Page 120 of The Boxing Baroness

“Never.” Well, maybe just a little.

She cut a glance at Farnham, who sat in an almost trancelike state, just as he’d done for the prior three days. Yesterday he’d not even roused when Marianne asked him a civil question—something she’d not done in weeks—about his food.

Farnham neither drank nor touched the simple but hearty meals Sin ordered for both dinner and supper.

“What’s wrong with him?” Sin asked when the older man got up to use the necessary, the only movement he’d made for at least an hour.

Marianne shrugged. “Who knows? I’m sure whatever it is, Dominic is at the heart of it.”

“You think he won’t turn over the journal if Farnham doesn’t give him the locket?”

“Given how useful Dominic has found the book over the years, I’d be surprised if he gave up such an effective tool—even if Barnabas did give him the locket. After all, he doesn’t really need the miniature if he already knows who my mother is.” Her mouth tightened. “No, there is something going on between the two of them that Barnabas has not confessed.”

“You think he plans to use Farnham for something else?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Farnham returned from his trip outside, and they lapsed into silence.

They were the tiny taproom’s only customers for the two hours before closing. Sin ignored the scowl of the man behind the bar, and they stayed until the last chairs were stacked on their tables.

“He’s not coming,” Sin declared, and they gathered up their things.

It was late and dark, but the lanterns that hung from the hooks on the caravan made it possible to find their way slowly back to the farm.

Barnabas drove the wagon while they rode inside.

“This is going to be a long nine days,” Sin murmured, holding her tight to his side and kissing her as the caravan rumbled down the rutted path.

“True,” she admitted, standing up from the bench seat and straddling his lap. “We have another ten or eleven minutes alone before we get back.”

“Good point,” Sin said, and then went about making every minute count.

By the time they rolled to a stop in front of the old house—which they’d claimed for their own, preferring privacy to the comfort of either of their caravans—they were both breathless and sweaty and nowhere near finished with each other.

“Well, blast,” Sin muttered, hastily buttoning up the bodice on her gown and rearranging the plain tucker she wore around her neck before opening the door and hopping out, taking her hand to help her down.

“You go ahead, darling,” Sin said. “I’ll help Farnham unharness the team. When I return I’ll warm some water so you—”

The door to the house swung open, the squeaking hinge obscenely loud in the darkness, and Sin whipped around.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally showed up.” Dominic leaned in the doorway, grinning, a pistol lightly clasped in his hand.

Chapter 30

“Sorry it took so long for me to get here,” Dominic drawled, his bright blue eyes flickering over them and settling on the duke. “I thought you might come early, what with all the excitement going on.”

Sin edged his body in front of Marianne. “How did you find us here?”

Dominic just smiled and stepped out of the house, followed by Cecile and Guy. Behind them came four more men carrying muskets, and behind them was . . . Sonia—the only one of the three not bound.

Barnabas made a choked sound. “No,” he said, his eyes wide with disbelief and horror.

Sonia had the grace to look embarrassed, but Dominic just chuckled. “I’m afraid so, old man. Sonia, here, has been helping me with little things for quite some time.” He turned to the older woman, who regarded him with a look of hatred. “After you arrived, dear Sonia nipped over to the pub and left a message for me. If it’s any consolation, she hasn’t exactly been gracious about it, but—like you—she didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Why?” Barnabas asked.

“Oh, it’s a long, tawdry story, Barney,” Dominic said, his gaze on the duke rather than Barnabas. “But to cut it short, your lover has played you false since the first day you met her. She worked for the same criminals who sent you to England all those years ago. The notebook I’ve been keeping safe for you—well, that wasn’t really written by an English customs agent, but compiled by Sonia herself, for her Paris associates. It was meant to keep you in line, should you ever try to buck their control.” Dominic smirked. “But Sonia became smitten enough with you to claim that it was lost—that was the reason you were able to slip from their grasp.” He grinned. “And into mine.”