'Not yet, Boreland!' he said, taking careful aim. 'I'm not that easy to kill!'

Even as he spoke he squeezed the trigger. Isobel Boreland screamed as her husband staggered, then collapsed. As if released from a dream, his footman ran forward.

''Fore Gad, he's dead!' he cried shrilly. 'You've killed 'im!'

'That was my intention,' muttered Belham, putting away his gun. The servants were too busy attending to their mistress, who had fallen into hysterics over her husband's lifeless form, to hear him. He turned his horse and dug in his heels, sending Devon off across country at a gallop.

Elinor was dozing before the fire when her ears caught the first faint sounds of a footstep on the stair. As the wall panel opened she turned, but the words of welcome died unspoken on her lips when Ralph staggered into the room. She jumped up and ran forward, reaching him just as he was about to collapse. It took all her strength to support the wounded man and she was obliged to almost carry him to the bed. As he sank down upon the covers she caught sight of the blood upon her hands, and with a smothered exclamation rushed to the door to summon help.

Returning to the bed Elinor felt a cold chill run through her. Ralph's greatcoat was undone and in the dim lamplight she could see the dark stain spreading over his velvet riding jacket. Feverishly she unbuttoned the coat and the waistcoat beneath, finally tearing away the blood-soaked shirt to reveal the small wound in his flesh, just below the ribs, from which the flood still oozed. Elinor looked around for something to stanch the blood and in desperation she snatched the kerchief from around the neck of her gown, almost sobbing as she bundled it up and pressed it over the wound. His eyes flickered open and he smiled faintly when he saw her.

'Damned fellow caught me unawares,' he breathed. 'I should have known better.'

'Hush now, don't talk,' Elinor told him, trying to keep her voice level. 'Save your strength. I have told Becky to send for a doctor.'

'Too late for that.'

'No!' muttered Elinor, blinking back the tears. 'I won't let you die!'

The kerchief was now red with blood, and it was with relief that Elinor saw Mistress Carew enter the room, carrying a jug of water and a pile of fresh cloths over one arm. The landlady took one look at the figure on the bed and hurried across the room, firmly but gently easing Elinor aside and applying herself to the task of cleaning up the wound, all the time keeping up a constant flow of small talk.

'So it's come to this! I knew how it would be if you didn't give up this way of life. I hope you're satisfied, Master Ralph, and it's the Lord's help we shall need now to get you out of this pass!'

Elinor was engaged in wiping his face with a damp cloth, and she was heartened by the faint chuckle with which he greeted the landlady's words.

'No sermons, Megs, I beg of you. Just get me into bed I'm damned tired.'

'Aye, all in good time, sir. First we must bind you up so that you don't bleed to death before the doctor can get to you. I've sent Jem to see if old Doctor Brookes will come out to you, but I don't expect to see him much before morning.'

Together the women set to work: it was clear that Ralph was in great pain, and Elinor could not be sorry when he fainted. When they had finished, she pulled up a chair, expressing her intention of sitting beside him until the doctor arrived.

'One of us must do so, surely,' muttered Megs as she gathered up the blood-stained rags ready to take them away. 'I confess I don't like the look of him. The bullet's lodged somewhere inside, and heaven knows what damage it may have done.'

She went away, shaking her head, and leaving Elinor to watch over the injured man. He lay still, even in the dim lamplight his face looking unnaturally pale. Elinor sat beside the bed, her senses alert for the smallest change in his condition. She had no idea how long she remained thus, although it must have been some hours, for the fire was almost out before she noticed it and got up to pile on more wood and bring it back to life. When she returned to the bed Ralph was stirring: his eyelids flickered, and he looked at her blankly for a few moments before recognition dawned.

'Elinor ...' He began to cough, and Elinor dropped to her knees beside the bed.

'I'm here, my dear.' She wiped his lips, observing with dismay that there was blood in the spittle.

'Fetch me some brandy.'

Elinor shook her head, reaching for the glass that stood nearby.

'There's only water here, or if you are in pain, Megs has left you a sleeping draught...'

'Give me the water then.' His words were scarce above a whisper. 'Elinor, I must tell you...'

'Later, love. Here, let me help you up a little.' She supported him while he took a few sips from the glass that she held to his lips, gently lowering him back onto the pillows when he had finished.

'No, it can't wait.' He reached for her hand, his grasp so weak it made Elinor's heart ache with sadness for him. 'It was Boreland, Elinor. James Boreland was on the road tonight.'

'Dear God, no!'

He smiled at her shocked countenance.

'Aye, a merry jest, ain't it, m'dear? I thought how we'd laugh over it when I told you.'

'Oh Ralph!' Elinor felt the tears prick her eyelids and she blinked rapidly, unwilling to let him see her distress. His grip upon her hand tightened.

'He'll not bother you any more, Elinor. With his bullet in me I knew I had to finish him. He's dead, child, another name off your list...'

Ralph closed his eyes, exhausted by his efforts, and Elinor felt the long fingers that enclosed her hand losing their grip. She heard a faint sigh, as if he was at last relieved of the pain, and then he was still. She called his name, but there was no response, no flicker of movement in his face. With trembling hands she felt for a heartbeat, but there was none. Then, clutching at his lifeless hand, Elinor buried her face in the covers and cried.

Viscount Davenham's enquiries into Lord Thurleigh's affairs were proving fruitless, until chance took him one evening to an exclusive gaming hell in St James's. It was not one of Davenham's usual haunts, but having previously agreed to meet a party of friends there, the viscount attended somewhat reluctantly. His pleasure in the evening diminished still further when Lord Thurleigh joined the table, but as the cards were dealt for a fresh hand, a name was mentioned that claimed his attention and, he noted, Lord Thurleigh's.

The marquis looked up from his cards to enquire casually: 'What was that you were saying about Boreland?'

The gentleman concerned was too busy studying his hand to look up, but he replied readily enough.

'I was saying 'twas a pity about the poor fellow. Roads aren't safe for anyone these days.'

'Why, what happened to him?' asked Davenham.

''Od rat it, sir! Do ye not know?' cried a red-faced gentleman in a brown bag-wig. 'The fellow's dead. Shot, you know, by some rascally highwayman!'

The viscount was surprised by the news, but a glance at Lord Thurleigh showed the marquis looking stunned. His naturally pale face looked ashen, and a muscle worked at the side of his mouth.

'When was this?' he asked quietly.

'Oh, about a week since,' replied the red-faced man. 'I heard that Boreland was returning to Weald Hall with his wife one night when he was set upon. His servants carried him to the nearest inn, but he was dead before they could fetch a surgeon to him.' He noted the sceptical look upon Lord Thurleigh's countenance and added by way of explanation: 'I had it from old Browning. He was staying at the inn that night on his way back to Town. The arrival of Boreland's wife and servants with their master's body caused no small commotion, and when Browning discovered the cause of all the fuss I believe he almost went off himself, with fright!'

'I can well believe it,' laughed a fellow-player.

'And he was certain it was a highwayman?' Thurleigh spoke coolly enough, but Davenham's close scrutiny detected a faint tremor in my lord's fingers as he sorted his cards.

'Aye, no reason to doubt it. There have been several accounts of villains working that road in recent months. There was one thing, though: Boreland's men said their master put a bullet in the fellow before he got away.'

'Well, let's hope it proves fatal,' muttered a gentleman in a flowered waistcoat. 'Never liked James Boreland above half, but I don't say I wished the fellow any harm. His wife's had a run of dashed bad luck recently.'

'Oh?' Davenham could not resist the question.

'Come now, Davenham!' laughed the red-faced gentleman. 'Surely you knew that Isobel Boreland has been trying to find a bride for that half-wit son of hers? Carried off that French widow what was her name, now....?'

'de Sange.'

'Aye, that's the one. She took her off to Weald Hall before Christmas, hoping to make a match there, if rumours are to be believed, but it came to nought. By all accounts the woman quit in something of a hurry, leaving Boreland and his wife as mad as fire. He even sent to Town, looking for her, but she's gone to earth, disappeared!'

The marquis had regained his composure and he asked in a faintly bored voice.

'Did not the lady have a house in Town?'

The gentleman in the flowered waistcoat shook his head. 'Lived out at Knight's Bridge, Northaw's place, I understand. But there's only her servants living there now. 'Fore Gad, sir, what a hand you've dealt me! Call for another bottle of burgundy while I decide upon my discard.'

The game once more became the main interest but the viscount played mechanically, his attention taken up by the effect of what had been said upon the marquis. Lord Thurleigh seemed completely taken aback, and it was not long before he excused himself from the game and left. Davenham remained a little longer, but as he made his way back to Warwick Street that night he had much to think about.

Thurleigh had clearly been upset by the news of Boreland's death, so perhaps the two men had been hatching some plot together. Davenham had not considered it necessary to have Thurleigh watched when he returned to Town, but now the viscount changed his mind. He wanted very much to know what the fellow would do next. Thoughts of Madame de Sange disturbed him. Was she in some way involved in Boreland's murder, too?

He pushed the idea away, telling himself it was absurd. She had asked him to trust her and he very much wanted to do so, yet the doubts continued to haunt him and he decided to act. From his lodgings in Warwick Street, Viscount Davenham knew it was but a short drive westwards along Piccadilly and out of town to the small hamlet of Knight's Bridge. On summer days the village could be filled with carriages whose occupants were intent upon enjoying themselves in the tea gardens, but on a cold January day, with a biting easterly wind that cut through the thickest coat, there were very few travellers abroad and no-one to impede the viscount's progress.

Despite the noise of his arrival as the coach swept around the drive, no servant appeared to usher the viscount into the house. He jumped down from his carriage and signalled to his coachman to take the vehicle around to the stables and wait for him there. Then he trod up the shallow steps to the front door and rapped loudly upon it with the hilt of his sword. He waited for a few moments, and was about to knock again when he heard the rasp of a bolt being drawn back. Shortly after this the door opened a fraction and he found himself being regarded by a young serving maid.

Sensing the child's apprehension, he said in a kinder tone than he was wont to use: 'Is your mistress at home?'

The girl shook her head.

'Is there anyone I can speak to?'

'There's nobody here, 'cept me and Mrs Grisson.' came the reply, scarcely above a whisper. 'She's my lady's companion came with my lady from France,' the girl volunteered, overcoming her fear.

'Ah, then we have met. Will you tell her that Viscount Davenham would like a few words with her?' He read the doubt in her face and added helpfully, 'You may lock the door again while you go and find her. I shall not come in until she gives me leave to do so.'

The door was closed against him, and he waited in the cold, the suspicion that something was amiss helping him to bear the delay. At last the door re-opened and he was shown into a small parlour at the back of the house by the same young maid, her nervousness only slightly abated. The viscount regarded the occupant of the room, a spare female dressed entirely in black standing before the fireplace. The woman's features were harsh, but even so it was possible to detect a look of strain around the eyes, and her hands were never still, the fingers continually pulling at each other.

'Mistress Grisson you remember me?' She eyed him warily, yet he was sure she recognized him. 'Where is Madame de Sange?'

'I do not know, my lord.'

Something in her tone made Davenham glance at her, frowning, but after a slight pause he said gently, 'I wish your mistress no harm, if you will but tell me the truth.'

'It is the truth, sir! I have already told them all I know!'

'Who? Has someone been here before me? Come, woman. You can speak freely, there is no need to be afraid.'

'Can you protect my mistress from Lord Thurleigh?' she demanded, her tone sceptical.

'Thurleigh has been here?'

She nodded. 'He came yesterday, with several of his men. When I could not tell him where to find my lady be became abusive.' She broke off, pressing a handkerchief to her lips with one shaking hand.

The viscount quickly crossed the room, putting out a hand to support the woman as she swayed.

'Come and sit down, Mistress. Is that Madeira upon the tray? I shall pour you a glass and you will oblige me by drinking it, if you please, before you resume your story.'

He poured two glasses, handing one to the woman, then he took a chair opposite her own, watching her closely as she sipped her wine. When he judged her to be more composed he spoke again. 'Did he threaten you?'

'Not me, but his men frightened the footmen so much that they would not stay on here there is only Cook, and Clara and myself here now. Lord Thurleigh demanded to know what had happened to Madame de Sange. I told him I did not know, that I had no news of her.'

'And is that true?'

She smiled grimly. 'Not entirely. I did receive a message from her, a week or so after Christmas, saying that she had left Weald Hall and was quite safe, but I was not to try to discover where she was, and that she would contact me presently. I burned the letter as soon as I had read it.' The tired eyes met his steadily, a measure of trust in their depths. 'You are the first to know of it since that moment.'

'Was Thurleigh satisfied that you knew not where your mistress might be?'

'He he was very angry, and threatened dire consequences if he found I was lying, but he did not fright me my little one has suffered too much at his hands for me to feel anything but hatred for such a man! Then he asked for the ruby. I told him it was not here, but he set his men to search the house. 'She took another sip of the Madeira and a few deep breaths to calm herself before continuing. 'They turned out every jewel case, broke open every cupboard, even the servants' quarters. But of course, they did not find it.'

As the wine took effect, Hannah Grisson began to relax and the viscount refilled her glass.

'What is this jewel that my lord Thurleigh was so anxious to find?'

'It is a large brooch. A ruby set in gold. He claims my mistress stole from him years before, but that is not true, sir, for never would Miss Nell do such a thing. If it was Lord Thurleigh's, he must have given it to her, and later changed his mind. When I think of what my poor lady has already endured at his hands, that he must add this insult ' She broke off, her voice totally suspended in tears.

The viscount waited patiently while she checked her sobs and grew calm again.

'Madam, you say your mistress was previously known to the marquis? Forgive me, but I thought Madame de Sange had lived in France since her childhood.'

Hannah hesitated, gazing uncertainly at the viscount.

'Come,' he said. 'I think your mistress is very dear to you, and you must see that she might be in need of a friend now. I wish you would tell me everything.' He smiled encouragingly. 'You can trust me.'

The smile won. She began, haltingly at first, to give lord Davenham an account of Elinor's history. The viscount listened attentively, interpolating a question upon occasion when some point was not clear to him, and when she had finished her tale he remained perfectly still for some minutes, a faint crease upon his brow as he pondered all he had heard.

'I pray you, sir, do not think too harshly of my mistress!' begged Hannah, worried by his serious mien. 'I confess that when we came to England and she told me of her intention to be avenged upon the men who had ruined her life, I did not believe her to be serious.'

'Surely the death of Julian Poyntz should have convinced you.'

'But my lady did not kill him, it was his heart.'

'How fortunate for Madame de Sange.'

The old woman bit her lip. 'You do not believe it.'

'Nay, Mistress, I know it to be true, but I believe Poyntz had been frightened out of his wits beforehand, which doubtless caused his heart to fail. But let us turn our attention to the death of George Rowsell. That was also convenient for your mistress, was it not? And yet you tell me she had no hand in it.'

'I swear to you she did not!'

'How can you be so sure of that? You have told me she showed you the list of names she obtained from Poyntz at sword-point, if your mistress is to be believed. Why then should she scruple to arrange for Rowsell's death? A bag of gold and a word in the right quarter...'

'My mistress had no need to hire anyone!' cried Hannah, much incensed.

'Oh? How do you know that?'

'Because she planned to kill him herself!'

'What!'