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cultured voice that hardly fit his appearance.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she truthfully answered.
    “Need some encouragement, do you?” The man abruptly turned on her. He waved his dagger dangerously close to her face. “The molds. The dies. Whatever. You know.”
    “Nay. I speak the truth. What? What molds?”
    “Don’t lie to me.” The man yanked her by the arm from where she sat, now fully upright on the bed, and pulled her to him. He pressed the tip of the knife into her cheek enough to nick her.
    She let out a cry. He clamped his hand over her mouth.
    “Shut up! The blade barely touched you, but let it be a warning. I mean to have them. Don’t fool with me, wench. The day before yesterday, I saw Roderick’s assistant put them in the drawstring bag you carried.”
    Despite the darkness in her bedchamber, her eyes quickly adjusted to it. She turned her head towards the corner of the room where her reticule sat on a wing chair near the heavily draped window. Some of its contents were thrown on the floor. The silk, three-paneled screen she sometimes changed behind lay collapsed on the other side of the chair.
    Her intruder, who watched her closely, said, “I already checked the bag.”
    “Please,” she said. “Check everything in this room. In fact, I’ll help you. What do these molds look like? Are they silver, decorative pieces, or actually used for baking?”
    The man pushed her from him. He studied her for a moment before he kicked a small, but thankfully empty chamber pot on the floor near the foot of the bed. Next instant, he cringed at his error and the noise the chamber pot made as it tumbled across the room. “You stupid wench. You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
    She shook her head, relieved that the man believed her, yet uncertain what he might do because she knew nothing about the molds or dies.
    “I’m not through with you,” her intruder said and grabbed for her wrist.
    She tried in vain to pull away from him, but knew it was no use. Her pulse rate doubled. She feared this man would either beat or rape her. As quick as she was to react to his grasp, she calmed herself, deciding it might surprise him if she cooperated, thereby giving her the smallest advantage, whatever it might be.
    Instead, her assailant raised his dagger as if to strike her. Reflexively, she backed away.
    “I’ll not harm you unless you cross me, and I don’t prey on the innocent. I’ve learned having the advantage is easier. Now lead me to the front entryway. Unlike my arrival where I had to let myself inside when the old woman wasn’t watching, I think I’d like an escort this time. Move.”
    She stepped towards the closed door to her bedchamber when the man stopped her.
    “Wait. Who else is in the house besides the old woman?”
    “No one, but my governess and myself,” she answered.
    The man was a bit of a dimwit to just now be worried about others.
    “What about your father?”
    “You know my father?” she asked, surprised and at once mindful of the note she received that implied he was dead.
    “Everyone on the wrong side of the law has heard of Edward Corry, alias Corry the Cold-hearted. The son of a bitch never lets up. He never bends the law, and favors the smallest crime to be punishable by death.”
    He could have pierced her heart with the knife, for the shock and pain from his words she now experienced surely was the same.
    “You are mistaken. My father is a kind and gentle man.”
    “To you maybe, lassie, but a crueler magistrate, I’ve never known. Now tell me. Is he here?”
    She shook her head. Her heart was heavy with fear, but not for herself. If her father was as this criminal spoke, Adam’s note would be understandable.
    “If he is as cruel as you say, which I doubt,” she defended Edward Corry despite her negative thoughts, “then why don’t the criminals quit breaking the law?”
    “I’ve wasted too much time on you as it is. The