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the Duke, very much the Major of Dragoons.
    “No, sir.”
    “Very well, then, resume your position.” As the old man marched back toward the wood, the Duke faced the frowning keepers. “Now I shall tell you this once only . There is a notorious traitor who is seeking to escape from England. He is reported in this area, and is thought to be negotiating with smugglers for his passage to France. I shall not call on you as loyal Englishmen for aid against this traitor, for I have no confidence whatever in your ability to be of any assistance to me!” This was said with such a glare that the keepers found themselves trying to make excuses for their own inadequacies. The terrible Major appearing to be a little appeased, the head keeper ventured to ask if his honor wished to send a message to Lord Denison.
    “Can we trust his loyalty?” challenged the Major.
    “Oh, yes sir, indeed his lordship is as loyal as any man hereabouts!” avowed one keeper, while the other hastened to agree that there wasn’t a loyaler man in these parts.
    Their statements did not seem to impress the officer overmuch. “In that case, I will send no message. We shall do what we came for and be gone before daylight tomorrow. See to it that we are not disturbed!” he ended with such a fierce glare that the gamekeepers nearly fell over their own feet getting away from the spot.
    There was a pregnant silence until the two intruders were well out of sight. Then the women drew closer to the Duke and stood in an admiring semicircle before him, smiling and talking softly. Quebracho loped silently into the glade, his grin a white slash in the dark face.
    “No Rom could have done it better,” he said with admiration. “The Whip and the others are in the woods, awaiting the outcome of your engaño , your trick. We like it very well!” he added, chuckling.
    The Duke sensed new acceptance from most of the tribe as they sat around the fire later, enjoying Lord Denison’s rabbits and birds. Only the Whip stayed aloof, his black gaze moving from the Duke’s face to that of Lara, who had seated herself beside the hero of the hour. Finally becoming uncomfortable at the proximity, the Duke arose and made his way to where the chief sat.
    “I told them we would be out of here by daylight,” he began.
    Anton shrugged. “That is well. Our business will be done by then.” He stared hard at Dane. “Preventives?” he asked softly.
    “Nay, I’m on a romantic errand,” denied the Duke, and then cursed himself at the quick, hard set of the chief’s body. “I am grateful for your hospitality,” he hastened to say, “but I must leave you as soon as we get to Sayre, where my business is waiting.”
    “That should be about noon, the day after tomorrow,” The Whip advised him. After a pause, he continued grudgingly, “Yours was a good ruse. We Roms enjoy a hoax well played. But I do not like you, Gorgio.”
    “I am your guest,” the Duke reminded him. “It would hardly be seemly of me to tell you the feeling is mutual.”
    A reluctant grin tugged at the gypsy’s hard mouth. “Yet you have managed to do so without being insulting. I begin to fear you, Gorgio.”
    “As I have always feared you,” said the Duke.  
    “It seems we both know how to lie,” retorted The Whip, for the first time that evening smiling easily.
    The Duke let him have the last word. It was good diplomacy.
     
     
    At noon of the second day after this encounter, the colorful procession of caravans wended its way down the Devon roads toward the sea. Ahead of them was a wood, stretching for a great distance on either side of the highway. Running off toward the ocean on the left, enclosing this side of the forest, was a high stone wall.
    Bracho, riding beside the Duke, pointed out the imposing barrier. “That is the boundary of Sayre Court,” he said. “It is your destination?”
    “I have some small business in the area,” admitted the Duke. He had no fear that the gypsy would