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“Thank you, my lord. Sir.” She raised her chin slightly, and Henry had the irrational urge to kiss her for her courage and comportment. “I believe that if you are willing to hear me out, you will find it worth your time.”

“Go ahead, Miss Norton.” Given Claridge’s faux pas, Southbeck had obviously decided to take charge of Emily’s interruption.

“It is information that you, in particular, must hear, my lord.” She caught her lower lip in her first show of anxiety. “There is a painting in the passage outside this room of a bowl overflowing with fruit.”

“I know the one to which you refer. It is one of my wife’s favorites.”

“It is lovely,” Emily agreed. “And you undoubtedly purchased it believing that it was one of a kind. Unfortunately, you are mistaken. I do not know which was created by Mr. Caravaggio and which is Mr. Fernsby’s work, but an identical painting hangs in the Montagu room of the British Museum.”

The chair behind Fernsby toppled to the floor as he bolted for the french doors.

“Catch him!” Southbeck shouted.

Half a dozen men rose from their seats and were already in pursuit when Fernsby threw open the doors and disappeared outside.

Henry started after them, but Townsend caught his arm. “Not this time, Buckland. You don’t have the strength. Let the others go.”

Henry attempted to brush him off, but the older man was tougher than he appeared. And he was right. In his present condition, he could not catch Fernsby in a footrace. But he might be able to trap him.

Older and less agile than some of the other board members, Southbeck had not quite reached the open glass door.

“Where do the french doors lead?” Henry called.

“Into a walled garden.” Southbeck anticipated his next question. “An eight-feet-tall wall all the way around.”

“Any other way out?”

“There’s another set of doors leading into the library, but they would be locked. And a gate.” Southbeck froze. “There’s a gate! We don’t use it much, but it leads to the front of the house.”

That was it. There was no way of knowing if the fiend would notice the access, but given his desperate state, he would most certainly be searching for one. If Fernsby were given an option that did not risk ruining his precious clothing on a gritty brick wall, he would take it.

Henry hurried to the door leading to the passage. The floor tilted sightly, and nausea assailed him, but he reached for the handle and yanked it open. “What’s the fastest way out there?” he yelled.

“The front door.” Southbeck had reversed course and joined him in the passage. “This way!”

Vaguely aware of footsteps behind him, Henry kept his eyes on Southbeck and attempted to keep his balance. They ran through the passage and into the entry hall.

“Open the door!” Southbeck ordered.

Southbeck’s butler hastened to do his master’s bidding, pulling the door wide and standing aside as the men rushed through.

Three people stood on the narrow strip of grass in front of the house: Aunt Millward, a footman, and a gentleman Henry did not recognize. What they were doing there, Henry could not fathom, but he needed Aunt Millward somewhere else entirely.

“Move away!” Henry cried. “Fernsby’s on the run.”

Instantly, the stranger moved. “Which way is he coming?”

Southbeck pointed to the left as the creak of a little-used metal hinge filled the air and a man dressed in a bright-yellow jacket bolted out from between two bushes.

“Stop him, James!” Southbeck shouted, and the footman, who was the closest person to the fleeing man, darted across the lawn to intercept him.

Fernsby saw him coming and dodged right. James countered. Fernsby pivoted and rushed past him, heading directly for the front gate, with Henry right behind him. The stranger stepped into his path and pulled a pistol from his pocket. Fernsby veered toward Aunt Millward. A few more yards and he’d be close enough to use her as a shield or hostage. Henry changed his trajectory. A flurry of skirts appeared in his peripheral vision.

Emily appeared out of nowhere and lunged for Aunt Millward’s arm. “This way,” she cried, pulling her back toward the house.

Fernsby thrust his arm out, sweeping the air as his hand grasped for the excessive fabric of Aunt Millward’s gown. Emily yanked her out of reach, and Fernsby missed. He stumbled, enabling Henry to take the three extra steps he needed. Launching himself into the air, he seized Fernsby around the waist, and they both went down. Fernsby’s curse was cut short by the thud of his head hitting the ground. He moaned, and Henry pushed himself to a kneeling position beside Fernsby’s prostrate form.

“Fair’s fair, Fernsby,” Henry said through gritted teeth. “Good luck with that headache.”