Chapter Sixteen

Ellie glanced from one man to the other in confusion.

"Harry, do you know this man?"

The stranger was shorter and broader than Harry, with curly brown hair lightly dusted with gray, upswept eyebrows, and a rounded face that made him look like a slightly naughty cherub.

Harry's face broke into a grin. "I do indeed." He slid off the bed and enfolded the man in a crushing, jubilant hug. "I didn't think you were coming back to England, you old rogue."

The older man shrugged. "You clearly haven't been reading the obituaries. Peregrine Barclay is dead!"

Harry seemed to understand the relevance of this strange information. " Finally . That's excellent news. What did he die of?"

"Ill temper and gout, I expect."

Ellie frowned. Belatedly realizing she was still brandishing the poker like a rapier, she lowered it to her side. "Could someone explain what's happening here, please?"

Harry sent her a laughing glance. "Of course, I'm sorry. Ellie, may I present the one and only Hugo Ambrose, sometimes known as Ambrose Cox."

Ellie's brows rose as she recognized the name Harry had given to Sergeant Morris. "Your mentor?"

"The very same," the older man said. "Although several inept law enforcement agencies simply refer to me as The Harlequin."

He straightened his rumpled dark jacket, shot a glance at the poker in Ellie's hand, and addressed Harry.

"Who is this delightfully bloodthirsty creature? She clearly subscribes to rule number three. I'm glad you didn't brain me with that poker, my dear."

"Rule number three is, never go anywhere without a weapon ," Harry explained. "Hugo, this is Eleanor Law. Daughter of the Lord Chief Justice."

The man's eyes twinkled with a devilish amusement. "Chief Justice, eh? You always liked to live dangerously. I do hope you're not breaking rule number four?"

Harry's dimples appeared. "Not yet. Although I can't deny the temptation has been almost overwhelming."

Ellie pressed her lips together. No doubt rule number four was something along the lines of never murder your accomplice .

Hugo kissed her hand with a flamboyant bow and she smiled; he was, without doubt, a charming, irrepressible rogue. It was easy to see where Harry had learned his scoundrelly ways.

"Why have you only returned to England now that somebody is dead?" she asked.

"Ah. Because of a foolish duel I was involved in over a decade ago," Ambrose replied.

"Did you kill your opponent?"

He gave a dismissive snort. "No. But the man I was meeting fired early. When he realized he'd missed me, he turned to run, so instead of knocking his hat off his head, as I'd planned, I accidentally took off the lobe of his ear."

Harry shook his head. "Needless to say, Barclay was livid. Despite the fact that it was his fault, the dishonorable sod."

"He told me to leave the country, and vowed to have me arrested and tried for attempted murder if I ever set foot in England again," Ambrose continued. "And since his father was a viscount with some dubious political connections and plenty of blunt, he had the means to carry out his threat, so I decided to make myself scarce for a while."

He smiled, and a pair of dimples almost as pronounced as Harry's appeared in his cheeks. "Luckily, there is much to enjoy on the Continent for a gentleman as enterprising as myself."

"Like helping wealthy, bored widows enjoy their fortunes to the fullest." Harry smiled.

Ambrose inclined his head in wry acknowledgment. "Happy days! And when those activities palled, I found other, more exiting ways to spend my time."

"More illegal ways," Harry elaborated. "Like stealing and gaming. Hugo taught me everything I know."

Ellie turned to Ambrose. "I assume you couldn't return until Barclay was dead because, unlike France, England doesn't have a statute of limitations on the prosecution of crimes?"

He shot her an approving look. "Clever girl. That's exactly it. I never doubted that he'd make good on his threat if he ever heard I'd returned."

"That explains why you're back in the country," Harry said. "But why are you here , in Willingham's bedroom?"

Ambrose reached into the inner pocket of his dark jacket and pulled out a handful of glittering jewels.

"I'm relieving Lady Willingham of her rather vulgar diamonds."

Ellie took a step back. "That's stealing! I can't be party to this!"

"It's justice," Ambrose countered. "Willingham was Barclay's second for the duel. He could have denounced Barclay as a cheat, and exonerated me, but instead he kept his mouth shut when Barclay paid him off, and let me be unfairly exiled for years."

He held a necklace up into a patch of moonlight, where it glittered softly. "This setting is extremely ugly. It doesn't do the diamonds justice. Lady Willingham can buy something nicer to replace it, and the inhabitants of the Traveler's Rest will be most appreciative of her generous donation."

He tucked the jewels back into his coat.

Ellie frowned, torn between wholehearted disapproval and reluctant admiration for his twisted—yet overall commendable—morals. She'd often decried the inequality of wealth in the world, but she'd never done anything quite so drastic about it.

"What are you doing here, Harry?" Ambrose asked. "If it's not breaking rule number four?"

Harry opened his mouth, but the other man raised his hand, exactly as Harry had done to Sergeant Morris.

"Wait! No, don't tell me! Let me guess. I bet it involves that rather lovely prayer book Willingham has stored in his safe." He waved toward the darkened study they'd just entered. "Through there."