she and Amelia were safe and happy and that he shouldn’t search for them. The letter she had been forced to write by her abductor. If his mother had indeed authored the note, it would have gone on for at least four pages and would have said something about where they were and why they had left. There would have been wailing apologies and nonsense about the whys.

It had taken only two days to track them to a merchant ship where they’d paid for passage to the promised land. But news came back that that ship had sunk to the bottom of the ocean, her entire crew and all passengers taken aboard another.

Bloody pirates. They were a menace to everyone who thought to sail across the sea. From there he’d wasted more than a few thousand pounds and two months hiring mercenaries who’d found less than he had himself. One band of roughened men had even returned some of his blunt to him with the advice to stop chasing dead men and get on with his life.

Dead men indeed.

“I must get them back.” Why in the world his closest relatives would want to head to the Americas without even offering a goodbye was the biggest puzzle in all that had happened so far. His mother could be flighty but his sister usually kept a level head. She was looking forward to more balls and picnics in the park and had spoken of nothing else in the months he had been home. They had all finally put scandal behind them and resigned themselves to normality and a second season on the town for Amelia when he’d arrived home from his club to find them gone without a trace.

James rubbed a hand against his breastbone. The pain there was uncomfortable. He wished the post-battle numbness would return: at least then he wouldn’t have to feel regret or listen to his conscience or worry incessantly. What if he was the reason they’d left London? As much as he’d worked hard to return to his witty, charming self, war had changed him. Nightmares that made him cry out in the night left him grumpy and tired. He drank more, smiled less. He knew it. Amelia knew it. His mother did too. Perhaps they couldn’t stand the man he’d become?

“Do you really think he holds them because you got away?” It was the first time Hobson had asked the question and he was glad for the distraction.

He’d thought about it too. But as much information as he’d gleaned about this pirate said his prisoners were always ransomed back to their families. He’d wished he’d known that when the ship he travelled on was taken off the coast of Calais. He would have sat on the deck in the weak sunshine like a child and waited for rescue. “Stabbing the captain in the leg was not my finest moment. I should have driven the blade into his black heart.” His hands had been so cold and numb. Months spent as an army assassin in Egypt had impaired his resistance to the cold. And he’d seriously believed his life in danger. Butcher of the Battle indeed. He couldn’t even dispatch one annoying pirate in the middle of a sea fight.

“It certainly would have made for a quieter retirement,” Hobson said glumly.

“I’m a gentleman now. I’m supposed to be staid and boring and bored. I should not be planning an abduction to attract the attention of a bloodthirsty pirate.” He refolded the note and placed it in the top drawer of his desk. Taking out his heavy signet from the box where he left it when masquerading as a coachman, he slipped it back on his finger with a sigh. Was it heavier today than it had been the week before?

Hobson clucked his tongue in a way that said he had more to say on the matter but would hold off for another time. James hoped he would hold off forever. He could not predict how long it would take for Captain Richard Germaine to get the notes James planned to send him or what actions her brother would take when he discovered her gone. These variables had been better allowed for in his original plan, but that couldn’t be helped.

He would make their journey quite easy to follow but not easily predicted and therefore ambushed. He hoped that whatever Sir Anthony chose to do about his sister’s disappearance, their father would fear a man named Butcher enough to rescue her. Just as he was rescuing his gentle Amelia.

Of course there was nothing gentle about Daniella. Where his sister was the most English of girls, with her light brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, perfect posture and presence, Daniella Germaine was entirely a Scot, with all the fire and immoderation of that lawless race. Her flame-red hair had not been properly tamed once since he’d had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing her. A light tan darkened her skin despite London’s dreary skies, freckles spotted her nose and cheeks and the chit didn’t walk, she had a stride that ate up ground quicker than a lad’s. And the piratical accent—it beggared belief that she’d ever been to a ton party making sounds such as those. Her green eyes were always full of mischief and never had she smiled serenely. She grinned. Constantly. It irked him.

See if she grins now, he thought irritably as he tipped another glass of whiskey down his throat.

“Where to first?” Hobson asked, his hand outstretched for the other glass before James drank it too. Again.

This is where all of his headaches and hard thinking would come to fruition. A full military assault was easier than putting up with that girl. “I believe Gretna Green should be our north. If we stay close to the west coast, he may come inland just far enough to collect his wayward child. We’ll make our bargain, a hostage for the hostages, and then we can all go our separate

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