Even though Devorlane Hawley had given Lord Koorecroft his word he'd stay away and give the "widow" Armstrong no more trouble, his fine, chestnut mount hadn't. Mephisto had ambled up the shallow incline close to Barwych of his own accord after a short canter across the downs. Of course he'd done nothing to stop the gelding. Mephisto had a mind of his own.
Of course he glanced down onto the wooded plain below. Why not see what her thief-ship was up to?
Giving his word was paying lip service. He'd other plans. Little irons in hotly burning flames. He'd written to Colonel Caruthers. It wasn't exactly an acceptance of the spying invitation. No. More an outlining of one concerning a certain person.
Reining Mephisto, he stopped among the trees where he remembered picnicking as a boy, on the r
