Dressed in impeccable gray evening attire, Rainford raised a quizzical brow at Gerard’s travel clothes but unquestioningly followed him to the hotel’s spacious tavern. Dark-panels, dim lights, linen tablecloths all spoke of a sophistication not to be found in a normal pub. It looked like just the place to find a wealthy American and bad food.
Gerard studied the company as they entered and chose a table visible to the other occupants but far enough away not to be overheard.
“You have news about the missing heiresses?” Rainford asked.
“Have you even checked your DeBrett?” Gerard asked. “Craigmore isn’t the earl, and he isn’t their father. I am not catching those women for his sake.”
“Not even for the reward?” the marquess asked cynically.
“My family would hunt me to ground and torment me until death if I turned those women over to a man they’ve had reason to run away from. The question becomes, why did they run away and how can we assure their safety?” Gerard surreptitiously studied the tavern’s patrons as he sipped the whisky they’d ordered.
“I’ve made my own inquiries,” Rainford admitted. “Craigmore, or whoever he is, is in debt well over his head. He doesn’t have money for a reward. Half the fellows who followed me up here have gone home after we discovered that.”
While pretending intense interest in this conversation, Gerard spotted the surreptitious glances sent their way. Aristocracy was easily recognized when they set out to do it, as he had. People were predictable. He watched with cynicism as word spread around the tavern and heads swiveled in their direction.
“Dullards. Two marriageable aristocrats with the potential of titles and probably access to the queen. . . who would want women like that?” Except like Gerard, Rainford’s friends needed heiresses.
The marquess glanced in the direction of Gerard’s interest. “Any of those crass fellows might want a penniless aristocrat, I would guess? We’re rare breeds, and the uninitiated think peers have access to wealth and power untold. So my answer is—a wealthy Cit.”
“No one uses that term anymore,” Gerard said with a laugh. “Everyone is a merchant, but I’d add a wealthy American. Any of those around that you’ve noticed?”
“You know something, don’t you?” Rainford narrowed his eyes and waited.
“I do, but it’s not my information to impart. You can work it out without me saying more. So our problem is two-fold—finding the women and cutting off their stepfather’s access to them. Can you find out more about Mortimer? He’s the man posing as the Earl of Craigmore.”
“I’ve already located him. He’s living above a gambling house over in Old Town.” Rainford nodded his blond head toward a table of well-dressed gentlemen. “Coincidentally, the stout American over there in the plum waistcoat has been seen regularly at the tables in the same house.”
Gerard sat back and smiled in satisfaction. “I’ll set Lowell on the trail. The servants are far better at this than we are.”
“I suspect the Cits are working up their courage to approach.” Rainford threw back his whisky and rose from his chair. “Don’t find the girls too soon. I’m enjoying this.”
Before any of the gentlemen at the other table could reach him, Gerard rose, put on his hat, and walked out—giving them the cut direct as his father would have said. Some days, it almost paid to be a titled lord—if only it paid in cash.
Back in his suite, he had telegrams and messages waiting. Sorting through them in satisfaction, Gerard realized Rainford was right. This was almost fun—if he weren’t so stupidly worried about an independent female who couldn’t wait for his help.
If it weren’t for the fear and panic he’d sensed on her map, he’d say to hell with her and head back to London to see if he could raise funds there.
Now was a bad time to develop new eccentricities.
Satisfied that his local relations were apprised of his arrival and working on the situation, Gerard grudgingly took a bath using the hotel’s inadequate resources, ate his supper, and ordered Lowell not to unpack.
The train to Calder left in the morning.
Lowell gazed upon the stone edifice Gerard’s cousin Max euphemistically called Calder Castle. “You left a luxury hotel to stay in a medieval fortress? Will we have to boil our water?”
Gerard chuckled. “You have much to learn about my family. I can assure you these accommodations are vastly preferential. The only downside is that they contain family.”
Lowell snorted in appreciation and shut up.
“I need to do some reconnaissance. Tell anyone who asks that I’m stretching my legs and will be in shortly.” Leaving Lowell and their mounts at the stable, Gerard strolled through the busy courtyard toward the back of the castle.
Max had showed him all around the last time he’d been here. The castle sat at the top of a high hill. The front overlooked a steep bluff. The back was where the fields started. They had no orchard, but there were stone fences that might protect hives.
Of course, his chance of finding Iona was slim and catching her by surprise almost none. He simply followed the idiot voice chanting Treasure in his head that drew him down an uncultivated lane behind the wall. Far down the hill, a stand of head-high bushes provided a nice windbreak—
And there she was, murmuring to the hives as she wound binding around the straw hackles to protect the bees through the winter. She wore the familiar short gown over trousers and boots, but she’d let her bonnet and veil down in the noon sun.
He winced at the dark brown she’d dyed her hair, but he was too exultant at finding her to complain.
Before he could come within shouting distance, she slipped into the bushes and vanished—as if the bees had
