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home with a clatter indicative of shaking hands.
    Danbury rushed forward to catch her. “Did anyone ever tell you that you should be treading the boards? You could do marvels with Shakespeare.”
    Lydia gave a snort of laughter, but did not otherwise dignify Lord Danbury’s remark with a response. “Come on.” She tugged on his sleeve wanting to be away as quickly as possible. The relief bubbling through her felt tenuous, as if her escape might be snatched away at any second.

C HAPTER 8
    Marcus observed the nefarious doings of the two housebreakers from a safe distance. What could the wealthy lord want from a rundown coffee house? Whatever it might be, it ought to prove highly interesting. And he now had the leverage he needed.
    As if playing some demented parlour game he crept close behind the earl and his companion. He tightened the grip on his cane, holding it just below the heavy knob that could break bones if necessary.
    â€œLord Danbury, what brings you out at such a late hour?” He kept his voice light, but the sound of it brought the pair to a dead halt.
    Danbury turned only his head. “Ah, Harting, how are you?”
    â€œI am decidedly well. Miss, I do not believe I have had the pleasure.”
    â€œMay I present Miss Lydia Garrett. Lydia, the Honourable Marcus Harting,” Danbury said woodenly. “He is the fifth—”
    â€œFourth,” Marcus corrected lazily.
    â€œFourth,” amended Danbury, “son of the Viscount of Wiltshire.”
    â€œI am charmed.” Marcus took the girl’s hand and raised it to his lips before turning his attention back to Danbury. “We should chat.”
    â€œYes, well. We…”
    â€œCome now, Danbury. I saw everything. I’m sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for your actions. I would enjoy hearing it.” When his quarry said nothing, Marcus adopted hisblandest smile. “It would pain me to have to call the watch and see you taken up for theft.”
    With a disgruntled sigh, Danbury gave in to the inevitable. “Perhaps you could come with us? I’ll explain on the way home.”
    Humming a merry tune, Marcus followed the downcast pair back to the waiting carriage and climbed in behind them. Despite the lighthearted melody, Marcus scrutinized his quarry. He was taking no chances with these two. The most dangerous traitor England had suffered in centuries was still at large and he needed answers.

    If it had not been for the flash of decisive intelligence Anthony had seen gleaming in Harting’s eyes and the fact that he obviously meant to try his hand at blackmail, he’d have thought him a bit simple. His monotonous humming could drive a person to distraction.
    The man was about the same age, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven, his form as lean and tall as a whip, and dressed as nattily as Beau Brummell. But his usual air of languid vapidity was absent. His family had money and influence aplenty, and on the few occasions they had met heretofore, he had struck Anthony as inoffensive enough. What was he up to?
    The continued drone of Harting’s humming peeled away at Anthony’s good breeding as if it were an orange. Indignation rose in his chest. Why was he prying into Anthony’s personal affairs in such an ungentlemanly fashion?
    He smothered a growl as it tried to escape. Harting’s usual indolence belied the idea that he should interest himself in anything beyond his own person—just Anthony’s luck that he should spark the fop’s curiosity.
    â€œSir, as enchanting as your melody is, I pray you to cease.” At the sound of Lydia’s voice, Harting broke off in mid-note.
    â€œPlease accept my humblest apologies, Miss Garrett.” Helowered his head in formal salute. “From what part of the country do you hail? Perhaps I know your people.”
    â€œThat is highly unlikely, sir.” Her tone might have cut glass. “In fact,