Erskyn saw Tibby's white handkerchief fluttering at the window of the Portsmouth Machine window for only an instant before the vehicle disappeared round the bend. He indulged in a tiny sigh, think of another coach that had departed earlier. Rosemary, no, he corrected himself, Mrs. Carlyle, was no doubt asleep right now, tucked under a fur rug, her long lashes caressing her sun kissed cheeks, on her way to a home as well appointed as the coach that was carrying her away.

"And now," he thought to himself. How empty the words sounded. Well, at least he was finally and truly alone. He had left Edinburgh not because of the kidnapping scandal, but just because he had gotten so dammed tired of people. A society lady giving him the cut direct on the street and an avaricious smile in the boudoir. A "gentlemen" scorning him for being cashiered, while flaunting his newfound wealth achieved by underhanded dealing with Bonnie Prince Charles' desperate supporters.

And the kidnapping fiasco. His paramour had insisted it would be so "romantic" to escape her husband for a few days. Yet how loudly she'd screamed when he came upon their coach unexpectedly. She'd actually expected Erskyn to back up her claims of kidnapping and ravishment. He'd laughed outright at her theatrics and while her cuckolded husband bawled demands for satisfaction, Erskyn had coolly mounted the man's horse, and rode off, hearing no pursuit, just the beginnings of a first rate quarrel fading in the distance.

Erskyn returned from bleak past to bleak present. Tibby had pleaded with him to return with her, but Erskyn knew there was no peace for him at home after all. No peace for him anywhere, but perhaps there was somewhere he could numb himself to the knowledge that he'd failed to fulfill that dying mother's last wish. So he let his hired hack, (the Fife and Drum kept a surprisingly good stable) have her head, knowing he was running away and just not caring anymore.

Not an hour later, a gentleman in a dark cloak grimly rode out of the Drum and Fife stableyard, cursing his luck. Erskyn had left, but surely Daventry could track the Archfiend down. How difficult would it be to track down a disgraced medical man?

The sun was setting, it was growing cold, and Erskyn had no idea where he was. He'd let the hack choose the direction at each crossroad, resulting in a journey that had twisted and turned through the Scottish countryside. He'd not worried about finding lodging; he could sleep under a hedge if needs be, but before him now was a tiny croft. Although men who were running away did not deserve warm beds or hot meals, Erskyn would not say nay if either were offered. Even as this though crossed his mind, a wizened old man stumbled out the front door. A quavering wail, astonishing loud from such a small source set the hairs arise on the back of Erskyn's neck. Utterly failing to remember he was a cold hearted man who cared for no one's suffering, Erskyn dismounted and rushed forward.

The old man ran straight at Erskyn. Erskyn barely felt the impact as the old man ran right into him, bounced back, and fell to the ground.

"Good Gad! Are you hurt?" Erskyn exclaimed as he helped the octogenarian to sit up.

"Nay, nay, Milord, I am fine." The old man pulled an enormous pipe from his pocket, and started to fill it from an equally enormous bag of tobacco. He looked remarkably placid for a man who had emitted that unearthly wail.

Baffled, Erskyn demanded, "What is wrong? Why were you running? Is there some danger? Is someone injured?"

The old man lit his pipe and eyed Erskyn's urgency with a vague, puzzled expression. "Nay, sir, no one is hurt."

Bafflement was turning to annoyance. "Why were you running, man? Why did you cry out?"

"The wee ghostie took me a bit by surprise, that's all." The old man drew deeply on his pipe.

Ghost! Erskyn stared uneasily at the croft which did look rather tumbled down and dilapidated in the dusky light.

"Do you live here?" he asked, trying to make some sense of this situation.

"Nay, nay," replied the old man with a fine, broad wave of his pipe. "T'were me daughter's house. She's been gone ten years now, of the pox. Her husband went off to sea after we buried her."

"I am very sorry, " murmured Erskyn, coughing slightly as the wind blew a cloud into his face. "Well, if I can't be of service, I'll be on my way."

"But you can be useful! You are an educated fellow and by the looks of you, a soldier. I'd be powerful grateful if you'd go yonder and rid that croft of the ghost."

Erskyn frowned. Sensing an refusal, the old man wheedled, "Me wife is at our home down the road a piece preparing a fine big duck! She's a mighty fine cook, famous for her bannocks, and you'd be welcome to share our board if you could just ask that ghost to flit somewhere else."

Daventry had employed every means possible to follow Erskyn, as well as every curse in his vocabulary. Damme, the man must know he was being followed but how? The torturous route had actually twisted back toward the Fife and Drum! But now, in the distance, Erskyn was in sight, stopped before a ramshackle old farmhouse. Daventry's cold hand touched the snuff box in his pocket and his face grew grim. Erskyn would pay for this miserable journey. Cecily's potions, even when not deadly were unpleasant.

Just a few hundred yards behind Daventry, another traveler, unnoticed, followed steadily.

The heavy wooden door was still ajar. Erskyn had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the low lintel. "Hunting for ghosts," he muttered to himself. "What will I sink to next? Graverobbing?" The interior was all shadows and cobwebs, empty but for a battered chest of drawers white with dust. An ancient, cracked stone pitcher stood atop the dresser. Grey light barely penetrated the filthy windows. More cobwebs dangled from the thatched roof. As Erskyn moved forward, one touched his face. Firmly reminding himself that he was a man of science and that the cobweb did not feel in the least like ghostly fingers, Erskyn moved further into the silent room. He planned to remain there a few minutes and then emerge saying he'd vanquished "the wee ghostie" with a prayer.

Something flew about his head with a wild, fluttering motion. Erskyn let out a loud yell and flung his arms up. He staggered in a circle while something black emitted frantic, high pitched squeaks. It was a bat, one of the largest Erskyn had ever seen, now flying back up near the stone chimney and circling the room, barely visible in the shadows. When Erskyn's heart had resumed a normal rhythm, he growled audibly. The "ghostie" no doubt.

He was about to enlighten the old man with a few well chosen words when the door creaked. Erskyn's impromptu dance with the bat had left him standing in the darkest corner facing the door. Fully expecting to see the old man entering, Erskyn opened his mouth to the blister the man's ears. But the form that slipped in was much taller, and had far more hair. Additionally, the newcomer had a murderous expression on his face, a stealthy rhythm to his walk and an upraised club of some sort. Erskyn could not assume that the newcomer planned to bludgeon a ghost, and groping behind him, sought a weapon, just in case. Unbelievably, his hand closed around a poker, and not a moment too soon, as the club suddenly whistled uncomfortably near his left ear. Erskyn dropped to the stone floor and swung his poker wildly, making satisfying contact with his unknown foe's shin. A grunt, curse, a stagger, in quick succession, but the man did not fall. Instead, he aimed a cruel kick at Erskyn's jaw. Erskyn grabbed at the boot, only partially deflecting the blow, and fell back, stunned. As in a dream, he saw the man raise his club. The blow that would kill him started down, but suddenly the club dropped harmlessly. Erskyn scrambled to his knees. Their fight had raised such a storm of dust, Erskyn could not see what had interrupted the blow, nor could he find his poker. There seemed to be a lot of activity going on. As both the dust and Erskyn's vision cleared, a strange sight was revealed. The attacker had both arms wrapped tightly about his head while the enormous bat flapped frantically around him. The attacker screamed as the bat became entangled in his wig. Bellowing and beating at it wildly, he managed to pull the wig off and hurl it away. Erskyn by now had found his poker and flailed it in the general direction of the attacker. The attacker may have felt the pain of a broken rib, but only for a moment. Seconds later a stone pitcher was applied to his head and the attacker knew no more.

Astonished, Erskyn stared from the unconscious stranger to the little wizened old man, holding the pitcher and wearing a satisfied expression.

"'Tis only the ghosties that fash the likes of me," the old man said. With a placid smile, he put down the pitcher, patted his jacket pockets until he found his pipe, and settled himself in one of the rough wooden chairs with his twist of tobacco.

Erskyn's attention was focussed on the man lying face down on the floor. He was still breathing. But the blow from behind had been powerful and a fractured skull required considerable medical attention. The man's memory was likely going to be damaged. He'd be lucky to survive without more permanent injury.

Erskyn sighed in resignation. It seemed that no matter what he did, he was doomed to be a physician. As if tending to that traitorous Carlyle woman hadn't been bad enough, now he was going to be obliged to play nursemaid to a rogue that had just tried to put a period to him. It was just more of the cursed bad luck that had saddled him with the emerald in the first place.

He knelt down on the dusty floor beside the man. The back of the attacker's head a mass of sticky blood. The man had long brown hair tied back with a riband, not the usual cropped hair that went with a wig. The mangy scratch wig that had entangled the bat must have been part of a disguise.

Suddenly Erskyn was overwhelmed by a sick sensation of dread. In the gloom of the croft the man's wig and malevolent expression had made him think that he was being attacked by a stranger. But now, looking at the still form, he was reminded of the thought that had passed fleetingly through his mind as he had tried to defend himself from the attack. The thought that there was something horribly familiar about the man who was swinging the club at his head, trying to kill him.

Straining to keep his hands from trembling, Erskyn gently rolled the man over so that he could see his face.

It couldn't be. But even as he shouted the denial to himself, he knew that it was. The man lying insensible on the dirty croft floor was Lord Kenneth Dunnett, his best friend since childhood.

Hidden in the stand of trees, never taking his eyes off the doorway into the croft, Daventry withstood the urge to pace in impatience. What the devil was taking them so damned long? When the stranger had slunk in after Erskyn before Daventry had been able to find a quiet spot to tie his mount, it was yet another thing that had not proceeded according to plan in this miserable misbegotten disaster of an endeavour. But there was no reason to panic. He patted his pocket for reassurance. The useful powder was ready to be put into action whichever of the two combatants had won. The emerald was not lost. It was merely taking the scenic route.

"Ahh, God," Alistair whispered. He had, foolishly, believed his heart to be impervious to hurt. He had seen so much, been through so much after Culloden, that further injury had seemed impossible. It appeared that, as usual, he had been wrong.

"Well, and who's the braw laddie, then?" the old man asked, leaning curiously to view the fallen gentleman.

"He's no one. No one to concern yourself about, that is," Alistair said hastily. "If you would just excuse me..."

"And what're ye suggestin' I do wi' him?" the other man protested.

Alistair hesitated, recalled his resolution to be a hard man, and ground out, "Throw him beside the hedgerows. It does not matter a whit to me." Before the old man could come up with any argument, Alistair spun about on his heel and stalked from the croft, swung up on his horse, and touched his heels to the animal's sides.

Before long, unfortunately, the gathering dusk and a strange blurring of his sight combined to make travel difficult. Swiping at his eyes, he was inwardly shocked to see that his visual impairment had been caused by tears. Tears! From the Archfiend Alistair, the Evil Erskyn!

"God be thanked that Alex is not here to see this," he muttered. "Or That Harpy." Two liquid dark eyes appeared and seemed to accuse him, if only in his mind's view. She had seemed so shocked to be confronted with her lies. How had she fooled herself into thinking she would not be caught? And then to leave without saying goodbye, even... Alistair snorted at the inconsistency of his thoughts. He had given her little reason to believe her farewells would be received with anything other than rancor. "And rightly so!" he added firmly.

The sudden outburst startled his heretofore unflappable hack, which snorted and burst momentarily into a canter. After he calmed the animal back to its customary walk, Alistair distracted himself from thinking about Dunnett by contemplating where he should spend the night. That building in the distance just might be an inn...

Some moments later, he reined up before The Blind Goat, which certainly looked a deal better than its name implied. A stable boy ran up immediately to take his horse, and when he walked inside, ducking to let his head pass beneath the low entry, he was pleased to see that the interior was clean and well-kept. A heavyset innkeeper answered his call almost immediately, bustling downstairs and wiping his hands on the front of his knee breeches.

"Och, sir, I'm that sorrrry," the innkeeper apologized, pushing his guest book forward to be signed. "My woman and I've been busy tryin' ta clean up after the wee lassies that stayed here fer just a couple o' hours earlier t'day."

Alistair did his best to indicate his lack of interest with his coolly raised brows, but the other man was apparently impervious to such subtleties. "The one lassie, she was that ill, she was, and the other! Why, she managed to break everrrry wee bit o' crockery in the hoose!"

Alistair found himself stiffening to attention. "One of the ladies was ill?"

"Aye, sir. From foreign parrrts, I'll wager ye, with that dark skin an' all. So ill she couldna speak!"

She could not speak? Alistair tried to dismiss his concerns and failed. She had not seemed to be so badly off when last he had seen her. Perhaps the journey, short as it was, had caused a relapse. Perhaps she had been faking her recovery for some unknown reason. Perhaps° oh, good Lord! He was not supposed to concern himself with the well-being of others at all! To do so would be to open himself up to further pain and betrayal and...

"Did they mention their destination?" he blurted out.

The innkeeper did not seem surprised at the question. "Aye, sir. Ta' Londontown."

"Yes. Well. I am sorry, but my plans have changed. I will just be staying for dinner and then will be on my way. Where is your tap?" The innkeeper, obviously disappointed, indicated the doorway opposite the desk. "Right in there, but we've only got cold foods the noo."

"That will be sufficient," the doctor said over his shoulder as he entered.

While he was waiting, Alistair was surprised to see that another traveler had entered and seated himself at a nearby table. The young man did not seem inclined toward conversation, thankfully, but merely stared at the pattern of the wood grain beneath his elbows. A few moments later, the innkeeper's wife brought out a cold collation of meats, cheese, and bread, along with a tankard of ale, and set it all before Alistair. He thanked her unintentionally. Just as he was about to take his first swallow of ale, the younger man jumped from his seat, pointing with a look of terror at the door, and exclaimed, "Good God, what were they thinking to allow that beast in here?"

Alistair, suitably intrigued, stood and looked out the door, thus failing to observe the hand that tipped a potion into his tankard. "It is only a dog," he muttered in disgust, turning back to his repast.

"Cannot abide dogs," the other man replied nervously. "Savage beasts, don't you know."

Alistair contented himself with an incredulous look, and then, parched from his travels as well as the abortive fight at the croft, drained his tankard. He had barely started upon his food when suddenly the room seemed to whirl nauseatingly. Gripping the edges of the table, he said thickly, "What...the..." Turning to his dining companion, he saw that the man was grinning at his indisposition. This seemed to Alistair singularly rude, and he opened his mouth to berate the other fellow when a revelation struck him. "Your accent... You're from... you're from London," he whispered, and then his head hit the table and he knew no more.