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of pin money. And she had no jewels other than a lovely pearl necklace and earrings given to her by Marcus. Winifred, however, was practically dripping in diamonds.
    The highwayman seemed to know it, for he only had eyes for Winifred.
    “Hand over your jewels, Lady Freemantle,” he demanded, brandishing his pistol.
    He sounded rather nervous, or at least he didn’t seem to be enjoying his villain’s role. Roslyn wondered vaguely if this was his first foray into crime. Regardless, she thought it wiser not to argue.
    When she reached up to remove her pearl necklace, though, the thief shook his head. “Not you, Miss. Her ladyship’s is all I want.”
    Scowling, Winifred fumbled with the clasp of her diamond necklace, but the fellow again shook his head. “Give me the brooch first.”
    “What brooch?”
    “The one pinned to your bodice under your shawl.”
    Roslyn wondered how the thief knew what Winifred was wearing under her satin shawl and decided he must have seen her earlier this evening. Winifred, however, was evidently unwilling to hand over her prize possession, for her spine went rigid. “I won’t give it to you!”
    “Damn and blast it, do as I say!” he demanded.
    “You needn’t curse at me, you devil.”
    When he aimed his pistol at Winifred’s ample chest, his hand shook, as did his voice, yet the dame seemed finally to realize the danger. “No, please, take all my other jewels. Just leave me this piece.”
    Hearing the tremor in her friend’s plea, Roslyn understood. Winifred would dislike surrendering her expensive baubles, but she positively couldn’t bear to part with her brooch, since it held a miniature of her late husband.
    Seeing Winifred’s distress, Roslyn stepped forward protectively, hoping to reason with the highwayman to leave the brooch. “Surely you could be content with her diamonds. They are far more costly. The brooch is not particularly valuable. In fact its value is mostly sentimental.”
    “No matter, it’s the brooch I want. Now give it to me!” he insisted, just as they heard the rattle and accompanying thud of hooves of an oncoming carriage and team behind them.
    The highwayman froze. Another vehicle was bowling down the dark country road, Roslyn realized. When it rumbled to a halt behind the barouche, she recognized Arden’s coach from the ducal crest emblazoned on the door panel.
    Cursing, the highwayman clenched his horse’s reins, sending the animal prancing as he debated what to do.
    While his attention was thus distracted, Roslyn acted on sheer instinct: She slipped her reticule off her wrist and threw it with all her might at the footpad’s face.
    At the same time she lunged toward his horse, hoping to seize his weapon and possibly disarm him.
    The unexpected blow made the highwayman flinch violently and jerk his pistol upward, causing it to discharge harmlessly over Roslyn’s head, yet with a report loud enough to frighten not only his mount but the Freemantle team as well.
    To her horror then, the highwayman abruptly fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out another pistol, which he started to point at her.
    Roslyn halted in her tracks, just as his attention was captured again by the shout Arden gave behind her. The duke had leapt from his coach and was sprinting toward them, his own pistol drawn.
    When the brigand swung his weapon toward the new threat, the duke took aim and got off a deterring shot first.
    The thief cried out in pain and slumped forward, clutching his right arm. Awkwardly then, he whirled his horse and galloped away, apparently having lost his combative appetite.
    Watching the fleeing bandit disappear into the darkness, Roslyn felt weak with relief—and so apparently did Winifred, for the older lady sagged against the barouche.
    Concerned, Roslyn went to her side and took her arm to support her heavy weight. “You weren’t hurt, were you?”
    Winifred shook her head while clutching her brooch possessively. When the duke reached her side, she said in a trembling voice,