Free Surrender Becomes Her by Shirlee Busbee

er, rumor that if someone was wishful of escaping the eyes of the authorities and sailing for a French port that you’re the man to see about passage.”
    Collard looked down into his mug. “People talk. Don’t mean ’tis true.”
    Whitley bit back an oath, impatient with the fencing. “Let’s pretend it is true,” he said sharply. “And if it is true, what would one be expected to pay for a message to be delivered to a certain individual in Cherbourg…and waiting a few days for a reply?”
    Collard left off contemplating the contents of his mug and his brandy and stared hard at Whitley. “And would you be the one wishful of having such a note delivered?”
    “I would.”
    Collard studied him a few minutes longer, then named a price. It was higher than Whitley had expected, but since Collard was considered the best, he decided it was worth it. The last thing he wanted was for his message to Charbonneau to end up in the hands of the Revenue Service, or at the bottom of the English Channel.
    Not wanting to appear too eager, Whitley haggled on the price, and eventually a deal was struck. They discussed the details over a second mug of brandy, and when Whitley rode away, he was satisfied that at least one of his schemes was unfolding as planned.
    Having settled with Collard, Whitley turned his thoughts to this morning’s disastrous meeting with Isabel. Nothing had gone as he had assumed it would, and all during the long ride back to the inn, anger and resentment festered inside of him.
    By the time he returned to the Stag Horn he was in a thoroughly foul mood and his thoughts about Isabel Manning and Mr. Sherbrook were not kind. Spying the innkeeper, Keating, behind the lovingly polished oak counter in the main room, his gaze narrowed and he considered how he might discover more about the irritating Mr. Sherbrook…and more important, the engagement between Mrs. Hugh Manning and Sherbrook.
    The news that Isabel was engaged had been a facer, Whitley admitted sourly, even as he smiled and watched Keating pour him a foaming mug of dark ale. Taking his ale with him, Whitley retreated to a small table in the corner to nurse his drink as well as his wounds. Isabel was proving more difficult to handle than he had first thought and, since his hold on her was tenuous at best, he had to pick his way with care. He had been positive that she would panic and agree to anything he wanted, to keep him from even hinting about his suspicions. It had been a decided setback when she had proved to be so obstinate. She’d eagerly paid him when he first confronted her and he had assumed that she would continue to pay to keep his mouth shut about what may or may not have happened in India. With his pockets newly plump, he would have happily ridden away…for a while.
    Whitley viewed blackmail as an investment, one that if he were careful and didn’t get greedy, would keep paying for years and years and years. His problem, in Isabel’s case, was that he had no tangible proof and could only bluff—which he was rather adept at doing. His lips thinned. Unfortunately, it appeared that Mrs. Manning was equally skillful; damn her!
    Until this morning he had been confident that he could frighten Isabel into parting with a great deal more money for the promise of his silence, but the prospect of a fiancé changed the entire situation. Biting back a curse, he swallowed a deep draught of ale. That bloody Sherbrook!
    Arriving in the area three days ago, Whitley had established himself at the inn and made friends with Keating and his wife and a few of the regulars. Having elicited Collard’s name, he then concentrated on pumping everyone for more information, ostensibly about the neighborhood, giving out that, though a stranger, he thought to settle nearby. His goal, however, had been to learn what Mrs. Hugh Manning had been doing in the ten years since she left India. Having no access to Isabel’s circle of friends or relatives, he’d been forced