The Duke's Dilemma by Nadine Miller

tracks—like some witless chicken deserting the hencoop to give warning to a plundering fox.
    As he had the day before, the head groom met her at the entrance to the stables. Today, however, he wore a scowl on his weathered face. “Gorblimey, ma’ am,” he exclaimed in a voice still rough with sleep, “what with all the commotion up at the manor house, I never thought to see you this morning.”
    Emily managed a shaky smile. “But, as you can see, I am here as usual.” Feigning surprise, she looked about her. “Where is the little gray Mr. Rankin gave me permission to ride? Could you please have her saddled for me.”
    ” I could , ma’am, but it’s the should of it I don’t know. It would be bellows-to-mend if I was to let one of his grace’s lady guests ride off and get herself set upon by the gallows bird what robbed Squire Bosley’s lady. “
    Panic welled in Emily at the thought that this well-meaning fellow might prevent her from warning Jared of the danger he faced. “I hardly think that is a serious concern as long as I stay within the boundaries of Brynhaven,” she stated through lips whose trembling she could not quite control.
    “Maybe not, ma’ am. But then again, maybe so.”
    “Has the order to have the gray readied £or me each morning been rescinded?” she demanded, gambling that with all he had on his plate, Mr. Rankin wouldn’t have given a second thought to her morning ride.
    “No, ma’ am, but that’s not to say it shouldn’t ha’ been.”
    Emily drew herself up in her best imitation of Lady Hargrave. “That judgment is not yours to make,” she declared haughtily. “Please be good enough to saddle my horse immediately.”
    “Yes, ma’ am.” The old fellow’s bravado instantly wilted before her lady-of-the-manor posture. Moments later, to her relief, she watched him lead the gray through the stable door. Muttering a few well-chosen words about the cork-brained thinking of the gentry, he held the little mare steady while Emily availed herself of the handy mounting stair.
     
    Jared Neville Tremayne, Eighth Duke of Montford was in a foul mood. Above everything, he hated cowards. They were the most unpredictable of creatures, tormented into rash acts by nameless fears that braver men steadfastly put aside. This thief who preyed upon helpless women traveling the roads near Brynhaven had to be just such a weakling. Sooner or later, unless he was caught and dealt with, he would likely be driven to murder some hapless coachman or traveler who challenged his demand to “stand and deliver.”
    They had set a careful trap for the brigand. Edgar, dressed as a woman and in the squire’s coach, had been driven for hours on end down the countless highways and byways of the nearby countryside, while the rest of the party followed at a discreet distance waiting for the blackguard to strike.
    The slippery devil had almost been lured in—had even been sighted waiting, pistols drawn, at one turn of the road. But at the last moment, he had smelled danger and turned tail before they could come within firing range. Jared emitted a string of expletives that would have stood his aristocratic guests’ hair on end had they heard him. It was a galling thing indeed to have to acknowledge defeat at the hands of such a rascal, yet here he stood with nothing to show for a long ride and a short night’ s sleep except a throbbing headache.
    Wearily, he tucked a clean, homespun shirt into his black trousers, and perching on the edge of his ornate canopied bed, pulled on the scuffed boots he habitually chose to wear for his first ride of the day, much to the disgust of his fastidious valet. Perhaps a brisk gallop in the cold morning air would set him right.
    Minutes later, he exited the manor house by the private stairway leading to his suite and, much to his surprise, spied Edgar Rankin walking across the courtyard, apparently en route to the stables. “What brings you out at this hour?” he asked his