Althea shook her head, blushing beautifully.

“I did not like to push my suit too strongly, but I became convinced that it would be folly to delay with so many handsome gallants around. So here I am.”

“So here you are,” Miss Hurstman said. “Excellent, but there’s no bed for you here, Mr. Verrall, so off you go. You can return in the morning.”

Mr. Verrall took his leave, not even daring to take a final kiss under Miss Hurstman’s eye. Despite everything that had happened, Clarissa felt like giggling, and she was truly delighted for her friend’s happiness. Incidentals like age didn’t matter. Only trust and love.

But then Althea obviously gathered her wits. “But you, Clarissa. We heard… Maria Vandeimen said…”

Clarissa made a decision. “Oh, that was all a misunderstanding.” She used the excuse Hawk had apparently spread around. “I went to attend Beth Arden’s lying-in.”

“You, an unmarried lady!” Althea gasped.

“I was always somewhat rash, Althea, you know that. Come up to bed.”

She glanced at Miss Hurstman and saw that the woman understood. There was no point in disturbing Althea’s happiness with a crisis she could not help with.

It was dark in the small space, and windowless, but a tight grille in the door let in glimmers from a lamp some distance away. A swaying lamp.

Lord Darius Debenham lay propped up on the narrow bed, watching the two older children play with their food. Exactly that. There was bread here. They’d eaten some, then molded bits into little animals with practiced skill. So few proper toys they’d had.

They spoke in whispers. They always spoke in whispers, probably because Therese Bellaire had punished them if they didn’t.

Therese Bellaire. The whore who had tormented Nicholas for fun. She would have no sweet ending planned. They were to die here, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it except pray.

And keep the children at peace as long as he could.

He gently touched the hair of the one cuddled against him. Therese had said she was Arabel, Nicholas’s child. He’d last seen her as a baby, but in the uncertain light he thought she had Nicholas’s eyes. Dear God, what he must be suffering.

And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to help.

Little Arabel had awakened crying and had called for her mama and papa, but she’d calmed. Lord knows why. He couldn’t think he was a sight to soothe a child. Perhaps it was Delphie and Pierre, who’d hovered, whispering their comforts and their admonitions to be quiet.

So she was quiet, but she stayed close by his side, and the trust pierced him when it was so misplaced. The child might well be stronger than he was. He’d made himself eat some of the food left here, but when had he eaten before that? Food had no savor for him, no importance.

His recent life seemed like pictures glimpsed in darkness. She’d said it had been a year. A year! That he’d been close to death.

He remembered the battle, but not whatever disaster had ended it for him. A bullet in the side and a hoof in the head, she’d said. Certainly he had headaches. He could remember the pain so fierce that he’d welcomed the drug, begged for it.

But had it been a year?

And had he really believed he was another man? He couldn’t think clearly about it all, but he remembered a time when everything had been blank. He’d welcomed the facts she put in his memory, meaningless though they had been. When he’d begun to doubt, there had been the children. If he wasn’t Rowland, they weren’t his. So they weren’t his.

How could he save them?

Did he want to be saved?

He looked at his bony, quivering hand.

He thought of his parents, his friends. He thought of them finding him like this, a weak husk of a man, already shaking with the need of the stuff in the bottle she’d left.

Perhaps he’d be better dead. But he had to stay alive to take care of the children.

He ached for the laudanum, but she’d left only a spoonful, maybe less. A calculated torment. He didn’t need it badly enough yet. She’d given him a lot before she moved him here. Enough for deep dreams, enough for thought. But all he had was in that bottle. Once that was gone, it was gone, and the need would tear him apart. He couldn’t let the children see that.

He would kill himself first. It would be kinder.

If he had the strength.

He looked at the bottle again, could almost smell the bitter liquid through the glass. He started to sweat, belly aching.

No. Not yet.

They needed to escape.

He would have laughed if he’d had the energy. He could hardly walk. He’d checked the space, crawling, sweating, and aching every inch of the way. When he’d tried to stand, his legs had buckled under him. Delphie and Pierre had helped him back to the bed.

The door was solid and locked. If he could smash out the tiny grille, not even Delphie could escape through it. And he’d be hard-pressed to gather the strength to pick up the damn bottle and pull out the stopper!

Delphie scrambled to her feet and came over to him, holding the rough doll he’d made for her one day. It was just sticks and rags, but it had been the best he could do. It was their secret, always carefully hidden.

“Mariette’s arm is broken, Papa,” she whispered in French.

He looked at it as she climbed up beside him. “I can’t fix it now, sweetheart. There’s no need to whisper. She’s gone.”

Delphie looked up at him with huge eyes. “I like to whisper.”

He held her close as weak tears escaped.

Delphie looked at Arabel, then put the doll into her hand. “You can have her for a little while.”

Arabel doubtless didn’t understand French, but she clutched Mariette as if the doll could take her back to her loving home.

Dare leaned his head back and did the only thing he still could. He prayed.

When Clarissa woke the next morning she was thrust abruptly back into the horrific situation. She sat up, wondering where the poor children had spent the night. She looked at the window and realized it was raining. That seemed suitable. This was the day of battle. Presumably at some point Therese Bellaire would tell them where to send the money. The money Clarissa prayed had been coming in through the night.

Then she would tell them where the prisoners were.

If Hawk hadn’t found them beforehand.

Althea stirred and smiled, clearly full of more pleasant thoughts. “Clarissa,” she said, turning sober and sitting up, “would you mind very much if I returned with Mr. Verrall to Bucklestead St. Stephens? He can’t be away long, you see, because of the children. And… and I want to go home. I’m very sorry, but I don’t like Brighton very much.”

Clarissa took her hands. “Of course you must go. But all the way with only Mr. Verrall?”

She was teasing somewhat, but Althea flushed. “I’m sure he can be trusted.”

“Ah,” said Clarissa, “but a chaperone is not to keep the wolves away. It’s to keep the ladies from leaping into the jaws of the wolves.”

“Clarissa!” gasped Althea. But then she colored even more. “I know what you mean. But,” she added, “it’s not like that with Mr. Verrall and me yet, and I’m sure I can trust him to be a gentleman.”

Clarissa smiled and kissed her. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy, no matter what happens.”

They both climbed out of bed, and Althea asked, “What of you and the major? It all seemed so strange.”

Clarissa didn’t want to lie. She looked at Althea and said, “I’m not sure you want to know.”

Althea blushed again. “Perhaps I don’t. But are you going to marry him?”

“Oh, yes,” Clarissa said. “I’m sure I am.”

As soon as she was dressed, she hurried downstairs and told Miss Hurstman about Althea’s plans, and that she herself was going over to the Vandeimens’ house. She was braced for battle, but Miss Hurstman nodded. “I’ll come over myself when Althea’s on her way. Take the footman, though. Just in case.”

So Clarissa was escorted all the way, astonished that she had never considered that she might be in danger. After all, she was the one who was technically in possession of Therese Bellaire’s money.

She arrived without incident, however, to find that wealth had poured in, but that nothing new had turned up to tell them where the hostages were.

There was a heavy sack of jewels. Some were Blanche’s theatrical pieces, but most were real. A great deal of it had come from Lord Arden, including, originally, what Blanche had referred to as Lucien’s necklace, which was a ridiculously gaudy piece with huge stones in many colors; it had to be worth thousands.

Clarissa smiled at the friendly, understanding love that had given the White Dove something she would never wear but something that would amuse her, and keep her if she ever fell into need.

A strongbox had come from someone in London, and more from Lord Middlethorpe in Hampshire. Clarissa looked at it all, remembering with some satisfaction that all these people would be paid back from her money.

But then she realized that would mean that Hawk would lose Hawkinville. She could bear that, but she ached for the poor people there, and she knew the pain must be ten times worse for him. Ignoring the presence of all the others, she went to where he sat, clearly furious at himself for not being able to solve the problems singlehandedly. Jetta was curled at his feet. Tentatively, Clarissa put her hand on his shoulder.

He started and looked up, then covered her hand with his. “Where do we stand?”

She smiled. She too wanted this clear. “On our own two feet? I suppose that should be four. I meant what I said about using my money to pay everyone back. Even if they resist.”

He turned to face her. “I know. It’s all right.”

“What about Hawkinville?”

“That’s not all right, but if it’s the price, I’ll pay it.”