A Daring Passion. Rosemary Rogers

the sharp glitter in his pale eyes. Nor the suspicion that had hardened his youthful features.

      Mr. Harper was convinced that Josiah Wimbourne was the Knave of Knightsbridge, and her hasty story of Josiah’s trip to London had only confirmed his belief.

      How long would it be before he checked with the inn to inquire if her father had indeed traveled by post to London? Or even sent word to town to check the various hotels for his presence?

      Not more than a day or two, she was certain. And then he would be back insisting on seeing her father.

      Dear Lord, she had to do something to distract him.

      Something that would force him to second-guess his own certainty in Josiah’s guilt.

      Pacing across the carpet, Raine came to a slow halt as she was struck with sudden inspiration.

      Of course.

      It was bold and daring and no doubt dangerous, but it might very well be precisely what was needed.

      And she was just the woman to accomplish the outlandish feat.

       Two months later

      THE SMALL COACHING INN set near the crossroads was no doubt considered by the natives to be a source of pride. It did, after all, boast a fine wooden sign proclaiming it the King’s Arms, and a newly thatched roof that offered some protection from the bitter chill of the night air. It could even lay claim to a stable yard, although the snow had piled high enough to make it nearly impassable.

      Seated in the comfort of his carriage, Philippe Gautier was singularly unimpressed.

      He had traveled too widely to suppose the inn could offer more than watered ale, food boiled to tasteless mush and an infestation of vermin. No matter how cold and miserable the night, he intended to press onward. His carriage was preferable to the hospitality of the King’s Arms.

      A preference that the innkeeper clearly found galling as he waddled his way through the snow and pulled open the carriage door to offer up the steaming mug of hot cider that Philippe had ordered.

      “Here you are, sir.” The man shoved the mug in Philippe’s hand with a fawning smile on his round, ruddy face. “Nothing like a bit of cider on a cold night.”

      Philippe pulled back, his austere features frigid with distaste. There was an overwhelming stench of stale tobacco and onions that clung to the man.

      “That will be all.”

      Impervious to Philippe’s icy dismissal, the innkeeper cleared his throat even as his gaze covertly took in Philippe’s exquisitely tailored greatcoat and Hessians that had been polished to a blinding perfection. The avaricious gaze lingered a moment on the gold signet ring that graced Philippe’s slender finger before returning to meet the narrowed green eyes.

      “Such a miserable night and only to get worse, I fear.” He raised pudgy fingers to smear back his thinning patch of gray hair. “The cook swears that she smells snow in the air, which means it shall be upon us before long. She is uncanny, she is. Never wrong.”

      Philippe gave a lift of a chiseled brow that perfectly matched his raven locks. He was well aware the man was attempting to frighten him into remaining the night at the inn. The ridiculous imbecile.

      “Do you mean to tell me that you possess a cook who is also a witch?” he demanded in a low, silky tone that was only faintly accented.

      The innkeeper gave a choked cough. “Oh, nay, sir. Nothing of the sort. She merely has a nose for weather.”

      “A nose? Like a bloodhound?”

      “All perfectly natural, I assure you.”

      “It does not strike me as perfectly natural.” He lifted the mug to drain the cider. The dregs were bitter on his tongue, but it at least provided a warmth to his chilled body. “Indeed, I should think it most unnatural.”

      “Aye, well.” The innkeeper awkwardly cleared his throat. “She is harmless enough, and makes a fine shepherd’s pie that will melt in your mouth. Just what is needed on this cold, miserable night.”

      “I abhor shepherd’s pie,” Philippe informed the man as he shoved the now-empty mug back into his hands. “And before you begin to bore me with the delights of your boiled-oxtail soup and the perfection of your ale, be assured that nothing could prevail me to remain beneath your roof.”

      The beefy face flushed with offended pride. “Sir, I must protest…”

      “What you must do is close the door before you allow any more of the night air into my carriage,” Philippe announced in a voice that brooked no argument. “I grow weary of your chatter. Be off with you.”

      “As you wish.” Offering a stiff bow, the man backed away just as a large, dark form slipped past him to enter the carriage and shut the door in his flushed face.

      Philippe watched as his companion settled himself on the leather seat across from him.

      At a glance Carlos Estavan did not seem the sort of man that Philippe Gautier would choose as a trusted friend. While Philippe was a slender, elegant gentleman with a cool, some would say aloof, composure and an aristocratic air, Carlos was broad and dark with the swarthy complexion of his Portuguese ancestors. He also possessed a fiery temperament and the sort of earthy passions that were decidedly absent in Philippe.

      The two men had, however, been the closest of companions since Philippe had arrived at his father’s estate in Madeira when he had been but a tender lad. At the time Philippe had been devastated by his mother’s death and ready to strike out at anyone who crossed his path. Carlos had been the son of a local fisherman and an English maid who worked at Philippe’s family estate, and not at all shy about holding his own, even against a nobleman.

      Philippe had been beaten senseless, but much to the astonishment of all, he had refused to allow Carlos to be punished. In truth, he had developed a grudging respect for the ill-tamed rascal who would rather risk the pillory than be bested.

      It was a friendship that had flourished despite the disparity in their social positions, and Philippe knew there was no one he trusted more in the world.

      Which was precisely why he had insisted that Carlos accompany him on this journey to England.

      “So you do not possess faith in the cook’s uncanny nose?” Carlos demanded, revealing he had been lurking in the shadows to listen to Philippe’s conversation with the innkeeper.

      “Ridiculous jackass.” Philippe settled back in the seat and pulled his coat about him. Lud, but he had forgotten just how cold and miserable England could be in November. “As if I were not perfectly aware he was attempting to cozen me into spending the night at his shabby inn.”

      Carlos smiled as he rammed his hands through the long black hair that had been tousled by the stiff breeze.

      “Well, you can hardly blame the man. He is stuck in the midst of this dreary landscape with no companionship beyond cows and half-wits. How often do you suppose such a fine and elegant gentleman arrives at his humble establishment? No doubt he was already plotting to have the town crier inform the local citizens that you halted for a mug of cider. Just imagine the bragging he could have done if you were to have actually slept in one of his beds.”

      “Along with the bedbugs and mice?” Philippe shuddered. “No thank you.”

      “We have bedded down in worse.”

      That was true enough. Over the years Philippe and Carlos had bunked down in hovels, fields, and on one unforgettable occasion, in the dank cells of a Brazilian prison.

      “Only when promised enough of a fortune to make it worth my while, and never where I am forced to endure such a despicable toadeater,” Philippe drawled. “What news from the stables?”

      “There have been no strangers pass this way for the past fortnight.”

      Philippe swallowed a curse. It