere near Mary Stanton. The man had a wicked reputation with the ladies, and though Mary didn’t know it, she was already spoken for. Avery would see to it that the earl understood. As soon as he rid himself of his unwanted betrothed, he would turn his considerable charms on Mary Stanton.

Avery smiled. The girl would agree to the marriage—and soon. He would see that she had no choice. He had made a mistake with Velvet Moran. He would not fail with Mary.

He smoothed his false dark-cropped beard and thought of Henry. Once he had money again, his power would grow even stronger. Perhaps, after his position was again secure, he would settle the score with Velvet Moran.

*   *   *

Velvet forced her lips into a smile. She was sick unto death of the earl of Whitmore. He had done nothing all evening but ogle her breasts and leer in the most obnoxious manner. Fortunately, Avery had played his part well for most of the evening, partnering her in the dancing, making it clear that they were still a couple, that nothing was amiss between them. His fawning attentions had saved her from the earl’s lecherous advances for a time, but now the duke had strayed.

“You look tired, my dear,” the earl said, studying the flush in her cheeks from their latest round of dancing. “Perhaps a moment on the terrace would serve to refresh you.”

“No! I-I mean … I’m sorry, my lord, but I fear that I cannot.” God have mercy! The last thing she wanted was to be left alone with the lustful earl. “I’ve promised this dance to another. I’m certain my partner will be arriving to claim it at any moment.”

She turned to walk away, hoping to escape him, but was halted abruptly by the broad chest blocking her way.

“As you said, my lady,” came the rough-smooth voice she remembered so well. “I believe we are partnered for this dance.”

Jason! Her heart slammed madly, set up a rapid, oddly cadenced thrumming inside her chest. It couldn’t be him. He couldn’t possibly be here. He was masked and wigged, yet she had no doubt who it was.

“My lady?” He bowed deeply then tipped his head to the side, motioning toward the dance floor.

It was hard to draw in a breath her mouth felt so dry. “Why, yes, I-I believe this dance is yours … my lord.” He was dressed in the scarlet tunic and tight white breeches of an officer in the cavalry, his powerful legs encased in high black boots. A silver bagwig covered his wavy dark hair and a black silk loo mask concealed the top half of his face. But even the mask couldn’t hide those blazing blue eyes or halt the dizzying effect they had on her.

She accepted the hand he held out to her, his wide palm engulfing her fingers, the warmth and strength reminding her of the imposing force he represented. On legs that trembled beneath her plum velvet tunic, she let him guide her onto the dance floor.

She looked at him, felt the heat of his gaze, and a tiny thrill shot through her. With the force of a blow, she realized how much she had missed him since the day he had left her in the meadow, how often she had thought of him, how worried she had been about his welfare. It was insane, yet her concern for him remained.

It swelled as she watched him perform the movements of the dance, as graceful as any courtier, though he was bigger and taller than most of the other male guests. Velvet nervously glanced past him to the crush of people around them. It was dangerous for him to be there. Whoever he really was, he was surely a villain of some sort. Sweet God, someone he had accosted might recognize him as easily as she had. He might be arrested, perhaps even thrown into jail! Sweet Jesu, even penniless noblemen were not immune to the law.

She tried to focus on the song the musicians were playing, a country dance that seemed to go on and on, but her mind kept shifting to the handsome man across from her. As tall as he was, he moved with the same formidable grace she had noticed in him before, the eyes behind his mask perusing her from head to foot, glittering with heat and some other dark emotion.

She studied him just as boldly, noting the incredible width of his shoulders, his flat belly and narrow hips, the way his breeches outlined his powerful thighs. She saw the way the fabric gloved the considerable bulge of his sex, and her cheeks grew warm. Velvet glanced away, but not before she glimpsed his roguish, arrogant smile.

As soon as the dance was ended, he caught her hand and led her off the dance floor, out toward the terrace above the garden. A hint of spring touched the air and the evening was cool but not cold. Or perhaps it was the heat flowing through her veins that kept her warm.

She let him draw her into the shadows at the end of the terrace, then whirled to face him, finding her voice for the first time since he had appeared.

“For heaven sakes, Jason, have you lost your wits? The duke’s home is the last place you should have come!”

He shrugged those powerful shoulders, bunching the muscles beneath his scarlet uniform coat. “I came to see you.” He grinned. “I thought perhaps you had missed me.”

“Missed you! Why you arrogant, insufferable—” The firm brush of his arm sliding around her waist cut off her words. In the shadows of the terrace, Jason dragged her against him. “What are you—” The sentence was ended by the hot, moist crush of his lips. He kissed her with determined force, molding his mouth to hers, forcing her lips to part before the onslaught of his tongue.

Her stomach fell away and the world began to spin. Her blood pumped faster; her legs went weak. He pulled her tighter into his arms, pressing her the length of his hard-muscled frame, and needles of heat slid through her. Her lips tingled and her skin grew flushed. Pleasure, pure and raw, rolled through her like a wave and her whole body trembled.

“Jason…” she whispered, kissing him back, sliding her arms around his neck. Dear God she was behaving like a fool, yet she could not seem to stop.

Jason deepened the kiss, tasting the inside of her mouth, his tongue sweeping in, his hands roving across her back, circling her waist, then sliding lower to cup her bottom and pull her more firmly against him. His sex was a hard, jutting ridge, warning her to beware, but his kiss was so ravishing, so all consuming, she found herself pressing more solidly against him, cupping his face between her hands and kissing him back as wildly as he was kissing her.

It was Jason who pulled away, his black mask slightly askew, his blue eyes suddenly pinning her with a look of accusation. “You are still betrothed to the duke. I doubt he would appreciate the kiss you have just shared with me.”

She dragged in a ragged breath of air, amazed he could suddenly appear so calm. Amazed her own words sounded nearly as cool. “His grace and I have already agreed to part. I wait only a suitable time to satisfy the gossips.”

Some of the tension drained from those solidly muscled shoulders. “I hoped you would be smart enough to end it.”

She almost laughed. She’d had no choice but to end it. She needed money as badly as the duke did. “Why did you come tonight, Jason?”

He straightened a little, retreating a bit into himself. “To see you, of course.” There was more to it than that. She could read it in his eyes. Even his roguish smile did not fool her. “It was worth it, Duchess.”

Her cheeks went pink. She shouldn’t have kissed him. Worse yet, now that she had, she should regret it. In truth, she did not. “I’ll never be a duchess now.”

“Do you care?”

She shook her head. “Not in the least. As a matter of fact, I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude. Marriage to the duke would have been hellish. I don’t know how I could have missed seeing him for the man he truly is.”

The line of his sensuous mouth grew hard. “Avery is a man of many faces. It is not surprising an innocent like you should be taken in.”

“You sound as if you know him very well.”

“I thought I knew him—I was wrong. It was a costly mistake. One I will not make again.”

“I am still betrothed to him. When you came here tonight, how did you know I would not sound the alarm, tell him you were my abductor?”

He smiled that disarming smile of his. It made him look younger, less battle-worn, less weary. The thought occurred that smiling seemed almost new to him, as if it weren’t something he did often.

“I didn’t know for certain. I believed that by now you knew I had told you the truth about him. I hoped your gratitude would be enough to keep you silent.” A dark brow arched up as he studied her. “Or that perhaps you had thought of me on occasion, as I had thought of you.”

Her heart twisted, began to beat faster again. She stared into his handsome features and a wave of sadness washed over her. She had thought of him—endlessly—since the moment they had parted. It made not the least bit of difference. She had to marry for money, find a man who could save her family from ruin.

Ironically, she and Avery Sinclair traveled the very same road. In truth, as much as she was loath to admit it, they weren’t so very different after all.

“I have to go in,” she said, wishing she didn’t have to leave. “Will I see you again?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. ’Twould hardly be the sensible thing to do. I should have left you alone tonight.”

She reached up and touched his cheek. “I’m glad that you did not.” His eyes seemed to glow with an inner heat. She thought for a moment he would kiss her again, but he did not.

“Good-bye, Duchess.” She didn’t correct him. The word held a note of endearment and she liked the soft way he looked at her when he said it.

“Good-bye, Jason. Take care of yourself.” He turned away from her and she watched him disappear from the terrace into the darkness of the garden, his shadow magnified to gigantic proportions in the flickering torchlight illuminating the gravel paths.

In seconds he was gone and Velvet felt suddenly empty. Moisture burned the backs of her eyes. It was wrong to feel such a powerful attraction for a man she barely knew, yet her chest ached at his leaving and a painful knot of emotion lodged in her throat. All of it was for naught. Even if Jason felt more than simple desire for her, nothing could ever come of it. He wasn’t part of her world and she wasn’t part of his. Nothing either of them could do could ever change that.

Still, his searing kisses and the memory of his beautiful eyes on her face haunted her until the chill of the crisp night air forced her back inside the house.

Even then she could not forget him.

*   *   *

The costume ball seemed interminable. Velvet smiled and laughed and spoke affectionately of Avery to his guests, all the while feeling weary and out of sorts, and wondering at the real reason Jason had come. As she thought back on it, she believed she had glimpsed his scarlet-clad figure in the hall outside the duke’s study. Had he gone inside? Had his motive been robbery, or perhaps something worse? And if it was not, what was he doing in there?

But no answers came. The man called Jason was an enigma, as unfathomable as any wild creature of the forest. She could hire someone, perhaps, to discover who he was, but her funds were dangerously low and it didn’t really matter. Jason had no place in her life. He couldn’t save her. She had to find a man who could.

Still, it wouldn’t happen tonight and as the hour grew late she grew weary.

She searched for her grandfather but found he had already gone up to bed. Tired but still slightly on edge, she wandered the magnificent marble corridors of Carlyle Hall, leaving the guests behind, pausing to view one elegant salon after another, enjoying the beauty of her surroundings.

In the armory, gleaming suits of armor stood at attention, their heavy swords sheathed, their lances anchored by a stiff metal hand. The library was huge, paneled with polished wood and lined with more volumes than she had ever seen in one place before.

An impressive library was a great social distinction. Avery craved social prominence above all else, but she didn’t believe he was the one responsible for collecting such wonderful books. She ran a finger along the backs of the leather-bound volumes. Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, Baker’s Chronicles. She found The Whole Duty of Man, The Seven Champions, The Tale of a Tub, Turner’s Spectator. The list was phenomenal. She smiled to think if she had married the duke at least she could have entertained herself in here.

A tall gilt grandfather clock chimed as she wandered back out in the hall. In the distance, harpsichord music still seeped from the ballroom. She turned around in the passage, ready at last to retire to her room, but the house was so vast she couldn’t remember exactly which way she had come.

A wrong turn led her into the Long Gallery, a narrow arched passageway with painted ceilings and dozens of gilt-framed portraits on the walls. Four generations of Carlyle dukes and their fathers before them, portraits of wives and children, each of their names proudly engraved on small silver plaques below each painting.

“Beg pardon, my lady.” The gray-haired butler stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I saw you walking this way and thought you might, perhaps, have gotten lost.”

She smiled at the concern she read in the old man’s thin features, liking him a little more each time she had come to Carlyle Hall. “Thank you, Cummings, I am a bit disoriented. I had no intention of wandering in this direction, but I’ve been enjoying myself.”

He smiled with genuine warmth, turned and pointed to one of the portraits. “That is the second duke, my lady, his grace’s grandfather.”

“And this imposing man here?” She pointed toward the stout, silver-haired man in one of the paintings. “That was the present duke’s father?” She tried to read the name on the plaque but the light made it hard to see.

“Aye, my lady.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed. The two look so dissimilar.”

The butler moved closer, until both of them stood beside the painting. “The present duke is the old duke’s second son. His first wife died in childbirth, and the old duke remarried shortly thereafter. The present duke takes after his mother, Duchess Clarice.”

Velvet chewed her bottom lip, her brow arched in thought. “I didn’t realize Avery had an older brother.”

The old man nodded. “Aye, he did, my lady.” He turned to a family portrait that hung off to one side, the canvas not as brightly lit as the others on the wall. “That’s him there. The woman sitting next to the duke is his second wife, Clarice. His grace is the blond boy seated on the left below them, his older half brother is the dark-haired boy on the right.”

Velvet stepped closer to the portrait, her pulse increasing, her heart beginning to knock against her ribs. The portrait depicted a family of four, the boys just coming into manhood. Each brother’s face held a measure of innocence, a look of mischief coupled with the eager curiosity of youth. Avery’s blond countenance was unmistakable, the changes in him subtle, his skin still the same pale hue, his build still slender though he had matured.

It was the other youth who had changed, and yet as she lifted a branch of candles from a nearby table and held it beside the portrait, she knew without doubt who it was.

There was no mistaking those piercing blue eyes, that firm square jaw, the strong cheekbones, the curve of those sensuous lips. He looked different today, harder, bigger, stronger. Tougher. A warrior had emerged from the body of a stripling. A man had appeared from what had then been a boy.

Velvet’s hand shook as she held the flickering light up next to the painting. “What … what was his name?”

“His father named him Jason, my lady, after the first duke of Carlyle.”

Velvet’s stomach clenched. When she looked back at the butler a sad smile altered his features, making him look years older. “A good boy, he was, young Jason. ’Tweren’t true what they said about him. They’ll never make me believe it, not till the day I die.” Emotion made the old man’s voice sound thin and reedy. Something squeezed inside Velvet’s chest.

“What happened to him?” she asked, the words just above a whisper.

He simply shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lady. I should not have spoken as I did. ’Twouldn’t do for me to gossip. His grace would not approve, and I don’t much care to speak of it.”

She reached out and gripped his arm, her hold so tight he flinched. “I-I’m sorry.” She released her hand and set the branch of candles back down on the table. “I need to know what happened to Jason. I promise what you say will go no further than this, but you must tell me. I beg you, Cummings, please.”

He studied her a moment, saw the pallor in her features, heard the quiet desperation in her voice. A resigned breath whispered past his lips.

“’Twas eight years past, my lady, but I remember it as clear as if it had happened this night. They were arguing, young Jason and his father. The lad had only just turned twenty-one.”

“What was the argument about?”

“Lady Brookhurst, I believe.”

“Lady Brookhurst?” Velvet repeated with an inward twisting of her stomach. She had met the beautiful countess for the first time tonight. Dressed as Cleopatra in a boldly daring costume of ruby silk and sheer silver tulle, her black hair unpowdered and hanging to her hips, the woman had gained the attention of every man in the ballroom. A woman in her thirties, her skin and figure remained unblemished. Velvet had been struck by her beauty the moment she had entered the room.

“Aye, my lady, ’twas over the countess, most likely. ’Twas what the servants said. ’Twas known young Jason was involved with the woman and that his father did not approve. At any rate, the boy stormed out of the house and a few minutes later the duke stalked off as well. He followed his son to the inn where the lad and the countess were meeting, and that’s where it happened.”

Velvet wet her lips. “Where what happened?”

“The argument began again. His grace was shot and killed. They said young Jason did it.”

Velvet forced herself to breathe but it wasn’t easy. Even in the dimly lit room, she could see the gleam of tears on the old man’s hollow cheeks. “It weren’t so, my lady. The lad loved his father. He never would have done him any harm.”

Velvet’s legs shook. They felt ready to buckle beneath her. She clutched the edge of the table to steady herself. “Wh-what happened to Jason?” Half of her didn’t want to hear. The other half had to know.

“He was arrested, my lady, tossed into Newgate prison. His brother had followed the duke when he left Carlyle Hall. The younger boy said he tried to stop the shooting. Lady Brookhurst testified against young Jason as well. Only one man stood up for him at the trial—Lord Litchfield. He and the lad had long been friends.”

“Litchfield?” Velvet repeated, imagining the marquess’s tall dark visage.

“Aye, but it did no good. The lad was sentenced to hang. As God would have it, that never happened. The first night he was there, thieves set upon him. ’Tis a terrible place, Newgate prison, filled with the lowest dregs of the earth. They killed him that night, my lady, murdered the poor boy for a bit of coin and the clothes he was wearin’. Cut him up somethin’ awful, they said.”

Velvet thought she might be sick. She looked back at the portrait, felt those blazing blue eyes as if he stood in the room. There was no mistaking that face. It was the face of the man who had abducted her, the man who had saved her from marrying the coldhearted duke.

The face of the man who had kissed her tonight on the terrace. A face she couldn’t forget.

“Thank you, Cummings.” She forced a note of gratitude into her shaky voice. “Now, if you don’t mind, perhaps you could guide me back to the staircase so that I may retire to my room.”

He nodded gravely. “Of course, my lady.” Neither of them spoke as he steered her down the proper passage and she disappeared up the sweeping marble stairs.

Tabby was waiting when she reached her bedchamber. Velvet said little, just let the heavyset woman help her undress, muttered a few words of thanks, then let Tabby guide her up the ladder into the huge four-poster bed.

Once the door was closed, Velvet sank back against the deep feather mattress. Her insides felt leaden, her heart a heavy weight inside her chest.

Not just Jason, as she had known him, but Jason Sinclair—the man who should have been the fourth duke of Carlyle. The same man who had come here tonight, the man who had kissed her so fiercely on the terrace.

Not a highwayman but a murderer. Dear sweet God!

Velvet bit down on her lip to stop it from trembling, her thoughts so turbulent it was hard to sort them out. Where had he been hiding all these years? Why had he surfaced now?

One slip, one person recognizing him as the duke’s eldest son, and he would be returned to prison. Why was he risking himself? What could be so all-important?

Velvet stared at the amber silk bed hangings above her, at the red silk tassels dangling from the hem, but she couldn’t really see them for the face that kept swimming in her vision. Jason Sinclair. The duke of Carlyle.

She remembered his burning kiss, wondered where he was and why he had come this night to Carlyle Hall.

Wondered if he could really be a murderer.

She closed her eyes, but she didn’t fall asleep.