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A blackbird flew across the yard toward the nearby apple trees, the flutter of its wings seeming particularly loud when compared to the complete silence within the cart shed.

“Lord Dunsbourne?” Miss Hadford’s voice was low, hesitant.

Adam took another deep breath—one that he hoped would fortify him for what lay ahead. The time had come to trust again.

“I was in London, enjoying a life typical of most noblemen before they take upon themselves the responsibilities of their inheritances,” he began. “It was the night of the Wightmans’ ball, I remember. A courier arrived, bringing with him a message from my father. He offered no details in the missive. It simply stated that I was needed at Dunsbourne Manor immediately. I made my apologies to my host and hostess and left right away.

“When I arrived, I found my father in his study and received my first shock of many that night. He had aged twenty years since I had last seen him—and that had been less than a month before. His face was drawn, and his hands shook. He bade me sit, and then he proceeded to tell me of an investment he had made that had gone terribly wrong.

“A man by the name of Nicholas Wilmott had approached him about investing in a bakery that was to open not far from Whitehall in London. He showed my father documents that supposedly proved that several other prominent noblemen had already committed to the venture, along with a letter from a renowned French baker who was supposed to have been the mastermind behind the culinary creations at the bakery.”

“Supposed?” Miss Hadford asked.

Adam set his jaw. “Mr. Wilmott hoodwinked my father into investing the entire Dunsbourne fortune into a fictitious bakery with fictitious investors and a fictitious staff.”

He heard her gasp but did not look at her.

“Everything?” she whispered.

“Everything but our London townhouse, this house, and the land it stands on,” he said. “With the stroke of my father’s quill, we became essentially penniless overnight.”

“Was there no recourse you could take?”

“Oh, I tried. Believe me, I tried every means possible. But by the time my father realized what had happened, the money was gone from the bank, and there was no way to get it back.” He fisted his hands as the memories became even more painful. “Over the next few weeks, I watched my father slowly waste away. He stopped eating and did not leave his bedchamber. No matter that he had been swindled by the most notorious thief in England, he felt completely culpable. Nothing I could say would dissuade him. His last words to me were an apology for leaving my inheritance in ruins.” Adam swallowed against the ache in his throat.

At some point during his narrative, Miss Hadford had moved to stand beside him. He felt her fingers touch his. Without exchanging a word, he opened his fist and took her hand, threading his fingers between hers.

She squeezed his hand gently, and he continued. “After my father’s funeral, I spent days going through the financial ledgers. Even after selling the townhouse, it quickly became apparent that the only possible way to survive was by making drastic economies to the household staff. Every dismissal was painful. We ate more simply, we bought no new clothing—other that what Emily needed because she was still growing—and we did not socialize. At first, we were in mourning and I was completely focused on pulling Dunsbourne Manor out of bankruptcy. Later, my obsession with finding the man who had done this to us consumed my every waking hour.”

“You know who it was, then?”

“I do. Although I have never set eyes on the man and he left no trace behind, it was not hard to narrow down the suspects because of his skill in forgery. The gentleman goes by several different names, but the one he was given at birth is Freddie Payne. His skills at counterfeiting cannot be equaled. He can produce a pound note that fools a seasoned banker. Letters or legal documents, such as the ones he used to trick my father, are even easier for the fiend to produce. Not only that, he is a master of disguise, and his schemes are as elaborate as they are brilliant.”

“How is such a man ever to be caught?”

Adam heard the frustration in her voice and echoed it. “After five years, I have yet to determine a way. I have interviewed countless people who have met Payne. The only physical characteristic that he cannot hide is the pale-gray color of his eyes. The less tangible characteristics that I believe will ultimately lead to his downfall, however, are his overarching greed and his overconfidence. At some point, he will make a mistake, and I pray that when he does, either I or Hugh Toole will be there to witness it.”

“Hugh Toole?”

“A Bow Street runner who is perhaps the only man alive who wishes Freddie Payne brought to justice more than I.”

They stood in silence for a moment. In the distance, a bird sang and the faint sound of a horse’s whinny reminded Adam that Oliver would be back with Miss Hadford’s mount at any time.

“And so you see, Miss Hadford—”

“Phoebe,” she said. “My name is Phoebe.”

“And my name is Adam.”

She bit her lip. “You are a baron. I am not sure that I should—”

“I am your friend—at least, I hope I am. I have not shared what I am telling you now with another soul. It is something that I would only tell a good friend.” He raised one eyebrow and waited.

“We are friends,” she confirmed softly.

“Very well.” He began again. “And so you see, Phoebe, with no money to entertain and no fine clothing to wear, Emily and I became what some would term recluses. I left Dunsbourne Manor only when I heard news of another sighting of Freddie Payne, and every ounce of my remaining energy went into turning around our dire financial situation.”

“Making the orchard into a money-making proposition,” she said.