Her captors left Heather trussed and gagged until they were some way out of Barnet and bowling along an empty stretch of road.

The instant they’d bundled her into the carriage outside Lady Herford’s, they’d wrapped a strip of linen about her face, efficiently gagging her, and had swiftly tied her hands, then her feet when she’d tried to kick them.

There hadn’t been just the two men. A woman, large and strong, had been waiting in the carriage with the gag held ready. Once Heather had been silenced and her limbs secured, they’d sat her on the forward-facing seat, next to the woman, and both men had sat opposite. One had told her to calm herself and just wait quietly, and all would soon be revealed.

That promise, and the fact they’d made no attempt whatever to harm her — indeed, they hadn’t even threatened her in any way — had given her pause. Enough to realize that she had no real choice, so she might as well do as they’d asked.

That hadn’t stopped her thinking. Or imagining. But neither activity had got her very far. She knew so little. Nothing beyond that there were three of them plus the coachman on the box, and they were taking her north out of London. She had glimpsed enough landmarks along the way, recognized enough to be sure they were heading north.

They were on the Great North Road when the thinner of the men, at the taller end of medium height and decidedly wiry, with curly, mousy-brown hair and a sharp-featured face, said, “If you’re willing to be reasonable and behave, we’ll untie you. We’re on a long, lonely stretch and won’t be slowing for a good long while — no one about to hear you if you yell and scream, and if you manage to get out of the door, at this speed you’ll likely break a leg, if not your neck. So if you’re willing to be quiet and just sit and listen, we can untie you and explain what’s going on — how things are and how things are going to be. So.” He raised his brows at her. “What’s it to be?”

In the dimness within the carriage, she couldn’t truly see his eyes, but she looked in that direction and nodded.

“Smart girl,” the wiry one said. The comment held no sarcasm. “He did say you’d be clever.”

He, who? She watched as the wiry man, seated opposite, bent, reaching for her feet, then stopped.

He flicked a glance at the woman beside her. “Best you untie her feet.” Straightening, he reached for the cords binding Heather’s wrists.

Puzzled, she glanced at the woman, who huffed, then lumbered off the seat and crouched between the benches. She reached beneath Heather’s silk skirts to the linen strip wound about her ankles.

While they worked to loosen the bonds, Heather realized they’d been mindful of her modesty — as mindful as she’d allowed them to be. She hadn’t imagined kidnappers would be so. . gentlemanly.

Once her feet were free, the woman settled back beside her. “The gag, too?” the woman asked the wiry one.

His gaze on Heather, he nodded. “We’re to allow her as much comfort as possible, so unless she’s sillier than we all think, no need to keep it on.”

Heather turned her head, allowing the woman access to the knot at the back of her skull. When the linen fell from her face, she moistened her lips, worked her jaw, and felt a great deal better.

She looked at the wiry one. “Who are you, and who sent you?”

He grinned — a flash of white teeth in the shadows. “Ah, now, you’re getting a trifle ahead of us there, miss. I think perhaps I’d better first explain that we were sent to fetch one of the Cynster sisters — you or one of the others. We’ve been watching you all for more than a week, but none of you go anywhere without others about. Not until tonight, that is.” Wiry — Heather decided to call him that — half bowed. “We’re obliged to you for that. We’d started thinking we’d have to arrange something drastic to get one of you on your lonesome. Howsoever, now we have you, it’s best you realize that no attempt to escape us is likely to succeed — no one will help you, because we’ve a story that accounts for us taking you, and whatever you do or say, whatever protests you make, are only going to make our story seem more real and truthful to others.”

“What’s this story?” she asked. Wiry had an air of quiet competence about him; he didn’t seem the sort to make foolish declarations.

Just her luck to be abducted by kidnappers who could think.

As if to confirm her suspicion, Wiry smiled. His satisfaction resonated in his voice. “It’s a simple enough tale. We’ve been sent by your guardian to fetch you back to him. Ran away to wicked London, you did, escaped from his strict household. So he’s sent us to find you and take you back, and”—pausing dramatically, Wiry drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and waved it—“this is his authority for us to do whatever we need to do to hold you and transport you back to him.”

She frowned at the paper. “My father’s my guardian and he gave you no such permission.”

“Ah, but you’re not Miss Cynster, are you? You’re Miss Wallace, and your guardian, Sir Humphrey, is most anxious to get you back home where you belong.”

“Where’s my home?” She hoped he might say where they were taking her, but Wiry only smiled.

“You know it well, of course — no need for us to tell you.”

She fell silent, mentally reviewing their plan, seeking any possible way she might scupper it, but she carried nothing that would prove who she was. Her only hope — one she wasn’t about to voice — was a chance meeting with someone who knew her by sight. Unfortunately, the likelihood of that happening in the country in late March, with the Season just starting in London, wasn’t all that high.

She glanced at the woman beside her.

As if sensing the question in her mind, Wiry explained, “Martha here”—with his head he indicated the woman—“is, of course, the maid Sir Humphrey sent to lend you countenance on the journey.” Wiry’s lips curved. “Martha will remain with you at all times. Especially all the times it would be inappropriate for one of us — me or Cobbins here — to be by your side.”

Deciding that at the moment it behooved her to, as Wiry had put it, behave, Heather inclined her head, first to the woman alongside her, “ Martha,” then to the barrel-chested man, shorter than Wiry but of heavier build, who’d remained quietly seated in the far corner of the coach. “Cobbins.”

She turned her gaze on Wiry. “And you are?”

He smiled. “You may call me Fletcher, Miss Wallace.”

Heather thought of a few other epithets she might call him, but she merely inclined her head. Settling on the seat, she leaned her head back against the squabs and ventured nothing more. She sensed that Fletcher expected her to protest, perhaps beg for mercy, or try to subvert him and the others from their goal, but she saw no point in lowering herself to that.

No point at all.

The more she thought of all Fletcher had let fall, the more she felt certain of that. This had to be the strangest abduction she’d ever heard of. . well, she hadn’t heard the details of any abduction attempts, but it seemed distinctly odd that they were treating her so considerately, so. . sensibly. So terribly calmly and confidently.

They — Fletcher, Cobbins, and Martha — did not fit the prescription for run-of-the-mill kidnappers. They might not be genteel, yet they were not of the lowest orders, either. They were neatly and unobtrusively dressed. Although rather large and solid, Martha could indeed pass for a lady’s maid, certainly a lady who lived mostly in the country. Cobbins appeared reserved, and in his drab clothes seemed to fade into the background, but he, too, did not seem the sort one would find in a seedy hedge-tavern. Both he and Fletcher looked precisely like the sort of men they were claiming to be — the sort some wealthy country squire might hire to act as his agents.

Whoever had sent them to London had prepared them well. Their plan was both simple and, in the situation in which she now found herself, well nigh impossible to counter. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t escape — she would somehow — but before she did, she needed to learn more about the most puzzling aspect of this strange kidnapping.

They’d been sent to abduct not her specifically but one of the Cynster sisters — her, Eliza, or Angelica, and possibly her cousins, Henrietta and Mary, also “Cynster sisters.”

She couldn’t imagine what reason anyone would have for doing so other than a simple demand for ransom, but if that were the case, why take her out of London? Why take her off to some other man? She thought back, reassessed, but couldn’t shake the impression that all Fletcher had revealed was true — the trio were fetching her for some employer.

Hiring three people of the trio’s ilk, and a coachman and coach-and-four, and they’d been watching her and the others for over a week. . none of that sounded like a straightforward, opportunistic kidnapping for ransom.

But if not ransom, what was behind this? And if she escaped without learning the answer, would she and the others still remain under threat?

They’d had fresh horses put to in High Barnet, and so rattled on past Welham Green and through Welwyn.

Eventually, the carriage slowed, and they entered a small town. Fletcher leaned forward and looked out of the window. “Knebworth.” Sitting back, he studied Heather. “We’re going to stop here for the night. Are you going to be sensible and keep your mouth shut, or do we need to restrain you and tell the landlord our tale?”

If they did. . if her family came searching for her, as she knew they would — Henry, their old coachman, would have alerted the household by now — then having heard she was a Miss Wallace, the landlord and his staff might not mention her.

Eyes on Fletcher, she lifted her chin. “I’ll behave.”

He smiled, but encouragingly rather than victoriously. “That’s the ticket.”

Heather inwardly sighed. Fletcher’s lack of smugness proved he was intelligent. Despite his story, if she’d been prepared to throw a screaming tantrum she might have been able to have the local constable summoned — might have been able to convince him to hold her while he checked her story against her captors’. Unfortunately, her reputation wouldn’t easily withstand being so publicly found in kidnappers’ hands, Martha notwithstanding. Especially after she had that very evening made the unspoken declaration implied by stepping into the racy world of Lady Herford’s salon.

But above and beyond all else, while she remained quiet and played the role they’d planned for her, she wasn’t, as far as she could see, under any real threat, and wouldn’t be until they reached their employer. Until then, she would put her mind to ferreting out what lay behind this very strange kidnapping.

And then she’d use her wits and escape.

Chapter Two

Three hours later, Heather lay on her back in a not-so-comfortable bed in a room on the second floor of the Red Garter Inn at Knebworth and stared at the ceiling. Outside, the moon had finally sailed free of the clouds; the shaft of silvery light beaming in through the uncurtained window allowed her to see the ceiling well enough, not that she was actually studying it.

“What the devil am I to do?” She sent the whispered question floating upward, but no answer came.

She’d been right in rejecting the notion of making a scene and trying to bend the innkeeper and his patrons to her cause. Once she’d observed her captors in lamplight, she’d realized her earlier estimation of their competence hadn’t done them justice. Fletcher in particular appeared personable enough to raise questions as to whether she’d left London with him willingly or not. Meeting his eyes with light enough to see into them had confirmed beyond doubt that he was not only intelligent but quick-witted and cunning as well. If she tried to persuade others to help her against him, he would use every possible argument to counter hers. And he knew what “every possible argument” encompassed. If she pushed him hard enough, her reputation would be shredded, and she still might not win free.

Bad enough, but any consequent idea that it might perhaps be wiser to escape now, while she was still within reach of London and the protection of her family, even without learning more about the reasons behind her abduction, had been slain shortly after birth.

They’d taken her clothes.

In the carriage, long before they’d untied her, Martha had produced a dark wool cloak and solicitously wrapped it about her. That, indeed, had been the first sign that they intended to take reasonable care of her; she’d been grateful for the warmth as the night had progressed. At Fletcher’s instruction, she’d kept the cloak close about her when they’d entered the inn. Once she and Martha had repaired to this room and shut the door, however, Martha had reclaimed the cloak. She’d then suggested Heather remove her gown before getting into bed; Heather had complied without really thinking — she wasn’t in the habit of wearing evening gowns to bed.