Lucinda wept now. "This is my fault. If I had listened to her, even tried to understand, none of this would have happened."

"Braxton still would have made off with Mother's jewels," Adam said. He was Lizzie's tall, dark, handsome husband.

"Annabel had to get married," Melissa stated. "We all have married, and she is the oldest. It is not our fault that she could not find true love!" She turned to smile at her husband. John smiled back and they clasped hands over the back of the sofa.

"Well, an unconventional woman is a reckless woman, and perhaps Miss Annabel met this gent, fell in love, and rushed off with him purposefully." Thompson nodded to himself.

"She did no such thing!" Boothe cried. But then he faced Lizzie. "Did she?"

Lizzie was white. "Papa, I am certain that she never laid eyes upon that fellow before this afternoon." But Lizzie's hands toyed with the folds of her evening gown. Her face showed dismay.

"You don't sound certain," Thompson said flatly.

"No one can ever be certain about Annabel," John muttered.

"She is truly impossible to fathom," Melissa stated. "Miss Boothe?" Thompson prompted Lizzie gently but firmly.

Lizzie bit her lip. Tears had filled her eyes. "Annabel would never…" she began, then trailed off. The tip of her nose was turning red.

"Do you know something you are not telling us?" Boothe was roaring again, but his eyes were wide and he was aghast.

"I do not know anything. I only know that I love my sister and she is the most brave and daring woman!" Lizzie flung her hands up into the air, tears trickling down her cheeks. Adam rushed to her side, slipping his arm around her. "She never said a word to me about meeting someone, or falling in love. There was a time when she was trying very hard to convince herself that Harold was right for her, but a few days ago she gave that up. She was terrified of marrying him-of marrying anyone, truthfully. She did not want to wed!"

"Annabel did not want to marry," Melissa agreed. "Not ever."

"Well. This is quite interesting. A very unusual woman, hmm?" Thompson had pulled out his notebook and made a short, decisive note. He slipped it back into an interior breast pocket. "Miss Boothe. Was your sister capable of falling in love with a complete stranger and running away with him?"

Lizzie stared. Her hand slipped into Adam's.

"Miss Boothe? I am not asking you if she did such a thing. I am asking you if she was capable of such recklessness."

Lizzie remained mute. She glanced fearfully at Adam. "You need not answer," he said, but his own expression was strained.

"Oh, pshaw," Melissa said, waving one slim hand and standing. Her pale, cream-colored chiffon gown fell in rippling folds about her. "Not only does everyone in this room know that Annabel was indeed capable of just that, so do all our friends. Her character, such as it is, is hardly a secret!"

Thompson looked around him, taking in everyone's expression, and he nodded. He folded his thick arms across his chest. "Well."

Boothe rubbed his temples, standing. "If Annabel was seduced by Braxton, it is not her fault. I was seduced by him, by God. The man is charming and clever. I truly believed him to be who and what he said he was." He flushed again. "I want him behind bars!"

"He is a professional, that is obvious, and I am certain that in no time we will have a dozen or two possible makes on him. We have already sent a telegram to Scotland Yard. Have no fear, Mr. Boothe. Even if your daughter was an accomplice to this crime, a crime has been committed, and it is my duty to solve it and apprehend the perpetrators. And I shall do just that." Boothe nodded with satisfaction. "I shall notify you the moment they are found. And in the interim, do not be surprised if I return to ask further questions."

"Wait." Boothe stopped him just before he could walk out of the library door. "I wish to offer a reward for the return of my daughter. Post it immediately. Fifty thousand dollars."

Thompson's eyes widened. "Very well. I will post it- but for her return alive, Mr. Boothe. I am sure you would not want it any other way."

A small cry sounded. Both men turned to watch Lucinda slumping into a faint, her two daughters and sons-in-law rushing to her.

"There's a patrol up ahead."

Annabel sat on the front seat of the carriage beside Braxton, and she had just seen the mounted policeman herself. She froze, her hands gripping the leather seat, her heart sinking like a stone. But Braxton did not stop the carriage. He continued to drive forward at the same steady pace. It was a pace that precisely matched his previous, matter-of-fact tone.

They had been traveling north for about twenty minutes, through the wooded, suburban countryside surrounding Manhattan. Every now and then they had passed a farm or an orchard. Otherwise, homes were interspersed in the wooded countryside. She wasn't quite sure where they were, exactly, but she knew they were all about to be captured. "What are you doing?" she whispered, gripping his arm.

"Relax, Charles," Braxton said with a smile.

She stared at him. When they had left the barn, he bad made her put some dirt on her face and Louie's cap on her head, her long blond hair twisted up beneath it, but she did not think she was going to pass muster as a young man. And what about Braxton? A change of clothes was hardly a disguise! His description, which was hardly average, had to be everywhere and his very upper-crust British accent was a dead giveaway.

He halted the carriage as two policemen came forward on big bay horses. He was smiling at them. Annabel thought her own cheeks were red. She was afraid to breathe.

"I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the carriage, sir," one mounted officer with a big mustache said.

"Afternoon. What's this about, officers?" Braxton asked-in a clipped and nasal Yankee twang.

Annabel realized she was gaping and she shut her mouth.

"Please step down."

"Glad to obey, got all the time in the world," Braxton said, sounding as if he were a native Brahmin of Boston. He stepped lithely out of the carriage.

" Boston, eh?" the officer said, dismounting. His tone had changed, becoming less firm, softer.

"Born and raised, just like my father and his father before him." Braxton was cheerful.

The officer nodded, then glanced at Annabel and Louie. "Who are they?"

"Charlie is a distant cousin. He's an orphan-his grandmother just died. I'm concluding a bit of business in town, stocks, you know, and am bringing him home with me."

"An orphan, eh?" the officer said. He was chewing tobacco now and eyeing Annabel closely.

Annabel was afraid he could see through her absurd disguise, or that he was going to ask her a question directly, and she felt herself turning redder still, but then he looked at Louie. She almost swooned with relief.

Louie, meanwhile, appeared to have fallen asleep in the back seat. Annabel closed her eyes. "My groom," Braxton said.

Annabel jerked, thinking of Harold, certain the thief, damn him, was doing this to her on purpose.

The officer nodded and turned away, mounting. "Sorry to bother you folks. But we're looking for a very clever Englishman and a young woman he has abducted." He tipped his hat. "Seems he also made off with a small fortune in jewels."

Braxton stepped up into the carriage. "Criminals these days," he said with a shake of his head. Annabel felt like killing him. "The nerve! Thank God we have men like you serving citizens like us. Astute and perceptive officers of the law, capable of protecting the innocent and apprehending the guilty."

Annabel looked at him with murder in her eyes.

The policeman smiled. "Have a good day, sir," he said.

Braxton smiled back, lifted the reins, and drove the bay gelding past the barricade. Annabel sat staring stiffly ahead. Her heart continued to beat with frantic insistence. Clop clop clop. The gelding trotted along, taking them farther and farther away from the policemen and the road block. She wanted to look back over her shoulder to see if the two officers had realized their mistake and were now charging after them.

"Do not look back," he said in his usual, aristocratic British accent.

She looked at him. He was smiling. Unruffled, unperturbed-as if this kind of hair-raising narrow escape was an everyday occurrence. "You are not even sweating!" she accused.

" 'E don't sweat," Louie said from the back seat. He glanced at her briefly. "Aren't you supposed to say 'perspiring'?" "You are laughing!"

"You, my dear, are the one perspiring."

Annabel took a deep breath and collapsed against the seat. "I admit to being afraid."

"Why? You had nothing to lose-unlike Louie and myself."

Their gazes had locked. "I told you, I cannot go back. Not yet."

"Yes," he said softly, still holding her regard with his. "You most certainly did."

Annabel felt herself stiffening. She thought about being in his arms, about receiving his kiss. Then she shook herself free of the thought. What was wrong with her? Tonight she would explain everything, and there was not going to be either an embrace or a kiss or, dear God, anything else. But her reputation would be ruined and she could return home, a free woman at last.

She thought about her family and felt a twinge of guilt, for putting them through the ordeal of her disappearance. However, far more than guilt claimed her now. Soon she could return home with her ruined reputation, and she felt nothing but dismay at the thought.

She did not want to go home. Being on the run with Braxton was exciting. Her life had never been this exciting before. And she did her best to make it unusual and entertaining; Annabel knew she lived a far more imprudent existence than any woman of her acquaintance. She was always doing something thrilling. For a while she had actually exercised racehorses at dawn. She had spent a year enrolled in a very Bohemian art class on the Lower East Side. She had even modeled for some of the artists-without her clothing. She had taken employment as a shop girl for two weeks in Wanamaker's department store-which was but a block away from her father's emporium. All of these endeavors, of course, had been found out. Missy was a snoop.

And then there was her tennis game, her books, and travel. She adored all three pastimes, but especially traveling abroad. She had been visiting Europe one or two times a year since she was twenty-one. Her father had actually encouraged such adventure, but Annabel knew he had done so only because he hoped she would meet an appropriate man and fall in love and come home affianced.

But nothing to date had been as exciting as being with this man.

"You are staring at me," he said softly.

She swallowed. Not only was she staring, she had been envisioning herself once again in his embrace. Except this time he had been unclothed. He had been long and lean and all hard muscle. Such a thought should be shameful. Annabel found it intriguing.

He was intriguing.

Annabel looked away. They were entering the village of Mott Haven. It was nothing more than a collection of wood-shingled homes, four- and five-story brick stores, and farms. She did not really see the town. She was in trouble, fairly deeply; Annabel knew herself too well. If she continued to think this way, she was going to become even more deeply in trouble than she already was-perhaps irreparably so.

She wanted to ignore the little warning bells going off inside her head. Usually, she did. And then she would be off and running with a new pursuit. The end result was always the same. Being found out, set down, grounded for a time. And being talked about. Poor, poor, unfortunate Annabel Boo the! Whatever makes her so wild, so reckless, so headstrong? Annabel smiled. She considered her peers to be the unfortunate ones.

But to start thinking about her life being boring in comparison with his, why, that was very dangerous, indeed. That could lead her farther astray than she had ever intended to go. Maybe, as Melissa kept saying, there was something wrong with her. Drastically so.

"Is something wrong, Miss Boothe?" He interrupted her thoughts.

Annabel started. "No! No. Nothing is amiss." She smiled at him, but it was strained.

His blue gaze was brilliant and searching. "Having regrets?"

She straightened. "I never have regrets," she said._ His only response was a long, inscrutable, and very wide stare.

Annabel smiled sweetly at him. And realized that night was falling.

Chapter four

The cheerful and freshly painted white clapboard house was one of the last on Main Street. A white picket fence surrounded it and there was a red barn in the backyard. Braxton drove the carriage directly around the house and into the barn. Both wide, whitewashed doors had been left open.