The groom at Hartley House had advised him that Stephen had saddled one of His Grace’s horses and ridden out. Nicholas wouldn’t have caught him at all if it hadn’t been for Stephen’s aching ribs and the arm weakened by weeks in a sling, which made him ride far slower than he wanted to. He’d watched his friend—his jailer—stride into the inn where he’d stopped to change horses. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” He’d come alone, but his sword was belted to his side, and Stephen noticed the bulge of a pistol under Nicholas’s coat. Stephen rose to meet him. “Don’t try to stop me. I’m going to warn Delphine. Peter Rothdale recently inherited his brother’s title. He’s Durling.” He’d tried to push past, but Nicholas shoved him back. “Don’t be a fool. I’m not going to let you ruin her life. Stay away from her.” “He isn’t what you think.
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