Passionately Yours (Hellions of High Street 3)

“Yes, and probably more than he thinks I do.”

“I thought that might be true,” said Caro. “Perhaps you ought to hear the real story of the events that took place at Dunbar Castle, which will explain how your brother may have made enemies of a certain faction within the group.”

With that, she quickly explained that the story of a jewelry theft had covered up a far more sinister plot, one in which both she and Alec—as well as her sister Anna and her soon-to-be husband—had been involved in a dangerous intrigue swirling around a visiting German prince.

“Does he truly think I don’t know the full extent of his involvement in clandestine politics? Good heavens, I’m not a feather-brained goose. I knew exactly what message I was carrying to his associate on the night I was hurt on the moors.” Isobel huffed in frustration. “It seems he and I shall have to sit down for a serious talk.”

“I think that would be wise,” replied Caro slowly. “But your brother won’t like it.”

Isobel’s muttered response indicated that wasn’t going to stop her. “Please go on. I take it that Alec is at odds with Thayer, and because of the recent events, he fears I am being used as a pawn in the struggle.”

“Correct,” said Caro. “Your brother has not confided all the details, but my surmise is that Thayer is the leader of the faction that favors violence to achieve the group’s goals, and he is trying to gain control of the movement…” She went on to explain what she knew.

“I see.” Isobel sat back and stared up at the rustling leaves. “So, how are we going to stop Thayer?” she asked over the whispery sounds.

“Damnation.”

Alec’s stallion blew out an aggrieved answering whinny as he finished extracting a twisted shard of metal from the injured hoof and rose from his crouch.

“Yes, yes, I know—it hurts like the devil.” He patted the big bay’s lathered flank, cursing yet again the bad luck of galloping over an errant nail lodged among the pebbles of the dusty lane.

The nearest village lay several miles ahead. Fisting the reins, Alec set off at a slow walk, the lame stallion limping gamely beside

him. He prayed that he would find a horse for hire. Now that he knew the full extent of Thayer’s evil machinations, he was anxious to move quickly to protect his loved ones from any further threat.

Tomorrow he would head north with his aunt and sister, carrying the documents that would put an end to the other man’s power.

As for Caro…

Tonight they must talk. About a great many things.

“I wish I were as clever as Sir Sharpe Quill in devising a plan to snare a cunning villain,” said Caro wryly. “I have some thoughts, but as yet I cannot seem to come up with a workable plan.”

“Perhaps if we put our heads together we can think of something,” suggested her friend. “What if…”

For the next little while they batted around ideas like so many shuttlecocks, but none of them seemed to have enough feathers to fly.

“I have an even greater respect for Wellington and his staff,” murmured Caro. “It is not easy drawing up a strategy of attack.” She slanted a sidelong glance at Isobel and felt a frisson of concern. The clouds overhead had thickened, and the deepening shadows accentuated the paleness of her friend’s face. Despite her much improved health, she still looked a little fragile.

“Indeed, plotting is awfully hard work,” she added quickly. “I could do with a bit of sustenance, and I am sure you could as well. We passed a cart selling meat pasties that smelled delicious. I shall go fetch a pair for us.”

“I can come along,” volunteered Isobel.

“No, no, I’ll just be a few minutes.” Caro was already up and heading for the pathway.

The breeze was freshening, and she tugged up the hood of her borrowed cloak, glad she had worn the garment to ward off the damp chill. The feel of the thickly woven tartan trim, so very warm and solid against her fingers, was a reminder of Alec.

A comforting thought, as musing on Thayer’s wickedness had left her feeling strangely unsettled.

“Miss, Miss.” A piteous voice interrupted her musing. “Can ye spare a coin for a former soldier wots been blinded in the war.”

Looking up she saw hunched figure wrapped in a threadbare overcoat and muffler move awkwardly into her path. Eyes pressed closed, he rattled a cup holding several small coins.

“Yes, of course,” she murmured, fumbling inside her reticule to find her money.

“Yer a kind soul.” He shuffled closer.

She tried not to flinch at the scent of rancid mutton and stale onions. “Here is a shilling for you, sir.”