Colin exhaled, remembering his emotional exchange with his two compatriots the day he had learned his future father-in-law had broken the betrothal agreement between Colin and his daughter. The day Jarrod had discovered Colin sniveling like a baby and commented upon it. Moments later, Colin had punched Jarrod in the nose. Jarrod had retaliated by blackening Colin’s eye, and Griffin had gotten a split lip when he attempted to separate the two of them.
As a result, the three boys had been sent to Norworthy. They had been punished for brawling and had received a caning before the whole assembly. A friendship forged in blood and pain began that day, and later that night, the Free Fellows League was born.
“I canna blame Sir Preston,” Colin had confided in a Scots burr thick with emotion when the three of them had slipped out of their dormitories and headed to the kitchens to draw up the rules of the Free Fellows League, “For wanting the best for his daughter. And there’s no doubt that with my father’s ill fortune at the card tables, my prospects have dimmed. The only thing I’ll inherit is a title and a mountain of debts.” He took a deep breath and fought to keep from crying. “But I canna help but feel bad about Esme. We’ve been betrothed from the cradle. I thought she cared more about me than about my prospects.”
Jarrod had let out a contemptuous snort. “You do better to learn it now. Nobody cares about us. We’re eldest sons. We’re supposed to stay alive because as long as we’re breathing the family line is safe. We’re supposed to breathe, but we’re not supposed to live. The only thing anyone cares about when it comes to eldest sons is their titles and prospects,” Jarrod pronounced, staring at Colin and Griffin as he imparted the wisdom his extra year of life and his higher rank had afforded him. “And there’s no use sniveling about it because, you see, girls are the very worst sort of snobs. They have no choice. They have to marry a man with good prospects. To do anything less is to disappoint the family.” He drew himself up to his full height. “Better to do as we’ve decided and swear off girls altogether.”
“That’s right,” Griffin had chimed in. “Who needs them?”
“Not us.” Jarrod reached around Griff and gave Colin a keep-your-chin-up punch in the arm. “We’re going to be the three greatest heroes England has ever known! And no girl is going to stop us!”
And no girl had! Colin grinned down at his friends from the top of the tower. He had done it! He had conquered his greatest fear and scaled the wall of the tallest building on the Knightsguild grounds.
Jarrod and Griffin smiled up at him and gestured for him to come down. Colin turned toward the interior stairs, but Jarrod shook his head.
“Not that way!” Jarrod called.
Colin took a deep breath and swung his leg back over the side of the bell tower. He might have known Jarrod wouldn’t let him take the easy way down. No stairs. The only way down for him was the same way he’d come up. The hard way.
Feeling for his first foothold, Colin began the arduous journey from tower top to ground. A quarter of an hour later, he’d made it.
Expecting congratulations from his friends, Colin was met with a brusque greeting and an order from Jarrod.
“Now,” Jarrod said, as soon as Colin’s feet touched terra firma, “do it again. Only faster this time. We haven’t got all night.”
“Yeah,” Griffin chimed. “If we’re late for morning assembly, there will be canings all around.”
Colin climbed. Up and down two more times before Jarrod was satisfied. And when they left the quadrangle and hour or so before the breakfast bells rang, the bonds between them had become unbreakable bonds forged from fear and pain and imbued with the sweet thrill of victory.
Three nights ago, Griffin, Colin, and Jarrod had formed a secret society guaranteed to protect them from further pain wrought in the name of love and family and had fashioned a charter to govern it. They called it the “Official Charter of the Free Fellows League,” and as they pricked their thumbs with the paring knife and eagerly signed their names to the paper in blood, the three had sworn to honor the agreement as long as they lived.
And tonight the members of the Free Fellows League had triumphed in their maiden mission. They had overcome their initial obstacle in their journey to becoming England and Scotland’s greatest heroes.
The work of the League had begun.
Chapter One
“Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage.”
—William Shakespeare, 1564-1616
Twelfth Night
London
Early spring, 1812
“What do you mean you don’t know where she is?” The first Baron Davies was rapidly losing patience with the Bow Street runner he had hired to investigate the disappearance of his daughter.
“I mean, my lord, that we cannot find her.” He cleared his throat, straightened his scarlet waistcoat, and pulled himself up to his full height “We have found no trace of her in London, sir. Your daughter has disappeared.”
Lord Davies thumped his fist on the top of his oak desk. “Tell me something I don’t know. No one has seen my daughter in a week, not since she and her mother became separated at Lady Weatherby’s musicale. I know Gillian has disappeared. What I don’t know is why. Or why a man of my wealth and stature has yet to receive a request for ransom.”
The runner cleared his throat once again, shifted his weight from one foot to another, then discreetly tugged at the hem of his jacket. “We don’t believe your daughter was kidnapped, my lord.”
Baron Davies shot to his feet. “Then, blast it, man! Where is she?”
“We believe your daughter eloped, sir.”
“Eloped?” Baron Davies’s face turned an alarming shade of crimson, and his voice rose. “Eloped?” He shook his head. “Impossible!”
“I’m afraid it’s highly possible, sir,” the Bow Street runner replied. “Indeed, it is highly probable that your daughter eloped with a gentleman to Scotland.”
“What gentleman? Who?” Baron Davies demanded. “What gentleman would do such an ungentlemanly thing as to run off with a true gentleman’s daughter?”
The Bow Street investigator bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. It was well known in society and in London’s merchant class that the regent had only recently elevated Lord Davies to the rank of baron and of gentleman, but that Carter Davies, a wealthy, self-made silk merchant, had always considered himself the equal of any peer. “We believe he may be a confidence man—a rogue gentleman—who preys upon the innocent daughters of peers and upon wealthy widows, offering the promise of marriage and the romance and excitement of elopement to Gretna Green and other Scottish border towns.”
“My daughter would never demonstrate such poor judgment as to elope with a rogue,” Baron Davies insisted. “Gentleman or otherwise. Gillian is above such foolishness.”
“Perhaps not.”
Both men turned at the sound of the softly spoken contradiction.
Lord Davies raised an eyebrow when he recognized the voice as that of his wife. He reached out a hand to her. “Do you know something we should know, my dear?” he asked in a voice that was uncharacteristically gentle.
“I think I might,” she answered.
Lord Davies nodded thoughtfully. “Our Gilly has been missing for a week. Why haven’t you said something before now?”
Lady Davies took a hesitant step forward.
The investigator bowed over the baroness’s hand. He had never met Lady Davies before now, but he understood why the baron treated her with gentleness and admiration. Although she was reed thin and gave every appearance of fragility, there was an underlying strength in her that shone like a beacon in the night. She was calm and soft-spoken, and she exuded an air of strength and serenity. “My name is Wickham, my lady. I am employed at Bow Street.”
“Yes,” Lady Davies said. “I know what you are. I recognized your scarlet waistcoat.”
Wickham smiled. Bow Street runners were oftentimes called robin redbreasts because they all wore disti
nctive scarlet waistcoats as part of their uniforms. “We appreciate any light you might shed on your daughter’s disappearance.”
Lady Davies took a deep breath and fought to keep from giving way to her rising sense of panic. “There was a huge crush at Lady Weatherby’s musicale. Gillian and I were separated. During the first intermission, one of Lady Weatherby’s maids brought me a note from Gillian. She wrote to say that she had a headache and was returning home. I stayed at Lady Weatherby’s until the end of the program. When I returned home, I assumed Gillian was here.” She looked at her husband and then at the Bow Street investigator. “Our daughter has never lied to us. I had no reason not to believe her. I didn’t know she wasn’t in her room until the following morning, when her maid informed me that Gillian hadn’t returned home and that her bed had not been slept in.
“My husband is a very wealthy man, Mr. Wickham, and when he said he believed Gillian must have been kidnapped, I agreed. I thought that must be what happened to my daughter until I heard your explanation.” She turned to her husband. “And recalled Gillian’s keen infatuation with a particular young man who seemed to turn up wherever and whenever we ventured out.”
“Were you ever introduced to that particular young man?” Mr. Wickham asked.
Lady Davies nodded. “He said his name was Mr. Fox. Mr. Colin Fox.”
Mr. Wickham frowned. “Can you describe him?”
“He was young, tall, well-dressed, and quite handsome. His hair was light-colored. Light brown or brownish blond.”
“What about his eyes? What color were they?” Wickham asked.
“Blue,” Lady Davies answered. “A nice shade of blue.” The investigator groaned.
“Do you know him?” Lord Davies asked.
“No, sir,” Mr. Wickham said. “But I am well acquainted with young men like him. Their method of operation is a dedicated pursuit of their chosen young lady during the little season, followed by an elopement during the height of the real season when the possibility of disgrace usually engenders silence and a monetary payment for that silence.” Mr. Wickham didn’t disclose the fact that these unscrupulous men often married these young ladies under an assumed name, then abandoned them before returning to London and eloping with someone else.
“Could he have abducted our Gillian against her will?” Lord Davies asked.
“It’s possible,” Wickham said. “But it’s much more likely that he romanced her and that she was a willing partner.”
“But she would never...” the baron stuttered.
“She might,” Lady Davies reminded him. “If she fancied herself in love with a man of whom you would not approve.” She looked up at her husband, “Our most sensible and levelheaded daughter is young and in love for the first time in her life.”
“But to elope?” Lord Davies still couldn’t comprehend it. “With a plain mister when her father is a baron and she is a member of the peerage?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but it wouldn’t be the first time,” Wickham volunteered. “Lord Chemsford’s, Lord Barfield’s, and Lord Exeter’s youngest daughters all eloped to Gretna Green with young men who were not members of the peerage.”
Lord Davies whistled beneath his breath. “What of the scandal? Once we locate our daughter, how do we protect her good name and prevent scandal? How is it possible that I haven’t heard so much as a whisper of gossip about the young ladies whose names you mentioned?”
“It’s simple, my lord,” Wickham answered. “You do as the other gentlemen did. Either embrace your daughter’s choice of a husband or, if the marriage is legitimate, arrange a swift annulment. Or a legitimate marriage to someone of your choosing.”
“Annulment?” The baron looked puzzled. “But it’s been a week. Surely he and she...” he stuttered. “By the time we locate her, she could be increasing.”
Wickham nodded in agreement. “By your own admission, you’re a very wealthy man, my lord. Do as Lord Exeter did and marry your daughter off to a gentleman in need of cash as soon as it can be arranged.”
Lord Davies snorted. “Bribe some unsuspecting gentleman to marry my daughter?”
“Indeed, sir,” the Bow Street runner said. “A gentleman of an old, respectable family is generally best.”
Lord Davies clenched his fists while a muscle worked in his jaw. “First things first,” he replied. “First find my daughter, then find out if her judgment proved faulty.” He looked to his wife. “There’s no need to bribe anyone unless it’s necessary. No need to do anything until we know the truth.”
Chapter Two
“Neither maid, widow, nor wife.”
—William Shakespeare, 1564-1616
Measure for Measure
Edinburgh, Scotland
Two days later
Colin McElreath felt the short hairs at the back of his neck stand up in alarm as he made his way through the narrow rabbit’s warren of the close behind the ancient stone buildings clustered at the mouth of the Firth of Forth. He paused beside the steps that led to the back door of the Blue Bottle Inn, drew his dirk, and glanced over his shoulder to see if the presence he sensed had followed him out in the cold predawn light and decided to set upon him.
There was no one in sight, but Colin was sure someone was watching. The prickling warning along his spine and the back of his neck was never wrong. He always paid it heed, because it had kept him alive more times than he cared to count. His chosen profession and Edinburgh’s back alleyways were dangerous. Much too dangerous for him to discount.
Flipping his heavy black cloak out of the way of his sword arm, Colin glanced around once again and caught sight of a woman peering through the lace curtains of a second-floor window at the back of the Blue Bottle.
He exhaled the breath he’d been holding and relaxed as his nerve endings returned to normal. He was being followed. But by a gaze this time, rather than by an assailant. And that gaze was female.
Colin turned slightly and stole another glance at the window. She was still there. Watching. He pressed his lips together to keep from giving voice to his frustration. Having females watch him was nothing new. The ladies had always had an eye for him. His looks guaranteed admiring glances from the fairer sex wherever he went. The only thing out of the ordinary about having a woman peer at him through the lace curtains of a window was that this window belonged to the Blue Bottle Inn.
Colin frowned. He would have preferred to remain undetected, but the waves in the thick glass windowpanes that kept him from seeing her clearly also made it impossible for her to distinguish his features. Colin wagered that she wouldn’t recognize him if she met him face-to-face on the street.
And the same could be said of him. He had the impression of youth, but in truth, the mass of thick, dark hair framing her pale, oval face was the only feature Colin could truly discern, and for all he knew, her hair might be liberally streaked with gray.
He sheathed his dirk. He was safe. She might be looking out the window every few minutes, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking for someone else. Eagerly anticipating someone else’s arrival.
His presence in the alley had been a disappointment.
Her presence at the Blue Bottle Inn was a surprise.
The Blue Bottle was a waterfront establishment that generally catered to seafarers, smugglers, spies, and a collection of other unsavory fellows who met to engage in illegal pursuits and to discuss a bit of treason. It was where men like Colin went to plant false information and to ferret out the truth. It was not an establishment that catered to women. Other than an occasional serving girl and the innkeeper’s wife, Colin had never seen any women inside the Blue Bottle. And never any ladies. Although he couldn’t say why or how he knew, Colin was certain that the woman peering at him through the lace was a lady of quality. He was equally certain that she—whoever she was—posed no threat to him.
She had her own worries.
He lifted the latch on the kitchen door and quietly slipped inside the inn, hoping
to make his way to his room with no one the wiser, but the murmur of voices, the sound of footsteps scraping across the stone floor, and the flicker of light from the massive hearth warned him that there were others about.
Colin frowned. He’d spent over half the night slipping in and out of the cobweb of narrow alleys and closes that made up Edinburgh’s inner city, trailing two well-dressed French agents as they made the rounds of every alehouse and brothel in Old Town along the way from the Blue Bottle to the castle at the top of the Royal Mile. He had left one of the French agents snoring heavily, sleeping the sleep of the thoroughly debauched in an upstairs room in the White Lily Tavern at the end of Queen’s Close, then followed the other to the harbor and watched as he was ferried out to a merchant ship anchored in the firth.
The merchant ship was familiar to him. Less than a fortnight ago, Colin had sailed into the Firth of Forth aboard an identical ship. But the ship from which Colin had disembarked had sailed under a British flag and been named The Lady Dee. The ship docked in the firth tonight bore Dutch colors and was called The Diamond Princess. Colin wondered at that. Why would a ship of the same line bear Dutch colors while docked in Edinburgh? It seemed an odd thing to do, but Colin was in no condition to worry with the puzzle. He was bone weary and eager for a warm bed and a couple of hours of dreamless sleep.
The Frenchman at the White Lily was no threat. He was under constant surveillance—sharing a bed with one of Colin’s most trusted informants. He wasn’t going anywhere, and the Frenchman on The Diamond Princess would sail with the tide. The only thing left for Colin to do was make it to his bed unseen before the rest of the inn’s occupants began stirring.
Unfortunately, that was harder done than said. He pressed his back against the kitchen wall, blending into the darkness, concealing his face in the shadows, remaining hidden as he eavesdropped on a conversation that had begun in the corridor and continued into the kitchen.