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“I need my horse brought around by the time I have helped Miss Hadford into her saddle.”

“Right away, my lord.” He handed Adam his clothing and disappeared.

“Come,” Adam said, slipping his cloak over his shoulders and pressing his hat to his head as he walked Phoebe through the doors.

The faint light coming from the house extended just far enough to see that Aria had meandered from the front steps to the nearby lawn. When Phoebe appeared on the top step, the horse looked up from her grazing, her eyes shining in the darkness. Adam hurried down the remaining steps, felt for the leather straps trailing the ground, and led the horse back to Phoebe.

“Quickly, Adam,” she said.

Already, he could hear the clatter of hooves crossing the yard from the stables. He released the horse’s straps and moved closer to Phoebe. Without a word, he placed his hands around her tiny waist, and in one swift motion, he lifted her onto the saddle. Her legs were lost in a mass of petticoats, and she slid back slightly before reaching for the reins.

“Are you seated correctly?” he asked.

“As well as can be expected in this ridiculous gown.”

He grunted. If Phoebe’s choice of attire did not kill her first, it would likely kill him. Every time he saw her, she appeared more beautiful than the last—windswept hair notwithstanding.

Oliver rounded the house, leading Adam’s horse at a run. Adam went to meet him, and when the groom caught sight of him in the gloom, he brought the stallion to a halt long enough to allow Adam to mount before tossing him the reins. A few yards away, the shifting of gravel was Adam’s only warning that Phoebe was leaving. Seconds later, Aria’s hooves pounded down the drive, her rider bent low in her saddle. Adam did not hesitate. He touched his heels to his stallion’s side and tore after her.

Phoebe’s heart pounded in unison with Aria’s hooves. Would they be in time? Was she correct about her father’s guest? What if, after all this, the gentleman truly was an eccentric war hero by the name of Edward Trevors? She gritted her teeth as another gust of wind tugged at her cloak and hair. No. She was putting her trust in her instincts, and until she was proven wrong, she would heed them.

The large oak tree that marked the start of Charwell Park’s drive materialized in the moonlight. She glanced over her shoulder. Adam was at her right. He had kept his horse a nose behind hers the entire ride, matching her pace and following her lead as she navigated the twisting lane that connected their houses.

“The Charwell Park entrance is up ahead,” she called.

He did not reply, but his horse dropped back another couple of feet. She followed suit, slowing Aria’s gallop to a brisk trot as they turned off the road.

For the first part of the drive, the trees obscured her view of the house, but when she reached the last bend, the vista opened up. The large house stood with candles flickering at half a dozen windows and a lantern at the door—but no dark shadow stood before the front steps. The spot where the carriage had waited was empty.

“He’s gone,” Phoebe cried. “We are too late.”

For one desperate moment, she considered swinging Aria around and racing after the carriage. There was a possibility that she could catch it before it reached the London road. But Adam’s voice cut into her frantic thoughts.

“We must find your father.”

They raced the last two hundred yards to the front of the house. Adam reached it first and was out of his saddle before she reined Aria to a stop. He stepped up beside her and extended his arms. She dropped into them and then broke free, stumbling up the steps and into the house.

“Father!” she called, running toward the study. Gresham appeared, his startled gaze moving from her to the gentleman following in her wake. But Phoebe did not stop to explain. She reached her father’s study and gave a brief rap on the door before pushing it open.

Her father looked up from behind his desk. “Phoebe! What is the meaning of this commotion?” His attention slid to the gentleman entering the room behind her, and he rose to his feet, astonishment curtailing his reprimand. “Lord Dunsbourne.”

“Hadford.” Adam moved farther into the room. “Forgive the discourteous interruption, but to be brief—because time is of the essence—what can you tell me of the gentleman who was recently with you?”

“Mr. Trevors? We conducted a small matter of private business, and then he left.” Her father’s confused gaze went from Adam to Phoebe and back again. “May I ask what this is all about?”

Phoebe stepped forward, her hands clenched to stop from wringing them. “Please, Father, we do not have time for lengthy explanations. Did you or did you not give Mr. Trevors any money?”

Her father’s expression was growing more and more concerned. “I wrote him a check, but it was for half the amount he gave me.”

“Let me guess,” Adam said. “He had a single bank note in his pocket, which he asked you to break. As you did not have sufficient funds on hand, he accepted a hand-written check for an exorbitantly large amount instead.”

“Why, yes.”

Adam muttered a curse and paced to the fireplace and back. “How long ago did the scoundrel leave?”

“The scoundrel?” Her father picked up a slip of paper from the desk and showed it to Adam. “He did not rob me, my lord. He gave me a one thousand pound note.”

“If Mr. Trevors is really who your daughter thinks he is,” Adam said, “then that bank note is a forgery, and he has most certainly robbed you.”