The next morning, she sat in the kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Jennings, staring at her porridge. The cold lump in her stomach didn't mix well with her breakfast, and she pushed her bowl away.

"Come now, my lady," Mrs. Jennings soothed, her wrinkles deepening with concern. "You need your strength."

Sighing, she tugged the bowl back toward her and took another spoonful of the buttery mush. As she tried to force it down, a booming knock sounded at the door.

Jack!

She flattened her hands on the table and leaned forward, trying to calm her suddenly pounding heart.

No! No, it couldn't be him. He wouldn't return. It hadto be someone else. Her gut clenching, Becky looked up at Mrs. Jennings in alarm. In turn, Mrs. Jennings glanced pointedly at her husband, who shuffled out to see who it was.

Becky sat frozen, listening to the low sound of voices in the entry hall. Then she bolted out of her chair. "Garrett!"

She flew into the entry hall and straight into her brother's arms. Garrett squeezed her briefly, then gently pushed her away, and she realized he was soaking wet and now she was, too. The storm had rolled in late last night, and rain fell in heavy sheets outside.

His gaze fixed on the stairway, and he shook her gently. "Where is he, Rebecca?"

Tristan stood at Garrett's side. "Mr. Fulton-" He hesitated, then pressed on, removing his gloves and taking her hand in his own. "Becky, Fulton's been accused of murdering a peer."

"You... know?" she breathed.

Tristan gave her a crisp nod, but there was sympathy in his dark eyes. "The Lord Mayor of London came to seeus. Evidence was presented to the authorities on the fifteenth of December-incontrovertible proof of Fulton's guilt, including written evidence and two living witnesses."

Becky sucked in a breath. Jack had been right-Tom Wortingham certainly hadn't wasted any time in following through with his threats. "What about Sam?"

Tristan gave her a blank look. "Sam is here with you, isn't he?"

He confirmed what she'd already known-there was no way Sam could have arrived in London in time. Sam had crossed paths with Tristan and Garrett and none of them had known it. Surely Sam was at home in London by now, along with her now-useless order to deliver Tom Wortingham a promissory note for eighteen thousand pounds.

"No. He's in London. I sent him home." She shook her head, biting down against the tremble in her lower lip. "Why are you here?"

"Kate received your letter and recalled me to London," Garrett said. "I was heading to Yorkshire to search for you. I arrived home a few days before the mayor came to us."

"We all knew Fulton had come to Cornwall to search for you and must have arrived by now, yet we hadn't heard a word from either you or him," Tristan added. "We misled the authorities, claiming that we thought you might be in Yorkshire, but I daresay they'll puzzle out the truth soon enough."

"And they'll come here."

"Yes," Tristan said. "They could be here in a matter of days."

"Rebecca, where is he?" Garrett's voice held an edge of danger.

"Gone," she said miserably. "Jack Fulton is gone."

Tristan and Garrett had brought a traveling carriage so that they could make better time to Cornwall by changing out their teams and using lanterns to light the way at night. By noon, the carriage and a fresh team were forging through the rain toward London, with Becky, Tristan, and Garrett bundled inside.

As she left Seawood and Mr. and Mrs. Jennings behind, Becky had a melancholy feeling she might never see it again. The house still belonged to her, and it would always be special to her as the first place she had asserted her independence. She had learned some valuable lessons there.

On the other hand, the place held many sad memories of her family, of her mother, and now for Becky herself. It would always be the place where she'd shot Jack-where she'd almost killed him.

As the carriage drew farther away, the tightness in Becky's chest eased, and she felt a little lighter. She could assert her independence anywhere now. She didn't need Seawood to do it. She could leave the house behind without any regrets. Perhaps she'd even sell it-but not to someone who'd neglect it as she had. Only to a family who'd appreciate the forlorn beauty of the place, who'd turn the house into a home.

Becky gazed at the sheets of rain falling outside the window as they passed through the village of Camelford and straggled down the lonely stretch of road leading toward Devonshire.

"Becky," Tristan said, after nearly an hour of silence had pervaded the close interior of the carriage, "we need to know if Jack Fulton hurt you."

She jerked her head up and stared at him, wide-eyed. "What? No!"

Garrett leaned forward on the mud-brown carriage seat. He sat on the backward-facing bench across from her and Tristan. "It is fairly definite that Fulton murdered the Marquis of Haredowne. Tristan and I-" his eyes slid toward their cousin, "-well, we have reason to believe he misled you. He was after your money to pay off the witnesses to the murder to keep them quiet."

"Did you know something about this?" Tristan asked. "Is that why you vanished the night before your wedding?"

"I know everything." Taking a deep breath, she continued. "I discovered he planned to take my money after dinner that night. I heard Stratford and him discussing it-"

"Stratford?" Garrett gnashed his teeth. "That bastard-"

"Please. Listen to me." Becky faced her brother, her spine straight. "You both must know how I felt hearing the truth, after everything that happened with William. I felt like such a fool."

Tristan shook his head. "No, you weren't a fool. Fisk tricked us all. Just as Fulton did."

"But Jack is different," Becky whispered.

Garrett's lips twisted. "I don't think so."

She glanced down at her lap, then up again, knowing she must tell them everything. Clasping her hands tightly together, she said, "I shot him, Garrett. I hated him for what he'd done, and when he came here... I shot him."

Tristan's eyes widened. "Is he...?"

"No... There was some putrefaction in his shoulder, but he fought it. He was recovering but still weak when he left."

"Do you know where he went?"

"No. He slipped out at night." Becky swallowed hard. "But, you see, after I shot him, I discovered that he'd already gone to the man-the witness to the murder who was trying to blackmail him. He'd threatened to reveal the truth about Jack and Haredowne if Jack didn't give him twenty-five thousand pounds, and Jack told him he wasn't giving him a shilling." She twisted her hands in her lap. "He told him he wouldn't take my money. And-" she blinked, "-he regretted manipulating me, Garrett. I know he did. That was why he left. Because he understood exactly what he'd done and how it affected me. Because he knew the authorities were coming to arrest him, and I told him I wanted him to live, and escape was the only way for him to do it."

Her cousin and her brother stared at her, their expressions wary. Becky dug in her reticule and pulled out the letter from Tom Wortingham. "Read this. It's proof that Jack..." Her voice dwindled, but the remainder of the sentence resonated clearly in her mind.

Proof that Jack loves me.

The fair weather that Becky and Sam had experienced on the trip to Cornwall did not hold for her return to London. The road was muddy and flooded in spots, and the going was so rough and their progress so slow Becky thought she might go mad.

Jack occupied her thoughts so thoroughly she couldn't focus on anything else. Every day, every moment, she wondered where he was. What he was doing. Whether he was safe, warm, sheltered. Whether his arm continued to heal.

During the long hours in the carriage, she told Tristan and Garrett everything. She explained what had happened between Jack and Anne Turling and the Marquis ofHaredowne, all she knew about Tom Wortingham and his history with Jack, and all of Jack's actions toward herbefore they'd left London and after he'd arrived at Seawood.

Her cousin and her brother took all the information in, Tristan shrewdly analyzing while Garrett's jaw remained tight and his eyes cold and hard. Nevertheless, by the time they rattled, damp and muddy, into Mayfair on the twenty-second of December, Tristan and Garrett had both admitted that they believed Jack was remorseful and that he'd redeemed himself by refusing to give Tom Wortingham Becky's money.

Kate was at the steps to greet them when they arrived at Garrett's house. Without waiting for a footman to hand her from the carriage, Becky leapt out of it and ran to hug her friend. Together, they went inside, and while Kate clucked about, making sure she was fed warm milk and hot soup, they talked about all that had passed.

"I'm so sorry I didn't explain anything to you before Ileft London," Becky said. "I just... Well, for once I wanted to solve the problem by myself, without hiding behind you and my brother. I wanted you to have a lovely Christmas, to spend it with your son..."

Reaching forward, her dark eyes serious, Kate took her hand. "I was so worried about you."

"I know. It was wrong of me to disappear without a word." Becky tried to smile at her friend. "Even when you fled from Calton House that morning four years ago, you left me a letter to explain what you'd done. But I didn't even give you that courtesy."

Kate sighed. "I knew you wouldn't have left unless it was important. And it comforted me to know that you took Sam with you. I knew he'd keep you safe."

She released Becky's hand and Becky took another mouthful of the savory soup the footman had placed before her.

"Is Sam here?"

"Yes, he arrived about a week ago. He brought the letters you wrote to Garrett and your solicitor asking him to draw up a promissory note. I begged your solicitor to wait until Garrett returned from Cornwall, though. Given all that had happened, I thought it might be too late for such an action."

"You were right to do so," Becky said. "Thank you."

Kate smiled. "Sam is well, and he's gone back to his regular duties."

Becky returned her smile. She'd known Kate would never have used Sam's loyalty to Becky against him, that he'd always have a position in the duke's household. "How is little Henry?"

Kate's smile widened to a grin. "He is the most delicious, precious baby in the world."

At twilight, Kate and Becky drew on their coats, hats, and mittens, and wandered into the back garden for a short evening walk. The garden at Garrett's London home was nothing compared to the vast acreage of the gardens at Calton House. Tended for many years by Sophie, who loved roses, the small London garden consisted of several tight rows of rosebushes that would bloom bountifully in the spring but now were nothing more than lonely dead sticks straggling upward from the icy ground.

"Do you miss Jack, Becky?"

Becky stopped walking and stared up at the darkening sky.

Taking her hand, Kate squeezed it hard. "It is clear to me that he loves you."

Becky raised her brows. She'd told Kate almost everything, but she hadn't mentioned love-she'd diligently avoided that particular topic.

Kate continued. "I know now that his initial intentions weren't honorable... but there is a certain look... the way a man looks at a woman when he's in love with her. When he thinks no one is watching him. It can't be denied, and it can't be counterfeited. I'm sure of it."

"Did Jack look at me like that?"

"Oh, yes. All the time."

"I want to find him," Becky said quietly. "I want to be with him, more than anything in the world."

"But Jack Fulton is a fugitive. You are sister to a duke of England."

"Yes. You're right on both counts."

"Oh, Becky..." Kate's eyes filled with tears. "I feel so terrible that this has happened to you."

Becky looked into her sister-in-law's eyes. "I want to be with him, Kate."

"Are... are you saying you should leave the country with him? Live in exile? Never see your family again?" Kate's voice was so tight it sounded as if someone was squeezing her throat.

The mere thought of leaving Kate and Garrett and the children filled Becky with pain. "I don't want to leave you." She paused, then took a deep breath and said quietly, "You would follow Garrett anywhere, wouldn't you?"

Biting her lip, Kate looked away. "You know I would. I'd follow Garrett to the ends of the earth."

Becky squeezed her sister-in-law's hand hard, and they stood quietly for a long moment, looking up at the bright landscape of stars.

"I must find him," she finally whispered. "But how?"

Tristan stayed for dinner that night, and Sophie joined them, but as they prepared to return to their own house, Becky drew Tristan aside.

"I know it might be too much to ask after all you have done for me," she murmured, "but I was hoping you might ask around. See if you can learn anything about where Jack might be."

He stared at her for a long moment, then he smiled. Tristan was a handsome man, and when he smiled, a dimple appeared in one of his cheeks and gave him a jaunty, boyish appearance.

"Of course, Becky. I'll see what I can find."

Chapter Twenty-three.

Jack had taken a great risk by coming here. The danger crackled around him. They were looking for him, and he knew what would happen if he was found. The evidence was incontrovertible. He'd killed a peer. He would hang.

He'd only come into London at dawn this morning-Christmas Eve morning. He'd lingered in shadows and kept away from anyone remotely resembling a constable. Now, he stood on the bank of the Thames in the gloom. The temperature was below freezing, and the clouds hung low and gray in the sky. Faint steam wisped up from the river, and through the mist and the clusters of anchored ships, he could see the weathered side of the Gloriana.

Home. The ship was home to him-or at least it should feel that way. Yet he couldn't help not wanting to go back. He'd come to London with the intention of starting a new life, and returning to the Gloriana felt like moving backward. It felt like he was going into exile all over again.

This time it was worse, though. He wasn't going into exile. He was going into hiding. And this time, it would be forever. The Gloriana would leave London at noon today headed for Kingston, Jamaica, and he'd never return to England.

The cold stabbing through his wound, he pulled his hat low and sauntered onto the dock, looking for all the world as if he belonged there. The barge drew close, its occupants, wearing dark coats, hunched over in the cold as they rowed closer.

One of the rowers-it was the boatswain McKinley-raised his head, and a big smile split his face. "Ho there, Jack!"

He raised his good hand in a silent salutation as the other sailors called their greetings.

Taking a deep breath, he walked to the water's edge and boarded the barge as it drew alongside the dock. The action was natural to him but it was made awkward by his injury-he wasn't able to use his arm for balance, and he would likely have toppled had the hands of the sailors not reached out to support him.

"What happened to yer arm, there, Jacky lad?" asked one of the older sailors. Johnson was his name. He followed up the question by spitting a wad of tobacco over the side.

"Shot," Jack said tersely. He ignored the raised eyebrows of the men. They'd just have to be kept in suspense, or think that one of the men pursuing him had shot at him. No way in hell was he talking about what had happened since he'd been in England. They all knew that the case of murder against him had resulted in another warrant for his arrest, and he knew, via a message from Captain Calow, that the crew of the Gloriana had been questioned about his whereabouts. No one had known where he was at the time, but these men were his friends-his brothers-and even if they had known his whereabouts, they wouldn't have given him away.

He settled onto one of the benches, and the men fell into silence as they rowed to the ship.

He stared back at the dingy buildings lining the waterfront, at the dark figures of pedestrians hurrying through the cold to get home to their loved ones in time for Christmas.

One of them glanced at him, and a chill raced from the base of Jack's neck all the way to his toes. Even from this distance, he could recognize the pale stare of Tom Wortingham. Tom was still following him, apparently, but Jack couldn't fathom why. It was over. As promised, Jack hadn't delivered a shilling to Tom. And, as promised, Tom had exposed the truth to the authorities.

Turning away from the dock, Tom drew his collar high around his neck and disappeared into the landscape like a specter.