And Then I Found You

By Kathryn A. Saynor

Julia Wentworth planned to spend her last few days in England in a leisurely manner. Her itinerary did not include being abducted by a lunatic, an accusation of conspiracy to murder--or leaving her own century.

At the wish of her recently deceased aunt, Julia searches for the grave of a missing relative and is intrigued by the headstone of a young man hanged for treason.

She encounters Stuart Faversham, a grim individual who is pleasant enough company when he is of a mind and thoroughly unpleasant when he is not, and whose views on love and fidelity are decidedly cynical. He is convinced that the young man--his brother--died an innocent man.

A porcelain figurine, her missing relative, an encounter with the Duke of Cumberland, and a sealed letter from her dead aunt draw Julia into a web of violence, intrigue--and an unexpected encounter with love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 21, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462822447

Kathryn A. Saynor

Kathryn A Saynor presently resides in Pueblo West, Colorado with one horse, four dogs, and three cats. Always surrounded by books and classical music, she is a self confessed, incurable romantic—yet very down-to-earth and possessing a dry sense of humour, courtesy of her Yorkshire heritage. Always on the look-out for a new twist or situation, she rarely misses a chance to engage in conversation with strangers, and maintains strong contact with friends and family in England, who are always ready to assist with research. Firmly believes everyone needs romance and adventure in their lives, even if it is only imaginary.

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Copyright © 2008 by Kathryn A. Saynor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

This book is dedicated to four wonderful people who are living proof that happy and successful marriages are not just fiction:

My cousin, Colin, and his wife, Cheryl for their ongoing support and encouragement, and for the many hours spent researching the internet, despite a busy family life.

And two most marvellous friends, Steven and Andrea Holt, who are nothing short of inspiration each time I put pen to paper.

ONE

York Tyburn, England, 1758

Out of my way, I say. Out of my way!

The horseman drove his mount into the jostling hoards heedless of those shoved aside and to the ground. A roar went up, causing the horse to falter and stumble, almost dislodging its rider, who regained his balance swiftly and pressed onwards through the crowd, which seemed disinclined to move.

’Tis the earl, came a collective whisper, as the mass parted, allowing man and horse to advance.

Reining the animal to a halt, Stuart Faversham slipped from its back and walked slowly forwards, his expression bleak.

He was too late.

His brother’s lifeless form swung slowly to-and-fro, twitching grotesquely, and causing the gallows to creak wretchedly as though pained by the load they bore. He mounted the platform and stood for a moment before grasping a rapidly cooling hand. He was unsurprised at the naked fingers and had little doubt that the few adornments usually worn there now lay in the pocket of some ruffian. God, Nicholas, you fool. Slowly he shook his head and glanced one last time at the closed eyes—pale blue eyes.

Too bloody quick, someone muttered. ’Twere all over in a second, another voice added, as the crowd began to disperse through the damp grey mists of the dismal February day.

Stuart turned from the gibbet and pulled his hat more firmly on his head. It was over. Nothing more to be done except to afford his brother a decent burial, and he would see to that with a goodly amount of coin. Pushing his way though the assembly of people, he sought out the man he needed and emptied his purse into an eager hand, with the promise of more when the job was done.

A secluded part of the churchyard, and do it swiftly. I’ll see to the headstone myself.

The gravedigger nodded and waved to the men who would help him inter the body.

Stuart deliberately kept his head bowed, preferring his presence be noted as little as possible; he had no need of discourse. However, given his dramatic arrival and the fact that he was nigh on head and shoulders above every man there it was hardly likely he would remain unnoticed. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes but withheld themselves with practiced restraint, and he recalled how his young brother had fought valiantly to stem a flow of tears when their father had died and how he had been unable to offer words of comfort to the boy. Damn that fool Nicholas. Hadn’t he warned him not to return to England alone? ’Twas but a premonition, Stuart remembered, but how he had urged the young fool to heed him. Nicholas had insisted; said he had fallen in love. Stuart snorted. Love indeed! What had the young fool known of that?

Enough to get himself hanged.

He climbed back into the saddle and rode hard until he reached the village of Hutton. Dismounting quickly, he tethered his horse and strode across the dirt, which had turned into an oozing mess of mud in the chill drizzle. He entered the door of the White Hart, a somewhat less than reputable tavern, but whose ale he would have welcomed had the need for solitude not been so desirable. His steward would be waiting for him, hopefully much recovered from the blow he had received at the hands of a band of highway rogues and able to ride swiftly to Faversham Park. Stuart had no desire to tarry amongst the gossipers and scandalmongers. He would ride into York on the morrow and there begin his enquiries. That his brother had apparently turned traitor to the king was not something he could ever accept. Someone, for reasons yet unknown, had fabricated the charge of treason. And fabricated it had been, of that he was certain. He would never believe his brother to be a traitor.

*     *     *

Hutton-le-Dale, England, 2006

Julia Wentworth sat glumly on the cold stone vault, chin on fists and doing nothing much in particular. Her search for her ancestor had, quite literally, come to a rock solid end. Of the two hundred or more gravestones that surrounded her, the one she sought wasn’t forthcoming. Not that she had expected it or its occupant to leap up and slap her in the face, but she had been a little more hopeful of success. The grave she sought belonged to one Andrew Cecil Wentworth, of whom there was no record, or at least nothing she was able to locate. He didn’t appear to have been buried with the rest of the Wentworth family. Julia shrugged her shoulders and shivered. She wasn’t very good at the genealogy thing and could barely sort out one family tree from another. A long, tired sigh escaped her. An interesting family Aunt Jess had said. Dearest Aunt Jess. She smiled at the memory of her aunt who had packed her off to England on a seemingly wild-goose chase.

Julia had received the news of her aunt’s death just two weeks after arriving in Yorkshire. Apparently, the stalwart old lady was well aware of her impending demise and had kept the secret between herself, her oncologist, and her attorney who had called Julia to impart the sad tidings. I’ll be on the first flight I can get, she’d blubbered.

Not if you respect your aunt’s wishes, you won’t, the attorney had replied.

Her dear aunt had shuffled Julia out of the country to spare her the distress of forthcoming events and in her will requested that Julia remain in England to continue the search for said Andrew Cecil. The attorney duly forwarded a letter from her aunt, which had to some extent lessened Julia’s grief. She pulled the letter out of her pocket and read it for the hundredth time. Maybe she had missed something. Her aunt’s writing wasn’t the easiest to read with its flowery, ornate scrolling.

Dearest Julia,

You will make me very happy if you are able to discover the fate of Andrew Cecil Wentworth. It is something I have wondered at for many years, but as you know, due to ill health I was unable to bear the English weather. Stay in England as long as you wish.

Funds are available. Happy hunting, Julia. Just do your best. You never know what you may find.

All my love,

Aunt Jess

Julia grunted and folded the letter. A second envelope, a small padded one, sealed with old-fashioned wax, was even more intriguing. On it was written: Do not open this until you are ABSOLUTELY sure you cannot go further with your enquiries.

Right, Julia had groaned upon reading those words. The whole thing was becoming weirder by the minute. Still, she could keep herself busy for a few weeks, and by the time she returned to the States, she might even be in control of the desperate sadness that overwhelmed her. She was, to all intents and purposes, now completely alone in the world.

After investigating several possible locations, Julia had ended up in the village of Hutton-le-Dale, which was close to where her aunt had lived before moving to Los Angeles many years ago. She had investigated the record offices in Leeds and York, scoured every church registry between the two cities, and searched every inch of the Wentworth family gravesite, eventually concluding that Andrew Cecil had been buried elsewhere. Where and why, she had no idea. She heaved at the small backpack slung across her shoulder. In it resided important items like mascara, a box of tampons, a travel toothbrush, and the unopened padded envelope. It seemed that today might be the day she succumbed to temptation and opened that envelope; she was burned out on grave hunting. It was as if this man had never existed, but then if he hadn’t, how had she come upon the earth? It was almost certain she was a direct descendent.

She looked up at the clouds. True to form, the English weather was taking a turn for the worst, and a slight but cold drizzle had begun. Tugging her bright green Holofil jacket a little more snugly around her neck and wishing she’d worn something warmer than a faded and extremely thin pair of jeans, Julia rose and began making her way to the gate leading out of the churchyard. It wasn’t too difficult to become sidetracked by a meandering, not-much-trodden footpath that unexpectedly manifested and wound through a tangle of ill-kept shrubbery to who-knew-where. Julia determined to find out before calling it quits for the day. With barely a glance at her sodden sneakers, she plunged in amongst the undergrowth. The tangled thicket of bramble and limp bracken became increasingly difficult to negotiate, spreading itself at will across the wet path, catching and ripping at the thin fabric of her jeans.

This is a waste of time, she mumbled and pulled at a handful of the tangled growth, which stubbornly refused to be dislodged. Grasping it firmly with both hands, she resolved to make it surrender and tugged harder, giving one last-ditch effort that sent her flying off her feet, and landed her empty-handed in a pile of wet and slushy dead leaves. With a colourful curse, she scrambled to her knees and paused, as one of her hands found a hard, curved edge somewhere out of sight beneath the mess she was kneeling in. Julia grunted. Oh well, in for a penny in for a pound, as they said in England. She was already filthy—correction, wet and filthy—so what difference would a bit more dirt make? Finding a piece of broken stick, she used it to scrape away the compacted mud and dead leaves from the hard surface. It was a grave, possibly a toppled headstone. Julia just knew it. She felt it. This was the one she’d been searching for. Throwing the stick to the ground, she began to scrabble frantically in the dirt with her bare hands, becoming increasingly irritated by the slowly appearing letters—they weren’t spelling what she wanted them to.

Damn. She looked at her mud-caked fingers then up at the sky, which had grown suddenly dark—strangely dark. A chill wind swirled through the dead leaves piled at her knees bringing with it a light mist that shrouded the church and most of the graveyard from sight. Julia shivered and listened. The silence was almost palpable, not a bird called, not a tree moved. Looking down to where she’d cleared away the debris, she began to spell out the letters carved in the toppled headstone of the grave. N-I-C-H-O-L-A-S, she sounded out and scrabbled away some more dirt, then sat back on her heels with a grunt. It wasn’t the tomb she was looking for, but it was interesting. Nicholas Faversham, 1734 to 1758. Died an innocent man, she said aloud. I wonder what he did.

He made the gravest mistake any man can, a curt male voice responded. He fell in love.

Julia wobbled over into the dirt and scrambled around for a few moments in an attempt to turn and see who had spoken to her. Unable to regain her footing in the slimy leaves and realising she wasn’t going to get any help from whoever was standing behind her, she planted her knees and hands firmly in the mud and slowly turned her head. It was probably best to find out who this person was before she panicked and made a complete spectacle of herself. Her eyes met first with a pair of very long black boots, their wearer standing legs apart, unmoving. Half aware that her mouth was beginning to gape but unable to prevent it from doing so, Julia continued her perusal of the man’s loosely fitting coat, which hung open to reveal well-fitting breeches, and a waistcoat of red brocade that reached down to midthigh. Now she really gaped. His shirt sported great ruffles of white lace that protruded from his cuffs and the neck of his coat, finished off with a neatly tied stock at his throat.

You appear to be getting wet, he stated.

So do you, she retorted numbly. Still on all fours, she attempted to twist fully around and held out a hand, looking for the first time into the man’s face. She’d been about to ask him to assist her to her feet, but the words stuck in her throat. He looked like something out of an historical romance. Chiselled chin, firm jaw line, wonderfully straight nose, and those eyes—well just, well . . . She was hauled to her feet without ever uttering a word. The man stared at her and looked every bit as amazed by her appearance as she was by his.

I have some questions for you, he said, his mouth a hard line, his face grim.

Julia continued to look up into a pair of piercingly grey eyes. Eyes grey as steel, honed to a sharp silver edge. That she was looking up was something in itself. This guy was tall. She put a hand over her mouth to suppress a gasp at the hat he wore. It wasn’t just any old hat. Whoever he was, he obviously liked historical re-enactment.

Your hat. You’re wearing a tricorn, she said weakly, not daring to mention the white curls that hung tightly below—obviously a wig.

He grunted noncommittally. My hat is not the issue. Why you are here and what you are doing at my brother’s grave is.

Julia considered his words. This could be a problem. The guy was obviously loopy. She nodded. Yeah, right, your brother.

How dare you! he thundered. Do not insult the dead. What mischief are you about, mistress?

He grasped her none too gently by the shoulders and turned her back around to face the gravestone she had uncovered. Mistress? He’d called her mistress. Her eyes popped wide, and she barely heard his next words.

There he lies, barely cold in the ground and already there are those who would despoil his place of rest. ’Tis an evil thing you are about.

Julia looked straight in front and gulped, aware of a strange little noise rising in her throat. Gone were the tangles of slimy undergrowth, the stinky mud, and the thick layer of dirt she’d scraped away with her very own fingernails. Gone were the overgrown brambles she’d fought with before stumbling upon the hidden headstone. She found herself staring at a freshly dug grave complete with a recently erected headstone standing a full four feet in height, and realised she hadn’t a clue what to say next. She was saved the trouble and found herself beginning to tremble at the man’s words.

You shall answer me in truth. If you lie to me, I will have you burned as a witch. Indeed, that is what you may be.

It seemed all Julia’s senses regained control at once and she spun to face him. Now just a minute, buster. I’m no witch. There aren’t any. And take your damned hands off me! She flung his hands from her shoulders. I don’t like being grabbed by complete strangers, thank you.

The man stood silently for a moment, piercing her with a glare that would have unnerved the stoutest of men. Answer me, he said at last. Why were you kneeling down there, mumbling over Nicholas’s grave, if you were not casting a spell or indeed scheming ways to defile his corpse?

I was cleaning the dirt away so I could read the inscription if you must know. She realised how foolish she sounded. The grave was perfectly clear of dirt and the headstone stood erect and clearly visible.

I see you do not intend to tell me the truth.

I am telling the truth, she snapped. But there’s something weird going on here and I want to know what it is. She felt her courage begin to wane, and she made a desperate attempt at bravado. Who the hell are you anyway? She wiped a lock of sodden hair from her eyes.

You do not fool me with your tricks. You know exactly who I am.

I know you said you’re the brother of this Nicholas Faversham guy, but that’s all I know. Wait a minute. Shouldn’t she be questioning the time factor here? His brother indeed! Two and a half hundred years old, was he? Still, the grave looked mighty fresh all of a sudden. Maybe she’d had a seizure or something and staggered onto a new part of the graveyard. Well? She looked at him expectantly.

Very well, I am Lord Westmorland, he said grimly and waited for some flicker of recognition. When none was forthcoming he added, Of Faversham Park. And you are? You do have a name, I presume?

I, she said and stuck out a hand, am Julia Wentworth. She’d been about to add, Of Los Angeles, California . . . but a strange and very unfriendly look had come into the man’s cold grey eyes.

Quietly he said, You are a Wentworth?

Frankly, at this moment Julia wished she weren’t. Well, yes. At least until I get married I suppose. She attempted a grin. Hardly likely though given my track record with men.

You are coming with me. He glanced back at the grave one last time. Do I have to carry you or shall you walk? Don’t think to run off or ’twill be the worse for you, he said and warned her with a glare.

I really don’t think I’m going anywhere except back to my lodgings. She deliberately started to walk in the opposite direction to the oddball in the fancy dress. Good-looking though he was, she had no desire to prolong this encounter. He was obviously an escapee from the local asylum. She made several mental notes—for identification purposes.

About the same time as she heard the crunch of heavy boots behind her, gravity was eliminated, and Julia found herself swinging none too gracefully in midair, suspended—she suspected—by the back of her bright green Holofil jacket.

Put me down, you idiot! Frantically and uselessly, she struggled, but only succeeded in slipping far enough out of the man’s grasp that her hair trailed on the ground. Let me go! Please let me go. The whole truth of the matter was now inescapable. She was being abducted and was high on the list for being raped and possibly murdered. Julia screamed louder than she ever recalled having done, as the man swung her around and deposited her on two feet. She noticed that not only did he wear fancy dress but he was also carrying a sword. If he really were some sort of lunatic, she reckoned it would be best to remain calm. Perhaps they could talk awhile then he might let her go. I know a quicker way out of the churchyard, she said brightly, smoothing down her jacket and adjusting her backpack.

Aye, mayhap you do, but my horse is over there.

You have a horse how wonderful. She tried to keep her voice steady and added, It’s a bit cold and wet for riding though don’t you think?

Enough! Shall you follow me or need I hoist you over my shoulder? Better though, I follow you. He pointed in the direction of a small gate. That way, off with you. Do not try to run.

Not until we reach the main road I won’t, she muttered, fully intending to flag down the first car she saw.

A horse stood munching happily on the wet grass and at a call from the man, raised its head and trotted over.

Well, if nothing else, he wasn’t a liar. You really do have a horse, she said rather quietly.

And you do not, he observed. You will ride with me. So saying and without further ado, he slipped his hands under her jacket and grasped her firmly by the waist. Stay yourself, he growled as she began to squirm.

Julia found herself plonked sideways across a saddle and looked at a stranger who was about to launch himself into the same saddle—bit too cosy. Making a flash decision, she bent a knee and kicked out hard catching him on the shoulder and off his guard.

Damnation, he spluttered and took an unsteady step backwards.

He was sturdier than she’d realised. She drew back her leg once more, determined this time to shove him away completely and ride his horse to the nearest police station. It wasn’t stealing, not in these circumstances. Not when she was being abducted by a certified madman. With every ounce of strength she could muster, she snapped her knee straight and kicked him square in the chest. He grunted and with a barely concealed curse sprang forwards.

Go horse, go! Julia slapped the reins, which had fallen from her abductor’s hand. The horse went—at least a few feet. The only problem was she didn’t seem to be following it. She gritted her teeth just once before she hit the ground.

Do not infuriate me further, the man growled, bending over her.

That was a lousy trick, grabbing my leg like that. I could have really hurt myself. She raised a hand to her head. In fact I think I did. Her eyelids fluttered. I’m going to sue you.

She closed her eyes as the world began to spin.

TWO

Stuart was a man rarely at a loss, yet here he stood, confounded, in the cold and the rain, a barely conscious female at his feet for whom he was now responsible. With a foul curse he dug his hands, for the second time, underneath the garment she wore. It was soft and light, and he would have liked to have taken his sword and ripped it asunder just to see what kind of stuffing lay within. Perhaps later. For now he had to concentrate on getting back indoors and quickly; the weather was becoming increasingly colder and wetter by the minute. He heaved her, face down over his shoulder.

She was surprisingly slender under all her wrappings, and long limbed, he noted, as he made two attempts before gaining a secure seat in the saddle. He allowed her to slide from his shoulder and turned so she fitted snugly against his chest. He slipped an arm around her, admonishing himself for the pleasant ripple of warmth he experienced then picked up the reins with one hand, and glancing briefly at the mass of unfurling dark clouds overhead, gave a couple of digs with his boot heels and pushed the horse into a steady canter. Rain poured down through the trees, which now afforded not the least hint of shelter as their branches reached wearily to the earth under the onslaught of the approaching storm. Stuart rode grimly on, still uncertain of his reasoning.

At last, the soaring roofs of Faversham Park swam into sight. He heaved a sigh of relief, having twice almost dropped his passenger from the saddle; barely conscious women were not the easiest pieces of baggage to carry on a horse. Aye, baggage, that’s exactly what she was, he decided. A lad ran out and grabbed the reins, holding the horse still while Stuart dismounted with his load and strode towards the open door of the house whence a gaggle of servants was already pouring.

Move out of the way and give me some room, he barked, his mood darkening by the minute.

She ’ad a nasty knock on the noggin. I don’t likes the look o’ the way she be breathin’, the housekeeper said, wringing her hands together and shaking her head.

She will be fine, Mrs. Dean, but you had best get her out of these wet clothes and into something more—he struggled for a word—befitting.

Aye, sir, they’re a might strange them things she be wearing. Think ye she’s a witch? The woman’s eyes were wide.

Stuart sighed. Although he had spoken very similar words himself, he felt the woman’s question to be ridiculous. Nay, Mrs. Dean, have no fear on that score. Though I will have some answers afore this day is through. Doffing his frock, now thoroughly soaked from his standing around in the churchyard, he lifted the soggy green bundle from a sofa where he had initially placed her, and strode off up the stairway. And find some hot broth for her, he called over his shoulder to anyone else who may have been within earshot. A Wentworth, he snorted, kicking open a door. A bloody Wentworth. He laid her, wet as she was, on the large bed then left the room bellowing for someone to come and make up a fire. He could barely believe he was offering hospitality in his own home to one of that accursed family. Still, she was in need of assistance. It was nothing at all to do with the fact she was rather fetching, at least he imagined she would be, once she was clean and out of those ridiculous garments.

Throwing open the door to his room, Stuart strode inside, still grumbling, and poured himself a drink then began to tug off his boots. Where the hell was his man when he was needed? Bother and blast, he muttered, at last managing to tug off the first of his jack boots. He hobbled to the door of his room, opened it, and roared for hot water. A good soak was what he needed before he indulged himself further in thought. He was aware that the folks in his household considered his habit of bathing to be odd and were constantly surprised at his failure to succumb to some dreadful malady through habitual immersion in hot water. He didn’t care. Many years travelling on the continent had convinced him of the merits of not smelling like the contents of a week-old privy.

Sometime later, he sat, relaxing by the hearth in front of a blazing fire, content for the moment to enjoy the luxuries his position in life afforded him. The fine silk of his robe brushed softly against his skin and reminded him of how a woman’s naked flesh felt. Stuart could scarce remember the last time he had taken the trouble for such niceties. Not counting the expensive whores of whose charms he had availed himself during his extensive travels, it had been a long time since he had taken a lady to his bed. He sipped his glass of brandy and studied the liquid, swirling it around so that the crystal became briefly coated by its amber contents. He considered the difficulties these days in procuring such a luxury. Indeed, many men made an illegal living in the smuggling trade. Smuggling brandy and delicacies from France was one thing, but there were other imports and exports changing hands that were not so innocent. His brother, he was sure, had stumbled upon some illegal activity and had paid dearly for it. Perhaps the woman down the hallway knew something that would aid his enquiries, which had so far yielded little.

Almost unconsciously, he rested a hand on his chest where he’d received the kick. It felt slightly bruised. Her shoes had been soft and like nothing he had ever seen. Green and white, he recalled, just up to her delightfully slim ankles and fastened with strips of cloth. Moreover, the garb that covered her legs, a form of trews—he couldn’t think what else to call them—certainly were not befitting a lady, and if she were indeed a Wentworth . . .

But she had spirit, he would give her that. About to run off with his horse, she had been all set to leave him standing at the church gate. He allowed himself a wry smile. Left standing at the church gate. It was probably the closest he would ever come to being a bridegroom.

A soft rapping sounded at the door.

Enter.

Evening, sir.

Ah, Graham, come in. Sit down. Stuart looked at the man expectantly.

Nothing very favourable to report, sir.

Aye, I expected as much by the look on your face. He twisted the glass thoughtfully in his hand. But there has been another development. Have yourself a drink, man, he said, indicating the decanter.

Thank you, sir.

He waited until his steward took a seat then said slowly, I was by the grave today. The other man looked over the rim of his glass. Aye, I had a strange inclination to go there. It was more than inclination had driven him to the graveside on a cold winter’s day. He’d felt drawn as though something, or someone, had summoned him, but perhaps, the least said about that, the better. There was a woman kneeling on the grave.

Sir? A woman? What was she doing?

Of that I am not certain. It seemed she was mumbling, and I thought at first she was set to curse Nicholas or despoil his resting place, but then—he held up a hand in a gesture of resignation—I really have no idea, he finished.

Think you then she is a witch?

Stuart sighed. Everyone it seemed shared the same thoughts. I do not have opinion on the matter at this time, and unfortunately, the female in question took a blow to the head, and I have not been able to question her further.

You hit her?

Certainly not. He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. She attempted to make off with my gelding—I merely prevented her from doing so.

She’s alive then?

Most assuredly, and perhaps shortly, I may be able to establish a motive.

Graham looked puzzled then asked, Why did you say a development?

She told me her name is Julia Wentworth.

Good lord. Graham took a gulp of his drink. Did she say how she is related?

No, she tried to run away.

And that’s when you . . . er, apprehended her.

The wench kicked me in the chest.

His amusement barely concealed, Graham nodded. I see.

You do not see. Stuart felt indignation rising. His own steward was laughing at him. She about stole my horse, man!

Yes, sir.

Then wipe that smirk from your face, he said sourly. We have business to discuss. Did you find out anything at all from the magistrate’s clerk?

Well, sir, he was able to gain access to some papers regarding deposits of gold into a particular bank account.

What account? Stuart leaned forwards in his chair.

A new business account, sir. Graham hesitated and looked down at his feet before continuing. In the name of Nicholas Faversham.

Never! Stuart was on his feet, fury blazing in his eyes. My brother was not a traitor. Never shall I believe this.

’Tis not possible, sir, Graham agreed. Master Nicholas was a good man and loyal to our king.

Anyhow, Stuart continued, shifting money around isn’t illegal.

What think you, sir?

I don’t know what to think. Nevertheless, we need to find out where this money came from then perhaps, I shall have my answers.

Aye, indeed. Sir, there is also the matter of the girl whoever she is. The one the young master stated he had fallen in love with.

Love! Stuart spat the word. "It seems to me this . . . this girl was