Who should suffer? Himself, for certain, but he was choosing the pain.

What of Con, or Clarissa?

What of the Dadswells, the Manktelows, and the Ashbees? Was Granny Muggridge to have the roof torn down around her head?

But at what point did the price of Hawkinville become too high?

Cut the loss.

It was a process he’d done often in the war, even when it meant choosing between one set of soldiers or another. Perhaps if he thought of everyone as troops of soldiers.

The option with the least loss was to elope with Clarissa. He would have the money, or at least the expectation of it. He knew the will, and the money came to her at her majority, regardless of what she did or whom she married. As her husband, he could easily borrow against it.

Hawkinville would be safe.

There would be a fighting chance of happiness for them. There was something deep and true between them, and he would work to gain her forgiveness for the deception.

Van might never forgive him for breaking his word, but he could hope that time would heal that, especially if he could make Clarissa happy.

Con. At the moment, Con was an unknown. If he saw this as a betrayal of the Rogues, it could lead to a rift. The Rogues certainly weren’t going to like it. They were going to have to damn well trust him not to expose their criminal acts.

But it was the only way.

Gathering the detached purposefulness that had carried him through scenes of carnage, he went swiftly to his room to change, then gathered the money available in the house. He thought about leaving a note for the squire, but then knocked and entered his father’s room.

The squire was lying on his daybed fondling—there was no other word—some papers. “They have come,” he said, with shining eyes. “The documents. You may now officially call me Lord Deveril!”

Hawk had to stop himself from seizing the papers and ripping them to shreds. Pointless. Pointless.

This settled things, however. In moments his father could begin spreading the word. Since Clarissa was in the village, she would hear about it, and that would be the end of that.

“Congratulations, my lord. You may congratulate me, also. I am about to marry Miss Greystone.”

His father beamed. “There, you see. All’s well that ends well. And her money will pay to refurbish Gaspard Hall.”

“Not a penny of her money will go on Gaspard Hall, my lord. We will pay off Slade, but the rest will remain under her control.”

If he had to do this, it had to be that way.

“What? Are you mad? Leave a fortune in the grasp of a chit like that? I will not allow it.”

“You will have no say in it.” He turned toward the door. “I merely came to say that I will be gone a few days.”

“Gone? Gone where? We must arrange a grand fete to announce my elevation to the village! I outrank Vandeimen now, and I’ll see him recognize it.”

The fury boiling inside Hawk threatened to burst out of control, but he’d not struck his father yet. Now was definitely not the time to start.

“It will have to wait, my lord. I am off to Gretna Green.”

He closed the door on his father’s protests—not about the elopement but about delay in his fete—and ran down the stairs. Somehow he had to get Clarissa out of the Peregrine and on the road north before his father set the news spreading.

He fretted even over the time it took a groom to saddle up Centaur, imagining his father leaning out of his window above to shout the news. He wouldn’t do that, but he would tell his valet—might already have told his valet. His valet would tell the other servants and…

Perhaps a servant had already hurried home to spread the word.

He led Centaur up to the inn, considering how to steal Clarissa. Perhaps he’d have to snatch her on the way to the coach, like Lochinvar snatching his beloved from her wedding. .

So light to the croup the fair lady he swung.

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

“She is won! We are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,“ quoth young Lochinvar.

And that, of course, was the problem. He was dubious about young Lochinvar riding so rashly with a lady at his back, and he’d no intention of attempting it with Van and Con—especially Van, an incredible horseman now equipped by his rich bride with the finest horses—in hot pursuit.

He would have to go in and try to lure her out.

Then he saw Clarissa—beloved, unconventional, impetuous Clarissa—in the arch to the inn yard. Alone. Her hat shaded her face again, and some order had been brought to her curls, but her dress was irredeemably stained.

When he reached her, she stepped forward. “I’ve told them all what I did with Slade and that I kissed you, not the other way around.”

If he hadn’t adored her already, he’d have crumpled then. He held out his gloved hand. “Elope with me.”

Her eyes widened, but she only said, “Why?”

“So that this can’t be snatched from us.”

She looked down and away, obviously flustered, but then back at him. “Do you love me, Hawk? Don’t lie. Please don’t lie.”

“I adore you, Clarissa. And that is no lie.”

Then she smiled and put her hand in his. “Then, of course. It’s a mad, impetuous notion, but that probably suits us both.”

He laughed as he swung his fair lady to the crupper and settled in front of her. “I used to be a very sane, thoughtful man,” he said. “Hold tight. We’re going over bank, bush, and scaur.”

And he set off, past a few startled villagers, along the road that would eventually take them north to Scotland, where minors could still legally marry without the permission of parents, guardians, or Rogues.

But he soon turned off, going west instead of north. He couldn’t outride Van. But, by heaven, he could probably still outthink him.

Chapter Twenty

The rest of the party was in the entrance hall of the Peregrine, waiting with some impatience for Clarissa to return from the privy. Eventually, Maria asked Althea to find her, but Althea returned frowning. “She’s not there. I don’t know where she can have gone to. Perhaps she’s returned to the room upstairs.”

But then one of the Misses Weatherby trotted in, cheeks flushed. “My dear Lady Vandeimen!” she gasped. “Oh, my lords.” She curtsied around, clearly breathless with excitement. “Are you by any chance looking for your companion? We saw you earlier. My sister and I. Saw you on the green, and returning. And the handsome major returning with the lady.”

“Miss Weatherby,” Maria interrupted ruthlessly. “Do you know where Miss Greystone is?”

“Why, yes,” said the lady, not well concealing her glee. “She’s just ridden off behind Major Hawkinville.”

Maria looked at her husband. “Van?”

He’d turned pale with anger in a way she’d never seen before.

He was actually moving when she grasped his sleeve. “Wait! Talk.” She smiled back at Miss Weatherby. “Thank you so much. I know I can trust you not to spread this around.”

Unlikely hope, but it might stop the news for a minute or two. She didn’t think there’d been any inn servants nearby to hear. She dragged her husband into the adjoining parlor, the rest following, and shut the door. She couldn’t have done it if he’d resisted, so she knew she was right.

“I think he truly loves her,” she said. “And I know she loves him.”

But Miss Trist wrung her hands. “Why run off together? She’s refused him, and he’s abducted her!”

“Nonsense,” Maria snapped. “Abduction is completely illegal these days. He can hardly drag her against her will to Scotland.”

Van said, “I have to stop this, Maria. For everyone’s sake. I’m sending a note up to Con.”

He left before she could stop him again, and indeed, she wasn’t sure she should. But he’d looked for a moment as if he would kill his friend.

Demon Vandeimen. Did she know what he was really capable of?

Van returned with a letter in his hand. “I’ve sent for Con. When he arrives, give him this.”

Maria took it, but she knew he was setting off in pursuit. “Don’t kill him, Van. For your own sake, don’t.”

He relaxed slightly. “I won’t. I might beat him to a pulp, but I won’t kill him.” He kissed her quickly, tenderly, then rubbed at what must be lines in her brow. “Don’t worry. This is a mess, but I’ll find a way to bring it all out right.”

“He hasn’t abducted her,” she said. “Clarissa’s besotted with him, and I’d say he feels the same way about her. What’s going on?”

“It’s complicated.” He kissed her again quickly, then left.

Maria could have screamed with frustration. Complicated! She’d give him complicated. She considered snapping the seal on the letter in hopes that it explained, but long training in proper behavior would not permit it.

Instead she called for tea and settled to soothing Althea. Poor Lord Trevor was looking as if he wished himself elsewhere, but he was bearing up like the well-trained officer he was.

It took remarkably little time for Con to turn up, though it had felt like an hour. He strode in, another man behind him.

“Mr. Nicholas Delaney,” he said. “My guest at the moment, but he’s probably involved.” He took the letter, opened it, and read.

Then he passed it to his friend.

“Con,” said Maria, “if you don’t tell me what is going on, I am going to do someone serious injury.”

He laughed, but sobered, looking around the room. “Ffyfe, I’m sure you’re as curious as any human would have to be, but it would simplify things if you weren’t here. And Miss Trist, you could help Miss Greystone as well by strolling on the green.”

Lord Trevor accepted his orders remarkably well, but Althea looked around. “What’s going on? Is Clarissa in danger?”