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Emily stood holding their one candle over Lynley. Mr. Windle peered at the bullet wound and then at the bruises on Lynley’s chest and ribs. “And who are you?”

“Sir Ajax Lynley of Buckinghamshire.”

“Buckinghamshire?” Windle glanced at Lynley’s pistol lying on his black cloak by the hearth. He turned a skeptical gaze on Emily. “And you? His sister, perhaps?”

“His fiancée,” said Emily levelly. “We were on the road to Dover and stopped at Lord Strayde’s request to see the state of the parsonage. Unfortunately, a pair of ruffians had broken in, and attacked Lynley until he was able to fire his weapon.”

“Hmm,” he said, examining Lynley’s arm with a gentleness at odds with his heavy frown. “The ball seems to have gone cleanly through. As you’re the sort to wear clean linen, you probably have little to fear from infection. Did you lose much blood?”

Emily showed Windle the wadded neckcloth. He nodded.

“Replenish the lost fluids,” he said.

He produced a glass and looked closely at the wound. With a sharp blade he cut away a fine layer of skin around the two openings. He fashioned a dressing and tied it neatly around Lynley’s arm. He returned his instruments to his bag and issued a series of orders to Lynley to open and close his fist, bend his elbow, and slowly raise the injured arm. Finally, he probed the bruises on Lynley’s torso. “I find no broken ribs. You’re lucky.”

“What may I give him?” Emily asked.

“Broth, and I’ll leave you a saline draught for the pain.” Windle snapped his bag closed and faced them, looking grave.

“And what may we give you for your services?” she asked. She had little money with her, but when Goldsworthy returned, they could offer more.

“That depends,” he said. He pointed to Lynley’s gun. “That’s a dueling pistol, young man, and a damned fine one, if I’m any judge. And I’m told that the only gentleman in Buckinghamshire who wears a black cloak and a black hat is a highwayman. I’ve a mind to call the magistrate.”

While Emily was considering how to answer him, a carriage pulled up at the door. Goldsworthy’s voice boomed a greeting, and his heavy tread sounded in the passage.

Dr. Windle gaped when Goldsworthy filled the doorway and squeezed into the parlor with his treelike bulk.

“Yer the sawbones, are you?” he said. “How’s my lad?”

“Should be locked up, if you ask me,” said Windle. “There’s some havey-cavey business going on here.”

“Lock up Lynley?” Goldsworthy crossed to Lynley’s side and put a huge hand on his good shoulder. “Every Englishman should drink to his health. He just saved us from going to war.”

Lynley looked up. “You got the papers then?”

“It was just as you thought. Walhouse took a wood splinter in the arm from your shot. That and the weather slowed him down. Only got as far as Cuxton. Nabbed him nursing his woes over a bit of punch in the landlord’s private room.”

“And the papers?”

“The shah’s letters to the prince were in Walhouse’s traveling case, every last one.”

“Now, see here,” said the doctor, drawing himself up to face Goldsworthy.

Emily found the room very full of men and their assumptions.

“Broth,” she said to Lynley.

Offering her love a cup, Emily left the men to sort their differences and slipped away to the little barn. She found and lit a lamp from her candle, and turned her attention to Sultan.

She removed his saddle and bridle, pumped water into a pail for him, and began to brush him down with what tools she could find. She stood in the murky barn stroking the silky coat, talking to the stallion about Lynley, explaining their partnership, and feeling the horse begin to relax under her hands.

“You’ve missed him and fretted about him, haven’t you?” she asked. “He’ll mend,” she promised.

When she returned, Goldsworthy had convinced the doctor to accept that they were on the side of law and order, and to take Wilde with him to procure them a chaise for their return to London. The idyll of seduction was over.

* * * *

In the morning Goldsworthy delivered Emily to her father’s London house, saw her in the door with his oversized courtesy, and took Lynley away, because he could, because Lynley was a spy in the service of his country before he was the fiancé of some spoiled London miss who had had little to trouble or vex her in nearly twenty-nine years of existence, but who must now learn patience.