Rules of Engagement by Christina Dodd Page A

nodded. "Her Grace said so, and the others took up the cry, but I tell you, lad, that beneath the shirt tails that hung over his face and made him impossible to identify—"
    Kerrich felt ill.
    "I caught a glimpse of jacket. More than that, before he fell I looked hard. That jacket was well made by a good tailor." Lord Reynard looked right into Kerrich's eyes. "If you hadn't already taken the horse and gone home, I would have thought it was you."
    CHAPTER 8
    Kerrich arranged the pillow behind him on his bed, leaned against the headboard and with half a mind reviewed the real account book for the bank. Yes, he could see where the counterfeiting had caused a slow but steady drain in the bank's finances. He wanted to shake Lewis for this. But he couldn't. Couldn't, because Mr. Veare said he could not.
    Closing his eyes, Kerrich leaned back and thought about the grim-faced gentlemen in the small office of the Bank of England. Kerrich had gone in to demand that someone find and arrest the villains counterfeiting and distributing his banknotes, and in turn the gentlemen—who had been called in from the government—threatened to arrest Kerrich for allowing counterfeiting of Bank of England currency on Kerrich's estate.
    The gentlemen didn't care that Kerrich declared his innocence; they simply watched with hard eyes and told him he should be more mindful of what went on on his lands. They informed Kerrich that Lewis was part of the counterfeiting ring, and when Kerrich had not believed it, they brought forth the evidence in the form of Lewis's signatures on the purchases of ink and paper—the forgeries of Kerrich's banknotes had apparently been practice, and done with easily traced supplies—and most convincingly, on a printing press.
    Kerrich couldn't understand; still didn't understand what had made his virtuous, dutiful cousin turn to crime. Lewis had been a brilliant scholar, finishing a degree in divinity.
    Kerrich ground his teeth. Divinity, for God's sake. There was irony.
    On graduation, Lewis had been offered several positions—as a clergyman, as a professor's assistant. He might soon have been offered a chair of his own, but he had chosen instead to prepare young noblemen to enter Oxford. Seeking his true vocation, Lord Reynard called it. Laying waste to his chances, Kerrich more rightly named it. But it didn't really matter. Lord Reynard had granted Lewis a yearly stipend so that his beloved sister's grandson would never be in need.
    So what had Lewis done to need so much money? Had he been gambling? Was he keeping a lightskirt on the side? Was someone blackmailing him?
    And what difference did it make? For counterfeiting, Lewis could dance at the end of a hangman's rope, and the gentlemen from the government had made it abundantly clear that unless Kerrich uncovered the entire counterfeiting ring, and that apparently included at least five men and their leader, Kerrich could dance with him. The Mathewes family could be wiped out because of Lewis's stupidity.
    So, acting on those gentlemen's instructions, Kerrich had hired Lewis, given him information, given him access to a dummy account book for the bank, asked his advice—and watched him. The government had planted men in Kerrich's household, and Moulton was their leader. He didn't work for the government, but had his own sleuthing firm. He not only directed all operations, but made quite a passable butler. Under Moulton's direction, one of his men or one of the government men followed Lewis everywhere. To the theater. To the business district. To the docks.
    It had all been for naught. Lewis had lost them every time.
    Kerrich slid lower in his bed, a broad, massive affair with a mattress long enough that he could stretch out his legs all the way and wide enough that he could upholster it with three women, although he hadn't done that since his youth. His bedchamber shimmered with color, the rich blue-purple of iris, accents of scarlet, glints of gold. The fire was