A Daring Passion

She knew beyond a doubt that her efforts had been futile. The magistrate may appear a polite, unassuming sort of man, but she hadn’t missed the sharp glitter in his pale eyes. Nor the suspicion that had hardened his youthful features.

Mr. Harper was convinced that Josiah Wimbourne was the Knave of Knightsbridge, and her hasty story of Josiah’s trip to London had only confirmed his belief.

How long would it be before he checked with the inn to inquire if her father had indeed traveled by post to London? Or even sent word to town to check the various hotels for his presence?

Not more than a day or two, she was certain. And then he would be back insisting on seeing her father.

Dear Lord, she had to do something to distract him.

Something that would force him to second-guess his own certainty in Josiah’s guilt.

Pacing across the carpet, Raine came to a slow halt as she was struck with sudden inspiration.

Of course.

It was bold and daring and no doubt dangerous, but it might very well be precis

ely what was needed.

And she was just the woman to accomplish the outlandish feat.

Two months later

THE SMALL COACHING INN set near the crossroads was no doubt considered by the natives to be a source of pride. It did, after all, boast a fine wooden sign proclaiming it the King’s Arms, and a newly thatched roof that offered some protection from the bitter chill of the night air. It could even lay claim to a stable yard, although the snow had piled high enough to make it nearly impassable.

Seated in the comfort of his carriage, Philippe Gautier was singularly unimpressed.

He had traveled too widely to suppose the inn could offer more than watered ale, food boiled to tasteless mush and an infestation of vermin. No matter how cold and miserable the night, he intended to press onward. His carriage was preferable to the hospitality of the King’s Arms.

A preference that the innkeeper clearly found galling as he waddled his way through the snow and pulled open the carriage door to offer up the steaming mug of hot cider that Philippe had ordered.

“Here you are, sir.” The man shoved the mug in Philippe’s hand with a fawning smile on his round, ruddy face. “Nothing like a bit of cider on a cold night.”

Philippe pulled back, his austere features frigid with distaste. There was an overwhelming stench of stale tobacco and onions that clung to the man.

“That will be all.”

Impervious to Philippe’s icy dismissal, the innkeeper cleared his throat even as his gaze covertly took in Philippe’s exquisitely tailored greatcoat and Hessians that had been polished to a blinding perfection. The avaricious gaze lingered a moment on the gold signet ring that graced Philippe’s slender finger before returning to meet the narrowed green eyes.

“Such a miserable night and only to get worse, I fear.” He raised pudgy fingers to smear back his thinning patch of gray hair. “The cook swears that she smells snow in the air, which means it shall be upon us before long. She is uncanny, she is. Never wrong.”

Philippe gave a lift of a chiseled brow that perfectly matched his raven locks. He was well aware the man was attempting to frighten him into remaining the night at the inn. The ridiculous imbecile.

“Do you mean to tell me that you possess a cook who is also a witch?” he demanded in a low, silky tone that was only faintly accented.

The innkeeper gave a choked cough. “Oh, nay, sir. Nothing of the sort. She merely has a nose for weather.”

“A nose? Like a bloodhound?”

“All perfectly natural, I assure you.”

“It does not strike me as perfectly natural.” He lifted the mug to drain the cider. The dregs were bitter on his tongue, but it at least provided a warmth to his chilled body. “Indeed, I should think it most unnatural.”

“Aye, well.” The innkeeper awkwardly cleared his throat. “She is harmless enough, and makes a fine shepherd’s pie that will melt in your mouth. Just what is needed on this cold, miserable night.”

“I abhor shepherd’s pie,” Philippe informed the man as he shoved the now-empty mug back into his hands. “And before you begin to bore me with the delights of your boiled-oxtail soup and the perfection of your ale, be assured that nothing could prevail me to remain beneath your roof.”

The beefy face flushed with offended pride. “Sir, I must protest…”