Regency Society
Seduction in Regency Society
Sophia James
Deception in Regency Society
Christine Merrill
Proposals in Regency Society
Anne Herries
Pride in Regency Society
Sarah Mallory
Mischief in Regency Society
Amanda McCabe
Innocence in Regency Society
Diane Gaston
Enchanted in Regency Society
Ann Lethbridge
Heiress in Regency Society
Helen Dickson
Prejudice in Regency Society
Michelle Styles
Forbidden in Regency Society
Marguerite Kaye
Temptation in Regency Society
Margaret McPhee
Revenge in Regency Society
Gail Whitiker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Seduction in Regency Society

About the Author

One Unashamed Night

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

One Illicit Night

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Deception in Regency Society

About the Author

A Wicked Liaison

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Lady Folbroke’s Delicious Deception

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Proposals in Regency Society

About the Author

Make-Believe Wife

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Afterword

The Homeless Heiress

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Afterword

Pride in Regency Society

About the Author

Wicked Captain, Wayward Wife

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

The Earl’s Runaway Bride

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Mischief in Regency Society

About the Author

To Catch a Rogue

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

To Deceive a Duke

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Innocence in Regency Society

About the Author

The Mysterious Miss M

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Enchanted in Regency Society

About the Author

Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

The Gamekeeper’s Lady

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Heiress in Regency Society

About the Author

The Defiant Debutante

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

From Governess to Society Bride

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Prejudice in Regency Society

About the Author

An Impulsive Debutante

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

A Question of Impropriety

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Forbidden in Regency Society

About the Author

The Governess and the Sheikh

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Rake with a Frozen Heart

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Temptation in Regency Society

About the Author

Unmasking the Duke’s Mistress

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

A Dark and Brooding Gentleman

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Revenge in Regency Society

About the Author

Brushed by Scandal

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Courting Miss Vallois

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Copyright

Seduction in Regency Society

SOPHIA JAMES lives in Chelsea Bay on Auckland, New Zealand’s North Shore, with her husband, who is an artist, and her three children. She spends her morning teaching adults English at the local Migrant School and writes in the afternoon. Sophia has a degree in English and History from Auckland University and believes her love of writing was formed reading Georgette Heyer with her twin sister at her grandmother’s house.

One Unashamed Night

I’d like to dedicate this book to three wonderful women in my life: Pat Rendall, for her insight into the world of darkness; my mother, Jewell Kivell, for enthusiastically reading the first draft; and Linda Fildew, my fantastic editor, for her patience and belief in all of my books.

Chapter One

Maldon, England—January 1826

The darkness was pulling him down even as he fought to escape it, his eyes widening to catch a tiny tendril of light, the flare of it making him shout out, wanting it, the last colour before complete blackness enveloped him…

‘Sir, sir. Wake up. It’s a dream you are having.’

The voice came from somewhere close and Lord Taris Wellingham slipped from sleep and returned to the warmth of the carriage travelling south to London with a jolt. A face blurred before him, but in the dusk he could not tell whether the woman was young or old. Her voice was soft, almost musical, the lisp on the letter V denoting perhaps a genteel upbringing in the north?

With care he turned away, fingers stiff against the silver ball on top of his ebony cane and all his defences raised.

‘I would ask for your forgiveness for my lapse in manners, madam.’

The small laugh surprised him. ‘Oh. You do indeed have it, sir.’

This time there was decided humour in her tone, and something more hidden. He wished he was able to see the hue of her eyes or the shade of her hair, but any form of colour had long since gone, leached now even in full sunlight and replaced by the grey sludge of silhouette.

A netherworld. His world. And the ability to hide his disability was all the dignity left to him.

Taking a breath he held it, seeking in silence a path to follow. He pretended to read the watch on the chain at his waist, hating such deceit, but in company it was what he had been reduced to—a man on the edge of his world and in danger of falling off.

‘Another hour and a half to reach our destination, I should imagine.’ The woman’s guess was like a gift for it gave him a timeframe, something to hang any suggestion of their whereabouts upon.

‘Unless the weather worsens.’ Outside he could hear a keening wind and the temperature had dropped sharply, even in the space of the moments he had been asleep. Tilting his head, he listened to the sound of the wheels beneath them and determined the snow to have deepened too.

Unexpectedly tension filled his body. Something was wrong. The whirr of the wheel on the right side was off, unbalanced, scraping against steel.

He shook away the concern and cursed his oversensitive hearing, deeming it far better to concentrate on other things. There were four other people in the carriage, he had counted them as they got in, this woman the only one on his side. One of the gentlemen was asleep, his snores soft through the night, and the other was speaking to an older woman about household tasks and the hiring of servants. His mother, perhaps, for there was a tone in his voice suggesting affection.

The wheel was worsening, the sound underlined by a tremor in the chassis. He felt it easily in the vibration where his palm lay open against the window. No longer able to ignore danger, Taris lifted his cane and banged hard on the roof.

But it was too late! The vehicle lurched to the right as the axle snapped, the scream of the driver eerie in the darkness, the splintering of wood, the quick crunch of the door on his side against earth, the rolling shock of impact as people tumbled over and over. When his head was thrown against metal, a sharp pain followed.

And then silence.

Bodies were everywhere, the groans of the older woman taking precedence, the sobs of her son muted and fearful. The other two occupants made no noise at all and Taris’s hands reached over.

The woman beside him still breathed—he could feel the warmth of air against his fingers—whilst the previously snoring gentleman had neither pulse nor breath, his neck arched at a strange angle.

Inky blackness now covered everything, the lamps gone and the moon tonight a slice of nothing.

His world! Easier than daylight. Throwing down his cane, he stood.

Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke could barely believe what had happened. Her head ached and her top lip was cut inside.

An accident. A terrible accident. The realisation made her shake and she clamped her mouth shut to try to hide the noise as her teeth chattered together.

In the slight beam of light the dark-haired stranger gently lifted the lifeless body of a man whom she could see was well and truly dead and laid him on the floor. The older woman opposite broke into peals of panicked terror as she too registered this fact and her younger companion tried fruitlessly to console her.

‘Enough, madam.’ The tall man’s voice brooked no argument and the woman fell silent, a greater problem now taking her attention.

‘It…it is f…freezing.’

‘At least we are still alive, Mama, and I am certain that this gentleman can repair things.’ Her grown son looked up, supplication written on his face. He made no effort at all to rise himself, but stayed with his arm around his mother’s shoulders in a vain attempt to keep her warm, for the whole side of the carriage lay buckled and twisted, the door that had been there before completely missing.

‘If you will give me a moment, I will try to cover the opening.’ The tall man’s cape was caught by the wind as he stepped out, the crumpled chassis of the coach making his exit more difficult than it would otherwise have been. Framed by snow, she saw his hair escape the confines of his queue and fall nightblack against the darkness of his clothes and she could barely wrench her eyes from his profile.

He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen! The thought hit her with all the force of surprise and she squashed down such ridiculousness.

Frankwell Bassingstoke had been a handsome man too, and look where that had got her. Swallowing, she turned back towards the woman and, rummaging in her reticule, pulled out a handkerchief and handed it over.

‘Where did the man go to? Why is he not back?’ The older woman’s voice held panic as she took the cloth and blew her nose soundly, the hysteria of fright heightened by a realisation that their lives depended on the one who had just left them to find the missing portal. Already the temperature had dropped further; the air was harder to breath. Lord, Bea thought, what must it be like outside in the snow and the wind and the icy tracks of road with only a slither of light?

Perhaps he had perished or was in need of a voice to call him back to the coach, lost as he was in the whiteness? Perhaps they sat here as he took his last breath in a noble but futile effort to save them?

Angry both at her imagination and immobility, she wrapped her cloak around her head so that only her eyes were visible and edged herself out into the weather, meaning to help.

He stood ten yards away, easing the driver from the base of a hedge, carefully holding his neck so that it was neither jarred nor bent. He wore no gloves and the cloak he had left the carriage with was now wrapped about the injured man, a small blanket of warmth against the bitter cold. Without thick wool upon him his own shirt was transparent, a useless barrier against such icy rain.

‘Can I help you?’ she shouted, her voice taken by the wind and his eyes caught hers as he turned, squinting against the hail.

‘Go back. You will freeze out here.’ She saw the strength in him as he hoisted the driver in his arms and came towards her. Scrambling for shelter, she turned to assist him once she was back in the relative warmth of the coach.

‘There is no room in here,’ the old lady grumbled as she refused to shift over even a little and Beatrice swept the reticule from her own seat and crouched, her breath forming white clouds in the darkness as she replied.

‘Put him here, sir. He can lie here.’

The tall man placed the other gently on the seat, though he made no effort to come in himself.

‘Look after him,’ he shouted and again was gone, the two other occupants silent in his wake.

One man dead, one man injured, one older woman hysterical and one younger man useless. Bea’s catalogue of their situation failed to include either her injuries or that of the tall stranger, but when he had stood by the door she had noticed blood near his eye, trickling across his face and the front of his white, white shirt in a steady stream of red.

He used his hands a lot, she thought, something that was unusual in a man. He had used them to slide down the cheek of the dead gentleman opposite and across the arms and legs of the driver who lay beside her, checking the angle of bones and the absence of breath and the warmth or coldness of skin.

When she had felt his fingers on the pulse at her neck as she had awakened after the accident, warmth had instantly bloomed. She wished he might have ventured lower, the tight want in her so foreign it had made her dizzy…

Shock consumed such daydreams. She was a twenty-eight-year-old widow who had no possible need or want for any man again. Ever. Twelve years of hell had cured her of that.

The movements of the older lady and her son brought her back to the present as they tried to unwrap the driver from the cocoon of the borrowed cape and take it for their own use. Laying her hands across the material, Bea pressed down.

‘I do not think that the gentleman who gave him this cloak would appreciate your taking it.’

‘He is only the driver…’ the man began, as if social status should dictate the order of death, but he did not continue as the one from outside appeared yet again.

‘M…m…ove b…b…ack.’

His voice shook with the coldness of a good quarter of an hour out in the elements with very little on and in his hands he held the door.

Hoisting himself in, he wedged the door between the broken edges, some air still seeping through the gaping jagged holes, but infinitely better than what had been there a second earlier.

Beads of water ran down his face and his shirt was soaked to the skin, sticking against his body so that the outline of muscle and sinew was plainly evident. A body used to work and sport. Taking a cloth from her bag, Bea caught his arm and handed it to him, the gloom of the carriage picking up the white in his teeth as he smiled, their fingers touching with a shock of old knowledge.

Her world of books came closer: Chariclea and Theagenes, Daphnis and Chloe—just a few of the lovers from centuries past who had delighted her with their tales of passion.

But never for her.

The plainness of her visage would not attract a man like this one, a man who even now turned to the driver, finding his hand and measuring the beat of his heart against the count of numbers.

‘You have done this before?’ She was pleased her voice sounded so level-headed. So sensible.

‘Many times,’ he returned, swiping at hair that fell in dripping waves around his face. Long, much longer than most men kept theirs. There was arrogance in his smile, the look of a man who knew how attractive he was to women. All women. And certainly to one well past her prime.

Looking away, she hated the hammer beat of her heart. ‘Will anyone come, do you think?’

Another question. This time aimed at the carriage in general.

‘No one.’ The younger man was quick in his reply. ‘They will not come until the morning and by then Mama will be…’

‘Dead…dead and frozen.’ His mother finished the sentiment off, her pointless rant an extension of the son’s understanding of their predicament.

‘If we sit close and conserve our energy, we can wait it out for a few hours.’ The stranger’s voice held a strand of impatience, the first thread of anything other than the practicality that she had heard.

‘And after that…?’ The younger man’s voice shook.

‘If no one comes by midnight, I will take a horse and ride towards Brentwood.’

Bea stopped him. ‘But it is at least an hour away and in this weather…’ She left the rest unsaid.

‘Then we must hope for travellers on the road,’ he returned and brought out a silver flask from his pocket, the metal in it glinting in what little light there was.

After a good swallow he wiped the top and handed it over to her.

‘For warmth,’ he stated. ‘Give it to the others when you have had some.’ Although she was a woman who seldom touched alcohol, she did as he said, the fire-hot draught of the liquor chasing away the cold. The older woman and younger man, however, did not wish for any. Not knowing quite what to do now, she tried to hand it back to the man squeezed in beside her.

When he neither reached for it nor shook his head, she left it on her lap, the cap screwed back on with as much force as she could manage so that not a drop would be wasted. He had much on his mind, which explained his indifference, she decided, the flask and its whereabouts the least of all his worries.

Finding her own bag wedged under the seat, she brought out the Christmas cake that she had procured before leaving Brampton. Three days ago? She could barely believe it was only that long. Unfolding the paper around the delicacy, she looked up.

‘Would everyone like a piece?’

The two opposite reached out and she laid a generous portion in their hands, but the tall man did nothing, merely tilting his head as though listening for something. Beatrice tried to imagine what it was that had caught his attention as she tucked the cake away. She did not take any either, reasoning perhaps he wished for her to ration the food just in case the snowstorm kept up and nobody came.

Nobody. The very word cast her mind in other directions. There would be nobody to meet her or to miss her if she failed to arrive in London. Not this week or the next one.

Perhaps the head gardener whom she had befriended in the past few weeks might one day wonder why she had never come to visit as she had promised she would, but that would be the very most of it. She could vanish here and be swallowed up by snow and her disappearance would not cause a single ripple.

Twenty-eight years old and friendless. The thought would have made her sadder if she had not cultivated her aloofness for a reason. Protection was a many-faceted thing and her solitariness had helped when Frankwell, in his last years, had become a man who wanted to know everything about everyone.

Lord, she smiled wryly. Easier than the man he had first been, at least. She felt with her forefinger for the scar that ran down from her elbow, the edges of skin healed as badly as the care she had received after the accident had happened. So badly, in fact, that she had worn long-sleeved gowns ever since, even in the summer.

Summer? Why was she thinking of warmth when the temperature in this coach must be way below freezing point now?

The driver groaned loudly, struggling to sit, his face a strange shade of pale as he opened his eyes.

‘What happened?’

The tall man answered his question. ‘The wheel fell off the carriage and we overturned.’

‘And the horses? Where are the horses?’

‘I tethered them under a nearby tree. They should last a few hours with the shelter the branches are affording them.’

‘Brentwood is at least an hour on and Colchester two hours back.’ He hung down his head into his hands and looked across at the three figures opposite, his face curling into fear as he saw the dead passenger.

‘If they think that this is my fault, I’ll lose me job and if that happens…’

The right wheel feathered from its axle. It would take an inspector two minutes to ascertain such damage and I can attest to your good skill in driving should the need arise.’

‘And who might you be, sir?’

‘Taris Wellingham.’

Beatrice thought she had never heard a more interesting name. Taris. She turned the unusual name over in her mind as the driver rattled on.

‘The next packet won’t be along till after dawn even should we fail to arrive in Brentwood. They will think in this weather we have sheltered in Ingatestone or stopped further back at Great Baddow. By morning we will all be in the place that he has gone to.’ His hand gestured to the passenger opposite, but he stopped when the old woman started to wail.

‘It will not come to that, madam.’ Taris Wellingham broke into her cries. ‘I have already promised to ride on.’

‘Not alone, sir.’ Beatrice surprised herself with such an outburst, but in these climes a single misstep could mean the difference between life and death and a companion could counter at least some of that danger. ‘Besides, I am a good horsewoman.’ Or had been, she thought, fifteen years ago in the countryside around Norwich.

‘There is no promise that we will make the destination, madam,’ he returned, ‘and so any such thing is out of the question.’

But Bea stood firm. ‘How many horses are there?’

‘Four, although one is lame.’

‘I am not a child, sir, and if I have a desire to accompany you to the next town and a horse is available for me, then I can see no reason why you should be dictating the terms.’

‘You could die if you come.’

‘Or die here if you fail to come back.’

‘This is a busy road…’

‘Upon which we have not seen another vehicle since the journey was resumed after luncheon.’

He smiled, the warmth in his face seen even through the gloom surprising her into a blush. ‘It would be dangerous.’

‘Less so with the two of us.’

‘I’ll take the driver with me, then.’

‘Both his hands are broken, sir. Surely you can see the angle of his fingers. He is going nowhere!’

Silence greeted her last outburst, but she heard him draw in a careful breath and just as carefully expel it.

‘What are you called?’ The imperiousness of his tone brought to mind a man who seldom had to wait for anything.

‘Mrs Bassingstoke. Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke.’ She never felt happy giving her name and this occasion was no different, though the eyes that watched her did not fill with the more usual amusement. Nay, rather they seemed to focus above her and away as if he were already plotting their journey.

‘Very well, Mrs Bassingstoke. Do you have other clothes in your bag?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘Then I should take them from where you have them and dress in as many layers as you can manage.’ He passed the fabric she had given him a few moments earlier back. ‘You will need this shawl for your neck.’

‘It is a muslin cloth, sir. From around the cake.’

He hesitated. ‘In lieu of a scarf it will do.’

Damn it, Taris thought, the thing had felt just like a woman’s scarf. Sometimes the sharpness of touch deserted him as fully as sight did and he had heard a questioning note in the voice of this Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke.

Her voice did not suit the hardness of her name though in its careful cadence he fancied he heard the whisper of secrets.

Bassingstoke? A Norfolk family and she had made mention of Brampton. He had heard something only last month about them, though he could not quite remember what. Would this woman hail from the same bloodline? The quiet strength in her voice had helped him with everything and she had not eaten any of the cake when he had failed to understand what it was she was offering and did not reach out. Even now the small scent of raisins and rum permeated the air and he wished he might have asked her to open her bag again and cut him a slice.

The thought made him smile, though in truth there was very little humour in their situation. If a carriage or a horseman did not pass by soon he would need to get going himself, for the breathing of the older woman was becoming more shallow, a sign that the cold was getting to her. At least the lady next to him seemed determined to accompany him and for that he was glad. He would need a set of good eyes on the frozen road, one that could see even a glimmer of light in any of the fields, denoting a farmhouse or a barn. In this cold any help was gratifying. He had looked for his own luggage outside but could not glean even a shape of it in the snow. Indeed, the carriage had dragged along for a good few seconds before it had tipped and his case might be anywhere. A pity! The clothes inside it would have been an extra layer that he would have to do without, though with the driver recovered he could ask for his cloak to be returned at least.

He listened to the rustle of Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke dressing, her arm against his as she wriggled into the extra layers. A thin arm, he realised, the bones of it fragile.

Finally she seemed ready. He wanted to ask her if she had a hat on. He wanted to know if her boots were sturdy. He voiced none of these questions, however, deciding that silence was the wiser option and that Mrs Bassingstoke seemed, even on such a short acquaintance, a rather determined woman and one sensible enough to wrap herself up warm against the elements.

Chapter Two

The weather had worsened when they slipped outside half an hour later, Taris Wellingham carefully replacing the door and patting wads of snow in the gaps that he felt along both edges.

Bea was relieved in a sense to be away from the carriage and doing something, the wait almost worse in the extreme cold than this concerted push of energy, though her heartbeat rose with the fear of being swirled away by the wind and lost into greyness.

As if he could read her mind his hand reached out and clamped across her own, pulling her with him towards the horses, who were decidedly jumpy.

His fingers skimmed across the head of the big grey nearest to him, and down the side to the leather trace, hardened by ice.

‘You take this one.’

He held his hand out as a step, and she quickly mounted, abandoning propriety to ride astride. Gathering the reins in tight, she stepped the horse away from the tree. Her hat was a godsend, the wide brim gathering flakes and giving her some respite from the storm. She watched as Taris Wellingham gained his seat and turned the horse towards her, his cloak once again in place and the hat of the younger man jammed in a strange manner down across his ears.

‘We’ll ride south.’

Away from the direction they had come, which was a sensible choice given the lack of any buildings seen for miles.

Please, God, let there be a house or a barn or travellers who knew the way well. Please, please let us find a warm and safe place and men who could rescue the others. Her litany to an everpresent and omnipotent deity turned over and over, the echoes of other unanswered prayers she had offered up over the years slightly disturbing.

No, she should not think such thoughts, for only grateful vassals of the Lord would be listened to. Had not Frankwell told her that? Squinting her eyes against the driving snow, she lay low across the horse, the warmth of its skin giving her some respite from the cold and she kept her mind very carefully blank.

Quarter of an hour later she knew she could go no further. Everything was numb. Taris Wellingham on the horse beside her looked a lot less uncomfortable, though she knew him to have on fewer clothes than she did. A man used to the elements and its excesses, she supposed. A man who strode through his life with the certainty that only came with innate self-assurance. So unlike her!

When the shapes of two travellers on horses loomed out of the swirling whiteness she could barely believe them to be real.

‘There…in front of us…’ she shouted, pointing at them and amazed that Taris Wellingham had as not yet reacted to the sighting. The shout of the newcomers was heard and they waited in silence as the men came abreast.

‘The coach from Colchester is late. We have been sent to find it. Are you some of that party?’

‘We are, but it is a good fifteen minutes back,’ Taris shouted. ‘The wheel sheared away…’

‘And the passengers?’

‘One dead and two more lie inside with the driver, who is badly injured.’

The other man swore.

‘Fifteen minutes back, you say. We will have to take them over to Bob Winter’s place for the night, then, but that’s another twenty or so minutes from here and you look as if you may not be able to stand the journey.’

‘What of the old Smith barn?’ the other yelled. ‘The hay is in and the walls are sturdy.’

‘Where is it?’ Taris Wellingham sounded tired, the gash on his head still seeping and new worry filled her.

‘Five minutes on from here is a path to the left marked with a white stone. Turn there and wait for help. We will send it when we can.’

When we can? The very thought had Bea’s ire running.

‘I cannot…’

But the others were gone, spurred on by the wind and by need and by the thick white blankets of snow.

‘It’s our only chance,’ Taris shouted, a peal of thunder underlining his reason. The next flash of lightning had her horse rearing up and though she managed to remain seated, the jolt worsened the ache of her lip. Tears pooled in her eyes, scalding hot down her cheeks, the only warmth in the frozen waste of the world.

‘I’m sorry.’ She saw him looking, his expression so unchanged she knew instantly that he was one of those men who loathed histrionics.

‘Look for the pathway, Mrs Bassingstoke. We just need to find the damn barn.’

Prickly. High-handed. Disdainful.

Dashing her tears away with the wet velvet of her cloak, she hated the fact that she had shown any man such weakness. Again.

The path was nowhere. No stone to mark it, no indent where feet might have travelled, no telltale breakage in the hedges to form a track or furrows in the road where carts might have often travelled.

‘Are you looking?’

Lord, this was the fifth time he had asked her that very question and she was running out of patience. She wondered why he had dismounted and was leading his steed, his feet almost in the left-hand ditch on the road. Feeling with his feet. For what? What did he search for? Why did he not just ride, fast in the direction they had been shown?

She knew the answer even as she mulled it over. It was past five minutes and if they had missed the trail…?

Suddenly an avenue of trees loomed up.

‘Here! It is here!’

He turned into the wind and waited.

‘Where? What do you see?’

‘Trees. In a row. Ten yards to the left.’

The stone was where the travellers had said it would be, but covered in snow it was barely visible, a marker that blended in with its background, alerting no one to the trail it guarded.

When Taris Wellingham’s feet came against it she saw the way he leant over, brushing the snow from the top in a strangely guarded motion, the tips of his fingers purple with the extreme and bitter cold. The stillness in him was dramatic, caught against the blowing trees and the moving landscape and the billowing swirls of his cloak. A man frozen in just this second of time, the hard planes of his face angled to the heavens as though in prayer.

Thank the Lord they had found the barn, Taris thought, and squinted against the cold, trying to see the vestige of a pathway, his eyes watering with the effort.

Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke’s teeth behind him chattered with an alarming loudness, though she had not spoken to him for the last few moments.

‘Are you able to make it to the barn?’ he asked, the concern in his voice mounting.

‘O…of c…c…course I c…c…can.’

‘If you need any help…?’

‘I sh…shan’t.’ Tears were close.

‘Are you always so prickly, Mrs Bassingstoke?’ Anger was easier to deal with than distress and with experience Taris had come to the realisation that a bit of annoyance gave women strength.

But this one was different, her silence punctuated now with sniffs, hidden he supposed by the muffled sound behind the thick velvet of her cloak.

A woman at the very end of her tether and who could blame her? She had not sat in the coach expecting others to save her or bemoaned the cold or the accident. She had not complained about the deceased passenger or made a fuss when she had had to vacate her seat to allow the driver some space. No, this woman was a lady who had risen to each difficulty with the fortitude of one well able to cope. Until now. Until an end was in sight, a warm barn with the hope of safety.

He had seen such things before in the war years in Europe, when soldiers after a battle had simply gone to pieces, the fact that they had remained unscathed whilst so many others had perished around them pushing them over the edge.

A place where Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke seemed to have reached.

He wished he could have scanned her face for a clue as to her state of well-being, but with only the near-silent sniffles he had little to go on.

How much further to go, he wondered, the snow deepening in the trail with every passing step, though an eddy in the wind against his face told him that a building must be near, the breeze passing over an edifice and rising.

His own awareness of the proximity of objects kicked in too, his cursed lack of sight honing other senses. Placing his hand against the solidness of wood, he thanked God for their deliverance and reached out for the bridle of his companion’s horse.

‘I will help you down.’

‘Th…thank y…you.’

Her hand came to his shoulder as he lifted his arms, fitting them around a waist that was worryingly thin. When he had her down she held on to him still, her fingers entwined in the cloth of his cape.

‘I c…can’t feel my f…feet,’ she explained when he tilted his head in question.

‘Then I’ll carry you.’ Hoisting her against him, he walked a few paces around the edge of the building, finding it open on the southern side, the horses following them in.

The smell of hay and silage was strong and another smell too. Chickens, he thought, listening for the tell-tale sound of scratching. Perhaps there might be eggs or grain here.

Taris liked the feeling of Beatrice-Maude’s breath against his collarbone, the warm shallowness of it a caress that surprised him. How old was this lady? When her hand rested against the smoothness of his skin, he felt a band of gold on the third finger of her left hand.

Worry engulfed him. Would her husband be mad with worry somewhere?

‘I c…can s…see that th…there are bl…blankets in the f…far corner, I th…think. Perhaps we c…could w…warm ourselves.’

Which corner? In the gloom of his vision Taris could detect nothing save the walls enclosing this space. Another thought heartened him. Perhaps if he let her down she might lead him to them.

When her feet touched the dirt floor Beatrice winced, the numbness now replaced by a pins-and-needles pain that made contact with anything unbearable. She could never in her whole life remember feeling this cold, the sheer pain of it seeping into her bones and making her heavy and sluggish. She almost crawled to the corner, glad to finally be off her feet; removing her boots, she burrowed into the warmth of a scratchy grey horse blanket.

But her clothes were wet and stiff and the cold that she thought might disappear suddenly increased with the change in circumstance.

Taris Wellingham at her side was peeling off his cloak, and the wet steamy shirt he had on followed it.

She looked away, her breath indrawn by the tone of muscle, the shaped contours attesting to the fact that he must spend much of his life out of doors.

‘Take your cloak off too,’ he said as he jumped under her blanket and heaped his cloak on top.

‘Wh…what are you d…doing?’ Panic lent a screeching sound to the query.

‘One can die of the cold in a matter of moments. Skin to skin we can warm each other.’

‘Sk…in to skin?’ Lord, that he should even suggest such a thing.

‘Feel this,’ he returned and placed her hand across her throat. A clammy coldness emanated from her, the beat of her heart beneath shallow and fast.

‘And then feel this.’

Now her fingers lay against his chest, the hair tickling her palm. But it was his heat that got to her, a blazing hotness that seemed to cover each and every part of him.

She could not pull away, could not make herself remember manners and propriety and comportment. All she wanted was to be closer and when he helped her take the cloak from her shoulders she did nothing to dissuade him.

‘How old are you?’ he said above the silence.

‘Tw…twenty-eight.’

‘And your husband?’

‘Is d…dead.’

‘Then I have no need to be concerned that an avenging swain will appear and challenge me to a duel.’

‘No, sir. It is only your w…warmth that I w…want.’

‘Good.’ His response was measured and brisk, her worries about anything more between them singularly ridiculous in the whole situation.

Of course he would not want more from her! She bent her head so that he might not see her blush. Lord, the thinness of her arms against his healthy shape was unattractive and her dress with the long sleeves was as wet as his shirt.

‘Take this off, too.’

‘I will n…not.’

In response he simply sat her up and unbuttoned the gown before slipping it from her. In the darkness she saw that the livid red scar near her elbow was difficult to make out. Still when his fingers touched the skin they lingered, his question of how this had happened almost a physical thing in the gloom.

‘I f…fell against a f…fence.’

‘And it was not tended?’

‘The doctor tried his hardest…’

A sharp bark of laughter confused her. Not humorous in any way. Just harsh. Critical.

Her stays and chemise and petticoat beneath were a little damp and she was pleased he did not insist she take them off too. She noticed after removing his boots he left his own trousers on, the wet fabric catching on the skin of her legs as they laid themselves down.

Together. Spooned. His back against her face. She could not help her hands wandering to the warmth.

‘Will the h…horses b…be s…safe?’

‘They will keep warm together if they have any sense.’

‘You h…have d…done this before? B…been caught in the s…snow, I mean?’ Lord, the clumsiness of her question made her stiffen. Of course he would have lain with a woman. Many women probably, with his fine face and his courage!

He did not seem to notice her faltering as he answered her question. ‘I fought in Europe in the Second Peninsular campaign and it often was colder there than in England. The men were not as soft as you are, though, when we lay down at night.’ A smile was audible in his voice.

A personal compliment! Bea left the edge of awkwardness alone and thought about other things: the sound of the horses nuzzling in, the snow outside, and a wind that howled through the rafters of the roof. All things to keep her mind off a growing realisation that the warmth was no longer concentrated solely in him.

To lie with a man in a snow-filled night, safe after adversity, a man who was neither sickly nor mean. A man with a man’s body, a man’s tastes, the smell of his skin woody and strong, his muscles even in the dimness defined and substantive.

So unlike Frankwell.

Years of celibacy suddenly weighed against opportunity; the widow Bassingstoke was presented with a fine handsome man and a night that would hold no questions.

The ghost of a smile played around her lips before sense reined it in. Of course she could not take advantage of the situation. She was a lady and a widow. Besides, already she thought his body had relaxed into sleep, the even cadence of his breath confirming it. To him she was nothing more than a warm skin to survive against. When the tip of her finger reached out to the ridge of his shoulder blade and traced the muscle in air, she wished that she might have been braver and truly touched him.

So unwise, another voice cautioned, the knowledge of her plainness leading only to a rejection that would be embarrassing to them both.

He came awake with a start. Where the hell was he? A leg lay across his stomach. A shapely leg by the feel of it, fully exposed almost up to the groin.

His groan took him by surprise, his manhood rising without any help from his mind.

Lord. Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke had a sensuality about her that was elemental. He had not felt it before with his tiredness and his worry, but here with the first slam of awareness he was knocked for six. It lay in her smell and the breath of trust against his chest. It lingered in the hair uncoiled from the tight knot he had felt before finding sleep and which now curtained across him, thick and curly. The line of her breasts too was surprising. The thinness of her waist and of her arms was not mirrored here, her fat abundance of soft womanhood moulded against him, her nipples through thin lawn grazing his own with a surprising result.

God. His erection had grown again, filling the space of his trousers with warmth and promise. God, he muttered once more as she moved in sleep, this time all but crawling on top of him in her quest for warmth. His sex nudged at her thighs and he did not stop it, the very sensation tightly bound up in the forbiddenness of the situation.

A quandary he had no former experience of. A stranger who seduced him even in her sleep, the smell of her wafting beneath his nose. Flowers and woman.

And trust. A powerful aphrodisiac in a man who had forgotten the emotion, forgotten the very promise of intimate closeness!

He opened his eyes as widely as he could, trying to catch in them a reflection of light. Any light. But the darkness was complete, the snow and wind blocking moonbeams with the time, by his reckoning, being not much past the hour of two.

The witching hour. The hour he usually prowled the confines of his house away from the stares of others, darkness overcoming disability and all of the lights turned down.

Here, however, he did not wish to rise. Here he wanted to stay still, and just feel. The incline of her chest, the tremor in her hands as if a dream might have crept into her slumber, the feel of her hair wound around his fingers, clamping him to her.

His!

This thin and sensible lass, with her twenty-eight years and her widowhood.

Was it recent? Had her husband just died, the ring she wore a reminder of all the happy years she now would never enjoy? Were there children? Did she rule a domain of offspring and servants with her sense and sensibility? A woman at the centre of her world and with no need for any other? Certainly not for a man with fading sight and the quickening promise of complete blindness!

His arousal flagged slightly, but regained ground when her fingers clamped on his own, anchoring her to him. A ship in a storm, and any port welcomed.

He could not care. The rush of desire and need was unlike any he had ever experienced. He needed to take her, to possess her, to feel the softness of her flesh as he pushed inside to be lost in warmth.

He rocked slightly, guilt buried beneath want. And then he rocked again.

Chapter Three

She felt the bud of excitement, the near promise of something she had never known. Breathing in, she whispered a name.

‘Taris.’

His name.

The answering curse pulled her fully awake, his face close, the darkness of it lightened by the line of his teeth as he spoke.

‘Beatrice-Maude? Is there a name that you are called other than that? It is long, after all, and I thought—’

‘Bea.’ She broke into his words with a whisper. ‘My mother always called me Bea.’

‘Bea,’ he repeated, turning the name over on his tongue and she felt his breath against her face as he said it. So close, so very close. He held his hand across her waist when she tried to pull back.

‘Bea as in Bea-witching?’

His fingers trailed down her cheek, warm and real.

‘Or Bea as in Bea-utiful?’

She tensed, waiting for his laugh, but it did not come.

‘Hardly that, sir.’ She felt the heavy thrump of her heartbeat in her throat. Was he jesting with her? Was he a man who lied in order to receive what he wanted, who thought such untruthful inanities the desperate fodder expected by very plain women? She tried to turn from him to find a distance, the sheer necessity of emotional survival paramount.

‘What is it? What is wrong?’ A thread of some uncertainty in his voice was the only thing that held her in place. If she had heard condescension or falsity she would have stood, denying his suggestion of more, even knowing that she might never in her whole life be offered anything as remotely tempting.

Again.

‘I should rather honesty, sir.’

‘Sir?’ The word ended in a laugh. ‘Surely “sir” is too formal for the position we now find ourselves in?’ He did not take back his compliments and another bark of laughter left her dazed.

‘Are you a celibate widow, Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke?’

She started to nod and then changed her mind, not sure of exactly what he alluded to.

‘Then I suppose there is another question I must ask of you. Are you a woman who would say nay to the chance of sharing more than just warmth together here in the midst of a storm?’

His voice was silken smooth, a tone in it that she could not quite fathom.

Her brows knitted together. ‘I don’t understand.’

He pushed inwards and the hardness of his sex made everything crystal clear.

A dalliance. A tryst. One stolen and forbidden night. For twelve years she had wondered what it would be like to lie with a man who was not greedy or selfish. A man who might consider her needs as well as his own. Always lovemaking had hurt her; he had hurt her when she had tried to take her pleasure in the act. Frankwell Bassingstoke and his angry punitive hands.

What would Taris Wellingham’s touch be like, his slender fingers finding places she had only ever dreamed about?

Lord, but to dare to take the chance of one offered providence and the end of it come morning.

No strings attached, no empty unfilled promises to lie awake and worry over come the weeks and months that followed. Only these hours, the darkness sheltering anything she did not wish him to see. And then an ending.

Twenty-eight and finally free. The heady promise of it was as exhilarating as it was unexpected.

‘You mean this for just one night only?’

She needed to understand the parameters of such a request, for if he said he wanted more she would know that he lied and know also that she should not want it.

‘Yes.’

Freedom. Impunity. Self-government and her own reign.

Words that had been the antithesis of all she had been for the past twelve years and words that she vowed would shape her life for all of those still to come.

Her husband’s face hovered above her, his heavy frown and sanctimonious nature everything that she had hated. At sixteen she had not been old enough to recognise the faults and flaws of a man who would become her husband, but at twenty-eight she certainly did.

He had been a bully, an oppressive domineering tyrant and with his bent for religious righteousness she had never quite been able to counter any of it.

She shook her head hard. Nay, all that was over. Now she would do only as she wanted so long as it did not harm any other.

‘Are you married?’

Her question was blurted out. If he said that he was, she would not touch him.

‘No.’

Permission granted. Placing her hand flat on his chest, her forefinger found his nipple. With deliberation she lent down and wet it with her tongue, blowing on the cold as she caressed it into rigidity.

When he stretched out and groaned she felt the control of a woman with power. Feminine power, the feeling unlike any she had ever experienced.

She did not feel guilty as Frankwell had said that she must, she did not feel sullied or soiled or befouled. Nay, she felt the sheer and utter wonder of it, the bewildering rarity of rightness.

Here. With Taris Wellingham. For this one storm-snowed freezing night.

‘Thank you.’ The words slipped out without recognition as to what she had said. A beholden contentment that broke through all that she had believed of herself or all that a husband steeped in damning religion had believed. In just one touch Frankwell’s hold on the tenure of her moral pureness was gone, replaced simply by comprehension and relief.

She smiled as his fingers began to unlace her bodice and the thin lawn fell away.

‘Thank you?’

The restraint that Taris was trying to hold in check broke, the swollen want between them demanding nothing hidden or reserved. Running his fingers down the curve of her arm, he gathered the ties on her lacy chemise and unravelled them, her face tipping up to his own.

He imagined her eyes, surprise and lust in equal measure; he imagined her mouth, the feel of her lips full and tender. When his hands cupped her breasts and held the flesh in his palms, he took a shaky breath out, for this woman did not wait for him to do all the work. No, already her fingers skimmed the waistband of his trousers, slipping into the skin that lay underneath and feeling his erection with as much care and vigilance as he was giving to her.

A balanced taking.

No missish virgin or paid whore. No money between them or commitment sought. Only feelings.

‘Ahhh, Beatrice-Maude,’ he whispered as she pushed the material covering him downwards and her fingers came to other places, more hidden. No green or frightened girl either.

Equal measure!

Touch for touch! Stopping only as his mouth fastened upon her nipple and tasted, the sweet sound of bliss in her voice as she expelled her breath and enjoyed.

The dampness of her skin, and her stark utter heat. The way her hips rocked against his own, asking, wanting, needing more.

His head rose to her mouth, and his fingers felt the way, her chin, her nose, the lay of her eyes and her forehead. No colour but shape, and crowned with a pile of darkened curls. That much at least he could see!

‘Let me take you, sweetheart. Let me take you further.’ His voice did not seem like his own.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Much further…’

Her heavy breasts swayed as he brought her up with him, the fall of her legs opening beneath her chemise. His hand crept under it to her stockings, which he removed, and then to her drawers, lacy pieces of nothing, the unsewn seam leaving easy access.

‘Now,’ she cried and not quietly either. ‘Right now.’ The sweat between them built, the cold of this barn a far-off thought, no time for careful restraint or the foreplay that he was more used to. No time for any of it as he lifted her on to him and drove home, again and again and again, a life-filled, raw loving that was all that was left to seek release.

Which they did!

She had died and gone to heaven! She swore she had. She swore that if her life were to end now, this very, very minute she would leave a happy woman. A fulfilled woman. A woman who finally knew what it was novels spoke of in their flurry of adjectives and superlatives.

This. Feeling.

Spent and replete and waves of ecstasy still sweeping across her. And tears when she began to cry.

Not quietly either. But loudly. Loud tears of wonderment and relief. She just could not stop them.

‘Did I hurt you? Are you hurt?’

She waved away his worry and tried to smile.

‘No. It was wonderful. So wonderful.’ Bruised with happiness and finality. Understanding what it was she had not experienced before.

He lay back against the scratchy grey blanket in the year’s new hay and began to laugh.

‘You are crying…because it was wonderful?’

She nodded, the sniffs now lessened as she sought for her chemise balled beside them in order to blow her nose.

‘I didn’t know…’ no, she could tell him none of her past for she did not want him feeling sorry for her ‘…that a hay barn could be such a sensual place.’

Before her he lay like a prince devoid of clothes and inhibitions. A Greek god fallen into her lap by the will of a Lord who had finally answered her daily prayers.

A whole twelve years of them to be precise, and not more than a month after the death of Frankwell Bassingstoke!

Perhaps that was all the time needed for a powerful deity to recognise the sacrifice she had made to care for her given husband, to obey him, to yield to the orders he had been so fond of giving.

Perhaps Taris Wellingham had been sent in recompense, the gift of this night easily making up for the hardship of her past decade.

His finger traced the upward turn of her lips.

‘You are a puzzle, Mrs Bassingstoke,’ he said, his voice rich with the rounded vowels of a well-to-do upbringing. ‘And one that I cannot, for the life of me, quite fathom.’

She stayed silent, enjoying his touch as he splayed open her palm and drew a spiral inside before tracing upwards to the sensitive folds of her neck and the outline of her lips.

When his hand cupped the back of her nape and he pulled her down across him she went willingly, his mouth taking what she offered in a hard twist of desire. Seeking. Finding. The taste of him masculine and fierce, though for the first time she was frightened, frightened of the need that welled in her, wanting, wishing this was real and binding her to eternity.

‘No.’ She pulled back and he did not stop her, did not hurt her in his insistence or his demand. Actions so unlike Frankwell that her fear subsided.

‘I should not exact anything you do not wish to offer.’

Quiet words from an honourable man, his need felt easily against her stomach, yet still he gave her the choice.

Her head dipped down and she ran her tongue across his lips, her fingers splayed against his chest as she held him still.

As if sensing her need for control, he remained motionless even as her touch cupped the full hardness of him.

‘My turn now,’ she whispered and stroked his warmth, teasing as he writhed. ‘Not yet,’ she added as he moved up against her. ‘Or yet,’ she repeated as she sat astride him and guided the fullness to a place that was only hers to offer. Home. Replete. Abundant. ‘But now.’

The feel of him made her tip back her head and cry out his name, no longer quiet as her voice broke against the wind and the rain and the wild sound of trees. The storm of sex was now inside her too, reaching, reaching and breaking languid sweet in her belly, her fingers and toes stretched tight against the ripples, urging them on for longer, unfastened by any ties of right or wrong.

Only feeling.

Only them.

When the last of the contractions had ceased she lay against him, joined by flesh and the slick wetness of their lovemaking. His hand claimed her, lying over her bottom, skin to skin, the cold air diminishing their heat. The length of her tresses was bound in his other fist, fettered in nakedness, lost in the glory.

‘Bea?’ Whispered.

‘Yes.’ Whispered back.

‘Bea-yond anything.’

Her laughter took his body from her own.

This was what she had missed all of her life. Just this. No meanness in it or bad temper. No righteous lecture on the innate evil of all women’s nature.

Beyond. Anything.

When his fingers crept into the space his body had just left, she opened her legs wide and all that was wonderful before began again.

She was asleep. Catching dreams from the early dawn. He did not wish to wake her, but he had to, for the winds had fallen and the sky was lightening. At least that much he could see and feel. They would be here soon. Everybody. The world. Reality.

The sun and the light and the damming affliction of his soul.

He would not be able to see her. He did not know the lay of this barn, the traps and the pitfalls. And she would know all of what he wasn’t, so carefully hidden in the dark.

His breathing shallowed and the fear that he had lived with for three years thickened. This time it did matter. Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke and her generous soft body even now in sleep turned towards him and wanting. Again.

He could not take her. He could not risk it with the new day dawning over a weakening storm. The blood that ran to the place between his legs did not listen to his head, however.

Once more, please the Lord, time for just once more.

She was wet and willing and pliable and, seeking entry with his hands, he knew the second she awakened, bearing down upon him as she guided him in.

The dawn was now well and truly broken and Taris dressed with haste before walking carefully around the shelter and marking its shape. Thirty yards long and twenty across, the haystack in the corner reaching out a considerable distance. The rough-sawn timber the barn was built with left a splinter in his palm and, sucking it hard, he saw the movements of Beatrice-Maude dressing. He hoped that she had tidied her hair and removed the traces of straw from her clothes that he had felt when he had brushed against them. He did not move back towards her, however, but turned to the open end of the building, tilting his head so that he could hear the sounds from further off.

They were coming.

People were coming.

Binding his hair into a tight queue, he stood with his face against the sky and waited, the hat that he had borrowed from the younger man in the carriage pulled down across his forehead, shading his eyes from other prying ones.

‘A rescue party will be here in five minutes,’ he warned, his voice distant. He could not help it. This was a place he had no knowledge of and the daylight was upon them. If he walked towards her, he might trip on a misplaced object and his brother had described to him in detail the opaque clouds in his left eye.

He did not wish for Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke to see that. He did not want her to know that he was a man who functioned best only in the darkness, a man who depended on his trusted servants and the familiar shorelines of his home. Risk free and easy.

‘You can hear them?’ she asked and he merely nodded. ‘Well, I can make out nothing at all and I always thought myself rather accomplished on hearing things that others could not.’

She sounded nervous and a little desperate, the higher tones of a frantic embarrassment clearly audible.

Why?

She was a widow after all and far from her first flush of youth and the night they had spent together had been completely consensual.

Perhaps it was the sheer worry of having others come to judge her in the predicament she now found herself in, for co-habiting overnight with a man would be considered racy even in his circle of friends and Mrs Bassingstoke sounded more like someone at home in the country.

His fist beat against his thigh as he pondered options. ‘I will disclose our sleeping arrangements to no one, Mrs Bassingstoke. Perhaps that will put your mind at rest.’

‘Indeed, Mr Wellingham.’ He was bothered by the worry in her words. Hardly above a whisper.

‘And if you could be so good as to fashion a nest in the hay that would only leave room for one person, then that should help this charade further.’

He listened as she did as he had suggested before sliding down to sit against the wall. Two people sheltering at either end of the barn and fully clothed! He hated the small catch he could hear in her voice as she began to talk again.

‘Are you based in London, sir?’

He shook his head. ‘More often than not I am away from it,’ he returned.

‘I see.’ He heard the deep intake of breath as she contemplated his answer. ‘So if by chance I should catch sight of you in the streets…?’

‘Your reputation would stay safer should you ignore me altogether.’

‘Ignore you altogether.’

Echoed. Lonely. Taris wished he might take his words back and replace them with other, softer words, words that did not decimate any contact with such a final thrust. But there was nothing he could do, not here, caught at the mercy of everyone, a man who was not able to even find his way to the edge of a small barn without falling.

His rejoinder cut into the quick of Bea’s self-esteem. Of course he would not wish for a plain woman of little attraction to be vying for his attention. Questions would be asked, after all, and she was hardly the sort who would be able to shrug them off with an inconsequential ease.

Ever since waking this morning he had barely glanced her way. Once had been enough, probably, to determine her mousy-coloured hair and her unremarkable eyes, let alone anose that was hardly retroussé and a chin that was much more defiant than was deemed fashionable.

Plain!

She had never felt the condition with such an agony and the ache of rejection was wretched. Taking a breath, she tried to exhale in a calm and dignified manner. Frankwell might have robbed her of youth, but a will that had been long bent was again firming, and the gift of independence was something that she could cling to. She had both gold and land and the means to be beholden to no one. Ever again! It was at least a start.

Swallowing, she stood, the group of people coming on horseback now visible, the men they had spoken to last night joined by a good many others, society folk, their dress rich and ornate.

When they finally came within ten yards of the barn the most beautiful woman Beatrice had ever seen in her life slid from her steed and ran.

Taris. Taris. Oh, thank God.’ Her eyes were flooded with tears and the chignon in its net had slipped, allowing a halo of blonde silken curls to fall in riotous abandon down to her shoulders as she flung herself into his opened arms.

‘My God, we thought we…had lost you…we thought you had been swept away in the storm or buried beneath the pile of snow and the hailstones…have you ever seen such hailstones…?’

The tirade stopped only as turquoise eyes came level with Bea’s, interest stamped across uncertainty.

Taris Wellingham turned finally in her direction, his amber gaze running quickly over her as though only just remembering that she was indeed still here. ‘Emerald Wellingham, meet Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke.’

Emerald Wellingham?

He was married? My God, he had lied to her, lied about everything…

‘She is my sister-in-law.’

Relief made the world bend in a strange way and Bea placed her hand against the wall to steady herself. Taris Wellingham neither came forwards nor commented on her instability and the callous indifference in his eyes confirmed her deductions. She meant nothing to him. She was just a warm and docile body with whom a freezing night had been passed more quickly. But at least he was not married!

She felt the turquoise gaze of the newcomer take in her dishevelled clothes and the hay that was stuck to them, summing up her character in the clues that lay all around.

A plain woman who would take the chance of an unexpected night with a man who looked as beautiful as this one did.

Shame battled with anger and both were over-taken by surprise as another man with a look of menacing danger joined them. Beatrice noticed he had a rather pronounced limp.

‘We travelled up from London at first light when you failed to come to Park Avenue. Emerald had a feeling about it all and would not be fobbed off with any excuse.’

‘It was the storms that made me uneasy, Taris, though Asher said I should not be concerned…’

Asher and Taris Wellingham? The names were suddenly horrifyingly familiar to Beatrice, for she had read of them across the years, two brothers who had ruled the ton with their wealth and escapades.

Falder Castle was their seat and they were the direct descendants of the first Duke of Carisbrook and if memory served her well Taris Wellingham had recently acquired extensive properties in Kent. Her cheeks burned with the growing realisation of how far she had trespassed into a world she knew nothing of and all she wanted was to be gone from this place, removed to one of the carriages that she could see now pulling up to the barn, further faces turned towards her, questions in their eyes.

‘The weather will be upon us in the next few moments, my lord, if we do not hurry from here.’ A tall thin man had come to the side of Taris Wellingham and she was bemused by the way he threaded his arm through that of his master.

The woman Emerald seemed as protective, her hand coming into his on the other side as they turned for the coach. She was amazed that Taris Wellingham allowed them to shepherd him in such a manner and was about to say something when his brother gave an order to the servant next to her.

‘See to the woman, Forbes.’ The young servant nodded even as the Wellinghams disappeared from view.

She could not believe it. He would not even tarry to say goodbye after all that they had shared?

The sound of a door shutting and a call to the horses answered her query. Then the beat of hooves and a quickening pace, the contraption lost to the whiteness of the landscape and the newly falling snow.

Gone.

Finished.

‘If you would come this way, miss, the others are in the coach…’

‘Others?’

There was a shout of recognition from the old woman and her son she had met the night before as she scrambled up the steps and into the shelter of the vehicle. She was pleased to find no sign of the one who had been killed in the accident. Or the driver.

‘Mr Brown was taken on to London an hour or so ago and the other went to Brentwood to the church, I would guess, until his family have been notified to collect him.’ The younger man was full of chatter, his mother less talkative after such a long and harrowing night.

‘We spent the night at a farmhouse further north and were picked up just a little time ago. He’s brother to a Duke, you know, the man we all rode with, and he has a wealth of land in Kent.’

Bea nodded, pleased when the carriage was spurred on, the droning sound of miles being eaten up as they travelled south sending the others to sleep.

Lord Taris Wellingham, brother to the Duke of Carisbrook.

She turned the names on her tongue, grand names, names that were known in all the four corners of this country, the lineage of the dukedom reaching down through a thousand years of privilege and entitlement.

Taris Wellingham.

She remembered his profile turned against the snow, strong and proud, a man who might not understand how easily he intimidated others with his effortless leadership and control.

Control over the reactions of her body too, every bit as persuasive yet infinitely gentle.

‘Enough,’ she whispered into the gathering greyness of the morning and, pulling the collar of her cloak around her eyes, she was glad to hide her tears from a world that she no longer understood.

Taris felt his sister-in-law’s gaze on him even as he turned to the window, looking out.

Lord, he was a coward and a faint-heart and as the miles between them grew he understood something he had never in his life before experienced.

A woman had bettered him, had made him feel a cad of the very first order, a man who would not own up to either circumstance or reality, but hid in a world that was only deception.

‘So if by chance I should catch sight of you in the streets…?’

‘Your reputation would stay safer should you ignore me altogether.’

He took in a breath and held it, hating the tightness he could feel in his throat, loathing the way he still did not say anything.

Turn around. Turn around and go back.

He should say it, should shout it, but with the world only a grey sludge he found that he just could not.

Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke had seen him at his best. The best that he used to be, before…before he had become dependent on everyone! He wanted her to remember him like that, a man in charge of his life and his actions.

From best to worst, Bates’s hand threaded through his own and Emerald’s on the other side, leading him out through the space to his carriage. He hoped she had not seen the coat of arms emblazoned on the side or heard Bates calling him ‘my lord’. He hoped she might have thought him ill or cold or disorientated. Certainly he hoped that she had not seen him trip as they had rounded the wall of the barn, his feet catching a ditch that he had had no notion was there.

Anger consumed him. And regret. For three years this blindness had been taking his sight day by day and piece by piece. At first it had been just his central vision, but now it was all the light on the periphery too; a creeping silent thief with total blackness as the end point of a journey he had no wish to be making.

A sadness that had been a constant companion of his recent months gathered with biting force, pushing him back in his seat so that his fists almost shook with the sheer and utter wrath of it all.

He had never accepted it, never come to the place where acquiescence might have softened anguish and allowed a healing.

No, he had never come to that!

‘Why the hell you insist on these public carriage excursions eludes me, Taris, when you have a bevy of your own conveyances ready and willing to take you anywhere?’ Asher’s voice sounded wearied and the truth of the query added to Taris’s own frustration. This was the first time alone on the road that he had indeed felt sightless, the struggle of coping more overwhelming than it had ever seemed before. He was pleased when his brother took his criticism no further and Emerald spoke instead.

‘Your companion sounds interesting?’

‘She was.’

‘She looked worried, though. I wondered if you had noticed?’

‘Yes.’

‘I also saw she wore a wedding ring?’

‘He’s tired, Emmie. Leave him to rest.’ Asher’s voice wound its way around protection with its particular undercurrent of guilt. Suddenly Taris had had enough.

‘Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke is a widow from Brampton. She is turned twenty-eight. She appreciates honesty and she hates her name.’

‘A comprehensive list.’ Emerald’s voice faltered as Asher began to laugh, and the quick thud of his leg against the side of the coach told Taris of a well-directed kick.

‘I thought she seemed…strong.’

‘Indeed, she was that.’

‘Any woman bold enough to leave the safety of a carriage and venture into a snow-whitened night would win my favour.’

‘What does she look like?’ Taris had not meant to ask this, so baldly, so very unmindful, and the silence in the carriage was complete until Emerald began to speak again.

‘Her hair is the colour of chestnuts ripe in autumn and her eyes hold the hue of wet leaves in the shadows beside a forest stream.’

He stayed silent, hoping that she might carry on, liking the way that she brought Beatrice-Maude to life for him in that peculiar way she had of using words.

‘She isn’t very tall, but she is very thin. Between her eyes is the line of a woman who has worried a lot. The dimples in her cheeks are the prettiest I have ever seen on anyone.’

Taris nodded, remembering the contours of them, remembering how she had taken his fingers into her mouth, licking them in the way of one versed in the sensual arts. Remembering other things too. Her smell. Her softness. The whisper of his name against his ear before she had turned into his arms and pressed the swollen flesh of her breasts against him.

‘God!’ Said without thought.

‘What?’ Asher’s voice was loud, near, edged with perplexity.

Searching around for an excuse, he found one in the missing timepiece at his waist. ‘I think I left my watch back under the hay. It was poking against me in the night.’

‘Grandpa’s fob? You still wear that even though you can’t read the numbers?’ Asher swore as he registered what it was he had implied.

’Sound measures time as well, brother, and when you stop feeling guilty for my poor eyesight then both of us may sleep all the easier.’

Closing his eyes, Taris liked the ease of not having to try to decipher shapes, though a vision rose in his memory of chestnut curls, leaf-green eyes and smiling dimpled cheeks. And bravery despite heavily chattering teeth!

Beatrice saw Taris Wellingham the following week in Regent Street where she had gone to do some shopping. He was in the passenger seat of an impressive-looking phaeton, a young woman beside him tooling the horses with a confidence that was daunting.

Drawing back against the shop window, she hoped that the overhanging roof might shelter her from his glance should he happen to look her way and her heartbeat was so violent she saw the material in the bodice of her gown rise up and down.

Goodness, would she faint? Already dizziness made her world spin and the maid at her side carrying an assortment of other parcels she had procured looked at her in alarm.

‘Are you quite well, ma’am?’

‘Certainly, Sarah.’ The quiver in her voice was unsettling.

‘There is a teahouse just a few shops on if you should care to sit down.’

Across the girl’s shoulder Taris Wellingham came closer, his face now easily visible and a top hat that was the height of fashion perched upon his head. The woman beside him was laughing as she urged her horses on and the ordinary folk on the street stopped what they did and watched.

Watched beauty and wealth and privilege. Watched people who had never needed to struggle or count their pennies or wonder where their next meal might come from. Watched a vibrant and beautiful woman handling a set of highly strung greys, which were probably worth their weight in gold, and a man who might let her do so, a smile of pride on his face as she deftly guided them through a busy city through way.

Bea felt an anger she rarely gave way to as Taris Wellingham’s eyes passed right across her own with no acknowledgement or recognition in them.

Just an ill-dressed stranger on a crowded London street watching for a second the passing of the very, very rich. And then dismissed.

Nothing left of breath and touch and the whispered delights shared in a barn outside Maldon. Nothing left of holding the centre of him within her, deep and safe, the snow outside erasing everything that could lead others to them, time skewered only by feelings and trust and the hard burn of an endless want.

Gone! Finished!

She turned her head away and marched into the first shop with an open door, the stocked shelves of a milliner’s wares blurring before her eyes as she pretended an exaggerated and determined interest in procuring a hat.

There was no sense in any of this, of course. Had Taris Wellingham not already told her that she should ignore him should she see him in London, that the tryst they had shared was nothing more to him than an interlude in one moment of need? The wedding ring on the third finger of her left hand glinted in the refracted light of a lamp set beside the counter.

Frankwell laughing from the place his soul had been consigned to. Not heaven, she hoped, the religious icon on the wall above the milliner making her start. Would her own actions outside Maldon banish her soul from any hope of an everlasting happiness? Given that she had in all of her twenty-eight years seldom experienced the emotion, the thought made her maudlin, the enticing promise of a better place after such sacrifice the one constant hope in her unending subservience in Ipswich.

Perhaps she was being punished for that very acquiescence, a woman who had been given a brain to think with and who had rarely used it. Was still not using it, was not taking the chances that were suddenly hers to seize, but was hiding away in the shadow of a fear that made everything seem dangerous.

‘Is there anything in particular you wish to look at, madam?’ the shopkeeper asked, as Bea still did not speak. The silence in the street registered in the back of her mind, any possibility of a further re-encounter diminishing with each passing second.

She made herself look at a hat she had admired on the nearest shelf, touching the soft fabric carefully. The bright green felt was a colour that she had seldom worn, Frankwell’s distaste of anything ’showy’ in the early years of her marriage mirrored across all of the last.

The very thought of her unquestioned obedience made her try it on, and for the first time ever in her life she actually liked the face of the woman reflected in the mirror. The colour matched her eyes and the tone of her skin, the sallowness of her often-favoured beige or brown lightened by the tint of green.

‘I think this colour suits you very well, madam, as would this one.’

A dark red hat replaced the green and the transformation was just as unbelievable.

‘I have always worn the shades of colour that are in this gown,’ she explained and the woman shook her head forcibly.

‘Those tones would not highlight the colour of your eyes, or enhance the cream in your skin.’

She hurried to lift down a creation in beige from a top shelf and brought it back.

‘See, madam. This is the colour you have preferred and you can see how little it favours you.’

Beatrice’s mouth fell open. Lord. Was it that easy to look more presentable? She could not believe it.

‘I have a sister who is just beginning as a modiste in London, madam. If you should wish to consult her for your gowns I am sure she would be very obliging. She is both reasonable and skilled.’

Sarah’s head nodded up and down beside her, a wide smile on her face.

Perhaps it was time for a change. A time to look at the things she had always enjoyed in her life and to try to incorporate them in the next part of it.

Books. Ideas. Discussions.

These were the things she had longed for most in the silent big house in Ipswich. When she had tried to speak to Frankwell about her own desires, his set opinions had always overridden her own and his anger had made her wary about disagreeing.

But now? Now that she had the money, time and inclination to follow her own dreams, the colour of a hat that actually suited her took on an importance that even yesterday would have been ridiculous. But here in the aftermath of a galling indifference the worm of something else turned inside her.

Freedom might be possible.

Freedom to do exactly as she pleased and to live her life in a way that would suit her, with no regard to others’ opinions.

The thought was heady and thrilling, a mandate to be only as she determined was right for her.

‘I will take both hats, please,’ she said, pulling out a purse that was filled with money, ‘and I should very much like to meet your sister.’

Taris placed his hand across the reins, feeling the pressure.

‘Ease up a little on the right, Lucy, for there is a slight pull.’

He knew in the breeze on his face the moment his sister re-aligned the horses and felt a tug of pride.

‘You have been practising while I have been away?’

Laughter greeted his question. ‘If that is your way of telling me I have improved, brother, then so be it.’

‘You have improved.’ The words came readily and he felt his sister lay her hand across his own.

‘From you that means a lot. All my life I have been in the shadow of my big brothers and it is good to finally cast one of my own. I appreciate the loan of your team in my quest to master this horsemanship, by the way, and if there is ever anything that you would like in return…’

He shook his head. ‘Become the Original you are destined to be, Lucinda, and that will be payment enough.’

‘Whomever you finally marry will be a lucky lady, Taris, because you have never allowed yourself to define others in the way the ton demands. With you I always feel that I could be…anything.’

The wind took his laughter and threw it across the street and in the corner of his vision he could just make out the forms of people watching them.

Women by the looks with their gowns and hats, and the sound of bells pealing out across the afternoon.

Two ‘clock. By five he would be on the road south, leaving the traffic and the noise of London behind him. He closed his eyes briefly and imagined the promise of Beaconsmeade and the warm comfort of his home.

He would take his own carriage for the ride down, however, for his recent poor experience with the public transport system allayed the delight he so often felt in mixing with the ordinary folk.

A gentler vision of well-rounded breasts and long dark curls made his fingers clasp with more fervour on to the silver head of his cane. Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke!

They had both agreed to the limitation of just one night and he had heard the sound of relief in her voice when he had not demanded different. Perhaps the state of widowhood was more promising than that of Holy Matrimony with its sanctions and its rules. As a man he saw the strictures that a woman was placed under when she married and if she had any land at all…?

No, he could not now search for Bea or betray such a trust. He had no earthly reason for doing so and she did not seem the type of woman who might welcome a dalliance. Besides, a wife was the very last thing he needed with his receding sight and his blurring vision.

Whomever you finally marry will be a lucky lady…

‘Your horses are attracting a lot of attention, Taris. Why, nearly everyone is watching their excellence.’

‘Well, Lucy, one more round and then home; I have much to do before I depart for Kent.’

‘Ash asked you to stay longer.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Or won’t.’

Both of them laughed as they careered around the corner and into the pathways of Hyde Park.

Chapter Four

Beatrice tucked her hair behind her ears and surveyed her downstairs salon, bedecked with books on each available surface. Her weekly book discussions were becoming…fashionable, attended by people from every walk of life, a crush that was the talk of the town.

How she loved London, loved its rush and bustle and the way the fabric of life here was so entwined with good debate and politics and culture. No one expected things of her or corrected her. If she wished to spend an evening reading in bed she could. If she wished to go out to a play she could. London with its diversity of intellectual pursuits set her free in a way that she had never been before and she relished such liberty.

Her clothes were nothing at all like the ones she would have worn three months ago either, those shabby country garments that spoke of a life tempered by ill health and routine long gone, and the highly coloured velvets she had replaced them with as unusual as they were practical.

Unconventional.

Original.

Incomparable.

Words that were increasingly being used to describe her in the local papers and broadsheets.

She liked the sound of them, the very choice such description engendered. No expectation or cloying pragmatic sensibleness that had been the hallmark of her years with Frankwell.

She did not think of him now as the man who had hurt her, the image of an angry bully replaced by the child who had lingered longer. Hopeful and dependent.

When he had died she had laid him in his coffin with an armful of Michaelmas daisies because they had been his favourite and the church had rung with the sounds of children’s songs, the same tunes that he himself had sung in his final moments of life on this earth.

Sorrow had been leached though here in London, her life filling with new friends and new experiences. How fortunate she had been to have the Hardy sisters as neighbours, for within a week of arriving here their wide group of acquaintances had become her friends as well, their social standing making her own acceptance into society seamless. When they had taken her under their wing and encouraged her dream of having such a forum in her own salon she could barely believe the speed with which the whole idea had taken shape. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror and saw the way she smiled she could not remember the sombre woman who had fled Ipswich in a snowstorm.

Breathing out, she tried to stop the name that would come to her mind next. No, she would not think of him, of that night, of the way that he had left without even once glancing back; when her friend Elspeth Hardy came into the room with another pile of papers in her hands, Bea was glad of the interruption.

‘We have nowhere at all to put those, Elspeth. Perhaps if you could take them back upstairs we may discuss the contents next week.’

‘But they talk of the habit of wife selling, a topic that has been raised before—I wondered if they might add to the discussion?’

Bea screwed up her nose. ‘I have read many accounts of such a practice, and have become increasingly of the view that the intention of these bargains is a way in which a woman can move on with her life, both parties having agreed to the proceedings.’

‘ You are not against them? I cannot believe it of you!’

Beatrice laughed. ‘Often the purchaser is a lover. Would you not countenance such a path, given the impossibly difficult and expensive alternative of filing for a separation through church or court?’

‘I do not know. Perhaps you might be right…’

‘We will think about it later, for tonight I have prepared a talk on the ills of piracy and the human cost to such a vocation.’

‘Piracy! A topic that should appeal to the growing number of men now attending! Have you not noticed that, Bea? Over the last month we have had an almost equal composition of the sexes, which is…encouraging to say the least.’

Beatrice nodded and sought out the trays to set. The new financial independence that she had inherited on the death of her husband was sometimes bemusing and she still liked to do as much around the home as she had when her situation had been less flush.

Tonight, though, she felt nervous for some reason, her heartbeat heightened and her hands clumsy. When she dropped a cup it shattered on the parquet floor and as she bent to pick up the shards of china one cut deep into her forefinger.

The blood welled immediately, running down her palm and threatening the sleeve of her gown. Snatching at the muslin cover used for the cakes, she was thrown back into that darkened carriage outside Maldon when Taris Wellingham had offered her the square of material wrapped around the fruitcake as a scarf. At the time she had barely thought about it…but now? Other things began to pile into recollection. The way he used his hands and the scar that marred his forehead. No small accident that. An injury collected when he was a soldier, perhaps, or a little later…

‘Shall I find a bandage, Bea, or is that stopping?’ Elspeth’s sister Molly had come to join them.

‘No, it is all right, thank you.’ She gingerly took the fabric away and was relieved when the skin looked knitted and clean. The fear in her very bones did not diminish, however, and when the clock in the hallway struck seven o’clock she jumped visibly. Two days ago, as she had walked along the street to the bank, a man had jostled her quite forcibly, the pile of papers she held in her hands scattering around her. He had stayed long enough to peruse the contents and then had disappeared, neither helping her nor apologising.

He had seemed angry, though she could not truly catch sight of his face to determine if she had met him before. Perhaps the outwardly Bohemian nature of her lifestyle had galvanised him into a reaction that was rooted in fear. Fear that, should women start to think, they might displace men who were less astute in the work-force and in society. Her roots in business probably added to the equation, as the Bassingstoke fortune had been wrought from the hard sweat of rolling iron for the ever-burgeoning railway.

The whole thing was probably harmless, but added to the accident in the coach she was beginning to feel…watched.

Beatrice shook her head hard. It was half an hour before the first men and women would be arriving and she still had much to do. All this ruminating on a perceived menace would neither get the room organised nor help her ridiculous case of the jitters. Smiling at Elspeth and Molly, she resolved to put her worries aside, and, plumping the cushions in the room, she dusted off the seats of the chairs and sofas.

The downstairs salon was full to bursting and the discussions were under way when a new arrival made Beatrice stop in mid-sentence, for the woman who had run into the open arms of Taris Wellingham in the barn was here.

Emerald Wellingham?

A wave of embarrassment washed away any sense of the argument she was trying to forward. Why would she come? What possible reason would bring her here, for surely she had understood her brother-in-law’s wish for distance as he had left the barn so quickly after the carriage accident? The Duchess of Carisbrook was a beautiful woman, her countenance in this room even more arresting, if that was at all possible, than it had been in a snow-filled night.

‘As I was saying…’ Bea could barely remember the thread of her prose. Would the woman tell others here of her escapade, bringing up the scandal of her night alone in the company of an unmarried man for all to judge? Lord, if any of it should be known, her presence would hardly be countenanced in polite company, an ageing widow who had crossed a boundary that brooked no return.

Ruin!

And that was only with the knowledge of half of it. Taris Wellingham’s hands in places no one had ever touched before, the waves of pure delight that had run across her body, melding it into rapture.

Tearing herself back to the topic under discussion, she finished off her speech. ‘…and so I reiterate again that many of these so-called pirates were refugees from the gaols of the world or deserters from the rigours of harsh naval discipline.’

‘So you do not think some were just natural-born leaders who chose a life of crime by instinct, piracy being an attractive proposition when measured against what might have otherwise been available to them at home?’

Emerald Wellingham asked the question of her and there was a burst of discussion around the room as Bea tried to answer it.

‘There are some who would agree with you. Some who might even say that piracy was an honourable, if not a noble, profession.’

A man interjected. ‘These people were murderers who committed untold acts of barbarity on the open seas. They are not to be excused.’

‘Priests and magistrates and merchants in the West Indies excused them all the time, sir. Money sometimes has a louder voice than morality.’

Emerald Wellingham again! Beatrice felt swayed by her argument.

‘Indeed.’ She sought for the words that might not alienate a group of folk who were by and large titled and wealthy. ‘If one was from the West Indies, the availability of goods sacked by the pirates might have been considered a godsend.’

‘You speak of heresy.’ The same man as before spoke and his face had reddened.

‘And of conjecture,’ Beatrice added with a smile. ‘For such stories are often that of fable and myth and it could take one a lifetime to truly know the extent in which they were entangled.’

She hoped such a platitude might console the man’s anger and was relieved when it seemed to, and Elspeth’s announcement of a light supper was timed well.

As all those present moved through into the dining room, Beatrice tidied her notes and when she looked up Emerald Wellington stood beside her.

‘For a woman of strong views you are remarkably diplomatic.’

‘Perhaps because a heart attack of a patron at one of my soirees may not be conducive to their continuation.’

‘And it is important to you that they do…continue?’ Emerald’s green eyes slanted bright against the lamplight. Was this a threat? Had she come for a reason? Laughter surprised Bea.

‘You remind me of myself, Mrs Bassingstoke. Myself a few years ago when the past held me immobile.’

‘I do not know what it is you speak of. Now if you will excuse me…’

‘My brother-in-law mentions you often. I think it was your bravery that impressed him the most.’

Anger made Bea feel slightly faint. Certainly his inspiration was not gained from her beauty or her easy giving of love.

‘I wondered if you would perhaps come and take tea with me. Tomorrow at half past two.’ Emerald Wellingham placed her card on the top of the papers and waited.

‘Thank you.’ Beatrice had no possible reason to be rude and she had always prided herself on her good manners.

‘Then you will come?’

For a moment the hard edges in her green eyes slipped and supplication was paramount. Still Bea could not quite say yes.

‘It would just be the two of us…?’ she began, for if it should be the whole of the Wellingham family she would not chance it.

‘It would.’ Quickly answered as though the Duchess had thought such a question might be voiced.

‘Then I would like that.’

The other bowed her head. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’

‘You will not stay for supper?’

‘I think not. My opinions on piracy could never meld with those of the others here and I would not wish to make a…nuisance of myself. However, I look forward to some privacy together.’

A small nod of her head and she was gone, the gown she wore bright against the more sombre shades of the others present and her gilded curls catching corn and gold and red.

A beautiful woman and a puzzle! Yet as Beatrice stacked the papers beneath her arms she had the strangest of feelings that they could one day be the very best of friends.

‘I saw Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke today, Ashe. She runs weekly discussions on current topics with the Hardy sisters and is not a woman inclined to just parrot the opinions of the day.’

‘What sort of a woman is she, then?’ Her husband’s fingers traced a line down her arm, as he pulled off his clothes and joined her in bed.

‘An interesting one. I can well see why Taris was rather taken by her. She is unexpectedly…fascinating.’

‘High praise coming from a woman who seldom enjoys “society”.’

Laughing, Emerald wound her fingers through his. ‘Has your brother said anything else about that night to you? It’s just that I do not think it was quite as innocent as he might insist it was.’

‘I doubt Taris would be pleased to have you question him, Emmie. Certainly he has shied well away from the topic with me.’

‘Mrs Bassingstoke blushed bright red when I mentioned your brother and this from a woman who had just stood in front of a roomful of strangers espousing theories that excused those guilty of piracy as needy and forgotten members of the communities they had been hounded out of.’

‘A fairly radical point of view, then.’

‘Exactly!’

‘Every woman Taris meets finds him attractive. Perhaps your answer lies in that.’

‘And they last but a moment when he realises that beauty is so…transient and he is too clever to be long amused with a siren who has little to say.’

‘You speak as though the combination of beauty and brains is impossible, yet I have achieved it in you.’

She threw the pillow behind her at him and he caught it, a look in his eyes that told her discussing anything would soon come to an end.

‘Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke has a quiet comeliness that is apparent when you talk to her. She is possibly the cleverest woman I have ever had the pleasure to encounter, but there is also something hidden about her…’

‘Which you should well recognize, given all the secrets you kept buried from me.’

‘I invited her here tomorrow, for afternoon tea.’

‘God!’ He sat up. ‘Taris will be back from Beaconsmeade about then!’

Emerald merely smiled.

‘If this backfires on you, I won’t be pulled into being the cavalry…’ Tweaking a long golden curl, he pulled her down across him. ‘But enough of subterfuge. Show me lust and passion, my beautiful pirate.’

When she started to laugh he simply removed the sheet and placed his hand in a place that took away mirth.

‘Love me, Emerald,’ he whispered.

‘I do.’ Two little words that fell into the heart of everything!

Chapter Five

Taris arrived back in London in the early afternoon and he was worried. A report on the carriage accident had come to him a few weeks back and it was not as simple as he may have thought it.

The axle had been cut, sawed through to within an inch of the circumference, the shearing off of the wheel a deliberate and callous action from someone who wanted to create mayhem. Well, he had. One man was dead and the driver’s fingers would never be right again, banishing the man and his family to penury for the rest of his life.

Well, not quite, his thoughts so akin to high drama that they made him smile. He had offered the man both a job and a cottage at Beaconsmeade, the substantial property he had inherited from his uncle three years ago.

Who the hell did the person responsible want to harm? Was it him? He sifted through memory. In his life there had been many things he had done that might invite such an action. Yet why now and why there in the middle of a county he seldom visited? Who else, then, could have been the target? Not the innocuous and timid mother and son, he decided, or the sensible and level-headed Mrs Bassingstoke. Perhaps the perpetrator had achieved his goal, then, with the demise of the snoring gentleman? He ran his fingers across his eyes and felt the beginning of an ache that was familiar around his left temple.

He tried not to remember that night in the snow, tried not to wonder what had happened to Beatrice-Maude. It was better she slipped into the delight of memory, a favoured recollection when everything else had faded.

Lord. He had not had a woman apart from her in over two years, the sheer difficulty of arranging it all and appearing ‘sighted’ too impossible to contemplate. Easier to lie in bed and just remember, he decided, for the number of people who actually knew his vision to be so poor could still be counted upon one hand.

Asher. Emerald. Lucy, Jack and Bates. A profound sense of shame and inadequacy rubbed up against anger. Five people were all that he wanted knowing of it too. Just them. He did not wish to walk into a room and feel that others judged him on what he could not see. He had always been a physical person, a fine shot, a good horseman, a man who had used his world from one wide edge of it to the other.

To be reduced to dependence and vulnerability would be…He could not even find a word for what he thought, could not dredge from the sheer and utter terror of his situation a phrase to encapsulate the horror.

He tried to keep his forays into society at a minimum and he hated the busy rush of cities. Tomorrow, however, he had an appointment with his lawyer and needed to be there early. He preferred Beaconsmeade and the rolling greenness of the Kentish countryside, places he could walk and work and where the air smelt clean and breathable and infinitely less defiled.

Listening to the horses’ hooves on the first paved stones of the town, he counted the corners.

Fifteen.

The Carisbrook town house should almost be in sight now. Securing his cane, he prepared for the carriage to stop. Bates at his side was doing the same.

‘You have no plans at all for this evening, sir. I did not accept the Claridges’ invite as you instructed me to, though your brother wrote to inquire whether you would be there.’

‘He is almost as reclusive as I am and he only wants to know of my absence to make sure of his own.’

‘There is, however, a ball at the Rutledge mansion tomorrow evening at which you are expected to appear.’

Taris frowned, trying to understand why his presence should be in any way necessary.

‘The Earl of Rutledge is a supporter of the Old Soldiers’ Fund, a charity of which you are the principal patron, sir. I did remind you last week of the affair.’

‘I see. Could I not just pledge a great deal of money—?’

‘The Duke of Carisbrook put your name forward to speak, sir.’

Damn, Taris thought. Asher and his efforts to get him out and about! Sometimes he could happily strangle his brother for his meddling, born out of guilt.

‘Very well, then.’ Acquiescence was easier than the alternative of making a fuss and he made himself dwell on other things. It would be good to see Ruby, Ashton and Ianthe, for it had been all of a month since he had seen his nieces and nephew. He hoped Emerald’s man Azziz would also be down from Falder, for he enjoyed a game of chess.

Family. How it wound around isolation with determination and resilience, the irritations of prying a small price to pay for all that was offered.

As the horses prepared to stop he readied himself to alight. There were many things he could still do and the familiarity of the town house made it possible for him to enter it without assistance.

Morton, the family butler, was the first to greet him, taking his hat and cloak at the door.

‘Welcome back, my lord. We heard that the weather in the south has been kind the past month.’

‘Indeed it has, Morton. Perhaps I might persuade you to have a sojourn at Beaconsmeade…’

The servant laughed. This discussion was one they had had for years, the head butler not a man with any love for country air.

The sound of voices from the downstairs salon stopped him in his tracks, and as he made his way from the lobby he tilted his head. Not just any voice! He felt the tension in him fist, hard-stroked against disbelief.

Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke was here! Here. Ten yards away, her honeyed husky voice with the slight soft lisp, speaking with his sister-in-law. His fingers tightened across his cane and he wished he had not left his hat with Morton. Concentrate, he admonished himself, as he counted the steps into the room.

Beatrice lifted the cup of tea to her lips and sipped, refusing the offer of sweet cakes from the maid as she did so.

Emerald Wellingham opposite her was charming, but there was an undercurrent of something she could not quite understand. A slight anxiety, if she had to name it, and a decided watchfulness.

‘Your soirees are gaining the favour of all of society here in London. It seems that we have been bereft of fine debate in our town for far too long.’

‘Debate or controversy, your Grace? There are some who might say such opinions serve to alienate reason.’

‘But I am not one of them, Mrs Bassingstoke. And please do call me Emerald.’

Beatrice nodded. ‘You have a beautiful name. My first name merely makes people grimace. Beatrice-Maude. The names of my two grandmothers lumped together, I am afraid, and hardly charming like your own.’

‘Can they be shortened?’

This was the second Wellingham to ask her such a thing! She felt the sheer weight of it as an ache.

As in Bea-yond. As in Bea-utiful or Bea-witching! She had never said her name since without remembering…

‘Bea?’

The voice from behind made her start. His voice. Here? The tea that she had been holding spilt down the front of her dark burgundy gown as she turned, feeling the Duchess’s gaze on her own.

Taris Wellingham came forward with the movement of a man who had had too much to drink, catching the edge of the partly opened door with his shoulder and jerking back and around to lose his footing and fall heavily against the solid mahogany side cabinet. As he flailed to find a true direction his head tilted as if listening and his eyes looked strangely disorientated.

Swearing, he began to search the floor with his hands and Bea was instantly taken back to the days before her husband’s turn. The days when Frankwell had imbibed too much whisky and had come home in exactly the same fashion.

Hollowness consumed her, and the impact of everything made her shake. The way he held himself against the line of the door to steady his balance, all expression on his face devoid of warmth even as he hoisted himself up, the beginning of a bruise that would show full dark upon his cheek on the morrow matching the tendrils of his hair loosened from the queue at his nape.

Years of living with a difficult man tumbled down on Beatrice-Maude in that one small isolated moment. Long years of anguish and guilt, her unpredictable sham of a marriage wrung into one dreadful feeling.

Panic!

To get away. To run from one who had caught at fancy and hope and imagination, yet was blighted with the same curse her husband had been dammed with.

She needed to escape, to be back again in the world of freedom and ideas that had just opened up to her, her autonomy and lack of restraint so far from the endless dread of hurt inflicted by a brandy-loosened temper.

‘I must go.’ Setting down her cup with a rattle, she hated the sound of alarm so easily heard in her voice.

‘Perhaps you do not remember my brother-in-law…’

‘Of course I do.’

Pushing past them both, Beatrice-Maude did not stop even to retrieve her cloak from the astonished servant at the front door. Outside she took a breath of cold air and simply ran, for the corner, for her home, for the safety of her rooms away from anyone, the hat in her hands unfastened and the gloves in her pocket unworn.

‘Well,’ Taris said as the silence inside the town house lengthened, ‘I presume that means she does not favour the nickname Bea.’

Emerald laughed, though there were tears in her voice when she replied, ‘I thought she was a sensible woman. I thought that she had impeccable manners and for the life of me I cannot understand what just happened.’

‘At a guess I would say she saw I lacked sight.’

Silence confirmed his suspicions. Emerald might be able to see what he could not, but he could hear what others never did.

Fear. Abhorrence. And the need for flight.

He made himself smile, made his face carefully bland, the anger that was building hidden behind indifference even as his left cheek throbbed.

‘Mrs Bassingstoke did not know before?’

‘It was night,’ he returned.

‘And you are good in the darkness!’

‘Precisely.’

‘So good that she could spend the whole time with you and never guess?’

‘It seems that is true.’

‘I think I hate her for this.’ Her voice was small, the anger in it formidable. ‘And everything that happened today is my fault. Ashe told me to leave it alone.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘And now you despise me.’

‘Hardly.’ His left hand went out to feel along the lintel of the door, the shadows in the room long with darkness. For the first time ever he felt…nearly blind, the infinite gloom pressing down almost as a living thing. Intense and pressured, the foreverness of it just around the corner.

Where was Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke now? How had she got home? Was home far? Would she be safe? The faint smell of flowers lingered in the air beside him and he breathed in hard, trying to keep her close and angry that he should even think to do so.

Beatrice sat on the side of her bed and cried. She did not try to be quiet, she did not wipe her tears away with a dainty handkerchief. She did not care which servant might eavesdrop or which friend calling in the afternoon might overhear her howls of anguish.

She just cried. For everything that had happened. For her appalling manners and her incredible rudeness, for the lack of control in Taris Wellingham’s movements and for the knowing look of complicity on his sister-in-law’s face.

The man she had admired was a drunkard!

Everything that had held her up in the past months was lost. Her confidence. Her belief in herself. Instead she was tossed back to the time when she had been completely at the mercy of the moods of a man whose anger or temperance depended on the amount and strength of the drop he had imbibed.

A few beers and he would drag her to his room. A few more and he would hit her. And a few more than that…

Never again. Never, never again!

Using the sleeves of her gown to wipe both her nose and her cheeks, the quick swipes threw her back to Ipswich and the house there.

Frankwell had been a big man and a bully, though after his apoplexy he had become kinder, his mind not quite remembering who it was she had been.

His wife. The positions changed over only a matter of weeks and the man with no family at all save her was as dependent as a three-year-old. There was no choice in any of it. There was no help to garner, with his finances tied to a lawyer who was living well on the interest of the Bassingstoke money just as long as the main recipient of it was alive.

And the last years had slipped by with all the hardship of twice their number, the factories belching out high-grade iron even with an absentee owner at their helm.

Her life became days and weeks and months disappearing into the drudge of looking after a husband she had hated. Suddenly Beatrice was overcome with everything. With the past and the present and the future and she could not breathe, could not take the proper amount of air without the stinging contracting ache in the back of her throat stopping everything.

‘Mama,’ she whispered and thought of her parents, dead by the time she had reached the tender age of seventeen and thankfully unaware of the type of man that they had chosen for her husband.

The joy of the night in the snow came unbidden, taunting and mocking against the reality of what had happened today.

Today she had understood that the fatuous dreams of an ageing widow were destined to remain ever that, her life divided into before and after one perfect night.

Because now she knew and that was the very worst of it! Now she had had a taste of what it was to be delighted and pleasured and cared for, the impossible hope sending her into new fits of sobbing.

A knock on the door made her stop, as she pressed her lips together and frantically rubbed at her eyes.

‘Yes. Who is it?’

‘It’s Sarah, madam. Might I come in?’

Looking at her face in the mirror as she stood to open the door, Beatrice grimaced, her eyes swollen and her cheeks blushed.

Sarah, her maid, stood at the door with a worried expression. ‘Cook says that we will be having chicken tonight and he will prepare it in just the way you like it.’

‘That will be lovely. Thank you, Sarah.’

‘If there is anything any of us could do to help, ma’am…’

‘I would certainly tell you if there was. Thank you again.’

Shutting the door, Bea felt like a woman who had let everybody down. She had had many servants before, of course, but never ones that had become her friends as these ones had.

Still, today she could not find it in herself to speak of anything, her disappointment in the character of Taris Wellingham such a calamity that she could barely believe it.

Was his over-drinking something that was known in society? It was only mid-afternoon and very early to be so befuddled and yet she had never heard even a whisper of it.

She breathed out and crossed to the window. The park opposite was filled with people, laughing happy people. People with lives that were so different from her own! Placing her palm on the glass, she enjoyed the momentary impression of cold and the frosted outline left when she removed it. Still here! Still attracted to men who could bring her nothing save heartache.

‘Taris.’ She whispered his name into the dusk. Strange that she had not smelt the liquor upon him as he had entered the room, which was something she had become adept at doing when Frankwell had returned home after a night out. No, all she had smelt was the tang of masculinity with an underlying hint of an astringent soap.

She wished she had not accepted Emerald Wellingham’s offer of afternoon tea because then she might have never known…

‘Stupid,’ she chided herself, and, tying back her hair, decided to spend the rest of the evening cataloguing her new books.

She saw Taris Wellingham again in the Book Society Library the very next afternoon, perusing the shelves with another man she did not recognise.

Today his clothes were immaculate and worn in the fashion of one who did not place too much importance on the way a cravat was tied or any other such frippery. The bruise on his cheekbone, however, had darkened and swollen.

It was too late for her to stand and make her way out as he was only a few feet away and coming closer. Consequently she merely sat, pasting what she hoped was an expression on her face that would relate the disappointment she felt in what had happened yesterday.

He passed her by without acknowledgement, and so close that she could hear what it was they were talking about.

Fox hunting and the hounds used at a ‘meet’.

The cut direct! She grimaced. In all honesty there were many after all who might consider the inability to stop heavy drinking as a small thing, and others who might laugh at the notion of a man who would lose himself in the unmindful disregard of drink. But these people could not have lived with someone whose very personality was being eaten away by it, exposing layers beneath that were hardly humorous.

As she had! She decided that to say nothing would be an act of cowardice on her behalf.

‘Excuse me, Lord Wellingham?’

He turned immediately and waited, as did the man with him. ‘Mrs Bassingstoke.’

‘I wondered if I might have a moment alone with you, sir?’

‘ Jack.’ Said with all the authority of a dismissal to the man next to him. Beatrice remained silent until the other was out of hearing range.

‘I would like to apologise for my behaviour yesterday, my lord. I realise that it was most unacceptable to leave a room in such a fashion, but in my own defence I might say that I have had some unfortunate experiences in my life because of heavy drinking.’

A heavy frown marred his forehead. ‘I was not—?’

She didn’t let him finish. ‘Denial is one of the first signs that something is amiss, as I am sure you must be aware.’

‘You think I cannot manage my drink?’

‘The poor effect it has on your balance is certainly a telling symptom especially so very early in the day.’

A smile began to play around his lips and Bea hated the answering heavy thud of her heartbeat when she saw it.

‘The good news is that there are remedies one might attempt.’ Today he barely looked at her, glancing over her head as though something was far more interesting across the room, though his next question was heartening.

‘What is it then that you would suggest?’

‘Some would say exercise to be the most beneficial.’

‘To keep my mind off the thought of another brandy?’

‘Exactly.’ She did not understand the humour that accompanied his question. ‘The most important thing, however, is to admit that you do have a problem; if one holds the notion that this affliction is trifling…’

‘I can assure you, Mrs Bassingstoke, that I do not think my affliction trifling.’

For the first time since she had begun talking to him she felt that they had the same viewpoint. ‘Your measure of honesty is something that should help then, my lord.’

When he remained silent she took her courage in hand. ‘Have you spoken to your family about this?’

‘As little as I possibly can.’

‘Would it help to speak to me of it?’

The silence was deafening.

‘I am a woman who would respect every confidence.’

‘I know you to be that.’

When his smile took on a quality of wickedness she realised exactly what he had said and flushed a bright beetroot red. ‘I did not mean, of course, to allude to the night we spent—’ She stopped as another thought struck her. Perhaps he had not meant that at all. She was too far in, however, to just pull back now. ‘I would never say anything of it—we had both agreed that we should not.’

As she moved to one side he did the same and their hands touched. She felt her heartbeat quicken, to know again that living spark of recognition.

Jerking away, she looked around to see if anyone watched them and was horrified to notice patrons hurriedly averting their eyes. Taris Wellingham was a man who drew the notice of all those around him, with his height and his presence and his bearing. He was a man who looked as though he did not fit into the dusty quietness of this reading room, but should be on a battlefield somewhere, danger imprinted in his eyes.

‘When could we start?’ His question in the light of such thoughts disorientated her.

‘Pardon?’

‘When is it that you would begin helping me?’

‘You are saying that you would like me to try?’

‘Indeed. After such an eloquent persuasion why should I not?’

‘Some men may be…too timid to admit to such a fault.’

‘Not me.’

‘Then you are unusual in such honesty, my lord, and I admire you all the more for it.’

His lopsided frown concerned her.

‘If you are free tomorrow, perhaps a walk in the park might be a good beginning.’

‘I am sometimes a little uncertain of my footing in wide-open spaces. The vestiges, I suppose, of the drink wearing down my balance.’

‘Then I shall, of course, help you.’

‘How would you do that?’

‘Would it be frowned upon if I threaded my arm through your own, my lord?’

He shook his head firmly.

‘Perfect,’ she answered, feeling for the first time in two days a little more in control of everything. She had let Frankwell get worse and worse without doing anything. Could his own redemption have been as easy as Taris Wellingham’s? My God. Why had she not tried such a remedy for him?

She knew the answer even as she asked the question. Because she had hated him, hated her husband and everything he stood for and in the late-night drunken ramblings he took by the river she always hoped he might just trip and sink unbeknown into the murky depths of the water. Guilt rose in force, as did contrition, though when the companion she had first seen with Taris Wellingham reappeared in the background she could tell that he was waiting for them to finish.

‘I do hope to hear from you, my lord, regarding a time and a place for this exercise.’

‘Oh, you will, Mrs Bassingstoke.’

‘And I shall not say a word about anything we have discussed today…’

‘A sensitivity that I should ever be grateful for.’

‘There is one other thing that I would suggest, if I may.’

‘Yes?’

‘Throw out all the strong liquor in your house and replace it with water. That way temptation is never close at hand.’

His laugh reverberated around the space they stood in as she gave him her goodbye and hurried for the door.

Temptation?

Lord, it was not the drink he was tempted by, but the sound of her voice and the feel of her skin against his when he had moved and touched her by mistake.

Too damn tempted! He forced down desire as Jack Henshaw spoke.

‘Who is she?’

‘Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke from Ipswich. She was one of the occupants of the carriage accident I was involved in.’

‘She had much to say to you?’

‘She thinks I am a drunk.’

‘Why the hell would she think that?’

‘Because the other day she saw me lose my footing and my direction. I would guess from what she does not say that her husband used to be a heavy drinker and, putting two and two together, she has come up with five.’

‘You didn’t enlighten her then, I gather?’

‘You know me too well,’ he drawled back. ‘Blindness or a predilection for the bottle? Which one would you pick?’

Jack stopped walking. ‘It’s got a lot worse, then? Your eyesight?’

Taris nodded and made to walk on, irritated when Jack stayed firm.

‘There are doctors who might help you if you went to see them.’

‘Which I won’t be doing.’ Lord, he had done the rounds of the medical fraternity when he had first returned home from Jamaica and not one of them had been hopeful; his denial at what they had told him curled up into a harder anger. He did not wish to be hauled off again to a physician who would only disappoint him and the risk of gossip emanating from such a visit was too high. No. He would fight this creeping blindness on his own terms and in his own way. He swore it.

Another thought surfaced. What would happen should Beatrice determine the truth? Today with the full light of the window upon her he had made out the outline of her face. Not in detail, but not in grey sludge either. A halfway point to knowing what she might look like. He wished he could have used his fingers to fill in the nuances and touch her. Again. Even though he knew the foolhardiness of doing just that.

Taris Wellingham and his carriage arrived at her door almost exactly at two, after sending a note earlier to ask whether this time would be suitable.

Dressed in her bonnet, coat and gloves, Bea found him standing outside next to his coach. Today he wore brown, the colour showing up the darkness of his hair. Surprisingly he also wore a patch of the finest leather across his left eye.

‘My lord,’ she began, hating the tremor in her voice, ‘have you been hurt?’

‘No.’ He did not elaborate or embellish his reply as he held open the door to a carriage emblazoned with a family crest and pulled by four perfect chestnut horses. Two footmen tipped their hats to her when she acknowledged them, both adorned in the livery of gold and blue.

Taris Wellingham followed her in, sitting in the seat opposite hers. Taking a breath, she smiled and tried to initiate some conversation between them.

‘It is a beautiful day for this time of the year, is it not?’

‘It is.’

‘I have heard it said that such weather augurs well for the summer season. Some say that we should expect a very mild May.’

‘A happy thought,’ he returned in a voice that suggested anything but. ‘And I would prefer it if you would call me Taris. With our history…’ He stopped.

Our history? The weight of what had been between them settled like a stone in her stomach and the swelling bruise on his cheek underlined everything about him that was dangerous.

Today the ease of yesterday had gone, replaced by a tension that Beatrice could not understand as he watched her with a disconcerting directness, a small tic on the smooth skin below his one uncovered eye.

Hell! Taris thought. His eye was smarting and the headache that had been threatening all morning bloomed into pain. A familiar headache, the little sight that was left to him disappearing into nothingness. He should never have come, should have noted the heaviness in his temples and the tiredness in his eyes and cried off. But he was here and Beatrice-Maude was opposite with her quick-witted brain that might expose him as the cripple he was should he make even one false step. His fingers tightened on his cane, the silver ball his only connection to the world, his only certainty. All about him now lay the creeping dark of chaos and a discomfort that made him feel sick.

He had given his men instructions to stop at St James’s Park, a place he often walked alone, because with the fences along the pathways on the western side he had a touchstone to know exactly where he was.

‘I have been thinking up ways to try to help you with your…problem and was wondering if you would be averse to answering a few questions?’

She waited for his answer and he nodded.

‘Do you drink often?’

‘No.’

‘But when you do drink, you drink a lot?’

The lies that were piling one on the other were nowhere near as humorous as he had found them yesterday.

I am almost blind and that is why I fell.

He should say it, just spit it out here and now and then that would be the end of it, for the truth would send any woman fleeing.

But he did not say that because, even nauseous and in pain, the words just would not come.

Avoided. Adrift. Lessened.

Turning his face to the window, he pretended to look out, forcing away all the righteous arguments that rang in his head whilst protecting himself in-stinctively from pity.

As the conversation between them again spluttered to a halt, Beatrice tucked her hands into the dark red fabric of her new dress and stayed silent.

He did not want to speak, perhaps? He had asked her for this walk and now he regretted it? Her intent to help had become intrusive and he wished he might have never given her the chance to take the experiment further?

She hardly knew him, hardly understood a thing about him; this morning, with the patch across his eye, he looked not only wildly handsome, but also unbearably distant.

A lord and a man who walked his world in the very highest echelons of society and one who could hardly be relishing her busy-bodying ways and her plain, plain looks.

Her strident lecture on the ills of strong drink suddenly looked inadvisable and naïve. What did she truly know of him, after all, that a whore in one of the establishments off Covent Garden might not? An affair of the flesh and nothing of the heart.

‘If you would prefer to leave our outing to another day, my lord, I would quite understand.’

She did not dare to chance the use of his Christian name, even given his directive of a few moments prior.

As if he suddenly remembered she was there, he turned.

‘No, I should like to walk.’ Again he did not look directly at her, his face guarded today and distant.

‘Your horses are beautiful. I saw you once in Regent Street tooling greys.’

‘Greys?’ He looked puzzled.

‘With a woman. A young woman with light hair.’

‘Lucy. My sister. She insisted that she learn the art of managing a team.’

Relief turned inside Bea. Not a paramour, then, but a sibling. ‘Indeed, she did look competent.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Buying a hat, my lord, and in awe of such a display as everyone else on the street most surely was.’

‘I am sorry I did not see you.’

She could not let him off the hook so easily. ‘Even though your glance brushed directly across mine…?’

He leaned forwards at her reprimand, his movements strangely careful. No clumsiness in them or extra exertion.

‘Were you married long, Beatrice-Maude?’

The question was so personal that Bea wondered if she should have made certain that Sarah, her maid, had accompanied her. She shook her head, knowing that Taris Wellingham could not be interested in another dalliance three long months after so decidedly ending the first one.

‘I was, my lord.’

‘And he drank?’

Hot shame filled her and confusion. ‘Occasionally.’

Nightly. Daily. Every moment by the end of it.

‘But you showed him the error of his ways and led him into abstinence?’

‘No, my lord, God in his wisdom showed him that.’

A malady to take away any choice.

He nodded, but did not reply. The sweat that had built upon his forehead worried her, the sheen of it mirrored by the heavy lines on his forehead.

Pain!

He was in pain, she thought, and was doing his level best not to let her see it. His knuckles showed white where he clutched on to the silver ball of his cane and the scar that trailed from his hairline into the soft leather of his patch twitched. She wondered how he had received it. A bullet when he had served in the army? Or was it a duelling scar?

The shout of the footman stopped any further thoughts, however, and Beatrice saw that they were now at the park.

On alighting she noticed that the pathway in this particular section of the park was ringed with a fence, markings carved into the railings. Taris Wellingham’s fingers ran across the nicks in the wood. He seldom wore gloves, she noted, as was more customary for gentlemen of the ton, and often ran his open palm along objects. As in the carriage outside Maldon when his touch had run along the line of her cheek. As in the barn where they had ventured further and she had turned into his loving…

Taris felt the directions carved into the railings, something he had had Bates take care of to ensure the continuation of a sense of independence that was being constantly threatened. He always used this place, always walked in exactly the same arc, down to the lake and then back again, the lack of any steps or rough areas a boon when he was alone. Or in company, he amended and smiled.

His headache was lessening in the fresh air, the tightness around his eyes dissipating. Even his sight seemed a little restored. He could now make out the row of trees at the end of the pathway and the rough shape of a bonnet that Beatrice wore. Not quite helpless, then. His black mood lightened.

‘The smell of the trees in St James’s reminds me of my home in Kent, which is why I come here.’

‘You don’t live in London?’

‘I moved out three years ago when I inherited land.’

‘Yet you choose to ride in a public conveyance?’

He nodded. How could he answer her? What could he say?

Sometimes I like to be by myself in the midst of people who know nothing about me, who would not care if I slipped or fell. People who might simply pick me up and go on their way, no labels attached because of the way our paths have crossed…

‘I think I can understand the reason.’ She was talking again, the lilt in her words attractive. ‘I too gained a good living on my husband’s death and old habits are hard to forget. Not that you would have old habits, of course, with your birth and name, but for me it was such.’

‘Was he a good man…your husband? A man of honour?’

‘I was sixteen years old when I married him and twenty-eight when he died. To admit failure over that many years…’ Her voice petered out and he stepped in.

‘So you admit to nothing?’

Her laughter was unexpected and freeing. A woman who would not take umbrage at even the most delicate of questions.

‘I am now in a city that allows me the luxury of being whatever I want to be.’

‘And that is?’

‘Free.’

He remembered back to her questions on their night in the snowstorm and everything began to make more sense. Perhaps they were a pair in more ways than she had realised it? Two people trying to hew a future from the past and survive. Independently.

‘But you still wear his ring.’

‘Because I have chosen to accept what has been and move on.’

Such honesty made him turn away. Not so easy for him, as the scar across his temple burned with fear and loss. Not so easy for him when the darkness was there every morning when he awoke. Still, in such logic there was a gleam of something he detected that might save him.

Not acceptance, but something akin to it; for the first time in three years Taris felt the anger that had dogged him shift and become lighter.

She had said something that unsettled him, and wished she might have taken back her words to replace them with something gentler. But she couldn’t and any time for regrets was long past. Here with the wind in her hair she felt a sort of excitement that challenged restraint and allowed a wilder emotion to rule.

Her whole life had been lived carefully and judiciously. Today she felt neither, the feeling directly related to the man who walked beside her.

Walked fast too, his frame suggesting a man who was seldom indolent and her scheme of exercise in the light of that looked…questionable.

‘I think perhaps you have not been quite honest with me, sir,’ she began and he turned quickly, guilt seen and then gone, the intensity of it leaving her to wonder what he thought she might say. ‘At a guess I would say that you are far more industrious in the art of exertion than I have given you credit for.’

‘Honesty has its drawbacks,’ he returned. ‘With it, for example, I would not be enjoying this walk in the park.’

‘You think I might pass you off as one who has no hope of resurrection?’ She began to laugh. ‘You do not strike me as a man who would have any need at all to lose himself in drink, my lord.’

‘You might be surprised at the demons that sit on my shoulders, Mrs Bassingstoke.’

‘Name one.’

‘Your inability to treat me with the reverence I deserve.’

She laughed again. ‘A paltry excuse, that. And if you do not have another better reason for taking to the bottle then I might abandon you altogether!’

‘Would an inability to see anything properly at all be enough of an exoneration?’

Bea turned towards him. The tone of his voice had changed, no longer as light as it had been or as nonchalant.

And then she suddenly knew!

The patch. The cane. His fall at his brother’s and the scar that ran full across his left eye. Like skittles, the clues fell into place one by one by one. No kind way to say it. No preparation. No easy laughter or words to qualify exactly how much he could see. Only the amber in his one undamaged eye burning brittle golden bright! Challenging and defiant.

The wind off the lake blew cold between them, his cloak spreading in its grip and his hand on the fence with its notched wooden carvings. Sight through touch. In that one second everything Bea had ever wondered about made a perfect and dreadful sense.

Blind?

‘So you do not have a problem with drinking?’ Her voice was quiet, laced with a truth that had not quite yet settled.

He shook his head. ‘I do not.’

‘Yet I have never heard anyone mention—’

‘Because I have never told,’ he shot back, defence in his posture and tight protection in the lines of his face.

‘Anyone?’

‘Asher, Emerald, Lucy, Jack Henshaw and Bates,’ he murmured, the list as short as five.

Six now with her. Nobody really, for such a secret. ‘And that is why you fell?’

He nodded. ‘When you suggested a fondness of the bottle, it was easier than this.’ His free hand gestured to his face, the silver-topped cane swinging in an arc as he did so, his anchor in a world of darkness.

Need. His need. Sliding in unbidden. Need of help and succour and support. She could not help the dread that crept into her voice, a thousand days of care for her husband reflected in such an unexpected truth.

‘I promise you that I will be sworn to silence on this news, my lord,’ she began, hating the withdrawal she could see, his head tilted against the wind as though listening to all that was further away. ‘I would give you my word.’

‘And I would thank you for it.’

Honourable even in hurt, fatigue written plainly on his face.

She no longer knew how to respond.

Blind! Such a small word for everything that it implied. Dependent. Reliant. Like Frankwell had been?

‘Perhaps we should walk back to the coach. It is getting late and cold…’

His suggestion was formal and polite, the choice of escape given under the illusion of time and weather. He did not wait for any answer, but surged ahead, his lack of sight pulling at her as he made his way up the path using the rail to guide him and his stick to monitor the lay of the ground.

The patch across his left eye was a banner of the shame that she felt when she failed to call him back to say that it did not matter, that it made no difference, and for the second time in two days a man, who had never been exactly as he seemed, threw her equilibrium into chaos.

Taris felt the ache around his temple tighten, constricting the blood that flowed into his last fading sight and band around a building pain.

God. What had made him tell her? What mistaken and stupid idea had crept into his head and made him blurt it out?

Take it back…take it back…take it back…

The voice of his anger was thickly strangled, bewildered by his admission and lost in fatigue.

All he wanted was to be home, away from her promises and the whisper of pity in her reply, the shocked honesty in her words underlain by another truth.

‘I promise you that I will be sworn to silence on this news, my lord.’

Sworn to the silence of one who would distance herself from needing to be beleaguered by it? Sworn to the silence of one who would make a hurried escape from his person and count herself lucky? That sort of silence? In Beatrice-Maude’s restraint he had a sudden feeling of breakage.

Spirit. Heart. And pride.

Tell anyone and open yourself up to the shame. Tell anyone and hear the shallow offer of charity.

When his hand clasped the rail on the carriage steps he hauled himself in and laid his cane across his knee. A fragile barrier against all that he wasn’t any more and would never be again.

A lessened man. A needy man. A man who could barely get to the front steps of his own house without help. His unwise confession burnt humiliation into his anger at everything.

Bea did not cry when she was finally home. Did not rant and rail as she had when she had thought an inability to limit strong drink was his only problem.

Today she merely sat on the window-seat with the rain on the glass behind blurring the vista and the small clock beating out the minutes and the hours of silence.

The same sound she had measured her life against for ever!

Reaching across to the table, she picked it up and threw it hard against the ground, the glass shattering as the workings inside disintegrated. Springs and metal and the face of numbers spinning around, time flown into chaos and the beginning of a quiet that she could finally think in!

Exhaling, she stood and crossed to the mantelpiece, extracting a card from a small china plate and holding it close.

The Rutledge Ball would begin at ten and Taris Wellingham was one of the patrons.

Her heart beat faster as she formulated a plan.

Chapter Six

Taris Wellingham stood with his brother and Lord Jack Henshaw at the top of the room. Tonight he was in black and was ‘much dressed’, the cut of his coat and trousers impeccable, his hair slicked back in a fashionable manner and his boots of the finest leather. But it was the glasses that he wore tonight which drew Beatrice’s attention.

She took a breath, hating the fact that he was by far the most handsome man in the room and she was by far the least beautiful woman. Still, she was not one to do things by halves and, starting forwards, she hoped that he would at least hear her out.

The arrival of the Countess of Griffin’s daughter, Lady Arabella Fisher, a woman of whom Beatrice-Maude had heard much, thwarted her intentions as she rushed through the burgeoning crowd to the side of Taris Wellingham. Her smile told Bea that she was more than enamoured by him, though his answering expression seemed tight.

Others joined them, laughing at the things he said, though Bea was too far away to make sense of any words.

What she did make sense of was the sheer and utter number of women in this room who threw him hooded glances before making their way to his side.

She swallowed. Those around him were the very pick of this Season’s debutantes, the cream of a society priding itself on lineage and ancestry. She recognised the Wilford sisters and the Wellsworth heiress, along with Lady Arabella, and was about to withdraw when a voice beside her made her jump.

‘I did not think of you as a coward, Mrs Bassingstoke.’

Emerald Wellingham stood beside her, blocking her retreat.

‘It seems then that my rudeness at your house the other day is not my only failure, your Grace.’

‘Ahh, so formal when I thought you might be a friend?’

Bea’s heart raced at the tone in her voice. Satirical. Taunting. And she could well understand why. ‘You have cause to chastise me.’

The laugh that followed set Beatrice’s nerves on edge.

‘I would say you might have to fight your way through the gathering crowd of adoring females if you wish to speak to Taris.’

‘So I see.’

‘And if I thought that was all that you saw, Mrs Bassingstoke, I might turn this minute from your company and hope that you might never darken my family’s door again with your prejudices. But there is more to you, I think. More to the singular reaction of panic that I saw on your face when you comprehended the nature of my brother-in-law’s shortfalls.’

A voice behind made both turn and the Duke of Carisbrook joined them. ‘Mrs Bassingstoke.’ Said with all the indifference of a man who could barely feign politeness.

‘Your Grace.’ Bea wished that she just might disappear into the polished floor beneath her feet. Her palms, where she held her hands like fists, were damp with nervousness, though she made herself smile.

‘If you will excuse me…’

She turned and walked through the crowd, the music of Mozart softening the hard cracks of anger that she felt boiling up in herself.

‘Tell no one…‘

Her mantra for the past decade as life had flung crisis after crisis her way, the little difficulties escalating into bigger ones, and all eminently unrectifiable.

Loud giggles from the group at the top of the room pierced her bewilderment, and she could not think what exactly to do next, though a balcony provided a way out and she slipped on to it, wiping the tears she felt pooling in her eyes as she tried to take stock of the situation.

She was twenty-eight years old and any histrionics on her part would be reprehensible and overblown, an aged woman who should have been well past undisciplined and unbecoming emotion.

The sheer and utter hopelessness of it all left her gasping and she placed her hands upon her chest, barely breathing, the silence of just standing there bringing a measure of control.

And then the door opened and Taris Wellingham came towards her, his hands around the silver ball on his ebony cane.

‘My sister-in-law informed me that you wished to see me.’

He sounded nothing like the man who had walked with her earlier in the afternoon, but all imperious and lofty.

‘I did, my lord. I came tonight to tell you that I do not quite know what came over me today and that I would like to thank you.’ Her voice was pulled from embarrassment, barely audible.

‘Thank me?’ His words were brittle. Almost harsh.

‘Thank you for entrusting me with your secret…’ She faltered and as he turned away she tried anew. ‘I would also like to say that your affliction of poor eyesight is infinitely more appealing to me than the other option of drunkenness.’

Unexpectedly he turned back and smiled, though as the silence lengthened between them she simply could not think of one other thing to say.

‘My sister-in-law tells me you have discussions on “matters of importance” at your residence.’ He looked exactly at her tonight, amber magnified through the thick spectacles.

‘Put like that, it all seems rather absurd,’ she returned.

‘She tells me that you are a woman of strong opinion and that your eyes are green. Leaf green,’ he amended when she did not say anything. ‘She also tells me that you worry a lot.’

‘She could see that?’

‘In the line on your brow.’

‘An unbecoming feature, then,’ Beatrice said, all her hackles rising. What else had Emerald Wellingham related to him? ‘I am a plain woman, my lord.’

‘Plain is an adjective that has many different interpretations. A carp in a river can be plain to the eyes of one who does not fish, yet vibrant to an angler. A deer in the forest can look insignificant amidst a band of sun-speckled trees and magnificent away from them. Which plain are you?’

‘The type that recognises the truth despite any amount of flowery rhetoric.’

He laughed.

‘Describe yourself to me, then.’

She hesitated. ‘You can see nothing at all?’

‘With my glasses on I know that you are not a large woman. I know too that your hair is long and thick and that you have dimples in your cheeks.’ He held out his hands. ‘From touch,’ he qualified. ‘There is a lot to be learned in touch. On a good day I can see more.’

‘I am five feet two inches tall and some may call me…thin.’

‘Some?’

‘My husband always did. He thought that if I ate more I should appeal to him better, but no matter how much I tried—’ She stopped, horrified as to what she had just confided in him, when for all the years of her marriage she had told every other soul nothing.

‘Pride can be a dangerous thing, Beatrice-Maude.’

She pretended not to understand what he meant. But she knew exactly the tack that he was following because pride was all that had ever stood between her and chaos. Pride kept her quiet and biddable, because the alternative of others knowing what she had suffered was just too humiliating.

Honesty fell between them like a stone in a still and deep pond, the ripples of meaning fanning outwards as the consequences became larger and larger. Withdrawal had its own set of repercussions, just as pretence did. Still, here on the balcony, with the distant strands of Mozart on the air, she was careful. A woman with the candour of her past licking at twenty-eight long years and a future before her that finally looked a little bright. She could allow no one to tarnish that. Not even Taris Wellingham, with his magical hands and his handsome face.

No, plain was measured in more than just the look of one’s countenance, she decided right then and there. Indeed, it was a bone-deep knowledge that no amount of clever repartee might disavow, a knowledge engraved with certainty in each memory and action and hope. Unchangeable, even with the very best of intentions.

When the door behind him opened to reveal Lord Henshaw, she used the moment to escape, excusing herself before walking away with the swift gait of one who was not quite breaking into a run.

Taris listened to her go, knew the exact moment that she disappeared from the balcony, her footsteps quick and urgent.

‘You are due to speak in five minutes.’

‘Rutledge sent you to find me?’

‘He is a man who likes things to be on time.’

‘May I ask you a question, Jack?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘What does Mrs Bassingstoke look like to you?’

‘Mrs Bassingstoke?’ Surprise lay in Jack’s reply as Taris nodded. ‘She is shapely in all the right places and her character is determined. If I were to pick just one word to describe her I would choose “original”.’

‘What colours does she favour in her clothes?’

‘Bright ones.’

‘And her hair? How does she wear that?’

‘Pulled back, though errant curls show around her face.’

The silence between them was alive with questions. Then a burst of music alerted them to a change in the main salon and Taris felt Jack’s arm against his own as they made their way inside.

Taris Wellingham’s speech was received with all the acclaim that it deserved, Bea thought, as it came to an end, his articulate arguments as to the necessity of better treatment for those who had served in the army both persuasive and compelling.

‘Lord Wellingham has a way with words,’ she heard an older lady say behind her.

‘And a way with the ladies! Look at how the young Lady Arabella Fisher is eyeing him up. There are whispers that the announcement of an engagement will be forthcoming and she is said to be extremely wilful.’

‘Well, she certainly is beautiful and her father’s land runs alongside Lord Wellingham’s at Beaconsmeade.’

An engagement! Beatrice pushed her disappointment down as a waltz began and a flurry of excitement filled the room. She had no reason to hold any opinion on Taris Wellingham’s love life. He was still young enough to take a bride and to all intents and purposes Lady Arabella Fisher was more than suitable. Pushing her fringe out of her eyes, Bea wished that she had been even half as beautiful, the thought so vain and vapid she almost laughed at it. What would happen when the woman found out that Taris’s sight was not as it should be? Would she be kind?

Couples were now taking their places on the floor. Of all the dances this was the most intimate and the most favoured, the tedious figures of the quadrille something to be got through while one waited for the waltz.

Bea was just preparing to retire to the supper room, for she had seldom been asked to dance at any soiree, when a man appeared at her side.

‘My master has sent me to ask you if you would accompany him in this dance.’

‘Your master?’

The young man reddened.

‘Oh, I am sorry. Lord Taris Wellingham is my master. He said that you know him.’

A quick spurt of shock kept Bea speechless, but she managed to nod and followed the Wellingham servant.

Taris stood alone by a pillar and seemed to know the exact moment she joined him, placing his arm forwards and tucking her hand in the crook of it when she laid it on his sleeve.

‘I hope this means you have said yes to the dance, Mrs Bassingstoke?’

‘You may not feel the same after I have trodden on your feet for a full five minutes or more, my lord.’

‘You are telling me you are a poor dancer?’

‘The very worst in the room, and one with a minimum of practice.’

‘You do not enjoy dancing?’

‘I did not say that, sir. It is just that I am seldom asked.’

‘Then every man here must be blind.’

She could not help but laugh at his ridiculous comment, though when his arm came around her waist and his fingers clasped her hand she sobered. She had never danced this particular dance, not with anyone at all, though she had practised sometimes in the privacy of her room with a pillow.

Goodness, Taris Wellingham was hardly a pillow and they were so very close, her fingers entwined in his, her pliant body pressed against his hardness.

‘You always smell the same.’

‘The same?’

‘Flowers. You use flowers as a perfume.’

‘An attar of violets,’ she returned, amazed that he had even noticed.

She felt him breathe in, tasting her, the sensual and tiny movement poignant in the situation in which they now found themselves, and behind thick glasses his eyes were opaque amber and watching.

Would he like what he could still see? Did the plain he had spoken of look less inviting in the full light of the candles, a woman who only in fancy and hopefulness could ever stand a chance?

A chance of what?

Her thoughts turned in a tumble. She must not think like that! This was but a dance, a trifling thing and transitory. Around the perimeter of the floor she saw a hundred others watching them and was jolted back. Silly daydreams from a woman who after all wished for neither a permanent relationship nor marriage ever again and was hardly in a social stratum lofty enough to count as a would-be bride should she even want it.

‘Are you in London for long, my lord?’ She sought a neutral topic and the sensible tone in her voice was comforting.

‘One week,’ he answered. ‘I rarely stay for any length of time.’ As if he felt her withdrawal he loosened his hold and the gap between them widened. No longer pressed so close. No longer dancing as if they were the only couple on the floor.

‘Perhaps, then, you might come to my discussion on Wednesday night.’

‘Perhaps.’

She was not dissuaded by his tone. ‘The topic is on the rights of a woman to her own property once she is married.’

He smiled. ‘And you think that would hold my attention?’

‘You are a well-educated man, my lord, and an articulate one. I would think that the unfairness of the situation, where by law virtually all of a woman’s property becomes her husband’s upon marriage, would be of interest to you.’

Again he smiled. ‘You do not take into account my upbringing. As the sons of a duke, we were taught from the cradle that the notion of a husband being the guardian of his wife’s land is just common sense.’

‘Your own mother taught you that? Is she still alive?’ Beatrice could not believe what she was hearing.

When his laughter rang across the room the other couples dancing close to them looked around.

‘The change that you speak of does not happen overnight, Bea, and I should advise you to take care.’

‘Take care?’

‘Some members of the aristocracy may be averse to your liberal views.’

‘The vested interest of men who would not benefit from change, you mean?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Are you one of those men?’

His fingers squeezed hers as if in warning. She noticed that he did not use much space on the floor. They had virtually danced in almost the same spot for the whole of the time.

‘Sometimes opinions that are too strident can cause more trouble than they are worth. A wise woman would pick an argument she could win.’

She felt her heart beat faster and he must have felt it too for he tilted his head in the particular way he had of doing so.

‘I would never hurt you, Beatrice. At least know that.’

‘I do.’

Said with the conviction of a woman who did know, the strange intimacy between them confounding her with the very brevity of their acquaintance. She had never talked with anyone before as she had talked with Taris Wellingham, sparring with words and yet safe! Here was a man who was big enough to allow others their differing opinions whilst testing his own.

So unlike her husband!

‘There is another matter that I should like to discuss with you,’ he said. She felt him looking at her, felt the position of his body straight against her own. ‘I have had a report on the cause of the accident. It seems that the wheel did not shear off on its own accord, but was assisted.’

‘Assisted?’

‘Sawn. Almost in half.’

Taris did not soften his words at all and when she tripped against him held her still.

‘Someone tried to kill me?’

Her question was odd. ‘There were five people in the carriage. What makes you think it was you that they were after?’

Her breath was taken in one trembling gasp and he knew even as she remained silent that there were things she had not told him, but the final strains of the dance had just ended and his brother moved over to join them.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Beatrice was all distance and good manners and he tried to determine in which direction she had stepped away, but could not.

‘I hope she gave you an apology for the other day.’ Ashe placed his arm against his own.

‘I think she gave me more than that.’

‘The Bassingstoke money is forged in steel, Taris, Ipswich steel, and the workers as poorly paid and as underaged as any in England.’

‘You have been busy, brother.’ An edge of criticism curled in Taris’s answer.

‘I like to think of it as careful. The woman was with you overnight, after all, and I thought it only prudent to find out something about her.’

Hating himself for the question, Taris nevertheless asked it. ‘And what did you find out about her?’

‘She was widowed a month before the carriage accident, though few in the area knew her or her husband socially as they did not seem to mingle much. Indeed, it was said that she was rather reserved so I am hoping that she will not present…a problem.’

‘Problem?’

‘She is a widow of means. If she decided that your night together ruined her reputation, you might find yourself in trouble.’

‘The woman came as a friend tonight, Ashe, not to hold me accountable for the consequences of a carriage accident.’

‘Emerald implied that she could be interested in you in other ways.’

‘Other ways?’ Taris did not like the tone of entreaty in his query. What had Emerald seen that he himself had not? The feel of Bea against him was hard to forget. Even here in a roomful of women all vying for his attention he still sought the honeyed and gently lisping tones of the clever Widow Bassingstoke, yearning like an adolescent for her soft full breasts and for her eagerness.

‘Emerald thought perhaps there was more to that night in the barn.’

‘More?’

‘Damn it, Taris, your name has been linked to no woman’s since you returned from Jamaica and that does not come from any lack of interested women. My lady wife thought perhaps the…drought had been broken.’

‘Drought? If you weren’t my brother…’

‘Then I wouldn’t care at all,’ Asher supplied before he could end the sentence. ‘It is only because I am your brother that I take the time to try to protect you.’

‘Well, don’t, for I need neither a nursemaid nor a minder and if you feel I may sully the family name by dallying with someone unsuitable then perhaps you should look to your own recent past.’

‘I didn’t mean…if you liked her it would be different…’

‘Enough, Asher. Rutledge would not take kindly, I think, to seeing two of his patrons having a fist-and-cuff in his salon and any association I choose to pursue with Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke is none of your damn business.’

‘Very well. If you feel that strongly about her…’

Taris suddenly frowned, having the sneaking suspicion that he had just been taken for a ride in the dulcet tones of his sibling, and wondering too just what his defence of the Widow Bassingstoke actually meant.

He knew that she was still here, for he had caught the sound of her voice. His eyesight, however, allowed him no possible means of locating her again and he did not dare to chance sending Bates to wheedle the promise of another dance.

It simply was not done. One dance would not excite the comment two would, and already he could hear in the buzz of comments around him speculation about Beatrice-Maude and their possible relationship, as he seldom took to the floor at any of these soirees. He smiled. Seldom was probably putting a generous face on it—never would be the more appropriate term.

Chapter Seven

An assortment of calling cards and invitations arrived the next morning and Bea found them in a tidy pile on the salver on the hall table.

Lord, she thought as she sorted through them, the impressive list of names making her wonder. She remembered when Frankwell had received cards in Ipswich in the early years of their marriage and the lengths he had gone to arrange them where they might be the most visible.

For her part now she stacked them up and placed them face down, hoping that no one would make the effort to come and call and agitated by the fact that they might.

She knew exactly why she had suddenly become fashionable. It was the direct result of her dance last night with Taris Wellingham. She had heard it from her servants, who had heard it from those of the other grand houses, the grapevine of gossip as rapid and faultless as any paper in print.

Chewing on the edge of a nail, she glanced up and caught sight of herself in the mirror above the mantel and was glad that Taris Wellingham could only see the vague outline of shapes.

If he could see properly, she doubted he would make the effort to dance with her at all. Perhaps everything she was imagining between them was pure falsehood.

She lifted her wrist to her nose and smelt. Violets. Her mother would pick posies sometimes and place them in her room in the old house above Norwich before she had been betrothed. Nearly half a lifetime ago.

When Elspeth appeared at the door a few moments later Beatrice was already sorting through a pile of new books in her library. This room of all the rooms in her house was the one she most favoured. To have a place where she could set out each tome was a delight above all the others and to read in the daylight without any interruption was something she had not been able to do since…for ever.

‘You look happy this morning, Bea. Could that have anything to do with your apparent success at the Rutledge Ball last night? Molly mentions the name of Lord Wellingham?’

‘I danced only one turn with him, Elspeth,’ she returned. ‘In a ball with a programme of at least twenty-nine other dances I fail to see the significance of such an action.’

‘Word is that he seldom favours the waltz. It also says that he has not danced at a soiree in years.’

Beatrice remained silent.

‘Lord Taris Wellingham is one of the most powerful men in England, Beatrice. He is the also the gentleman that all the young girls set their caps at and a lord who, although charming, is decidedly unavailable.’

Bea waited to see if Elspeth would mention the problem of his sight, but she did not. Still, as the silence lengthened she was loath to just leave it there.

‘I heard some woman speak of a property…Beaconsmeade I think it was they said.’

‘His seat in Kent. A magnificent house by all accounts it is too, and its master a man who should not be trifled with. You can see that in his visage, for the mark on his face is rumoured to have come from a pirate’s bullet in the West Indies.’

‘You are jesting with me, surely. What possible tie could the son of a duke have with such people?’

‘I do not know. All I do know is that he is a man whom any woman, no matter what her age, might be swayed by.’

Bea began to laugh. ‘The woman that you are alluding to meaning me?’

‘Even a sensible woman has her dreams.’

‘I was married for twelve years, Elspeth, and I can honestly say to you that the experience was such that I would never repeat it. Not for any man.’

‘Oh, it was not marriage I was thinking of. I do not think he would offer that…’

A violent blush of red had Bea turning away. She felt her fingers shake as she reached for the collar of her dress, pulling the light wool from her throat to allow the slight feel of air against her skin.

His hand on her breast and his tongue tracing the shape of her nipple before pressing closer…

‘Are you well, Beatrice? You seem somewhat distracted this morning.’

With an effort Bea pulled herself together.

‘Your very liberal opinions are sometimes distracting—I was not born into a family such as your own with the penchant for expressing ideas that are…so radical.’ When she saw the slight frown on her friend’s face she hurried on to allay any worry. ‘That is not a criticism of you, Elspeth, for I wish with all my heart that I could throw caution to the wind in the way that you so effortlessly seem to.’ She was horrified as tears came behind her eyes, and the bone-deep desire in her breast for something more surfaced.

Taris Wellingham. He had sent no card this morning, just as he had not tried to approach her after the waltz they had shared. Perhaps his eyesight was such that he could not find her, though she suppressed that excuse; if the servant had sought her out before, then he certainly could do so again.

No! She tried to push the desire she felt for him beneath the easier banner of sense. Of course he would not be searching her out. She was a woman who had broken every rule of good sense after all. First with the easy giving of her body in the night-snowed barn and then again yesterday at the small park when she had failed to offer any support after his unexpected and genuine confession.

The heavy ring of her doorbell brought her from her reveries to find Elspeth had left. She listened to the sound of the visitor’s voice with growing concern. A young woman’s voice. But not one she recognized.

When the maid brought in her card, Bea was surprised. Lady Lucinda Wellingham! Bea indicated that she would receive her and sat down to wait, not wanting to appear quite as flustered as she felt upon hearing the name.

‘Mrs Bassingstoke?’ The same woman tooling the horses in Regent Street all those weeks ago came into her room. Not daintily either, but with a decided purpose. Bea noticed she did not wear gloves and that the hat she had donned barely covered her silky blonde hair.

Beautiful. Like all the Wellinghams were beautiful, though her fair hair and blue eyes were not mirrored in either of her brothers.

‘You are Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke, are you not?’ she asked, a heavy frown easily seen between her brows.

‘I am,’ Bea returned and stood, though she was nowhere near as tall as this newcomer and wished suddenly that she had kept her seat.

‘The same Mrs Bassingstoke involved in an accident with my brother Taris between Ipswich and London?’

‘The very same.’

‘Then I am pleased to meet you.’ Her wide smile was both puzzling and welcome. ‘Very pleased to meet you, in fact—I am Lady Lucinda Wellingham, Taris’s only sister. Might I sit down?’

‘Of course.’

She sat on the sofa less than a foot away and left very little room between them, though when Bea hesitated she carried on in a whirl of words. ‘I heard from my sister-in-law that you would be speaking this week on the property rights of women.’

‘An inflammatory subject that I hope I will handle sensitively,’ Bea returned, not at all certain of the position Taris’s sister was approaching the argument from. ‘I should not wish to run foul of your family.’

‘Oh, I rather think it is too late for that—you have already.’

Tardon?’

Lady Lucinda’s hand swatted the air in front of her as though any problems would be easily solved. ‘Asher seems to think you should be hanged, drawn and quartered for your outlandish opinions.’ Her giggle softened the sentiment.

‘And your other brother?’

‘Oh, Taris holds all thoughts of you very close to his chest, Mrs Bassingstoke. The incident you were both involved in outside Maldon was, after all, fairly unusual, and he seldom courts gossip in any form.’

‘I see.’ A man who was careful, then? Careful to live his life within the boundaries of what was expected, the tittle-tattle of society dangerous to a man who would hide his lack of sight from everyone. Even from his sister? For in every conversation Beatrice had had in which Taris Wellingham was the subject, not once had she heard a whisper of what he could or could not see.

‘ Our family has had its fair share of tragedy, Mrs Bassingstoke, but then I would guess you are no stranger to such a thing either…’ Her glance flickered to the ring on her marriage finger.

‘No. I suppose that is true.’

‘If I might give you a piece of advice then…’ the younger woman suddenly whispered and leant forwards so that her voice did not travel ‘…my brother is a man who would be well worth pursuing.’

‘Oh, I doubt that I would interest him, my lady,’ Bea began, hating the telling blush that crept up her cheeks.

‘Ahh, you might be surprised in that, for I have never seen him ask a woman to dance in years and certainly not a waltz.’

Shrewdness was evident in her eyes and because of it Bea was inclined to answer defensively. She did not wish Taris’s sister to relay any tale back of a perceived interest.

‘I have only recently been made a widow, Lady Lucinda, and as I am well over twenty-eight…’

‘You had no children from your first marriage?’ Lucinda Wellingham clamped her hand across her mouth even as she asked the question. ‘I am sorry; of course that was very rude of me to ask.’

The blood pumped in Beatrice’s temples as she was taken back to the house in Ipswich, the voice of her husband reverberating loudly.

‘I am trapped in a lacklustre pointless marriage to an uninspiring and barren wife, and all you can do is apologise?’ His fist had connected with the side of her head before she could answer and knocked her from her chair ‘You cannot even give me an heir. Beatrice-Maude, you cannot even give me that when God knows I have given you everything…‘

Everything? A broken arm and a broken nose and a hundred bruises hidden beneath the folds of her gown…

‘Are you quite all right, Mrs Bassingstoke?’ Lucinda Wellingham’s worried countenance came through the haze, bringing Bea back to this time, this place, the wheezing in her breath worse now than she had ever heard it.

Panicked, she tried to stand and could not, collapsing against the sofa, a sheen of sweat marking her face and her hands shaking.

Barren Beatrice.

Broken Beatrice.

Such a long, long way from Bea-utiful and Bea-witching Beatrice.

‘Should I call someone to help you?’

‘No…Please do not do that…I…shall be all right.’ Clearing her throat, she made herself sit up, made herself face the woman opposite, the curiosity imprinted in the watching light eyes persuading her against her better judgement to try and explain.

‘I could not have children, Lady Lucinda, and it was a great loss…’

‘I am so sorry; of course, with your husband now gone to his Maker a child might have been such a comfort. A memory, so to speak, of all the good times, a child formed in the mould of a man you had loved.’

Stifling a smile at such a sentiment, Bea began to feel immeasurably better. She had never met a woman who seemed so able at putting her foot in her mouth. A memory? Of love? My God, when all she wanted to do was to forget. Still, there was something appealing in such eager openness, some engaging exuberance that reality had not yet snuffed out, and so completely opposite from the careful and measured stance of her brother.

‘Thank you for your kind words, Lady Lucinda. It has been most…refreshing, and please do give my regards to your sister-in-law.’

‘Emerald? You know her?’

‘Not well.’

‘You remind me of her in some ways, not in looks of course…’

Again Bea smiled.

‘But in strength. You have the same sort of intensity that she does. But now, I really must be going for I see you have much work here to do.’ Her glance flicked to the pile of books and notes on the table. ‘Of course, I cannot even imagine speaking in front of a whole room of people and on subjects that you seem to want to delve into…’

‘And at your age I am certain I would have felt just the same.’

A practised giggle was the only reply as her young visitor stood and allowed the maid to show her out. Sitting back again on the sofa, Beatrice tried to collect her scattered thoughts. What had just happened? Had Lucinda Wellingham come to warn her or to help her?

She could not quite fathom which, for every Wellingham she met thus far was as impossible to understand as the last one and Taris Wellingham was the most difficult of them all to comprehend.

Pushing back her concerns, Bea ironed out the creases in her vibrant green-silk day dress with her fingers.

Outside she could hear the servants going about their day, cooking, cleaning, polishing. A house with only her in it. It all seemed so very wasteful and unnecessary to do such tasks each day when she was the only inhabitant, but the penny-pinching she had been forced into for so many years had led her to enjoy just a little bit of luxury.

Lord, why on earth had she told the girl of her barrenness when for ten years she had mentioned it to no one? The grief of loss turned slowly again in her chest, but with even such a small conversation the potency of such a secret was lessened. Perhaps therein lay the fortunes of the Catholic confessionals, the age-old adage of a trouble shared being a trouble halved suddenly making a sense that it never had before.

Because in all her life she had never really had friends. Not real ones until coming here to London.

Lucinda Wellingham’s concern had unwittingly laid bare all the strategies she had put in place for coping.

Barren.

No wife for any man. No fit and ripe companion. No heir.

Taris Wellingham’s fingers playing across her breasts, making her believe that she was beautiful and that impossible dreams could indeed come true. And between her legs the place that throbbed at the recollection of such an unexpected paradise.

‘She’s what?’

‘Barren. She told me she was barren. Told me right out loud when I tried to console her on the untimely and unfortunate loss of her very dear husband.’

Taris felt the anger in him rise and struggled to contain it. ‘I cannot even imagine what ill-thought-out plan would have taken you to the door of Mrs Bassingstoke’s town house in the first place, Lucinda.’

‘Curiosity.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You had asked her to dance at the Rutledge soiree and I wanted to see why you had.’

‘Lord. Any number of reasons could have had me up on the floor and certainly none of them requiring the sort of consequences that you are now mentioning.’

‘I did not wring it out of Mrs Bassingstoke, Taris. She seemed to want to tell me.’

‘And who else have you told?’

‘Just you.’

‘Well then, say nothing of her condition to any other person.’

‘I might have told Penny Whitford.’

‘Might have?’

‘Did. On my way back I happened to see her. She asked me where I had been.’

‘God!’

‘Mrs Bassingstoke did not petition my confidence on the matter, Taris.’

His sister sounded upset and he hoped that she would not burst into tears. Why the hell would Beatrice-Maude have spilled such a private thing to a mere acquaintance anyway?

Barren?

Would society be kind or cruel when the confidence she had so unwisely given became gossip?

Beatrice. He wanted to see her again, to feel her beside him, to spar with her wit and to laugh at her honesty. He would go to her discussion group on Wednesday evening and warn her of the dangers of too much candour.

Using a softer tone, he bade Lucinda to stop worrying and was pleased when she stood and took her leave.

Chapter Eight

Beatrice-Maude’s salon was crowded with people and Taris hung at the back of the room beside a bookshelf, his hand against the heavy wood of it to give him balance. He rarely came to anything like this, the inherent danger of tripping always close, but Jack had accompanied him tonight and had gone to help himself to drinks at a generously laid table his friend had used much detail in describing.

The shape of someone loomed in front of Taris though he had no way of knowing who it was, so he stopped and waited, pretending to take interest in the numerous titles he had felt on the shelf.

‘Good evening, Lord Wellingham.’

Bea’s voice. Taris could not quite believe his luck. He moved to face her.

‘Mrs Bassingstoke. I thought I should take you up on your offer to broaden my mind.’

‘And I am pleased that you have done so.’

‘My sister has told me that she made your acquaintance.’

Silence greeted the statement.

‘Lucinda can be a chatterbox.’

Again there was silence.

‘Put more bluntly it would probably be prudent not to relate any secrets into her safekeeping.’

‘Secrets such as my not being able to have children, you mean?’

Taris winced at her direct honesty. ‘Playing your cards close to your chest is sometimes a wiser option.’

‘As close as you play yours?’ The query made him wary and he jammed his hands into his pockets. No one had ever spoken to him as this woman did.

‘Sometimes secrets hold us back,’ she added, her husky lisp more evident today than he had ever heard it.

‘Twenty-eight and a sage!’ He could help neither the anger in his reply, nor the memories of her naked skin against his own.

‘A barren sage,’ she returned, challenge evident in the edge of her words. ‘And one who it seems has forgotten the golden rule.’

‘Which is?’

‘In society a lady does not ever question the intent of a gentleman with a better pedigree than her own.’

‘You sound scathing. I am certain such rules cannot have ever bothered you before, Mrs Bassingstoke.’

‘You would be surprised…’

‘But not enlightened?’

Her laugh was light and real, so different from the shallow false humour he heard in other drawing rooms of this city.

‘It seems perhaps I was remiss in scolding you, my lord. Do you have a drink?’

‘Jack Henshaw has gone to get me one.’

‘Do try the punch. I made it myself. A non-alcoholic concoction with more than a hint of fruitiness!’

‘Sounds delicious.’

She began to laugh again. ‘The discussion will begin in another five minutes or so. I do hope that you will be happy to contribute.’

‘I fear in this room, Mrs Bassingstoke, that my opinion will not be popular.’

‘Oh, you might be surprised. The tolerance is as remarkable here as the range of opinions. Indeed, sometimes I think Parliament might do well to mimic us.’

‘I will make sure to relate that to Lord Grey next time I see him.’

‘Little voices can hold as much sway as more important ones.’

‘A sentiment I would never question.’

‘Even with the weight of privilege full upon your shoulders?’

‘Such a bigot, Mrs Bassingstoke.’

Her giggles were like a fountain of joy ringing around the room and chasing away the darkness and her touch upon his arm was taken with the ease that it was given.

Not forced or obtrusive, but natural and easy.

The shadows of many people swirled around him, the timbre of voices attesting to a very large number. He did not recognise any of them. The occasional accent was of a member of the trades or a dweller from the parts of London that were considered undesirable by the ton, though Beatrice made no mention of occupation or their standing in society as she introduced him.

Finally they stopped and the room seemed to quieten. Whether she had raised her hand he could not tell because she had moved away from him now and Jack was once again at his side.

‘The place is full to bursting,’ his friend said quietly. ‘Cowan is here and Lansdowne, and the wife of Lord Drummond is sitting with her sister in the corner.’

‘A rather eclectic bunch, then,’ Taris returned.

‘With little differentiation between those who are gentry and those who are not! There are four women standing at the back who look like servants and they have a glass in their hands as everyone else here does.’

Taris began to smile. ‘The egalitarianism of the Americas has come to London?’

‘At least the debate on property rights should prove interesting. Some here look so formidably righteous that I hope they are not heiresses.’

‘Excuse me, my lord.’ Taris turned to the voice at his left shoulder. ‘Mrs Bassingstoke asked me to bring you this drink.’

‘Thank you.’ He took the glass in his hand and sipped a fine smooth brandy. Not the fruit punch that he had expected, he ruminated, as he leant back against the wall next to Jack, listening to Beatrice call the discussion to order.

Half an hour later Taris realised that indeed this room was a hot bed of liberalism and that at least on the subject of matrimonial property rights the opinion here was swayed very firmly towards the viewpoint of the hard-done-by bride. Finally he had had enough.

‘The presumptive legal unity of husband and wife can cut the other way too,’ he began when there was a second of space in the heated argument, and he felt the room take in a collective breath before turning its attention to him. The heavy censure made him smile. ‘With marriage a bride and groom become one person and the husband is held legally liable for any debts and civil wrongs his wife may have incurred.’

Beatrice leapt into the fray. ‘I hardly think that the virtual loss of a woman’s property on marrying can be compensated by the unlikely event that if she breaks a law her husband may take the blame for it.’

Taris was beginning to feel the flimsiness of his arguments, but pressed on regardless. ‘Female capriciousness is well documented and some might say that the art of marriage is nothing more than an economic transaction tied to the protection of the great estates.’

A murmur settled around the room, and he realised he had probably used the wrong word when describing the changeable character of women. Beatrice’s quick reply was well worded.

‘Others would argue that it is nothing more than a sham to allow men the right of power over something that was never theirs in the first place, Lord Wellingham.’

‘ Yet you do not take into account that economic manoeuvring favours a bride as well as a groom if the financial aspects are considered openly. The benefits of a well set-out investment can hardly be to the disadvantage of either party.’

‘Well set out for the husband, my lord. Should he wish to confine her against her will and administer any properties himself he is well within his rights to do so.’

‘Our world is not peopled with characters from Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa, Mrs Bassingstoke, and the “vile Lovelace” exists only in a story.’

Laughter resounded and Taris fought to hear Beatrice’s voice above it.

‘Any husband may “correct” his wife should he wish to do so and the tales of such cruelty are certainly not solely the preserve of popular fiction.’

There was a tone in her voice that was not simply academic, a tone that trembled beneath the tenets of truth and chased away any desire he might have had to keep such a disagreement going.

‘Touché,’ he returned with a smile as he leant back against the wall and took a sip of fine brandy. ‘I concede my case entirely.’

‘It’s not like you to give up a fight, Taris?’

Jack’s question a few seconds later held a warning within it that he did not like as the chatter around them grew more general.

‘You are beginning to sound just like my brother.’

‘And your week is beginning to ring with the dubious clanging of firsts, my friend.’

‘How so?’ Finishing his brandy, Taris knew exactly what was coming.

‘The first waltz, the first concession of an argument you could have won had you truly wanted to…’

‘You read too much into these actions.’

‘Do I, indeed? Your Mrs Bassingstoke is coming towards us, by the way, and she looks like a cat who just swallowed the cream. Perhaps your reasoning in playing the “honourably beaten” was sounder than I gave it credit for, after all.’

Taris shoved his glass into Jack’s hand. ‘Get me another drink, will you?’

‘I will do so only because I detect your desire to be alone with the clever widow,’ he returned, laughter imbued in his retort.

‘Lord Henshaw looks as though he is enjoying our soiree,’ Beatrice said less than a few seconds later. ‘I hope that you are too?’

‘The debate is all that I imagined it to be.’

Her answer was worried. ‘I think our discussions go better when the opinion for and against them is more evenly divided.’

He laughed. ‘You won the argument, Bea.’

‘But not well. I think you gave up on me for some reason.’

He felt her hand on his arm, the pounding awareness between them blotting out all other noise.

‘Could I speak to you alone? After this is over?’

‘Yes.’ She gave her promise easily and as the world and its noise and need cascaded again on to them she was claimed in speech by another before disappearing into the crowded room.

Taris Wellingham had spoken carefully and well in the debate, she thought. A man who was confident in his ability to woo a crowd and gracious in defeat.

He was nobody’s man save his own, the one concession to his limited sight an opened hand that lay on the wall behind. He always did that, always created an anchor to the environment around him. The fence at the park, the ledge of the window in the carriage, his foot against the edge of the ditch in the snow outside Maldon.

A small habit that would be unremarkable without the knowledge that she had of how little he could really see. She watched him now from the other side of the room, watched his ease in a setting that was eminently foreign to him. The signet ring on his little finger glinted in the light as he pushed his dark hair back, his eyes creasing at the corners when he smiled.

Taris Wellingham was a man who might trace his ancestry back through all the years of history and yet he had conceded the argument to her with grace. She wondered suddenly whether he had done so by choice, as there had been a tone in his words denoting empathy that she found disconcerting.

The quick flash of her husband ‘correcting’ yet another opinion came to mind and she pushed it back, all the laughter and discourse in this room as far from the big Ipswich house as she could ever be.

Lifting her glass of punch to her lips, she dragged her eyes away from the enigmatic and mercurial Lord Wellingham and wished the hour before everybody would leave away.

Everyone was gone. Almost everyone, she amended and looked again to see that Taris still sat on the blue sofa in her salon.

‘I could stay if you want…?’ Elspeth was uncertain as she gazed towards the room.

‘I am a twenty-eight-year-old widow, Elspeth, and sense is my middle name.’

‘Still, a man like that could—’

She did not let her finish. ‘Look at me, Elspeth. A man like that is here merely to speak to me and I am very happy to listen.’

‘You are not as plain as you might say, Beatrice, and sometimes when you argue a point so very cleverly every male in the room looks at you in the way of men who are wanting much more than just words.’

‘A sentiment I shall receive as a compliment. But you forget I have no wish to take any such flattery further.’

‘Very well, then. But I shall be back in the morning to make certain that…’

‘And I shall look forward to the company.’

Bea was pleased when her friend finally allowed her to shepherd her out; turning, she walked into the salon, shutting the door against the bustling of servants clearing away the last of the plates and the glasses in the dining room.

‘Thank you for allowing me to talk to you privately,’ he said and waited as she sat next to him.

‘If this is about my conversation with your sister…’

He raised his right hand and she came to a stop. ‘Did Mr Bassingstoke ever “correct” you, Beatrice?’

Her world spun in a receding dizzy arc as she clutched at the arm on her end of the sofa. Had he seen the movement? For the first time since knowing of his blindness she was glad of it.

‘All my arguments were purely theoretical, my lord,’ she returned, her voice sounding almost normal, ‘and I could easily take umbrage should you think a man might rule me like that.’

‘A lack of sight has some benefits, Mrs Bassingstoke. One of them is the ability to determine the cadence of untruth.’

She was silent.

‘At Maldon you limited our liaison to just one night. I would like to negotiate for another.’

‘One night…?’ Her voice was squeaky.

‘More if you are offering.’ His smile made his eyes dance and the glasses gave him a rakish appearance. His cane lay untouched against his thigh as if, for the moment, he was comfortable and relaxed. Still, he looked much too big for her small salon, a tiger readied to pounce, the amber in his irises predatory. She could not move, could not rise and say nay to any of it, could not remember the promise that she had made to herself of ‘never again’.

The clock on the mantel chimed the hour like a harbinger.

Ding…say yes!

Dong…say no!

Outside she could determine the muffled clatter of a carriage winding home in the lateness.

Ten o’clock. On a Wednesday. Already some lights in the street were out and the transport that had brought him to her door was departed. At his request?

Who indeed might know if she were again to say yes? And freedom was found not only in the choice of a good book and a night alone. Another few moments and the maids would be finished. Easy to dismiss them to their beds and then to go to hers. With him. The very idea of it made her heart beat faster.

‘I am not the kind of woman to depend on this sort of arrangement, my lord. The freedom I spoke of today is important to me.’

‘I am not looking to shackle you into something you might live to regret.’

At that small set-down she reddened. Of course he would not be interested in a more lasting relationship. Still, she could not quite let it lie.

‘Why are you here, then?’

‘Because I like you.’

She sat speechless, for such a simple and uncomplicated reason negated all the more tangled arguments that spun around in her head.

He liked her? No expectation for anything different, no change or carefulness involved in maintaining a facade that might keep him happy? The admission was suddenly as freeing as the way he had conceded his argument on property rights, his lack of malice so unlike her dead husband that it had made her almost dizzy with the contrast.

And now an offer of more, and nobody else’s business save her own.

A clever man and a private man. A man who kept the world at bay so very easily.

Could she enjoy him without fear of all the other ties that drained a relationship in its never-ending complications? Simply be? Simply step into his arms and be?

‘I would not expect promises.’

The smile he gave her back melted her heart.

‘Of course I did not mean that you were even suggesting anything like that—’ She clamped her lips together to stop the babble further.

‘Bea?’

‘Yes?’

‘Be quiet.’

She began to laugh. ‘It is just that I should not wish you to think I was easy.’

‘Lord.’ His expletive was vexed as he removed his glasses and laid them down on the small table next to the sofa and when his hand reached out towards her the ring he wore on his finger glinted in the light, a soldier’s insignia engraved in gold.

‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man…’ The small ditty turned in her mind. What else had he been? When his thumb traced a line from her wrist to her elbow she took in a breath and leaned back, the warmth from the fire on her face and the heat from his touch lighting a fervour more intemperate even than the naked flame.

‘It cannot be here,’ she whispered as his touch skimmed across the bodice of her gown.

‘Then where?’

‘Upstairs. If you give me time to give the servants their leave to retire.’

His fingers stilled and pulled back.

‘It should just take me a moment.’ But he did not answer as she stood and scurried from the room.

After dismissing the staff for the night, Bea stopped in front of the mirror above the mantel in the dining room and met her reflection.

Fervent. Excited. Basked in promise.

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Do not hope…’

The thin line between her eyes reappeared and although her dimples were attractive there was much more on her face that was not.

‘Just enjoy,’ she said more softly before taking a breath and opening again the door to the blue salon.

Chapter Nine

Her chamber smelt of flowers and of lemon soap. The floorboards beneath his feet were slippery with polish and the rugs covering them thick. His hand reached out to the bed that he could just make out in front of him, a large square of light grey with some sort of pattern on the eiderdown.

More flowers, he decided as his thumb skimmed the outline.

Suddenly he felt nervous, his lack of sight here in an unknown room more worrying than he had thought it would be. He was careful to lift his feet when he stepped around the chest at the foot of the bed.

‘The fire has just been stoked. It should be warmer soon.’ Bea sounded almost as nervous.

‘Do you have any wine?’ he asked as he sat down on the bed, the mattress squashing under his weight.

‘Not in my room,’ she replied. ‘I could go downstairs and get it…’

He stopped her merely by catching at her arm and pulling her on to his knee.

Better, he thought, his body beginning to rise with the promise of it all. Much better, he amended, as the warm softness of breast came against him.

He had locked the door as he had followed her through and when the bells of London pealed the hour of eleven he was glad.

Hours lay before them. Hours and hours and hours. He had never before made love with a woman who knew the limitations of his sight and the relief was all-encompassing. No need to demand the candles be snuffed out or the worry of what might happen should he fumble or lose his way.

Here and now he could just be, just run his finger along the side of her face and feel her breath, her heart, the beat fast and then faster as his thumb skimmed the line of her throat, satin-soft-smooth and slender.

‘Not as cold as last time,’ he whispered as a log fell into place in the growing fire.

‘And a lot more comfortable,’ she returned, his touch determining the deep indents in her cheeks as she smiled.

Outside the wind was louder and the first spits of rain hurled themselves against the glass and for a moment he felt like a green boy, wanting her but not quite knowing how to begin, the hardness of his need pushing between them.

‘I should take my hair down,’ she said, the words halfway between a question and a statement and he felt her arms rise to do it.

‘Let me.’ His fingers ran over the silken thickness and found the hidden pins. One by one he removed them and she sat perfectly still as, clip by clip, her hair began to fall, undone and tousled, until there were no strands left up.

Beatrice sat and waited, her body coiled into tight expectation. When this was finished what would be next? Each clip marked time, loosening promise, bringing the moment nearer when his fingers might reach for other parts. With the candles still burning on the bedside table everything was so…very visible. She wished she had thought to snuff them out, to leave only the fire-glow, so kind to the many faults beneath her clothes.

And when the last of her hair fell between them his fingers traced the shape of her nose and her brow and the angled line of her cheeks.

A picture. He was forming a picture.

‘I am not beautiful.’ Better to say it before he thought it.

He only laughed and brought her hand to his own face. ‘Close your eyes and feel me,’ he said, and she did so, the shape of his nose strong, his cheek marred by the scar, his chin rough from the lateness of the day where he had not shaved since the morning.

No picture but parts. Warm. Real. For a second she knew just exactly what it was he felt and was wondrous. Opening her eyes, she saw his amber glance waver.

‘Kiss me,’ she said, wanting the sense of control that she had never felt with Frankwell. Her tongue ran across her lips and she pushed against him.

The dam of restraint broke completely and his mouth came down, seeking, breathing, hot and needy. She felt his hands on the side of her face and on her neck and the heat of him was like a magnet, like a centre, like a place she could not get enough of, her own tongue dancing against his, seeking an entrance, tasting and challenging, the ache in her belly a fiery red.

She could not breathe without him, she could not exist alone, her hands threading through his hair and feeling another scar bigger than the one on his face, longer, more dangerous.

Cradling her hand, she brushed the heaviness of her breasts against his fingers.

‘God,’ he said and then repeated it. ‘You are a witch, Beatrice-Maude. I swear that you are. One kiss and I am a youth again starved of any finesse and restraint.’

‘I do not wish for restraint,’ she returned, the result of her words showing as a flush on his cheeks. For suddenly she just did not. This was not love but lust, and the full rein of such an emotion should not be pegged in by time or convention. Putting her hands against both sides of his shirt, she ripped it open. Just ripped it, exposing the bronzed and defined muscular chest of a man who was beyond beautiful.

Hers again! She was not careful as her fingers found his nipple and her mouth followed.

All the control that he had perfected across three years of anger broke free. This was nothing to do with what he could see or could not see. This was only about feeling and taking and the shirt that hung in tatters on his shoulders felt like a flag of freedom, a banner to release him from a heavy burden.

He could not believe how he felt, the meticulous detail of hiding his sightlessness so all-encompassing that it left little room for any other emotion. Until now. Until this minute. The shock of her teeth upon his nipple sending passion through every pore of his body.

More!

He bundled her hair in his fist and kept her there tasting until he could bear it no longer; with a quick movement he gathered her in his arms and laid her back on the bed, holding his hand against her as she went to move.

‘My turn now.’

He could almost imagine he saw the smile upon her face.

She was pleased when he leant over to snuff the bedside candle, and pleased too as his fingers unbuttoned her bodice, exposing the lawn and the lace of her chemise. Unpeeled, she thought, as the cold air gave her goose-bumps, enhanced by the thought of what might come next and her whole insides tightening with delight.

He had not removed his tattered shirt, but the lacings on his trousers were gone, as were the boots he had worn. She felt almost fully dressed in contrast. The difference made her writhe.

‘Hurry.’ The word was out even as she thought it and she saw the quick flash of white teeth as he drew the yellow silk of her dress down over her body. Only lawn and lace kept her from him now, and she knew he knew it too as his breathing quickened.

His hand lifted her petticoat and bundled it into a wad, before dealing with her drawers. Easily disposed of, the flimsy silk removed without exertion.

Only her now, and his hands against her thighs.

When she went to move he kept her still.

‘Please?’ Soft. Honest. No force within it.

She lay back again and waited as his fingers found what it was they sought and when her head arched her body followed, sweat beading the channel between her breasts as she reached for the stars and the sky and the place in her life where all was good and true and right.

‘Now.’ Just now. Just this time. Again. The squeezing knots of lushness washed across her, the languid ache of perfection echoing in her very bones.

Taris had never met a woman before who was so responsive, so quick to delight, so unheedful of her nakedness and pleasure.

Already she turned to him seeking, and his erection grew against the satin skin of her stomach, the bedclothes kicked away on to the floor and only firelight between them. He could see the flicker of the flames against greyness and feel the heat of passion marking the contact of her hand against his bottom. Her tongue lathed his neck, joining whispered pleadings for more.

No hesitation in it. No demand for protection or heed for safety. Just him and his seed filling her, the ease of their coupling natural and right, the rhythm of his thrusts finding a home he had never had, taken and given, deeper before spiralling up and up, his breath fast and her hips rocking and the feel of her teeth as he climaxed, her muscles milking his hardness until he collapsed against the mattress, struggling to find a breath.

Laughing. His laughter against the silence of night and the carefulness of years and the unexpected paradise of her body.

‘Beatrice?’ He whispered her name when he could and she whispered his back, two people caught in the question of flesh and the elation of freedom and the bone-deep rightness of what had just happened between them.

‘Bea-all-and-end-all.’

And then they slept.

She could not believe that he was gone when she woke up. Could not believe that he had crept through her house without awakening her as he let himself out. How had he got home? How had he been able to negotiate a distance that he had no knowledge of? But the first rays of dawn were just touching the eastern sky and the space beside her was empty.

‘Lord help me,’ she whispered, the thought of her wanton abandon sending shivers of uncertainty through her this morning. Throughout all the years with Frankwell she had lain like a wooden doll on a marriage bed that had been the antithesis of what had happened last night.

‘Lord, please help me,’ she repeated again. Would he think her a whore? Was that why he had left? Would he think her a woman who was promiscuous and easy, a lady who would cross the boundaries without a single thought for consequences?

Consequences? Did two nights of loving mean she was now Taris Wellingham’s mistress? His woman to use when fancy struck him? A lady kept for pleasure in his bedroom?

‘No.’ She shook her head, though a darker thought lingered. Could she refuse him should he come back? She was becoming exactly the woman she had sworn she never would be again. A woman with no say over the dominion of her own body. Last time in hate and this time in lust.

Which was better?

Frankwell at least had placed a ring on her finger and the law condoned a husband’s needs in whatever form that they should take.

But now, here, in the morning light with a bed that was rumpled and musky, Beatrice felt both sullied and stupid.

A woman who would preach the doctrine of independence and then ignore every single tenet of it? She pulled the sheet around her nakedness and sat, the sight of her clothes strewn around her bed making her sigh.

Abandonment had its repercussions.

Her head fell against her hands and she wept both for the woman she had lost and for the man that she had found. And then she slept again.

Taris counted the steps between Bea’s bedroom and the stairs and then counted the number of stairs to the front door.

Perfectly easy, he thought, as his hand had found the handle and he let himself out.

Jack was waiting on the front step just as they had arranged.

‘It’s a dangerous game you play, my friend.’

‘How so?’

‘Mrs Bassingstoke is a woman of some reputation. One word of this gets out and she will be ruined.’

He was quiet.

‘There are houses in Covent Garden with girls whose names would not be so destroyed…’

‘Enough, Jack. Where’s the carriage?’

‘Around the corner. I didn’t wish to risk anybody seeing it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘If Asher learns of any of this he will have your head on the block.’

‘My brother’s newly formed morality is no concern of mine.’

‘You hold the Wellingham name, Taris. It is simply that he tries to protect it and for a man who has rutted his way until the early hours of the morning you’re surprisingly taciturn.’

‘Leave it, aye?’

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Arriving home, Taris went straight to his room and lay down on his bed. He did not change his clothes because he wanted to keep Bea’s smell with him. Violets and laughter and freedom. The smell of abandonment and the joy of sex!

One hand fell over his eyes, shutting out any light at all and giving him rest.

Neither shapes nor colour. Just the blackness to think in.

He had left because he knew if he had been there in the morning things would have been difficult and in the break of day his presence would raise questions that a night-time assignation would not.

Still, he thought, perhaps he should have left something. As an explanation. Not a note, because it had been long since he had written anything in any shape and form but…something. He had not thought of it then in his haste and his worry. It was only now, when he had time to ponder and remember, that the idea had struck him. But what exactly could he have left because, lying here, he had no idea as to what his feelings were?

Beatrice was a woman who did not want a dalliance or a meaningless tryst, just as she had said time and time again that she desired nothing permanent either. Not a frivolous woman or a woman prone to a quick affair and yet not one who demanded anything else more enduring.

A puzzle. And he knew that the puzzle was linked somehow to the husband who had died only a few months back.

Corrected.

My husband said that if I ate more that I should appeal to him better

Clues that something had not been right. He remembered Asher’s words at the ball when he had said that Beatrice and her husband had not mixed much and that few people in the area had a good knowledge of them.

The town they had lived in had been Ipswich. Perhaps it was time to find out something about the late and very mysterious Mr Bassingstoke.

Three hours later with the intrusion of Ashe and Emerald and Lucinda and his mother into the breakfast room, Taris decided that his home in Kent, which was a little removed from all the other Wellinghams, definitely had its advantages. He was also glad that they would be repairing to Falder come the morrow for he felt like a goldfish might in a glass bowl, the curiosity of his family firmly fixed upon him and the questions that they asked leading to one person.

Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke.

‘Lucinda said that she was unable to have children, Taris. A sad state of affairs in a woman nearing thirty.’ His mother’s tone was more than critical, though Emerald seemed to be leaping to the defence of Bea.

‘I think that would be an enormous sadness, Mama, and if a medical problem is the culprit then it is hardly Mrs Bassingstoke’s fault.’

The wheelchair that Alice rarely got out of these days creaked as she turned it. ‘I did not intimate that it was, Emerald. I only think that with such knowledge a liaison would be foolish to consider, especially if one needed heirs to consolidate properties.’

Taris stood and walked across to the window. Here the shadows were not so thick and the sun today allowed him to see the rough shape of his hand as he laid it out against the glass.

‘I am not certain where you are receiving your information, Mother, but I have no intention at the moment of providing heirs for any of my properties. Ruby, Ashton and Ianthe are quite sufficient as my legally designated recipients.’

Asher joined the fray. ‘ You are thirty-one, Taris, and the Earl of Griffin has asked me to approach you regarding the future of his daughter.’

‘A lovely girl,’ his mother exclaimed, ‘and so very convenient with her lands bordering your own.’

‘She has few opinions on anything,’ Emerald interjected. ‘I doubt you would be much entertained by her company, Taris.’

‘She is young, Emerald. He could teach her about the world…’

‘I think she is more interested in what lies within the shops, Mama.’

‘Stop.’ Taris hated the impatience in his tone, but he had had enough. ‘If I choose to pursue an acquaintance with Lady Arabella it will be my business.’

‘She has a stable of lovely horses,’ his sister suddenly said.

‘I hope that Taris would not marry a woman for her horses, Lucy.’ Asher began to laugh.

‘Horses? Heirs? What of love?’ Emerald sounded angry and a silence followed.

‘I fail to see why my personal life cannot remain just that. My personal life.’ Taris wished he had not said anything as Lucy jumped in to illuminate him.

‘It’s because of Mrs Bassingstoke, Taris. You seem more interested in her than you ever have been in anyone before. And she is clever and strong and most intriguing…’

‘Bassingstoke?’ His mother turned the name on her tongue and then repeated it. ‘Not the Bassingstokes of the railway fortune? Lord. The husband had some sort of apoplexy three years ago and his wife was the one who looked after him.’

‘Was it a bad attack, Mama?’ Lucy asked the question, her voice low and horrified.

‘Indeed, my dear, it was, and his good wife did everything for him until he died a few months ago.’

‘She loved him,’ Lucy said, and Emerald’s answering laugh of disbelief made Taris turn away.

Love or hate, the dependence of the man must have taken a toll on Beatrice-Maude. For three whole long and lonely years?

Complete blindness would have its own need of dependency too. His hands fisted at his sides.

If he were honourable he would walk away from Beatrice and allow her to lead the sort of life that she had never had.

Freedom. How often had she said that? And meant it.

Chapter Ten

When she awoke Beatrice was sick for the third morning in a row and she tried to think what it was she had been eating lately that should make her feel this way. She always felt better by lunchtime and the malady seemed to be like no other, as with a little food she began to feel instantly better.

Perhaps it was the fattiness of the pork pies that she had started to take a liking to. She decided that she would not nibble at another piece, no matter how her body craved it.

She was suddenly thankful that Taris Wellingham had not stayed to see her in this state, and pleased as well that so far this morning her maid Sarah had not appeared.

A small respite. A little reprieve for she also knew that the servants’ chatter would have alerted Sarah to the unusual fact of an overnight guest.

Drawing up the sheets on the bed, Bea tidied the room so that it was not quite so apparent as to what had been going on. She was an older woman, for goodness’ sake, and should have been long past this…licentiousness.

Unexpectedly she began to smile.

Would she see Taris tonight at the Cannons’ Ball? She knew that he was going for they had discussed it. Lord, what exactly should she say to him—what manner of words might sound even vaguely correct after such a liaison?

She shook her head and determined to stop overthinking things. Taris Wellingham was a friend. There could be nothing else between them and he had never, even in the most intimate of embraces, given her any cause to believe otherwise.

She was a barren widow; as a man who could have any woman he wanted, that woman almost certainly would not be her.

She should begin to go through her papers to keep her mind off things, she thought, and resolved to stop dwelling on matters that would never be and start focussing on what was.

A little after three in the afternoon, while Bea was sitting in the library reading a new book that had caught her eye, a footman came in.

‘There is a man who says he was your lawyer, madam. In Ipswich, he says, and he asked if you would speak to him for a moment?’ Handing over a card that was engraved with the name James Radcliff, the footman stood quietly.

‘If you will show him through, Thomas, I will see him in here.’

‘Very well, madam. Should I send one of the maids in with refreshments?’

‘No. I do not think so.’ All her dealings with any of Frankwell’s lawyers had always ended in difficulty and the years of very little ‘allowed’ money still rankled. ‘I am certain that this will only take a few minutes.’

Radcliff was dressed very fashionably as he made his way towards her, his height giving him an appearance of almost gaunt thinness. He sported a small moustache, meant, she thought, to cover the thinness of his lips. He spoke with an accent that Beatrice could not quite determine.

‘Thank you for allowing me this meeting, Mrs Bassingstoke. I realise that it is most impolite of me to simply come to you like this, but I have only the smallest amount of time in London.’

‘Indeed?’ She could not understand why he was here and her perplexity suddenly seemed to communicate itself to him.

‘Oh, I am very sorry. I shall come to the point immediately. I worked for Mr Nelson in Ipswich during the difficult years of your husband’s illness, and was never quite certain as to the legality of that firm’s stance on the lack of finances that you seemed beleaguered with.’

Bea’s interest sharpened. Most of the Bassingstoke money had been returned to her before she had made the journey south, but according to the few records she did have there had been a shortfall. Her own desire to keep well away from the legal fraternity had put paid to the idea of having someone look into the discrepancies, yet today here in her very own home was a man who might explain them.

‘You say you worked for Mr Nelson?’

‘I gave in my resignation as soon as I realised the calibre of his practice, for as the son of a gentleman I could no longer condone what I saw there. I was a junior clerk, ma’am, and was seldom allowed to do anything of real value because of my inexperience, you understand.’

The whites of his knuckles showed through the taut skin as he wrenched his hands together, and Bea’s eyes flicked to the closed door. It was not done, of course, for a woman to be alone with a man and a strange man at that, but the very nature of his confession was beguiling.

‘I felt sure that some of the margins were not quite right, Mrs Bassingstoke, for I had seen a few things when I was not supposed to.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘If I were to have a guess, I would say that some of your revenue was missing and were I to hazard another guess I would say the monies were almost certainly embezzled by Mr Nelson.’

‘And you have proof?’

He blushed again and shook his head. ‘That is part of the reason I have come today, Mrs Bassingstoke. A friend of mine was at a discussion on the ills of piracy that you held a few weeks back and when he told me of your being here in London I decided that perhaps fate had sent me a message. I hoped that the missing numbers might lurk in the ledgers sent to you.’

‘Ledgers, Mr Radcliff?’ She could not remember seeing any such books.

‘Books released to you on the death of your husband? Bound in brown leather, I think, and stamped with the Nelson name.’

Beatrice frowned. ‘I do not recall any such thing.’

‘Perhaps they slipped into your possession unnoticed.’ His eyes glanced around the overfull shelves of her library. ‘I would be more than happy to place myself into your service regarding this matter, ma’am, for I have always been highly thought of by the many clients I have had the pleasure to serve.’

The sound of the bell at the front door pulled Bea’s attention away and she waited as another card was presented to her.

Taris Wellingham was here with his sister-in-law. Wiping down the crinkles in her skirt, she would have liked to have gone to the mirror, but Mr Radcliff’s presence did not allow her this one small vanity.

This afternoon Taris was dressed all in black and he looked enormous and masculine compared to Mr Radcliff. The names of the newcomers had wrought a considerable change in the demeanour of the clerk—now he looked as though he just wanted to be gone.

‘My lord.’ Bea tipped her head in Taris’s direction and then turned to Emerald. ‘Lady Wellingham. Might I present Mr Radcliff to you.’

Taris’s scowl was noticeable and she hurried on. ‘He is one of the men who handled my late husband’s properties.’

Emerald smiled slightly, though Taris merely fixed the man with his dangerous amber stare.

‘Well, I really ought to be going,’ Radcliff began as Emerald made her way over to the sofa in the corner by the fire and readied herself to sit. Taris had his hand on the back of her wingchair, his fingers splayed against the plane of the header. A touchstone. Her eyes flicked to Emerald Wellingham and the glance she gave indicated that she had noticed too.

‘My maid will see you out, Mr Radcliff.’

James Radcliff followed Sarah from the room.

‘For a minion of the law he seems remarkably awkward.’ Taris spoke as soon as the door shut.

‘He is rather a junior, I think,’ Bea replied.

‘Then what is he doing here? Surely a more senior partner should be sent to do business with you?’

Beatrice didn’t quite know how to answer and so chanced the first thing that came to mind. ‘He said that he would be pleased to help me get my affairs into order should I wish him to do so.’

When his glance met hers she blushed brightly and hated herself for doing it. Taris might not see such a reaction, but Emerald Wellingham definitely would.

His fingers against her skin and lips brushing the sensitive lobes of her ears. Whispering.

Emerald coughed once as she readied herself for speech. ‘ We are here because, although Lucinda is a lovely young woman, she is also one who is rather loose of tongue. It seems she has been remiss in the keeping of your secret.’

Taris stayed silent.

Was she speaking of the secret of her barren years and her lack of children? Suddenly the import of just what they were saying began to sink in.

‘I did not request her to keep quiet about this,’ Bea enunciated into the growing silence, for although Taris’s sister had seemed rather scatty she had also come across as a girl who did not mean harm.

‘A most unwise omission, then.’ Taris’s voice ran alongside that of Emerald, who was far more diplomatic.

‘You are more than kind in your lack of blame, Beatrice.’

‘Even though it seems as if your name now is being bandied about the salons with something akin to pity?’ Taris again and given in all the tones of a man to whom pity might be the ultimate insult.

‘I see.’ Bea could not quite, but the seriousness on both of their faces demanded at least a modicum of anxiety.

‘As a result of this indiscretion, Taris thinks it would be prudent to shepherd you into the Cannon affair this evening. A buffer, if you like. Lucinda has been firmly told to stay at home.’

‘By accompanying us the weight of the Wellingham name should squash such gossip back into the realm of rumour.’ Taris’s voice was deep.

‘Even though it is true?’ Bea was beginning to enjoy herself, for she wanted an absence of duplicity in this new life.

‘Truth is one of those words that can be shaped to hold any viewpoint.’

‘Just as privilege can,’ she returned and Taris’s laughter was loud.

‘ You do not bandy your opinions, Mrs Bassingstoke.’

‘Just as you do not soften yours, my lord.’

Challenge was reflected in his amber-golden eyes. And humour. It sat on his face easily, making him look even more beautiful than he usually did.

A feeling deep inside Bea’s stomach blossomed and burst into a singular ache of need. To feel him again inside her, the heat of them both melded around loving and the world dissolved into instinct. Pure. Simple. Honest.

If Emerald had not been there, Beatrice might have chanced it, might have walked into his arms and held him tightly against all the reasons why she shouldn’t. But the second broke when the clock chimed the quarter hour and his attention was drawn away by it.

Emerald Wellingham stood as the last chime was heard.

‘We will call by here in the carriage at half past nine. Will that give you enough time?’

‘Oh, I think five hours should be almost sufficient to make me look presentable.’

Bea liked the twinkle in the Duchess of Carisbrook’s eyes as she offered her hand to take her leave. ‘I look forward to tonight, then.’

Taris Wellingham did not try to make contact at all as he gave her a stiff bow and was gone.

He shouldn’t have let Emerald talk him into accompanying her. He had said nothing of any import to Beatrice about their hours together last night and he knew she would probably be expecting some sort of intimacy. Yet the knowledge of her ill husband’s last years made him wary.

For he was another man who would need care one day! Care to do all the little things that even now were harder month by month and year by year—he didn’t wish to saddle her with another dependent man.

The smell of the lawyer still lingered, unsettling him, a dark-coloured scent with top notes of bergamot. As his lack of sight had progressed, he often colour-coded people with the way they smelt.

Bea was green and fresh, Emerald the blue of the sea and Ashe a fiery orange-red.

James Radcliff’s scent held a danger hidden in his early flight and his careful enunciation, the brown of his fragrance shading honesty.

Lord, perhaps the lack of sleep he had suffered last night was catching up with him. He frowned as he followed his sister-in-law into the coach, adjusting the tightness of his trousers as he sat down to mull over his most unwise longing.

Bea paid special attention to her appearance that evening, allowing Sarah to fuss over her with unprecedented patience. She even endured her maid’s desire to fashion her hair into a complex pile of curls and the light touches of makeup that Elspeth insisted on were left intact when more usually she washed such indulgence away.

Tonight, however, she needed all the help that she could get and the thought of a mask between her and a society that might pillory her was comforting.

She even brought out a set of pearls that had been her mother’s and fastened them around her neck, liking the way they complemented the golden gown she wore, its bodice edged in silk roses and soft Honiton lace.

When the preparations were finished and Sarah turned her to the full-length mirror, more usually left hidden behind the closet door, Beatrice allowed herself the luxury of looking and was surprised at the stranger who stared back.

No longer quite plain? Even a little pretty? The smile on her face deepened her dimples and the light caught at her hair so that the threads of other colours could be seen, sable and russet and amber, the more normal lacklustre darkness of it replaced by vibrancy.

Everything looked better. The shade of her skin, the colour of her eyes, the soft curves of a figure that had always been so very thin.

Tonight she wished that Taris Wellingham could have his sight back if only to see her, and then she shook her head as Sarah handed her a shawl of spun silver, tassels beaded with the same gold as her dress.

A fairytale?

A happy ending?

The onyx clock on the mantel struck nine-thirty just as the butler knocked on her door to announce that the Wellingham carriage was now waiting and that there was a gentleman downstairs.

Asher Wellingham stood in the lobby, his hat in hand and his gloves removed. When he saw her she fancied that he might have smiled, though the emotion was long gone by the time she had reached the bottom step.

‘You are a woman who is on time, I am glad to see,’ he said. ‘My wife has the same habit.’

He offered her his arm and they walked outside, her shawl warm against a heightening wind.

Taris sat on one seat and Emerald on the other. Across Emerald’s legs there lay a blanket of soft wool and on the seat next to Taris were others folded and waiting. For her? Chancing it, she slipped in beside the man she had thought of all afternoon.

‘Oh my goodness, Beatrice, your golden gown is beautiful and the colour lifts your hair into all the shades of darkness. And the pearls around your neck…look very pretty.’

Emerald’s monologue was probably for Taris’s benefit, Bea thought, an inventory of the things she wore and the colours explained and as her hand reached for the blanket Taris’s did the same. When she felt his warmth she pulled back and hoped that Emerald was not looking too closely, for the beat of her heart thrummed strong in her throat as the carriage started moving.

‘Taris said that he enjoyed your discussion group yesterday evening, Mrs Bassingstoke.’ The Duke of Carisbrook’s compliment was measured.

‘Then I am glad for it, your Grace,’ she answered.

‘Were my brother’s opinions a help to you? The property rights of women after marriage are not something he has had any personal knowledge of, so to speak.’

Bea saw Emerald pushing her thigh against her husband’s in a warning, but was not deterred.

‘On the contrary, your Grace, he was most helpful in providing the balance to an argument that was largely one-sided. I would be most happy to have him back again.’

Taris began to laugh. ‘From your reasoning, Ashe, it might be deduced that nobody can hold an opinion unless they have personally experienced the argument. Piracy was the last topic.’

Emerald squashed down a giggle and as her ducal husband turned towards the window, Beatrice got the distinct impression that she had missed out on some part of Taris’s counter-claim. Leaning back into the comfort of her seat, she waited as Taris spoke again.

‘If anyone should have the poor manners to make reference to Lucinda’s reckless gossip tonight, Beatrice, I would suggest you shake your head and plead ignorance. Your appearance here should have set them thinking, as a guilty party generally slides off to lick their wounds.’

‘Guilty party?’ Emerald sounded outraged. ‘You make it sound as though the whole thing is her fault.’

The Duke of Carisbrook’s teeth showed white in the dimness. ‘A poor choice of phrase, brother.’

‘And a poor choice on Lucy’s part as well,’ Emerald continued and sighed loudly. ‘I get less and less enamoured with society in London, Ashe. If we are not released from our duties here soon, I swear I shall take our children and go on home without you.’

‘You do not live in London, then?’ Bea asked, glad not to be the topic of conversation any more.

‘We live here as little as we are able. Our home is near Fleetness Point at Falder Castle. From my bedroom I can hear the sounds of the sea where it runs aground on the cliffs of Return Home Bay.’ She looked outside at the city all around them and sighed again. ‘Perhaps you might like to come and visit us, Beatrice.’

She felt Taris stiffen beside her.

‘Perhaps, one day.’ Uncommitted. Distant. Two nights together and already Taris Wellingham seemed to be tiring of her company, his lack of interest when she had first entered the carriage telling and the Cannon town house almost reached.

She was merely a woman whose path had run across his for a time and in circumstances that were unusual, a woman to be protected against the errant gossip of his sister and one to whom he had unwisely given the secret of his poor eyesight. Already she could see that he regretted that, so when he took her hand as they alighted she was surprised.

‘Could we walk in together, Beatrice?’ he asked, the steps in front of them many and all around people jostling for entrance. A nightmare if you had difficulty seeing. She understood why he had asked to take her arm as someone bumped against them in their haste to be inside.

Lord, how he must hate this, she thought, for even as his fingers closed over her own his face was an implacable mask of indifference. A man who would never show the world his true feelings! Bea wished that he would say something that would have allowed her some memory of last night, but he did not. Once inside people called to him on all fronts.

Taris Wellingham knew most of the names without any formal introduction and the ones that he didn’t had him tilting his head in a gesture that prompted those on the end of it to supply their identities and thus solving the problem altogether. Standing with him, Bea realised his expertise at managing in his world, and also the exertion that it must take to get it right. He always faced full on to the speaker, she noticed, as though sound needed to have some sort of perspective, the tone enhanced perhaps by an equal volume?

He also made it a point to introduce her to everyone. A man who would shelter her and guard her against a careless remark or a wayward observation, and indeed by halfway through the night she thought that the plan of protection was working very well.

Until Lady Arabella Fisher approached them with a number of her friends.

Close up the girl exuded an arrogance that was less observable from further away; a beauty who would take umbrage at not being the most lauded or most visible female in the room because so many people had told her of her charms.

‘Lord Wellingham,’ she said, her tone honey silken and sensual. ‘I did not see you at the Charltons’ place last evening?’

Beatrice was amazed at the way Lady Arabella used her body as a weapon to gain his attention, but with the expected social distance of a foot or so she was also aware as to how much of what Lady Arabella did was lost on him. Still, her voice was lethal in its own right and it was directed straight at Taris Wellingham.

‘That is because I was at Mrs Bassingstoke’s discussion group, mulling over the problems of the world.’

Lady Arabella frowned and the other young woman near her did the same. ‘I cannot believe you would miss the fun at the Charltons’ in the pursuit of that bluestocking’s dusty old group.’

‘That bluestocking, as you call her, is right here beside me. Mrs Beatrice Bassingstoke, might I present Lady Arabella Fisher, the Countess of Griffin’s daughter. Though perhaps there is no necessity for the introduction—it seems she knows you already.’

To give her her due, the girl looked highly embarrassed.

‘I do beg your pardon, Mrs Bassingstoke. My manners were most rude. It is just that worrying endlessly about the cares of the world are such a burden and you can never change them anyway.’

The others around her looked every bit in agreement. Carefree and jaunty, they were all that Beatrice at eighteen had not been and for a second she was…envious. No other word for it. Envious of the years they had been allowed to just grow up. Slowly. Their rough edges polished by love rather than by anger, their mistakes sniggered over in each other’s company at night and all the choices of the world before them.

Not stupid, really, but just young. Not mean, either, but arrogant in a way that young girls perhaps should be arrogant, a buttress against hardships that would come later. Something to look back upon with fondness!

‘Will you dance, my lord?’ Lady Arabella’s question was hopeful. ‘The orchestra here is very skilled.’ Feeling the fingers beneath hers tense in alarm, Bea leapt in unbidden.

‘Lord Wellingham is recuperating from a tumble he had from a horse,’ she heard her voice saying. My God, she never lied like this, but the force of protection was stronger than the need for truth and she was glad when Taris nodded.

The irritated glance from Lady Arabella was directed straight at her as she continued. ‘I have always been extremely afraid of horses for the exact same reason. Why, when I was a child, many years ago, of course, I remember my mother saying to me that it was most important to stay in a place where a steed may see you and…’

Lady Arabella listened to the pointless monologue for all of five minutes before breaking in when Bea deliberately took an overlong breath.

‘I think that we really must go and find some supper now, Mrs Bassingstoke. I do hope that you will excuse us.’

Smiling sweetly, Bea watched as the young girls left. Vacuous chatter was such an effective tool to use!

‘You are as formidable here as you are in your own salon, Bea. Do I now have to limp all night?’

‘I am sorry, I should not have—’

He stopped her simply by holding up his hand.

‘How close is the person nearest to us?’

‘A few yards away.’

‘If we were alone, I would kiss you.’

‘And I would kiss you back.’ Two could play at this game and she saw the pulse in his throat quicken.

‘Hard?’ His word was hoarse and an explosion of lust blossomed deep in her stomach. ‘So hard that I would have to beg you to stop…’

‘Beg her to stop what?’ Asher Wellingham came to stand next to them and Bea bit back horror. How much had he heard?

‘Beg her to stop worrying about the repercussions of Lucinda’s gossip.’ She had to give it to Taris Wellingham, he thought quickly on his feet.

Asher swore quietly. ‘Our sister has no idea of the hurt she can cause and one day—’

‘I am certain that your brother is overstating my concern, your Grace.’

‘And understating my own,’ Taris added, a wicked smile on his face.

The double entendre was deliberate and Bea was glad that she had dropped her arm in the surprise of having the Duke overhear them.

Because at that moment in a ballroom overflowing with people and under a ceiling alight with hundreds of candles she was bathed in a feeling she had never felt before.

Exhilarated.

Powerful.

Exalted.

Not herself. Not plain and ordinary Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke, but a woman who might attract a man such as Taris Wellingham. And keep him!

Now, clothed in gold she felt like a beautiful butterfly released from a drab and never-ending cocoon, a woman who could spar with words and be admired for it instead of hit, and one whose opinions were listened to instead of being shouted down.

When Emerald came and claimed her company she could only watch as Taris Wellingham walked with his brother towards the supper room, the pressing crowd swallowing them up before they were even ten yards away.

All Taris wanted to do was to go home and make love to Beatrice. But he had promised himself distance and honour and all of the noble attributes of a man who might care about the future of a woman who intrigued him.

The sound of gossip made him maudlin, and he longed to be in the country again. He had stayed in London this time longer than he had for all of the past eight years. Seven days tomorrow and still he had not instructed his valet to pack.

Asher guided him towards the top of the room, where the smell of supper was stronger. ‘Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke is the most original woman here, apart from Emerald, and even then I should say they are about equal in novelty.’ His voice was measured as he carried on. ‘And the fact that you have been reduced to begging for a kiss in a crowded ballroom suggests a relationship different from the one you have implied…’

‘You are an inveterate spy, Ashe.’

‘With good reason to be so. My sources say that the Henshaw carriage was dispatched at five this morning to pick you up when you failed to return home.’

‘Jack told you that?’

‘He didn’t have to. The Henshaw driver is my valet’s brother.’

‘I see.’

‘Emerald too has been pestering me to ask you what your intentions are as far as Mrs Bassingstoke is concerned.’

‘She knows about the conveyance?’

‘No. It was the waltz the other night I think that piqued her curiosity.’

‘Such a simple mistake,’ Taris returned, irony in his words.

‘Of course, if others find out about your midnight rambles…’

‘They won’t. There will be no more risks.’

‘This from a man who made love with words not less than two moments ago?’

‘Your penchant for nuance is legendary, Asher, as is your proclivity to exaggerate.’

‘You would say it is all a lie, then?’

Taris was careful in his reply. ‘I would say that I am nearing thirty-two, Ashe, and have no need to answer to anyone but myself.’

His brother laughed. ‘Ahh, that is what they all say, Taris, before they fall.’

‘Implying…?’

‘It would take a braver fellow than myself to explain it to you.’

‘Then don’t.’

Silence ruled for a moment until Asher spoke again.

‘Your lady has been conversing with the Duchess of Castleton for a significant time, and if Anna Bellhaven deigns to give anyone an audience for more than a minute it is generally a highly regarded stamp of approval.’

‘The plan is a success, then?’

‘Exactly.’

‘In that case I shall leave for Kent in the next day or two.’

‘Perhaps you might take her with you?’

‘The Duchess of Castleton? Why on earth would I wish to do that?’ His deliberate misconception had his brother slapping him across the shoulder.

‘One day soon, Taris, you will wake up with a ring on your finger and a brood of children and the knowledge that you are in the only place that you want to be.’

‘Mrs Bassingstoke is a barren widow. Hard to raise a brood given that fact.’

The peal of deep laughter was distinctly unsettling and he just wished that Bea might return to stand beside him and make everything simple.

Beatrice watched Taris Wellingham from her place beside the Duchess of Castleton and the Duchess of Carisbrook.

His left hand splayed across the smooth marble on the pillar and his right held the cane. Tonight he did not wear his glasses and a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, highlighting the amber in his eyes.

Rakish. Dashing. A man who had absolutely no idea of how appealing he looked! But it wasn’t only his body that she found attractive. No, she loved the depth and breadth of his mind, with his wide-ranging opinions on anything and everything.

She wondered what his library looked like. What books he read? What had formed his ideas when he was young? She also wondered how a man raised as an aristocrat could consider other less popular ideas that encompassed a change in the perception of how society would be moulded over the next hundred years.

When the dancing began she hoped that he might ask her again. But of course he could not, given the excuse she had dredged up for Lady Arabella Fisher only a few minutes prior. She smiled, thinking it ironic that by helping him she had denied herself the chance to be once again in Taris Wellingham’s arms.

The carriage ride home was full of Emerald’s chatter with her husband adding his say on the highlights of the evening. Taris remained silent, lost in his own thoughts, Bea imagined, though when they reached her town house he got to his feet and helped her down the two small steps.

‘I am certain that Lucy’s indiscreet chatter will have been put to rest.’ The wind snatched away his words even as he turned against its force, inadvertently shielding her reply from the ears of the others.

‘Thank you for making certain that my reputation remained safe.’ Bea could not think of even one other thing to utter. Her reputation? Last night’s loving lay between them like an unspoken shout.

‘Come in. Hold me. Lie down beside me and show me heaven. Again.’

Not quite what one could say to a man who looked almost desperate to be gone, and a plethora of other transports wending their way home behind him, the occupants craning their necks to watch the antics around the Wellingham conveyance.

Manners. Protocol. Exemplars and precedents. The world here was full of what was expected and what was acceptable and walking into the private residence on the arms of even a plain-looking widow in the wee hours of the morning was patently not one of these things.

‘Goodbye.’ His farewell contained no notion of intimacy, though he waited as two of her servants came to escort her in.

When she reached her front door and looked back she saw that the horses had already been called to walk on.

Chapter Eleven

‘’Tis only a hand cream that I have a need of, Elspeth. I should not wish to take up too much of your time.’

‘Oh, Beatrice, it is lovely just to be walking on such a fine day. Besides, we promised ourselves an outing at the new tea shop last time we ventured out this way.’

Bea laughed. She felt surprisingly relaxed after the party last night at the Cannons’. Perhaps she had come to terms with the fact that at least in friendship she would be able to see Taris Wellingham; besides, there was little use dwelling on the sort of happy endings that she knew, for her at least, would never come to pass.

‘Shall we go to the apothecary first and then—?’

Her words were snatched into a scream as a heavy shape from behind connected with the small of her back and pushed her forwards. Her arms came out to try to break the fall, but the heels of her boots had tangled with the hem of her skirt and she could not keep her balance. Tipping towards the road, the clatter of horses and the shout of a driver alerted her to the presence of danger even before she felt it, and she attempted to twist and roll away from the flailing hooves.

The wheels missed her face by a whisker, though her wrist and head hit the cobbles with a whacking crunch and the pain that radiated outwards made her feel nauseous, a receding blackness pushing away light. As she struggled to catch her breath, the shaking that she was engulfed in left her dizzy.

‘Sit still, ma’am.’ Sarah’s voice was so insistent that she did as she said, Elspeth’s sobbing behind making her wonder whether the accident was even worse than she had thought it. Wriggling her feet in her boots, she was relieved she could feel pain, for it meant that she was not paralysed.

The warmth of her maid’s hand came across her own. ‘I do not think anything is broken, ma’am. I think if you tried to sit up.’

Another man had now joined them and another. When Bea did as Sarah had directed and sat upright, she saw a whole group of people now ringed them. The back of her head throbbed in agony and the blood on her grazed arms soaked into her sleeves.

‘Wh…whathappened?’ She was still shaking and her heartbeat was so fast she wondered if she might have an apoplexy and simply expire, here on this road, with the thin spring sun on her now hatless head.

‘I think somebody pushed you, though I cannot be sure.’

‘Can you lift m…me up?’

The two men who had knelt down beside her now took her arms on each side and carefully helped her to stand. The weight hurt her ankle and she pressed her knuckles into the skirt of her gown.

‘This shopkeeper says that you can lie down to rest in his back parlour and wait for the physician to come.’

Beatrice nodded her head, regretting the motion as soon as she did so. To get away from all the stares of a growing audience would be most appreciated.

Suddenly she felt like crying and all she could think about was that she wanted Taris Wellingham, wanted his confidence and his arms about her, wanted the feeling of safety he gave her, and his reason and his careful logic. When she was inside the parlour she would send a missive to his town house and ask him to come to her, for suddenly she did not care who might see them together, who might gossip about it or wonder. The tears she had tried to hold in fell in big drops down her cheeks.

All she wanted was Taris Wellingham to come!

The note arrived as he was about to sit down for a late lunch. Bates at his side read it out.

‘It is from Mrs Bassingstoke, my lord, and there is an address in Regent Street. It says, “I have been in an accident. Hurt. I need you.”’

Taris came up from his seat before the missive was even finished and called out for his butler.

‘Morton. Get Berry to bring the carriage around immediately. I need to be in Regent Street.’

‘But, my lord…your lunch.’ Bates’s voice petered out as Taris picked up his cane and strode from the room.

The shop was tiny but warm, and the blanket the wife of the furniture maker had placed over her knees was welcomed. Her hat sat on the table, a for-lornly crushed shape with no hope of resurrection. The wheels had run straight over the feathers, the shopkeeper had said, and Beatrice was acutely aware that her head had only been inches away from being in exactly the same condition.

Lord, how fragile life was. A second earlier, an inch further, a grander coach or a faster conveyance and the whole outcome could have been so much different. Elspeth was still wailing noisily and she wished she would just stop, for her headache was worse.

A constable spoke to those who had witnessed her fall and Bea held her arms against her bodice, the throbbing ache easing only when she raised them up.

She felt dislocated and scared, the memory of the hooves and the horses and the violent push leaving her nervous that someone else might try to hurt her, and her shaking had not abated in the least.

A louder chatter had her looking up as Lord Wellingham walked into the shop. He came straight over to her, his hand resting on the sofa as he knelt, his cape falling into a ring of fine black wool.

‘Are you all right, Beatrice?’

She could not answer, could not say even yes as a wave of relief washed across her. When his fingers came into contact with hers, she knew he could feel the terrible shaking.

‘Where are you hurt?’

Because sound was such a part of how he viewed his world, she tried her hardest to answer him.

‘M…my head hit the g…ground and Elspeth said the c…carriage came very close.’

He turned at that. ‘Surely a doctor has been summoned?’ Hard. Harsh. Impatient. ‘Why is he not here?’

Watching the autocratic and imperious way he addressed the room, Bea understood power in a way she had not before. It was in bearing and expectation and in the sheer essence of history.

‘He has been called, sir,’ someone answered from behind.

‘Then call him again. Bates?’ His man stood next to him. Bea had not seen him when Taris Wellingham had first arrived in the room, but of course someone would be there to help him with the lay of the land. ‘Send Liam for my physician and make sure he knows the gravity of the situation.’

As the man hurried off with his orders Bea, feared that Taris might go too and she clung to him fervently.

‘Don’t worry, I shall stay here with you,’ he returned, and she felt his breath. Warm and real, no longer just her!

‘You p…promise?’

When he placed their joined fingers against his heart and smiled, she lay back against the cushion and closed her eyes.

He was here! Now she would be safe.

Taris felt the moment that she relaxed, his fingers measuring the beat of her pulse at her wrist and finding it reassuringly steady and strong. The sticky blood he had felt on her arms was mirrored on her forehead and neck when he ran his touch upwards.

Where the hell was the doctor and what the hell had happened? A woman he presumed to be Elspeth Hardy was sobbing incessantly at one end of the room and the quiet questioning of a constable at the other told him that this was no simple accident. When Bates returned and relayed the story of Beatrice being pushed on to the road and of how she had narrowly missed being run over by a carriage, he felt a roiling sense of disbelief.

Who would try to hurt her?

Who had nearly succeeded in killing her? His anger escalated as he felt the remains of a hat on the small table beside the sofa.

Ruined like her head could have so easily been!

MacLaren’s arrival a little time later took his mind from such suppositions. The family doctor had always been the sort who muttered, a trait that Taris had found useful so that he knew exactly where he was in a room.

‘My lord,’ he offered, and Taris felt his arm next to his, the quiet click of a doctor’s tools telling him that he was measuring Beatrice’s vital signs before making a judgement on her condition.

The astringent odour of smelling salts filled the space around them and then Bea’s voice. Confused. Embarrassed. Flustered.

‘I…I…should sit up,’ she said, her fingers creeping back into his hand as she held on tight.

But the doctor wanted her to stay still and through the grey haze Taris could see that he felt around the lump on her head.

‘A nasty accident. Do you remember if you lost consciousness at the time it happened?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Good. Good.’

‘Lord Wellingham, could you lift her and bring her out to the carriage? I think it may be more beneficial to the lady’s healing to treat her at home.’

‘Of course.’ He was certain that the doctor had long since guessed his eyesight to be weakening, but had never in any shape or form alluded to it. Taris was pleased to step forwards and lift Bea in his arms, the presence of Bates making it an easy pathway out to his conveyance.

Bea barely moved, the heat of her body melding into his, the soft abundance of her breasts against his cloak.

When they came to the doorway she curled in against him so it was easier to negotiate the portal and once outside he counted his footfalls to the kerb. His carriage stood where he had left it and, mounting the steps, he sat with Bea in his lap.

The trip home was completed in silence, Beatrice’s friend opposite sharing the seat with the doctor and Bates to his left. The small stern-faced maid named Sarah completed the party.

An hour later he was finally alone with Beatrice.

‘Doctor MacLaren said you were lucky not to have broken anything and that the grazes will feel a lot better by morning.’

‘Thank you for asking him to see to my injuries, my lord.’

He heard the wariness in her tone, but he was in no mood to ignore the larger question. He also wished she might just call him by his Christian name.

‘Who pushed you, Bea? Did you see him?’

He felt her shaking her head. ‘Sarah said he looked like a pauper and that he ran off into the backstreets as soon as I fell.’

‘A paid assailant, then?’

‘I would guess so.’

‘God. Who would hate you enough to do that?’

‘The same person who might have sawn through the axle of the carriage, perhaps?’

Said without any artifice at all and with a great deal of frank openness. Taris stiffened as something began to tug on his mind. A smell. A certain fragrance he had noticed as he had stepped into the town house this evening. Bergamot. Scattered bits and pieces began to fall into place.

‘The man James Radcliff? You said he was a lawyer?’

‘The junior partner in the firm who looked after my husband’s accounts. Why?’

‘Has he been here again today?’

‘No. I have not seen him since yesterday afternoon when you were here with the Duchess of Carisbrook.’

Such a smell would not linger, would not carry in a space for so very long. A sense of danger began to form and Taris felt as he had in Spain all those years ago before charging into battle.

Then, however, he had had all his faculties and the ability to catch sight of the slightest movement from a great distance away.

Could he protect Bea here if the man should choose to play his hand? The knife tucked into the specially made sock in his boot would help, as would the ring he wore. By turning the gold circle he clicked the edges into place and the heavy bauble changed into a lethal collar of diamond spears. Enough to surprise anyone. His cane would do the rest.

He tilted his head to listen and the silence in the house was comforting. At a guess he would say the lawyer had gone, but why had he been here in the first place? And had he come alone?

‘Did Mr Radcliff ask you for anything?’

‘He wanted to see some ledgers that were sent to me. He asked after them.’

‘And where do you keep them?’

‘Well, that is the strange thing—I do not remember having them.’

‘Does your door have a sturdy lock on it?’

‘I think so.’ Her answer held worry and hope strangely mixed.

Standing, Taris made his way over to it and threw the bolt, testing the door when he had finished doing so.

After listening for a further few moments he crossed to the bed, realising as he came closer that she was fast asleep.

She came awake instantly and fully, with the fright of one who did not quite understand where she was or what time of day it was.

Taris sat in a chair next to the bed, his long legs stretched out before him and the stubble of lost hours shadowing his chin.

Not quite asleep. When she stirred his amber eyes flicked open, unfocused and then alert.

‘What is wrong?’

When he moved his hand she saw a circle of diamond points coming from his ring. A knife lay in his lap, the other fist curled about it, easily, familiarly, in the way of a man who had long courted peril.

But as she frowned both the knife and ring were gone. A short illusion, a little fancy, and then gone; the accoutrements of battle disappearing from the everyday life of an aristocrat who walked the delicate pathways of the ton.

Secrets and menace and something more charged again, sensuality the other side of a dangerous coin.

The jeopardy of today’s accident made risk more accepted, made the fear of rejection less concerning, made the moments she had been given with him here in the night a chance that was to be taken and not lost.

She placed her hand across his and pressed down.

‘Thank you for coming today.’

‘How could I not have?’

‘Easily,’ she answered back, years of coping alone a burden she was more than used to. ‘I thought the carriage was going to run me over.’

‘As it did your hat?’

‘You saw it?’

‘Felt it.’

‘Could the person who did it come back here tonight?’

‘No.’ She liked his certainty, liked the way he did not even waver. A man who would protect her against everything.

‘Will you kiss me?’ Hardly even a question.

‘Could you stop me?’ His was not either.

‘I want to forget everything else save what is here, now, between us.’

‘Flesh?’ This time he ran his finger across her breast, easily distinguished under silk.

‘And blood,’ she answered, her tongue drawing a single wet trail through the stain on the skin of his hand.

‘I would not wish to hurt you.’

‘You will hurt me more if you do not come…’

‘Inside of you?’ No longer careful or limiting, the obvious stated, a balm to fright and hate and hurt.

In reply she held his finger to her lips and sucked in, the small noise thrilling and daring in a way that she had never been before.

Frankwell frowning at any enjoyment, the ghost of need always replaced by hurt.

Never again, she thought. Her body ached with the want of him, the air on her skin orange-glowed from the fire and the scars of her past disappearing into shadow, feeling and hot hard passion.

‘Call me Taris,’ he said. ‘Call me by my name.’

She wrote it on the back of his hand, in the wet of her tongue, and saw the way the hairs rose on his arm and the breath in his throat just stopped.

One second and then two. Suspended in time and place before beginning again, neither will in it nor choice.

A small touch here, a longer caress there. The music between them was heard in breaths and heartbeats and sighs.

Their music. A symphony. To life. To living. To danger. No past or future. Just now. Risking it all.

Beatrice wished the world might stop.

‘Love me, Beatrice?’ Barely his voice.

She laughed as she peeled back her nightgown before taking his fingers and placing them on to the warmth.

Chapter Twelve

She was sick into the china basin kept beneath her bed and then sick again as Taris stirred.

Swallowing, she could hardly hide her embarrassment. Such a far cry from last night’s loving and the first rays of dawn slanting through the gap in the curtains at her window.

Her stomach heaved again and she held back her hair, the sweat of exertion marking her skin with a glistening dew. She noticed that the grazes on her arms this morning had crusted, the first scabs of healing formed across open wounds.

Breathing heavily, she shut her eyes, shut everything out whilst she tried to find an equilibrium, the nausea receding as quickly as it had come and leaving a tiredness that was all encompassing.

‘Has this happened before?’ he asked when she turned towards him.

‘It has,’ she replied, wishing that she could have hidden it. Perhaps she was dying? Perhaps this was a sickness that had no cure, the exhaustion that accompanied the early-morning routine just another symptom of its severity. Frankwell had vomited often in the mornings in the last months of his life.

Taris didn’t look happy at all. ‘Hell,’ he said, pulling the length of his hair back off his face. Naked, the muscles of his chest stood out along the contours of his hard brownness. ‘Hell,’ he repeated when she did not say a thing.

Rallying, she tried to make light of her suppositions. ‘I am certain it must be something I am eating and—’

He interrupted her. ‘How old were you when your mother died?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘And you were close?’

Bea didn’t understand the meaning of such a topic change. ‘Very.’

His silence unnerved her.

‘Well, perhaps not as close as we had been when I was younger, but—’

‘I want you to come with me to Falder. I am repairing there today and Emerald and Asher will arrive later in the afternoon.’

‘I don’t understand?’

‘You need to be away from London.’

‘Because you feel that I might have another accident?’

His laugh was unexpected. ‘There are other reasons I have for asking this of you, but I would rather not discuss them here and now.’

Beatrice could not guess at what the ‘other reasons’ might be, but the fright yesterday had made her wary of being in the vicinity of a lot of people, and Falder with its isolated safeness appealed.

‘I should not wish to be a nuisance.’

‘The castle has one hundred and twenty-seven rooms! You would hardly be in the way and with Emerald and my mother as chaperons there could be no whisper of a scandal.’

Correct and careful! She wished he might have said that he wanted her to come, that he wanted to protect her, that the night they had just spent together had been the most wonderful in his life and that now he desired something more lasting…

But when she turned again he was pulling on his clothes with a haste that said he wanted to be gone.

‘Bates will return with the carriage in the midmorning and men will be sent to help with the lifting of any luggage. I am presuming that you will bring your maid with you.’

‘I am hardly an invalid and my luggage will not be heavy.’

‘No.’ He said this so angrily that she looked up at him in surprise. ‘You are not to lift anything, you understand? And do not go outside for any reason at all.’

Orders. Rules. Directives. Control.

Drawing in a breath, Bea turned away, the image of her late husband’s bluster and tyranny coming to mind.

Perhaps that was what happened with men. They took your body and wanted your mind as well. To own and shape and mould. A small interlude of bliss before getting down to the more serious business of obeying!

When she turned again he was at the door, his clothes replaced in a fashion that suggested his man Bates was close with a conveyance, his woollen cape merely draped across his arm.

‘The carriage shall be back in two hours to collect you, Beatrice-Maude. Please make certain that you are ready.’

Once again back at the Wellingham town house, Taris paced up and down in the library, taking a generous draught from the brandy glass and barely believing the turn that the day had taken.

Beatrice was with child, he was certain of it. His child? He counted back the weeks to the snowstorm in Maldon because with the slight swell of her stomach he knew that she must be at least three or four months into her pregnancy.

One part of his mind beseeched the Lord that it be his, the other mulled over her assertions of barrenness and all that such a state implied.

Barren with her late husband, but not with him? He counted the time in his head since Maldon.

A few weeks past three months! Enough time for a child to swell and the morning sickness to come. How the hell could she not know that when even his limited knowledge of childbirth encompassed such information?

The answer came easily. She had been a barren wife for all of the time she had been married, so why should the question of being otherwise occur to her now?

He felt a growing sense of worry after yesterday’s accident and knew that he could not just leave Beatrice in London. No, Falder represented the only chance of safety and sanctuary and perhaps there they could fashion a plan for the future. He kicked his leg against a chair that had been left out from under his armoire and swore soundly.

Blindness.

Barrenness.

Beatrice’s oft-stated penchant for independence and his own adherence to autonomy.

But a child changed everything. Everything! When the clock on the mantel chimed eleven he summoned men to bring down his luggage and walked out to the carriage.

She was ready, but she did not seem pleased. Indeed, when he took her arm to help her she snatched it away as soon as she was sitting in the carriage and placed a small bag in the space on the seat between them. Like a barrier! He could feel the leather when he brushed it with his hand.

Bates came with two maids. Both addressed him in greeting, and a new sense of quiet tension filled the space.

‘It should take us about three hours to arrive at Falder. There will be food and drink supplied to you on arrival there.’

He spoke to all those present in the carriage though no one responded.

‘The journey will take us east through Wickford and Raleigh.’

Still the silence was absolute.

Taris Wellingham was trying to make her feel better with his small talk, but Beatrice did not feel even remotely in the mood for chatter.

His orders from the morning still rankled, as did the way he made no mention of what had happened last night. A man who would take a relationship only up to a certain point, the control men valued more important than truth.

The truth of being together and intimate, nothing held back at all.

She ground her teeth and tightly clasped her hands together, the vestige of nausea still dogging her and the lack of sleep she had suffered last night making her feel heavy and cross. When tears pricked at the back of her eyes she willed them away by taking a deep breath. Perhaps if she tried to sleep the journey would go more quickly. Ramrod stiff and upright, she closed her eyes.

Her cheek was against a hard pillow, but the soft feel of an arm holding her close made her snuggle deeper, reaching for the comfort so thoughtfully provided.

‘Taris,’ she whispered, thinking that the night was still before them and they had all the time in the world.

‘We are almost at Falder, Mrs Bassingstoke. Perhaps now would be a good time to wake up?’

Mrs Bassingstoke? Falder? Wake up?

Horror hit her as she opened her eyes and realised the extent of her contact.

She was literally draped across him, her hand resting in his lap and her head on his chest. My God, had she snored, had she talked in her sleep, had her fingers crept where her dreams had lingered? Instantly she pulled away.

‘I cannot believe that I fell asleep. I rarely do so in any conveyance, my lord.’

‘Perhaps you slumbered fitfully last night?’ he questioned, and she heard the humour of complicity in his words.

Ignoring it, she made much of smoothing out the creases in her skirt. ‘How long was I asleep?’

‘All of three hours. Enough rest to improve anyone’s temper, I should imagine.’

She smiled despite the rebuke, for she did feel immeasurably better and far more able to cope. Her hat had all but been dislodged and she leant forwards whilst Sarah fashioned it into place, glad for the small interruption, though the interest in her maid’s eyes was unwelcome.

‘Falder should be coming into view in the next few minutes.’ Taris Wellingham’s voice interrupted her ministrations. ‘If you look to your right, you will be able see the sea off Fleetness Point. The finger of land jutting out into the ocean is Return Home Bay.’

He did not look himself, she noticed. Memory was as potent a force as any sight and the land of your birth would be an easy recall. Still, she thought, as the peninsula he spoke of came into view, he had an uncanny ability to place himself in the landscape he was in and as her maids craned their necks to look she could not help but admire such a characteristic.

The castle was huge and rambling with turrets and gables and it dominated the grassland around it. The Wellingham family seat for centuries. She imagined what it must be like to belong to a place where your ancestors had roamed and where the family still gathered for the celebrations and tribulations thrown at them.

Taris. Emerald. Asher. Their children. Lucinda. The Dowager Duchess. What must it be like to be a part of a group of people who would see to your back and protect you for ever?

She bit down on the poignant memory of her own parents’ deaths and the aloneness felt since. No one had ever looked out for her. If they had, then perhaps…? Shaking away memories, she concentrated on the moment.

A large group of servants were waiting as they pulled up into the circular drive, white pebbles clattering beneath the wheels of the carriage. She saw how Taris clasped his ebony cane and placed his fist against the handle, a habit she supposed of realising the exact moment when they stopped and when the door might open.

Always in control. Always cognisant of the slightest change in circumstance so that he would not be surprised.

The old man who opened the carriage door looked delighted by Taris Wellingham’s arrival.

‘Master Taris.’

‘Thompson.’ Instant recognition and his hand thrust forward. ‘I trust you are faring well up here.’

‘Better than in the city, my lord.’

‘And your wife, Margaret. Is she keeping well?’

‘Indeed, my lord. I will tell her that you asked after her.’

Another man strode up to join them and the same sort of conversation ensued. Taris Wellingham was a lord who would take the time to know old retainers on a familiar basis. Frankwell had never made an effort to learn the name of even one servant and consequently there was a never-ending stream of them through the house. Another thought occurred to her. Perhaps the ploy had been deliberate on his part to keep her isolated from any friendships? Loyal servants might have bolstered her revolt and led her to believe the fault did not lie entirely within her.

How naïve and stupid she once had been. That was the worst of it. The knowledge that a man had kept her so trapped and down-trodden made her feel diminished and guilty. A woman with a secret of shame.

Following Taris down the line of servants, she was surprised when he stopped and brought her to his side to make introductions to the housekeeper and the head butler. This was what a husband might do when first bringing a wife to his family domain, and she was hardly that. The strangeness of it all was confusing and she was glad when they walked up the front steps and came inside.

The entrance hall was beautiful. A wide staircase wound its way from the ground to the first and second floors, the banisters of old polished oak. Off the hall to all sides were numerous doors.

When one opened suddenly she saw an old woman sitting in a wheelchair, a blanket across her knees and a very fine gold-and-ruby necklace resting in the folds of her heavy woollen gown.

‘The Dowager Duchess is waiting in the blue salon, my lord.’ Bates’s voice was quiet and as he walked away Bea was surprised that Taris turned her aside with a whispered confidence.

‘My mother can be a little overpowering sometimes, but as she is old I usually humour her views.’

‘ You sound worried that I might not.’

He laughed. ‘It is not her I am trying to protect with such a warning, Bea, but you.’

‘I am not a green girl…’

‘She has some knowledge of your past.’

‘Oh.’ The wind was quite taken from her sails and where interest had been before, there now lingered dread. How much did she know and who had told her?

‘Mama.’ Taris leant down to kiss her forehead. Here in Falder Beatrice noticed his new ease of movement. He had even placed the cane at the front door with his cloak and hat.

His mother’s hands came across his and she held them close, the look on her face one of love and then considerable interest as her gaze fell behind him.

‘And you have brought a visitor…?’

‘Mama, may I present Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke. Beatrice, this is my mother, the Dowager Duchess of Carisbrook. I have asked Beatrice down for a few weeks in the hope of showing her Falder.’

‘I see.’ The woman’s eyes slid across her face, missing nothing. ‘I was sorry to hear of the recent loss of your husband, Mrs Bassingstoke.’

‘Thank you.’

‘My own husband was incapacitated for his last few years and I know how very difficult it can be.’

Beatrice nodded.

‘Did you have much help with him?’ Inside the question Beatrice sensed knowledge.

‘I did not, Duchess.’

‘No mother or father? No sisters or cousins?’

She waited as Bea shook her head.

‘No one?’

The silence stretched out until the old woman gestured her forwards. ‘Then you are in need of a good holiday, my dear. A long overdue holiday, I should imagine. Do you play whist?’

‘Badly.’

Taris’s mother began to laugh. ‘Emerald told me just the same. Do you like the sea too?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The sea. Emerald enjoys the ocean. I was wondering if that was some other thing you had in common?’

‘I have not had much experience of water, Duchess.’

‘Horses, then? Do you ride?’

‘I used to ride well once, but—’ She stopped.

‘Then you must do so again. Taris has a number of his steeds standing at Falder. He will help you choose an appropriate mount. What of dancing? Are you a woman who enjoys a whirl on the floor?’

Before she could stop herself Bea reddened rather dramatically, thinking of the one and only waltz she had danced in her entire life. And then she took in a breath. My God, this woman would think she was a dolt should she keep up with this tack. ‘I read extensively, Duchess, and write too.’

‘Novels?’

‘No. Tracts for The London Home, a new broadsheet for women exploring various options that they may wish to take in their lives.’

‘Making up for lost time, then?’

Taris interrupted her. ‘It is getting late, Mama, and we need to refresh ourselves before dinner.’

‘Which room has the housekeeper placed her in?’

‘The green salon at the top of the stairs.’

‘No, that will not do at all. Put her in the gold

room, for it is far more restful. She will like that room better.’

Taris’s smile broadened. ‘You are sure?’

‘I am,’ she said curtly before turning away, the first surprising beginnings of tears on her lashes.

Once again out in the hall Bea was not certain if she should ask Taris anything about the exchange; when he did not seem to want to discuss the conversation further she merely did as the housekeeper asked and followed her. Taris stayed below, watching her as she made her way up.

When they finally came into her chamber Bea thought that she had never in her whole life seen such a beautiful space. It was as though light and airiness had been spun into the fabric on the bed and the walls, a deeper brocade in burgundy counter-playing against it. A writing desk inlaid in patterned walnut was set up near the window with pen and paper and ink, and a bookcase graced the whole of one side, the titles numerous and varied.

Long full-length glass doors opened out on to a balcony and away far in the distance the forests climbed up the hills, moving from lighter green into darkness.

‘Dinner will be in three hours, ma’am. I shall send your maid to help you dress.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Master Taris said to tell you that he would come himself to bring you down to dinner.’

‘I shall be ready.’ When the woman turned to the door Bea could temper her puzzlement no longer. ‘Might I ask you a question before you go?’

‘Of course.’

‘This library looks as though someone has spent a great deal of time building it up?’ Her fingers slipped across the bindings of the books.

‘This was Master Cristo’s room, ma’am, before he left for Europe.’

‘Master Cristo?’

‘The youngest Wellingham brother, ma’am.’

‘I see.’ She waited as the woman departed and looked closely at the titles. Older works with little that had been published during the past few years. Cristo Wellingham? She had not heard this name mentioned once in society and resolved to ask Taris all about him.

The door flung open less than a half an hour later and Lucinda Wellingham stood there in her travelling garb and a look of wonder on her face.

‘It is true, then? Mama allowed you to stay in here. My God. No one has been in here since—’ stopping, she put her hand to her mouth ‘—since Cristo left.’ Beatrice was certain that this sentence was far from the one she had been going to say. ‘Mother must have really liked you.’

‘I think she wanted me to have the room because of all the books. I had just told her that I both read and write.’ Another thought struck her. ‘Did the Duke and Duchess of Carisbrook travel up with you?’

‘They did. We came in two carriages as the children and their nanny were with us and so was Azziz, Emerald’s friend from when she lived in the Caribbean.’

‘She lived in the Caribbean?’

‘For years and years.’

Lord, Beatrice thought, every new thing she found out about the Wellinghams made the family stranger.

‘Have you travelled, Mrs Bassingstoke?’

‘No. I had been to London a few times years ago but of late…no.’

‘The Wellingham ships travel all over the world. One day I shall take passage and stay away for years. You and Taris could come too and we could see the sights together.’

‘That is very generous of you, Lady Lucinda, to think to include me on such a grand scheme, but—’

‘Taris likes you or he would never have brought you here. He never has, you know, brought anyone else. You are the very first.’

Hesitating, Bea wondered just how much of her recent incident on Regent Street she should relate to a young woman who talked a lot. ‘Have you spoken to your brother about why I am here?’

‘No?’ Interest was rife.

‘Then perhaps you should.’

‘He used to be easier to talk to than he is now. His eyesight is worsening, even though Asher forbids anyone to mention it, and I think Taris worries he may be a burden. To everyone.’

For the first time since she had met Lucinda Wellingham, Bea saw the kernel of a profound truth in her utterings.

A burden? Did he think he might be such? To her? Another worry surfaced. He knew a little of her nursing a sick husband. Did he put himself in the same category?

She wished she might have had the courage to ask Lucinda Wellingham just how the accident to his eye had happened, but it felt too much like prying to make a point of it. Besides, a quick knock on the door had them both turning and Emerald swept into the room, a child of about one in her arms and a smile on her face.

‘Bea? I had heard you were here. How wonderful. I can’t wait to show you Falder and you can meet the people from the village and my aunts and cousin.’

The little child suddenly twisted and reached out and Emerald laughed as she deposited the redheaded mite into Beatrice’s arms.

Beatrice had never in all her life been close to someone so young and the experience of having small hands reaching out for her was amazing.

‘Her name is Ianthe, and she’s almost a year old.’

‘Ianthe?’ Bea turned the unusual name on her tongue. ‘After the daughter of Oceanus in the ancient Greek?’

Emerald smiled. ‘You are the first person to have ever asked me that.’

‘The Dowager Duchess has just finished telling me that you enjoy the sea. It was easy to make the connection.’

Ianthe cooed as Bea wriggled her fingers. Then the child grasped on tightly and put them into her mouth.

‘She’s teething and wants anything at all to chew.’

Bea felt strong gums gnashing against her skin, and then felt the beginnings of a tooth protruding, and a great wave of happiness swamped her in its intensity. Being at Falder in a golden room with Lucinda and Emerald beside her and a baby in her arms felt like a wonderful gift. The gift of other people’s lives where years hadn’t been lost to silence and fear and where her company was sought out rather than rebuffed.

Tonight she would begin a journal and write everything down, and then when she was back in London at her town house she could read the passages and remember what it truly felt like to belong.

Chapter Thirteen

Dinner proceeded in the same fashion as her afternoon had, all laughter and teasing and talking. Azziz, Emerald’s friend, was a large tattooed man with one ring in the remains of his right ear and a number of white scars across his hands. The same sort of scars she had seen on Emerald’s hands.

At his family table Taris gave as good as he got and Beatrice listened to his explanation of the newest farming methods with admiration.

Asher’s talk was mostly about the building of a new ship.

‘She’s due out to India in four months’ time, Taris, and you said you wanted to be involved in the maiden voyage.’

‘I doubt if I can get away.’

‘But you had it all planned!’

‘I know, but something else has transpired.’

‘Something such as…?’

Taris did not answer and a slight awkwardness filled the room, though it was dissipated by Lucinda when she knocked over her wine and sent that end of the table into a flurry, until the footman mopped it up.

Taris was glad when his brother dropped the subject of the journey out to India. He could not go because the child Beatrice carried would be almost born and there was no trip in the world that would justify missing the birth of a son or daughter.

A cousin for Ruby, Ashton and Ianthe, missing pieces of the Wellingham family puzzle falling into place. Tonight Beatrice was beautiful. To him. Beautiful in the way of a woman who did not know that she was, no vanity or artifice in it, her husky lisp answering questions and giving opinions and laughing at exactly the right time when Ashe chanced a joke. He imagined her dimples deep shadowed in the light, and her leaf-green eyes and the swell of bosom above the silken creation she was in.

He felt the unseemly rise of his sex beneath the table as he mulled over the chances of being accepted into her bed tonight. Cristo’s rooms were easily accessed from his own and he was pleased about his mother’s unexpected intervention.

The thought that perhaps the sleeping arrangements had not been as coincidental as they appeared did cross his mind, as he had spent a greater part of the past two hours fending off questions from Lucinda and Asher about his relationship with Bea and her presence here at Falder.

Beatrice was speaking now on the topic of banking, proposing that country banks be monitored by the Bank of England, much to the delight of Emerald and the chagrin of his brother.

‘The panic for cash is hardly the fault of the country banking system, Mrs Bassingstoke.’ The tone in Ashe’s voice was firm, but Bea replied quickly.

‘Oh, I disagree, Duke. When people lose faith in an institution’s ability to meet their obligations, one would imagine Parliament would elect a stronger body to step in and lay down stricter rules.’

‘I have always favoured a less vigorous approach—’

Emerald did not let him finish. ‘Because he is a partner in a number of the country banks.’

‘A vested interest, then?’ Beatrice continued, her tone full of a feigned rebuke. ‘Making it harder to be impartial?’

‘Two against one is a difficult way to win any argument,’ Ashe parried, ‘though if you had supported me, Taris, we might have managed it.’

‘After my last public drubbing at the hands of Mrs Bassingstoke, I dare not risk another one.’

‘Public drubbing?’ Lucinda had joined the fray. ‘Oh, do tell us of it, Beatrice.’

‘The argument that your brother refers to was hardly a good example, as I always felt that he lost it on purpose.’

‘On purpose?’ Her suspicion was so evident that Taris began to laugh, though his mother was nowhere near as amused.

‘In my day well-bred young ladies went to all lengths to stay out of any argument not pertaining to the running of the marital home.’

‘We have come a long way since the 1770s, Mama,’ Lucinda managed.

‘Thank goodness!’ Emerald interjected. ‘Besides, women these days are encouraged to have an opinion on whatever they fancy, Mama, and it would be most unwise not to take up such opportunity.’

Taris felt Asher move beside him. ‘A Wellingham man would not swap a feisty wife for all her weight in gold.’

‘Or all the money still left in the besieged country banks.’ Emerald laughed.

Bea watched as the Duchess of Carisbrook smiled down the table at her husband. A woman who was happy in her world and cherished. For her opinions and her debate, for her originality and her arguments.

And right then, at that very moment, something thawed inside Beatrice. Some icy guilt that had insisted her husband’s intractability was somehow her fault. That she deserved punishment for not being pretty enough or interesting enough or barren.

For twelve years she had laboured under a false premise and a dreadful error. For twelve long years she had obeyed and submitted and conformed.

Tears filled her eyes and she stood, excusing herself from the table under the pretence of feeling ill. If she stayed, she would embarrass everyone, for her long held-in tension was finally demanding release.

Taris heard her sobbing as he opened the unlocked door. Crossing the room, he felt her shoulders shaking and the tears on her cheeks as he held her close.

‘Shh, it may not be as bad as you think.’

‘I…am…sorry,’ she said, when the tempest seemed past. ‘Rudeness is something that should never be excused and your mother will not be thanking me for my strong opinion at the table.’

‘You think you were being rude to offer an opinion? My God, Beatrice, if you cannot say what you think, how could you live?’

When she burst into tears again Taris knew that he had said the wrong thing.

‘I did…didn’t live,’ she whispered after a few more moments. ‘I was always…scared…of him.’

‘Your husband?’

She nodded and her whole body shook. ‘He would hit me if I did not say the right thing.’

‘God.’ He pulled her closer.

‘He would hit me and hit me and hit me.’

Her heart raced at twice the normal pace and made Taris want to find the dead man and strangle him anew.

‘I have never told anyone that. Not anyone,’ she repeated.

‘Then I thank you for telling me,’ he replied, liking the way her fingers buried themselves beneath his jacket as though his warmth was her sanctuary.

‘But I won’t be that way again,’ she vowed a few moments later when she had collected herself. ‘If I think something is wrong, I will always say it.’

‘Good for you.’

A teary half-laugh ensued. ‘And I will read books in bed till after midnight should I wish to.’

‘Would you read them to me?’

‘Yes.’

‘In bed, you say?’

She laughed again. ‘Thank you for bringing me to your family home.’

‘Falder has a legend that insists those who love the place will always return.’

Return!

Bea smiled into the superfine of his well-cut jacket. Taris’s voice was soft and his hands were gentle, the firelight on his hair showing up the darkness.

A good man. A strong man. A man who walked his world with the certainty of one who was both moral and ethical.

She loved him. She did. She loved Taris Wellingham with an ache. The realisation hit her like a lightning strike.

My Lord, she had fallen in love. Hopelessly! Desperately! Completely! And she dared not tell him any of it.

Tell him and risk the end of a friendship.

Tell him and see pity where respect now stood.

Tell him and know that he would never love her back.

Her stomach heaved in a new bout of rising nausea and she swallowed heavily.

She needed time to regroup, to understand the implications of what was happening between them and to protect herself.

‘I would like to rest now…’ She left the ending unfinished and saw the flick of uncertainty as he realised she wanted him gone.

But he went. Without anger or shouted words or recriminations. A different man completely to Frankwell.

Taris walked around the gardens, not trusting himself on a steed at this time of night. He would have liked to have saddled up Thunder and run across Falder with the wind in his face and the stars at his back just like he used to. He would have liked to gallop to the highest hill above Fleetness Point and shout at the sky. Shout with anger and pain and agony, not for himself but for Bea. For a younger Bea. Trapped. Fearful. Silent.

But tonight he could only walk fast around his mother’s garden, the fence along the edge keeping him to a pathway, coriander, rosemary and thyme pungent when his cane brushed the heads of the cuttings his mother had nurtured.

Behind him he heard footsteps.

‘You look like a man who is wrestling with demons.’

Ashe’s voice.

Taris shook his head. ‘Not demons, but truth.’

‘An even trickier adversary.’

The wind in the elm trees on the ridges wailed across silence.

‘Emerald thinks that Mrs Bassingstoke might be with child. Could it be yours?’

Taris looked up, trying in the greyness to see anything of his brother’s face and failing. He remained silent as Ashe kept talking. ‘Beatrice reminds me of Emerald. She has the same steely determination and the same vulnerability.’

‘Her husband hurt her badly.’ Taris hadn’t meant to say it but the secret was too new and too raw to keep in.

‘Hell.’ His brother’s shock underlined his own, making him feel better.

‘She spent twelve years married to a bully. Now all she wants is independence.’

‘A difficult ask.’

‘I know.’

‘Tread carefully, then, for I like her and Emerald is determined she wants to keep her.’

Taris knocked on Bea’s door and she answered it very quickly. He felt the heat of her room against his face and smelt violets.

‘May I come in?’

‘Yes.’ No hesitation in her assent. He heard the rustle of her nightwear as he followed her inside. Satin, probably. He wished he might have been able to run his hands across the garment and know. But he stood still instead.

‘We need to talk, Beatrice-Maude.’

‘Because you would like me gone?’ Fear threaded her reply.

‘Gone? Lord, Bea.’ He reached out, palm up, and was pleased when he felt her fingers steal into his. A contact. Drawing her closer, he could feel the satin was cool and her hair tickled against the bare skin on his hand. Long and heavy, she had let it down for slumber. The thought made him take in a sharp breath and he scarcely knew how to start.

‘When we made love at Maldon, Beatrice, I did not protect you against the possibility of a baby.’

‘With my history it does not matter.’

He smiled into her hair and wished that he could look into her eyes. Really look.

‘I think that it might have mattered…’

She pulled back, but he did not let her go.

‘Marry me.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘I cannot marry you.’ Her voice was shaky. ‘Last time I married a man who did not love me I learnt the mistake of that.’

The air around them was charged with question.

‘Love?’

The way he said it was like a dagger to Bea’s heart. Love was not something to be considered or questioned. Love was simply a knowledge, unconscious and untempered.

She felt the nails of her fingers dig into the skin on her forearm.

Love me. Love me. Love me.

But as the silence lengthened she knew that he would not say it, could not say it.

‘I have enough money to disappear, to make a new life. You need not feel hemmed in by a simple mistake.’

‘Mistake?’ he countered. ‘You think this child is a mistake?’

‘This child?’

‘Our child.’ His hand fell to her stomach. ‘You must have known.’

Bea shook her head.

‘Your sickness in the morning…’

She shook it again. ‘No, that can’t be. I am barren.’

‘With your husband that might have been the case, but with me…’

‘Pregnant?’ She could not go on. The word quivering between them like a barely believable truth!

‘Ahh, sweetheart.’ He stood, not touching, but only a breath away. ‘You did not know?’ Gentle sorrow tempered his question. ‘I thought that you must have known.’

‘I thought I was ill.’ Tears blurred her eyes, but she willed them back. ‘I would not hold you to any promises.’

‘It is too late for that, I think, with a new life growing.’

His finger ran up her arm and then across her cheek and settled on the soft skin of her forehead. ‘Where in all of this lies the place for compromise? Is it here?’ His hand fell lower. ‘Or here?’ he questioned, as the beat of her heart began to thud. ‘Anything could be possible…’

She should have said nay. Should have loosed his hold and stepped back. Should have said that the joining of their flesh was only a fleeting thing, ephemeral and unimportant. But she could not say that and mean it, as his warmth spread across her, increasing her desire, and the man who was the Lord of Darkness lifted her in his arms and took her to bed.

He was not there when she woke, the warmth in the sheets long gone. So she lay with her hands across her stomach, trying in the silence to listen, to understand and believe that another soul lay within her, waiting for its own chance at life.

A child. A Wellingham child. A child conceived on a snowy night when the old fetters of restraint had been washed away and freedom left in its place. She smiled and wondered if tears were the preserve of impending motherhood as a warm wetness ran down her cheeks.

Victory.

Finally.

And so unexpected.

Joy juxtaposed with worry. Would Taris now feel bound to her in a way he might not have otherwise?

She shook away the idea as nonsense. A family. Home. Unity. Love. She could not turn away from this astonishing second chance.

When she came downstairs after eleven o’clock she learnt that Taris had taken the carriage for Ipswich and would not be back again until the morrow.

Emerald had given her the news as she sat at her own breakfast.

‘Perhaps he had some business that could not wait to be attended to?’

‘Perhaps.’ The poached eggs on toast that she had selected were suddenly very hard to swallow.

‘May I offer you a piece of advice, Beatrice?’ Emerald’s look was measured. She waited until Bea nodded.

‘The Wellingham men are hard to catch, but very easy to keep. Once they love, they love well.’

‘Taris does not love me. He has never said it.’

She blurted the truth out like a green girl, though Emerald’s smile unnerved her.

‘Taris was an intelligence officer under Wellington. For years he scouted across Northern France and Spain under the guise of one from those climes and never once was he unmasked. Did you know that he speaks fluent Spanish and French and was one of the finest marksmen the army had ever seen?’ Stopping, she took a sip of strong black tea. ‘When he came to the Caribbean to rescue my husband from the clutches of a pirate colony…’ Emerald noted Bea’s surprise at this revelation ‘…he was the only man to have ever discovered their lair and the only man to leave it on his terms. The bullet hit him as he dragged Asher out into the sea and to safety.’

‘A bullet?’

‘His sight was damaged when he saved my husband and because of that I owe him everything!’ She leaned forwards. ‘Give him a chance to know what it is he thinks. Give him the same knowledge that I had to give to Ashe.’

‘The knowledge?’

That he cannot live without you.’

Bea pulled back. ‘I do not think…’

Emerald’s fingers covered her own.

‘Taris has a need to understand that the man he is now is the one you want, not the one he once was. He needs to redefine himself and only you can help him do that.’

‘By loving him?’ Finally Beatrice saw where she was going with her argument.

‘Exactly.’

Chapter Fourteen

The talk with Emerald turned her sadness into something different altogether.

Challenge now fired her imagination and the new ruthless single-mindedness was as freeing as it was unexpected. By the next evening she was watching for Taris to return to Falder, the plan in her mind fully formed.

She had borrowed from Emerald a nightgown of lace and silk and the violet attar she wore had been sprinkled liberally over it. Around her bed candles fluttered, the scent of flowers vivid in the wax.

Now she had a need of only the man himself, though as the hours raced on into night she began to think that he might not come at all.

Bates had assured him that the light was still showing beneath Beatrice’s door, though Taris knew the hour to be past twelve. Thanking his man, he waited as his footsteps receded and lent against the wall to mull over his options, for his talk with the solicitor had confirmed his own suspicions.

He had spent the day in Ipswich after contacting Beatrice’s lawyer, Robert Nelson, and the man had had a story to tell that had been entirely different from the one James Radcliff had told.

‘I trusted the young man and all I was repaid with were lies. If I were to see the scoundrel again, I’d have a few choice words to blister his ears with before I set the police upon him, I can tell you that, for it seems that he had been siphoning off rightful money for all of the three years he was in my employment and withholding funds from Mrs Bassingstoke with her husband so dreadfully ill.’

‘And the ledgers you talk of. Where are they now?’

‘Not here. I have looked high and low for them—if we can lay our hands on them the proof will be irrefutable.’

Suddenly things began to make more sense to Taris. ‘Did Radcliff know that he was under suspicion?’

The man nodded.

‘Lord.’ If Radcliff had thought the books were with Bea in the carriage he might have sawn through the axle in an attempt to reclaim them. The accident in Regent Street could have been his doing too, for the scent of the man had been in the house when they had returned. Perhaps he had paid an urchin to create an incident, giving him the time he needed to visit her house. Without the ledgers any case would be far harder to prove and paper was easily destroyed. Danger began to mount, for time would only sharpen a man’s desire for what it was he sought, especially one with blood on his hands and a future that was at best uncertain.

Returning to Falder to see if Bea stayed safe was suddenly vitally important, for if there was any risk to her at all…

The memory of her refusal of marriage still rankled and the walls he had put up against a world that was becoming increasingly darker seemed more of a prison now than a fortress. Isolation and exile had their drawbacks and his inability to be honest was one of them. Still, years of coming to terms with his loss of sight could not be easily translated into acceptance and it had been a long time since he had ever let the more frivolous emotions of love and trust take over from caution and denial.

He wanted back what he had been and knew that he could never have it. He doubted he could hit a target now at ten yards, let alone a hundred, and even the smallest trip to town involved the eyes of his man Bates. Always dependent, never alone.

He laid his hands against Bea’s door. The only place he felt truly himself now was with her, curled beside him in the darkness, feeling the soft truth of comfort and knowing the fineness of her mind and the generosity of her body.

Home.

With Bea.

The thought struck him sharply, piercing all the defences he held in place. No longer just himself.

The smell of violets wafted close as he pushed open the door. And perfumed wax? Candles, he determined, the warmth of flame felt even from this distance. So many?

Beatrice’s soft breathing from the sofa had him turning, puzzlement at her slumber and anger at her forgetfulness in not dousing the wicks. When his fingers touched warmth he wondered what it was that she wore, lace and skin in equal measure along the fine lines of her legs. Like the garments a courtesan might wear in the better establishments off Curzon Street.

He knew the instant she came awake.

‘I fell asleep?’

‘It is well after twelve. Why did you not seek your bed?’

‘I was hoping that you might come.’

He sniffed as she moved, the scent of violets almost overpowering. Much more potent than usual! ‘Did you spill your bottle of perfume?’

‘No?’ The word came back to him as a question.

‘There is strong smell of violets in the room.’ He crossed to the candles. ‘And it is dangerous to leave so many candles alight whilst you slumber, Bea.’

She laughed easily, but ceased the instant his hands covered the full abundance of her breasts. He loved the way she did not pull back.

‘What is it that you are wearing?’

‘A nightdress that Emerald lent me.’ The shyness in her voice was easily heard as she explained. ‘I have been waiting for you to return home.’

Suddenly he understood. ‘This was all for me? The candles, the perfume, waiting up…?’ Taris felt something inside himself that was foreign and unfamiliar and disturbing. Something undeniable. Something so empowering that the very essence of it made him still.

‘Emerald told me a little of your time in the army under Wellington. She said that you were a master of disguise who never once was caught.’

‘That was a long time ago and I was a different man.’

‘Have you forgotten the languages Emerald insists that you speak fluently?’

‘No.’

‘And are you not still involved in the deciphering of ciphers for the British Army?’

He smiled and the amber in his eyes was dancing light. ‘Yes, but if anyone else knew that you knew I’d undoubtedly be instantly dismissed.’

‘You negotiate a world that every other person might simply have given up on, Taris, and that to me is heroic.’

He stayed silent.

‘The lace on this gown is almost silver and I am wearing nothing at all underneath it. My hair is newly washed and scented and the nails on my feet and hands have been very carefully painted. Pink,’ she added, as though the colour might be important to him. ‘And I have done none of this to entice a man whom I pity or patronise. Frankwell abused me for years, you see, and the scars that I bear are the scars of shame and fury. Fury that I did not fight back or seek help or say what it was that was happening to me. Your scars, on the other hand, come from honour and valour and bravery, wounds that tell the story of saving your brother and escaping from a place that no other ever had before. If I could exchange my damage for yours I would, Taris. I would do it in a second.’

Her voice broke on the last words, but she did not let him speak.

‘I would exchange it because you never gave up as I did.’

‘Never gave up.’ The echo of the words nearly broke his heart. For him and for her, two people dealt a hand that was not fair, yet surviving in spite of it. Or perhaps because of it? The question surprised him.

Brave and valiant? In her eyes he was that?

Outside the wind was loud and the first drops of rain had begun to fall. Inside with the fire and the candles and the cobweb nothingness of a gown he had no need for sight to imagine, a new possibility began to dawn on him.

Home and hearth and Beatrice.

His hand stole to the slight swell of her stomach and he felt her quick intake of breath.

And family. His family. Children and laughter. More than one. Many. Running at Beaconsmeade and Falder and knowing the land as well as Ashe and he ever had.

This child will be born in less than five months by my calculations and I should not wish it to be born out of wedlock.’

She did not speak.

‘Would you give me leave to court you, Beatrice-Maude? Court you properly, I mean?’

‘Properly?’

‘Partner you to the country entertainment on offer around Falder? Court you in the way of a beau who has only the very best of intentions?’

In response she entwined her body around his, leaving him with no doubts as to her answer.

All his reserve broke. ‘Love me, Bea,’ he whispered into the long curtain of her hair.

‘I do,’ she replied and his heartbeat surged. Nothing could have stopped them coming together and like dry kindling to a flame they rose before floating down spent, breathless with ecstasy and repletion and release.

‘I love you, Taris.’ Said again as he closed his eyes and slept.

Taris could tell that the gossip of the servants had come to the ears of his brother when he walked into breakfast with Beatrice the next morning.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Humour was apparent in the question and he was certain that Bea had heard it too.

‘Very, thank you.’ Determined that he would not let Ashe have his fun, he helped himself to a generous plate of eggs and bacon and began to speak of the Davis function that they had all promised to attend that evening.

Emerald’s arrival, however, only seemed to add to the tension. The escapade with the nightgown had probably been her suggestion in the first place and as she sat he could tell that the meal was going to be a long one.

‘You arrived back late last night, Taris?’

‘I did.’

‘And you are late rising this morning?’

‘I am.’ He stressed the personal pronoun with a telling emphasis.

‘Which is unusual for you?’

‘It is.’

‘Mama thought she heard music coming from Cristo’s room last night. She told me so this morning.’

His sister-in-law could no longer hold in her laughter and it settled around the room. Beneath the table Taris felt Beatrice’s hand steal into his own and she squeezed it before speaking.

‘Where is your brother Cristo?’

Her question was exactly the right one—it drew everyone’s attention into a completely opposite direction.

‘Our brother has lived in Europe for a number of years after deciding that England no longer suited him.’

Asher’s reasoning was not quite the truth, Taris thought, but close enough.

‘He certainly had good taste in books. I have looked over the shelves in his room and have decided that even the public reading rooms in London do not have the breadth of topic his library has.’

‘A characteristic he inherited from our father.’ Taris was careful in his choice of words and when his sister Lucy appeared at the doorway the family was quick to drop the subject altogether.

‘Why did your brother leave Falder?’ Bea asked the question again an hour later when she was alone with Taris.

‘He killed my father.’ The four words were enunciated without emotion.

‘He shot him?’

‘Nothing as dramatic as that. He just decided that the English system of privilege was not for him and left. All might have been more easily forgiven had our father not been in the throes of a severe winter ague. It was the opinion of the physician at the time that Cristo’s disappearance killed him.’

‘Disappearance?’

‘He left no note. It was only later that one did come and by then our father was long dead. When we tried to locate Cristo he had no wish to be found and sent a message to that effect. As the years mounted we decided to respect his wishes.’

‘But your mother…’

‘Still loves him. He played the piano well and every so often she fancies she hears music coming from his room.’ Bea noticed the way he turned from her as he told her, as though perhaps his mother was not the only one who missed a Falder son.

Bending to a drawer in a desk, he brought out a dark blue box and handed it to her. ‘When I inherited my uncle’s estates I also inherited his family jewels. They are kept here as I had no use for them. Is this something you might wish to wear?’

An intricate gold-and-topaz necklace lay in a white satin interior and to each side matching earrings were embedded.

‘Oh, I could not accept such a thing.’

She was speechless and honoured. This was no insignificant piece. If she wore this, everyone would know where it had come from.

‘There are many others should you want to sort through them as I cannot make out any of their forms.’

Carte blanche. Not a little offer. Still, she would rather have had the words that she had given him so many times last night.

I love you.

In this room with his hair pulled back into a queue he looked like a man who might never give her them back. Not in the daylight, with the voice of sanity and restraint between them and his lack of sight a potent reason for his reticence.

Darkness was their milieu, she decided, when the tendrils of night reduced any difference and the language between their bodies demanded no words.

Lord, even now the memory of it made her blush. As though he felt it too, his hand came against hers in a simple gesture, and the box of jewellery was laid down upon the desk, forgotten.

‘Beatrice?’ A question.

‘Yes.’ An answer.

The heavy slam of his heart was visible in the pulse at his throat. Not as unaffected as she might imagine.

She felt his hand skim across the line of her bottom and lift her skirt. The other one loosened his lacings and tilted her hips, entering slick wet and wanted, his breath against her throat as he pushed in further, no softness at all in it. Sheathed and tight. Full and intimate. Cold oak against the warmth of flesh, and the door unlocked.

Still, she could not pull back as his movements quickened, her hands splayed across the blotter, her head rolling as the same magic took her by surprise.

Anywhere? He could take her anywhere and she would follow? Her whimpers were quietened by his mouth as he covered the gathering waves of release and she was tipped into the place where nothing at all mattered.

He did not let her go when they had finished. Did not move apart or relinquish his tight grasp of her, his breath hoarse and the joining of their bodies tight in want.

‘God.’ Only that above the sound of breath, and the feel of cold air against her bare skin was sinful and exciting. The hot squeeze of his manhood still within her and the daylight exposing everything that night-time never had.

When his hands slid to where his body still lingered, she merely opened her legs further and let him explore, the scent of their lovemaking musky in the air around them.

‘More,’ she whispered and his answering laugh was as unguarded as she had ever heard it.

‘Much more,’ he returned as his fingers found a spot that made her whole body blush.

The sound of the clock brought them back and she had never felt so deliciously decadent as she ran her tongue across the outline of his lips.

‘Taris?’

His eyes sharpened as her fingers traced the scar across his left eye, the trail beginning in his hairline and finishing on the rise of his cheekbone.

Had any lover ever touched him in the way she was doing now? By the way he stayed so very still she thought not.

‘Did it hurt?’

The amber of his irises was brittle gold. ‘At first it did, though the ocean saved me, I suspect, for the salt leached away the pain. By the time we reached land again I could barely feel it.’

‘How long were you in the water?’

‘So many hours that we lost count. With the blood loss from this it was Ashe who dragged me with him finally, though the currents did their part in the rescue and deposited us on land on our second evening afloat.’

‘I have never heard any of this even whispered!’ she said.

‘Because of Emerald. It was her father who had caused the problem in the first place.’

‘Her father?’

‘Beau Sandford.’

‘The pirate? I am beginning to think that your family has as many secrets as I do.’

‘Which is why I tell them to you in the first place. Were you a woman without any past, I could not say a word.’

‘I would always take care of any confidences, no matter what.’

He smiled. ‘I know.’

Lord, Taris thought as he dressed that evening for the Davis country ball. He should tell Bea of his feelings for her, but something stopped him.

His blindness, if the truth were to be told and a dependence that he found repugnant, for the dream had been coming more frequently lately. The dream of the darkness without even a hint of light, lost in eternal black. The weariness and worry of it left him on edge but the child they had conceived together was also growing and the words that Beatrice had given him in the light of day as they made love demanded a response. From him.

Could he tell her everything?

Tell her of his fear and abhorrence of dependence and of pity. Tell her that his relationships with others were harder to maintain now with the sludge thicker, and negotiating a room full of people almost impossible without help.

Her help. He liked the feel of her arm against his, guiding him, lightly. He liked the way she stayed with him and talked, her easy conversation allowing him time to adjust and to avoid the pitfalls that he so often encountered.

He seldom took risks and yet today he had known that the door was unlocked. Anyone might have walked in. His fists tightened at his side as he realised what was happening to him.

Bea was making him live again. Live again even with the fear of tripping up, of being exposed, of having others seeing him in a compromised position.

He swallowed and swallowed again. If he lost her…No, he shook his head. He would not lose her, ever, and tonight when they were home from the party he swore that he would make her understand exactly what she meant to him and why.

Chapter Fifteen

Taris led Beatrice into the Davis soiree, his hand across her own.

‘I seldom attended these sort of outings until recently,’ he said to her as they came into the ballroom.

She smiled. ‘What has changed your mind, my lord?’

‘ You by my side.’ His eyes softened as he said it.

‘A lovely compliment,’ she returned.

‘Oh, I have many more, Beatrice-Maude. Later tonight, if you would let me, I could share them with you.’

‘Later tonight?’ she queried with a laugh. ‘Is that a promise?’

‘Indeed.’ The humour in his voice was easily heard. ‘And may I say that you look very beautiful this evening.’

‘You can see me?’

‘Imagination has its advantages.’

‘Such as?’

‘In my mind you are wearing the gown drenched in perfume that I found you in after returning from London.’

‘Rather revealing at a country ball?’

‘And your hair is down, floating in curls around your shoulders like the sirens on the rocks at Li Galli.’

‘If you heard me sing you might choose another analogy, my lord.’

‘Boudicca, then, of the Iceni, leading the Ancient Britons against the Romans?’

‘With poor Nero and his legions such an easy target!’

When they had both stopped laughing, she brought her fingers along the edge of his cheek.

‘Taris?’

He was very still and in the amber of his eyes she determined a vulnerability that she had never seen there before.

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘For making me believe that I am nearly beautiful.’

‘Ahh, Beatrice,’ he returned and held her closer, ’to me you are very much more than that.’

An hour or so later Taris sensed that something was not right. He felt it in the air around him, and in the tension inside him.

Leaving Bea with Emerald and Ashe, he went with Bates on the pretence of retrieving his glasses from his cape.

Normally he would have simply sent his servant, but tonight the prickling sense of unease that he so often had had in his years as an intelligence officer under Wellington was strong, and he needed the silence to listen. As he sifted his way through the crowds, the intuition that had saved him on the Continent was heightened here and intense.

As they gained the entrance hall he heard a muffled thump followed by a distinct groan. Bates drew away, his footsteps easily heard on the marbled flooring, and then another noise followed the first.

‘Bates?’ When his servant did not answer, Taris released the diamond points of his ring before unshackling the handle of his cane.

‘Bates?’ He tried again, feeling a shadow on his skin and a bristling sense of danger. Reaching out, he tried to fend off whatever was coming at him and the glancing angle of a hard wooden object skimmed the flesh on his forearm in a heavy well-aimed blow; a baton if he should make a guess, but his initial twist had been enough to escape the worst of the jolt. The scent of bergamot was strong.

Radcliff! He was here? Raising his sword, Taris slashed before him, but all that was left was air.

Panic settled across calmness as he crouched to his servant on the floor at his feet. Another man lay beside him. Both were out cold, but still breathing.

God. Now the clerk would be after Bea!

Standing, he made for the noise in the room he had just left, running full into a door left half-open. On the rebound his fingers glanced across a pillar he had felt a few moments earlier and, gaining direction, he continued on, the feel of the wall against his palm and then the door. The warmth generated by a great amount of people led him onwards, and in the sludge of grey he determined shapes.

Someone swore at him as he bumped against a hand holding a glass, but he strode past, calling Beatrice’s name as he went. Not softly either. Another person’s foot almost tripped him up and he struggled to keep his balance, slamming into a plant that he had not seen and knocking it over.

No longer careful or camouflaged.

Years of restraint were lost in that one single moment of imagining her being hurt and as people came within his sphere he made no attempt at apology, their loud exclamations ignored completely as he made his way further inside.

‘Beatrice?’ Nothing else mattered now save finding out where she was, though without Bates at his side Taris had little idea of where that might be or of the objects in his way. A chair stopped his progress and he turned to the left.

‘Beatrice-Maude?’ His voice was louder, the cadence hardly recognisable, and the band that had been playing at this end of the room wound down into silence as he continued to shout. His breath came in thick bands of fear and he widened his eyes in an attempt to see something more.

Ghosts of grey blurred into blackness, ephemeral and unrecognisable, the darker shadows of walls giving him at least a clue of the boundaries in the room. Beyond that, bands of sombre murkiness lingered, the detail of the chamber completely lost.

‘Beatrice? Where are you?’ His unsheathed silver blade caused those around him to scatter.

‘Wellingham has a sword. He’s gone bloody mad.’

The sound of screaming made the hair on his arms stand up and the back of his neck crawl.

‘Bea?’ Had Radcliff got to her? Was he pulling her outside even as he searched hopelessly through the haze?

One man tried to stop him, but Taris made short work of the fellow, the fop’s ineffective jab no match at all for a soldier trained in the art of warfare for over six years. He felt others move back from him, whispering, the footfalls of people afraid.

‘Taris?’ Ashe’s voice from afar, the sound in it almost as desperate as his own. Relief surged through him.

‘Asher, can you see Beatrice?’ The room seemed larger than it had all night, and still there was no response from the only one he sought.

‘Bea. Beatrice-Maude, where are you? If you touch her, Radcliff, I will kill you. I swear I will. Ashe?’ Another shout to his brother, who sounded closer.

‘The clerk is here?’ Asher’s tone sounded exactly like his own, and the noise of those in the room lessened, as though they too were suddenly cognisant of further threat and waiting for it to charge at them from any quarter.

‘Beatrice?’ He tried to disguise panic, but couldn’t.

‘To your right. We are over here, Taris.’ His sister-in-law’s voice and then finally Beatrice.

‘Taris?’ Her question was filled with worry. Closer and closer. The whirl of blackness made him pant, the sweat on his brow building and then she was there beside him, her hands threaded around his arm and the smell of violets welcome.

‘I thought I had lost you. Radcliff is here.’ He gathered her in, sword at ready. If anyone came close he would kill them, he swore that he would. The grey sludge of nothingness clung to his fear and anger made him shake. Only they in the room against the world!

‘Taris. He is not here. I cannot see him here.’ Beatrice’s reason was calming.

‘You are sure?’

‘He is not here.’

The roar of the crowd came back and the thrump of his blood beating in his temples lessened. When Ashe and Emerald joined them, he lowered his blade and tried to find a normal breath.

‘He’s gone. The bastard was here, but now he has gone.’

‘You are sure it was Radcliff?’

‘I could smell him.’

‘Are you drunk, Wellingham?’ Lord Davis’s voice beside him voiced the query.

‘Not…drunk.’ He could barely get the words out, the rush of relief making him feel light-headed. ‘I believe that there is a man here who might hurt Mrs Bassingstoke and I would protect her. He has already knocked out two men.’

A hum of conversation erupted.

‘Describe him for them, Bea,’ he ordered and was pleased when she began to talk, giving him a moment to try to collect himself.

Beatrice felt his heart beating hard against her back. His arms had not released her and she stood in the middle of a roomful of strangers all looking at her.

Well, at Taris, were the truth to be told, because he appeared so dangerously and wildly magnificent with the scar across his eye and the sword in his hand, threatening anyone who made the mistake of placing themselves between them. Even Ashe stood his distance and waited. For reason!

‘He is a very tall and thin man with light brown hair and a small moustache.’

She peered around as the others did, but Radcliff was nowhere in sight, either in this room or in the next one.

‘I am sure he has left,’ she said more quietly to Taris and because of it he released her. Still, he held her hand as though he would not let her out of his sight.

She smiled at her choice of words. Out of his touch, more like, the whole evening taking on an importance that almost brought her to her knees.

For a man who hated to draw attention to himself tonight had been a revelation. Taris Wellingham had not only shouted across the room for all to hear, but had shielded her with his own body when he perceived the threat as ominous.

A declaration?

Perhaps he had not said he cared for her yet, but actions spoke louder than any words. Her fingers curled into his and stayed there. Safe. Right. Dependable.

Asher and Emerald next to her completed the guard. A family who would stand at her side as no others ever had before.

When Bates came up to join them, the bump on his forehead was raw and bleeding.

‘Did you see who hit you?’ Taris asked as he realised his man was standing beside him.

‘I just saw the baton. Presumably the same weapon he used on the footman, who is now being tended to by the housekeeper. It was a constable’s baton.’

‘The policeman who helped me off the street said he had lost his baton that day.’ Beatrice wished she might have kept that piece of information to herself as Taris swore soundly.

She noticed Bates had given him back the cane’s wooden cover and saw how well the sword was sheathed within it, the silver ball forming part of the hilt of the weapon.

To each side of them a line of people had formed, the interest on their faces undisguised.

Taris, however, seemed unaware of any of it as he took Bea’s fingers and placed them in the crook of his arm.

‘We will follow you out, Bates,’ he said and the small party walked as one to the waiting conveyance.

At Falder they sat in the small blue salon and tried to make sense of what had just happened.

‘The man must be crazy to think to attack us there.’ Ashe had a glass of wine in his hand. Emerald sat beside him with an identical glass.

‘I am not sure he meant to,’ Taris interjected. ‘I think we surprised him. If I were to guess I would imagine he was waiting for when we left to attack. But when he saw there were only two of us and that in the darkness he had surprise as an advantage, he took his opportunity.’

‘Bates will have a damn headache in the morning. You were lucky he didn’t go for you, Taris.’

‘He did.’ Rolling back his sleeve, Beatrice saw a large discoloured lump on his forearm, the skin broken by the force of the blow. ‘I felt him there—’ He stopped, tilting his head as though trying to remember something else.

‘Not all bergamot,’ he said suddenly. ‘Hops and mead. The smell of hops and mead.’

‘The Dog and the Boar?’ Ashe was on his feet.

‘At Kenworth.’

Taris turned with his brother and before Beatrice had a chance to say goodbye they were gone, calling men to join them.

Emerald had not moved, though she took a large swallow of her wine before beginning to speak.

‘The Dog and the Boar is a tavern five miles from here which has rooms for travellers. It makes its own special type of mead.’

‘The one that Taris could smell?’

‘Exactly. If Radcliff is there he doesn’t stand a chance.’

‘They would kill him?’ Horror made her whisper.

Emerald laughed. ‘Worse. When they finish with him he might wish that he were dead.’

‘He could be waiting for them!’ The danger of it all made her voice shake. ‘He could have others with him!’

‘I think our men can hold their own.’ Emerald’s reply held no sense of any fear.

‘Are you always so certain?’

Emerald began to laugh. ‘You think that of me when I could say exactly the same of you.’

‘The same?’ Bea frowned.

‘Your discussions! You manage your salon with the acumen of one long used to people and the subjects you put forward are not for the fainthearted. And yet you allow all an opinion, no matter how unusual.’

‘I was not allowed my own for so many years that I suspect it is now a calling to hear those of others.’

‘Are you never fearful that such debate might get out of hand?’

‘It is London. What harm could my patrons truly do?’

‘Crucify you with words, for one.’

‘The opinions of those here at Falder are the only ones I worry about.’

‘Lord. No wonder Taris wants you by his side, Bea. Together you might rule the world. I hope that he doesn’t take you off to Beaconsmeade too quickly.’

The conversation whirled again out of kilter. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Tonight was the first time that he has ever forgotten to hide his lack of sight from others and that was because of his fear for your safety.’

‘Or perhaps for that of our child.’ Bea had not meant to say it but it slipped out. Unbidden.

‘Which explains your penchant for weak tea?’

‘Anything else makes me feel ill.’

‘Have you wondered why a man who is pursued by every eligible miss in London has no other offspring, given that he is now almost thirty-two years of age?’

‘Perhaps he has been careful?’

‘Or celibate. Before you he barely noticed women and when he inherited his estate, believe me, there were many vying for his attention. You sell yourself short by proclaiming that his interest lies only in this child, for I can see that you love him.’

A single tear traced its way down Beatrice’s cheek. ‘I do,’ she returned, no longer able to hide anything. ‘More than life itself, for he has saved me by letting me be me.’

‘Then when he returns tell him how you feel, but be warned. The Wellingham men are not prone to using much poetry in words, so listen for them in other ways.’

‘Other ways?’

His arms around her at the ball encircling her in his safety and protecting her from an enemy he could not even see. His breath hoarse as he called to her, no touchstone for his hands and his man Bates nowhere in sight.

Other ways? How many had she seen tonight? Bravery had a face as did panic, written into fear and honour as he went about the daunting task of finding her in a crowded room and risking everything.

And exposing everything!

She had heard the whispers as they left.

‘Can he see anything?’

‘My God, is Wellingham blind?’

Taris would have heard the conjecture too, but he had not made any mention of it, his careful masking of poor sight for years banished in those moments of terror.

For her! Everything he had held so close abandoned because of his fear for her.

Bea’s heart ached with the sheer breadth and depth of his gift.

Taris and Asher returned almost two hours later with the story of Radcliff’s capture. The clerk had been surprised by their arrival and had instantly surrendered, his lack of any resistance making the task of apprehending him relatively speedy. After leaving him safely in the hands of the local constabulary there was no more to be done.

‘James Radcliff confessed to everything from the taking of the Bassingstoke money to paying someone to keep you out of the way, Beatrice, whilst he searched the confines of your home.’ Taris sat next to her and had taken her hand in his as he related the story. ‘He also said that his intentions were never to kill you, though given the lengths he went to retrieve the ledgers I find that hard to believe.’

‘It was all about getting back the books?’

‘With them destroyed Radcliff believed he could walk free. He thought they were with you in the carriage and was following behind you until the snowstorm forced him to take refuge at a tavern. He then believed you had taken them to London.’

‘But I didn’t.’

‘Robert Nelson said they had been sent to you after the death of your husband. At a guess I would say they were packed up with the rest of your belongings and now lie beneath the snow in the spot where the carriage rolled after Radcliff tampered with the axle.’

‘But why would he take the money in the first place? Surely he realised the amounts would be written and recorded?’

‘Grandeur, I think. Nelson alluded to the fact he was the second son of a mayor somewhere to the north. A son who thought he was entitled to more.’

‘So the amount stolen is in the books?’

Taris nodded. ‘These things have a way of coming out, no matter how carefully they are managed. He will stand trial for tampering with a public conveyance and for the embezzlement of funds that did not belong to him. Gaol will be his home for a good many years, and I will follow his progress to make certain that he never comes near us again.’

‘The man must have been mad to think he could come to take you from us.’ Emerald stood beside her, the tone in her voice leaving no doubt as to what she thought of Radcliff’s motives.

Asher laughed. ‘We cannot keep Beatrice here, Em. She belongs to my brother.’

‘Yes, she does.’ Taris’s voice was firm and for the very first time in her whole life Beatrice knew the true meaning of place.

An hour later Bea lay tucked up beside Taris, the light of only a small slice of moon making her think again of Maldon and the snowstorm.

How far had they come? How far were they yet to go? A soft flutter in her stomach made her take in air and gasp.

‘I felt it. I felt our baby move. Like a butterfly.’ She took his hand and laid it across her stomach, staying very still and when the child jumped again he pulled back in surprise and delight. No sight needed. Just touch and feel. A first for them both. Entire, complete and elemental. The beginning of a journey that would take them places neither had even dreamed of.

‘If I had lost you tonight…’ Taris could not finish and swallowed heavily before beginning again. ‘If I lost you, I don’t think that I could live.’

Tears welled in her eyes.

‘Others may now know of your secret. I heard people talking as we left the Davis function…’

He stopped the words by laying a finger upon her lips. ‘I love you, Beatrice-Maude Bassing-stoke.’

His voice was rusty, as if the words were ones he had not thought to say. ‘I love you so damn much that it hurts.’ His hand fell across his heart, opened like a fan. ‘Here.’

She saw him take in a breath, finding time and fighting an emotion that was too new and too foreign, secrets and privacy overwhelmed by the honest confession of love. His love for her!

Laying her palm across his, she held on to the warmth and brought his fingers to her lips, kissing each one by one by one, smiling as he turned towards her.

Then she forgot to think at all.

Epilogue

Doctor MacLaren delivered two healthy sons in September, the second baby arriving twelve minutes after the first.

When the ministrations of the birth were finally completed and they had a moment alone together, Beatrice watched her husband run his fingers across them, gently, as they lay in the bassinet by her bed. She watched how he checked the number of fingers and toes and the fragile lines of their bodies. Still, there were things that he could not know by touch and she tried to give them to him.

‘Their hair is black like yours, Taris, and the colour of their eyes is…undecipherable.’

He laughed and the gold ring she had placed on his marriage finger four months earlier glinted.

‘They are very small and very perfect. Almost as perfect as my wife,’ he added and looked up.

In the light you could see the opaqueness in his eyes had worsened and Bea knew that the darkness he had always feared would soon come.

Yet it did not matter! Surrounded by love and released from pretence, her husband had finally accepted the fact that the worth of a man was not something measured simply by his ability to see.

No, it was measured in love and strength and honour and decency.

And family, she added as the door to their bedroom opened and the rest of the Wellingham family streamed in.

One Illicit Night

This book is dedicated to

Frances Housden and Barbara Clendon

for their help with my writing.

Chapter One

Château Giraudon, Montmarte, Paris—early November 1825

Lady Eleanor Jane Bracewell-Lowen could not quite focus on the form of the man who carried her, could not through the dizzy grey fog of lethargy see the expressions on his face or hear the cadence of his words. With a growing dread she tried to shift her weight so that he might let her down, let her escape, but even that was impossible. Nothing on her body worked and the tight mesh of the heavy wig she wore brought a strange dislocation.

She was naked! She knew that, for she had felt his hands on the curve of her breasts and in the warmth beneath her legs. Rough. Lewd. She could not even turn away in protection. Nay, sheer apathy held her caught against breath that smelt of hard liquor and bad teeth.

‘You’re too beautiful for une pute. When you finish here we’ll treat you well below.’

Une pute? A whore? Two words that did make sense. Eleanor closed her eyes against the horror of truth, this small movement all she could muster as shock made the hairs on her arms stand out straight against the chill of the night.

‘I … am … not a … whore.’ The sounds came out as only nonsense, no meaning in them as she failed to form the letters on her lips, just gibberish, fear making her feel sick.

A door opened and warmth beckoned. Beyond the darkness in a circle of light, a solitary figure sat at his desk writing.

‘Monsieur Beraud sends you a gift, Comte de Caviglione.’

She stiffened. The man she had come to see! Perhaps he would help her. If only she could speak clearly …

Silence was the only response.

‘He said that she was new to the game.’

At this the man in the shadows stood. Tall and blond, the expression on his face matched exactly the wariness of his words. His eyes were the deepest of brown.

‘Did you search her for weapons?’

‘I did much more than that, oui.’

In one movement the blanket was gone and Eleanor was set down on to a bed.

‘Merde!’ The tall man’s curse was rough. ‘You stripped her?’

‘In readiness, you understand. It’s rumoured to have been a while since you last had a woman and it’s my master’s view that the bile of celibacy can make any man cantankerous.’

Dark eyes wandered across her own and Eleanor failed to summon the energy to protest.

‘A whore who even now readies herself for your use, mon Comte, though if you do not want the gift, I could take her below …’

‘No, leave her.’ The blond man raised his hand, a flash of heavy gold rings caught in the light, the expression on his face guarded.

She tried to blink, tried to warn him, tried in the singular and only way that she could to alert him to the wrongness in all of this, but the second was gone as he looked away, his hair falling across his face as he turned.

Beautiful. At least he was that. Closing her eyes, she was lost into the ether of nothingness.

Cristo Wellingham waited until the minion of Beraud had gone before crossing the room to slide the heavy slats of oak into place.

He had never trusted locks, for a soul well versed in the art of picking them could take but a moment to force his way through any door. Neither did he trust the fact that Etienne Beraud had sent this whore to him as a gift. The man was a scoundrel and a cheat working for the French police in a way that was blatantly illicit and this ‘offering’ was undoubtedly another of his attempts to gain favour and benefit from the world surrounding the Château Giraudon.

Looking down at the girl, Cristo doubted that she was as inexperienced as Beraud claimed her to be, with her plumped-up lips and overdone face powders. She smelt of cheap drink and old perfume, the sort that was sold in the markets on a Monday where the Boulevard de Clichy crossed into the Place de Blanche.

Still to give Beraud some due, she was indeed striking, though he doubted the overlong blonde curls to be her own, wound as they were around her hips and catching the firelight in a way that seemed patently false.

Tweaking a single lock, he let it fall across her ample breasts with their pale pink nipples and a smattering of freckles.

Freckles. God. Swiping his hair, Cristo moved back, afraid suddenly of the immensity of desire that ran through him. Beraud had his reasons in trying to sweeten a deal between them, he supposed, for the wide and varied circle of acquaintances flowing through the château represented a great cross section of Paris society, making any gathering of information infinitely easier.

The girl moved, her hair falling from the line of her breast, and his body tightened unbidden. He loosened the folds of fabric around himself. Already the small whistles of slumber came from her breathing, the sleep he had seen in her blue eyes taken with all the speed of one who was not quite … cognisant.

Drugs? Or wine? With the telltale odour of alcohol on her breath he determined it to be the latter. Brandy, probably, and a dosage that was far too high for a woman so slight. If she died here …?

His fingers closed around one shapely calf and he shook her awake, pleased when her eyes opened again.

‘What’s your name?’ He didn’t particularly want to know it, but if he kept her talking she might give him some clue as to Beraud’s intentions, and with the way Fouche’s forays into politics were shaping up that could be more than useful.

The candlelight reflected in her pale eyes and she remained silent.

Sensual. Worldly. A voluptuous and erotic token from a man used to blackmailing and bribing his way into power. Why here and now? His mind ticked over the timing as he tried to determine what Beraud might gain tonight in his desire to have her in this room with him. The codes he had been working on were close to being finished. Had the French police some word of that? Even a glance from a practised eye might unearth secrets that would be better hidden and Cristo was well experienced in the fact that spies were most efficient when their form was unexpected.

The clock on the mantel chimed the hour of eleven and downstairs in the salons another bout of debauchery was in full flight. There were sounds of women laughing, a bottle being de-corked and the louder chants of men made loose with sex and spirits.

Once he would have been amongst them, taking his chances with courtesans who welcomed his attentions. But he hadn’t for an age now, the ease of orgasm no longer an opiate for what his life had become.

The girl before him moved suddenly, her scent potent, and his fingers dropped away. She was young to be so very badly used and Beraud’s taste in the intimate arts had never been simple. Two marks on her left thigh caught his attention, the burn of raised blisters sitting strangely against alabaster skin. When he leant forwards to touch the wounds she did not flinch, but watched him under languidly hooded lids.

‘Combien as tu bu, mon amour?’

How much did you drink, my love?

A murmur he could not fathom was her only answer as she turned to him, a come-hither look in the way her limbs fell loose accompanied by the heavy smell of her perfume. The powder she wore smeared beige across the white of his clean linen sheets. He hated the way his hand would not obey his mind and pull away, the heat of her quiet seduction a narcotic without rival, the contrived ‘little girl’ look a decided bonus in her line of work.

Lord. If he could have imagined a woman to ignite his fancy she would indeed have been the one lying naked and available on the bed before him.

He should leave her, should walk away and order her removed, but he found that he could not. It was the feel of her skin that pulled him closer and the shape of her hips tapering down to long and damned fine legs.

Tight bound in a growing need, one finger nudged all that was hidden and he smiled as her head arched back against the pillow. A courtesan of some skill, he determined, as her muscles coiled, tighter than a whore should ever be and her breath no longer steady. With a care that surprised him he began to stroke, wanting her pleasure to match his and their coupling to resemble something far from the quick and lurid encounter that Beraud probably had in mind. As he closed his eyes against the cosmetic accoutrements of her trade and the falseness of the wig, it was easy to imagine other things—things that were true and right and good, the world that had been his once, before his sins had changed it.

Shaking his head, he came back into the moment, years of living in Paris concentrated in his hands, fondling with pressure and rhythm, asking for response, his breath blowing cold across heat, tightening her womanhood and raising her hips.

Something was happening to her, some dreadful, exquisite, carnal thing. No longer could she lie there wooden and tense when every fibre in her body ached with a feeling of thick want.

Wrong. It was all wrong, but a stronger force now propelled her.

Farther. She wanted him to move in her farther and she could not stop the groan that left her lips or the throb-beat of her skin around the gentle warmth of his fingers. A maestro. Playing her. Taking the rigidity of fear and replacing it with a loose and easy longing. Everything. Nothing held back. Hard against soft. Surrender.

‘Shh.’ He tried to hold her still, but she would not be calmed, his fingers lending panic to the edge of her need.

Don’t stop.

Don’t leave.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the feeling that had scattered all other thoughts aside, reaching for the craving that bore her down hard against the mattress even as his clever hands squeezed the very life from honour.

He felt her come, felt the muscles close against him rigid, thick in ecstasy, her sigh all that remained of breath. Spent and replete!

His whore now. God, Beraud had the measure of him after all, Cristo thought, as he unlaced his breeches and readied himself to mount her. Her wetness beckoned, the solace of women inciting a particular appetite in him that could no longer be denied. Straddling her open thighs, he positioned himself above, parting the soft lips of her core and fitting them around his heavy thickness.

The warmth of her crept into his soul as he thrust in hard to be confronted by the one barrier he had never expected to feel there.

Virgin?

The thought was as fleeting as the breakage and the giving and his full, tight engorgement. He could not have stopped himself even had he wanted to and the seed that he seldom left in any woman spilled warm against her womb, the last whimpering of his cock a question of flesh against better judgement.

A virgin whore. A trick. His mind sharpened as he lifted himself off her, the liquid of sex on her skin.

She had turned away from him now, eyes closed against seeing, languid abandon reforming itself into a tight kind of anger that he recognised. The corruption of innocence made him swear.

Who the hell was she? Who the hell had done this? To him? To her? The look in her eyes, as he had demanded a name and the incoherent reply—asking for help?

Lord above. He had been in the game of intelligence for years now and he had missed that? Real regret surfaced and guilt that held consent sacred in any relationship. He had never been a man to use force with a woman and virginity was something to be protected and given with full knowledge. He swore again, hating Beraud anew for sending him a brandy-filled whore-virgin completely new to the game.

More questions surfaced as her medallion suddenly glinted against the pillow, the long gold necklace no longer hidden by her blonde curls. Removing it from her throat, he took it into the light and knew that the past had found him.

Tricked. Duped. Another link in the chain that bound him here, lost to the pathways of proper society and for ever shamed.

Eleanor felt a rush of imbalance engulf her. Her palms fanned wider against the whiteness beneath and she struggled to find reality.

Naked. She was naked, though such a consideration was nothing against the sudden and dreadful knowledge of what had happened. Keeping her eyes shut tightly, she wished she were dead.

‘I know you to be awake.’ In French.

She turned her head, even as she knew she meant not to.

‘Why do you wear this?’

He sat in a chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him and her grandfather’s medallion dangling from his fingers, the lines drawn in gold catching the candlelight and sending rainbows spinning across the ceiling. His breeches were loose and his shirt was unbuttoned at the front, the breadth and definition of his chest so remarkably foreign that she could not look away.

Parts of the last hour were coming back. A great rush of redness covered her cheeks, though when his eyes passed across the juncture at her thighs she understood that what motivated him now was only anger.

‘Who the hell are you?’

When he reached out to press the heel of his hand hard against her stomach she was mortified by the tight need that echoed from the gesture.

A whore. He had made her such! The play of his fingers against her skin made her stretch towards him, every sinew wanting …

His palm broke contact.

‘For a woman without experience you are surprisingly wanton.’

Eleanor turned her head. Below the shouts of people became louder, glass falling against a harder surface and shattering from the clumsiness of inebriation.

A brothel.

She was in a brothel on the bed of a man whose very den of iniquity it was. Deflowered.

She smiled at such a term and then felt a single tear trace its way down her cheek to be soaked up by the burgundy velvet in the pillow behind. His string of French curses told her that he had seen it too.

Lady Eleanor Bracewell-Lowen? England and the rarefied world of the ton seemed a long, long way from here.

Chapter Two

Cristo held the medallion in his fingers and hated the fear in her face.

‘Who are you?’ he repeated, his voice not quite steady. He wished he might have left her there, just walked out into the night and waited until she had gone, but life was no longer that simple for him. Beraud had brought her to him and if the woman should know anything of his past, what then? For years he had held the secrets safe. He shook his head, hard. With her maidenhead lost he felt he owed her at least something.

One moment ran into two and then five more. But still she did not speak and the heat of fury leaked out of his vengeance.

Sitting back, he weighed up the options.

She would not talk and he no longer felt the desire to make her. She was shivering, too, for the fire had long since died out, as the cold of an early Parisian November crept into the space of his chamber, raising the fine hairs on her arms.

He caught at an eiderdown of goose feathers folded on a chest at the foot of the bed and placed it across her and when one foot was still exposed he was careful to tuck it into warmness.

The first stirring of dawn was lighting the room and the bells of Sacré Coeur rang in those souls who still believed in the goodness of Our Lady. Striking a light, he breathed in the mellow taste of a cheroot, the smoke winding its way up through the lonely morning dark, another small reminder of all that he had become.

‘Mon Dieu, et quel bordel tout ceci.’

My God, and what a hell of a mess all this is.

He saw small toes wiggle free from the thick down covering as she tried to sit up.

‘Could I please have a drink?’

Six words that nearly undid him, for the quiet dignity in her request was undeniable. When he filled a glass and handed it to her she made a point of saying thank you, though the realisation that he still could not place her French accent kept him edgy.

‘How came you here?’

She remained quiet, but as the flints of blame in pale eyes continued to prick at his conscience he made an attempt at explanation.

‘I didn’t know that you had not lain with a man before. This is a place that never shelters innocents and by the time I found out that you were one, it was too late.’

An apology of sorts. It was all he could manage.

‘Then you will let me go now, monsieur?’

Turning his face towards the window, Cristo wished that he could have taken her from this room right then and there before the need his body shook with was too much to deny. But he could not, for the party below was far from over and men made careless from too much drink were always dangerous.

A temptress. A siren. The full line of her lips and the rise of her ample breasts against the softness of the cover. The sheer need of her made his voice sharper than he intended.

‘Where are your clothes?’

‘Downstairs. I took a drink … more than one.’

‘You came in with the other women, les prostituées?’

She nodded.

‘And the chain?’

‘My aunt was once given it by an English client she serviced. A bauble that was not to her taste! I liked the shape and she said that if I came with her tonight I might have it, should the evening prove a success …’

‘Your aunt is one of those below?’

When she nodded his hand closed around the engraved coat of arms and he felt the edge of the rondel dig into his palm. Was such a coincidence even possible? With a lifetime of deception behind him he knew that it was seldom the case. Could he make her talk now that she was more sober? His world reformed into only suspicion and his heart began to thump as he wondered how much Beraud might have gleaned about the meaning behind the crest.

Keep talking, Eleanor thought to herself, the fog of the drink she had been forced into taking receding into the sharper play for survival. Already the velvet darkness in his eyes looked harder, more removed. Just a whore plying her trade in a market driven by a commodity that could be given many times, the first of as little importance as the hundredth. She had to make him trust exactly that if she had any chance at all of escaping with her name intact.

‘I do not believe anything you have told me. Do you work for Beraud?’

‘Beraud?’

‘From the Parisian Police. The man who sent you to my room.’

‘I do not know the man. I came with my aunt and—’

He stopped her simply by raising a hand. ‘You lie, mademoiselle, and I intend to find out why.’

Her laugh was harsh as she bit back a reply, but he no longer seemed interested, the drag of his chair shrill against the parquet flooring as he stood and walked towards the windows.

‘Perhaps you would prefer to join the others downstairs and further your trade? You could no doubt turn a trick or two with the one who brought you in here. He certainly looked willing enough.’

True fear squeezed the very beat out of her heart. ‘Oh, I think I would rather stay with you, monsieur.’

His smile held no humour whatsoever. ‘Take care, ma chérie, of expressing any such yearning, for there are many in this game who would not give you the luxury of choice.’

Her hands fisted beneath the soft warmth of down. As you gave me no choice. She almost said it. Almost let the scalding shame escape, but didn’t, as sense embedded itself into silence.

Ruined.

The very word was written in her blood on the sheets, and the laughter from below seemed only to emphasise the silence between them, making everything more awkward again. She saw him pick up a tumbler and then place it down, undrunk, and the swell of the vessel was engraved with a crest.

Isobel had warned her of the intemperance of men such as this one when she had first arrived in Paris, but her friend’s timely cautions had been buried by need. Her grandfather had instructed her to make certain that she delivered a letter into exactly the right hands.

‘Le Comte de Caviglione at the Château Giraudon. Give this letter only to him, Lainie,’ he had said time and time again as life had left him. ‘Only to him. On your oath, promise me that you will do this, for he is a good man, a man to be trusted and he needs to know the truth.’

How naïve she had been to imagine she could just walk up to the door of the Château Giraudon and demand the ear of its master or expect the dignity and decorum that honourable men in the courts of England might have afforded her. Her dress had been a little gaudy, but the wig was an expensive one she had procured before leaving London. Perhaps it had been the presence of the women installed there already, their brightly coloured gowns and heaving bosoms giving an illusion of something that was normal here in Paris.

It had taken less than an hour for those downstairs to ply her with too much brandy as she had waited, trying not to appear as nervous as she felt.

Lord, if the Comte had come earlier she would have placed the missive in his hands and left as she intended: a dutiful granddaughter undertaking a final wish for a beloved grandfather. But now? She dared do nothing else to raise this man’s suspicions with all that lay between them, for if he ever guessed her name …

Against the breaking light Eleanor could see his profile. He was almost as young as she was and for that at least she was thankful.

‘Where are you from?’

His words held distrust and the caution of one used to betrayal. She noticed the small finger on his right hand was missing altogether as he laid his palm against his thigh.

‘Do you speak English?’ He had switched languages now and his accent was pure aristocracy. The change made her tense as layers of mystery clouded truth. Who was he? Why had he asked her that? She swallowed before she answered.

‘Pardon, monsieur, I do not understand what you are saying.’ She tried with all her might to make her words sound the same as one of the maids at Bornehaven, the soft Provençal French easy to mimic. The lines of his shoulders relaxed.

‘The south is a long way from the streets of Paris, ma petite. If you need money to return there …?’ He switched easily to French.

She shook her head. Payment could only mean obligation and with nothing to trade save her body, she was careful. He took the words a different way completely.

‘Then if you are hell-bent on staying in the city, perhaps you and I could come to some agreement.’ The fire in his eyes was searing sharp.

Eleanor pressed back against the bed, watching as he came closer. ‘Agreement?’

‘Your line of work is somewhat … insecure. I could offer you a less uncertain future.’

‘Uncertain?’

He began to laugh, his teeth white against the dawn, and in that moment Eleanor knew the pull of beauty, fierce and undeniable, his eyes marked with arrogance and temperance and authority. Not a man to be trifled with. But it was the hint of something else that held her still. A sadness, she thought, written beneath a careful detachment.

He stopped as he reached her and ran his thumb along her cheek. Without force. A bolt of awareness sizzled between them, making her heart beat faster.

‘Though if you truly wish me to halt, mademoiselle, then I will.’

He meant it. Honour came in unexpected places, she thought as she caught the depth of his dark, dark eyes, and the silence between them lengthened.

She should pull back, should shake her head and put an end to it all, but she was held immobile, her nipples tightening and the want in her belly finding a home in the place between her legs.

Le Comte de Caviglione! Her grandfather had said he was a good man, a trustworthy man, a man with some tie to the Duke of Carisbrook …

One time or ten more, what did it matter when the urgency in her being called only for release and already the damage was done, was it not? The pressing insistence of some emotion that was uncontrollable made her turn to him!

She did not flinch when he rolled down the cover and exposed her breasts, cold tightening desire and adding to the allure of surrender.

The velvet counterpane was burgundy, and stitched in gaudy golden thread. She felt the ridges of it against her feet when his hand ran across her throat and made them stiffen. Above the bed a net of gauze was anchored by ribbon, the cane hoop that held it painted in an antique peeling silver, so that the colour bled into the fabric. Beyond that, a mirror was fastened to the ceiling, catching the movement of them both through a veil of muslin, the pale outline of her breasts surprisingly wanton.

The reflection of the man beside her with his night-black eyes and magnetism left her little chance of refusal. The length of his hair fell past his shoulders, pale spun silver as she reached up to touch the colour.

He smiled, his glance allowing no modesty, and the distant sounds of a waking Paris were a counterpoint against her growing need.

‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

He turned her leg into the light. ‘What happened?’

The rings of blistering skin on her thigh stung as he touched it. ‘I tried to keep my gown on.’

‘Modesty in a whore is unusual.’

‘It was cold …’

He laughed this time and the sound was freeing, no longer caught up in control. Reaching for a drawer beside the bed, he removed a tin of salve, wiping the ointment on carefully, lessening the pain. When he had finished, he did not break contact, but spread her legs. The soft flesh throbbed in anticipation.

‘How much were you paid?’ The question was almost a caress.

She remained silent, the scale of payment for a lady of the night so far from her knowledge.

‘I’ll triple it.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘You won’t.’

A loud burst of shouting below made her start.

‘The party will not be over for a few hours yet,’ he added as his fingers left her skin. ‘And the minions of Beraud are restless. Make your choice, ma petite.’

She caught his hand and held it, slender and elegant, the nails trimmed and clean.

‘Then I am at your service, monseigneur.’ She had heard the other women downstairs use this phrase in the salons of the Château Giraudon. In the playing of a part came safety and she ran her tongue around her lips in the same way those below had mastered, slowly, and looked straight at him.

His eyes were a thousand times older than his face, the chocolate melted into harder shards of amber. Danger and distance and steely control, the fickle carelessness of youth constrained by another menace. But she took a chance on those eyes and those hands and on the words of a man who had not excused the actions of one who had hurt her.

‘Instead of payment I would ask of you a promise.’

He was listening, the stillness in him haunting.

‘A promise that come daylight proper you will spirit me out of this place in your carriage and let me go wherever I should will it without question!’

She was relieved when he nodded.

‘Is it just Paris you would escape, mademoiselle, or might I hope that the perils of the night have started to sink in?’

She only smiled as he peeled away the cover, a few feathers of down escaping the velvet, and one fluttering into the air to land on her stomach, white softness caught in a greying morning. He leant across and blew it away, the warmth tickling her skin and making her breath just stop. Her head arched into the pillow as a quick stab of passion lanced through her, the blood beating in her temples like a band, the base of sound blotting out everything save the sensation of want wound tightly through every pore on her skin.

He laughed. ‘Perhaps, ma petite, I do you a disservice after all, by letting you leave Paris and a profession that seems your milieu.’ He held the hardness in her still with his hands and waited till the shafts of need had passed before discarding the bedcovering altogether.

He should never have called her bluff, Cristo thought, but her words allowing him everything were a powerful aphrodisiac.

I am at your service, monseigneur.

God, he was twenty-three and hardly a saint, and if the Devil were to smite him into Hell for such an act then he was willing to take his chances. One time more or many, her virginity was already lost. The tremor in her hand as she had held it up to demand his promise to let her go free only added to his intemperance, and the way she looked him straight in the eyes saw to the rest. He was primed and ready, rock-hard with desire, the outline of his manhood raising the fabric of his breeches in a way that was … unseemingly desperate.

He wished he might have hidden it, hidden this power she had over his body, but he could not and would not and as the clock struck seven he realised that the morning was being eaten away and that his promise of freedom was close.

‘What is your name?’

Suddenly he wanted some truth. Something more than falseness and business.

‘Jeanne.’

She whispered the sound so that he had to strain to hear it. Jeanne?

He wrote the letters on her stomach with his tongue and traced the word again with his fingers, lightly. All the hairs on her right arm rose, the colour nowhere near as pale as her tresses. Almost dark. Her nipples budded into knots as he skimmed his touch across them and the heartbeat in her throat beat blue against the last smattering of summer freckles.

So delicate and breakable and so very fragile; just a girl on the edge of womanhood. His hand wandered downwards to feel the wetness, slick, tight and heated.

He moved then to the softness of her thighs and to the rounded shape of her hips, skirting the outline, making her know in his exploration how truly beautiful she was. Not just a whore. Not just a night or a coin. No contract in any of it save desire.

Her lips parted and her breathing quickened as his touch moved back to her centre and then away at the very last moment so that he did not quite fulfil her hidden want. But he felt it. Felt it in the way her skin rose against his hand, swollen with need.

Sweat beaded her upper lip and her forehead where her fringe had fallen. He knew that heat, too, in the place beneath his cheek as he bent to the juncture of her thighs.

This time she did shout out, shock resonating as his tongue reached in, tasting the fine wine of woman, and her hands threaded in his hair like an anchor, keeping him caught, as the flame does the moth.

The fire of youth and sex and passion. The lust of a hundred days of abstinence and many years of caution. The memory of what it was like once to only feel free. He drank like a man newly come from the desert until all that was left was her.

Her skin. Her smell. The feel of her fingers in his hair, holding him closer.

‘Jeanne.’ He moved back as he said her name and when no flicker of recognition passed into her summer-blue eyes he knew even that was a lie.

Still, he could not care. She was here and he was here and her blood on his sheets more real than any falsehood could ever be.

He moulded the swell of her breast into the palm of his hand and lifted the softness. Full fat abundance fell across the space between his first finger and his thumb. No little girl here. Her chest rose, fast and then faster.

Bringing her face to his, he opened her mouth to a kiss, surprising himself by the want, and when her resistance faltered all he knew was bliss. Her tongue, her cheeks, her face in his hands turning to him, the pull of knowledge, the sharp tang of certainty, the urge to own and keep and possess.

When he unlaced his breeches and lifted her onto his lap she did not fight him, and when she felt the tip of his sex pause for a second before pressing inwards, she welcomed the deep ache of it as her head lolled upon his shoulder. Submitting. Yielding. Nothing essential save the heavy rigidness of his manhood felt in the core of her body.

‘Ahh, sweetheart,’ he said, dampness on his forehead as her breasts fell heavy between them. Eleanor revelled in his expertise, in his finesse, in the way he built her hunger along with his own ‘til there was nowhere for either of them to go. Except up and away into the realms of fantasy and delight, and the sheer relief of orgasm.

He held her afterwards this time, against his chest, stroking her back with his fingers as the noises of the traffic outside became louder. His shirt of the finest linen was damp in sweat and she wondered why he had not discarded it, the smell of musk and man embedded in the fabric. Perhaps it was because of the scars she had felt raised upon his back when her fingers had lingered there?

Caught in a world with no one else near, she became braver and leant over to trace her tongue around the shape of his ear exactly as he had done to hers.

His breath simply stopped and the scent between them was pungent and insistent, another binding that held them, another sense fuelled by wonderment.

Cristo let her take him this time, his control slipping into an unfamiliar acquiescence. He liked the way she held him tentatively, with the palm of one hand splayed against his chest and the hard length of his manhood pressing deep into her stomach.

When the other fingers curled around his shaft he tensed and she pulled away, until his fingers again found hers and returned them, the pure uncertainty leaving him breathless.

He wanted to move, wanted to topple her beneath him, but she held him with her fingers, her breasts grazing his chest and the length of her false hair tying him to immobility.

‘God, help me.’ His voice sounded nothing like it usually did and this time he spoke in English, a sure sign of just how far his restraint had slipped. Turning, his body covered hers, heavy and true, as he drove in hard because there was no moderation left in him, no restraint or inhibition. The shuddering finality of his release brought him a liberation he had long thought of as past.

‘God.’ His voice was not kind as he slipped from her a good twenty minutes later and crossed the room to the privacy of his bath chamber, the oath repeated again as he comprended the full enormity of what had just happened. Beraud’s purchased whore was making him care again, feel again, hope again.

Laying his forehead against the cool silver mirror, he closed his eyes. The girl was dangerous with her alabaster skin and her elemental sensuality. In his world, anything of value was a way of losing control, the weakness of concern an easy weapon for those who would want to harm him. And there were so many who did!

He needed to have her gone before others sensed an attachment and used her innocence as a pawn, needed to protect her in the only way that he still could.

Pulling on his breeches and finding another shirt, he walked back into the room, the anger marking his movements with haste.

Chapter Three

Eleanor could barely understand all that had just happened.

Now he looked angry, unemotional, a different shirt buttoned full around his neck. No longer biddable. His hair was tied tightly into a queue and slid down the silk on his shoulders, an overlord of the dark underbelly of Paris, the four fingers still left on his right hand all bejewelled.

A stranger, only that, no vestige left of the lost hours shared between them. No remnant of a softer man who might truly cherish her. Just danger and hazard and difference, and a choice of life that showed in the hard lines of his body and face.

Eighteen and set apart from everything now, a fallen woman, a stupid woman, a woman who would never again quite fit in to the strictly governed world of her upbringing. Spoiled goods. What husband should want her?

Her breath came quick and shallow as she fought back the pooling tears!

She was going to cry now, he could see that in the way she tipped her head down and dropped her shoulders. A girl who had made a choice she regretted, her deep red lipstick smudged across her mouth like a wound.

‘Where are your clothes?’ He made no effort at all to moderate his voice.

‘Downstairs in a b-b-blue chamber, but my gown was badly torn.’ Fright had made her shake, the cover she was draped in shivering with some force. Excusing himself for a moment he unfastened the slats on the door and asked a servant to find her attire.

Then, moving to his wardrobe, he found a woollen jacket and a satin skirt that some woman had left here a few months back. ‘Put these on for now.’

She reached out for them and he added a scarf of fine wool from the many lined up at the back of his closet, noticing the feminine way she fashioned it around her neck. Her long wig was caught up in the heaviness of the layers and he saw darker locks below. All a ruse?

Interest sharpened. ‘How well do you know Beraud?’

‘He is one of my aunt’s clients.’

‘Then if you know what is good for you, ma chérie, you will stay away from him. His tastes run to the more eclectic …’ He tapered off, tired of trying to warn her, tired of taking responsibility for a whore who knew exactly what it was she was doing.

He could not save them all. He had learned that truth years ago when the first woman to plead for assistance had spent his gold on a bottle of the finest cognac and thrown herself off the bridge of the Pont d’Alma. Her body had been dragged up with his engraved watch in her hands and the weight of the law had descended, demanding answers that brought him notice he was far from wanting. Since then he had been much more careful.

He looked away as she stood and dressed, the slight reflection of her outline all that was left to him in the window. Even that he eschewed for the view outside, the first stirrings of the carriages and people in the vicinity of the Rue Pigalle.

Dislocated. One word rent from all that he so usually kept hidden, the sheer and utter waste of life and goodness and innocence slapped against a harder, more selfish world.

His world! Falder Castle glimmered like a golden promise on the edge of memory, the endless waves of Return Home Bay calling out in a hollow chant, ‘Come back, come back, come back.’

But he couldn’t, not ever, the consequences of sins binding him to the necessity of distance.

Shaking his head, he refused to think about the past and as he caught Jeanne’s measured glance he made himself relax.

A layer of tragedy coated her seducer’s night-dark eyes. Eleanor saw it even as he smiled and the core of her anger melted just a fraction. He was beautiful. She doubted she had ever seen a more beautiful man, even with his overlong hair and clothes that would not be out of place in a theatrical production in the West End of London. As she looked around, the room gave the impression of a faded glory, the strips of silk and velvet on his bed mirrored in the heavy curtains and ornate corded ties at the double-sashed windows. A piano of considerable proportion stood against the farthest wall, sheet music draped across the top. Books stacked in piles on the floor completed the tableau, the titles in an equal measure of both French and English.

With clothes on she felt braver, standing to run her fingers across the spines. Not lightweight reading, either. Moving then to the piano, she pressed down on a note of ivory, the sound echoing around the room in perfect pitch.

A well-used and well-maintained piano by Stein. She read the make in the words above the keyboard. The frothy, vivid orange skirt she wore swung out from her legs as she turned, surprising her with its easy movement—the sort of garment a dancer might use or a courtesan? With no undergarments the satin was cold against her bottom.

A short rap on the door took all her attention and with surprise she saw the man who entered was dressed exactly as her own grandfather’s butler might have been at the turn of the century.

‘Milord.’ His accent was pure Northern England! ‘The carriage is readied.’

Carriage? She could go? Now? Le Comte de Caviglione would keep his promise free of question and all consequence? Or was she to be taken somewhere else?

‘I would thank you for keeping your word, sir …’

She broke off when a bejewelled hand was raised, as if her appreciation was of absolutely no interest to him.

‘Are these items yours?’ He gestured towards a serving girl who had walked in behind the old man carrying her cape, boots, hat and purse.

A great wave of redness surged into Eleanor’s face as all attention settled upon her, for, with the tumbled bed linen and the scent of brandy and sex, the room held no mystery as to what had happened there. Servants talked with as much fervour and detail as did any daily broadsheet and the contents of her bag would give extra clues again.

Could she even begin to hope that the letter was still inside? That the promise she had given to her grandfather might still be honoured?

The older servant stepped forwards with her possessions. ‘These items were left in the blue salon, mademoiselle.’

‘Thank you.’ Reaching up, Eleanor fastened her hat. With no mirror the task was more difficult than she had anticipated and the wig made it harder again. Still, with a bonnet in place and the warm cape around her shoulders, hiding the mismatched assortment of articles beneath, Eleanor felt … braver. She pulled on her boots in less than a moment and, pretending to pick up something off the floor, extracted the letter as the Comte conversed with his man.

‘Milne will see you into a carriage. The driver has been instructed to take you where you would wish to be set down.’

Hardly daring to believe that the promise of freedom was so very close, she followed the old man out even as the Comte de Caviglione turned towards the window, dismissing her in the way of a man who, after using a whore for a night, is pleased to see the back of her come the morning.

Tucking her grandfather’s sealed envelope into the folds of the tumbled sheets as she passed the bed, she saw that the dawning sun had bathed the Comte’s hair in silver.

Cristo watched as the carriage pulled away on the driveway below, the white pebbles caught in the eddy of the wheels reminding him of another place, another home and far from here.

His hands fisted at his sides and emptiness was a taste in his mouth, sour and lonely. He longed for a greener land and a house that sat in the cleft of a hill with oaks at its back and roses in the gardens.

Falder.

The name echoed in the corners of regret; shaking his head, he turned to the hearth, leaning down for the kindling in a box near the fire. The simple task of catching sparks calmed him, made the fear he could feel rolling in his stomach more distant.

When he had finished he reached for the leather pouch in the hidden drawer of his armoire and sent the previous week by The Committee.

Secrets helped. Codes demanded single-mindedness and logic, searching for a pattern amongst the random lines of alphabet and numbers. Conradus’s book and Scovell’s principles made it easy and his interest quickened. His cipher wheel sat on the desk at hand.

Hours lay before him to be used up in concentration and attention. No sleep. No dreams. No lying in the grey of morning and wondering how the hell he had come to such a pass.

The bold scent of the girl lingered though, distracting him. Making him hungry. Again. For her warmth and the feel of flesh. Unspoiled.

He picked up his pen and dipped the quill into ink, blotting it before setting the nib onto paper. Her locket lay on the table before him, the chain of gold thin and delicate. He remembered the look of it around her neck, fragile and pale, the skin almost translucent.

He traced the certain shape of it in his mind. There had been a time when he had not known anything of dying and killing, a time when the sound of death had been impossible to describe. He could not lie to himself that those who had met their Maker because of him all had perished for the greater good or for the Golden Rule. Intelligence was a game that changed as the seasons did, and greed had as much sway as loyalty. To king or to country.

Not to family. He had long since been cured of that.

The columns on his desk refocused. Page seventy-five, column C, the fourth word down. A message began to form in the mass of chaos, though a capital letter threw him. The calibration had been changed and then changed again, the common combinations no longer locked into pattern. Transposing always had a point, though, and he looked for a letter that appeared the most frequently.

R. He had it. Substituted for an E. Now he just had to find the system.

He had been eighteen when he had started out on the dangerous road of espionage. A boy disenchanted with his family and alone at Cambridge. Easy pickings for Sir Roderick Smitherton, a professor who had been supplying the cream of the latest crop of undergraduates for years to the Foreign Office; Cristo had topped the new intake in every subject, his skill at languages sealing the bargain.

When he started it had been like a game, the Power Politics of Europe under the fear-spell of the memory of Napoleon, a man who had won an empire by his skill of manoeuvre.

Cristo had arrived in Paris the son of a Frenchwoman and the bequest of her château had given him a place to live. His father’s liaison and his mother’s shame had had a few points to recommend it, at least, and he had set up a spy ring that worked inside a restless Paris where priests and prostitutes had become the mainstay of his intelligence.

He liked the hunt, those few hours that came between months of blinding boredom, for in them he found forgetfulness of everything, his life held in a reckless balance that was only the responsibility of others.

Pull the trigger and end it all.

He wondered at the resilience of the human condition every time his hands reached their own conclusion and reacted, the whirr of a bullet or the sharp, quick pull of a knife. Often in the moonlight and in the hidden corners of this city in spaces where people held secrets that might bring down a nation by a whisper of breath or a clink of coinage. Always counting. Not the lives that might fall on the toss of a dice or the shake of a head. Not that. Counting only the cost of what it took to stay in the game and one step ahead. And alive!

He pulled out a cheroot from the silver tin he kept in his top drawer and tapped the end against the fine mahogany of his desk. Wrong and right depended on one’s point of view, though he suspected that his own moral compass had long since been tarnished by expediency, and the misguided idea that he might have once made a difference was only a distant memory in the dark labyrinth that was his life.

The code before him blurred into nothingness and he stood and crossed to the window.

His carriage had not yet returned and he wondered where it was that ‘Jeanne’ had wanted to be taken. He should have gone, of course, just to make certain that she arrived safely and that the destination was noted.

‘Mon Dieu!’ The words were loud against the silence and his breath frosted the glass. With an unusual sense of poignancy he wrote a J in the mist and rubbed it out just as quickly, the regret in him surfacing.

He could find her again. Or he could lose her for ever, in the wilderness of mirrors and shadows where nothing was fixed.

Only grand deception and infinite loneliness—and if prostitution was the oldest profession in the world then surely the business of spying must have come in a close second.

Too close for comfort were he to reconnect with a woman who might mean something!

He watched as a few of the prostitutes walked from his house to be swallowed up by the traffic in the street, their gaudy nightdresses as out of place as a peacock in a farmyard barn. He hoped that one of them was Jeanne’s aunt and that something she had told him was true. Perhaps then they would laugh together about the night over a cup of tea and plan the evening’s frivolity.

The thought annoyed him, but he had no dominion over his little whore’s body and to demand so would only be foolish. Still, the anger would not dissipate. Nor the want. His eyes strayed to the bed trussed up into disarray, the cover that had warmed her tangled into many folds, the tail of it sweeping the floor. Empty.

Only the smell of her perfume remained, heavy in the air with the tang of alcohol! He drew in a breath to keep her closer and then stopped.

No. Jeanne’s association with Beraud could only be dangerous for them both. Reaching for the tumbled sheets, he tossed them into the blazing fire at his hearth and watched as linen caught flame. Better to leave her in memory. Delightful. Innocent. Always young. He only wished that he had known her name.

Dropping the medallion into a box of oddments in the bottom drawer of his desk, he had resolved to put her from his mind when his glance was caught by parchment flaring brighter than fabric.

A letter. He could see the scrawled writing on the burning envelope was addressed to him. Quickly he reached for the brass poker and extracted the remnants, stamping on the flames as they refused to die.

Only a few words remained on the sheet inside but they made his heart slow. Nigel. Murdered. Blame.

No coincidence at all then, but the beginning of blackmail. Turning to the wall beside him, he punched his fist hard against it until every knuckle bled.

Chapter Four

London—June 1830

Martin Westbury, the Earl of Dromorne, laid his newspaper down and looked across at his wife.

‘Now here is an interesting snippet, Eleanor. It seems the youngest Wellingham brother has returned from the Continent bearing both fortune and a foreign title to reside in London. They say he is looking for a home in the country. Perhaps he might find The Hall in Woburn to his liking? That is a property that might well suit such a man.’

Eleanor considered her husband’s query. ‘I know only a little about the Wellinghams. Is the family seat near there?’

‘No, indeed not, for Falder Castle lies in Essex. I am surprised he would not acquire property around those parts instead. He runs bloodstock, according to the paper, and is quite an expert on the choosing of prime horse flesh.’

The sounds of laughter interrupted their conversation as Martin’s nieces Margaret and Sophie came into the room. At seventeen and eighteen respectively they presented a picture of understated beauty, their gowns of matching yellow sprigged muslin floating in the breezy warmth of a new summer’s day. Their month-long sojourn in London with their mother, Diana, had made them full of energy.

‘We had a wonderful time last night at the Brownes’ ball.’ Sophie’s voice held such an edge of excitement that Eleanor was instantly curious. Looking across at her husband, she smiled.

‘Cristo Wellingham is the most handsome man to ever grace London, I swear it, and he dresses in clothes that have come straight from Paris. Did you ever meet him when you were there all those years ago, Lainie? I doubt that you could have missed him.’

Eleanor froze, the lost night in the winter of 1825 leaving her momentarily speechless.

‘Oh, she was far too busy with me, Sophie.’ Martin easily deflected the conversation and pretended to look more than hurt when the girls laughed.

‘We know that you are her heart’s desire, Uncle Martin,’ Margaret teased, ‘but can’t a girl at least look?’

Leaning over, Eleanor took her husband’s hand in her own, liking the warmth and familiarity. ‘Your nieces are young and frivolous and their shallow measure of a man’s worth is a testimony to that fact.’

‘How cruel you are, Lainie.’ Sophie’s tone was soft. ‘But your insult must also apply to the other young ladies who were at the Brownes’ last night.’

‘When is this demigod next in circulation?’ Martin’s question was threaded with humour.

‘Tonight. There is a large gathering at the Theatre Royal Haymarket. A comedy by James Planché is showing and it is supposed to be very good.’

‘Perhaps we should go?’ Martin’s voice sounded stronger than it had in a while, but Eleanor began to shake her head, a vague disquiet building behind her smile. Something was wrong, she was sure of it, and yet she could not put her finger on just exactly what it was.

‘Please, Eleanor. It has been ages since we all went out and if Martin feels up to it?’

‘Of course! Our box has been severely neglected of late, and I am sure your mother would also enjoy the outing, Sophie.’

Cristo watched the rain from the window of his house overlooking Hyde Park. Summer rain slanting across the green grass blurred the paths that crossed the common.

He lifted the brandy he had brought with him from Paris and took a liberal swig straight from the bottle. His brothers would be here soon and he would need all the succour he could muster. He wished he could have cared less than he did about what it was they might say to him, but the wildness of his youth had alienated him entirely and they had probably been as happy as his father to know he was leaving England. His father’s first letter to find him when he eventually reached Paris had made certain he understood that returning to the family fold was not an option. The memory still hurt, but he shoved it aside. He could help none of it and what was done, was done.

Only masquerade. Only deception. England and its airs and expectations made him take another good mouthful of brandy and then another. He should not have come back, but ten years on foreign soil felt like a lifetime and the soft green heart of England had called to him even in his dreams.

‘Would you be wanting your black cloak, or your dark blue one this evening, my lord?’

Milne, his butler, held a cape on either arm.

‘The black, I think. And don’t wait up for me tonight, for I shall be late.’

‘You said the same yesterday, my lord. And the night before that.’

Cristo smiled. Milne’s frailty worried him, but the old man had too much pride to just take the substantial amount of money that Cristo had tried to give him and retire. Paris had aged him, too. Just one more blame resting upon his shoulders with the shady dealings in the Château Giraudon, sordid repayment for Milne’s devotion and loyalty and belief. In him. It was a relief to leave it all behind.

‘My brothers should be here within the hour. If you could show them up.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘And if you could ask the housekeeper to prepare tea.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

He placed the bottle of brandy on his desk inside a cabinet and closed the doors. Alcohol was one of the factors in his lengthy estrangement and he did not wish for the evidence to be anywhere on show. Tea seemed an acceptable substitute.

The cravat at his throat felt as restrictive as the dark blue waistcoat lying over his crisp white shirt and the new tight boots hurt his heels.

‘Asher Wellingham, the Duke of Carisbrook, my lord,’ Milne announced, ‘and his brother, Lord Taris Wellingham.’

Cristo stood as the two men walked into the room, a scar that ran under Taris’s left eye giving the first cause for concern, though Cristo showed no evidence of it as he waited for speech. Asher and Taris looked older and harder. Neither smiled.

‘So you are back.’ Ashe had never been a man to beat around the bush.

‘It seems that I am.’ Cristo didn’t care for the cautiousness he heard so plainly in his words, but the distance between them was measured in a lot more than the few feet of his library floor.

‘You have blatantly ignored our many efforts to stay in touch with you,’ Ashe reminded him. ‘Over the years the notes you sent back indicated you held no fondness at all for the name of Wellingham or indeed for us. Yet here you are.’ Each word held a sharp undercurrent of blame.

‘Are you well?’ Taris spoke now, a note in the question that unexpectedly tipped Cristo off balance.

‘Very.’ Even in the many skirmishes of Paris his heart had not beaten so fast.

Asher looked around the room, taking in the lack of ornamentation, he supposed. Or of belongings! Taris’s glance, on the other hand, never wavered once.

‘Alice always hoped you would return.’ Ashe again. The barb tore at Cristo’s composure and he looked away.

Alice! The only mother he had ever known. Damn them. He felt the hand in his pocket grip the skin on his thigh. Damn England and damn family. Damn the hope that had never been extinguished, even in the most terrible of times.

‘As it seems you are here to stay, I have arranged your introduction back into society and the family fold in the guise of a theatre visit. With a lot of darkness and distraction we should at least look as if we enjoy being a family and if this is going to work at all, appearances matter.’

Ashe’s irony was so very easily heard.

Cristo nodded, not trusting himself with more. He had left England vowing never to return, his wild ways at Cambridge inflaming loyalties and stretching the already-frayed love of his family. He had never fitted in, never dovetailed into the strict and rigid codes his father had laid down and when everything had finally unravelled after Nigel Bracewell-Lowen had died in the cemetery in the village near his home, Cristo’s father had been the first to tell him that he was not a true Wellingham, or a legitimate son of Falder.

Cristo swallowed back the bile of remembrance as he remembered his father’s final tirade. Ashborne had dallied with a French woman on his travels, a small meaningless tryst he had said that was ‘ill-advised, wrong-headed, inappropriate and more than foolish’. The words still had the power to hurt even all these years later, for what did one say to a parent so condemning of his very conception and of the woman who had birthed him?

The other side of the coin had also held damage. Alice, his stepmother, had taken him in at Falder and loved him like her own and if a whisper of his true parentage was ever mentioned he had not heard of it. The three-month-old Cristo de Caviglione had become a Wellingham, his name written into the family Bible by Alice’s very hand. She had told him that much later when the tensions between him and his father had resulted in the truth being thrown in his face and she had hurried to London to plead with Cristo to stay.

Love and anger entwined in deceit, and now a different duplicity. Cristo hated the beaded sweat on his upper lip as his oldest brother outlined his plans for the evening.

‘Our wives shall also be accompanying us to the theatre.’ The tone Asher used was so very English.

Emerald Seaton and Beatrice-Maude Bassing-stoke! Cristo had kept up with the family gossip while in Paris and the two women were by all accounts as formidable as his brothers. He wished suddenly that he might have had a formidable woman at his side, too, dismissing the thought with a shake of his head.

‘There are bridges to cross if you are to gain acceptance here, given the wild ways of your youth and of your questionable exploits in Paris.’ Taris tilted his eyebrows in a way that gave the impression of searching.

‘I quite understand,’ Cristo answered quickly. A public place would ensure distance and formality, the baser emotions of blame and redress submerged beneath the need for ‘face’. Years and years of an upbringing that revered the word ‘proper’ would at least see to that. It was a relief.

The tea that his housekeeper bustled in with seemed a long way from the good idea that he had initially thought it, and her rosy smiling face was the antithesis of all expressions in the library.

When she left he was glad, the plumes of steam from the teapot and the three china cups and saucers beside it little harbingers of a life that he had left and lost, a very long time ago.

Ashe was already showing signs of retreat. ‘Then we will see you tonight.’

‘You will.’

‘At half-past seven.’

‘On the dot.’

Taris raised the black ebony cane he held towards the teapot. The dimpled silver ball on the end of it glimmered in the light. ‘I’d like a cup.’

‘It’s tea, Taris.’ Ashe’s explanation was given quietly.

‘I know.’

‘You don’t damn well drink the stuff.’

Cristo watched as Taris brought out a hip flask from his jacket pocket and unscrewed the top. ‘I just asked for a cup.’

Merde. Cristo remembered his brothers’ banter with an ache. Many years younger, he had never really been a part of such repartee, no matter how much he had wanted it.

Reopening the cupboard door, he raised two crystal glasses from the green baize beside a new bottle and placed the lot down before them. ‘Help yourselves.’

‘You won’t join us?’ Ashe again.

‘I try to ration myself these days.’

‘Ashborne would be pleased to know of it.’

The mention of their father fell bitter between them, the past knitting uneasily into a growing silence.

‘I doubt he would care much either way, actually.’

His meaning settled on his brothers’ faces as a question and he wished he might have taken such bitterness back, the sheer anger in his words giving away much more than he had wanted.

‘Perhaps you did not know that he left this world calling your name?’ Ashe’s expression held all the indignation that his ducal title afforded him.

‘A death-bed wish for clemency is such an easy request given he could barely stand my company in life.’ Cristo had recovered his equilibrium, though Taris began to speak with a great deal of emotion.

‘With the reputation you have garnered in Paris, perhaps he was right to send you away. The Carisbrook title is an old and venerable one after all, and it needs each and every one of us who bear it to bring it proudly through the next decades.’

An argument that might hold more weight were I a true Wellingham.

Cristo almost said it, almost blurted the sentence out with little thought for consequence, raw anger still holding the power to hurt. But the memory of Alice stopped him.

Better to smile, the illusion of a family tied in blood and ancestry and one unbroken line of history more palatable than the other face. His brothers’ dark hair shone in the lamplight, like a stamp of belonging, or a badge of title. So very simple if you only knew where to look! His own reflection in the polished mirror made him turn away, the silvered fairness belonging to a different lineage altogether.

Gulping back the last of his brandy Taris poured himself another, the clock on the mantel chiming the hour of three. ‘So you are home for good, then?’

‘It’s my plan.’

‘How did you lose your finger?’ Ashe’s interest was almost dispassionate—a conversation topic as mundane as the weather or the happenings at the last ball.

‘On a ship after leaving England. My opponent came off worse.’

‘Rumour has it that a good many of your opponents have “come off worse,” as you put it.’

‘Rumour is inclined to favour exaggeration.’

‘One false step back here and society will crucify you.’ Asher’s voice held a hard edge of warning. ‘In Paris the extremes of human behaviour might well be tolerated. Here you won’t have that luxury, and I won’t stand idly by and watch you squander the Wellingham name. Neither will Taris.’

Now they were coming to it. No more vague innuendo or ill-defined familial congeniality. His careless past had caught up with him and the gloves were off.

‘I did not come home for that.’

‘Then why did you come?’

For a moment Cristo thought to lie. To merely smile through it all, and just lie, but here in the heart of England he found that he could not.

‘I came back in order to live.’

Neither of his brothers answered him and he felt the muscle along the side of his jaw ripple as he held his silence.

‘God.’ Ashe swore and then swore again as the sun broke through the clouds outside, flooding the room with light. Taris looked up into it, holding his left hand to his face in a peculiar movement, the line of his fingers open to the warmth.

‘Lucinda sends you her love,’ he said as he lowered his arm.

His sister.

‘Did she marry?’

‘No. She is adamant about remaining a spinster.’

‘Quite a choice.’

‘The same could be said of your preferences.’

Ashe collected his gloves and hat from the chair beside him and Cristo stood when they did, pleased that in the years between then and now that he had grown a good two inches taller than either of them. He shook their hands as a stranger might, vaguely aware of the crest of the Carisbrooks engraved into the heavy gold of his oldest brother’s ducal ring.

‘We will see you this evening, then.’

‘Indeed.’

He watched as they followed Milne out of the room and when the door shut sat on the arm of the sofa and balanced there, neither standing nor sitting. The day darkened as he continued to look out of the window, listening to the bells of some church mark off the hours and the occasional shout of English voices from the streets outside.

Home.

The smell of it all was different. Softer. Greener. Known.

I came back in order to live! The idea of it spun untrammelled in the corners of his memory and the secrets that he held marked his heart with blackness.

Chapter Five

Eleanor did not wish to go out that night; the wind had heightened, tossing the clouds around the sky, and a homely fire in the front parlour beckoned.

Still, with the arrangements made and Sophie and Margaret speaking of nothing else all afternoon, she felt trapped into it.

The gown she wore was of sapphire-blue silk, the pelisse having a chenille fringe skirt and a ruffled underskirt in cream. She had had the dress made the previous summer, but the style had not yet slipped from fashion and she enjoyed wearing the garment. On her wrist she wore a pearl bracelet and at her neck a matching strand that had been her mother’s. Her hair had been fashioned with corkscrewed curls around her face, the length braided and pinned at the back.

All in all she thought she looked passable, the colour of her eyes deepened by the shade in the dress, though the same disquiet that had visited her earlier had returned again.

She breathed out hard, chastising herself for worrying. She was twenty-three years old and the catastrophe that might have been her life had settled into a pattern that was … comfortable. Her family was safe and happy, she kept good health and lived in a discreet neighbourhood.

She needed nothing more, so when the tiny worm of denial flared she stomped on it hard. ‘Nothing,’ she said and made certain that she had change in her reticule and a handkerchief should she need it before leaving the quiet of her chamber to join the others downstairs.

Cristo walked into the Theatre Royal Haymarket, late. He had missed the first gathering, he knew, but Milne had caught his foot on a corner of the carpet and the physician had been called to make certain that nothing was broken.

One night, he thought, to scotch the rumours of a Wellingham family feud and then that would be the end to it. One night to mingle and smile and then he would be left alone to pursue what it was he needed from England.

Peace.

Solitude.

A place to breathe without the fear of a knife in his back or a secret around the next corner!

As he pushed aside the curtains of the family box, the darkness kept him still whilst his eyes became accustomed to the lack of light. After a moment he could see his brothers and the seat they had left between them.

For him.

He slipped in without apology and acknowledged Asher to his left. Three women sat in a tight row in front, one dark-haired, one blonde and one … Lucinda. She turned to gaze at him with eyes that had not changed one bit in ten years and blew him a kiss.

He could not help but smile at her joie de vivre.

Across the theatre in the boxes at the same level he saw others watching, their eyes barely glancing at the comedy on the stage. Below, too, a good deal of the patrons looked up.

The prodigal son or the black sheep? Cristo was pleased Milne had made such a fuss with his clothes, the frock and waistcoat he wore of the highest quality. Criticise me at your peril, they seemed to say, and as he adjusted his cravat he caught the eye of the dark-haired woman sitting directly in front of Taris. She did not smile or move, yet he felt a rapport that was unmistakable. Beatrice-Maude Wellingham, his middle brother’s wife. A woman of substance and intelligence and pure, clear wit! He had read her writings in the London Home and admired her views. She looked away as he failed to and he felt himself tense. When the lights came up again for the interval, he was pleased to stand and stretch.

Lucinda, his sister, was the first at his side.

‘You are long overdue, Cristo, and it is said that you are looking for a place to stand your bevy of bloodstock. I have heard that the Graveson property is on the market for the first time in a century. Perhaps that would do.’

He had forgotten the way she approached things so directly, though interest was piqued as she mentioned the land that stood on the Falder boundary. He wished that his brothers had told him of it, but dismissed the chagrin quickly for the tall woman with turquoise eyes had come to stand beside him and she took all of his attention. When Ashe moved towards them Cristo surmised her to be his wife, Emerald Wellingham.

She did not introduce herself, but took his hand into her own and held it. The silence lengthened.

‘My brother might appreciate his hand back, Emmie.’

‘Well, he cannot have it just yet, my love, for I am not quite finished.’ With a jolt Cristo realised that she was reading his palm.

‘Long life, great wealth and fine bloodstock?’ he quipped as she remained silent.

‘And the unexpected end to a journey,’ she added finally, closing his fingers and letting go.

‘She has a great gift for it.’ The dark-haired woman joined them, Taris at her side, one arm threaded through hers. ‘And if I could give you a word of warning, it might be that Emerald’s predictions are never wrong.’

‘Indeed, it must take great skill to deduct that I have just travelled back to England.’ The sarcasm in his voice was not becoming, but he had had dealings with others reading his fate and none had come anywhere near close to his demons.

‘It is not that journey I am speaking of,’ Asher’s wife added. ‘There is a woman who was important once …?’ Her eyes bored into his and for a moment Cristo felt almost light-headed. He was glad when Lucy pushed between them, voicing her wish to stretch her legs.

Eleanor thought the play was lovely and yet the feeling of tension seemed magnified with each passing moment of the interval. Standing with Martin’s nieces and his sister Diana, taking in the cooler air of the lobby, the pillar behind her was a welcome place to lean against.

She felt scared. The word surprised her. Scared? Of what? Inherent suspicions ruffled the hairs on her arms and neck. Margaret beside her suddenly stood on tiptoes, peering towards the other end of the room.

‘There he is! I knew that he would come tonight.’

When Eleanor made no effort to look, Sophie nudged her forcibly. ‘The youngest Wellingham brother, Lainie. The one we told you about.’

The crowd before them thinned a little as people moved forwards and in the space that was left she saw the back of a tall blond man, his hair caught in a short queue at his nape.

All breath left her body. There was something about the shape of his head and the colour of his hair and the tall strength of him—something familiar.

No. No. No. Don’t let it be him!

He began to turn, smiling at the fair woman on his arm, and his dark eyes came up to her own, falling through the distance to a château in Paris, naked, brandy-soused and ruined. The lamplights blurred and the floor, once solid beneath her feet, began to sway, dizzy arcs of denial and horror and something else that she could never have admitted.

She was glad to feel Diana’s hand beneath her elbow as her knees simply gave way, and the floor was cold beneath her face.

Stark and utter disbelief kept Cristo still as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. His virgin whore from the Château Giraudon was here, dressed in deep blue finery, her hair pinned in a series of elaborate loops and knots, the blonde wig she had worn in Paris hiding a treasure of russet, chestnut and chocolate.

‘My God, it is Eleanor Westbury, Emerald.’ Beatrice-Maude’s voice was concerned. ‘She has fainted. Where is her husband?’

Husband? The world began to get stranger as Cristo stopped the urge to simply move forwards and pick her up in his arms, the paleness in her face obscured now by others who had hurried to her side.

A sofa behind them proved to be a godsend and a young man Cristo presumed to be the one Beatrice-Maude spoke of bent down and lifted her onto it. Flashes of sapphire blue could be seen between the forms of concerned helpers as a doctor from the crowd kneeled down with a bag of physician’s tools.

Within a moment Cristo saw consciousness return and she tried to sit up, the uncertainty in her movements as she swiped away her hair transporting him back to his room at the Château Giraudon. He swallowed and heard a question directed at him. By Asher’s wife, he determined, and there was more than the normal quotient of curiosity in her voice.

‘Pardon?’ He was dazed, caught in the quandary of choice. The woman they named Eleanor Westbury had not tried to find him again with her glance, but had kept her eyes carefully downwards, her small hands wringing the fabric in her copious skirt, and the line of her bodice heaving with breath that was too uncertain.

The muscles of her femininity coiled around his fingers, the scent of sex and release and want and the naked glory of her body unresisting and easy.

Shaking with the effort of remaining so still, Cristo was wary as the glance of Emerald Wellingham met his in question.

‘Do you know her?’

He shook his head, not risking speech, and listened as Beatrice-Maude related to Taris exactly what was happening in a low monologue.

Why would she do that when the scene was right in front of him?

Another truth hit him as he turned: because his brother could not see any of it. When he looked to Ashe for the clarification of what he suspected, his oldest brother nodded. Almost imperceptibly.

The world turned on its axis, skewered by time and knowledge, no little truths these. No tiny unimportant discoveries.

The French whore who had been brought naked and willing to his bed was none other than a married English lady of the very first order and his brother Taris was blind.

‘Here is Martin Westbury, the Earl of Dromorne, now.’ Emerald spoke again and with interest Cristo sought out the man she had identified.

He watched as Eleanor’s husband, old and grey and confined to a chair, was wheeled to her side, watched how her fingers curled into his when he came there, the affection evident in such an action making him turn away.

‘That is Lord Dromorne?’ His question was blurted out with little finesse. The man looked as though he should be in a sanatorium somewhere, the colour of his skin a pallid grey.

Emerald nodded. ‘Yes, and it is rather a love match, for he is very wealthy and simply dotes upon her.’

So Eleanor Westbury was a woman with a position to keep up in society? A well-heeled and wellbrought-up lady, according to all he had heard of her, and one who had no place at all being in the backstreets of Paris’s night-time debauchery.

He was glad when the chimes sounded for patrons to return to their seats as it gave him a chance of escape and to mull over all that he had learned.

Would her illness be serious? Had she seen him?

A thousand questions turned in his head and yet in the midst of shock and disbelief another truth began to fester.

He wanted to see her again, wanted it with a desperation that made his breath shallow with aching.

‘I am all right now. Truly, Martin, I am all right. I do not know what came over me. Perhaps it was the closeness of the air or something that disagreed with me at dinner.’

Her husband had made so much of her swoon that Eleanor just wished he might take her words as truth and leave the matter alone. The Comte de Caviglione! Cristo Wellingham was the Comte de Caviglione with his velvet bed and his gauze-covered mirrors.

‘But you are always so strong. I have never before seen you so much as cry—?’ He stopped.

Eleanor squeezed his hand as much in gratitude as in shock. Tucked up in her bedroom, with soft down pillows at her back and a fire lit to banish the slight chill of an early summer evening, everything was in its place. Normal. Usual. She did not even dare to think about what might happen tomorrow.

For tonight she was safe. Home. She pressed down the guilt of five long years.

Come the morning there might be other topics that raged in the drawing rooms of London’s elite. Stories of ruin and stupidity. Cautionary tales about how the foolish ways of young women could so easily lead to the demise of reputation.

Letting go of her breath carefully, she answered her husband’s questions in the manner of one who only had small worries to consider and was glad when he finally kissed her on her forehead and left for repose in his own sleeping chamber.

When the door shut behind him she blew out the candles on her nightstand and slipped out of bed, opening the curtains and the window to let in the moonlight and the breeze. She felt freer in the darkness than she had done all day and was glad for the cool air above the heat of the fire. Martin felt the cold in a way that she never had, immobility adding to the problems he suffered with his circulation.

Her brow was clammy and sticky, the revelations of the evening leaving peril and fear as a crawling shock across her skin.

Cristo, the third son of the late Duke of Carisbrook was le Comte de Caviglione?

Had he seen her? Would he remember? His hair was shorter than it had been in Paris and his clothes were very different. But the sheer force of him was exactly the same: magnetic, dangerous, menacing. He looked like the panther she had seen in onyx a few months before in a little antique shop off Regent Street. Ranging across its territory, marking it out. Fine linen and wool did not disguise any of Cristo Wellingham’s contours or dull the measure in his glance. When her eyes fell on the charcoal portrait next to her bed, the risk of all she loved, all she held dear, was heightened again.

Florencia: her pale hair silvered and her cheekbones falling in exactly the same line as her father’s.

A letter came for her the next morning.

It was not monogrammed, so she was unprepared for the missive. This time, however, she was alone in the quiet of her room, the pile of mail brought in by her maid and deposited in the silver platter on her desk.

Cristo Wellingham’s handwriting was just as she would have expected it to be, boldly fashioned in capitals and in ink that was the colour of the midnight sky in high summer.

He wanted to see her when she could find the time. Just that! There was no explanation of why or where or how. Her feeling of dread doubled at the thought of refusal. If she did, what could be the consequences? Would he blackmail her, bully her into paying for his silence, or might he demand some service … again? For the second time in under twelve hours she felt the breathless terror of vulnerability.

She could, of course, tell no one. Martin hadn’t a notion as to Wellingham’s other identity and no other soul save Isobel, her friend in Paris, knew the real truth about her missing months in France. She shook her head and banished the worry. So far this morning there had not been a whisper about the reasons for her ridiculous faint at the theatre last night.

This was something that she had to face alone. But where could they safely meet? What possible destination would hide them from others, but be public enough to protect her? She needed an urban location, she knew that, but the parks were too crowded.

She also needed a destination that she might walk to, for her demands of a carriage made ready for her sole use would only incite curiosity given that she seldom ventured anywhere alone.

The thought made her start. Once she had been brave and free and adventurous, any challenge taken on with relish and delight. Like the delivery of her grandfather’s letter! She winced at the memory and pushed the thought aside, her eyes straying to the pile of books beside her bed from Hookham’s Lending Library in Bond Street.

A library. The spacious and elegant area of the place was public enough to be safe without being overfilled and they could repair to the assembly rooms on the first floor if there should happen to be anyone she recognised. There were chairs in the alcoves with wide windows that would protect her privacy without giving up her security. Besides, she walked to the place each week to exchange her books for new ones and she often went alone. It was the one place where she did so.

But when? Not tomorrow—she could not face Cristo Wellingham quite so soon. Wednesday was the morning she generally chose as her day to visit the reading rooms and if she stuck to routine she would be much safer.

With a quick scrawl she instructed him on the time and the place and, sealing the letter, put it in her reticule to post.

Chapter Six

Cristo sat by the window in a chair allowing him good access to the arrangement of the rooms. Eleanor Westbury was late by about twenty minutes, but he had decided to wait just in case some unforeseen difficulty had waylaid her.

He was glad that he had when he saw a figure dressed in deep blue hurrying in the door and, when she tipped her face to look around and her visage was seen beneath her ample summer hat, he knew it to be her.

Standing so that she might see the movement, he waited, though she did not come over immediately, but went to the desk instead and placed a pile of books before a small, efficient-looking man.

The librarian, Cristo guessed. He saw her speak to him for a few moments before traversing the room, picking one book from this shelf and another from the next. He doubted that she truly wished to read such tomes when he noticed one to be on the progress of the burgeoning railways, a book he had already struggled through a few months before.

Still, with an armful of reading material, she had given herself an excuse to wend her way towards the chairs at his end of the room, for there were places here to sit undisturbed and make one’s choice as to what to take home.

‘Lord Cristo! I do hope that we can make this very quick,’ she said as she finally stood before him.

Her voice was exactly as he remembered it, though now she spoke in English, the King’s English, each vowel rounded and proper, a thread of irritation easily heard.

‘Thank you for coming, Lady Dromorne.’

Her whole face blushed bright as their eyes caught and he noticed that her hands shook as she sat down and placed the chosen books in her lap.

‘I cannot stay very long at all, my lord.’

‘Are you recovered from your malade of the other day?’ Damn, he should not have used the French word for illness, he thought, for the frown on her forehead deepened considerably. He regrouped. ‘You look very different …’ Another mistake. He usually prided himself on his tact, and yet here he was like a tongue-tied and obtuse youth.

Fury marred the blueness of her eyes.

‘Different?’ she whispered, the anger in it making her undertone hoarse. ‘If it is the past that you are referring to, I should think that it might be wise to know that I should not hesitate to relate back to your family your own part in our unfortunate meeting, should you choose to be indiscreet, my lord.’

He ignored her rebuke. ‘Why were you there, then? In Paris, at the Château?’ He wanted to add ‘dressed as a whore’, but the rawness of the word in the light of all she had become seemed inappropriate and so he tempered his query.

She looked around, checking the nearness of any listening ears. ‘I was in the city visiting a good friend and I was at the Château Giraudon because of my own foolishness.’

‘You came in with the other women there that evening? Women who were prostitutes.’ He could no longer skirt around the issue.

She nodded. ‘I had heard that the Parisian fashionable set were somewhat … daring in their dress, or their lack of it. I took it to be a truth when we were all bundled inside together. I certainly had no thought to join them.’

‘God.’

‘The brandy, however, was all my own fault and I have not touched a drop of alcohol since.’

‘God,’ he repeated again, and drew his hand through his hair. Not her fault, but his own. He should have seen that she was everything the others were not, should have read the clues with more acumen and aptitude. He was a man paid for uncovering duplicity, after all, and yet he had let himself be duped by a pretty face and an unexpected gift. His conscience pricked sharp. If a man had treated his sister as he had treated Eleanor, he would have killed him.

Cristo suddenly wished he could have spirited her away to some far-off and unreachable location, and one where he could replace the lines of worry on her forehead with laughter and ease.

He was surprised how very much he wanted that.

Yet still there were unanswered questions! ‘There was a letter left in the folds of the bed-coverings that morning when you left. I presume it was your doing?’

‘It was.’

‘Had you read the missive?’

‘The envelope was sealed in wax. I would hardly break my dead grandfather’s trust.’

‘Your grandfather?’

‘I was Eleanor Bracewell-Lowen before marrying Martin Westbury, the Earl of Dromorne. Nigel was my brother.’

Her short, sharp nod encompassed a wealth of censure and the history between them solidified again. Every time he met this lady his world spun into an unbidden and opposite direction.

Nigel Bracewell-Lowen’s blood dripping onto his hands as he tried to stem the flow from the wound in his throat, the empty brandy bottle before them denoting another evening of unbridled excess. Wild youth and wilder morals. Consequences had had no credence in the riotous foolhardy waywardness of Cristo’s pubescence. Until Nigel!

‘My father killed himself the following year.’ Her voice again, layering guilt. ‘So it is well that you know that you have already taken the full measure of happiness from my family.’

He shook his head, at a loss for words as he reached out for her hand, and in that second he knew that he had just made the second biggest mistake of his life.

It was like the newfangled electricity tingling up his arm and pouring into the very depths of his soul, filling it up with need, lust, urgency and spineless warmth.

Snatching his fingers away, he looked straight at her. The blood had run from her face, the blush now a pale and ghostly white as the books on her lap fell to the floor.

Everyone looked. The librarian with his thick spectacles, the two women over by the door, and the group of men who perused the latest daily newssheets! Yet instead of bending to pick up the volumes, he could do nothing save gaze back at her and remember.

Remember the way she had felt beneath him, lying on burgundy velvet as he had teased her into response. Remember her wetness and abandon and seduction.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ The man at the desk was now right beside him. ‘Are you quite well, Lady Dromorne?’

Cristo had to give Eleanor her due as she smiled and turned to the librarian, her voice husky.

‘I am all right, thank you, Mr Jones. This gentleman was just asking me about the lending system here. He is new to London and it seems that he may want to join.’

The librarian’s face brightened considerably.

‘If you will follow me to the desk then, sir, I would be pleased to show you the details.’

Cristo stood, just as Eleanor did, her wedding ring catching the light when she straightened her bonnet. Further and further away from the woman in Paris, the fetters of responsibility and obligation chained across feeling. Married. Happily.

He could do nothing save stand and watch her leave, and the hand with which he had touched her lay fisted tight in the pocket of his jacket, fingers curled around self-reproach.

She should not have gone, should not have met him alone or allowed him to touch her, because now blackmail was the very least of her worries.

Leaning back against the seat beneath the trees in one corner of Hyde Park, she liked the way summer crept into the shadows. Misty almost, overlaid with the dust of sunshine. Her heart beat with a rhythm she had felt only once before and she pressed down hard on the sensation, needing this small time to recover her wits.

Forgotten. Alive. Decadent. Intemperate.

Martin’s age and impotence had been the one reason that she had accepted his proposal of marriage and the core of her contentment with him had been unquestioned until today.

Until Cristo Wellingham’s fingers had unleashed a feeling in her body that was undeniable. Like water to a desert, unfolding into life, again, unbidden, and the crouching chaos ready to strike just as it had before.

Well, she could not let it!

Martin preferred the quiet life and the unexpected was not to be encouraged. ‘A peaceful life is a happy life,’ he was fond of saying, such a sentiment appealing after the débâcle in Paris. Her hands threaded themselves through the supple leather strap of her reticule, tying knots with her fingers. She did not catch the eye of a single person walking by, but sat very still, summoning calm.

‘Lady Dromorne?’ The question came quietly; looking up, Eleanor saw Lady Beatrice-Maude Wellingham had stopped before her.

Smoothing out the crinkles in her gown, Eleanor tucked back her hair before standing. She knew Beatrice-Maude Wellingham only slightly and when the woman dismissed her maid to a respectable distance worry blossomed.

‘How fortunate to find you here, Lady Dromorne, for there is a small matter that I wish to speak to you about that has been rather a worry to me.’

Eleanor indicated the seat next to her and the other sat as she did. ‘I hope, then, that I might be of assistance.’

‘It is a matter pertaining to my brother-in-law, Cristo Wellingham.’

The name lay between them like an unsheathed dagger, sharp and brutal, and Eleanor was lost for a reply.

‘As you may be aware, he has returned home after many years abroad and as a family we would very much like him to stay in England. It is in that respect that I am seeking your counsel.’

‘My counsel?’ The words were choked out, almost inaudible, and Beatrice-Maude Wellingham looked at her strangely.

‘Perhaps this is not a good time to worry you with anything,’ she began. ‘If your health is fragile after the theatre …’

‘No, I am perfectly recovered.’

Eleanor hated the panic she could hear on the edge of denial and the question she could determine in the eyes of the one opposite.

‘Very well. It is just that it has come to my notice that you may have a vested interest in seeing my brother-in-law unsettled here in England.’

‘Your notice?’ Everything she had feared was coming about. Had Cristo Wellingham confided the truth of her predicament to his family?

‘Through various sources, you understand, and most of them quite reliable.’ The woman opposite seemed to have no idea of the horror that was fast consuming Eleanor. ‘I realize, of course, that the whole predicament may be rather difficult for you, but hoped that charity might persuade you to see the facts as we see them.’

‘As you see them?’

‘Many years have since passed and as his crime was only one of passion …’

Only one of passion!

Eleanor had had quite enough and she stood. ‘I am not certain why you have brought this to my attention, Lady Beatrice-Maude, but I would prefer it if you would leave! The truth of my relations with your brother-in-law is something I do not wish to discuss and if he is adamant about ruining my reputation, then rest assured I shall fight him until the very last breath I take. I have my daughter to consider, after all, and any of his defamations of my character will be strongly denied in any forum you might name. I might add that the amount of my husband’s money is endless and dragging any matter through the law courts would be prohibitively expensive.’

‘His defamations?’ Beatrice-Maude looked more than shocked. ‘It was not his defamations I was referring to, Lady Dromorne, but your own. I know that he was involved in the scandal concerning the death of your brother and I thought to smooth the waters, so to speak, and find a resolution to such a loss.’

‘My brother?’ The world turned again ‘You are speaking of Nigel?’

‘Indeed. It was said at the time that Cristo was responsible for the accident.’

‘I see.’ Eleanor swallowed back bile. My God, she had, in her fear, read the whole situation completely wrongly, and given away things that she had admitted to no one else. Her fingers squeezed together. Beatrice-Maude Wellingham was one of the cleverest women in London. The cleverest, were rumour to be believed, and she had just laid the bare facts of the relationship right into her hands.

She hardly knew what to do next; did not trust herself with any other utterance, the horrible realisation of exposing everything a potent reason to keep her mouth firmly closed.

Finally Beatrice-Maude spoke. ‘I think I should probably take my leave.’

‘I think that you probably should.’ Eleanor could no longer cope with pretending manners. Sparring with two Wellinghams in one day was more than enough.

She watched as the older woman turned, though she did not walk away immediately.

‘You may count on my saying nothing of this matter to anyone, Lady Dromorne.’ Her words were softly said, as if she was cognisant of the importance of care.

‘A service that I would thank you for, Lady Beatrice-Maude.’ Eleanor did not stand, but waited till the footsteps receded before looking up. The wind was heightening, buffeting itself against the leaves and sending a few of them scattering in the air.

She held herself tight with silence, the mute reserve helping her to come to terms with the gravity of her mistake.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Could she trust the woman? Would Beatrice-Maude Wellingham be true to her word of maintaining her silence? The thicker tie of blood would make things more difficult and, looking at the family group the other evening, she had detected a strong sense of solidarity. Too strong?

When Martin called her as she arrived home some half an hour later, she pinched colour into her cheeks before walking out to greet him, for none of this could ever be his problem and his health was fragile. Slipping her hand into his, she kissed him on the cheek, leaning against the handles of his chair for balance.

‘When will Florencia be home?’ he asked her. ‘Her governess said that she was not here yet.’

‘Soon, I think. Your sister has taken her out for the afternoon.’

‘You look pale.’

‘I sat in the park on the way home from the reading room and it was a little chilly. Lady Beatrice-Maude Wellingham stopped to ask how we were.’

How easy it was to stretch out the truth when all your life depended on it, Eleanor thought.

His hand squeezed her own. ‘Sometimes I worry that I have made your life very dull, my dear.’

She stopped him simply by raising her hand to his face. The stubble of an eight-hour shadow scratched and she noticed the way his skin had shrunk around the bones of his cheek.

Thinner. Older. More tired.

His fingers interlaced with hers. A good and honourable man, and a long way from the husband that she would have struggled to find had the true enormity of her predicament ever become public. No, she was the most fortunate of women and if the sacrifice of marital intimacy was the payment for respectability, then far be it from her to wish it different.

As he continued to stroke the back of her hand, however, worrying her skin with a dull repetition, she wondered how it was possible for Cristo Wellingham’s simple touch to engender a reaction that had raced through all her body.

‘I would like to hold a party, Taris, to celebrate Cristo’s return.’ Beatrice entwined her feet through those of her husband’s as they lay in bed later that night. His warmth was welcomed.

She felt his chest rise in laughter, the darkness of the room obscuring any expression. ‘I am not certain he would welcome such a thing. I know I should not. Besides, as yet we have no real idea of his motives for returning to England. He may be here to slander the name of Wellingham yet again and will leave as soon as he gets bored by the uneventful routine of everyday life.’

‘He is your brother, Taris. Whatever happens, you will need to mend your fences or face a lifetime of regret.’

‘Asher would rather erect higher barriers and push him out altogether. The sins in his past have not been simple and when he left last time the arguments between our father and Cristo were, at the least, vitriolic. He was a wild youth, I suppose, with few boundaries, though Ashborne always kept a certain distance from him, which probably made matters worse.’

Beatrice broke in with her own understanding of the matter. ‘Yet he is not an evil man, or even a bad one.’

His smile curved into the tips of her fingers. ‘You can tell so quickly?’

‘I was married to a miscreant for years. One gets a feel for them.’

‘Lord, Bea. Sometimes your wit is careless …’

Her laughter drifted across the room. ‘Only with you, Taris,’ she said softly, her nails running across the bare skin of his arm, before she returned to the matter in hand. ‘It could be a weekend house party down at Beaconsmeade. Not a huge affair, but a small one.’

‘Who would you invite?’

Bea felt her heart begin to race a little faster, for deception was something she had always been very bad at. ‘The family, of course, and a few other friends and acquaintances.’

His palm took her wrist, measuring the beat. ‘Acquaintances?’ There was a tone in the word demanding truth.

‘I saw Lady Dromorne today in the park, Taris. Did your brother ever mention her to you?’

Taris pushed back his pillow. ‘Eleanor Westbury? In what way?’

‘Had he been … interested in her at all?’

‘Did she say that he had been?’

‘No.’ Even to her own ears the denial was too quick. Too forced.

‘There was that fracas many years ago with Nigel Bracewell-Lowen that many insisted was a result of Cristo’s antics, though of course such an accusation was never proved. I do not think that she would welcome your invitation. Besides, she is a married woman and Martin Westbury rarely ventures out.’

Bea nodded. Reason pointed to a happy union, but her own intuition was telling her something very different. Lady Dromorne had fainted when she had seen Cristo at the theatre and this afternoon Prudence Tomlinson had mentioned she had seen them touching hands in the public reading room.

Bea had squashed this rumour by swearing her brother-in-law to be at Beaconsmeade for the day and Prue had laughed at her own silly imagination, glad for the chance to clear up such a misunderstanding. Yet the meeting with Eleanor had made Bea curious.

How could Cristo’s revelations be responsible for ruining Eleanor’s reputation? Her mind ran further afield to the age and infirmity of the husband. There was a daughter, too, of about five, if memory served her well. She wondered how such an unwell and aged man had been able to father a child. Another thought charged in over the top of that one and Beatrice took in a breath. What if Martin Westbury was not the true parent of Eleanor’s daughter? Cursing her fertile imagination, she listened again to her husband.

‘If you are bent on repairing the relations between our family, perhaps an invitation to the two younger Westbury nieces might be a better way to do it. They are reputed to be sensible girls. Ask some of the young bucks about Beaconsmeade to even out the numbers.’

Beatrice smiled tightly. Sense told her to leave the matter entirely, yet there was sadness in the pale blue eyes of Eleanor Westbury that was undeniably interlaced with her brother-in-law. The small opportunity to play out the conclusion of something important could not hurt, could it?

She snuggled down into the arms of her husband and pulled the light cover across them, his heavy masculinity treasured and safe.

‘I love you, Taris.’

He laughed as he turned her over, and covered the soft desire in her body with his own particular molten heat.

‘Show me.’

Chapter Seven

The invitation to the Wellinghams’ party in ten days’ time caused a stir in the Dromorne household and for many more reasons than any could have guessed.

The two younger Westbury girls screamed with delighted shock, each imagining the gowns that might catch the fancy and admiration of the enigmatic youngest Wellingham brother.

Martin Westbury, on the other hand, decided that he would simply decline the invite altogether, but was most insistent that his wife take his nieces and sister to the affair as it had been a long while since they had been invited to any soirée of the very first order. Not that Martin ranked things in accordance with such strict and rigid axioms, but his sister’s daughters’ futures had to be considered and another Season in London for the girls was beginning to pall on him with the hustle and bustle social intercourse demanded.

Eleanor was just struck dumb, unable to formulate any real understanding of any of it.

She had expected to be a persona non grata to Lady Beatrice-Maude after her outburst and instead had received one of the most sought-after social cards of the Season. A great dread engulfed her.

‘Sophie and Margaret must go, of course,’ she began, and was surprised when Martin raised his hand.

‘You and Diana will chaperone them, Lainie. It is only right and proper.’

‘I am quite happy to let Diana go in my stead. Besides, I could not leave Florencia for so very long.’

But her husband was having none of it.

‘As Florencia has her beloved governess and I have been feeling considerably better of late, I am certain this would be a good change for all of us.’ He winked at his sister. ‘To make sure that we live up to the standards required, you shall all go off to the dressmaker and get fitted out for such an occasion.’

Such a proclamation brought renewed shouts of delight, Margaret’s face even teasing a smile from the gloom that had overcome Eleanor, and when Florencia was brought down, Eleanor opened her arms to her daughter, enjoying her soft warmth.

‘Did you have a lovely time yesterday, Florencia?’ Margaret asked the question with a smile.

‘We saw some puppies. They licked my hands and followed me. Could we bring one home, Mama, even just for a little while?’ The silver in her hair was caught by the light from the window.

‘You know that Papa would get iller if a pet came home, darling.’

‘We could keep one outside, though? Aunt Diana’s friend said that it could be.’

‘It might get rather cold in the winter when you are warmly tucked up in your bed.’

Eleanor wished Martin would help her out on this, but his earlier forcefulness was gone, replaced instead by the more normal air of exhaustion. Even the scrambled eggs seemed too much bother for him to eat this morning. A pang of worry shot through her, her own concerns seeming selfish in the face of his sickness.

‘Should I ask the doctor to come and see you again, Martin? He is most happy to be called at any time.’

Her husband shook his head and closed his eyes, momentarily looking so washed out that a flurry of alarm made Eleanor start. When Florencia glanced up from her lap, she ordered herself to be calm. The doctor had assured them that his condition was stable and that the deterioration Eleanor could so plainly see had tapered off. She wanted to seek a second opinion, but Martin would have none of it, insisting on his satisfaction with such a prognosis.

Hugging Florencia tighter, she wondered if his condition would continue to worsen. In the breakfast room, with the happy talk of new gowns and the sun slanting through the French doors from the outside courtyard, such a thought was unsettling; an interloping truth that she wanted to ignore until she no longer could. The scent of summer roses in a large blue vase filled the air.

Taking a breath, she gathered her strength and joined in the conversation Margaret and Sophie were having on the dressmaker of their choice and on the weekend’s entertainment.

‘They say that Beaconsmeade is a beautiful old house and that Lord Taris Wellingham keeps his best horses at stud there.’ Sophie seemed full of information that Eleanor had not a notion of.

‘Perhaps there will be a chance to ride, then, for Cristo Wellingham is reported to be keen on the sport. I will put in my riding habit.’

Margaret’s hopes had Sophie giggling, though the youthful exuberance of the girls gave Eleanor a sharp pang of loss.

When had she ever been truly young? Pregnant at eighteen and a wife before twenty! And now with her twenty-fourth birthday on the horizon she felt old before her time. Stolen kisses would never be for her, the flirtatious dance of the fan in a crowded ballroom only a figment of imagination and fantasy, like some chapter of one of the romantic books she sometimes borrowed from the reading room.

Beaconsmeade suddenly felt like a trap! A terrible mistake that she was being drawn into. If Cristo Wellingham should be caught in the wiles of her beautiful nieces, what would happen then?

A lifetime of trying not to touch him or be alone with him or letting the truth of her lost year become public knowledge, for with a single misplaced glance her whole life could fall to pieces. So very, very easily.

Looking up, she saw Martin watching her in that peculiar way he had of seeing straight through a person.

‘Penny for your thoughts.’ She smiled, but he did not answer, the melancholy that was growing in him with each passing week so much more apparent amongst a roomful of sunshine, roses and hopeful expectations.

The evening fell across the land as Cristo rode down towards the shore, faster than safety might allow him, the breath of his horse caught in mist, white-shadowed warmth amidst all that was cold.

Home at Falder! Finally. He had come alone and late, the knowledge of an empty castle making it easier to journey here. He intended to return to London in the morning, after looking at the Graveson land.

Yet the ocean breathed its welcome, the foam of a fading storm caught in the pebbles and on the wind, tumbling into distance and lost. He laughed at the fragility of all that the sea could throw at him, her tendrils lapping at the feet of his mount as on and on he galloped, the bold speed of Demeter eating up the miles. Falder Castle lay far behind, the numerous turrets caught by the last pink rays of dusk, the new quarter moon hiding behind clouds of high cirrus tinged with red.

The anger in him settled into something more akin to acceptance and the wide-open freedom soothed a fury that had gripped him ever since he had touched Eleanor Westbury’s hand.

She was not for him!

Never for him!

The refrain beat across denial and desire and just plain damned common sense.

He had come home to become the person that he once had been, a son, a brother, a lord. He had not ventured into England to become a home-wrecker or a heartbreaker or a rake. The memory of Paris must be left there, forgotten, buried amongst the necessity of survival and civility. For too many years he had let the other side rule him; whether for the good of mankind or for the good of himself, he had got to the point where he could no longer tell, his forays into the underbelly of greed and falsity the only thing that let him believe anything mattered. Spying for the British had almost cost him his sanity, the company he had kept for years far away from any fellowship he might have enjoyed otherwise. Yet he saw the sacrifice as a penance and the recklessness in him had been tethered instead into the benefit of England’s protection and sovereignty. He was pleased that it had ended, that the Foreign Office had released him from further duties when his file had been closed.

Breathing out hard, he stopped and the light on the calmer waters of the peninsula of Return Home Bay was a perfect reflection of the sky. As unreal as he was, only mirroring what was outside, what was expected, the heavy burden of his name and his heritage finally grounding the fury of all that had happened in his life.

He remembered Nigel’s life-blood ebbing away and his own blood on the deck of the nightmare ship he had taken from London, fleeing from his father’s wrath and banishment! The blood of other souls in Paris was mixed in there, too, politics and persuasion exacting their own biting revenge. Sometimes he had killed innocents and then reasoned the sin gone by patriotic virtue. Sometimes at night he remembered those faces, the last expressions of terror etched for ever into his own regret. He frowned. The retribution of ghosts was surprisingly relentless and his own contrition undeniably growing.

Dismounting, he stooped to pick up a pebble, skipping it across the surface in the way that he had learnt in his youth. Lord, what mistakes he had made!

Time folded back and he was on the front steps of Nigel’s parents’ home, the story of a son’s demise full on his lips. On his lips until the door had been opened and the man who had stood there was the same one who had shot at them unexpectedly from the bridge behind the village cemetery. The recognition had been as fatal as Cristo’s lack of gumption, and though he had thought to run by then it was far, far too late. Nigel’s uncle had told him that he had seen the boys using guns for target practice; when Cristo had argued the point the man had become angry, blaming the alcohol the boys had drunk for skewing his memory. An accident was a thing of chance, after all, the older man had added, and no one needed to be ruined by it.

Cristo had returned to London that very night to tell his father the true version of events, but Ashborne had refused to believe his side of the story and had banished him to France on the next tide, forbidding him to return to England for a very long time. Faced with his father’s rejection, Nigel’s uncle’s slanderous untruths and a reputation that was hardly salubrious, he had boarded the ship, nearly nineteen but with the cares of the world firmly embedded on his shoulders.

Cristo swore as he remembered Eleanor’s words.

‘Know that you have already taken the full measure of happiness from my family.’

Another sin. A further damnation!

Falder spoke to him with the wisdom of generations enfolded in its soil, a prudent and enlightened message that bore the weight of ancestry reaching back into living history, and beyond, his body only a vassal of wardship for the few paltry years that God had allotted to him.

Eight-and-twenty gone, many frittered away in the quest for a justice that he himself had never gained. A wanderer. A stranger. A lover. A spy. A man with as many faces as he had needed: the list as endless as the sea, and as changing. But for now he wanted permanence. Bending down again, he filtered a handful of sand through his fingers and watched it fall onto a shore that was known, understood and cherished.

Tears blurred his eyes and he wiped them away with the cloth of his jacket, quickly, shaken by the depth of his love for the place and he knelt on the living and breathing ground, praying aloud to the Lord for deliverance.

‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …’

Eleanor saw Lord Cristo in the park a few days later, his head a good couple of inches above those of the men about him and the material of his jacket straining across the breadth of his back. She was glad he was looking away, for it gave her a chance to seek out another trail that would lead her nowhere near him. The sun in his hair marked it with every shade of pale, the length creeping onto the material of his collar and tousled thick. She turned her gold wedding ring and remembered the feel of him beneath her fingers before hot guilt made her heart beat faster.

Angling the broad brim on her bonnet, she tipped her head, slicing off the whole end of the pathway.

She had slept badly in the past few days, dreams and nightmares entwined with shame and forbidden passion and banishing her to church early each dawn to pray for some ease from the sins of the flesh. The image of Jesus stretched on the cross in the stained glass etching was a timely reminder of what might happen to her should her indiscretion ever be known. She smiled at the word ‘indiscretion’ for it intimated such a small mistake, an ill-chosen pathway of moderate consequence. The truth of her ruin and loss was something far more brutal.

Two shiny brown boots suddenly blocked her path and she knew exactly to whom they belonged even before she looked up.

‘Ma’am.’ Cristo Wellingham gave her his greeting, eyes in the sunshine much lighter than she had seen them.

Beautiful eyes, her daughter’s eyes!

The very thought chased away fright and replaced it with a channelled resolve. Quietly asking her maid to allow her some space to talk, she walked over to the shelter of a line of elms and stopped there.

No one was in sight save her servant, and farther off two old men whom she did not know. Five moments at the most, she thought, and took a breath.

‘Your sister-in-law sent an invitation for a soirée at Beaconsmeade. Did you know that she had done so?’

He shook his head.

‘You of all people must realise that I cannot possibly come.’ She kept her voice as low as she might manage it and the frown on his brow indicated thought.

‘Because it might compromise your carefully constructed public persona?’ He stepped back as her glance raked across his, anger and uncertainty and sheer desperation melded with another growing truth. ‘Are you happily married, Lady Dromorne?’

The veneer of civilisation that he had affected here in England was suddenly much less obvious. Eleanor tasted fear as she never had before, because in the bare, cold amber she detected something she had seen in her own eyes in the mirror over the past few days.

Longing.

Longing that even anger and vigilance and sense had failed to dislodge. She stood wordless, the dreadful chasm of loss between them echoing in every breath that she took.

Tell him, yes, I am very happily married, she heard her mind say. Tell him that you love your husband and your life and your place in the world and that any interference from him would be most unwelcome and unacceptable. Tell him to go and to never look back and insist that the history between them was so repugnant she needed no more reminding of any of it.

She opened her mouth and then closed it again, the warm summer wind streaming between them and the silk of her dress touching her skin in the way he had once touched it, inviting passion, igniting lust.

Even for Florencia she could not say the words.

‘Meet me tonight. I have rooms here in London …’ He spoke as she did not.

Pulled from the past into the present, this harsh truth of seduction was a far easier thing to counter.

She could not believe he had said such words to her here in the wind and in the sunlight. A man who would throw away her good name on a whim, never even imagining whom else he would hurt. ‘My husband loves me, Lord Cristo, and I am a wife who applauds loyalty.’

‘Touch me, then.’

Shock filled her eyes.

‘Touch me and tell me that there is nothing at all left between us.’

She held her fists tight against her skirt. ‘The pull of flesh is only a fleeting thing, monseigneur.’ The title she gave him was deliberate, a grim reminder of the misunderstanding that trembled beneath anger. ‘Honour and trust and duty are the tenets that a sensible woman lives by.’

‘And you are sensible?’

‘Very.’ The word was as forceful as she could make it, moulded by her depth of fear.

Unexpectedly, he took three steps back. ‘Logic and reason run a poor second to the heat of passion, ma chérie. Should you relax your guard for a moment, the truth of all you deny might be a revelation to you.’

Pursing her lips, Eleanor allowed him no leeway. ‘I do not think you should presume to believe that you know anything of my fidelity. My life has changed completely since Paris and I am a woman who learns well from her mistakes.’

‘Mistakes?’ He echoed the word, turning it on his tongue as if trying to understand the very nature of its meaning before finding a retort. ‘I have relegated our night together to neither blunder nor error. Indeed, were I to give it a label, as you seem want to do, I might have chanced something very different.’

The glint in his eye was so carnal and lascivious that Eleanor knew exactly where he would have placed it. The smile he gave her showed off his gleaming white teeth.

Biting back impatience, she inclined her head as he gave her his leave without another word, his figure receding into the distance until he was lost altogether when the next corner claimed him.

It was over between them, the truth of circumstance bitingly clear: just a matter of the flesh, easily duplicated in a room for rent by the hour.

Turning, she watched the ducks on the lake in their small family groups. Mother. Father. Ducklings. How it should be. How it had been designed and planned. Florencia knew who her parents were and without Martin, Eleanor might never have made it back to England. Dark days and lonely days. Days when she had wondered if it might not have been easier to simply cease to exist at all. Pressing down on her chest in alarm, she tried to breathe, her composure reasserting itself as the tableau before her took shape. The trees, the birds, the pathways, people now further afield and the distant clatter of hooves.

A good life. Untainted and wholesome. A real life.

Her life.

Not thrilling or adventurous or even passionate, but safe and prudent and certain.

With a wave of her hand she gestured her maid forwards, resolutely ignoring the question in her eyes as she struck down the pathway for home, hating the tears that blurred everything before her. Disappointment lent her gait a tense anger that was almost as unreal as her honour, dissolved under the meaning of Cristo Wellingham’s words.

Meet me tonight. I have rooms here in London.

Only that. Only that.

The words rolled around in the empty corridors of her hope, a bitter pill pointing to the real character of a man of whom she had no true knowledge. It was done between them. Finished. Her nails dug into her palms, causing hurt until she released her grip and opened her fingers to the air.

Chapter Eight

The dinner at the Baxters’ was unavoidable, as an invitation had been sent and accepted weeks in advance.

It was the first time she had been out in society since the fiasco at the Haymarket Theatre and Eleanor was pleased that the gathering was a small one.

Cristo Wellingham would not be there.

He frequented the more racy events by all the news she was given through her nieces’ fascination with the man. The age of all those present tonight promised to be well over fifty and the host was a devout man who countenanced no form of rudeness or vulgarity. The very thought made her swallow, for if Anthony Baxter had an inkling of her past she would not get a foot in the doorway.

Anger welled. The headstrong exuberance of her youth was hardly a fault that should lead to such consequences and had she not made up for her mistakes ever since with a pious and selfless existence? Hiding everything.

She jolted as Martin came into the room, for she had not heard the whirr of the wheels on the chair.

‘You are so jumpy these days, Eleanor, and in one so young it is rather worrying. You need to get out more, for Florencia is well able to cope without your presence in the house for a few hours.’

In the light of her thoughts from a few moments prior, the criticism stung more than it might have otherwise. ‘I am quite happy as I am,’ she returned, hearing in her retort an anger that was not becoming, but today, with her carefully constructed world in danger of falling apart, any censure rankled.

‘If I could venture on a word, “distracted” might be the one to describe you of late, and it doesn’t suit you.’ He held his cravat out to her and she took it. ‘Would you help me with this?’

She had always tied his cravat, though today she felt irritation as she finished off the last of the intricate folds. She was distracted. Distracted to the point of bewilderment. She pushed down on the feeling as he lifted a box she had not noticed from his lap and gave it to her.

Garrard’s, the jewellers? When she opened the case a necklace of turquoise lay in the velvet with matching earrings beside it.

‘It is not my birthday for another month …?’ she began, questioningly.

‘No. But you have seemed preoccupied and I thought a tonic in order. Besides it is almost five years ago that I asked you to marry me and I wanted to remember that.’

Eleanor’s mind went back: Florence in the summer with its plane trees sculptured green and the Arno winding its way in front of the villa he owned beside the Piazza della Signoria. They had been sitting in the gazebo when she had felt nauseous and he had brought her out a warm wet towel scented in lavender to wipe her face and hands.

Luxury after the débâcle in France. A man who might take care of everything, even a daughter conceived out of wedlock on a gaudy velvet bed in the Chateau Giraudon.

Stroking one turquoise stone and then another, the sheer goodness of her husband left her speechless. ‘I have never deserved you, Martin.’

He stopped her words by a touch against her arm, no passion in it. ‘If I had been younger, healthier …’

With a shake of her head she leant down and gave him a kiss on the cheek, wishing just for a moment that she might have wanted passion and found his lips. But she did not wish to spoil everything with a careless gesture and five years of togetherness had never included any sort of lust.

‘Would you wear these today?’ he asked and she bent as he fastened the stones, the gold adjusting quickly to the temperature of her skin.

When he had finished she walked to the mirror and saw a woman of means looking back, the necklace lavish and expensive, the bodice of the gown adorned in Honiton lace and her hair fashioned in a style that might suit … an older woman.

The thought came from nowhere. A woman who was cautious, and careful and proper! Forcing gaiety as she turned back to her husband, she thanked him for her gift.

Cristo noticed Eleanor Westbury the moment she walked into the small salon, her husband in the chair before her. This evening she wore a gown of much the same cut as the older female guests, the bodice high and proper and a heavy turquoise bauble of gold and blue sitting in the lace. Did the Earl of Dromorne choose her clothes as well as her jewellery? He wondered how wealth seemed bent on squandering taste with such dreadful choices.

Close up the man was more ancient than he had imagined him at the theatre, though the grey in his hair was not as pronounced as he had first thought it.

Sixty, he imagined. Or nearly sixty. The image of Eleanor lying in bed with her husband brought a vision he did not wish for and he dismissed it, the lingering memory of their own tryst replacing the illusion.

Satin skin and warmth, the sounds of winter Paris and its Sunday bells, soft mist across the Seine coating the charcoal branches of elms in greyness. She had a presence he had never quite fathomed. Haunting. Calling. A woman who had stirred his blood in a way no other had ever managed to do before or since.

Did Martin Westbury now feel the same pleasure? He noticed how the man placed his fingers across her arm in a singular proclamation of ownership, and noticed too the way her fingers curled about his in return. Anger blossomed, though given his own part in the débâcle in Paris it was guilt that should have surfaced. He was the one, after all, who had left a young lady ruined in a strange and foreign city, a man who should have behaved differently and more honourably. If he could take it back he would. If he could have the moment again he would have kept her safe and unscathed, a tiny incident that would cause only a ripple in the fabric of Eleanor Dromorne’s life.

And instead? He did not like to even think of what had happened after she had disembarked from the carriage that he had sent her away in!

With a sigh he looked up and straight into the eyes of Honour Baxter, the wife of his host.

‘She is beautiful, no?’ Her accent was marked, the French slurring the words into a longer version of the English.

Cristo realised that she spoke of Lady Dromorne and schooled all expression on his face.

‘Indeed.’

‘But sad I think, too. A young flower who has not yet had the chance to open.’

He remained silent.

‘I knew her mother, you know. A melancholic woman who was constantly worried about her health. Eleanor was always different, for she was vibrant and alive in a way few other girls her age were. I often wonder just what happened to douse such … passion?’

Her legs entwined about his own. Her teeth nipping at his throat.

Hardly passionless!

What happened after she had left him and disappeared into a waking day?

Where had she met Dromorne and why had she married a man old enough to be her father?

Necessity! The answer came unbidden and rang with the clearness of an unwanted truth.

Had she rolled the dice and taken her chances? An older man who might not notice a lack of maidenhead and a lie that would suck the living out of anybody. And had.

Passionless.

Now?

Because of him?

The awful verity of such a thought almost brought him to his knees and the first stab of pain in his head made him worry.

Lord help her, Eleanor thought, Cristo Wellingham was here, in this room not five yards away and speaking with the host’s wife, Honour Baxter, a Frenchwoman who had made her home in London for many years.

Her fingers tightened across those of her husband and as he patted her hand she held on, the turquoise stones in her new necklace glinting under a fine chandelier above them, pinning her into the light, like an insect under glass. When Cristo Wellingham’s eyes suddenly found hers she looked away and for the first time in a long while she swore beneath her breath, sheer fury reshaping her more normal carefulness. The skin on her arms rose up into goose-bumps as he came closer and she steeled herself to greet him.

‘Lord Cristo. I don’t believe you have met the Earl of Dromorne and his charming young wife, Lady Dromorne.’ Anthony Baxter gave the introductions as Martin held out his hand. Eleanor merely nodded, her title and sex affording her the ability to remain as glacial as she wished.

‘My wife was delighted with Lord Cristo’s return from Paris as she now has someone to reminisce on the beauty of a city that has long been in her heart. Have you spent much time there, Lady Dromorne?’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘No, I am afraid not.’

‘Then you must entice your husband there, my dear. It is in the spring when the city is at its most beautiful, would you not agree, my lord?’

‘I would beg to differ and say that it is the season of winter that appeals to me the most, sir.’

Dark eyes bored straight into her own and the room tilted and then straightened, a bend in time that had her leaning against Martin’s chair, the faint echo of bells in her mind and a man who wore too many rings upon his fingers. Embellished. Foreign. The weight of years of adventure scrawled into both his clothes and the furnishings of his room!

Surreptitiously she glanced at his hands to see them bare. Just another difference. Stripped of gold and silver in London, but with the same sense of recklessness still upon him, simmering in his height and his stance and in the rough beauty of his face.

‘Did you live in Paris for long?’ Martin’s question was quietly phrased, his lisp giving the city’s name a burnished edge.

‘Too long.’ Cristo Wellingham’s reply held no hint of any such temperance and Eleanor wondered if her husband might have sensed his irony, but it seemed that he had not for his next question was even more to the point.

‘I enjoyed the area around the Louvre the most when I was there last. Where did you reside?’

‘Near Montmartre.’

Anthony Baxter coughed, the mention of a name that boasted more than its fair share of the evils of the night heard in the noise. An English gentleman’s way of shelving a topic for a more pleasant one. She wondered at the smile that was momentarily on Lord Cristo’s lips before he had the chance to hide it.

Neither tame nor amenable, he was a man who ruled a room with a sheer and easy power. The ache in her stomach leapt into fear and she was pleased when Honour Baxter took her by the arm and led her away to admire a recently completed tapestry.

Mon Dieu, Cristo thought, as the sixth course of the unending dinner was served, the formal English fare of lamb cutlets, chicken patties and lobster rissoles richer than he remembered, and heavy.

He wished he might have been seated somewhere near Eleanor Westbury but he was not, his place almost as far from hers as could be managed and the table splintering into groups that denied him even the pleasure of hearing her opinions.

Baxter was a man who took his position as a lay preacher with a depressing seriousness and every word he uttered seemed more and more conservative, the teachings of the Bible translated so literally Cristo could barely bother to listen. He had only deigned to come in the first place because of Honour, a woman whom he admired, with her quick laughter and relaxed ways. He wondered how her marriage had lasted the distance of time and reasoned perhaps opposites did in some way attract.

Still, the wine was a fine one, though a headache that was familiar had begun to pound, and he switched over to water to try to keep it at bay, alarmed by the tremors he felt in his hand as he lifted the glass to his lips. Beneath the thick layers of English cloth his body prickled with sweat; finishing the water, he poured himself another from the silver jug on the table in front of him and the liquid settled his stomach.

When the men finally joined the women later in the drawing room he noticed Eleanor alone at the window on the far side of the room. He was very careful not to touch her as he came close.

‘I would like to apologise for my words the other day. They were ill put and you were right to chastise me for them.’

She said nothing, though the flints of ice in her eyes drew back into only blueness. Her hair curled in ringlets around the line of her face.

‘You are easily the most beautiful woman in all of London town, though I suppose many have told you such.’

The line marking the skin between her eyes deepened. ‘Perhaps, my lord, you have consumed too much of the wine the Baxter table is famous for.’

‘You think my judgement so askew?’

Her bottom lip trembled, the fullness of it inviting notice. ‘Askew and imprudent.’ The words were said without any form of artifice and her fingers worried the oversized turquoise stones at her neck.

‘Your husband must have surely—’ She did not let him finish.

‘My husband has many other more important things to occupy his time and besides, he knows that I do not demand such empty flattery.’

‘If it were empty, I should never voice it.’ He reached out for the sill to steady a sudden light-headedness, for the slur in his words was obvious. Lord, this attack was worse than all the others before it in the intensity and speed of its onslaught.

The pain in his temple blurred his vision, the room falling into a haze of yellow, and making him feel clammy and strange. Still, he had other things to ask her and for the moment they remained alone.

‘My sister-in-law said she had seen you in the park the other day?’ He was pleased his voice seemed more or less normal.

‘Lady Beatrice-Maude?’

‘Indeed.’

‘I had hoped for her confidence.’

‘Pardon?’ The topic had got away with him somewhat and he could not discern the connection.

‘Lady Beatrice-Maude? Is it on her bidding that you now approach me? Please do disregard anything that she might have inferred from our meeting, for I was not myself that day.’

He shook his head and tried to get the conversation to make sense. ‘My brother’s wife is usually very circumspect.’

‘I made a mistake once and will never do so again.’ Her hand touched his then, almost as a plea, and the world about them simply stopped. He felt as if they could have been anywhere, alone, singled out, adrift from all that held them tethered, floating into a place that was only theirs, his lifeline in a stormy and wind-tossed sea.

‘Eleanor.’ He said her name as a lover might, the sweet music of it making him want to repeat it again and again as his fingers tightened about hers. For a moment she allowed such a caress, watching him, the knowledge of their small embrace mirrored in her pale blue gaze, softening with an unexpected yearning before being snatched away. The rounded shape of her derrière was all that was left to him as she rejoined her husband.

‘Damn.’ As he shook his head against the growing ache in his temple, the rush of pain made his brow wet and his hands relaxed as swirling lights of dizzy unbalance reached out to claim him.

Cristo Wellingham was deathly white, the pale set of his more usually bronzed skin visible even from a distance. He was trying to sit up, trying to make sense of what had happened and reclaim a lost control.

‘The doctor should be here within a few moments.’ Anthony Baxter’s statement contained more than a measure of worry.

‘No need.’ Shakily moving his head from side to side, Cristo Wellingham dislodged the wet cloth draping his forehead as shards of amber caught her glance again, drawing her in like finely-honed magnets, and the guilt and uncertainty that had blossomed in such a startling way when she had touched him a few moments ago returned.

The blond of his hair was darkened with sweat, the length of it resting upon his opened shirt, the skin of his chest easily seen in the parted fabric.

‘I am … sorry.’ He spoke to the room in general as he sat up, one hand on the sill of the window behind and the other on the arm of a sofa next to him. Eleanor knew instantly the effort it was costing him. ‘I suffer from migraines and they recur from time to time. The English weather seems to bring them on.’

His voice held a note of steel and ice, though the smile that played across his face was there as a foil. A mask, showing only what might be shown at a party, his considerable illness consigned to mere nuisance.

‘Does an episode last long?’ Honour Baxter’s question was brittle.

‘No.’ He was upright now, the ties of his cravat hanging in long folds against the dark of his jacket. A man who was seldom used to showing weakness in front of anyone, she guessed, and who was trying in the aftermath of exposure to minimise any appearance of blemish. He no longer looked her way as he made a show of thanking his host for the evening whilst apologising for his part in the spoiling of it.

When Anthony Baxter shook his head in the age-old tradition of a host denying even the hint of difficulty he took his leave, the energy and vitality in the room lessening with his departure and leaving only a dull and awkward silence.

Eleanor swallowed back all her tumbling thoughts even as her husband began to discuss the turn of events with the two men next to him.

Cristo Wellingham’s migraine looked more debilitating than she had ever imagined one to be. Why was he not ensconced at Falder with his family if his health was so fragile?

His solitariness rankled and the wooden handles on her husband’s chair were hard beneath her palms and so different from the living spark of skin she had felt as she had touched his arm. She hated the prick of tears behind her eyes and the empty ache in the back of her throat as she remembered the way his fingers had curled about her own.

‘You did not tell us that you suffered so badly from headaches. The drawing rooms of this city were alight last evening with the news of your swoon yesterday at the Baxters’.’ Ashe paced Cristo’s bedroom with a decided purpose. His brother had arrived well before noon, to find him naked in bed, curled on his side, the covers pushed down, to allow the cool air to play across his sweat-covered shoulders. When Cristo turned over, Ashe did not look at all happy.

‘I have had them for a long time …’

‘Or that your back was riddled with scars. Where did you get them?’

‘The boat I took when I left England made a small detour to the south of Spain. It was not a passenger ship, you understand, but a vessel intent on the pillaging of other more innocent sea-farers. I was young and fit and foolish enough to see some celestial justice inherent in robbing from the wealthy to give to the poor.’

‘So you did not think to jump ship?’

‘I did as soon as I was able, catching a ride from Barcelona to Paris. Ashborne had made it clear that my behaviour was abhorrent to him and I did not think he would have wished for any further plea for help.’

‘And what of Taris and me? We heard nothing from you for years when you were in Paris except for a few terse notes demanding we stay out of your life.’

‘I had imagined you felt the same way as our father did.’

‘But the letters we sent …?’

‘Went unopened. I saw no reason to revisit bad memories.’

‘God, Cristo! You are twice as stubborn as Taris and that is saying something. I want you to come to Falder to recuperate.’

Cristo shook his head, the pillows behind him protesting the movement.

‘You’re ill, damn it! You need someone to look after you.’

‘Milne has done it before.’

‘Someone qualified.’

‘Experience qualifies him.’

‘And any lasting damage? Is that something we might be worried about?’

‘If it was, I am certain such an affliction would have shown itself by now.’ Reaching for his gold watch on the bedside table, he checked the time. The disturbances in his vision were much lessened this morning.

‘If you would rather I left England altogether …?’

‘And go where?’

‘Europe. America. The East. The world is a big place when nothing ties you down.’ His easy drawl was so practised he almost believed his own indifference.

‘Just roll in and roll out, you mean, after ten years of no contact? I almost believe that you might do it. Well, brother, you have not bargained on the whims of my wife and I tell you now if I don’t bring you home after this Emerald will send Azziz and Toro to get you.’

‘Who?’

‘Men from the port of Kingston with rings in their ears and swords in their hands.’ Asher began to smile at his explanation.

‘As I remember it, you used to be less happy.’

Again he smiled.

‘I keep hearing rumours that your wife was a pirate.’

‘And you believe them?’

‘Her minions fit the description.’

‘Then it must be true.’

Cristo saw how he turned the golden ring on the third finger of his left hand with infinite care.

‘When I left you had just married Melanie.’

‘When you left you still had ten fingers on your hands and a hide on your back that was untarnished.’

‘Things change.’

‘And change again.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Second chances, Cristy.’

His old name. His nickname. He shook his head before he knew that he had and watched Ashe cross to the bed and sit down.

‘Falder offers redemption to wearied souls and from what I can see your soul is indeed wearied. Come home and heal.’

Cristo swallowed. Home in the company of his family? The secrets he needed hidden were so much more easily exposed there. ‘I can’t.’

‘Then you will be nursed in London by Emerald, Lucinda and Beatrice-Maude.’

‘No …’

‘Starting today.’

The pounding in his temple stopped him from arguing further and as he lay back against his pillows he knew that he was defeated. Closing his eyes, he slept.

Chapter Nine

Eleanor visited Cristo Wellingham on the second afternoon of his confinement. She had slept so badly for the past two nights that she had come to the conclusion some sense of resolution needed to be reached between them. He received her in the drawing room, the look on his face one of astonished surprise.

‘You have come alone?’

‘Indeed I have, my lord. I realise, of course, that such a thing is more than inappropriate, but I find I have reached the very end of my patience.’

‘A difficult place to be,’ he returned and gestured her to a sofa in the middle of the room. Today his hair was pulled back into a queue, and the blond looked almost ash. With his jacket cut in the French fashion and braided along one edge, he seemed much less of the English gentleman and far more of the stranger. Sitting in a wing chair opposite, he stretched out his long legs; when he did not speak, Eleanor felt the need to. ‘Are you recovered?’

‘Completely.’ His tone was distant, as if any more questions on the state of his health would be unwelcomed. Still, she was not deterred.

‘My reading on the subject of migraines suggests the case to be the exact opposite. Every tome I browsed made mention of a lack of a cure.’

‘A visitor to a sick room generally tries to bring more uplifting news, madame.’

The shadows beneath his eyes were visible and one still held the remains of redness. Neither a small ailment nor an easy one.

‘In truth, I am surprised to see you here at all, Lady Dromorne.’

The beat of her heart was so loud she felt sure that he must hear it. ‘I have prayed every morning and night for some guidance on how to handle our … situation. So far no answer has been forthcoming.’

He laughed. ‘How fortuitously honest.’

‘What is it you want of me?’ She looked him straight in the eye.

‘Everything.’ His tone was sharp, more honed than she had ever heard it, giving Eleanor the feeling that she was a fly who had tripped heedlessly into a well-laid and intricate web. ‘I want to know why every time we touch each other it feels as it did in Paris. I want to understand why you say one thing and mean another. I want to learn how a beautiful English girl masquerading as a whore in Paris can turn up in London five years later in the guise of the wife of an Earl three times older than she is.’

Eleanor stood, her head in a spin, but he had risen as well, amber eyes glinting.

‘What was in the letter, Eleanor?’

‘I told you once before that I had never read it. My grandfather said to deliver it. He said I could trust you. He said you were a good man …’

His laugh was bitter. ‘We both know how very wrong he was!’ The words lay between them laced with guilt.

‘The travesty at the Château Giraudon was not all your fault …’

‘You are more than gracious.’ Intent tumbled between the cracks of what was truly being said, and his eyes were fierce and predatory. ‘After you left I tried to find you.’

‘To entice me back into your bed?’

There it was, out and said, the night of her ruin plain between them, remembered in words and not just thoughts, the pull of flesh and the rush of release. No longer hidden. She could do nothing save wait.

‘I didn’t forget you, Eleanor.’

‘Lady Dromorne,’ she corrected.

‘I didn’t forget anything at all about you, Lady Dromorne.’ His stillness belied the words, honey soft and languid. Making love with his voice and his eyes and his hands.

The clock on the mantel struck the hour and outside the clatter of hooves on the cobbles could be heard. But here, now, all she felt lodged in her throat and in her stomach.

A magician. A trickster. A man who had been tutored well in the art of loving and in saying things that any woman might want to hear!

She did not move as he reached out and took her hand, his forefinger running along the lines of her inner palm, gently. Barely there! The breath left her body and the room fell away beneath them, the light streaming hot and golden. As she closed her eyes, the stretch of her belly was long as heat seared into quickness.

Mirrors and gauze and the satiny wet folds between her thighs. Rocking. Wanting. Hours when she had forgotten time and only lived. Desire became a roar as warmth coursed through her, loosening the tight, dry centre with dampness.

His silvered hair and velvet eyes, the smell of masculinity unfettered by age or illness. She revelled in the brown smooth skin on his hands and the strong muscles moving beneath the fabric of his jacket.

‘Cristo?’

Even the word was like a salvation, transformed in wonder, spilling from her lips in a lush and radiant question.

Leaning forwards he took her mouth, not gently either, but daring her to resist, a seductive naked want that carried the unsaid promise of all that had been lost between them.

But found again here in the ornate gilded front salon of his London town house, the very Englishness of the décor adding an unreal flavour to what had already been.

She could not stop, could not pull back from his heady vividness. A feast after five years of famine and compromise, her skin sparking as his touch glided along her arm to her throat, reeling her in with only a little force.

Taking everything. Her hat fell away, the ribbons anchoring the bonnet to her shoulders in a drunken uncertainty, his hands through her hair, closer again as all reality was lost against passion.

Like an angel, she thought, as he whispered her name between the loving, even as the terrible heartbreaking need that had brought her ruin once again surfaced. But she could not care. Would not care.

She placed her hand across his cheek and smiled as he turned into her palm, the warm pulse of his flesh beneath making her nipples stand proud against the silk of her bodice. She knew he saw the promise of her lust and her capitulation, but, shaking his head, he held her against him, heartbeat loud and quick.

‘Eleanor, I cannot.’

Only that with the sunshine flooding in and the sound of church bells close! She squeezed her eyes against panic as all she had allowed him became real.

What was she to say now? The glint of her marriage rings caught her eyes as she moved her hand, the small scar Florencia had left there when she had thrown a stick as a toddler, opaque above them.

A wife and a mother who would chance it all away on the promise of lust? She could not even raise her eyes to look at him. Guilt and shame and humiliation all wrapped in stupidity, and the thought that she could be so guileless twice was barely comprehensible.

Cristo stepped back towards the window, trying to assert some sort of control on the situation. No one had ever made him feel the way Eleanor Westbury did. Frustrated. Furious. Desperate. He wanted to drown in her pale eyes and feel the satin smoothness of her skin again. Wanted to lie beside her under an English sun for all the hours that he needed to dull the urgency that had built up inside him.

But he couldn’t. A husband stood between them and a whole night’s worth of loving that should never have happened.

She did not glance at him once as she rearranged her hat, the brim of it tilted so that it shaded her face from his.

Lord help him! For just a moment, when she had arrived alone, the world was exactly as it should have been before it had skewed into something less tenable.

He needed to tell her how he felt, but for the life of him he could not quite work it out.

Leave your husband and stay with me for ever! Risk the ire of society. Be banned entirely from proper company.

As he was thinking Eleanor began to speak. ‘My husband is a principled man of high moral fortitude and unequalled fairness.’ The timbre of her voice had risen, almost desperate.

‘A Samaritan, then?’ In the light of what had happened he should have been kinder.

‘Indeed.’

He hated the glint of tears in her eyes. If he had been less scrupulous, he might have reached forwards then and thrown all caution to the wind, taken her upstairs to his room and damned any repercussions. But he had done this once before, and look where that had got them both.

When he did not speak she walked to the door and let herself out. Cristo counted each step that she took across the tiled floor of his foyer as Milne saw to her exit.

Eleanor’s hands fisted as she climbed into the carriage waiting for her around the corner. Had Milne recognised her? Had the old butler known her as the woman he had shepherded from the room in the Château Giraudon, with the luridly coloured gypsy skirt swirling around her ankles and an unmade bed left behind? She could barely credit the danger she had allowed herself to be subjected to and the fact that the servant had not seemed to know her was no reason at all to let her guard down.

The truth shattered into fragments. Not quite this or quite that, but an amalgam. Eleanor remembered her father’s suicide the year after her brother’s death. Her mother had died eighteen months later in a carriage accident with a man who had a reputation for having a way with older women. Her maternal grandfather had denied such rumour, of course, as they sat in the big house after the funeral, but she had seen the look in his eyes that suggested otherwise, and the need for care given that they were the last surviving members of a family that luck had deserted.

Her own youth had been sandwiched between falsities and now here they were again, hemming her into all that she had never thought to become. Well, she could not let them. She would not allow herself to be alone with Cristo Wellingham again. Ever. Cradling the cross she often wore at her neck, she made the promise to herself before turning to look at the people on the busy streets outside and dreaded the Wellingham weekend that she had said she would attend in three days’ time.

Honour Baxter arrived less than an hour after Eleanor had left, and she looked neither relaxed nor happy.

‘You watch Lady Dromorne like a lover might, Cristo, a dangerous tendency given the power of her name and of yours.’

He stayed still. Honour was no fool, despite the rather frivolous appearance she presented to the world, as he well knew from her Paris days, before she had made her way to England and married.

‘I think she wants you, too.’

He turned as she said it.

‘There is a child, of course, and the Earl of Dromorne would never countenance any threat to his daughter’s happiness and stability.’

Shock rendered him speechless. A child? Eleanor had a child? He had heard no word of one at all.

‘How old is she?’

Honour shrugged her shoulders. ‘Nearly five. A girl who is rarely seen out in public. Florencia is her name.’

Nearly five.

Florencia.

If Eleanor had been fertile at Giraudon, then conception would have been the easiest thing in the world.

Nearly five. He counted back. Was the child his? Could he be a father? The heavy beat of his heart vibrated in his ears and he shut his eyes as he sat on the sofa.

‘Are you quite well, Cristo? Should I call someone?’

‘No, please don’t.’ His voice sounded like the string of some instrument tuned to the very last of its strength, a breaking point just waiting to happen as loss welled in his throat. Florencia. Even her name was beautiful. Swallowing, he made himself listen to Honour’s next words.

‘London has rules that would be ludicrous in the more passionate arena of Paris. What is acceptable there would not be here and there are many unwed and beautiful English girls just waiting for you to notice them, women without the ties of children and husbands. Let me introduce you to these girls of good family and unblemished name.’

He nodded, simply because to do otherwise would have incited question. His glance took in the clock on the mantel that showed up the hour of four and he wondered what outings little girls and their mothers went on in London at such a time. The park? The shops? The library on Bond Street?

When the hell had Eleanor met Martin Dromorne? He longed to ask Honour, but sense stopped him. He felt like he had at eighteen, abandoned by his family. No safety net. Unsettled. The very room swam with a hundred questions and just as many answers and everything was dangerous.

Florencia. Derived from the city of Florence in Italy? He listened as Honour prattled on about a list of possible candidates suitable in the marriage stakes.

Florencia. The word turned in his mind as Honour gave high praise to the three débutantes shortlisted in her attempt at matchmaking.

Florencia. His? A daughter conceived in lust in the high rooflines above Paris? If that was true, where had Eleanor birthed the child? Here? In France? Ruined from a husbandless pregnancy?

What of Martin Dromorne? Did he know this daughter was not his? Had she met him soon afterwards, perhaps, seizing the opportunity for redemption that marriage offered? Or was all he thought mere conjecture based on a groundless hope?

Eleanor and Florencia.

He dared not ask Honour another thing about either of them as a servant came in with a pot of tea and the conversation turned to more general things.

Taris arrived about ten minutes after Honour had departed. His man Bates was with him, though after seeing his master into the room he slipped out of it. His brother had a bright yellow flower threaded through his lapel.

‘You look festive?’

Taris lifted his hand up and smiled. ‘This is the handiwork of my oldest son, who is inclined to mischief. His twin brother enjoys the school lessons and yet all Alfred can think of is to escape his and head for the gardens.’

‘Ahh, the danger of comparisons. I never thought that you would make them.’

‘When you are a parent you do many things that you had not thought you would. But out of love, you understand. Only out of that.’

Parenthood! In the light of Honour’s visit the raw nerve of hope was exposed and Cristo was glad that his brother could not read his expression.

‘Ashe said that he had been to visit you and so I decided to do the same. He said that you seemed pleased to see him.’

‘Sickness has a habit of making one re-evaluate the usefulness of family.’

‘So cynical?’ Laughter rang around the room. ‘Our father always swore that you were stubborn.’

‘And did he ever tell you why?’ Cristo had suddenly had enough of all the secrecy. ‘Did he ever let you know that I was not entirely a Wellingham?’

When Taris’s face came up to his own with a slight flush Cristo suddenly knew that he had.

‘Alice never blamed him for his indiscretion. She told us that as she took her last breath. She also said that you were a gift she was meant to have. She kept track of you at Giraudon through your man Milne, you realise. The old valet at Falder was his brother and she never let him go.’

Cristo swore. What other confidences was he destined to hear this morning? A child who might be his? A mother who had never stopped loving him? Two brothers who had known he was not a full-blooded son of Falder and had treated him as one anyway? A feeling he had forgotten he knew was again budding. No longer alone. No longer just him against the world.

Shared secrets and trust, and beside a brother whose eyes saw what others never did, and with all the unexpected twists and turns Cristo found himself talking.

‘When I left England I thought to have seen the last of it.’

‘What changed your mind?’

His hands opened and then he smiled, because of course Taris would not see the gesture. ‘When the wild anger died there was only loneliness to replace it.’

‘Beatrice thinks that there might be a woman.’

‘She told you that?’

‘She thinks the woman to be Martin Westbury’s wife, Lady Eleanor Dromorne?’

Cristo stayed silent.

‘The mistakes of youth can come back to haunt even the most circumspect. The thing that I cannot quite determine is where your shared history took place.’

‘I met her in Paris five years ago.’

‘Before she was married?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you made no effort to take the relationship further?’

‘I think it had gone the furthest it could go.’

A ripe curse greeted this outburst.

‘If I could go back I would do things differently. In my defence, I might add that I did not know she was an English lady.’

‘Surely you could tell that by her clothes and her accent?’

‘She wasn’t wearing any clothes and she was speaking Provençal French.’

‘Lord, so that was why she fainted at the theatre? Does Martin Westbury know of any of this?’

‘I am certain that he doesn’t. He didn’t seem to want to kill me when we met at the Baxters’.’

Taris picked the marigold from his buttonhole and the stringent smell of it filled the air as he fiddled with the petals. Bright yellow pollen dusted the back of one hand.

‘Everyone has their battles. Martin Westbury, for example, is so ill some say it won’t be long before he loses his fight against whatever it is that ails him. Eleanor Westbury may then need a man who would not disappoint her.’

‘I doubt that she would trust me again.’

‘Well, that all depends. You can let your past mistakes define you or transform you. A wise man might take the latter option.’

Cristo breathed out. ‘I thought she was a prostitute brought to my room. With the amount of brandy she had consumed, she could not tell me otherwise and by then I had discovered that she was a virgin.’

‘An inauspicious beginning?’ Dark amber eyes looked straight at him and Cristo began to laugh at the absurdity of a word that only Taris might get away with.

‘Very.’

‘There are rumours you worked for the Foreign Office in Paris?’

‘In the capacity of one who would safeguard the interests of England, you understand, for even in peacetime there are those who might undermine the relationship between the two countries. Smitherton sent trainers down to the château I owned in Paris.’

‘A difficult job, I should imagine.’

‘Sometimes it was.’

‘And is it still?’

‘No. I have left the service.’

‘For retirement into peaceful obscurity?’

When Cristo laughed Taris joined in and for the first time in a long while the ghosts of past misunderstandings faded.

Chapter Ten

Martin still insisted on her going to the Wellinghams’, a weekend house party at Beaconsmeade that would mean them leaving early on Friday evening and returning on Sunday night.

With the dresses fitted and the girls and Diana excited, Eleanor looked for ways in which she could turn down the invitation without inviting comment.

Consequently she took to her bed on Thursday afternoon with a stomach ailment that had her refusing the night meal. She did not expect Martin’s visit, however, later that evening and was caught reading a book and eating from a box of chocolates that Florencia had bought for her on a trip into town with Diana a few weeks back.

‘For a woman suffering from nausea you look surprisingly well.’ Tonight he looked better than he had in many months.

She stayed silent.

‘Is there some reason that the Beaconsmeade outing is worrying you?’

She decided to brazen it out. ‘Florencia will miss me—’

He didn’t let her finish.

‘I am here and I have already told you that I should like to have a few days with my daughter for company. It is not often that I see her alone.’

Eleanor nodded, at a loss now to keep on with her arguments.

‘You are young, my dear, and it is important that you enjoy these sorts of things. I know Diana will be lost without you if you don’t attend, for she has made the fact known to me. Besides, I thought you admired the Wellingham women!’

‘I do.’

‘Then what keeps you from going? I know the dresses are finished and the girls have said how lovely yours looked.’

Eleanor’s glance went to the wardrobe where her new gowns were shrouded in calico. Shoes and cloaks and bags and hats were in the boxes beneath them. All readied for the carriage ride south into Kent.

She wanted to say that she was afraid. She wanted to shout it out so that he might actually hear her. Afraid of herself and of her reactions! Afraid others might notice or that Cristo Wellingham himself might notice or that the feelings she held deep inside her would never be returned as he made a play for one of the other younger and prettier girls present.

But she could say none of this because to voice even a little of it would be to betray Martin altogether, and he had no idea at all that Cristo Wellingham was the Frenchman who had taken her into his bed in Paris. So she stayed silent, smiling as he took her hand and turned it palm upwards.

‘I want you to go and enjoy this chance, Eleanor. I want you to be happy again.’

That threw her. ‘I am not sad.’

‘Preoccupied, then. Lately you have been different.’

The truth settled around them. His truth and her own at odds, but she could not hurt him with the kindness in his eyes and the history between them.

‘Perhaps we should go away, Martin, far from London, to the hills up north or to the sea on the south coast. The change of air could be good for you after all …’

He stopped her before she went any further. ‘I doubt that I could manage a big shift of circumstance and I enjoy watching the traffic go by from my upstairs bedroom. It always makes me feel a part of the world.’

‘Of course.’ The chance to simply decamp from the city was not an option and so she nodded, knowing that in her capitulation she was risking everything and equally as determined not to.

Beaconsmeade was a large Palladian-style country house situated on rising ground with lawns stretching up to it and parkland as far as the eye could see below.

The party was in full swing when they arrived as a number of other carriages had come at the same time as they had.

With servants and horses and people and luggage the circular drive was awash with movement and Eleanor did not see Beatrice-Maude Wellingham until the very last moment.

‘I am so pleased that you could come,’ the older woman said as she took her hand in her own. Looking about quickly to see if any other Wellinghams were in close proximity, she relaxed when she saw that they were not.

‘I have placed you on the second floor in the blue suite of rooms. The girls are in the larger dark blue room and their mother in the smaller one with an adjoining door. You will have the light blue room a little farther down the corridor. I hope this will be to your liking.’

‘Oh, I am certain it will all be lovely,’ Eleanor replied, wishing as she said it that she might have been allotted a shared room with her sister-in-law as a further safety.

‘The Duke and Duchess of Carisbrook will be coming presently, but Cristo cannot be down until the morning. Lady Lucinda has arrived already with the Henshaws and the Beauchamps.’

‘A full house, then,’ Diana chirped in, standing at Eleanor’s elbow now with glitter-bright excitement in her eyes.

Beatrice-Maude smiled. ‘We will have some of the local families here, too, and their offspring for the evening meal. I am certain your daughters will enjoy their company.’

Sophie and Margaret nodded politely and Eleanor could almost read their thoughts as they did so. It was not the local boys that the girls had set their hearts on at all, but Cristo Wellingham with his silvered hair and secrets. She had been regaled all the way down with his wealth and his prowess at fighting and the château that he was reputed to own in Paris.

Eleanor had longed to ask how they had found out these things, but didn’t because any interest might be misinterpreted and she had no desire for her nieces to perceive a curiosity they would question.

Even now Sophie risked good manners and broached a topic of her own.

‘Will Lord Cristo be coming alone, madam?’

‘He will, Miss Cameron, although I am not certain whether he will spend the night here or not.’

Better and better, Eleanor thought and smiled properly for the first time in days. Twelve hours at most to be in his company and then that would be the end of it. Apart from a few moments of polite and general conversation what really could go wrong? A clap of thunder and the beginning of a shower of rain sent them hurrying inside.

She should never have got on this stupid horse, she thought the next day as it again took the lead and tried to head into the thinning forest away from the track.

‘Keep up, Eleanor,’ Diana called from in front. ‘Use the whip and then it won’t tarry.’

All morning she had been struggling with the steed, and though the whole party had made great allowances for her and had slowed their pace considerably, the beautiful wide tracks in the forest had become too much of a temptation and they had gone ahead to wait for her at the end of the pathway.

The skin beneath the gloves on Eleanor’s hands was beginning to ache with the constant tugging and the rain threatening yesterday was again in sight, bands of dark grey clouds looming overhead.

Suddenly she had just had enough, and, dismounting, she determined to lead her horse on foot.

‘You go on, Diana.’ Her shout made Diana stop, caught between the outlines of her disappearing daughters and Eleanor’s distress.

‘Should I stay with you?’

‘No. Sophie and Margaret may need you and I think I have had enough of riding. Besides, I can see the house from here so shall make my own way back.’ The countryside of Kent was beautiful and in the places where the trees did not stand she saw fields in the distance and the house of Beaconsmeade on the ridge behind.

There was a short silence and then acquiescence. ‘Well, if you are certain …’

‘I am.’

‘I’ll send back a servant to accompany you when I catch them up.’

When Eleanor nodded Diana used her whip hard against the flanks of her mount and was gone, the noises of the small forest closing in again around her.

Silence in a natural way. She felt elated by her solitude, something she rarely had in London. Removing her hat, she loosened her hair so that it fell in waves down her back, the length of it almost touching her waist.

Cristo Wellingham had not come. She had thought he would be there in the morning when she had gone down for breakfast, but he had been delayed and was not now expected to arrive till well after luncheon.

Her eyes went to the watch in her pocket. The servant that Diana had spoken of had not appeared and she wondered why. Almost twelve o’clock now. If she tarried a little and explored a few of the paths that went off this one, she might be away for a while longer. Her thoughts calculated how long she could be away without raising any alarm and she decided thirty minutes or so might not go amiss. The path to her left looked fairly robust and flat and the trees around it thinner than any of the other tracks. If she turned off here?

Marking her exit with a stone she gathered a few of the wildflowers around it and placed them on the top. When she returned to this point she would know to proceed left. Glancing up and down the well-used track once more just to see that no servant had been sent back to help her, she walked into the dimness, leading the horse, and her shape was lost in the shadows.

‘She said she would go directly back and I watched her turn for Beaconsmeade.’

Lady Diana Cameron, Westbury’s sister, was speaking and the shrill panic in her voice was easily heard. Outside the weather was worsening and the clouds threatening all morning had finally broken into rain.

Cristo stepped into the pandemonium, having set foot in Beaconsmeade only ten minutes prior.

‘Lady Dromorne has not been seen since she turned back from our ride at around twelve o’clock. Her sister-in-law was certain that she said she was returning here and the house was able to be seen from the track.’ Beatrice looked a little harried as the parlour clock struck three.

‘Have people been sent out to look for her?’ Cristo felt his own sense of alarm as they nodded.

‘Asher went out an hour ago with some servants but hasn’t returned, though I am certain he will find her.’

‘I’ll take Demeter and see if I can be of some use.’ The property was new to him, too, so he asked for directions that would lead him to the area used for the morning’s ride.

Half an hour later Cristo found a rock that had been newly overturned on the edge of a small track leading farther into the forest. When he dismounted he noticed a few wilting flowers lying on the side of it, the wind having pushed them there out of the way.

Kneeling, he looked for other things. A broken twig and grass that was worn.

Here. She had left the track here. Setting the stone in the middle of the trail as a message to alert the others, he turned his horse into the shadows.

She should never have thought of such an idea, because with all the turns in the pathway she was now well and truly lost and the horse had dug in its feet and refused to move another inch. Goodness, it was already nearly four o’clock and Diana must be frantic by now.

‘Stupid horse,’ she said to him as she sat on a log near a small stream. ‘Stupid, stupid horse.’ The words brought his head up and he looked directly at her, interest written in his soft brown eyes; because of that she laughed, feeling vaguely mean about growling at an animal who just wanted an easy life.

If she left him here and walked on alone would he be all right? Would he follow? She decided to try it, disappearing around a corner and waiting to see if the steed would move.

He didn’t.

Returning, she grabbed at his reins and tried again to drag him.

‘You cannot possibly wish to stay here all by yourself and, besides, it is about to rain.’ As she said it the clouds burst open, sending a downpour across the small glade and pinning her curls to her head and clothes.

‘Now look what has happened,’ she continued, ‘and it is all your fault. Come on. We have to get home before it becomes dark.’

A noise a little way away made her stiffen. Something was coming their way. Some forest predator? Finding a substantial piece of wood near her feet, she lifted it and went to stand at the head of the stubborn horse.

‘It will be perfectly all right. Don’t you worry, I will make certain that nothing eats you.’

She hated the tremble she could hear in her voice and the ache of fright banding her stomach.

It was coming closer through the trees, she determined, along the path she had turned off a moment or so back. Her fingers tightened about the wood.

She was talking to the horse? Telling him it was all his fault and that she would allow nothing to eat him, a stick in her hand of such old timber that it would break into pieces at the very first contact.

If he wasn’t so angry he might have smiled, but the afternoon was darkening with rain, and Eleanor Westbury was hardly wearing anything to warm her save a thin jacket and a piece of lace around her neck. Her hair was everywhere and very wet. If he had not found her, what then …? The very thought of it made him scowl as he strode into the clearing.

Cristo Wellingham was here? In the glade far from anyone with the fading light about them and anger in his eyes. She did not lower the piece of wood, but held it as a barrier between them.

‘People in trouble generally don’t hit their rescuers.’

His eyes were amber brittle as she tried to stop the shaking that had overcome her.

‘Your sister-in-law is, as we speak, imagining you to be in all sorts of trouble.’ His glance took in her sorry-looking mount with a singular understanding of its intractability.

‘How did you find me?’

‘The stone and some flowers! At least you thought to do that.’

‘You walked in?’

‘No. My bay is tethered a few minutes back. I heard your voice and followed the sound.’

He came forwards, but did not stop when he reached her, leaning down instead to check the saddle of her horse.

‘This is the problem,’ he said after a moment, disengaging a sprig of prickles. ‘They sometimes get burred on the skin and hurt with any movement or pressure.’

Straightening, he removed his hat and dusted it against the pale brown of his riding breeches. He was dressed today as an English country gentleman and Eleanor wondered if he would ever stop surprising her. Silence was punctuated only by the call of birds settling in the trees and by the trill of the river water a few yards away.

‘I arrived at Beaconsmeade as the rescue parties were being dispatched,’ he said finally. ‘I am glad it was me who found you.’

The last words were said in a different tone from the others and the skin on her arms rose in response. Pure and utter awareness, no pretence in any of it.

‘Glad?’

‘It gives us some time to talk.’

‘Talk?’ The heat in her was fiery red and she wondered if he could see the blush of it in her face.

‘Unless you would want more.’ He reached out as though to touch her and she stepped back. Not trusting his touch. Not trusting him.

Today he wore a ring on his little finger, the man in Paris creeping back in slow measures here. ‘Honour Baxter said that you had a daughter.’

‘I do.’ She made herself look at him, straight in the eye, as though they spoke of the weather or the lie of the land or some other insignificant thing. Only bravado and confidence would throw him off track.

‘Could I meet her?’

‘Why?’

‘She is almost five and I hear that she is a fair child with dark eyes.’

‘And you think because of it she could be yours?’ She laughed. ‘My mother was a beauty of some note and her colouring was the same.’

‘Your husband looks too ill to father a child.’

‘Now, perhaps, that might be the case. But back then …’

The ending was left unsaid.

‘Honour says the child is named Florencia?’

‘Martin and I lived in Florence for a good few years before coming back to England. It was in compliment to the city that she was named such.’ Pushing the boundaries further, she dredged up sympathy. ‘I am very sorry if you are disappointed or if you had imagined …’

Shrugging the sentiment away, he was closer now, so close she could feel the breath of him against her face when he spoke. Yet still he did not touch.

‘Is your husband kind, Eleanor?’

Martin’s name here under a canopy of trees, here in the wind as the day turned into dusk and the leaves rustled.

‘Of course.’

He smiled at that, the corners of his eyes creasing and showing up the depth of colour in his skin. Not a man who was trapped indoors, nor a man whose muscles and bone were wasting daily. She shook the thought away and concentrated on other things.

‘In Paris I was a fool to let you go so easily.’ The velvet in his eyes was lighter against the low sun, the colour of dark brandy with fire behind it.

Tears were close. She could feel them pooling, at the waste of it all and at the yearning that she could no longer deny.

She knew she should turn away this moment, now, or at the very least direct the conversation into a more indifferent topic. She should stake her claim on being a sensible woman, a prudent woman, a woman who had no thought for the passion consuming her.

But when he reached out she let him touch her and when he brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed the back of them she felt his tongue like the sharp blade of a razor drawing her blood into shivers.

‘Do you feel that?’ The question was fierce. ‘Do you, Eleanor. Feel that?’

‘No.’ She could not let him speak any longer, could not allow him to say the words that marked a truth.

‘No?’ He laid his other hand across the jutting flesh of her bosom, feeling the beat of her heart. The rain wet his hand as she looked down, cold against warmth. She almost expected to see steam.

‘Eleanor. Whatever this is …?’

‘Is between us,’ she finished and laid a finger on his lips against further words, tracing the line of them, carefully. She felt in his constraint a terrible desperation.

‘I failed you once and I should not have….’

Once! Her other hand was held rigidly against her side, gripped into a fist as she thought of the tiny grave at the chapel in Aix-en-Provence planted with spring bulbs because they were all she could leave untended.

Not now. Not now. The guilt that rode her dreams nightly opened into full bloom, reaching down into the very core of her heart. Swallowing, she made herself relax as puzzlement crept into his eyes.

‘I would not hurt you, Eleanor.’

She blanched at the pitch of need so clearly heard and the distance that held them apart lessened. Closer and closer as his hands tightened on her shoulders, drawing her in. Six inches and then her breasts flattened against his chest, finding home.

No child. No husband. Only him. Only him with his silvered wet hair and his magical mouth and his hand around her head tilting her into more, their breath heavy and torrid as she matched his desire with her own.

Mine. Again. Amongst the trees and the oncoming darkness and the call of the birds as they settled for the night, watching. Watching a dam break in the circle of flesh, tipping into utter need, his grip tightening in her hair as an anchor, no breath or ease or quiet exploration. Only five years of apartness and ten thousand hours of regret. Only the sweet rush of his breath and the clamp of passion that knotted her body from tip to toe into some other unknown force, giving back all that she was getting, opening to him so that he could come in, deeper, closer, the feel of him against her body so very, very right.

‘I want you …’

His voice was strained, no longer distant, no longer indifferent, only pain within them.

‘I am married.’

Martin. She tried to bring his face to her thoughts, but couldn’t. Cristo smelt of soap and musk and strength and the memory of Paris flooded back, of arching into delight and finding the hidden notes of pleasure in the slightest of caresses. Potent memory, honed with a celibacy that had taken all her passionate years since, month by month by month.

Sweat dripped beneath the raindrops as ecstasy boiled, and then the seconds ran out under the urgent shadow of lust and she surrendered to the sheer promise of what was offered. Her toes arched in her boots and her head tipped back, his hands steadying her.

Even then she could not feel shame or contrition. Nay, all she could feel was the throbbing release through the very core of her body, untying all the knots and the pressure and leaving a freedom that she remembered from only once before.

‘I love you.’

Had she whispered it? Please God, let it not be so!

He broke away and laid her face against his chest, his heart wild-beating fast.

‘Damn. Others are coming.’

She could not hear a sound.

‘They will be here inside two minutes.’

She was glad he did not look back at her as he walked away.

Chapter Eleven

Asher Wellingham and his men came into the glade by foot and along the same route that Cristo had taken.

‘Her steed was lame,’ Cristo said from his place on the other side of the horse. He sounded normal, indifferent, the kiss of a moment back a long-forgotten thing. ‘You found the marker, I guess.’

The Duke of Carisbrook nodded. Up close, Eleanor could see a familial resemblance that had nothing to do with the shape of nose or mouth or face. It was menace and danger that entwined the Wellingham brothers as well as height and darkness of eye. Both looked at each other with a glance that held a myriad questions beneath the polite exterior.

‘Are you quite well, Lady Dromorne?’ Asher Wellingham addressed her now, as he picked up a stick and threw it into the undergrowth.

‘Very well, thank you, your Grace. I walked along the path and was lost …’

‘But now you are found.’ The sentiment was not quite said in the way Eleanor would have expected it and when she turned to Cristo she saw him send a flinty glance in warning to his oldest brother.

The Duke laughed.

‘Is your mount able to be ridden at all, Lady Dromorne?’

All she could do was nod.

‘Then if you will ride behind me, Cristo will bring up the rear. Would that meet with your approval?’

Such formality in the middle of nowhere was confusing, but she was pleased for the proposed distance.

Cristo dried himself off in the bedroom he had been given and one that reminded him of his own childhood chamber at Falder. Even the fabric on the bed was similar. Golden. Sheer curtains and French doors along one whole side of the room. But it was the books that caught his attention. His books, title by title, of collections he had begun as a youth. He ran his finger across the spines in wonder. Who had brought these here? Who had cared for them? Hearing footfalls, he turned and Beatrice-Maude swept into his room after a quick and perfunctory knock.

‘I hope you do not mind about the books.’

‘You took them?’

‘Cared for them,’ she amended, ‘until you should want them back. At Falder they had begun to wilt and I thought if they had been mine I would hope someone should watch over them.’

‘Thank you.’

He waited for her to say something else, but she didn’t.

‘Have you read many?’

She ignored this line of conversation completely.

‘Eleanor Westbury is not a woman who would survive being duped. She is young, after all, and her husband of some years is sick …’

‘Did Taris send you here?’

‘No. I am here because a few weeks ago Lady Dromorne told me that you might defame her character. Given the time you spent alone with her today I wondered if there was indeed some truth in her fear?’

Taris’s wife was not a woman to bandy her thoughts around and yet all his training told him that she held the best interests of Eleanor Westbury at heart. He could use a woman like her on his side.

‘I knew Eleanor once many years ago in Paris and under another name.’

‘How many years?’

‘Five.’

The number lay between them coated in question.

‘Her daughter …’

‘Is five.’ He finished the sentence for her and leant against the wall, the rushing in his head alerting him to another onslaught of his ailment.

‘God.’ Two attacks in two weeks. They never came this close.

‘Are you quite well?’

‘Very.’

‘Your eyes are turning red even as we speak.’

He let go of the wall and just made it to the bed. Once horizontal, he felt immeasurably better.

‘Could you do something for me, Beatrice-Maude?’ It was the first time he had called her by her name.

She nodded.

‘Could you let the party below know that I have been called away to town and that I send my very sincerest apologies? I need peace and quiet, and that will stop people coming up to see me. Could you also tell Lady Dromorne that I will call on her in town this week.’

‘Indeed, brother-in-law, I think it would be most wise if I did just that.’

He frowned as she let herself out and shut the door behind her.

I love you. Eleanor had whispered the words beneath her breath, but he had heard them plainly. Lord, he thought as he laid his arm against his face to block out the last bands of light, his hand fisting against pain. She was a wife and a mother and a woman who would not court the danger of ruin. But there were secrets in her eyes and in her words that could be there because of him and her sadness here in England simply broke his heart.

He had left and gone back to London. In haste. Eleanor knew exactly why he had.

I love you. So, so unwise. Why had she said it? She knew the answer as soon as she asked herself the question.

Because the last waves of lust had still been within her, reforming the way she looked at herself, a woman who might enjoy the acts between a man and a woman with a singular abandon. Young. Free. Sensual. No longer scared and careful, the restraints of manners and culture pulling her into greyness.

Today with Cristo Wellingham she had felt powerful and true. To herself. A woman who could not wait another five years to feel … something.

Beatrice-Maude was looking at her now as she sipped at a cup of tea from the breakfast table.

‘Cristo has been unfortunately recalled to town and he has asked me to give his most sincere apologies. I should imagine that there is much to do when one is newly back in a country one has not lived in for years. He did, however, promise to visit your family when he was able. Mayhap we could all come.’

Her words brought a smile to Taris Wellingham’s face as he watched her.

A love match.

It was said their union was such, but in a town that spawned a thousand marriages a year, few were of that ilk.

Regret surfaced in an unexpected deluge as she thought of her own marriage. Martin had protected her, but never touched her. Perhaps it was his illness or his age, or the fact that when he had first met her she had been so very near to death, and a pattern had formed. Eleanor remembered the hospital in Aix and the blood and the tiny twin who had been left in the cemetery of the Chapel de la Francis, his body marked with a simple white stone.

Paris.

She had called him that. A strong name. A warrior’s name. The name of the beautiful Trojan prince who had stolen Helen from Menelaus, and the name of the city in which he had been conceived. The hair on the crown of his tiny head had been pure silver. His father’s son. She had never known the colour of his eyes because it had been a full week until the fever had left her and another two before she could even speak. The anger in her solidified and she hated the thick thump of her grief.

So alone.

If she had been braver she might have saved him … in a bigger city … with better attendants …

Shaking her head, she came back into the moment, leaving behind fury, but the light had gone out of her evening and all she wanted to do was to depart Beaconsmeade and go home to Florencia.

He dreamed that night of the ship he had taken when he left England. The Hell Ship. The Hell Captain. Things done to his body that he had never told anyone, an eighteen-year-old green boy straight out of Cambridge. The sears of whiplashes on his back ached in memory.

The canker of secrecy had eaten him up, piece by piece, catapulting him into the underworld of Paris with an easy transition.

Wrong. It was all wrong.

I love you. Eleanor’s whispered words. The first right thing in his whole damn life.

Feeling the movement of somebody else in the room, he opened his eyes. Ashe sat above him.

Cristo knew he had heard his secrets as he turned away, anger leaving only heartbeat in his ears.

‘Smitherton got to you, didn’t he? At Cambridge? God, and he promised me that he wouldn’t. That’s what you were doing in Paris?’

‘I could have left.’

‘No.’ The word was rough with fury. ‘No one ever leaves until their very soul is gone. It’s the way he works it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because he got to me first and it was years before I could loosen the grip of it all. Wasted lonely years that taught me only how to hate.’

The light breeze from outside billowed the gauze curtains into a soft cloud, a summer night in the heart of Kent so far from the paths that they both had travelled.

‘Buy the damn Graveson property, Cris, and come home.’ His brother’s hand lay across his arm.

‘My lawyers got it yesterday. That’s why I was late down to Beaconsmeade.’

Laughter lit Asher’s eyes, the amber in them so very like his own. ‘This calls for a toast.’ He filled two glasses with lemonade and handed one over.

‘To family.’

With a headache pounding his temples, Cristo smiled. ‘Everything has a pattern, Ashe. And Graveson is the very first link of the chain.’

An hour later when Asher had left, Cristo sat up on the side of his bed, watching the candle on the side table burn.

I love you.

If he had had even a little bit of decency in him he would pack up his things and return to the Château Giraudon. Away from temptation, delivered from evil.

He could only hurt her. Then he amended. He could only hurt them both with his reappearance and this damnable attraction simmering between them.

I love you.

He had said the words to himself a hundred times. I love you enough to leave my husband? I love you enough to risk my daughter’s name? I love you so much I would throw caution to the wind and follow you to the edge of the world?

Reality stung and the ache in his heart was a signpost to a more virtuous truth. He should leave her to the life she was living and a family who had taken her as one of their own.

His name held only a little of what Martin Dromorne offered her, dogged as it was by scandal and mayhem. Oh, granted his brothers had gone out of their way to make him a son of Falder, but even that truth was cankered.

A half-brother. A bastard child. The son of a mother whom he had killed in childbirth and had been sent away summarily, no place in the hearts of her relatives for the reminder of such tragedy!

It was Alice who had saved him. Alice with her kind eyes and an open heart that had never once wavered in its love. And in the end he had failed her as well with his wild anger and bad choices.

He seldom allowed himself the time to wallow in self-pity but tonight, with the circumstances heavily weighed against him, he did. He frowned at the notion of a virtuous withdrawal from London for he knew he would never do it.

Fighting for what he wanted to have and hold was far more his style, but he would need to be careful and prudent.

‘Bide your time,’ he whispered and the candle caught the breath of the words and flickered.

‘I love you,’ he added and this time the flame barely moved.

Eleanor spent the next few days pleading tiredness when anyone suggested an outing. Even the park seemed dangerous, an open space that might bring her face to face with the one man in the world she could no longer even bear to think about.

I love you.

She screwed up her eyes and swore beneath her breath, the silence in the blue drawing room making the memory worse. Why had she said it? Had he heard? Was he laughing with a friend at this very moment somewhere in a club in London as he remembered her ill-advised confession?

Certainly Cristo Wellingham had not contacted her at all and Sophie and Margaret lamented the fact that he was not at the dances that they had chosen to attend. Disappeared. Gone. She hoped with all of her heart that he had said nothing about her to Lady Beatrice-Maude or the Duchess of Carisbrook.

‘You need to get some colour back in your cheeks, Lainie.’ Diana had entered the chamber with her small basket of tapestry threads and a pair of spectacles. ‘We could go shopping if you wish, for I have some colours I need to procure,’ and held up her stitchwork. Eleanor saw the picture to be a Christmas one, a hearth dressed in gold and silver and the full moon in the window to one side.

‘It’s for Geoffrey’s mother,’ Diana said as she saw her looking. ‘She asked me last year if I would do one and I was determined to begin it early. You could all come up to Edinburgh for the Yule season. Martin always loved Scotland.’

‘I am not certain …’

‘Because of his health?’

It was the first time his sister had even mentioned the topic and Eleanor nodded.

‘You need to get out more, Eleanor. At your age I was—’ She stopped. ‘Are you crying?’

‘No. Of course not.’ The tears that welled in her eyes were dashed away on the material of her sleeve as Eleanor turned to the window. ‘It’s just sometimes I think I should be a better wife to your brother.’

‘Nonsense.’ Diana laid down her sewing and came to put her arms around her. ‘He could not have wished for a more caring helpmate. But he is a good thirty years older than you, Lainie, and sometimes that must be difficult.’ She paused briefly. ‘Is it morning sickness, perhaps, that makes you so up and down, for lately you have seemed very emotional?’

For a second Eleanor could not quite work out the change of conversation.

Morning sickness? My God, Diana thought she could be pregnant? She shook her head vigorously, and her sister-in-law retreated a little.

‘It was just after you fainted at the theatre and I thought … But of course not! Martin hardly has enough energy for the daytime, let alone the night. Besides, another child with his problems …’ She let her words tail off.

Another child?

The whitewashed hospital walls with the small effigy of the Mother Mary built into a shelf filled with dried rosemary. Bile rose in her mouth. She had hated the smell of rosemary ever since. Cloying. Smothering. The doctor had been a man of high principle and he had known she was unmarried. As such, he had not even attempted to hide his condemnation when she had delivered a child who had failed to take a breath. Even his words had been ones of blame.

‘Every babe needs a father and this is the Lord’s way of making certain of it. Be thankful for your reprieve.’

Be thankful for your reprieve. The words still had the propensity to make her feel sick. He had smiled as he said it before placing her baby into a basin on the floor and leaving it there. Cold. Untended.

No cuddles or gentleness. No prayer for an innocent soul as it went into Heaven. Eleanor had tried to say the communion herself, but the incantation had been muddled, and the red wash of her own blood had left her mute and terrified.

Paris. Lost in guilt and censure and fear.

‘Lainie? Are you quite all right? I shouldn’t pry, of course, and you have the perfect right to tell me to mind my own business.’

Shaking her head, the anger twisted back into some workable thing. She had had much practice in tethering it, after all, though her ill-advised confession to Cristo in the forest had changed things somewhat and all for the worse.

‘I love you.’

What if she had stayed with Cristo in Paris as his mistress, would her son have lived? If she had gone to him and told him and pleaded her case? Their case. An eighteen-year-old girl in limbo in a land that was not home.

Choices, good and bad, and now other decisions, the stakes rising again because of her daughter!

‘Ever since Beaconsmeade you have been distracted. I should never have left you alone in the woods, of course, and I kick myself for following my daughters.’

‘No. The fault was mine. Exploring the pathway was such a silly idea.’

‘Indeed, it was one I could not for the life of me understand. You are usually such a cautious girl, Lainie, which is probably a characteristic my brother saw in you that appealed the most for, God bless him, he is exactly the same.’

Chapter Twelve

Eleanor led Florencia around the park on her daughter’s tiny pony enjoying the summer day. She had not heard a word from Cristo Wellingham in well over a week and for that she was glad, the respite from the constant fear of seeing him lessening her worry.

‘When I am bigger, Mama, I will buy the very best, best horse and race it around the park.’

Her father’s daughter, for all had heard the rumours that Cristo Wellingham was in town to select prime horseflesh.

‘Not too fast, darling, for there are always people in these places.’ Lord, Eleanor thought grimly. Already I am clipping her wings just as my mother clipped mine.

‘All I want is a pet, Mama. Even just a kitten …’ There was a tone in her voice that was sullen, a tone she had heard more often of late when Florencia addressed her—almost five and needing the boundaries only a strong father might offer.

‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ A young boy stood before her with a letter in his hand. ‘The man said that I was to give you this.’

‘The man. What man?’ For one moment she thought perhaps Cristo Wellingham had sent it and looked around, her cheeks flushing with the thought that he could be close.

‘Oh, he has gone already. He paid me a shilling.’ The coin caught the sunlight as he opened his palm.

‘Who is he, Mama?’ Florencia had watched them, this unusual occurrence widening her eyes and when Eleanor turned again the boy had rushed off, his back seen between a line of oaks farther off in the park.

Slitting the envelope with her finger, she opened out the single sheet of paper, her heart contracting in horror as she read the message inside.

You are the whore from the Château Giraudon. If you want to stay safe leave a hundred pounds in this envelope with the boy waiting outside the instrument shop in Regent Street next Monday morning at ten.

Unsigned, the letter represented everything that she had always feared might happen. Blackmail. Finally. Placing the note in her reticule, she turned the pony for home, ignoring the wails of her irritated daughter.

Two days after she had paid, another letter came. This time directly to her house, sitting in the salver at the front door, the blue of the envelope familiar. Pouncing on complacency.

In her room she understood the danger of paying anything in the first place. This time five hundred pounds was demanded, a sum that even her personal pin money could not hope to conceal. She stuffed the note into the fire burning low in the front salon due to an unseasonably cold day, and watched it go up into flames, each word curling into ash and then cinder.

My God, what on earth should she do? Who could it be writing such things? The paper was expensive and the hand was correct and well formed. A small idea began to crystallise in her brain. Pulling out a sheet of her own stationery, she wrote a plea to the only man who might help her, the only man who would be as implicated as she was in the uncertainty of blackmail.

She hired a hack and waited at the corner of Beak and Regent Street at exactly the hour she had indicated, fear, excitement and discomposure racing through her in equal measures.

Cristo Wellingham would be here at any second, her last foolish confession unanswered between them, and already her body was knotting into the memory of his touch. Taking in breath, she held it, tight, as though in the movement she might harness a longing that came just with the thought of him. Her hands shook in her lap.

And then he was there, dressed today in the finest of his London finery, the white cravat at his throat throwing up the darkness of his skin and eyes. The gloves he removed after he entered the carriage and sat opposite her, his hat joining them on the leather seat.

‘Eleanor?’ She had forgotten how tall he was and how the smell of him made her want to just breathe in for ever. His hair was pulled back and damp.

‘Thank you for coming.’ Her voice sounded nothing like her own as he told the jarvey to drive on and shut the door.

‘I have been away from London, otherwise I should have called on you.’ The note in his answer was puzzling, an undercurrent of emotion she could not fathom. Wariness, perhaps, or even anger? Nothing quite made sense.

‘I think your butler may be blackmailing me.’

‘Milne?’ The question was choked out.

‘I have received two letters in the past week. One demanding one hundred pounds and the next five hundred. The first I paid, but the more recent one …’ She stopped unable to go on and hating the way her voice shook.

‘Where are they? The letters?’

‘I burnt them both.’

‘Unwise. Can you remember the exact words?’

She did, and parroting the messages made her feel slightly better. If he could help her, there might still be a way …

‘How were the envelopes sealed?’

‘With red wax.’

‘And the slope to the writing?’

‘Was unremarkable.’

‘Did the footman remember anything of the way the second note had come?’

‘I did ask. A child of the street brought that one, too.’

‘The same child?’

Eleanor frowned. ‘I did not bother him for a description.’

‘Damn.’

‘And the second drop?’

‘Drop?’

‘The place you were to leave the money?’

‘He said I was to walk down Regent Street this morning and he would come and speak to me. But I did not go.’

The silence was thick and when he said no more she chanced her own observation. ‘I didn’t know who else to call on for help.’

He looked her straight in the eyes. ‘You did not think that I could be the culprit?’

‘No.’

When she smiled he swore. In French. She had never heard any of the words he used, but guessed them to be ripe given his tone of delivery. Even that made her feel better, for he was every bit as angry as she was.

‘Did you tell your husband?’

She shook her head. ‘He is ill and would not wish to know …’

‘Then don’t. I’ll deal with it all, I promise you. If another letter comes, leave it sealed, but have it delivered straight to my town house.’

She nodded, the relief of having him shouldering the burden of her secret immense.

‘Would they harm my daughter, do you think?’

‘No.’ He did not even hesitate, the certainty in his tone an elixir against all the ‘what ifs’ she had been imagining.

‘I do not care about my reputation, but if Florencia is hurt because of this …’

‘No one will harm her, I promise you, Eleanor. No one.’

‘I will pay any expenses incurred, of course.’

He shook his head and placed one hand on his knee, palm up.

He would help her.

His eyes were black and undeniably furious. No milk-livered fop or dandy with little notion of the fighting arts, but a man who had survived the baser ways of others by his wits and by his knowledge. The scar across one whole side of his palm was a badge of experience.

A new worry surfaced. ‘You would not kill anyone …?’

‘… innocent?’ He finished off the sentence and her disquiet heightened.

‘England affords harsh punishments to those who take the law into their own hands.’

‘You are the second person in the space of two weeks who has reminded me of the differences.’

‘The second?’

‘My brother Taris warned me off an affair of the heart.’

‘Oh.’ She coloured and looked out of the window. The dome of St Paul’s could be seen far in the distance. Did he speak of a mistress perhaps, a kind of warning to make her realise the impossibility of anything intimate ever happening again between them?

Inside the carriage she could smell the soap he used, the perfume clean and unfussy. His hair caught all the colours of the light. Corn and wheat and pure plain silver. Cristo Wellingham was by far the most handsome man she had ever laid her eyes on and she could understand the fuss he had engendered in all the beating hearts of London’s younger women. For a moment she wished she had been younger, prettier, unencumbered. And more daring. But she wasn’t. She was a twenty-three-year-old married mother with the shame of sin about to be proclaimed to all who might listen.

Unless she could stop it!

‘My husband is dying.’ The words were out before she meant them to be and she blanched at the echo. She had not admitted that even to herself and to hear them said so unbidden was shocking. Still she could not take them back. ‘I need him to go to the grave with a soul that is not troubled.’

‘Is Florencia mine, Eleanor?’ He asked the question a second time, and everything stopped. Breath. Blood. Movement.

They were no longer in a carriage on the road around London town, no longer part of a day scrawled with blue and green and yellow. Instead they sat in a void of empty loss, the grey whir of deceit pulling them apart, bruising his eyes and twisting his face into something that was not known.

‘No,’ she denied again, the word creeping between her lips, bending in question and in fright. One different word and a whole world could change with it. One other word and her daughter was no longer just hers. The regret that marked his face was only some comfort.

‘I don’t believe you. Martin was married twice before and there were no offspring from either marriage.’

‘Both wives were barren.’

‘Or perhaps you were already pregnant from our coupling and England had ceased to be an option to return to?’

Eleanor remembered the whispers about the Comte de Caviglione. A spy, the women had said in the Château Giraudon that night, and one of the cleverest around. She remained silent under the watchfulness of his gaze, the frown on his forehead deeper now as his glance fell to her hand wringing the fabric in her skirt this way and that. The cut-diamond face of her wedding ring sparkled like ice. Mocking everything.

‘At Beaconsmeade you said that you loved me.’

The ache at the back of her throat almost made her cry out and say it again and again, here in the space of the carriage cocooned from society and propriety. Kiss me, she longed to demand, reach out and take away choice and kiss me, but he did not move, and the silence between them grew full with doubt and hesitancy.

Finally he spoke. ‘I will station a man in your street, Eleanor, to watch for anyone who might contact you again.’ All business and efficiency. She saw how he lifted his knees back so that even inadvertently he might not touch her.

‘People will question …’

‘This man will be like a breeze that fills only the cracks others miss.’

‘A bit like you, then. A hidden man?’

He laughed, though she thought the sound forced.

‘Is your mother still alive?’

She could never get used to the way he changed subjects. Almost on a whim.

‘No. She died a few years before my grandfather did.’

‘So when you came to Paris there was no one left?’

Hurt raced through her bones like the small flying insects that dissected the evenings at her childhood home. The last of the Bracewell-Lowens. Even years of time had not lessened the ache of it.

‘There were never many of us in the first place …’

‘Lord, Eleanor.’ He held up his fingers as if to stop the words, stop the way she said them, fancyfree and offhand. ‘You need someone …’

‘I have Martin.’

‘And when you don’t?’

She pulled down the window and called to the driver to stop. When the carriage did so she unlatched the door and looked away.

‘I shall never be a woman who would choose the wrong thing to do above the right one. Do you understand?’ Steel coated her words. ‘And in the light of that if you feel you can now no longer help me …’

He held up his hand and she faltered.

‘“I wasted time and now doth time waste me.”’

‘From Richard the Second?’

‘You know your quotes, my Eleanor, and I give you my word that from now on I shall not squander another second.’

‘Eleanor, have you heard the news? Cristo Wellingham was involved in a fight near Blackfriars Bridge. It is said that he broke one man’s nose and another man’s arm. His family, as you can imagine, is not pleased.’ Diana’s face was full of distaste. ‘A gentleman should not be seen in such circumstances and especially a lord freshly come from France and nearing the age of thirty.’

Sophie giggled. ‘He is a very fine fighter from all the gossip I have been hearing …’ She stopped as her mother frowned.

‘Only reputation separates us from the hoi polloi, my girl, and things of this nature have the result of making those just beneath us in breeding sit up and ask questions. The Wellinghams have a duty to rein such wildness in.’

‘Was he hurt?’ Eleanor asked as soon as Diana stopped speaking.

‘Several cuts around the eyes, apparently! The boy was always trouble, for goodness’ sake, just look at that nasty business with your brother. In his favour I did hear that he went to Bornehaven Grange to try to explain what had happened with Nigel, but your uncle ran him off.’

Eleanor tried to imagine what the eighteen-year-old Cristo Wellingham might have said to her family. Nigel was dead by an accident at his hand according to the gossip and he had left England the following day, a son of Falder who was never to return to it. What forced a man to that kind of disconnection?

Another more worrying thought surfaced as well. What if the fight here in London had something to do with the blackmail letters that she had told him of? Would he be crucified by society for a promise he had made to her? A woman who would lie about the parentage of her own daughter?

Everything that had been simple was no longer, because, although another letter had not come, she found herself watching each and every stranger who came near to them. In the park. In the reading rooms at Hookham’s. In the safety of shops she had once enjoyed wandering in.

Watching and fearing.

‘I think we should have a walk after lunch for the day is lovely and I don’t wish to miss it. Would you come too, Eleanor? Martin is having a sleep after all and you have not been anywhere in days.’

Feeling the sun slanting into the room and Florencia tugging at her sleeve, Eleanor relented. With Diana, Sophie and Margaret and a multitude of other servants accompanying them, surely nothing could go wrong and Hyde Park on a Saturday was a busy and safe place.

Shaking away her nervousness, she took a breath. She wouldn’t let the past trap her for ever and Cristo Wellingham had promised her that he would deal with any problems should they arise.

Still, to make certain that Florencia was safe, she would instruct her daughter to stay by her side.

An hour later Eleanor was becoming less and less sure of the wisdom of agreeing to such an outing as the clouds rolled in and the park emptied. Still, Diana seemed unperturbed by any oncoming weather.

‘I tell you that it will not rain, Sophie, and a bit of wind and drizzle does wonders for any young girl’s countenance. Keep up, Margaret, and you, too, Lainie. Florencia, hold your mother’s hand as she has asked you to or I will instruct Molly to take you home immediately.’

Florencia conceded, even as Eleanor promised herself that this would indeed be the last walk she took with Martin’s very bossy younger sister.

Already the first spits of rain worried her gown and she drew her daughter in closer.

‘Up ahead there are some trees. We will shelter there until Harold returns with the coach.’ Even Diana had her limits of enduring a storm.

A line of oaks looked very isolated and forlorn in the wet. Still, she could do nothing except follow the group as they dashed towards them.

It was then that she saw them. Two men walking at an angle, cutting across the grass and looking straight at her. The tallest of them seemed vaguely familiar, though she could not for the life of her think how she could know him.

Grabbing Florencia’s hand, she pulled her towards her family, shouting out for Diana to stop, but already the strangers were on her, the first one leaning down and calmly picking up her daughter. Florencia screamed even as Eleanor did not allow her fingers to break contact.

‘I would advise you to let the girl go, madame. Any histrionics will make it difficult for both of you.’

In French!

The carousel of her mind spun backwards and stopped. This was the man who had burnt her thigh at the Château Giraudon with the red-hot tip of his smouldering cheroot. Shaking his words away, she reached for Florencia, fear making her movements heavy and slow.

‘Let go of her, right now.’ She could barely recognise the sound of her own voice.

But he did not listen, turning his back and taking the path away from the others. Hurrying to follow, she saw Diana behind them, shouting and gesturing. Too far away. Another man she had not seen suddenly reached out, his arm about her waist, lifting her off her feet as he jammed a heavy sack over her head. A sick plunge of nausea made her stomach lurch and she stumbled, the movement taking all breath from her body and making her see points of dancing black.

‘Florencia.’ The word hurt to say, but she tried again. A short curse in French stopped her as a hard object connected with her head. Then there was only darkness.

Chapter Thirteen

Cristo crouched against one of the piles under the warehouse, quiet against the river water. The sun slanted against the glass of a dirty window above him, smears of age and grease and dust. The only sunbeam for miles, he thought, his eyes scanning the alleyway winding up around the corner, the dark press of buildings sending shadowed danger into everything.

He was here because Etienne Beraud was in London. The Foreign Office had told him when Cristo had contacted them about the blackmail notes Eleanor had received, but he had disappeared, a known French spy who could only be up to no good.

Today, however, Cristo had intercepted a note with the name of his old rival upon it and written in a code that had been easily broken, a note that told of a safe house they were using by the docks.

Swearing softly, he rubbed at his left eye, aching from a punch he had failed to escape the evening before last when the piece of information had fallen into his hands.

Paris seemed to reach out and consume him again, the subterfuge of ten lonely years lying heavily across the last weeks in England when his body had begun to uncoil into something approaching a normal life. With a hat pulled down over his eyes he was the man he had once been, the knife strapped to his ankle sharp and honed and another one hidden beneath the folds of his shirt equally as keen. He made his breathing slower by sheer dint of will, a trick he had learned from endless nights of marking time.

Finally, just as the sun had gone and the moon had taken its place, there was movement and the sound of footsteps on the wooden decking.

Hoisting himself up, Cristo stayed under the shelter of shadow, a silent shape stalking his quarry without sound. When he was close enough he pulled the knife from his belt, the silver tang of it heavy in his hand as he pressed it against the throat of the one he had caught.

‘Pas un mot, vous comprendez?’

Not a word, you understand?

As the man realized the danger, his fingers reached for his pocket. Cristo pressed his blade in harder and they instantly stilled.

‘De Caviglione.’

‘Dupont.’

Manners in the heart of death-dealing.

‘Where is Beraud?’

‘I do not know.’

The blade nicked through the cloth, drawing blood.

‘Wrong answer. Where is he?’

True fear beaded Dupont’s upper lip and the bottom one began to quiver.

‘In the building with the tower next to this one! He has your lady.’

‘He …? What …?’ Anger made the words lethal and fear chilled Cristo to the bone. ‘They have Eleanor? Why?’

The time to tread carefully was long gone and Dupont, reading his fury, began to sob. ‘I did not know he planned to do this. The child is only young …’

A child as well? Florencia.

Lifting the heavy hilt of his knife, he brought it down hard across Dupont’s temple and left him face down on the dirtied cobblestones.

Beraud’s lair was exactly where Dupont had said it would be and Cristo came in through the back door, dispensing with the locks in less than a minute.

Two men outside the room on the second floor were on guard. He met them in French with his beret pulled down low.

‘Beraud wants you downstairs now …’

By the time he had finished speaking they had seen his eyes and by then it was far too late. They fell quietly for large men and he dragged both into an empty room at one end of the corridor, binding their mouths, feet and hands with strips of leather he had brought with him for the purpose.

A chink of light showed beneath a door at the end of the passage way and even as he listened he heard the quiet crying of a child.

Eleanor came back to consciousness in a room that smelt of fish. Florencia was tucked in beside her, sobbing quietly. When Eleanor brought her finger to her mouth to ask for silence, she could hear the sea lapping at the floorboards.

A warehouse on the dock. She was sure that was where they had been taken and the next thought made her temples throb. If they were transported by boat out of London, anything might happen to them. Fear dried her mouth.

Lifting her other hand, she saw that the blood on her fingers was congealed and sticky. Pain lanced through her lip and her side and she shifted her position to accommodate the ache. To the left some twenty yards away the man from Paris and another stood talking, a pile of money stacked between them on a table.

Florencia shook in fear, hot tears running onto her silken dress and shadowing the yellow.

‘It will be all right, Florencia. I promise.’ Sometimes lies were a balm to truth but the terror in her was growing with each passing second.

‘The man gave me a bon-bon.’ She raised the sticky sweetness up, wailing as Eleanor knocked the treat from her hands and it rolled across the floor, collecting dust and wheat grains and fibre.

‘You must not eat anything they give you,’ she said even as she sidled to the right. There had to be something here she could hide, some solid sharp object that would allow her at least a moment of surprise. She found it in a hook embedded in a sack of grain, the shaft of it threaded with rope. When she tested the point, blood welled on the pad on her finger. If anyone touched Florencia, she would gouge out their eyes. She swore she would as she fitted the weapon into her palm.

Noises from outside made her start. A crash and some swearing and then the door was flung open, a voice she knew rising above others further out.

‘Where is she?’ The sound of a gun firing and then the stench of powder curling into the room!

Florencia screamed, frozen in terror, her dark eyes like two holes in her pale face, and then Cristo Wellingham was there, the boot of his heel through the door and the shot fired, loud and fierce, no quarter given. It was the metal shield he carried that had saved him, Eleanor realised later, though how he had known the man might aim for his head and not his chest …

Two knives flew almost in unison and then there was silence, the smoke curling as Cristo’s eyes met her own, dark amber cold as steel.

‘Eleanor?’ Her name? She could see him say it, but there was no sound, only his mouth opening as the distance between them closed. Two feet and then one. Her face damp with blood and sweat and tears as she came against him, Florencia in her arms.

Her heartbeat was dull in her head and then they were outside in the rain, heavy and cleansing, the chill of it washing away all traces of death.

She grabbed at her daughter, hands threading through silver and silver, hardly knowing where one of them began and the other one ended. As sound returned his words were not in English but in French, quiet and honest and infinitely calming.

‘It is over, Eleanor. You are safe.’

Nodding, she stayed there in his arms until her breathing softened. When she finally pulled away she saw his eyes were full of a pain that had nothing to do with the physical as he gazed at Florencia.

‘You would not have told me?’ His injured hand reached out for the silver in her hair.

Still in French. A protection, she realized, against his daughter listening. The muscles in his arms showed through the material in his jacket. Powerful. Strong. She watched as he touched Florencia for the very first time, infinite care and love in the movement.

‘Tell me that you would have told me, damn it. Eleanor. I need to hear at least that.’

His eyes were closed now and the muscle on the side of the jaw rippled in tension.

‘No. She is mine, Cristo, because to say anything else would be to destroy her. Don’t you see that?’

The shadows in his eyes when he opened them again were bruised with both anger and want.

‘Yet by saying nothing you destroy me?’

Her bottom lip quivered as the challenge registered. A choice, then? A man who had walked in the shadows of the world and whose sins were coming back to be visited upon those all about him, dangerous, perilous, the fortunate outcome of the evening’s happenings only decided by a miracle! He had killed two men right in front of her eyes and never blinked once.

Pulling back, she broke contact, the guilt of another feeling sticking in her throat.

‘The man you killed was from the Château Giraudon. I remember him as the one who hurt my thigh.’

He nodded. ‘Etienne Beraud. He was a French spy.’

‘As you were an English one? If anything had happened to Florencia because of our past … because of your past …’

Reality crashed in and his eyes acknowledged her withdrawal. Already the sounds of others were coming closer, the real world of London and its people, running steps and voices of authority. The constabulary. She saw the shape of their hats even as Cristo Wellingham drew away.

‘Our coachman followed the carriage on foot to the docks after you were taken in the park, Lainie, and when he saw where they had stopped he came back to tell us.’ Her sister-in-law’s arms were firmly around her, helping her into the Dromorne conveyance, and settling a blanket across both her and Florencia’s knees once inside. ‘Martin was beside himself, of course, and had to be sedated, but I sent for the constabulary and we came straight here. I would not have believed it was Cristo Wellingham who took you until I saw him pulling at you, trying to make you stay. He will be hanged for this, of course.’ Diana’s voice was flat. ‘He will be hanged and drawn and quartered for the kidnap of a lady and her child, and God knows what it will do to the Wellingham family name.’ Barking out an order to the driver, she shut the door with a clang.

‘No. It was not him … it was not Cristo Wellingham who did this. He saved us, Diana. He came and saved us.’

‘Why?’ Her sister-in-law’s eyes had narrowed, the gleam in them deadened with the confession. ‘Why would he do that, Eleanor? Why would a man with whom you have had very little contact risk his life to save yours?’

The truth was caught again in choice. Spare her reputation or save Cristo’s life.

‘I knew Cristo Wellingham intimately in Paris.’

Florencia between them looked up as the silence lengthened, and Eleanor saw the very second that the truth of her daughter’s parentage dawned in Diana’s glance.

‘What have you done? Does my brother know any of this?’ Her question was full of horror as she comprehended what it was that was implied. ‘This sort of scandal will kill Martin and he has been nothing but kind to you. And my girls … This will ruin their chances of any union whatsoever if any of it gets out … you do know that?’

The weight of choice became heavier.

‘If you could find it in yourself to protect our family and to say nothing … to let a man well connected take his chances …’

‘There were people killed tonight, Diana. If he should be blamed for that, they would crucify him.’ Eleanor shook her head firmly and reached for the handle of the carriage, but already the horses were moving at some speed. She felt a new dread creep into her heart as the anger flashed in her sister-in-law’s eyes.

‘Then you leave me no choice whatsoever, for both my brother and daughters and for Florencia. And for you, too, Eleanor! One day you might even thank me for saving you from yourself.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Banging twice on the roof of the carriage, Diana looked at her sadly.

‘Unfortunately, my dear, you soon will.’

Cristo was thrown into goal, the baton marks on his shoulders protesting the movement. His legs were shackled and one of his eyes was swollen closed. The constabulary had come into the chaos and found him guilty, the blood on his clothes, the hysteria of Eleanor’s sister-in-law, the gathering group of onlookers who had all pointed him out as one of the French kidnappers.

The blood on his hands had convicted him, the garb he had donned for his sojourn in the heart of the docks doing the rest. No longer an English gentleman. Only a felon with scant regard for the letter of the law.

No light punishment. No careful handling. For six hours now he had been kicked and punched and hurt, and still Eleanor did not come.

Could not come, Cristo reasoned, the truth of all that had happened closing in on him. Could not come because to do so would ruin her reputation completely. It was only that thought that kept him silent. Only the thought of protecting what was left of her honour.

But for how long? The thought of Ashe and Taris worried him. When would they know of the night’s happenings?

Sitting on the cold stone floor, he nursed his right hand. Two fingers broken and his thumbnail gone; the jagged remains of what was left hurt like hell and he tore the final piece off with his teeth before sucking at the blood that welled.

His shirt was lost, too, and his shoes and the watch that his mother had given him when he was eleven. All around him the groans and shouts of other prisoners echoed, a reminder of other times when he had been bound and hurt and held.

But here in England it was different. His eyes skimmed the locks on the door. Two minutes and he would have them opened. Another five and he would be in fresh air. The fastening on his legs was such child’s play he might have released the chains in his sleep.

‘Ye’ll be wanting a drink, no doubt.’ The voice of the guard broke into his thoughts as a stream of water was thrown through the bars. The cold made him start even as training held him still.

‘Thank you.’

The curse was ripe and the cup hit him fully on the cheek, breaking open the skin. ‘With a noose around that pretty neck, ye may not be as polite.’

He refrained from answering and when the footsteps receded he stood, a dizzy lightness of head making him reach for the wall behind.

‘Steady,’ he said to himself and sucked at the moisture covering his arms. Even a little liquid was better than none at all and he needed his wits fully about him.

Florencia.

A daughter.

Their daughter.

Almost five. The same age as William and Alfred, Taris and Beatrice’s twins.

Part of a family. A big family. A child of Falder and of the Carisbrook line and the de Caviglione blood that he had inherited from his mother.

God! He had seen himself in her chocolate eyes and silvered hair, reflections of his own childhood in the determined set of her jaw and the sweep of her forehead.

Eleanor had been eighteen and pregnant when she had simply stepped out of his carriage into a European winter. How could that have felt, hemmed in as she was by ruin and by the mistake of identity shattering every single tenet of proper behaviour and righteous convention that she had no doubt been raised to believe in.

Slapping his hands against the stone, he pushed away from the wall. No matter what happened now he would protect her. Protect them. This was his responsibility. He would say nothing of the threat of kidnap or of the identity of Beraud and his henchmen until he knew exactly what it was that Eleanor wanted to be said.

She lay drifting between night and day, reaching for the sweet smell of something close.

‘Drink up, Lainie dear. It will help you.’ A feminine voice that she knew well. Diana? Leaning forwards, she did as she was told and the room swam into bands of colour. Pink and red and orange.

She laughed as the hues mixed together and the thoughts in her head that were difficult glided away on the edge of peace.

‘Florencia?’ A name that was important. She reached for the sound of it even as the mist rose up again, the close timbre of the voice receding into distance.

Chapter Fourteen

‘You killed these criminals in defence of a woman and her child, Cris. Tell the law of your relationship with Eleanor Westbury and the letters that were sent to her demanding money and that will be the end of it. They will believe you for who you are, and you can come home.’

Asher was there again. Had he been there already today? The minutes had turned into hours and then into more, as one day moved into two. Time skewered and bent into a never-ending stretch, the cold water, the careful bruising, shivering in black nights on a hard cobbled floor.

He had clothes now and food and while his brothers were about nothing untoward ever happened. He made it his mission in life not to complain about ill treatment and to never question the whereabouts of Eleanor Westbury.

Still, today Ashe had come armed with news. The Dromorne family had decamped into the country, to heal, it was rumoured, and to forget. One of their maids had let it slip to Beatrice’s servant. Eleanor had left before the others with her daughter and sister-in-law, her things packed up in her absence.

To forget.

About him.

Her choice had been made in the aftermath of the fury and he could do nothing save stand by it. He had seen the anger in her eyes and understood exactly what had brought it there.

The silver strands of his daughter’s hair flew like a flag of virtue in his face.

‘I could break you out.’ Ashe’s voice was low-whispered, the knife he carried slipped into the straw on the edge of Cristo’s cell.

‘I could do that for myself, Brother.’

‘Then what stops you?’

He only smiled.

‘I will ride north with the Wellingham lawyers and demand Eleanor and Martin Westbury tell the truth.’

‘And I will deny everything. Eleanor and Florencia stay safe. No scandal. No muck-raking. No gossipy outrage outlining the stigma of her birth and of my part in it.’

‘And what of you in here? How long do you think you can last?’ Ashe turned and drove his fist into the stone. ‘Hell, Cris, you’re more stubborn than Taris ever was, even at his worst of times, and that’s saying something. Besides, if Lady Dromorne does not even have the courage to confess to the whole fiasco I’d say she wasn’t worth the life you seem to want to throw away so carelessly.’

Cristo turned from his brother’s words, the truth in them undeniable.

Eleanor had not come.

She had not even sent a missive to see that he still lived. For all that she might know he could be dangling now on the end of a rope, hanged for a crime that was not his. But even that thought was not quite correct. The crime had been his five years ago when he had taken her for a whore at the Château Giraudon and used her in a way no gentleman should ever use a lady. This was his penance. His punishment. The completion of a debt.

‘So you would sacrifice the Wellingham name for the Dromorne one?’ Asher again, his voice still lowered.

Anger forced his first real emotion. ‘I have sacrificed much in the name of others, brother. This one is entirely for myself.’

‘Guilt is a hard taskmaster.’

The pale eyes of Eleanor raised in supplication from a velvet bed shimmered before him, the wintertime Paris such a long way from a London gaol.

‘No, Asher. It is only easy.’

‘I cannot make him see sense, damn it, and Eleanor Westbury accepts all correspondence and returns none of her own.’

‘Yet if we give the truth of the matter to the law he will never forgive us.’ Taris finished the last of his brandy and poured himself another one.

Bea and Emerald sat with them in the downstairs library of the Carisbrook town house, all their children sent off with their nannies and myriad servants to Falder.

‘Azziz and Toro could get him out.’ Emerald bit at her fingernails as she said it. ‘They could bring him home.’

‘This is London, Emmie, not Jamaica, and a thousand constables would be after our heads should we be implicated. Besides, Cris would hate us for it.’

Beatrice walked to the window. ‘If Martin Westbury dies soon, Cristo might achieve exactly what he wants. A widow of spotless reputation and a child who is for ever seen as the offspring of her husband.’

‘And what if he lasts for years, Bea? What of the charges that Cristo faces right now?’ Taris’s voice was strained. ‘How can we get him out of there and have the charges gone without needing the help of the Dromornes?’

A knock at the door made them all start, and the butler came in with a sheath of paper sealed in red wax and ribboned. It was addressed to the Duke of Carisbrook. Ashe took it quickly and began to read.

‘The suit against Cristo is to be dropped.’

Taris shook his head. ‘Who talked, Ashe?’

‘Martin Westbury. It is stated here that there had been notes sent that had intimated kidnap. Dromorne also said that he had paid Cristo a substantial sum of money to protect his wife from harm given his own ill health, and that all the subsequent mayhem resulted from that bargain.’

‘Let’s hope the fact that he was the only Westbury willing to do anything to save Cristo’s skin might make our brother think twice about his apparent fascination for the fickle-hearted Lady Dromorne.’

Beatrice stood and joined her husband. ‘I cannot believe that she would simply let Cristo hang for an offence that she knew was not his. There must be something we do not know about in all of this …’

Taris held up his hand. ‘Right now it’s our brother I am more concerned about, Bea.’ He lifted his watch from his pocket and felt for the time. ‘Ten o’clock. Could we get him out tonight?’

‘Damned if they can try to stop us,’ Ashe answered as he called for the carriage.

The mist seemed to be clearing, widening, the sweet taste of freedom further away now and pain all that was left of any of it.

She was sick into the bowl held beneath her face, many times, sweat moistening her skin and making her clammy.

‘There, there, Lainie. You will be all right now. It is over. You are safe.’

Martin’s voice. The quiet tones comforting. She held on to the hand he offered. Her lips were dry and the skin in her throat was parched.

‘Water?’ A glass was brought to her lips as he tipped her head to taste it and more clouds cleared.

‘And your sister?’

‘Has gone. I sent her back to Scotland when I realised what was happening. Her husband has promised she will not venture into England again for many years.’

‘Cristo Wellingham?’

‘Is safe. I made sure of it.’

‘And Florencia?’

‘Is at this moment doing her lessons in the schoolroom with her governess.’

When he raised her hand to his lips to kiss it, she saw she was only skin and bone. ‘How long have I been like this?’

‘Two weeks.’

The time had her gulping back fear. ‘Fourteen whole days? What happened after … London?’

‘Diane took you north to an inn and administered laudanum. The doses were so high it took us some time to wean you off it.’

‘Us?’

‘The Dromorne doctor is in attendance.’

Eleanor lay her head back on the pillow and tried to take stock of everything. Where was Cristo Wellingham now? She had no way of asking, however, for already she could see in her husband’s eyes a disappointment that laid every other truth bare.

‘I did not lie to you, Martin, about Florencia. I just did not tell you the name of her father.’

He smiled at that. ‘And if I had asked, would you have told me?’

She considered this. ‘You never did ask.’

Closing her eyes, she felt tears leak between her lids, the tight ache in her throat making talking harder.

‘Nevertheless, I would have appreciated honesty that night you saw Wellingham again at the theatre. Surely then, Eleanor, you might have said something?’

The gap she had always felt between them widened, lies stretching out what little that had held them together. With only a push everything might break and the circles of tiredness beneath his eyes were dark, worry and illness mixed into deep bruises on his skin.

A man caught between the truth of expedience and struggling to do the right thing. His sister’s betrayal, his wife’s shame and his own body’s failings. An honourable man who deserved a lot more than the hand he had been dealt. She reached out.

‘I am so very sorry.’

One finger came across the line of her cheek, wiping away the tears, soft as kindness. ‘I should not wish for our name to be bandied about in the way that any confession could easily let it.’

‘And neither should I.’

‘Cristo Wellingham has said nothing at all. To anyone. He holds his tongue for the sake of our daughter.’

This time Eleanor could not even answer, the lump in her throat growing, and she had no idea of what might happen next. Cristo had his own family to consider and he was not a man who courted publicity, but in saying nothing he had in effect let her go. Lord, what must he think of her, then? A woman of so little moral fibre that she could not even rouse herself to write a thank-you note?

‘Did you tell him about Diana … about the laudanum?’

‘Yes, and he has given me his guarantee of confidence on the matter.’ There was a tone in her husband’s voice that she had never heard there before and Eleanor guessed it to be the grief of losing respect for a favoured sister. She swallowed. At least Cristo Wellingham knew why she had not been able to come to London and exonerate him. She did not dare to voice her relief, however, as her husband began to talk again.

‘I have rented a town house in Bath and we shall repair there immediately. The waters warrant much in the way of a cure and my cough has worsened …’

She smiled through her tears. ‘Florencia would like that.’

‘Wellingham has promised he will never set foot in the city so long as we are there. He sends you only his very best wishes for the future.’

‘You have seen him?’

‘A number of times, my dear, and his brothers stood with him on each occasion. Family solidarity is an undervalued commodity to my mind, and the sense of protecting reputation is well understood by every old lineage. He wants his name unsullied.’

Eleanor swallowed, imagining the conversation. Unsullied. For the best. For protection. For Florencia. Bleakness covered all emotion and what had budded began again to wilt, blighted before it had even had time to flourish.

‘Bath will be lovely at this time of year,’ she said, and felt the weight of motherhood hard upon her shoulders even as she wiped away her tears.

Cristo remodelled Graveson Manor using all of the taste he had acquired from years of living in Paris. Simple. Expensive. Chic. He oversaw the laying of the marble floor in the portico entrance and the coloured glass in the atrium that joined the old wing to the new one. No detail was too small to find unimportant. The library, the music room, the ballroom that Beatrice had insisted he include, even the nurseries that graced the third floor of the structure, painted in lemon and green.

He never walked there again after finishing those particular chambers, because he knew that without Eleanor there would not be infants.

One suite on the end of the corridor, however, he did often visit. This room was fashioned in pink and silver, a trail of stuffed animals on numerous shelves waiting for the one little girl in the world who would never play with them.

Florencia. Her name was engraved in his heart like a tattoo, ineradicable and permanent, and the reason for every single thing that he did.

His own room he left plain and barely touched. A single bed, an armoire and a wardrobe. No mirror to fashion his likeness as he prepared for sleep, and no space for another body. Only necessity graced this chamber. A brush. A block of soap next to a pitcher. A bottle of fine French brandy for the nights when sleep would not arrive and the morning seemed a long way off.

Martin Westbury had been most civil when he had come to call on him in London. He had thanked Cristo for the help rendered to his wife and then he had taken breath through the difficulty of a disease that had much worsened and asked for a moment in private.

His brothers had left him to wait outside and as the door closed the mask of the man before him had fallen into grief. A broken man and all at his account!

‘My wife, Eleanor, is a good woman and a brave one. I would like you to know at least that.’

He nodded more out of expectation than of any real feeling because she had neither come nor written and almost two weeks had gone by with every single moment counted.

‘She has told me of your … connection.’ Dromorne held up his hand as Cristo went to speak. ‘I have the energy to say what I want to only once.’ He waited as Cristo nodded and settled back.

‘All I have in the way of possessions, save the entailed buildings and title, will go directly to Eleanor and Florencia and I am a very rich man. But money cannot buy back reputations and at the moment theirs are lying in the balance. Were you to talk, I doubt that even I would have the wherewithal to save them.’ Another tear traced its way across his cheeks, falling on one armrest of his wheelchair and sliding onto legs marked by thinness.

‘You did not disclose your association with my wife in gaol under severe provocation and you did not gossip on your release. I respected that. Eleanor, however, has decided that you are too dangerous to ever be allowed near our daughter again. It is the problem of your past, you understand, and your questionable connections. She has asked me to come to tell you that she will allow nothing to compromise Florencia.’

Silence counted down the moments.

‘So you wish for me to leave England?’

‘No. I have arranged a place for my family in Bath. It shall be that city that is off limits to you if Florencia’s chance of a future is to be secured. I have spoken to Eleanor about this and she has agreed. It was a foolish and ill-thought out flight of fancy for her to have agreed to see you again and one that cannot be repeated. My wife is most explicit on that point.’

‘I see.’ Cristo balled his fists and laid them at his side. He wished the man might just leave with his promises and illness and inherent logic. Eleanor and Florencia were lost to him through the strict rules of propriety and respectability every bit as much as they were through sheer and utter cowardice.

‘If I were younger, I might call you out for this, Welling-ham.’

Cristo held his glance, the fury inside him lending any civility a brittle air. ‘Perhaps such a duel might work to my advantage, my lord.’

Dromorne smiled at the insult and refused to be drawn into the argument further, rapping his cane heavily on the floor. The door opened and he was gone, only the sound of his wheels against the highly polished parquet as they receded into the distance. Asher and Taris came in to stand beside him.

‘It is settled,’ he said, hoping that the catch in his voice was not a permanent disability, as the blood in his heart emptied into ice. Betrayal melded seamlessly with disbelief.

‘Did you tell him your side of the story?’

Cristo nodded at Asher’s question, knowing full well that he had not, but the wish for his siblings to think kindly of Eleanor Westbury made him lie as he spoke again.

‘Eleanor sends me her best wishes and her sincere thanks, but she has a daughter to protect.’

Taris’s curse had been ripe.

Turning to the window, Cristo was glad for the space and for the first time since he had left Paris he missed his old life in the Château Giraudon, missed its danger and its clarity, the sides of wrong and right so easily defined. Here he felt he had wandered into a land of choices or a hall of mirrors, every direction cursed by circumstance and conduct.

Eleanor was married and she was a loyal wife. Nothing could change that save the death of Dromorne. She was also a mother who loved her daughter.

A tumbler of brandy came from nowhere and he swallowed the lot, liking the way it coated anger with its own particular brand of acceptance.

Martin Westbury had spent the following hours in St Paul’s Cathedral having a dialogue with his maker.

‘I lied to protect us all, Lord.’ He thought of his sister and her ill-guided actions and how she had been bundled back to Edinburgh where her husband’s family held a seat.

He thought of his parents and his ancestors and the goodness that had always imbued the Dromorne name since time immemorial. He thought of Florencia and her silver hair and eyes that were exactly those of Cristo Wellingham and for the first time in his life he swore in a house of God because he knew that Eleanor Bracewell-Lowen had never truly been his.

A wife in name only. A woman he had never touched. Her illness had precluded it at first and in the later years his infirmity had robbed him of any feeling in that region of his being.

But he could change. They could change, and, if God could give him the chance of a second destiny, then who would know what might follow? He smiled, making the sign of the cross above his heart in respect to a wiser deity who had given him direction. Tonight he would show Eleanor that he had forgiven her lies by coming to her room and allowing her the opportunity of sexual expression that a twenty-three-year-old must crave.

It was, after all, the very least that he could do.

Chapter Fifteen

Eleanor went to bed early and left the curtains wide, wide open, so that the moon shone on the bed and lightened her room with silver. The colour of Cristo Wellingham’s hair. She stroked the beam on her sheets with her little finger so that the shadow did not blot out the light and whispered his name against the silence.

Martin had arrived home late and she had smelt strong liquor on his breath, but even that had not been the most unusual thing that had happened this evening. When she had spoken her goodnight he had beckoned her down to him and taken her face in his hands, looking at her in a way she had not seen him do before. Almost sensual! Distaste surfaced, followed by a bolt of fear. Did he think she would want that from him now? Did he imagine the knowledge of her transgressions allowed him a right he had not as before taken?

She sat up, lighting the candle and watching the wick take to flicker yellow into all the shadowy corners. Outside she heard her husband’s chair whirring by just as it did every evening.

But tonight it stopped.

Her breath froze in her throat as the handle began to turn and the door was pushed inwards. Slowly, as if he should not wish to wake her should she be asleep. She cursed the flame at her side, but it was too late to blow it out; when his face came around the portal she made herself smile.

‘Martin?’ She hoped there was just enough question in it to be short of rudeness.

‘Eleanor. I am glad you are still awake.’

The door closed behind him and her heartbeat quickened.

‘You wish to talk?’ she said and drew the blanket up.

He stopped next to her and reached across for one hand, taking it into his own in the way of a husband who did not suppose anything other than acquiescence.

‘I spent a number of hours at St Paul’s Cathedral today, my dear, asking the Lord for a way forwards from all of this.’

‘I see.’ His thumb nudged the material on her sleeve aside so that her neck was exposed and before she could stop him his hand dug into the silk in her bodice, her left breast fitting into coldness. Only shocking.

‘I think the lack of any physical contact between us should be at an end, my love.’

‘You do?’ She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.

‘We are husband and wife, although consummation for me is somewhat of a problem, there are things that I am still able to manage that could bring you pleasure.’

He rolled the material back and let go of her breast, exposing the ample flesh to his glance and to the light before he bent down. Suckling, like a child, the bald spot in the back of his head easily visible.

Her husband. His right. Her duty. She sat as still as she could whilst moonlight faded into cloud. When he had finished she tried to smile at him, glancing down again as he repositioned the fabric in her nightgown and placed the sheet back.

‘It is a beginning, Lainie, and a good one. I shall worship your body as a shrine and hope with all that I am able that my ministrations bring you some portion of pleasure and some allotment of ease.’

Nodding, she watched as he departed, the door shutting behind him and the quiet settling yet again.

A shrine. A duty. Pleasure? Ease? One hand went to her mouth to stop the aching sobs she knew would come, whilst the other gathered the fabric on her breast and wiped the wetness dry.

Nowhere to go and no one to help her. Shocked, she turned into the down of her pillow and cried until sleep overtook her, and in her dreams there was a different man whose lips wove all the magic that her husband’s had failed to do.

Martin met her in the blue parlour the next morning with a particular smile and a wink. Today he looked healthier than he had in a long while, and another layer of guilt was added to those already present. Florencia sat between them, chatting about a puppy she had seen in the park and about a drawing she had completed of him on her return home.

‘He was black and white, Mama, with long ears. When he walked he wobbled and Miss Walsh bade me not to laugh too loud. When will Aunty Diana be back, Mama? I want to tell her about him.’

‘She has much to do in Scotland, Florencia. I doubt that she will be back for a while.’ Martin’s voice held a note of censure she hoped her daughter would not notice.

‘But Margaret and Sophie are missing out on the balls. Some of their dresses are still in the cupboards.’

‘We will send them on, Florencia.’ Eleanor placed her daughter’s napkin so that the crumbs of the cake a maid had brought in did not stain her skirt. She did not even bother to unravel her own because she felt no hunger whatsoever.

Ten hours before she would retire again for the evening. Ten hours before the next ‘pleasure and ease’ might begin yet again. The clock ticked on at an alarming speed and the spots of age on the back of her husband’s hands were plainly visible in the light. The vision of slender fingers wreathed in gold replaced it.

The pile of cards on the sideboard suddenly offered a sanctuary.

‘The Benetts have asked us to a dinner party this evening, and were most hopeful that we should be able to come.’

Martin took a sip of tea. ‘If you should like to go …’

‘I should.’ The words sounded desperate even to her ears.

‘Then perhaps we could manage it for a little while.’

Florencia clapped her hands and looked up, her eyes as wide as saucers. ‘What shall you wear, Mama?’

‘You might like to help me choose, my darling,’ Her daughter’s returned smile made the day bearable again.

‘It seems the Dromornes are often out and about in Bath, Cristo. They were more circumspect here from what I remember, though the husband’s ailment appears much recovered.’

Jack Henshaw, Asher’s oldest friend, placed The Times down on the mahogany table and downed the last of the brandy in his glass. ‘She is cutting quite a figure in the city, according to the article. An Original, the writer supposes, and all the women copying her style.’ He frowned as memory was sifted. ‘I recall her being quite staid in her taste. A young woman dressed as a rather older one, do you not agree?’

Cristo shook his head and declared no opinion whatsoever, but sat perfectly still as Jack droned on.

‘It says that Lady Dromorne rarely misses the chance to socialise and that she has begun to take up the habit of leaving every party awfully late.’

‘And her husband?’

‘Is home in bed waiting, perhaps. A man of singular trust and devotion, poor fool him.’

‘You are implying her to be loose?’

Jack smiled and his eyes met Cristo’s through the glasses he had begun to wear whilst reading.

‘Your tone is more than impartial, Cris.’

‘And your hearing is as poor as your eyesight, Jack.’

‘Eleanor Westbury is described as the most beautiful woman to ever grace Bath.’ Again his brow crinkled. ‘Perhaps the air there suits her constitution well. It has been a good while, after all, since they departed this place and settled in the country.’

Nine months, two weeks and three days, Cristo thought, and hated himself for the counting, though the appearance of Taris and Asher at the club allowed the subject of the Dromornes to at least be dropped.

Or so he had thought until Asher raised their name again.

‘There has been an accident, Cris. In Bath.’

His heart stopped. He swore it did and swore, too, that all the blood from his face drained into pale.

‘Eleanor or Florencia?’ He could not be careful with their names, not when they could already be lost to him.

‘Martin Westbury. He was hit by a carriage as he crossed the street in his chair yesterday. He was killed instantly.’

‘Lord.’ Jack gestured to the waiter to bring a bottle and more glasses. ‘So the illness that he suffered from for all those years didn’t kill him after all? What irony is there in that?’

Taris answered directly. ‘The chance of a quick death as opposed to a lingering one. I think he could count himself fortunate.’

‘Was anyone else hurt?’ Cristo had found his voice again.

‘No. It seems his servant jumped well out of the way.’

‘A loyal subject.’ Jack laughed, though Taris was not quite finished speaking.

‘Would it be wise to go and give our condolences, do you think? The Dromorne family is repairing back here to London as we speak.’

‘Why the hell would we want to do that, Taris? The woman almost killed Cristo.’ Asher’s question was harsh, his expression puzzled.

‘Beatrice felt it the right thing to do when she heard the news. She said Cris would probably feel the same.’

‘Yes. I’d like to go.’ Cristo was infinitely grateful for the suggestion.

‘Then we will go together.’ Ashe laid his hand on his shoulder. Martin Westbury was dead and Eleanor was alone and yet all Cristo could feel was numbness.

Eleanor had dressed Florencia in her black dress and tied the ribbon at her waist, placing the satin so that it hung in two long strips down to the hem. Her own gown held not a hint of any colour save for darkness, the black bombazine wrapped around her figure in the most sombre of shades.

Dead. Martin. Not of illness or of lack of breath, but of an accident. She wished she could have had one chance to say goodbye. Another thought, however, lurked in the background of the more charitable ones.

Relief.

Pushing the word down, she turned to the bishop who had come to the house to give his sincere condolences on the loss of her spouse. He also assured her that a marriage of tenderness and love in this earthly realm, such as theirs had indeed been, would one day be repeated in the celestial one if only she was patient.

‘I will certainly remember the thought, Bishop Pilkington,’ she returned and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, her tears those for the man who had found her in the chapel alone in Aix-en-Provence and taken her and her newly born daughter to Florence. With love.

‘There have been a great many people who have come to pay your husband their last respects over the past few days.’

Eleanor nodded, Martin’s standing in the community of the ton had always been substantial and his wealth cemented his position.

‘I noticed the Carisbrook conveyances pulling up as I arrived here.’

Eleanor dropped the Bible she held and it fell to the ground with a loud bang. When she made no move to bend and pick it up a maidservant hovering in the shadows bobbed down to retrieve it.

‘Thank you.’ The tremble in her voice was obvious and the bishop reached out for her hand and held it within his own.

‘God sends us these trials in life, my dear, but he also sends us the wherewithal to rise above them and create a new journey.’

The Carisbrook conveyances? Cristo Wellingham. Had he married? Had he come to mock her? Had he brought his family to demand the return of her daughter now that her husband was gone?

Another thought also struck her and she unfastened the piece of black silk around her neck, bending to her daughter and winding the fabric around her hair to hide the silver.

‘It is good manners to cover our hair when we have lost somebody very dear,’ she explained as Florencia reached up to see just what her mother had fashioned.

‘Like your one, Mama?’

The veil was pulled down and the lace let through only imprints of what was beside her. Still, with a thick barrier between herself and the man who had never contacted her again, she allowed herself to be lead from the small parlour out into the larger one across the hall, her daughter’s hand firmly kept within her own.

Cristo looked up and Eleanor was there, a veil pulled across her face, hiding everything. Florencia stood next to her, black silk strangely placed around her head, small sprigs of silver escaping the concoction. She looked taller than when he had last seen her, a gold chain with a locket at her neck lending her the air of an older girl.

Eleanor Westbury, on the other hand, had lost weight and a waist that had always been small was now worryingly thin. The chestnut of her hair beneath the veil was highlighted by the darkness of her clothes.

Beatrice next to him laid her hand across his arm, just for a moment, and Emerald on her other side caught his eyes, the turquoise in them, as she observed Florencia, holding an unnerving knowledge.

He looked away. The room was dressed with white lilies and new spring roses. A family banner in purple wool was draped over a large portrait of the Earl of Dromorne set up on a plinth by the window.

Cristo imagined the soul of Westbury castigating him from Heaven, a ghoulish form of sullen morality.

Distance, it might say, and the keeping of a promise, the spectre questioning his very right to be in the house.

Reaching down for the headrest of the sofa in front of him, he held on as if it were a lifeline in a rapidly sinking ship.

A man of the church he recognised as Bishop Pilkington was making much of his departure, his monologue a solemn and depressing piece reminding those in the room of the impermanence of life and of the coming of death.

‘Everyone here will die,’ he began and caught Cristo’s eye with an added fervour. ‘Every single one of us here will die just as this man has and be welcomed into the kingdom of our Lord.’

Now Cristo knew why he seldom ventured into a religious institution or sought out the company of those within it. He coughed to clear his throat and Eleanor turned, her head angled. Listening. He saw the shape of her right ear adorned with a single perfect pearl. Lust shot through his body like a spear, unexpectedly brutal.

Shifting, he caught Asher’s eye and looked away just as quickly, the tenure of his breath shaky. Reciting the conjugations of verbs in Latin helped to calm him. His mind ran across sequences determining pattern as his daughter shifted in her seat, one hand reaching for an itch on her neck. He watched her fingers and her nails and a bruise that sat at the base of her thumb. A small injury. Another moment lost to him. He wished he might have reached forwards and touched her, held his hand across her own and felt her warmth.

But of course he could do nothing of the sort. He was a stranger and a man whom she had seen only once in the heart of chaos. He dropped his gaze as she looked at him and sat perfectly still.

‘Stop fiddling, Florencia.’ Eleanor whispered the words and felt Cristo Wellingham there like an ache that had no ending. Just to the left of her. Five feet away. If she closed her eyes she might smell him, the scent of man and strength and warmness. She hoped he did not see the racing pulse in her throat or the tremor in her jaw. Her eyes rested on Martin’s portrait and on the flowers and the crest and the small likeness of Heaven that her daughter had placed there on the plinth. Hidden beneath the lilies. A drawing of the sun and puppies and all the bon-bons in the world. Given that Martin had hated animals and anything very sweet, that left only the sun to see him on his way.

The Dromorne villa in Florence had been drowned in summer when she had arrived there, grey with fatigue and heartsick. Her tiny son had gone and Italy was a place too far for his soul to find her, but she remembered the warmth as she had stepped from the carriage into the light. She had done little else that long and hot summer save sleep and eat.

The Bishop at her side spoke again of the circle of life and the acceptance of death and the solace that one could find in the eternal love of God. In the rush of memory the reality of it all became focused and Eleanor felt the tears well behind her eyes for a husband who had been a good man and a friend.

She was crying. Cristo could see the tears mopped up by a kerchief that looked suspiciously masculine. He saw the way her hands shook and saw the tremors in her throat as she swallowed back grief and tried to find strength.

Asher was speaking now as the Carisbrook representative and Cristo simply listened. The sun slanted in through the window, covering everything with a strange light, and the Bishop, noticing it, relegated such a shimmer to the way of our Lord and the golden glow of redemption.

A letter of sorts stuck out on one corner of a substantial array of flowers and Cristo determined the end of a rainbow drawn across it.

Florencia’s handiwork, perhaps? He wished that he might have seen more of the final goodbye to the only father she had ever known; as Eleanor stood, their eyes caught, hers plainly visible through a lacy veil.

Shock and want spread across something he could only explain as utter helplessness and his fists clenched at the material in his jacket so that he would not reach out. His breath shook with relief as she turned.

Florencia’s dark eyes were staring at the floor and for that at least he was glad. On her feet she wore little black boots with three buttons on each side of the opening. The right one was scuffed at the toes.

And then it was time to go, time to step forwards and offer individual sympathies. Cristo was pleased Bea and Taris went before him with Ashe and Emerald behind, for sandwiched between Wellinghams he felt a little less visible. The day outside through the glass at the window was cold but blue. The leaves on the trees that lined the driveway were beginning to bud, light green against the limbs of winter.

He would come to give his condolences and she would have to touch him. He would come with his public face and his private thoughts, a man with a lot of reasons to keep the distance he so obviously sought.

Did his promise to stay away from her still exist now that Martin was gone? With Florencia’s name secured for eternity would he wish for any more contact between them?

Another more worrying thought also occurred. Would Florencia recognise him as the one who had come into the warehouse to save them?

Beatrice-Maude came first and Eleanor felt indifference in the way she clasped her hands.

‘I am sorry for your loss, Lady Dromorne.’ Only that. She passed by as quickly as was considered proper and her husband lingered for a second or so longer. Then Cristo was there, his hand held awkwardly.

‘Please accept my condolences.’

Her fingertips rested in his, the gloves they both wore a barrier to everything. He had not so much as raised his eyes to see her, his hair the colour of a spider web in the light.

Just this second.

Just this chance.

Her fingers clamped over his in a motion all of their own, desperate, reckless, melded into a knowledge that should she not try here, she might lose him for ever.

‘Please …?’

She could not say more for her throat had closed up into thickness and the words just would not come. Beside her one of Martin’s cousins coughed.

Releasing his hand, she felt him slip away, from her, the side of his face and then the back of his head, his gloved hand reaching out to the next person in the line and the same words upon his tongue.

‘Please accept my condolences.’

The air was so thin she could barely find breath, only him, here and then gone, only his touch through two layers of fabric and every single part of her longing for more.

Her fingers burned anger into his soul. More than nine months had passed since they had last seen each other and the time for an apology for her lack of contact was far and away over.

Even a letter might have sufficed.

He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on other things. The gilded carved cornices in the ceilings and the tall windows with their elaborate heavy curtains.

‘We need not stay longer.’ Asher turned to him, concern and worry written on his face, though Emerald had hung back and was now speaking with Eleanor.

‘I should not wish to listen to the Bishop Pilkington every Sunday,’ Beatrice said as they reached the carriage and Taris laughed.

‘Fundamentalism has a form of judgement, Bea, that is often fashioned in a wavering zeal. He sounded young. Young enough to be saved by his vacillating faith, would you say?’

‘Hell would have to freeze over first,’ Ashe cut in, ‘and I for one can’t wait for a drink.’

Eleanor saw that the Wellinghams were laughing, their happiness in her unending sorrow almost a sacrilege.

‘A very dear friend of mine has a house in High Wycombe that you would be most welcome to use. It is small, you understand, but very beautiful. A sanctuary, if you like.’ Emerald Wellingham held her hand in a way that was endearing.

‘Thank you for the kind offer, but—’

‘Being alone in the city, Lady Dromorne, is very different to being alone in the country. Just remember that. Besides, no one would question your business there. I would make very sure of it.’ Turquoise eyes bore into hers and Eleanor got the impression she was trying to say something completely different. ‘If you should change your mind, I would be happy to hear from you and remember that things are not always exactly as they seem.’

Eleanor could not quite determine the Duchess of Carisbrook’s motive in the warning. All the rest of the family had passed her by with only the most cursory of greetings, but this woman was almost ardent in her advice. Disengaging her hand, she stepped back.

‘I thank you again, your Grace.’

‘Emmie. It is how my friends call me.’

Eleanor stayed silent.

‘My son Ashton is just a little older than your daughter and we have puppies at the town house at the moment. Perhaps your little girl might like to come and play with them?’

Eleanor smiled. It was hard to remain distant under such an onslaught of friendliness.

‘Puppies?’ Florencia pushed herself forwards. ‘I love puppies.’

‘Do you indeed, my dear? Then it is settled. Your mother must bring you to visit before they grow too large and you miss them altogether.’

‘Can we, Mama? Please can we?’

In the face of all the sadness and tears Eleanor found herself nodding her head and arranging a date and time for the following week. Even though they were in mourning it would be a quick and private visit and it would be nice to see laughter again on her daughter’s face.

Chapter Sixteen

Dressed in unending black, Eleanor exited the conveyance that had been sent by Emerald Wellingham to pick them up. The previous week had been difficult for the timing for her leaving the Dromorne properties was tighter than she had hoped, as Martin’s cousin wished to inhabit the family seats before the end of July.

Oh, granted, Martin had left her with enough money to procure another property, but the speed of change was unsettling, all the decisions she needed to make alone daunting and dispiriting.

It was as if the black of her clothes had leaked into her blood, despair and dullness leaving their mark upon her. Taking in a breath, she admonished herself. She had options and possibilities and Florencia, far from being depressed by losing the only man she had known as a father, seemed barely perturbed by his absence.

Eleanor frowned. They had not been as close as she might have hoped. Perhaps Martin’s illness had precluded a lot of the joy she had seen in him in Italy, though if she was truthful even there he had been more of a safe man than a happy one.

Safety.

In the throws of change she felt her fingers clench into a fist, the dread that she had woken up with thinking about this visit mounting as the Wellingham town house came into view. If Cristo Wellingham were here, she would turn and leave no matter what explanation might be offered. The very danger of it all sapped what little energy she had left and she swayed.

‘Are you all right, my lady?’ Patricia, her maid travelling with them, looked concerned, though nothing seemed to faze her daughter, whose whole attention was on the puppies.

‘I hope the puppies have not grown too much, Mama. I hope I can hold one and give it a cuddle. Will they let me carry it around, do you think?’

‘Shush, child. Can you not see your mother is tired and all these questions are sapping her energy further?’

Florencia’s dark eyes came around to hers, the joy in them squashed by criticism.

‘I did not mean …’

‘No.’ Eleanor shook her head. ‘It is lovely to see you so excited and I am certain you will be able to hold a puppy if you are careful.’

Her daughter’s smile blossomed and in that second she looked so like Cristo Wellingham that Eleanor was frightened.

Would Emerald Wellingham see it? Would the distance the wider family seemed happy to keep her at still stand should others determine the truth?

The Wellinghams were powerful and ruthless and anyone crossing the needs of its members could find themselves with more than a fight on their hands. The wisdom of this visit became less obvious and had they not been outside the front steps Eleanor might have bade the driver to have taken them straight home. But with the door opening and the Duchess walking out with three infants of various ages at her side, she could do nothing but wait as the steps to climb down from the conveyance were put into place.

‘It is only us here today, I am afraid, as my husband and his two brothers are at Falder until tomorrow.’

Emerald Wellingham’s eyes were warm, an undercurrent of a smile lingering beneath the welcome as her gaze touched on the silver hair of her guest’s daughter, suddenly shy in the company of all the children.

‘Perhaps Ashton could take your daughter to see the puppies? We have not as yet named them all and the children thought that she might like to help in the process.’

Florencia immediately came out from behind her skirts, the promise of naming a dog more thrilling than even shyness could overcome.

‘Mama said that I might hold one …’

‘Indeed.’ Emerald had bent down, her glance taking in every feature on Florencia’s face. ‘You are as beautiful as your mother is, my love,’ she said after a moment and Eleanor released the breath that she had been holding. Not the comparison that she had been dreading after all. The tight unease in her stomach uncoiled slightly and she watched as her daughter was enfolded by young Wellinghams and led off around the corner of the town house, two maids in tow.

‘I have asked for tea to be served in the green salon overlooking the garden,’ Emerald Wellingham said. ‘The room is one that has always been my favourite and we would be able to hear the children.’

‘That sounds lovely.’

Following the Duchess, she saw that the impressive hall opened out into a large room with windows and doors along one whole side facing onto a small garden. The wall opposite was filled with drawings of the wider family and Eleanor’s gaze fastened instantly on the ones of Cristo Wellingham.

Emerald must have seen her looking. ‘My brother-in-law has recently bought the Graveson property, which lies on the eastern boundary of Falder, and is in the process of having it completely modernised. The house sits near the sea and has always been one of my favourites. I do hope that you might see it some time.’

‘If he was there, I should doubt he would wish me anywhere near him.’ Suddenly Eleanor had had enough of pretence and the interminable drudgery of manners, though surprisingly Emerald laughed.

‘You talk of the fiasco with the kidnapping, I presume. I always wondered why you did not speak out in his defence over that?’

‘Speak out? But my husband sent word to the constabulary ordering his release.’

‘I think it may have been your word Cristo sought, Lady Dromorne.’

Eleanor reddened. Martin had told her Cristo had been relieved to know she did not seek further contact and he had never once tried to see her again, staying out of Bath with all the determination of a man who had long since let go of any other feelings. Even when he had come to offer his condolences and she had squeezed his hand he had merely pulled away while offering shallow words of sympathy.

Not knowing what to do, she placed her teacup on the small side table, taking care not to spill a single drop. ‘I am not quite certain what you mean, your Grace.’

‘Are you not? Perhaps then there is another drawing you might wish to look at.’ She picked up an oval frame from a small table beside her. ‘This is of Cristo when he was a young boy of about five. Beatrice found it amongst some books she kept for him whilst he was away.’

With her hands shaking, Eleanor took the velvet-covered frame.

Florencia’s face appeared from the faded image, her hair longer and the line of her cheek a little more rounded, but every other feature unmistakably similar.

Eleanor turned the portrait over and placed it down beside her cup of tea. The anger in her was sharp.

‘Are you warning me away by showing me this?’

‘Oh, I think you have managed to do that all by yourself, Eleanor. In fact it is quite the opposite effect that I am after.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I want to give Cristo the chance to get to know his daughter.’

Standing, a dizzy horror consumed Eleanor. ‘By taking her from me?’

‘It’s not retribution I am after, but accord. If the ties that hold you to our family must remain a secret to protect Florencia, then so be it, but that does not mean the child should know nothing of her Wellingham ancestry.’

The knowledge that Emerald Wellingham was not implying ruin, but rather some form of compromise, fortified Eleanor. The cards were stacked against her, but she needed to give the woman some sense of what had happened before now. She sat down again and lowered her voice. ‘I was eighteen when I became pregnant, a young and foolish girl who had no capacity for brandy and a great desire for independence. I made a mistake one night five years ago and your brother-in-law has made it very plain that he desires no further communion with me.’

‘Do you love him?’

Eleanor stopped to regroup.

Love. Him.

The ache inside hollowed with the effort of hiding all that she felt and the determination she saw in the Duchess of Carisbrook’s turquoise eyes made her pause. It was not condemnation that Eleanor saw, but strength. ‘If you do, my advice would be to fight for him.’

‘How?’ Her heart raced as she enunciated the single word, because in the query she admitted everything.

‘The house I told you a friend has to the northwest of London may be the place to begin. You are, after all, a sensible widow with the freedom to travel alone wherever you might wish to. Once there, we could contrive a way to have my brother-in-law visit.’

‘Visit?’

‘Make what you want of the word. If it were me, I should be deciding what makes a man stay with a woman and never look further afield.’

A thrill of something forbidden raced through Eleanor’s body. Alone with Cristo and in the countryside with no other distractions—would she have the courage to place her heart in his hands? The sheer boldness of the plan was exhilarating. But what if he did not wish to see her, despite all that Emerald Wellingham was saying? And what of Martin, only a week past being buried? Grief and guilt vied with desire and lost.

‘Is this house available soon?’

‘You just need to say the word and I will send instructions to the housekeeper.’

Cristo paced up and down on the intricate Aus-busson rug in the library at Graveson. It had been almost two weeks since the funeral of Martin Westbury and the anger that ate at him did not seem to be abating in the slightest.

The touch of Eleanor’s gloved fingers had ignited all the emotion that he had thought to have discarded. Hell, she had never once tried to contact him and their daughter was growing by the day.

He wished Ashe and Emerald might depart soon, the dinner long since finished and the hour near to eleven, though the thought made him frown. Not too long ago he would have just been beginning his night, the haunts of Paris better after midnight when the true character of the city was revealed. These days he was tired before the clocks struck eight.

‘I have a plan to breed horses as you will be doing here at Graveson, Cris.’ Emerald stood and fiddled with an ornament on the mantel and a vague sense of disquiet filled Cristo. Something was not quite as it seemed and he had had enough practice in his life to be certain of a veiled purpose.

‘At Falder?’

She turned at that, a look in her eyes that was difficult to interpret. ‘No. At Azziz’s house in High Wycombe. The hills are rolling and the paddocks are filled with clover and he took quickly to the idea.’

‘Sounds ideal.’

Asher laughed. ‘You have not spoken about this to me before, Emmie, but Cris and I can take a look at the place if you want. Would you be up to the task, brother?’

Appreciation wreathed Emerald’s face, giving the impression that the subject had been closed to her satisfaction, but Cristo, on his part, watched Ashe. Could he not see that his wife was up to something or was he in on the scheme as well? Lord, trust was something that had to be fostered. He downed the brandy in his hand and the scepticism that had dogged him since he was a youth receded a little.

‘I saw Eleanor Westbury a week ago by the way, Cristo. She came to our London town house with that lovely little daughter of hers to look at the puppies.’ The glass he was about to carefully place on the table landed with a jolt.

‘I thought as a family we had decided she should be avoided at all costs, Emmie?’ Ashe’s question had a thread of irritation in it, heartening Cristo. ‘We certainly don’t want that whole business of the fiasco at the docks to be raised again in the public mind.’

‘It was a quiet meeting at home, my love, and the woman is not as I expected her to be.’

‘How would you describe her then?’

‘Alone.’

The single word rang around the library, and the fury that had held Cristo ransom began to form into something else.

‘Doesn’t she have Dromorne’s family about her?’ He tried to make the query perfunctory.

‘The sister and her entourage never even came to the funeral and the cousin wants them out of the house before the end of July. He was always set to inherit the titles, it seems, and by all accounts is a greedy man. Eleanor Westbury’s immediate family died years back, so she is truly alone.’

‘Lord.’

‘She talks of moving to the country and buying an estate. Her child adores animals, it seems. She fell in love with a little black-and-white puppy whilst at the town house and the children allowed her to name it.’

Before he could stop himself Cristo asked the question. ‘What did she come up with?’

‘Patch. She said he reminded her of a pirate and I could not help but agree to the name.’

‘Has the dog found a home yet?’

‘No. Are you interested in giving him one?’

Again Cristo felt deception in the air. ‘Graveson Manor could do with the presence of a hound. One is as good as another.’

‘Then I shall mark him down as yours. He should be ready to take home next week, though I should probably warn you the dog is the runt of the litter and will need a great deal of attention. Have you had a pet before?’

‘No.’

That made Asher start. ‘Surely you did at Falder, Cris. We all did, for God’s sake.’

‘Ashborne decided I was not responsible enough to be given authority over an animal and never allowed it.’

Cristo smiled to take the sting away from the hurt. His father had been a man who was distant and reserved at best. When Alice was not there to intervene and when the older boys had gone off to school he had made certain that his bastard son understood exactly the sacrifices he was making to house him.

A by-blow from one moment of madness in a country he had never returned to. Only that! A son he had not had the inclination to truly know. Cristo frowned, thinking of something that had not occurred to him before. Was he doing exactly the same to his own daughter?

His mind raced ahead to the puppy. Florencia had loved it. Perhaps she might find out that it now resided with him and would want to come and visit.

He pushed such fanciful thoughts aside. Eleanor would never allow it.

‘Ashborne was a man to seldom show his feelings to anyone, Cris. Taris and I would talk about it often and see the difference with Jack’s papa. I can’t remember him ever laying a hand on me save in discipline, though Alice would say it was in his nature to be reserved. We were glad to go off to school.’

A chunk of ice fell from Cristo’s heart. Just like that. Drip, drip, drip. For he remembered exactly the same thing. A mantle of guilt dislodged anger.

‘I wish you might have said something to me at the time.’

Asher looked at him keenly. ‘You thought it was only you he was aloof with?’

Despite meaning not to, he nodded, the many years between his brothers and him compounding the problem. If he had been older they might have said something, included him more. As it was he had had the company of a younger sister and a bunch of wild friends at Eton. No wonder he had taken the track of least resistance. When Ashborne had shouted at him for the next unwise and hare-brained escapade at least he had looked him in the eye and known that he still existed.

Fact skewered fiction. Perhaps it was not the circumstances of his birth after all that had alienated them. Perhaps it was just Ashborne’s character that had left a truth unsaid. The softer edge of England reached around him and held him close.

The many lights of Falder could be seen on the hill beside Graveson and in the western horizon the new moon was low and huge.

Home and a place.

And a puppy now. Patch.

He would ask Milne to prepare a bed for the dog to sleep on in the small dressing room off his chamber. He only hoped Patch might effect the sort of joy in his daughter that he had a great wish to see.

He should not have brought the damn dog! He knew that the moment he had set foot in the carriage for High Wycombe and it had climbed upon his knee with its sad drooping eyes and been sick upon his lap.

A runt was no real description of the physical attributes of this animal and he wondered at his daughter’s decision to choose a dog with no thought for its future development. He was the size of a large kitten with a tail that defied gravity and if Emerald still insisted that the family King Charles spaniel had found another of its like then she had to be kidding herself.

This puppy looked like the result of a mongrel from the backstreets of east London taking one very lucky chance.

‘Sit still,’ he ordered the wriggling hound and was surprised when it did so and fell instantly asleep. He liked the feel of its breath against the back of his hand as the carriage hurled through the last of the countryside towards the house that Emerald’s friend Azziz owned.

Chapter Seventeen

‘Florencia. Where are you?’

A small giggle alerted Eleanor to the fact that her daughter now hid behind the oak tree at the far end of the garden and she made her way down the line of ill-cut box hedging.

‘Is she here? No. Could she be here?’ She lifted the leaves of a large plant that drooped across the garden. ‘No, not there either.’ The giggles began again and the skirt of Florencia’s dress was blowing in the wind outside the line of bark.

With a quick dash to the left she caught her daughter to her and swung her round, their hair catching together, undressed and falling long in the slight edge of sun.

It was how Cristo saw them first, laughing and entangled, a mother showing all the affection in the world to a child who plainly loved her. Eleanor was in black, though the lace at her bodice was loose and the swell of her breasts made the colour alluring in a way the pastel shades had never been. His daughter was wreathed in dark blue with a string of what looked to be her mother’s pearls draped in a single strand around her neck.

Interest replaced shock, which in its own turn was replaced by wariness. Had Eleanor fashioned this meeting?

When their eyes caught the rose in her cheeks was flushed high.

He stepped forwards and removed his hat, his fingers gripping the fabric so hard he wondered how it did not tear.

‘Lady Dromorne?’ Florencia lost her smile in the instant of his question and hid in the dark skirts, but Eleanor said nothing, the edges of her lips bound together as though she would not allow even the hint of an answer.

Emerald’s evasive dissembling was suddenly explained. She had set this whole thing up and Asher’s withdrawal from the trip five minutes before departure meant that he was also in on the plot. Lord, when he returned he would strangle them both. He swore he would.

Right now he needed to at least address the worry he saw so prominently in Eleanor’s eyes.

But how?

The wriggling bundle under the jacket of his coat solved the whole problem for, as a small black-and-white head poked out from beneath the lapels of his jacket, he saw in the wide smile on his daughter’s face an absolute delight.

She ran forwards, stopping only a foot or so away from him, the silver in her hair whipped by wind and for the first time ever he heard her speak.

‘Patch? You brought Patch here?’ A small hand reached out to tickle the dog’s nose, wonder in her eyes.

‘Florencia, this is Lord Cristo Wellingham.’

Cristo’s brows were raised, but he did not correct her. Not father, not papa, only a title that a child might or might not remember. The smile looked as fixed on Eleanor’s face as it was on his.

‘Hello.’ He brought out the squirming puppy and held it towards her. She took it immediately, cuddling it in the way only small children can, his pink tongue licking her chin.

When she laughed he saw a child so like him that there could be no possible question of her parentage.

‘I love animals.’

He smiled. ‘And what else do you love?’

‘I am learning to play the piano.’

‘Perhaps one day you might play it to me?’ He thought of his own Stein sitting at Graveson. It had been so long since he had played anything at all.

Eleanor saw that Florencia was unusually brave, this notice from a stranger overcoming her more normal shyness. Her feet scuffed the ground as the puppy jiggled and she saw Cristo take in the movement, the hunger in his eyes poignant. I have missed years, his expression said, and I am not going to miss another moment.

‘You could show Lord Cristo some of your drawings,’ she suggested. The bag Florencia often carried with her lay on the brick steps four feet away and she hurried to get it.

‘There is a seat just here.’ Eleanor indicated an old bench. ‘If you sat on his knee, it might be easier for you both to see, darling.’

Keep it light and easy and natural, Eleanor thought, her hand trembling as she handed her daughter the book. She was pleased when Florencia did as she was asked and stood before him and the look of wonder on Cristo’s face as he touched his child so carefully brought mistiness to her eyes. She made much of doing up the buckle of the bag as he made room for Florencia and the puppy on his lap.

‘This is our house,’ her daughter said after a moment, ‘and this is Papa. He is in Heaven because he likes being there now. This is Sophie in her yellow gown and Margaret in her blue one. They don’t live with us any more but they used to. And this is my dog.’

Eleanor craned her neck forward. A black-and-white dog who looked a lot like Patch gambolled on the page.

‘The dog she imagines, I’m afraid, as Martin was allergic to any pet hair.’

‘And is this you next to your mama? The beautiful girl with the princess locks?’

Florencia laughed and suddenly reached out to his hair, her small fingers threading through the colour. ‘Your hair is exactly the same as mine,’ she said before returning to the book and flicking the page.

Over their daughter’s head Cristo’s eyes met hers, a scar she had not seen before marking the skin beneath the left one. The fight on the docks had scarred him and she wished she might have touched it, wished she might have simply leant over and run her finger across the sharp angles in his cheek. But she sat there, listening to the explanations of each page and the interested comments that followed them until the book was finished, a chronicle of everyday life explained away in ink.

‘There is a stretch of grass just through those trees. I saw it in the carriage as we came in. Would you ladies like a walk?’

The question was addressed to Eleanor, but it was Florencia who answered.

‘Oh, yes, please, Mama. Please let us have a walk. I could take Patch.’

Eleanor weighed up her options.

‘Very well, but just for a few moments.’ She hated that part in her voice that sounded so stern and tight.

Cristo felt his daughter’s hand creep into his own as they made their way through the hedge and into the open ground.

Florencia was small and fragile like Eleanor, but that was where any similarity ended. Her hair and her eyes and the shape of her face were exactly his own and she played the piano as he did. A great weight of love tugged his heart into a different beat and he wished that they might have been truly a family taking in the air before going back home.

When Florencia skipped off to pick a bunch of daisies Eleanor was quick to use the moment.

‘I did not ever think that you would travel to High Wycombe.’

‘Indeed, Lady Dromorne, I may not have if I had known you to be here. In London when you did not return to help me I promised to forget you. But Emerald asked me to look at the property for her—a ruse on her part to get us together, no doubt.’

‘I could not come—’

He broke in. ‘Or write or send a messenger? It was only that I needed, Eleanor, and instead there was nothing.’

‘I could do none of these things you speak of because Diana, Martin’s sister, kidnapped me and took me up north. She fed me laudanum until a servant who had a brother in our London town house got word to Martin. By then you were free of all charges.’

‘Diana kidnapped you?’ He could barely take in the truth of what she told him. ‘Why would she do that?’

‘For her daughters’ sake, after I told her that you were Florencia’s father. She wanted the family reputation protected against scandal, you see, and thought that was the way to do it.’

‘Lord, you could have died. Where the hell is she now?’

‘In Scotland. She has promised not to return to London for a very long time.’

The silence between them grew; clearing her throat, Eleanor began uncertainly. ‘I realise that Martin came to see you and you made it very clear to him that you did not wish for any further communication between us.’

‘Your husband told you that?’

‘He did. I understand how very easily I could be an embarrassment to your family, but …’

The words were whipped from her as eyes of ice bored into her own.

‘I never gave Martin Westbury such a message. Dromorne said that you blamed me for everything and that you would not risk the life of Florencia again after the débâcle at the docks. He said that you wished me dead with all of your heart. I took that as the truth and withdrew.’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘Martin told you that?’ The sheer enormity of such a betrayal was impossible to contemplate. ‘I cannot believe that of him …’

‘He forbade me visit Bath under oath for as long as you resided there and said you never wanted to set eyes on me again. Given the events that had unfolded with Beraud, I assented. You appeared to enjoy a social life that kept you out till all hours, according to the newssheets, and never once tried to regain contact. It was hard to believe otherwise.’

‘He used us both, then.’

As she spoke he saw the girl on the bed at the Château Giraudon, her eyes full of hurt and despair, though when Patch gambolled back to jump at her skirts with his long black-and-white ears blowing in the wind her expression changed.

‘The dog was a lovely gift, but we cannot possible accept it, for a cousin of Martin’s will take over the Dromorne properties and I have yet to find a new home.’

‘Then he can stay with me until you are ready for him.’

She shook her head. ‘If the world sees you together with Florencia …’

He stopped her by placing his finger on her lower lip, the wind catching at her hair and throwing the length of chestnut back across her shoulders. For a moment he felt he could not breath with the sheer desire he felt for her, the bodice of her gown tight across breasts he had once fondled and suckled. The ache in his groin had him bring his coat farther across his thighs. God, he was becoming erect in the middle of the day with his daughter not ten feet from them. It was Eleanor who looked away first.

‘If people talk of the likeness between you, it will be difficult for all of us.’

He laughed and wished that he hadn’t as the line between her eyes deepened.

‘You worry too much, Eleanor, and I think already it may be too late for that. Did you think to hide her for ever?’

‘No. But I don’t want her hurt.’

‘I promise that she will not be.’

When he hesitated on the path she did the same, the distance between them lessened by the action. Reaching out his hand, he took her gloveless fingers into his own.

‘When was she born?’

Eleanor took in a breath. She had known, of course, that he would ask, that the facts hidden would soon not be and that a father had as much right as a mother to all the small details of childhood.

‘On July the first in 1826 in Aix-en-Provence. I travelled there after Paris. After that I went to Florence. Martin had offered help and I took hold of such a chance.’

‘Because you could not come to me.’

Not a question, but a rebuke. Of himself. Of his part in all that had happened. For the first time she thought of how young they both had been.

‘I needed a safe place, Cristo.’

He glanced up at the use of his name. ‘And if you had returned, I would have given you one.’

But she did not let him off so lightly. ‘A mansion that was renowned for its debauchery and its licentiousness and a kitchen whose food was counted by the number of brandy bottles lining its shelves? I think in truth that there are better homes for a little girl to be raised in.’

‘I’ll sell the Château Giraudon and buy a place in London for you. I have other money, too.’

‘No, she stays a Westbury until …’

Until you marry me.

Lord, she had so very nearly said it. Her hand came to her mouth and she was silent, though the determination that had kept her going all the way up here and through all the days of waiting for him to follow, began to gel.

The sheer negligence of care made her dizzy. ‘Until?’ His eyes were as dark as she had ever seen them, the pupils lost in ebony.

‘Until I marry again.’

‘You have someone in mind?’

‘Indeed, I do.’

‘That would be a mistake.’ The words were ground out before he knew it, his hands at his side clenched into fists. Westbury had been dead for less than a month and already she was lining up a successor? The papers from Bath suddenly came to mind. An Original. The toast of society. He wanted to throw her across his back and take her up to bed, now, without words, their bodies melded into one and for ever joined. He wanted to stay here in this ramshackle house in the little village of High Wycombe, away from everyone and everything.

But he could see in her eyes a misgiving that would need a more careful diplomacy. Changing tack, he came in from another angle.

‘Emerald no doubt sent us on such a wild goose chase for a purpose.’

Eleanor blushed and he stepped back.

‘Not both of us, then?’ He swore beneath his breath at the duplicity.

Eyes the colour of an afternoon summer sky met his. ‘The Duchess had guessed about your relationship with Florencia. When she suggested we should at least talk, I could hardly refuse to do so.’

‘My town house in London would have been a lot closer.’

‘And a lot easier to leave.’

‘My carriage is here.’

‘Actually it isn’t quite where you might think it, though of course I shall ask for it to be returned—’

He didn’t let her finish.

‘For a woman who has an intended groom waiting in the wings, you are astoundingly careless.’

‘A groom?’

‘The man you have just told me you have in mind to marry. Do you not think he would take offence at our being alone here?’

Surprisingly she smiled and the dimples in her cheeks were deep. Lord. The broadsheets of Bath had not understated her beauty one little bit. In London she had been swathed in pastels, caution and sorrow. Here, in the open air with her hair down and the generous spill of her bosom over a simple gown of mourning, she was unforgettable.

Cursing, he looked away, though not before he had seen a flicker of satisfaction on her face. The world spun into another angle as he mulled upon it. Could she have meant him to stay here for more than just talk? The magnitude of the plan hardly indicated fainthearted trepidation after all and any woman must have realised the danger inherent in such a proposition.

Alone, together, with the past between them and the present strewn across a need that had never settled.

He wanted her with a plain and utter hunger. Still, there were questions that he needed answers to; seeing that Florencia was a good distance away playing with Patch, he took his chance.

‘If I am alone with you in the house tonight, Eleanor, I doubt that I would have the temperance to sleep in a separate bed.’

‘Is that a warning, my lord?’

‘No, ma chérie. It’s a certainty.’

Florencia’s cry brought their attention to her.

‘Look, Mama. Patch is chasing his tail.’

‘Just as I am chasing mine,’ he murmured to himself and was again confused by Eleanor’s returning smile as she slipped from his side to view the puppy’s antics with their daughter.

Chapter Eighteen

The room the housekeeper showed him to overlooked the front of the house and was larger than any bedchamber he had ever been in. Divided into two separate spaces, he was interested to see the shape of a piano beneath a large dustsheet. Pulling it aside, he ascertained the instrument to be a Broadwood and his curiosity quickened. It had been an age since he had sat at a piano and played. Positioning the stool, he placed his fingers over the chords before letting them sink into the keys.

Like coming home. Almost sacrosanct.

As he closed his eyes the first movement of Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ spilled into the room, the waves of tension building and resolving. All the broken cords of his life were in that tune, the hell ship, his father’s distance and the loneliness that had kept him bound in France.

His fingers found notes that had never left him. In Paris he had only ever heard the mistakes, but this afternoon in the sunlight under a clear blue sky he heard the music, peaceful, meditative, the harmony and feelings speaking to him.

Eleanor was in the pulse of the rhythm, in the tension and release as the line he created widened into a broad arch, lilting through the silence, hanging across his heart like a banner.

The muscles in his arms quivered, unused to such an exacting toil, but still he did not stop, could not stop, the stormy third movement taking over from the first. Passion and wild accents reigned now, the ferocity of the sforzando notes and the fortissimo passages unbridled.

Like Heaven and like a home.

Eleanor.

His fingers paused on the keys as her name loosened anger and he knew for certain, in that one small second of silence, that if he ever lost her he would never be found again.

Listening from the hallway outside the room, Eleanor leaned against the wall with an outright astonishment.

He played the piano as skilfully as she had ever heard anyone do so, even without the little finger on his right hand, the flamboyance of his style suiting the piece with an unquestioned exactness. When had he learned? She remembered the piano in his room at the Château Giraudon, but here in England she hadn’t heard even a whisper of his brilliance.

When the last of the notes faded into quiet she walked into the chamber. Cristo sat with his eyes closed and the sun from a wide window on his hair.

‘It is good to play again,’ he began as if he had known she was there outside all along and there was a softness in the tone of his voice that she had not heard before. His glance now took in every part of her.

‘It is a beautiful tune.’

‘Beethoven’s piano Sonata number fourteen in C-sharp minor. Many call it the “Moonlight Sonata” because legend has it he wrote the piece whilst playing for a blind girl at night.’ He hesitated. ‘A compelling anecdote, I would imagine.’

‘In Bath I went to many piano recitals and, even given my untrained ear, yours sounded more skilled than all of them.’

He laughed. ‘Have dinner with me in here and I will play you others.’

Her eyes flickered to the large bed on the far wall, almost on the same proportions as the room, and she blushed.

‘Practice makes perfect,’ he quipped, the edge of a seriousness in his words contradicting humour as he stood.

Eleanor swallowed. When it actually came to it the whole madness of ever imagining she could seduce such a man seemed most unwise. If she had any sense she would scuttle from this room and hide, but the vision of them both on the bed in the moonlight was startling, like the song he played come to life, exotic, unbridled and passionate.

‘I am the father of your daughter …’

And of your son. She almost said it.

‘And a man who would never hurt you! Take a chance, my Eleanor. Take a chance on me and live.’

It was if he had read her mind, the years since she had last truly lived filled with greyness. Only one night five years ago, yet she remembered every second as if it were yesterday.

But seduction was more difficult when words were required and the way he was looking at her indicated a definite need for them. Not yet, she thought. Not yet. Clearing her throat, she began uncertainly.

‘There are towels in the cupboards and the maid will be up with water for a bath should you wish it.’ The domestic details steadied her, made the scene more normal. In the distance she heard Florencia and knew that he had heard her too.

‘Dinner will be at eight in the blue salon.’

Pulling the banter back, he answered promptly, ‘I shall look forward to it.’

She dressed carefully that night in a dark blue gown that she had put aside for exactly this purpose. Seduction was an art form, after all, and a woman of almost twenty-five with only one night of loving behind her needed all the help she could muster.

She did not wear undergarments and the feel of the silk bodice against bare skin was exciting, her womanhood beating in a throb between her legs.

Anticipation.

Even the perfume she dabbed profusely on parts of her body that she had not before added to the tension.

Her hair she wore unadorned, the length of it spilling across her shoulders and down towards her hips, curling in the damp. She had dismissed her lady’s maid for the night to sit in the nursery.

She wished she had the courage to wear nothing. To turn up at the dinner table wearing only stockings and pearls, but a lifetime of caution harboured inside her and she was still not quite certain of his intent.

Could this be just another night for him, just another coupling?

She shook her head firmly, but it was not the action of a woman who would place much weight on warning. No. It was the knowledge of one who finally felt whole and welcomed what might happen next with all her heart and soul.

Cristo Wellingham was the man she had loved from the very first second of meeting him and every other suitor dulled in comparison. In Bath over the last months there had been many who offered more than just a casual friendship, given that Martin never accompanied her to any function whatsoever—men who were honourable and decent and good, but she felt nothing for them. No lack of breath or altered heartbeat. No rush of delight or a thrill of meeting glances. Only one man, even with his distant presence in a house as big as this one, had the ability to affect her.

Tucking back an errant curl, she took one last look in the mirror before she left the room to meet him.

The thin silk of her gown barely covered her and the outline of her nipples could be plainly seen. Beckoning. Cristo felt like simply stepping forwards and ripping the flimsy thing off, but he had travelled that path once before with Eleanor and knew enough to realise this time he needed to leave the power in her hands.

‘My lady.’ Hard to say with any sense of decorum to a woman dressed as she was.

‘My lord.’ Manners simmered above pure sensuality. Her lips were deep cherry red. ‘I have asked the servants to leave our supper out and dismissed them for the night. I hope you don’t mind helping yourself?’

‘Indeed, I do not.’ He felt his manhood rise another notch with the words so artlessly said, and moved to ease the tightness of his breeches.

The cravat at his neck was strangling, the starched collar rough against the skin at his throat. A hundred pounds of material seemed to hang upon his frame when all she wore was the lightest of gossamer silk.

Her feet were bare. He had seen that in the first second of meeting her, peeping out beneath the hem of her skirt. The scent of gardenias and violets was strong on her skin.

‘Florencia …?’

‘Is in her room in bed. My maid is watching over her.’

‘So it is just us?’

The beginning of a smile played around her lips and he looked around the room to gather his wits. A chaise longue in velvet was pushed against the far wall. On the table near the food flowers stood, the urns they were displayed in etched with woodland scenes.

Two heavy carpets lay on the floor, a pile of cushions heaped next to them. Almost accidentally. In the grate at the far end of the room a fire blazed.

‘Would you like some wine?’ She gestured to a bottle and glasses and he nodded, feeling like a man who had strayed into a pleasure dome, the woman before him a culmination of every young boy’s fantasy.

‘How much would you like?’

At her words he removed the glass from her fingers, placing it on a table behind her. Up this close he was taller than she remembered him and a lot bigger; the boy she had known in Paris replaced by the man.

‘I want as much as you would give me, Eleanor.’ His voice broke on her name and he gathered her close, warm breath against her cheeks and the glorious brown of his eyes locked into hers.

‘Ma chérie,’ he said as his lips came down and his hands threaded through her hair, the lover suddenly there again, gentle but firm. She could not have pulled away even had she wanted to.

But she didn’t want to.

Opening her mouth easily, he came inside, his tongue finding hers as he slanted his head. Heat and breath and anger mixed with want and love and regret; a recipe matured by time and by memory.

She was eighteen again, and shameless, her need wild beneath cold clear silk and the sharp edge of discovery.

This time she had lured him to her. The power of it was exhilarating, yet still she pulled back and placed her hands upon his chest.

‘Not yet, monseigneur.’ Muscles bunched along the line of his jaw, but he let her go. A gentleman who would not coerce a lady. Smiling, she looked down and saw how very much he wanted her.

‘For I wish to undress you first.’

She was a hundred times more experienced than she had been when he had taken her last and more lethal than any courtesan he’d had the pleasure of since. The regret that it had not been him to teach her surfaced as he stood perfectly still, feeling her fingers at his neck unlacing the cravat, her skin playing havoc against his own. He seldom allowed anyone dominion over his body, but he made himself relax. Beneath his shirt were the scars endured at eighteen, scars he had never willingly shown anyone before, stigma drawn in the opaque ridges of flesh. When her hands began to peel back the linen he froze.

‘I generally like to keep it on.’

‘Because of the marks upon your back?’

He was irritated by the shame that surfaced, over a decade ago and still having the power to hurt. He was also surprised she had remembered at all.

‘You have a good memory.’ He tried to keep the tone as light as he could, airy, inconsequential and nonchalant.

‘As I have only ever lain with one man it is not a thing easily forgotten.’

‘One?’ He could not understand what she was telling him.

‘Martin was impotent.’

Now he did.

‘Lord.’ The blue in her eyes had darkened, bruised with truth. ‘Lord,’ he repeated again. ‘So it has only been me?’

‘It was why I was out on the town so much in Bath, for he suddenly seemed to want a closer relationship in other ways and I could not give it to him. By staying out late it meant he was always asleep in his room when I returned.’

The world he lived in reshaped into something unrecognisable. Just him. Just her. Throwing off his shirt, he turned so that she could see the marks.

‘After Nigel I took passage on a ship run by a captain who thought hurting others was fun. It was a full month before I escaped and for a long time after that …’ He stopped because he could not go on.

‘You trusted no one?’ Eleanor’s words were whispered, an understanding in them that made him want to weep.

‘If I could go back, I would have trusted you.’

She smiled. ‘And if I could go back, I would have knocked on the door of the Château Giraudon and taken up your offer of protection.’

‘Over five years …’ Three words steeped in remorse.

‘But not a day more.’

Her certainty was like a balm and he reached forwards to trace the shape of her cheek before venturing lower, the skin on her neck and the full abundance of breast barely covered in fabric.

Her head fell back and she closed her eyes and he watched her as he found one nipple and turned it between his fingers. Dark blue silk fell away as he cradled the flesh and leant down to suckle.

Relief flooded into the parts of her body that had laid so dormant, his lips and tongue weaving magic.

When she felt the silk tumble from her shoulders she just stood there, in the room with the firelight and candlelight and perfume, a woman who wanted all that would come next and be damned for any consequence. She held his head, the thick glossiness of his hair twisted in her fingers, so that pain lingered in pleasure in the same measure as it rested in his pull on her nipple.

Not quite easy.

Not quite amenable.

No bedroom. No certain privacy. A risk. A gamble. His caresses made her limbs fluid and warm.

She wanted Cristo Wellingham to bury himself inside her with an urgency that was frightening, so when he lifted his head and smiled she was flustered by his restraint.

‘Now. Take me now.’

‘And have years of waiting to be finished in a few minutes? I think not, my lovely Eleanor.’ His teeth were white. ‘Your very first time was a rushed affair, but I swear, sweetheart, this time will not be.’

Placing her forefinger in his mouth, he rolled it on his tongue, in and out, spread across wetness, deep and deeper. The room tilted as his free hand found the fabric of her skirt, bunching it up around her bottom before entering the hidden folds. One finger and then two, the penetration the same as those at her mouth.

Her breath simply ceased. She swore it did, the cold silk, the moonlight on the carpet, the spills of ecstasy linked by feeling at both ends of her body.

Until he stopped.

‘Not yet, my love. Not yet.’

Leading her to the chaise longue, he sat her down, the midnight silk beneath her breasts. When her nipples tightened in the cool air he handed her a glass of wine.

Red like blood. Symbolic somehow. Stained in the burst of grape and in the momentary release of perfection.

The outline of his manhood was fierce in its shape behind tight breeches and she could barely believe that this was not a dream, that it was real and that he had called her his sweetheart.

When her more usual prudence deserted her completely, she reached forwards to lay her hands upon his groin.

He groaned and the smile on his face was pained. Perhaps he would not enjoy that caress, she thought, her fingers dropping back into her lap.

‘Martin Westbury must have had ice in his veins to be impotent with you.’

She shook her head. ‘When he found me in Aix I was very ill. He saved my life by taking me to Italy. After that it was hard to leave him.’

‘Ill …?’

‘From childbirth.’ She turned her face away so that he might not see what was in her expression, but he was adept at picking up the nuances and turned it back.

‘You are not telling me everything.’

She breathed in once and then twice, and his fingers found her own, like a lifeline in a swirling sea, she was to think later, though when she did not speak he began with a story.

‘My mother was Sylvienne de Caviglione. She met my father a month before she was to be married off in an effort to secure a political alliance. Sylvienne had hoped for a younger husband and Ashborne was a long way from home and lonely. When the result of their indiscretion was known she was sent to the country. I arrived eight and a half months later and my entry into the world was her exit from it. I tell you this, Eleanor, because I do not want any more secrets between us and I can see them in your eyes.’

‘Yet you grew up a Wellingham at Falder?’

‘My French grandfather had as little use for a bastard as he did for a dead daughter. He sent me to England as fast as he could, though his wife harboured her own measure of guilt and left me her family château in Paris when her husband died. I had killed their only daughter, you see …’

‘You blame yourself for your mother’s death?’

‘She was young and it was a difficult birth.’ Fury underlined each word.

‘Mothers die in birth as easily as children do.’ Eleanor held her other hand rigidly against her side, gripped into a fist.

Now. Now. Tell him now.

She made herself unclench her fingers one by one by one. ‘There is a story that says the stars house the souls of the ones who have departed, and that at night, between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice, in the cluster known as the Pleiades, you can see them, and speak to them.’

‘Pleiades?’

‘The seven stars that sit in the constellation of Taurus.’

She looked across to the window, but only out of habit, for the time of the year was far too early. Still out of caution she did not tell him, did not speak of the times when she had watched month by month for something meant only for her.

‘Paris watches me from there.’

Tears welled in her eyes unbidden. Her son. Their son. Missing, and so very far from home. It was good to say his name out loud and to someone who might have loved him as much as she did.

Something was wrong. Something hidden and important. Paris? The city? Why would she cry for that? A name, then?

‘Paris?’ He repeated the word and she looked up and nodded. ‘Who is Paris, Eleanor?’

The darkness in her blue eyes was like a blanket of dull pain, stale grief and anger. ‘Our Paris. Our son. He lies in Aix in the cemetery under a marker of white stone.’

The truth of what she said made his heart stop and the pit of his stomach lurch.

‘Another child? There was another child?’

She nodded. ‘Florencia had a twin. A brother.’ Tears ran down her cheeks like two rivers, but she did nothing to dash them away. ‘You were not there, so I called him Paris. It was all I could think of to link him with you.’

‘God, Eleanor.’ He pulled her to him, as if in the embrace he might take some of her hurt, some of the suffering as he imagined how it must have been. Eighteen and alone in a foreign land with one living baby and one dead one!

‘He w-was too tiny. He w-was much t-too tiny. He would n-not have lived here, either, I d-do not th-think.’

Cristo nodded his head in agreement, not trusting himself to speak.

‘And it w-was too soon for them to c-come. Not quite eight months. Florencia was b-bigger. I wanted Paris to live, but h-he didn’t.’

The sobs increased, but her head was now nodding up and down, the arms that held him tightening.

In the firelight and in a strange house, miles from London, it seemed as if it were only them left in the whole wide world as she cried out her many years of silence.

Chapter Nineteen

She woke up in his bed. A blanket had been pulled over her and a pillow tucked beneath her head. It was still dark, though a small candle on the mantel had burnt down almost to the plate, making her calculate that many hours had passed.

She had told him!

Her hand went to her mouth and she held it there. The evening had begun with seduction in mind and ended in her being asleep, alone and dressed upon his bed and confessing a confidence that she had told no one before. She smiled, for the relief of sharing her secret had eased the burden in a way she could never have imagined.

Footsteps coming towards the room had her sitting up and Cristo appeared a second or so later with a tray. A teapot and two cups sat to one side of a jug of milk.

He had pulled on his shirt, but it was unbuttoned and like her he wore no shoes at all.

‘I thought you might be thirsty.’

A flower sat alongside the cups, newly picked, the dew on it magnifying the red.

He handed the perfect bloom to her, candlelight on the bronze of his chest, each muscle well defined.

‘It was by itself amongst the weeds when I stepped outside the kitchen door to take in some air. It reminded me of you.’

Smiling, she took his gift and noticed that all of the thorns had been taken off the smooth green stem. When she bent her head to the petals the perfume was of a soft freshness.

Placing the tray on the table, he drew forth a chair from under the window. His knees framed hers now and he looked as if he was searching for just the right thing to say.

‘I own land next to Falder. On it stands a manor house named Graveson Manor and it overlooks Return Home Bay. It is beautiful land, Eleanor, with the sea rolling in and the green of fields and trees.’ His left hand raked through his untidy blond hair, pushing it back.

The very words made the world a wondrous place, though she sobered when she thought of the path that he was leading her down.

‘I could not be your mistress.’

The shock in his dark brown eyes was easily seen. ‘It is not as a concubine I want you, Eleanor, but as a wife.’

Her mouth simply dropped open. ‘You are asking me to marry you?’

‘I am. I hope the groom you had in mind will bow out gracefully.’

She began to laugh. ‘It was you I was thinking of. No one else.’

He joined in her humour by smiling broadly. ‘I cannot believe that something is finally easy for us. You will marry me and become my wife?’

When she nodded again he stripped the gold ring from his little finger and reached forwards. ‘I know it is old-fashioned, but it was the only thing of Alice’s that I have. She took it off her finger the night before I left England all those years ago and made me promise it would go to the woman I married.’

‘You never wore this in Paris?’

‘It was too special. All the others were for show and for the part I was playing of a dissolute and unrestrained lord.’

Joy welled inside her. Special. Her finger ran across the red in the ruby and around the band of gold.

‘We will be married with all the family present, because I need to do this properly. As properly as everything so far between us has not been. I cannot wait a year, Eleanor, for your mourning period to be over, so perhaps we could repair to the Continent. Florencia will have a family with cousins and aunts and uncles.’

Her euphoria died down a little. No mention of love, but all of duty.

As he picked up on her uncertainty he dropped her hand, one eye on the door and the other on his watch. He wanted to be gone, from the room, from her and from the promise he had just made. She could see it so very plainly in his face.

Her fingers closed around the golden ring as she wondered if he might ask her to rescind her promise. But he was a Wellingham and responsibility sat on his shoulder as a heavy load. He would do his best by her.

When he leant down and kissed her on the forehead, she was almost reminded of Martin.

‘Thank you, Eleanor. You will not regret this decision.’

He had handled that as badly as he had ever handled anything in his life, he thought, as he regained his upstairs chamber, but the raging lust in him was a terrible reminder of how he had hurt her last time. This time he wanted everything perfect. Not rushed or illegal or sordid. Eleanor deserved the very best from him and he was going to give it to her, no expense spared. If he had stayed for even a moment longer with the promises between them, he doubted he could have remained so controlled.

Closing his eyes, he felt the line of his jaw tremble with desperation, his open hands balanced against the wall behind him.

He loved her. He loved her bravery and her honesty and the way she had held him as she cried her heart out. Him, the man who had been the cause of everything in her life that had been difficult.

Forgiveness. He deserved none of it and she might still refuse him. A lump formed in his throat.

If he lost her … He shook his head.

If he even touched her … He shook it again, not trusting the need that he was consumed with.

A board on the stairwell creaked and he swallowed back pity. The material at his groin strained tight as Eleanor came into the room.

With her cheeks blushing pink he thought he had never seen her look more beautiful and the danger of his wretched urgency mounted.

‘You should return to your bedroom, Eleanor.’ He grimaced at the harshness in his tone, but it was all he could do to stand there and not ravish her as every single particle in his body wanted to.

She held her palm out towards him, the gold of Alice’s ring glinting in what little there was left of the firelight.

‘I have endured one marriage that was not a love match. I do not think that I could endure another one.’ Her voice trembled, but she went on. ‘Especially when I know that my heart would be completely broken.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I love you, Cristo. I have loved you from our first night together and through all our years of separation. It has only ever been you.’

‘Lord.’ He stepped forwards. ‘There aren’t many things I’ve done right in my life, sweetheart, but having your love is one of them.’ He didn’t move a muscle but, looking into her eyes, he kept talking so that she might see his honesty.

‘“I brought a heart into the room But from the room I carried none with me.”’

‘John Donne?’

When he nodded Eleanor smiled. ‘So it was not only for Florencia’s sake that you wished for us to be betrothed.’

‘You thought that?’

‘You left so quickly.’

He grimaced. ‘I didn’t trust what I might do if I stayed.’

Walking straight into his arms. she turned her face up to his. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you, too. Tout se pardonne quand on aime.’

Where there is love there is forgiveness.

She found him in the silence, the strength of him and the gentleness, a man fully aroused, but trying to show his patience and temperance.

‘There are only a few hours left until the dawn, Cristo. Why waste them?’

‘You are saying that you should not wish to?’

‘I am.’

He pushed down the sleeves on her gown and undid the buttons left at the back. When the blue silk pooled at her feet she was full of neither shyness nor regret.

‘I thought you would want everything perfect after the last time.’

‘It is,’ she replied. ‘It is perfect because I have you.’

Much later they lay naked against each other, a blanket pulled across them against the gathering dawn and Cristo’s fingers tracing shapes of a heart across her back.

‘I think Martin felt the kind of hatred for you that he had never felt about anyone before.’ Her hand laid out flat against his chest, her fingers splayed across his heart. ‘He was a good man who made a bad choice, but I think had he known what I truly thought about you he would have tried to mend it.’

‘You do?’ She could hear the doubt in his voice.

He brought her close and she could feel his tongue against her shoulder and then her neck, the flare of affection almost making her forget how to breathe, but she had another question to ask him.

‘Who were the people who kidnapped us?’

He took a moment to answer. ‘Colleagues from Paris.’

‘Colleagues?’

‘I worked as a gatherer of information for England and the Foreign Office and Beraud worked for the Secret Police in France. Sometimes his loyalties incorporated the selling of secrets, for substantial amounts of cash, you understand.’

‘You are saying that he would betray his own country?’

‘All patriots have their price, and a gambling addiction could not have been easy to manage on the wages Fouche offered.’

‘Did you have a price?’

He merely shook his head.

‘How did they know about us?’

‘By chance. He must have seen us together in London and saw a way to make some money on the side.’

‘And Milne?’

‘Is completely trustworthy.’

‘Are there others who might harm us?’

‘If there are, I will make certain that they never come close enough.’

The amber in his eyes darkened and there was a menace in his voice that she absolutely believed. The recognition of an agent of death was chilling.

‘But your work with the Foreign Office is finished?’

‘It was completed when I left Paris and I have had no contact since. With you there is something returning that I have not felt in a very long while.’

‘What?’

‘Joy.’

She laughed.

‘There. That is the joy I speak of.’

She laughed again, and the release of gaiety felt like an opiate.

With Cristo and Florencia as her family and the memory of Paris between them, Eleanor felt she could do anything, be anyone, the reckless force of her youth returning in a great and wonderful measure.

‘I love you so much, Cristo, that I am sometimes scared because it seems too perfect.’

‘After all we have been through perhaps perfect is what we deserve.’

Leaning over, he rifled through a pocket in his jacket and, when he opened his palm, her grandfather’s lost medallion lay upon it.

‘You kept it?’

The gilded upstairs room in the Château Giraudon seemed close as he wound her hair around his finger. ‘It was all that I had left of you. If only I had been wiser then—’

She stopped him simply by slipping the chain around his neck and the warmth between them grew. ‘Now is what we do have, Cristo.’ The gold glimmered warm in the light.

‘I love you, my Eleanor, and I will never let you go.’

‘Promise.’

‘I do.’

In the early light of dawn they spoke again of the past.

‘I always wondered what was in the letter you brought to Paris from your grandfather,’ he said, looking at the sky outside. ‘When you left I tossed the sheets from the bed into the fire and the message was lost completely.’

‘I never read it, but I presumed it to be about my Uncle Nigel. My uncle had written a confession in the family Bible, you see, all about his part in my brother’s death, though I don’t think he meant to kill him. He took to the bottle straight after and Grandfather was probably trying to make amends.’

‘And because of it I harmed you.’

‘Found me.’ She turned to watch him. ‘Besides, you had to run from England for a mistake that was not in any way your fault.’

‘I was always running from mistakes as a youth. The only damn thing I have ever done right is to find you.’

She ran her fingers along the side of his cheek, liking the way he leaned into her touch, his hair silver against her hand.

‘You look like an angel, Cristo.’

At that he did laugh. ‘And one with very impure thoughts.’

‘My angel,’ she whispered as his mouth came down full against her own.

Epilogue

Aix-en-Provence, France

Six weeks later Eleanor wore a dress of the lightest yellow to be married in, because the colour suited her mood exactly and because Cristo said that whenever he saw her it was as if the sun had come out.

Her groom wore a jacket of dark blue cloth, his waistcoat embroidered with the Wellingham crest.

Florencia wore gold and so did her cousins, the numerous little bridesmaids and pageboys making a line around her. Even the weather cooperated as they stood to one side of the small chapel, a row of cypress trees sheltering them from the light breeze.

Cristo had leased a beautiful country villa with blue shutters and expansive gardens for the Wellingham party and the wedding took place on the third day after they had arrived in the town where Paris had been buried all those years ago.

She could see his headstone from where she stood beside the front steps of the chapel, white marble newly carved with all the love and pride befitting a cherished first born.

Smiling, Eleanor tipped her head in her son’s direction and with Beatrice-Maude on one side of her and Emerald and Lucinda on the other, she thought that she had never felt quite like this.

Young. Free. Alive. In exactly the place that she should be!

The beginning of a life that stretched on into the years before them. She could barely stand still with the promise of it.

‘Well, now,’ Beatrice said, her eyes alight with mischief. ‘All three of the Wellingham brothers are now most satisfactorily married.’

Emerald cleared her throat. ‘But we have one wedding still to go, Lucinda.’

Cristo’s sister was careful in her reply. ‘I have long since given up on finding a man who lives up to all my expectations, Emmie.’

‘Cristo might have said the same, Lucy, but when love comes it takes no mind of what has been or of what is to come. It only focuses on the now.’

As if on cue the men joined them, the pin of gold on the lapel of Cristo’s jacket catching the sun: a gift from the French side of his family when they had stopped in Paris to make peace with the past.

She felt his fingers slide into hers, one tracing the ring on her left hand.

Semper veritas—Always truth—engraved in the fine gold.

Placing her other hand across the flat of her stomach, she knew another truth, and when she caught the turquoise eyes of her sister-in-law upon the gesture, knew that she felt it, too.

A full circle. Like the seasons. A time to be born and a time to die.

Paris. Florencia. And now this child.

With the French sun overhead and her husband and children beside her, Eleanor knew that she, too, had finally come home.

Deception in Regency Society

A Wicked Liaison

Lady Folbroke’s Delicious Deception

Christine Merrill

CHRISTINE MERRILL lives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons, and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their e-mail. She has worked by turns in theatre costuming, where she was paid to play with period ball gowns, and as a librarian, where she spent the day surrounded by books. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.

A Wicked Liaison

Christine Merrill

To Maddie Rowe, editor extraordinaire.

You make this so much fun that I forget I'm working.

Chapter One

Anthony de Portnay Smythe sat at his regular table in the darkest corner of the Blade and Scabbard pub. The grey wool of his coat blended with the shadows around him, rendering him almost invisible to the rest of the room. Without appearing to—for to stare at his fellows might prove suicidally rude—he could observe the other patrons. Cutpurses, thieves, petty criminals and transporters of stolen goods. Rogues to a man. And, for all he knew, killers.

Of course, he took great care not to know.

The usual feelings of being comfortable and in his element were unusually disconcerting. He dropped a good week’s work on to the table and pushed them towards his old friend, Edgar.

Business associate, he reminded himself. Although they had known each other for many years, it would be a mistake to call his relationship with Edgar a friendship.

‘Rubies.’ Tony sorted through the gems with his finger, making them sparkle in the light of the candle guttering on the table. ‘Loose stones. Easy to fence. You need not even pry them from the settings. The work has been done for you.’

‘Dross,’ Edgar countered. ‘I can see from here the stones are flawed. Fifty for the lot.’

This was where Tony was supposed to point out that they were investment-grade stones, stolen from the study of a marquis. The man had been a poor judge of character, but an excellent judge of jewellery. Then Tony would counter with a hundred and Edgar would try to talk him down.

But suddenly, he was tired of the whole thing. He pushed the stones further across the table. ‘Fifty it is.’

Edgar looked at him in suspicion. ‘Fifty? What do you know that I do not?’

‘More than I can tell you in an evening, Edgar. Far more. But I know nothing about the stones that need concern you. Now give me the money.’

This was not how the game was to be played. And thus, Edgar refused to acknowledge that he had won. ‘Sixty, then.’

‘Very well. Sixty.’ Tony smiled and held out his hand for the money.

Edgar narrowed his eyes and stared at Tony, trying to read the truth. ‘You surrender too easily.’

It felt like a long hard fight on Tony’s side of the table. Tonight’s dealings were just a skirmish at the end of the war. He sighed. ‘Must I bargain? Very well, then. Seventy-five and not a penny less.’

‘I could not offer more than seventy.’

‘Done.’ Before the fence could speak again, he forced the stones into Edgar’s hand and held his other hand out for the purse.

Edgar seemed satisfied, if not exactly happy. He accepted the stones and moved away from the table, disappearing into the haze of tobacco smoke and shadows around them, and Tony went back to his drink.

As he sipped his whisky, he reached into his pocket to remove the letter and his reading glasses. He absently polished the spectacles on his lapel before putting them on, then settled his chin in his hands to read.

Dear Uncle Anthony,

We are so sorry that you were unable to attend the wedding. Your gift was more than generous, but it does not make up in my heart for your absence on my most happy of days. I hardly know what to say in thanks for this and so many other things you have done for my mother and me over the years. Since Father’s death, you have been like a second father to me, and my cousins say the same.

It was good to see Mother finally marry again, and I am happy that Mr Wilson could be there to walk me down the aisle, but I cannot help but think you deserved the position more than he. I do not wish my marriage or my mother’s to estrange me from your company, for I will always value your wise counsel and your friendship.

My husband and I will welcome your visit, as soon as you are able.

Your loving niece, Jane

Tony stopped to offer a prayer of thanks for the presence of Mr Wilson. His sister-in-law’s discovery of Mr Wilson, and marriage to same, had stopped in its tracks any design she might have had to see Tony standing at the altar in a capacity other than loving brother or proud uncle.

Marriage to one of his brothers’ widows might have been expedient, since he had wished to involve himself financially and emotionally in the raising of their children, but the idea always left him feeling squeamish. Not an emotion he sought, when viewing matrimony. Seeing the widows of his two elder brothers well married, in a way that did not leave him legshackled to either of them, had been a load off his troubled brow.

And the wedding of young Jane was another happy incident, whether he could be there to attend or no. With the two widows and only niece comfortably remarried, all to gentlemen that met his approval, he had but to worry about the boys.

And, truth be told, there was little to worry about from either of his nephews, the young earl or his brother. Both were settled at Oxford, with their tuitions paid in full for the duration of their stay. The boys were sensible and intelligent, and appeared to be growing into just the sort of men that he could wish for.

And it left Tony—he looked at the letter in front of him. It left him extraneous. He had hoped, when at last he saw the family set to rights, to feel a rush of elation. He was free of responsibility and the sole master of his own life. Now that the time had come, it was without joy.

With no one to watch over, just what was he to do with his time? Over the years, he had invested wisely for the family as well as for himself, and his forays into crime had been less and less necessary and more a relief from the boredom of respectability.

Now that he lacked the excuse that there were mouths to feed and no money in the bank, he must examine his motivations and face the fact that he was no better than the common criminals around him. He had no reason to steal, save the need to feel the life coursing through him when he hung by drainpipes and window sills, fearing detection, disgrace or, worst of all, incarceration, and knowing every move could be his last.

No reason save one, he reminded himself. There was a slight movement in the heavy air as the door to the tavern opened and St John Radwell, Earl of Stanton, entered and strode purposefully towards the table.

Tony slipped the letter back into his pocket and tried not to appear too eager to have employment. ‘You are late.’ He raised his glass to the earl in a mocking salute.

‘Correction. You are early. I am on time.’ Stanton clapped Tony on the shoulder, took the seat that Edgar had vacated, and signalled the barman for a whisky. St John’s smile was mocking, but held the warmth of friendship that was absent from others Tony typically met while doing business.

‘How are things in the War Department?’

‘Not so messy as they were on the battlefield, thank the Lord,’ responded St John. ‘But still not as well as they could be.’

‘You have need of my services?’ Tony had no wish to let the man see how much he needed the work, but he itched to do something to take away the feeling of unease he experienced as he read the letter. Anything which might make him feel needed again.

‘I do indeed. Lucky for you, and most unlucky for England. We have another bad one. Lord Barton, known to his companions as Jack. He’s been a naughty boy, has Jack. He has friends in high places, and is not afraid to use those connections to get ahead.’

‘Dealing with the French?’ Anthony tried not to yawn.

St John grinned. ‘Better than that. Jack is no garden-variety traitor. He prefers to keep his crimes within the country. Recently, a young gentleman from the Treasury Department, while in his cups and gaming in the company of Lord Barton, managed to lose a surprising amount of money very quickly. Young men often do, when playing with Barton.’

‘Does he cheat?’ Tony asked.

‘I doubt he would balk at it, but that is not why the Treasury Department needs your help. The clerk’s efforts to win back what he had lost went as well as could be expected. He continued to gamble and lost even more. Soon he was facing utter ruin. Lord Barton applied pressure and convinced the man to debase himself further still, to clear his debt. He delivered to Barton a set of engraving plates for the ten-pound note. They were flawed and going to be destroyed, but they are near enough to perfect to make the notes almost undetectable.’

‘Counterfeiting?’ Tony could not but help admire the audacity of the man, even as he longed to ruin his plans.

St John nodded. ‘The clerk regretted his act almost immediately, but it was too late. Barton is now in a perfect position to destabilise the currency for his own benefit.’

‘And you need me to steal your plates back.’

‘You will be searching his home for an excessive number of ten-pound notes, paper, inks and, most especially, those plates. Use your discretion. Your utmost discretion, actually. This must not become a public scandal, but it must end immediately, before he begins circulating the money. We wish to break him quickly and quietly, so as not to upset the banks or the exchange.’

The earl dropped a full purse on the table. ‘As usual, half in advance and half when the job is completed. Feel free to take an additional payment from the personal wealth of Barton and any associates you might need to search. He has homes in London and Essex. But it has been less than a week since the theft. I doubt he has had time to get the plates out of the city.’ As an afterthought, Stanton added, ‘You had best search his mistress’s home, as well.’

‘A criminal’s mistress?’ Tony grinned. ‘You are sending me off to search the perfumed boudoir of some notorious courtesan? And paying me for the privilege.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I fear what may become of me, if I am discovered by her. I had no idea that government service would hold such hardship.’

St John sighed with mock-aggravation. ‘I doubt there will be any such threat to your dubious virtue, Smythe. The lady is of good character, or was until Barton got his hooks into her. The widow of a peer. It is a shame to see such an attractive young thing consort with the likes of Jack. But one never knows.’ He scrawled an address down on a scrap of paper. ‘Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Wellford. Constance Townley.’

Tony felt the earth lurch under him, as it always did when her name rose unexpectedly in a conversation. But this time, it was compounded by a thrill of horror at hearing it in the current context.

Oh, my God, Connie. What has become of you?

He took a careful swallow of the whisky before speaking. Any hoarseness in his voice could be attributed to the harsh spirit in his glass. ‘The loveliest woman in London.’

‘So they say,’ St John responded. ‘The second-loveliest, perhaps. She is a particular friend of my wife and I’ve often had the opportunity to compare them.’

‘Night and day,’ remarked Tony, thinking of Constance’s shining black hair, her huge dark eyes, her pale skin, next to the fair beauty of Esme Radwell. In his mind, there was no comparison. But to be polite he said, ‘You are a fortunate man.’

‘As well I know.’

‘And you say the duchess has become Barton’s mistress.’

‘So I have been told. It is likely to become most awkward in my home, for I cannot very well encourage Esme to associate with her, if the rumours are true. But Constance is often seen in Barton’s company and he is most adamant about his intentions towards her in conversation with others. Either she is his, or soon will be.’

Tony shook his head in pretended sympathy, along with Stanton, and said, ‘A shame, indeed. But at least that part of the search will be of no difficulty. If the duchess is naïve enough to involve herself with Barton, then she might be unprepared to prevent my search and careless in hiding her part in the crime. When would you like results?’

‘As soon as can be managed safely.’

Tony nodded. ‘I will begin tonight. With Constance Townley, for she will be the weak link, if there is one. And you will hear from me as soon as I have something to tell.’

Stanton nodded in return. ‘I will leave you to it, then. As usual, do not fail me, and do not get caught. My wife expects you to dinner on Thursday and it will be damned difficult explaining to her if you cannot attend because I have got you arrested.’ He stood then, and took his leave, disappearing into the crowd and out the door.

Tony stared down into his glass and ignored the pounding blood in his ears. What was he to do about Constance? He had imagined her lying alone in the year following her husband’s death, and expected she would be quietly remarried to some honourable man soon after her period of mourning ended.

But to take up with Barton, instead? The thought was repellent. The man was a cad as well as a criminal. Handsome, of course. And well mannered to ladies. He appeared most personable, if you did not know the truth of his character.

But at thirty, Constance was no green girl to be dazzled by good looks and false charm. She might appear to be nothing more than a beautiful ornament, but Tony remembered the sharp mind behind the beauty. Even when she was a girl, she would never have been so foolish as to fall for the likes of Jack Barton. And the thought that she would willingly betray her own country…

He shook his head. He could not bring himself to believe it. If he must search her for Stanton, best to do it quickly and know the truth. And to do so, he must put the past behind him and clear his mind for the night’s work ahead of him. He finished the whisky, dropped a sovereign on the table for the barman, and went off into the night, to satisfy his curiosity as to the morals of the Dowager Duchess of Wellford.

Chapter Two

Tony did not need to refer to Stanton’s directions—he knew well the location of the house in London where the dowager resided. He’d walked by it often enough in daylight for the twelve months that she’d been in residence. Without intending to observe the place, he’d given himself a good idea of the layout of rooms by watching the activities in the windows as he passed.

Her bedroom would be at the back of the house, facing a small garden. And there would be an alleyway for tradesmen somewhere about. He’d never seen a delivery to the front door.

He worked his way down the row of townhouses, to a cross street and a back alley, counting in reverse until he could see the yellow brick of the Wellford house. As he went, he pulled a dark scarf from his pocket and wrapped it around his neck to hide the white of his shirtfront. His coat and breeches were dark, and needed no cover. Greys, blacks, and dark blues suited him well and blended with the shadows as he needed them to.

The wrought-iron gate was locked, but he found an easy toe-hold in the garden wall beside it. He swung himself to the top with no difficulty, crouching in the protection of a tree. Then, he gauged the distance of open ground to the house. Four paces to the rose-bush, another two to the edge of the terrace and up the ivy trellis at the corner of the house. And, please God, let it hold his weight, for the three storeys to the bedroom window would be no problem to climb, but damned tricky should he fall.

He was across the yard and up the ivy in a flash, happy to find the trellis anchored to the brickwork with stout bolts, and a narrow ledge beneath the third-storey window sill. He walked along it in the darkness, feet sure as though he was walking down a city street.

He stopped when he reached the window he suspected was hers. If it had been his house, he would have chosen another room for solitude, but this one had the best view of the garden. When he had known her, she had enjoyed flowers and he’d been told that the gardens at the Wellford manor had been most splendid because of the duchess’s attentions. If she wished to see the rose-bushes, she would choose this room.

He slipped a penknife under the frame, feeling along until he found the latch and felt it slide open with the pressure of the blade. Then he raised the sash a few inches, and listened at the gap.

There were no candles lit. The room was dark and quiet. He threw the window the rest of the way open, and listened again for an oath, an exclamation, anything that might indicate he had been heard. When nothing came, he stepped through the window and stood for a moment behind the curtain, letting his eyes adjust to the dim glow from the banked coals in the grate.

He was alone. He stepped further into the room, and was shocked to feel a wave of sadness and longing overtake him.

So it was not to be as easy as he’d hoped. The irrational jealousy he’d felt, when he’d heard she had found a protector so soon after leaving off her mourning, was burning away. He had hoped he could keep the anger fresh, and use it to protect his resolve when the time came to search her rooms. If she was no longer the innocent girl he remembered, but instead a traitorous whore, then she deserved punishment.

But he probed his heart and knew vengeance would be impossible, as would justice. If there was something to find in the room, he would find it.

And he would destroy it before St John Radwell and the government could ever see. He could not let Barton continue, but he would not let Constance be punished for her lover’s crimes. If there was a way to bring her out of it with a whole skin, he would do it, no matter the cost to his own reputation.

He scanned the room. He had chosen well. It was definitely a lady’s bedroom: large and high-ceilinged, decorated in rose with delicate furniture. Along the far wall, there was a soft and spacious bed.

Where the Duchess of Wellford entertained Jack Barton.

He turned away from it, looking anywhere but towards the bed.

He had expected to find a well-appointed boudoir, but this room was strangely empty. It was pretty enough, but almost monastic in its simplicity. On the walls there was no decoration. He ran his hands along the floral paper and felt for empty hooks. There should be sconces, there and there. And in the centre? A painting, perhaps, or a mirror with a gilt frame.

He strode across the room, to the wardrobe, threw open the doors, and was momentarily stunned by the scent of her. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Lavender. Had she always smelled this sweet? It had been so many years…

Eyes still shut, he navigated by touch through the dark wardrobe, his fingers playing along the back panels and feeling no spaces, no concealed latches. He patted the gowns and cloaks, feeling for lumps in pockets and finding none.

He opened his eyes again and went through the drawers, one at a time, feeling no false bottoms, nothing concealed between the dainties folded there. Silk and linen and fine Indian cotton. Things that had touched her body more intimately than he ever would. His fingers closed on a handkerchief, edged in lace and embroidered with a C. Impulsively, he took it and thrust it into his pocket, moving to the dresser to continue his search.

The Dowager Duchess of Wellford perched on the edge of her seat in her parlour, staring hopefully at the man on the couch next to her.

He was about to speak.

It was about time. He had been hinting for weeks.

She did her best to drum up a thrill of anticipation.

‘Constance, there is something I wish to speak to you about.’

‘Yes, Jeremy.’ Jeremy Manders was not her ideal, of course, but neither had her late husband been, and they had suited well enough.

‘We have known each other for a long time, since well before your husband passed. And I have always held you in high esteem.’

She smiled and nodded encouragement. ‘And I you. You were Robert’s good friend, and mine.’

‘But I will admit, even while Robert was alive, feeling the occasional touch of envy at his good fortune in having you, Constance.’

She blushed and averted her eyes.

‘I would never have dared say anything, of course, for Robert was my friend.’

She looked up again, still smiling. ‘Of course not.’ Her late husband, Robert, was far too much in the conversation for her taste.

‘But you were quite the loveliest…still are, I mean, the loveliest woman of my acquaintance.’

‘Thank you, Jeremy.’ This was much better. She accepted the compliment graciously. But she wished that, just once, a man could comment on something other than her appearance.

‘I hesitated to say anything, while you were still in mourning. It would hardly have been respectful.’

‘Of course not.’ He was hesitating to say it now, as well. Why could he not just go down on a knee and speak the words?

‘But I think sufficient time has passed. And you do not appear to be otherwise engaged. I mean, you are not, are you?’

‘No. My affections are not held by another, and I am quite out of my widow’s weeds.’ And growing older by the minute. Was it too much to expect him to seize and kiss her? That would make the point clear enough.

And it might be most romantic. But it would be too much to ask, and she forced herself not to wish for it.

‘So there is no one else? Well, that is good to know.’ He sagged with relief. ‘I thought, if you were free, that we might do well together. You find me attractive, I hope.’

‘Oh, yes, Jeremy.’ She hoped it was not too obvious to a casual observer that she was reaching the point where she would find any man kind enough to offer marriage to be of surpassing handsomeness.

‘And I assure you, I will be able to meet your expenses. I have ample resources, although I am not a duke, as your late husband was.’

Robert again. But Jeremy could afford to pay her bills, so let him talk. ‘That is a great comfort to me.’

‘And I would want you to get whatever gowns and frippery you might wish, as soon as possible. It must be most tiring to you to have to wear black for a year, and then to make do with what you had before.’

Shopping for things she did not need. She had quite forgotten what it was like. She smiled, but assured him, ‘Really, it is only foolishness. It does not matter so much.’

‘Oh, but it does to me. I wish to see you as bright and happy as ever you were.’

Relief flooded through her.

‘I will provide a house, of course. Near Vauxhall, so that we might go there of an evening. And a generous allowance.’

‘House?’ The flood of relief became tainted with a trickle of doubt.

‘Yes. And the dresses, of course. You could keep a staff, of…’ he calculated ‘…three.’

‘Three?’

‘And your maid as well,’ he amended. ‘Which would really be four.’

‘Jeremy, we are not negotiating my living arrangements.’

‘Of course not. Any number you choose. I want you to be comfortable. And I brought with me a token of my esteem.’ He reached into his pocket, and produced not a small square box, but one that was thin and slender.

She took it from him and snapped it open. ‘You got me a bracelet?’

It was his turn to blush. ‘There were matching earbobs. I could have got those as well, but perhaps after you say yes…’

‘Jeremy, it sounds almost as though you are offering me a carte blanche.’ She laughed a trifle too loudly at the ridiculousness of the idea.

She waited for him to laugh in return and say she was mistaken.

And he was silent.

She snapped the box shut again and thrust it back to him. ‘Take it.’

‘You do not like it? Because I can get another.’

‘I do not want another. I do not want this one.’ She could feel the colour in her face turning to an angry flush as her voice rose. ‘You come here, talking of esteem, and your great fondness for me, then you offer to put me up and pay my expenses?’

Jeremy stiffened, a picture of offended dignity. ‘Well, someone must, Constance. You cannot go on much longer living on your own. And surely, after twelve years of marriage, and over a year alone, you must miss the affections of a man.’

‘Oh, must I?’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘I do not miss them so much that I seek to dishonour myself outside of marriage just to pay my bills. I thought, if you held me in such high esteem…’

‘Well…’he swallowed ‘…here’s the rub. Father will be wanting me to guarantee the inheritance. Now it’s a long time before I need to worry about such. But when it comes time for me to marry, I will have to pick someone—’ he searched for the correct words and finished ‘—that my father approves of.’

‘And he will not approve of a thirty-year-old childless widow. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it, but you lack the spine to say it out loud? You wish to bounce me between the sheets and parade me around Vauxhall in shiny new clothes. But when it is time for you to marry, you will go to Almack’s for a wide-hipped virgin.’

Jeremy squirmed in his chair. ‘When you say it that way, it sounds so—’

‘Accurate? Candid? Cruel? It sounds cruel because it is, Jeremy. Now take your compliments and your jewellery and your offers of help and get them from my house.’

Jeremy drew himself up and gathered what righteousness he could. ‘Your house? For how long, Constance? It is apparent to those who know you well that you are in over your head, even if you do not wish to admit it. I only meant to help you in a way that might be advantageous to both of us. And I am sure there are women who will not find what I’m suggesting so repugnant.’

There was that tone again. She had heard it before, when she’d refused such offers in the past. Reminding her not to be too particular, or to expect more than she deserved, but to settle for what was offered and be glad of it. She glared at him in silence and pointed to the door.

He rose. ‘Very well. If you change your mind on the subject, send a message to my rooms. I will wait, for a time. But not for long, Constance. Do not think on it overlong. And if you expect a better offer from Barton, then you are sadly mistaken. You’ll find soon enough that his friendship is no truer than mine. Good evening.’

He strode from the room, then she heard him in the hall calling for his hat and stick, and the adamant snap as the front door closed behind him.

She sat, staring into the fire, her mind racing. Jeremy was to have been the answer to all her problems. She had been so sure of it. She had been willing to overlook a certain weakness of chin and of character. She had laughed at his boring stories. She had listened to him talk politics, and nodded, even though she could not find it in herself to agree. And she had found him foolish, sober or in mirth. She had been more than willing to marry a buffoon, and smile and nod through the rest of her life, in exchange for a little security and consistent companionship.

Maybe Jeremy had been a fool, but an honest and good-hearted one, despite his offer. And he had been right when he’d hinted that anything was better than what Lord Barton might suggest, if she allowed him to speak to her again. Jeremy could at least pretend that what he was doing would be best for both of them. There had never been any indication, when she’d looked into Jack Barton’s eyes, that he cared in the slightest about anyone but himself.

‘Your Grace, can I get you anything?’ It was her maid, Susan, come downstairs to see what was the matter.

Constance glanced up at the clock. An hour had passed since Jeremy had gone, and she had let it, without moving from the spot. ‘No, I am all right. I think I will put myself to bed this evening, Susan. Rest yourself. I will see you in the morning.’

The girl looked worried, but left her in peace.

When Constance went to stand, it felt as if she had to gather strength from deep within for the minor effort of rising from the chair. She climbed the stairs with difficulty, glad that the maid was so easily persuaded. It would be better to crawl up the stairs alone on her hands and knees than to admit how hard a blow Jeremy had struck with his non-proposal.

Susan knew the trouble she faced. The girl had found her before when she’d come to wake her, still dressed and dozing in a bedroom chair. Constance had been poring over the accounts in the wee hours, finding no way to make the expenses match the meagre allowance she received from her husband’s nephew, Freddy. If only her husband had taken him in hand and taught him what would be expected, Freddy might have made a decent peer.

But Robert had been so set on the idea that they would have a child. There would be an heir, if not this year, then certainly the next. And if his own son were to inherit the title, he might never need bother with his tiresome nephew.

And now Robert was gone, and the new duke was heedless of anything but his own pleasure. He knew little of what it took to run his own estates and even less what Robert might have expected of him in regards to the welfare of the dowager.

Dowager. How she loathed the word. It always brought to mind a particularly unattractive piece of furniture. The sort of thing one put in a seldom-used room, allowing the upholstery to become faded and moth-eaten, until it was totally forgotten.

An accurate enough description, when one thought of it. Her own upholstery was sadly in need of replacement, but with the butcher’s bill and the greengrocer, and the cost of coal, she dare not spend foolishly.

Of course, she could always sell the house and move to smaller accommodations, if she had the deed in hand. She had seen it, the day her husband had drawn it up. The house and its contents were clearly in her name, and he had assured her that she would not want, when his time came.

Then he had locked it in his safe and forgotten it. And now, the new duke could not be troubled to give it to her. When she asked, it was always tomorrow, or soon. She felt her lip quaver and bit it to stop the trembling. She had been a fool not to remove the keys from her husband’s pocket, while his body was barely cold. She could have gone to the safe and got the deed herself and no one need have been the wiser. Now the keys and the safe belonged to Freddy and she must wait upon him to do the right thing.

Which was easier than waiting upon her suitors to offer something other than their false protection. She had been angry the first time someone had suggested that she solve her financial problems on her back. When it had happened again, anger had faded to dread. And now, it had happened so many times that she wanted nothing more than to hide in her rooms and weep.

Was this the true measure of her worth? Men admired her face and wanted her body, there was no question of that. And they seemed to enjoy her company. But never so much that they could overlook a barren womb when it came time to wed. They wanted the best of both worlds: a wife at home, great with child, and an infertile mistress tucked away for entertainment so that they could remain conveniently bastardless.

Damn Jeremy and his empty promises. She had been so sure that his hints about the future were honourable.

What was she to do now, other than to take the offer, of course? It would solve all her worries if she was willing to bend the last little bit, and give up on the idea that she could ever succeed in finding another husband. She shut the door behind her and snuffed her candle, letting the tears flow down her cheeks in the dark.

And in a corner of the room there was movement.

She caught her breath and held it. It was not a settling of the house, or a mouse in the wainscoting. That had been the scrape of a boot on the wood floor near the dresser. And then something fell from the dresser top. Her jewellery box. She could hear the meagre contents landing like hailstones on the rug.

A thief. Come to take what little she had left.

Her fatigue fled. A scream would be useless. With all the servants safely below stairs, no one would hear her. To get to the bell pull, she would need to go closer to the thief, and he would never allow her to reach it. She turned to run.

The stranger was across the room and caught her before she could move, and a hand clamped down over her mouth.

Chapter Three

‘Remain silent, your Grace, and I will do what I came for and be gone. You are in no danger from me, as long as you are quiet.’

His hand eased away from her lips, but he held her close in a most familiar way, one hand at the back of her neck, the other cupping her hip, and his legs bumping against the length of her.

And suddenly, she was sick and tired of men trying to sample the merchandise without buying, or wanting to rob her, or dying and leaving her penniless and alone. She fought to free her arms and stuck him hard in the face. ‘I’ll give you silence, you thieving bastard.’ She hit him again, in the shoulder, but his hands did not move. ‘Is that quiet enough for you, you dirty sneak?’ And she beat upon him with her closed fists, as silently as possible, shoulders shaking with effort, gasping out tears of rage.

He took the rain of blows in silence as well, except for the occasional grunt when a well-landed punch caused him to expel a puff of air. And when her blows began to weaken he effortlessly caught her wrists and pinned them behind her. ‘Stop it, now, before you hurt yourself. You’ll bruise your hands, and do more damage to them than you might to me.’

She struggled in his grip, but he held firm until the last of the fight was gone from her and there was nothing left but tears.

‘Finished? Good. Now, tell me what is the trouble.’ He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her, and she was appalled to recognise it as her own.

‘Trouble? Are you daft in the head? There is a man in my room, holding me against my will. And going through my lingerie.’ She crushed the linen square in her hand and tossed it at his feet.

‘Before that.’ She could barely make out his face in the embers from the banked fire, but there was sympathy in his voice. ‘You were crying before you ever knew I was here. Truth, now. What was the matter?’

‘Why do you care?’

‘Is it not enough to know that I do?’

‘No. You have a reason for it, and as a common thief, you must wish the knowledge to use against me in some way.’

He laughed, soft in her ear. ‘I am a most uncommon thief then, for I have your interests in mind. Does it help you to trust me, if I assure you that I am a gentleman? If you met me under better circumstances, you’d find me a picture of moral fortitude. I do not drink to excess, I do not gamble, I am kind to children and animals, and I have loved only one woman the whole of my life.’

She struggled in his arms. ‘And yet you do not shirk at sneaking into other women’s bedrooms and taking their things.’

He sighed, but did not let her go. ‘Sometimes, perhaps. But I cannot bear to see a woman in distress, and I do not steal from those that cannot afford to lose. In the box on your dresser there is a single strand of pearls and a pair of gold earrings. The rest is paste. Where is the real jewellery, your Grace?’

‘Gone. Sold to pay my bills, as was much of the household furniture. You see what is there. Take it. Would you like the candlesticks from the mantel as well? They are all I have left of value. Take them and finish me.’

His grip upon her loosened, and he took her hand and bowed over it. ‘I beg your pardon, your Grace. I mistook the situation. Things are not as they appear to the outside, are they? The world assumes that your husband’s wealth left you financially secure.’

She gathered her dignity around her. ‘I make sure of that.’

‘Can you not appeal to friends for help?’

She tossed her head. ‘I find, when one has no husband to defend one’s honour, or family to return to, that there are not as many true friends as one might think. There are many who would prey upon a woman alone, if she shows weakness.’

‘But I am not one of them.’ He was still holding her hand in his and his grip was sure and warm. She thought, in the dimness, she could see a smile playing at the corners of his lips. ‘I have taken nothing from your jewel case. I swear on it. And the handkerchief?’ He shook his head. ‘I do not know what possessed me. I am not in the habit of rifling through women’s linens and taking trophies. It was a momentary aberration. I apologise and assure you that you will find nothing else missing from your personal items.’

She thought, for just a moment, how nice it would be to believe him and to think there was one man on the planet who did not mean to take more than she wished to give. ‘So you have broken into my rooms and mean to take nothing, then?’ she asked suspiciously.

Now she was sure she could hear the smile in his voice. ‘A trifle, perhaps. Only this.’ And he pulled her close again to bring her mouth to his.

The thief did not bother with the niceties. There was no gentle caress, no hesitation, no request for permission. He opened her mouth and he took.

She steeled herself against the violation, deciding, if it was a choice of the two, she had much rather he took a kiss than the candlesticks. It was foolish of her to have mentioned them, for she needed the money their sale would bring.

In any case, at least the kiss would be over soon and she did not need to spare his feelings and pretend passion where she felt none, as she had with Jeremy. But unlike Jeremy, this man was most expert at kissing.

Her mind drifted. His hand was on her shoulder and her head rested in the crook of his elbow, as he tipped her back in the cradle of his arms. It felt strangely comforting to be held by the stranger. She need barely support herself, for he was doing a most effective job of bearing her weight. She tilted her head slightly, and he adjusted, tasting her lips and her tongue as though he wanted to have every last bit of sweetness from them before letting her go.

She relaxed and gave it up to him. And was shocked to find herself willing to give him more. It had been a long time since she had felt so well and truly kissed. Her husband’s kisses, in recent years, had been warm and comfortable, but not particularly passionate. The kisses she’d received from suitors since his death were more ardent, but could not seem to melt the frozen places in her heart, or ease the loneliness.

But this man kissed as if he were savouring a fine wine. He was dallying with her, barely touching her lips and then sealing their mouths to steal the breath from her lungs.

His hands were gentle on her body, taking no further liberty than to support her as he kissed, and she knew she had but to offer the slightest resistance and he would set her free.

But she was so tired of being free, if freedom meant loneliness and worry. And suddenly, the kiss could not be long enough or deep enough to satisfy the craving inside of her. His hands stayed still on her body, but she wished to feel them do more than just hold her. She wanted to be touched.

Her own hands were clenched in fists on his shirtfront, and she realised that she’d planned to push him away before now. Instead she opened them, palms flat and fingers spread on his chest, before running them up his body to wrap her arms around his neck. The hair at the back of his head was soft, and curled around her fingers as she tangled them in it, pulling herself closer to kiss him back. He smelled of wood smoke and soap, and he tasted like whisky. And when she moved her tongue against his, he tensed and his hands went hard against her body, his thumb massaging circles deep into the flesh of her shoulder. His other hand tightened on the soft flesh of her hip to hold her tight to him. She could feel his smile, tingling against her lips.

And then, as quickly the kiss had begun, it was over. He set her back on her feet again and for a moment they leaned against each other, as though neither were steady enough to stand without support of the other. When he pulled away from her, he shook his head and sighed in satisfaction. He was breathless, as he said, ‘That is quite the richest reward I’ve taken in ages. So much more valuable than mere jewels. I will live on the memory of it for a very long time.’ He traced the outline of her lips with the tip of his finger. ‘I am sorry for frightening you and I thank you for not crying out. Know that your secrets are as safe with me as mine are with you. And now, if you will excuse me?’ He bowed. ‘Do not light the candle just yet. Count ten and I will be gone.’

And he turned from her and went to the window, stepping over the sill and out into the darkness.

She rushed to the window after him, and looked out to see him climb down the side of the house and slip across the garden as noiselessly as a shadow, before scaling the stone wall that surrounded it.

He paused as he reached the top and turned back to look towards her. Could he see her there, watching him go, or did he merely suspect?

But she could see him, silhouetted on the top of the garden wall. He was neither dark nor fair. Brown hair, she thought, although it was hard to tell in the moonlight, and dark clothes. A nice build, but she’d felt that when he’d held her. Not a person she recognised.

He blew a kiss in the direction of her open window, swung his legs over the side and dropped from view.

She hurried back into the room and fumbled with a lucifer and a taper, trying to still the beating of her heart. She might not know him, but he knew her. He knew the house and had called her by her title.

And now he knew her secret: she was helpless and alone and nearing the end of her resources. She found this not nearly as threatening as if Lord Barton had known the depth of her poverty. If he had, he’d have used that to his advantage against her.

But the thief had apologised, and taken his leave. And the kiss, of course. But he’d left everything of value, so it was a fair trade. She knelt to pick up the contents of the spilled jewel box, and her foot brushed a black velvet bag on the floor at the side of the dresser.

He must have brought it, meaning to hold the things he took. And it was not empty. As she picked it up, she felt the weight of it shift in her hands.

Dear God, what was she to do now? She could not very well call the man back. He was no longer in the street and she did not know his address.

She did not want to know his address, she reminded herself. He was a criminal. She would look more than forward to seek him out, after the way she had responded to the kiss. And the contents were not his, anyway, so why should they be returned? If the bag contained jewellery, perhaps she could put an ad in The Times, describing the pieces. The rightful owners would step forward, and she might never have to explain how she got them.

She poured the contents of the bag out into her hand. Gold. Guineas filled her hand, and spilled on to the floor.

She tried to imagine the ad she must post, to account for that. ‘Will the person who lost a large sum of money on my bedroom floor please identify it…?’

It was madness. There was no way she could return it.

She gathered the money into stacks, counting as she went. This was enough to pay the servants what she owed them, and settle the grocer’s bill and next month’s expenses as well.

If she kept her tongue and kept the money, she could hold off the inevitable for another month.

But what if the thief came back and demanded to know what had become of his money? She shivered. Then she must hope that he was as understanding as he had been this evening. It would not be so terrible if she must part with another kiss.

Tony arrived at his townhouse in fine spirits, ignored the door before him and smiled at the façade. He rubbed his palms together once, and took a running start at it, jumping to catch the first handhold above the window of the front room. He climbed the next flight easily, his fingers and toes fitting into the familiar places worn into the bricks, then leaned to grasp the edge of the balcony, chinning himself, swinging a leg up and rolling his body lightly over the railing to land on his feet in front of the open doors to his bedroom. He parted the curtains and stepped through. ‘Good evening, Patrick.’

His valet had responded with an oath and seized the fireplace poker to defend himself, before recognising his master and trying to turn his movement into an innocuous attempt to adjust the logs in the grate. ‘Sir. I believe we have discussed this before. It is a very bad habit, and you have promised to use the front door in the future, just as I have promised to leave it unlocked on nights when you are working.’

Tony grinned back at him. ‘I am sorry. I could not help myself. I am—’

Deliriously happy.

‘—full of the devil, after this evening’s outing. You will never guess who Stanton sent me out to spy on.’

Patrick said nothing, waiting expectantly.

‘The Dowager Duchess of Wellford.’

This was worthy of another oath from Patrick. ‘And you informed him that you could not.’

‘I did no such thing. He was under the impression that she was consorting with Lord John Barton, that they were in league in some sort of nefarious doings involving stolen printing plates. If he had not sent me, it would be someone else. I went post-haste to her rooms for a search. The climb to her bedroom window was—’

As easy as I’ve always dreamed it to be…

‘—no problem. Thank the Lord, there was no sign of anything illegal hidden in her rooms. Although there is evidence that she is in dire straits and in a position to be forced to do things against her nature, by Barton or someone else. And then—and here is the best part, Patrick—while I was searching, she caught me at it.’

‘Sir.’ Patrick’s tone implied that the word ‘caught’ was not under any circumstances the best part of a story.

‘She caught me,’ Tony repeated. ‘And so I was forced to hold her tight, and question her. And because I wished to be every bit the rogue I appeared to be, I kissed her.’

‘And then?’ Patrick leaned forward with a certain amount of interest.

Tony sighed. ‘And then she kissed me back.’

‘And then?’ Patrick prompted again.

‘And then I climbed out the window and came home. But not before leaving her the purse that Stanton had given me to cover the night’s work. I dare say she will not be required to sell the last of her jewellery for quite some time. St John was most generous. It was quite the most perfect evening I’ve ever had. What say you to that?’

Patrick dropped any attempt at servitude. ‘I say, some day, when you are old enough to be shaved, you will be quite a man with the ladies. Ah, but wait. You are thirty, are you not? Then it is quite another matter.’

‘And what would you have had me do?’

Patrick was working very hard not to make any of the more obvious suggestions, which might get him sacked. ‘You might, at least, have told her the truth.’

‘Just what part of it?’

‘That you have been pining for her like a moon calf, low these long years.’

‘I did tell her. Well, not the truth, as such. Not that truth, at any rate. I told her that she needn’t be afraid, which is true. And that I was a most unexceptional fellow. And that I have loved one woman my entire life.’ Tony frowned. ‘I did not tell her it was her, as such. You might think a woman would be glad to hear that? But trust me, Patrick, when she is hearing it from a stranger who is hiding in her bedroom, it will not be well received.’

‘But you are not a stranger to her.’

‘But she does not know that. I did not have time to explain the full story. An abbreviated version of the truth, one which omitted my identity, was definitely the order of the day. And despite what you may think of my romantic abilities, I’ve told the story before and found that omitting the identity of my beloved works in my favour. Nothing softens the heart of a woman quite so much as the story of my hopeless love for another. And how can I resist when they wish to comfort me in my misery?’

‘Sir,’ said Patrick, in a way that always seemed to mean ‘idiot’. ‘If you are with the object of the hopeless passion, and you wish the passion to cease being a hopeless one, then the unvarnished truth is usually the best course.’

No longer hopeless…

Tony shook his head. A single kiss was a long way from the fulfilment of his life’s romantic fantasies, and it would be foolish to set his heart upon it. ‘Nothing will come from this night’s meeting. Even if the whole truth is revealed. Think sensibly for a moment, Patrick. Much time has passed since I knew her. She barely knew me then. I doubt she even remembers me. She is a duchess, even if she is a dowager. And while I am her most humble servant, I am most decidedly not, nor ever will be, a duke. Or, for that matter, a marquis, an earl or even a baron. With me, she could live quite comfortably to a ripe old age.’ He dismissed his own dreams on that subject with a wave of his hand.

‘But should she attach herself to me, it would mean that many doors, which were once opened, would be closed to her. She would go from her Grace the Duchess to plain old Mrs Smythe. In the face of that, an offer of undying devotion is no equal. And the whole town knows her as the most beautiful woman in London. She will not want for suitors, and need not settle for the likes of me. She will aim higher, when she seeks another husband. Man is not meant to have all that he dreams possible. Not in this life, at any rate.’

Patrick applauded with mock-courtesy. ‘Most humble, sir. I had forgotten that you studied for the ministry. You have done a most effective job of talking yourself out of the attempt. In winning the hand of a lady, it would be better if you had studied the Romans. Carpe diem, sir.’

‘I carpe-d the situation to the best of my ability, thank you very much.’ Tony closed his eyes and remembered the kiss. ‘And perhaps there will be other opportunities. I must see her again, in any case, to settle the business with Barton and to make sure she is all right.’

He remembered the missing ornaments and the empty jewel box. ‘Stanton is wrong. I am sure of it. He told me she was Barton’s mistress. But if Barton is keeping her, he is doing it on the cheap. If she were mine, her jewel box would be full to overflowing.’

If she were mine…

‘But it is almost empty. And there is evidence that she is selling off the furnishings of the house to make ends meet. I had assumed that that old ninny Wellford would make provision for her after his death. Surely he did not think taking a young wife would somehow extend his own time on this mortal coil. He must have known she’d outlive him.’

He sat in his favourite armchair and stared into the fire. ‘She is putting up a brave front, Patrick, but things are not right, above stairs. The least I can do, as an old friend of the family, is see to it that she comes through this safely.’

Patrick snorted, and poured him his brandy. ‘What utter nonsense. Yes, that is the least you could do. And I do not see why you feel it necessary to pretend that you wish to do as little as possible. It astounds me that someone who has no trouble taking things which do not belong to him balks when there is a chance to take the thing he most wants.’

Tony took the proffered glass and gestured with it. ‘She is not some inanimate object, Patrick. I cannot just go and take her. She has a say in the matter.’

Patrick shook his head, giving his master up as hopeless, and, totally forgetting his station, poured a brandy for himself. ‘Not the woman, sir. Happiness. You are so accustomed to thinking in terms of what you might do for others that you forget to do what might be in your own best interests. By all means, empty your purse and risk your fool neck helping the woman, if it pleases you to do so.

‘But when the moment comes to collect a reward for it, do not stand upon your honour and deny yourself what pleasure you can gain from the moment. Do not think twice about your inability to rival her late husband in rank or pocketbook. If, in the end, the woman cares only for those, you must admit you have been wrong about her, and the girl you loved no longer exists. No matter how beautiful she may be, if she is a fortune hunter, then she is not worth saving and you are best off to forget her.’

Chapter Four

Constance sat in her morning room, paging through the small stack of receipts in front of her. It was ever so much more satisfying than the stack of overdue bills that had been there just a few days before. She was a long way from safe. But neither was she standing on the edge of financial disaster, staring down into total ruin.

She would need to visit the new duke, to remind him of his promised allowance, which would cover the incoming bills. And while there, she could retrieve the deed. With that in hand, she might secure a loan against the house, or arrange its sale. With money of her own in her pocket, she might protect herself against the vagaries of Freddy’s payments for many months to come. For the first time in ages, she felt the stirrings of hope for the future, and cautious optimism.

And her salvation had come from a strange source, indeed. She offered a silent prayer of thanks for the timely intervention of the thief, whoever he might be, and hoped that the loss of his little bag had not forced him to do other crimes. She would hate to think herself the cause of misfortune in others, or the further ruination of the man that had climbed out of her window.

But, somehow, she suspected it was not the case. Perhaps she was romanticising a criminal, and most foolish for it. She might be creating a Robin Hood out of a common scoundrel. But the situation had been so fortuitous, it almost seemed that he had meant to leave the money behind for her use.

It was a ludicrous notion. What reason would he have had to help her? But he had offered, had he not? And if he had not meant to leave it, he must have missed the bag by now. Surely he would have returned to take it from her? After she was sure he was gone, she had gathered the money back into the sack, and placed it under her pillow. And then she had lain awake in dread most of the night, convinced that at any moment, she would feel a breeze at the window and hear a light step on the carpet, approaching her bed in the darkness…

And at last she had forced herself to admit that it was not dread she was feeling at the reappearance of the strange man. The idea that he would return and she might open her eyes to find him bending over her bed and reaching to touch her, held no terror, just a rush of passionate emotion fuelled by the memory of a stolen kiss.

Which was utterly ridiculous. It had been a very nice kiss. And best to leave it at that. He was a thief, and she would be a fool to trust him with her heart or her reputation, despite what he had said to her the previous night.

And even if he were a gentleman, as he claimed, what could they possibly have in common other than a single moment of weakness? Could she have a conversation with him, in the light of day? Would he even wish to see her? He had said something about being in love. Did he care for her at all? Kisses meant very little to most men. He had probably forgotten it already.

But it had been a most extraordinary kiss.

Her mind had circled back again, to replay the kiss, as it seemed to do whenever she tried to talk herself out of the fantasy. She was fast creating a paragon out of nothing. A man both dashing and kind, but more than a bit of a rogue. When the candles were lit, he would be passably good-looking, and as innocuous in appearance and behaviour as he had claimed. But at night, he was a burglar, living off his wits. And a single kiss from her would make him forsake all others and risk capture by returning to her rooms.

She closed her eyes and smiled, imagining his arms about her again. He would confess that he was unable to resist the attraction, and assure her that, if she could find it in her heart to forgive his criminal misdeeds, he would love and cherish her ’til the end of her days.

‘Your Grace, there is a gentleman here to see you.’

Susan was standing in the door, hesitating to interrupt. And for a moment, Constance thought that her dream had come to life. She looked enquiringly to her maid.

‘Lord Barton.’

Damn.

‘Tell him I am not at home, Susan.’

‘He is most insistent, your Grace.’

‘As am I. I am not now, nor ever shall be, at home to Lord Barton.’

‘I thought you might say that.’ The voice came from the hall, just beyond Susan’s head. ‘So I took the liberty of letting myself in. I hope you don’t mind.’ Jack Barton’s tone made it clear that he didn’t care one way or the other whether she minded—he intended to do as he pleased in the matter.

Constance swept the papers she’d been holding under the desk blotter to hide them, and stood to face him.

‘I mind very much, Lord Barton.’

‘I believe I requested, when last we talked, that you call me Jack.’ He was smiling, as though he had totally forgotten her response to their last conversation.

‘And then you insulted me.’

‘I meant the offer as a compliment, your Grace. I do not make it lightly, nor do I make such generous offers to all the women of my acquaintance.’

‘You suggested that I become your mistress,’ she reminded him, coldly.

‘Because I wish to surround myself with beauty, and can afford to do so. You are quite the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I mean to have you.’

‘I am not some item, to be added to your collection,’ she replied. ‘You are mistaken, if you think you can purchase a woman as easily as a painting.’

He was unaffected by her answer. ‘I have not been so in the past. For the most part, it is only a matter of finding the correct price. Once you do, you can purchase anything.’

‘Let me make myself clear: you cannot buy me, Lord Barton. No amount of money would induce me to submit to you. Now, get out of my house.’ She pointed towards the door.

‘No.’

This presented a problem. She could not put him out herself, and such male servants as she had were either too young or too old to do the job for her. To a gentleman, her demand that he leave should have been enough. But if she was forced to rely on Barton’s honour as a gentleman, she was left with nothing at all to defend herself. ‘Very well, then,’ she said, resigned. ‘State your business and then be gone.’

He smiled and took a seat in the chair near her desk, as though he were a welcome guest. ‘I expected you would see it my way, once you had thought about it. I came about the ball I am hosting, tomorrow evening.’

‘I sent regrets.’

‘Yes, you did. You are the picture of courtesy, if a trifle stubborn. I must break you of that, if we are to manage well together.’

‘Do not think you need to manage me, Lord Barton,’ she snapped back at him. ‘I thought I made it clear, when I refused your contemptible offer, that we would not be doing anything further together. I do not wish to dance with you. I doubt I can eat in your presence, since the thought of you sickens me. And thus, I sent regrets for your ball.’

Her word seemed to have no effect on his continued good humour. He was still smiling as he said, ‘That is not acceptable.’

‘It is most acceptable to me,’ she insisted. ‘And that is all that matters. I doubt that you have any tender feelings that I might have offended. I do not believe you capable of them.’

‘Let me speak plainly,’ he said.

‘I have been unable to stop you.’

‘You will be in attendance at the ball, because I wish it to be so.’

‘And why would I care what you wish?’

Without another word, he reached into his pocket, and withdrew an object, wrapped in a linen handkerchief. His eyes widened and his mouth made an ‘Oh’, like a conjuror performing a trick. Then he dipped his fingers into the bundle and withdrew a ruby-and-diamond necklace. He dangled it in front of her.

And without thinking, she reached for it, and cursed her hand for acting faster than her wits.

‘I knew you would not be bribed with pretty words or baubles like a sensible woman, since I’ve tried that and failed. But then I thought, perhaps I was using the wrong bait.’

She watched the necklace, glittering in his hand, and tried to conceal her desire for it.

‘You were most foolish to sell the whole thing. You needn’t have made a complete copy you know. Just pried out the stones and let the jeweller fit paste ones into the old setting.’

She had learned that herself, after selling the rubies. The cost of even the cheapest copy ate almost all of the additional profit from selling the gold setting.

She said nothing.

He turned the necklace to let the jewels sparkle in the sunlight. ‘And you made the copy, once you realised that the necklace was not technically yours, did you not? It is part of your husband’s entail. It belongs to the new duke, and not to you. It was very wrong of you to sell it. What do you suppose the new duke would say, if he knew you were selling a necklace that has been in his family for generations?’

The new duke would likely go many months before noticing its absence. When he did, she’d hoped to stall him with the copy until she could afford to buy back the real necklace. But she kept her foolish mouth shut over the secret since Barton had enough power over her without her full confession.

‘I trust you have seen the error of your ways, and do not wish to continue stealing from your nephew.’

She thought to argue that it was not really stealing, if one was only trying to get money that one was owed, and continued to hold silent.

He nodded as though she had spoken. ‘Fortunately for you, I am an understanding man. I will give you back your necklace. Once you have done something for me.’

She closed her eyes. Now she must decide. Lie with Barton, or let him go to Freddy with the necklace. The choice was easy. Let him tell Freddy the truth. Perhaps it would move the duke to loosen his purse strings.

When she opened her eyes again, Barton was watching her with amusement. ‘You are not asking what it is I wish.’

‘I know what it is that you want. The answer is still no.’

He laughed. ‘You think I demand unconditional surrender, for a single strand of rubies? While it is a lovely necklace, I suspect you hold your honour to be worth more. A price above rubies, perhaps?’ He laughed. ‘Listen carefully to my offer, and then give me your answer.

‘First, what will happen to you, if you deny me: I will let the necklace fall from my pocket somewhere public. Everyone knows it is yours. Someone will ask me how I came by it. I will explain how you left it in my rooms. The world will draw its own conclusions, and you will be ruined.

‘Or you can attend the ball tomorrow. You will stand beside me as hostess, and dance with me as I wish. At the end of the evening, I will return the jewels to you, and you may go home.’

‘And if I stand up with you, the world will draw much the same conclusions that they did, if I do not obey you,’ she said.

‘They might wonder, but they will not be sure.’

She weighed the possibilities. The ruby necklace was clear proof of her perfidy. If she could retrieve it without much cost to her honour, it would be worth the attempt. Of course, there was a chance that he would deny her.

He saw the suspicion in her eyes. ‘You needn’t fear. I swear that you shall have the thing back before the clock strikes twelve. And I do not expect physical intimacy. Not yet, at any rate. But if you think you can toy with me, or trick me in some way, the price for the necklace may be much higher the next time I offer it.’

What was she to do? It was not really such a great sacrifice to go to a ball. Although she hated Barton, it would do her reputation no real harm. ‘Very well. I will attend.’

He laughed, again. It was a cold sound, short and brittle like cracking ice. ‘Excellent. I shall have the pleasure of your company, and you shall have your necklace.’

He leaned closer, the laughter gone from his voice. ‘And you will have learned a valuable lesson. When things go my way, I am happy and reward those around me. Rewards are so much better than punishment, are they not? I find that training a woman is not much different than training a hound. It all begins with the smallest act of obedience. Once a man has achieved that, he is well on the road to becoming a master.’ There was a half-smile of satisfaction on his face, as though his eventual victory was a foregone conclusion.

‘You will find, Lord Barton, that I am not some lapdog to be easily brought to heel. You have won in this. But that is all. Now, if you will excuse me, I must prepare for your ball tomorrow. I wish to look my best, so that you may remember me well, for it will be the last time that you see me. If you please.’ She gestured to the door.

He rose, indolently, and proceeded out of the room, leaving the air around her bitterly cold.

Constance waited in the drawing room of the London townhouse of the current Duke of Wellford. She had no right to feel the wave of possessiveness that she was feeling towards the house and its contents.

It did not belong to her, after all. It had been her husband’s home long before she married him, but never truly hers. She had seen to the care and cleaning of it, of course. She had entertained guests in this very room. She had chosen the furnishings, and the food. She had hired and fired the servants.

And now, after twelve years in residence, and only a year away, she was a visitor. The butler who had greeted her was not familiar. When crossing the entrance hall, she caught sight of a footman she had hired herself. He had almost smiled when he’d seen her. Almost. And then there had been a flash of pity, before he went back to his duties, and treated her with the excessive formality due a ranking guest, and not a member of the family.

And to add to the discomfort, Freddy left her to wait. She had informed him that morning that she’d planned to visit, but when she arrived he was not in attendance, having decided to go riding in Hyde Park with his friends.

Robert had often railed against the folly of keeping horses in town. To keep the beasts fed, groomed and stabled was disproportionately expensive, when compared to the amount of time he had to ride while residing in the city. Apparently, the new duke had no such concerns.

Constance drummed her fingers against the small gilt table beside the settee, then folded her hands in her lap, willing them to be still. It was best to marshal her patience before Freddy arrived, if she wished to greet him pleasantly and keep him in good humour. She would make no ground in securing money or deed if she angered him by censuring his behaviour.

Especially if she must admit to him that she’d pawned the family jewels to pay the butcher’s bill. He would see such behaviour as a weakness in her own character, and not his own for denying her funds and leaving her in need. She had learned from past discussions that, although Freddy was nearly useless at his best, if she angered him or questioned his judgement he could be even worse.

She had refused a servant’s offer of refreshment for the third time before Freddy deigned to grace her with his presence, still in his riding coat. The smell of horses followed him into the room, and she noticed, with distaste, that there was mud from the stable still on his boot. He was tracking it on the Aubusson.

Not her Aubusson, she reminded herself. And not her problem. Someone would clean it. It did not matter.

‘Aunt Constance, to what do I owe the pleasure?’ There was a moment’s awkwardness as he greeted her, and remembered that he was her better, and not a guest in her house.

‘I wish it were only for pleasure that I am visiting, your Grace.’ She rose to greet him, dropping a respectful curtsy.

‘Please, Constance. Call me Freddy.’ There was still the touch of a little boy’s pleading as he said it. ‘You can, you know. I want you to treat this as though it were your home. It can be your home in truth, if you wish. Lord knows, I could use a woman with a level head to run the household for me.’

And how could she tell him that she could not bear to? The memories of Robert were still fresh in her mind. The knowledge that the servants were no longer hers to command, and that she could, and should be, displaced when Freddy took a wife of his own—she tried not to shudder at the thought.

‘You know I must not, Freddy. It is no longer my place. It would be far better were you to find a wife to take the house in hand.’

He scoffed. ‘Settle down so soon? Surely there is time for that later. I am just learning to enjoy the advantages of the title. A wife would spoil it all.’

She dreaded to think what advantages he had discovered that would be so hindered by a wife. ‘It is your duty, you know,’ she reminded, as gently as possible.

Freddy shook his head like a stubborn child. ‘All you ever talk of is duty, Aunt Constance. There is more to life than doing one’s duty.’

‘Duty is much a part of your position, Freddy. You have a responsibility to your King, to your tenants, to your servants.’ She hoped that the responsibility to herself was implied, and that he would not make her beg for her allowance.

‘Well, yes. I suppose. But Parliament is not currently in session. So there is one thing I needn’t worry about. And the tenants take care of themselves, for the most part.’

She resisted the urge to point out that they never seemed to manage it, when her husband was alive. ‘But there is still the matter of the collecting of rents, and the paying of bills, and making sure that all your financial obligations are met.’ And there was a broad enough hint, if he cared to take it.

‘But it is a tiresome business to worry over every little detail, when the sun is shining and one is aching for a gallop.’ Although Freddy’s dirty boots had come home, his mind was still on horseback in the park.

‘An estate manager, or man of business, can take care of such things. It would leave you with less to worry about.’

‘But, Aunt Constance, I am not worried now.’ As Freddy smiled, it was evident that her financial problems had in no way touched him. ‘And being duke is not so hard as all that, I’m sure. With a little practice, I can manage the estates on my own, just as Uncle Robert did.’

Constance fought the urge to inform Freddy how distant his abilities were from those of his uncle. She took a deep breath, and tried a different way. ‘I am sure you are right, Freddy. Once you have held the title for a while, you will have everything set to rights. But I must admit, right now, that I was rather hoping we could deal with the part of the estate that concerns my allowance. It worries me greatly, that I have not received this month’s cheque, and in the past, the amount—’ she took another breath and rushed through the next words ‘—has not been sufficient to cover expenses.’

‘You know,’ said Freddy, as though the thought had just occurred to him, ‘that if you were to live in the dower house of the manor, your expenses would not be so very great.’

‘They are not great now, I assure you. I have made what economies I can.’ A year of mutton instead of lamb, and no shopping, and cuts in staff had done nothing to make the income match the outflow.

‘But really, Aunt Constance. Be sensible. If you were to leave London and return to the country, I need not give you any allowance at all.’ He was smiling as though he had found the perfect solution.

‘That is not technically true, Freddy,’ she said. ‘I still must eat. And pay my maid. And there are dresses to buy, carriages to hire, small entertainments…The only way you will be free of the expense of me is when I remarry and my upkeep falls upon my husband.’

He stared at her as though the idea had never occurred to him. ‘Surely you do not mean to remarry so soon, Aunt Constance.’

‘On the contrary, Freddy, I find it a most respectable choice. I am sure that Robert would have had no problem with it. He said as much to me, when he was alive. And he always meant me to set up housekeeping in town, in hopes that I might meet someone suitable, and not be too much alone. For that reason, he deeded me the house in Grosvenor Square. Speaking of which…’ she eased the conversation towards her next request ‘…if possible, I would like to take the deed away with me today, to give to my bankers.’

Freddy’s brow furrowed. ‘I never saw the logic in Uncle Robert’s deeding the house to you, Aunt Constance. It is too much responsibility for a woman, in my opinion. As I told you before, you are welcome here, or in the dower house, in Sussex. It is very nice.’

She had to hide her annoyance before continuing. ‘I have no doubt it is a nice house, Freddy. I decorated it myself, for Robert’s mother. And I have no problem staying in it. When I visit,’ she said, slowly and clearly. ‘But I have no wish to move back to Sussex. Robert meant for me to be out in London, after he died, mixing freely with society.’

‘But why must it be London? Society in the country was quite good enough for you before.’

‘Although the country life is most pleasant, I know the gentlemen in the neighbourhood, and can assure you there is no one to suit me, in regards to matrimony. I am not likely to meet a husband if I cloister myself in the dower house.’

‘If you are there, where I can keep an eye on you, I can advise you, if and when it comes to the matter of your marriage.’

If and when she married? ‘Freddy,’ she said, struggling to maintain her temper, ‘I am not a child that needs advice in this matter. I am a full six years older than you, and will know a good match when I see it. I do not need your advice, or your permission.’

‘But you do need my money,’ he pointed out, petulantly.

‘Not for so very much longer, I hope. I am endeavouring to be out of your hair and your pocketbook with as much expedience as I can manage. But you need to help me in this, Freddy.’ She softened. ‘Please. If you will give me my allowance, I can pay my bills and will not bother you again for quite some time. Perhaps never. If you give me the deed, I can dispense with the house, and move to simpler accommodations. It will mean less expense for both of us.’

Freddy looked uncomfortable. ‘The deed is fine where it is. I really do not see the need to bother you with the care of it.’

‘Oh, it is no bother, Freddy,’ she assured him. ‘It makes sense, does it not, to keep it with the rest of my papers? And it will be one less thing you need to keep track of.’

His eyes darted around the room, as though looking for some excuse to escape the conversation. ‘I mean…really, Constance, you cannot expect me to lay hands on the thing, on such short notice.’

‘Freddy, it is not short notice at all. I have asked you for it for the better part of a year. Please can you not go into the study and bring it to me? Then I will be gone and you need not hear me ask again.’

‘Well, the truth is, Constance…’ Freddy looked more than uncomfortable, now, and had to struggle to meet her gaze ‘…the truth is, I have lost it.’

‘Do not be ridiculous, Freddy. I know it lies in the safe, in my husband’s—I mean, in your study. You could get it for me now, if you wished.’

‘Constance, you do not understand.’

‘Clearly I don’t, Freddy. Let us go to the study, now. I will show you where it is.’

His voice was lower, almost hard to hear, and he was looking at the ground. ‘It is no longer in the safe, Constance. As I told you, I lost it.’

‘Well, then let us go and search for it. It is probably among the papers in your desk.’ She could not resist a reproof. ‘Although it might have been wiser to never have removed it from the safe. It would have saved the bother now.’

‘At cards, Constance.’ He said it loud and looked her straight in the eye. ‘It is not on the desk, or anywhere else in the house. I lost it at cards. I was in my cups, and in deep play. And I am a little short of cash, until the next rents are collected.’

‘And so you paid your debt with a thing that does not belong to you.’ She looked at him in horror, as she realised just how bad things had become.

She no longer bothered to contain her temper. ‘I come here at my wits’ end, without a penny in my pocket, and you berate me for the high price of my keeping. You tell me I only want your money. As I see it, Freddy, I do not need your money nearly so much as you needed mine. You took the only thing I had that truly belonged to me and you gambled it away. And you did it because you are too busy drinking and gaming and whoring to be bothered to collect the rents on your properties, which you need to do to keep the coffers full. And now you think you can force me back to the country to play housekeeper to you, while you destroy everything my husband worked so hard to build.’

‘I am the duke now,’ he shouted back, although he sounded more like a spoiled child than a peer of the realm. ‘Not your husband. I do not have to take advice or listen to you criticise my methods. I can do as I please.’

‘Then you do not understand what it means to be a duke. Not a good one, at any rate,’ she snapped.

‘Good or bad, Aunt Constance, it would serve you to do as I say, for I am head of your family now. Uncle Robert was a fool to give you as much freedom as he did, for you seem to think that you can do just as you please, and answer to no one. I am glad that the deed is gone, and I no longer need hear you whine for it. It is time that this stupidity of maintaining an expensive residence in London is brought to a halt, and you are brought to your senses.

‘And with regard to your allowance—you will have no more money from me, not another groat, until you come to your senses and move to the dower house at Wellford, where you belong.’

Chapter Five

At the door of the ballroom in Barton’s home, Constance greeted her guests with a frozen smile. If she could manage to control nothing else around her, she could at least control her temper for the few hours necessary to earn back her necklace.

She had pleaded with Freddy to see reason, and he had all but thrown her from his house. He would not even tell her who held the deed to her own home, and she was left to wait for a knock at the door, politely explaining that she must pay rent or vacate the premises.

And tonight she must dance to Barton’s tune, if only to retrieve the necklace and sell the stones again. The rubies would mean another month’s income, perhaps two. Or even more if she was forced to reduce her staff and move to a smaller place.

But it did no good to think about what might come, if there was a more immediate problem to deal with. Until she had the rubies in hand, she must keep a tight rein on her emotions, and give Barton what he wanted. To that end, she made sure that she looked her best, and was ready when the carriage he’d sent for her arrived. Her gown was not new, but she had not worn it in over a year. Susan had retrimmed the deep blue satin with silver lace, and dressed her dark hair with silver ribbons.

Constance was afraid to wear the necklace that best suited the gown lest someone recognise the sapphires as paste, and settled for the pearls. And she made sure that there was enough empty space in her reticule to carry away the rubies, should Barton be true to his word and return them to her.

Of course, if he did not, she would feel most foolish for being rooked into attending the evening’s affair. But it would be a small loss, and the trick would not work twice. If she did not have the rubies at the end of the evening, she would reconcile herself to whatever might result from Barton’s revelation.

But at the moment she was trapped in the receiving line next to a man she detested, and forced to entertain his guests as if they were her own. She smiled politely at the man bent over her hand, smiled at his wife as well, and responded to their greetings by rote, as she had to hundreds of guests at parties she had thrown for Robert. Her smile brightened as she noticed them to be strangers. Barton was not privy to the first circle of the ton. Many of her closest friends recognised the man for what he was and declined the invitation, or cut him outright. Constance wholeheartedly regretted that she had been slow to see his true character, but she was not alone, for the ballroom was full of people willing to befriend him.

She looked past the next man in line, barely hearing Barton’s introduction of him, and scanned the crowd. Of course, a fair portion of the guests were social climbers, cits and hangers-on. But after this evening, she need never see them again, and they certainly would not be in a position to go gossiping to her friends about seeing her here.

‘Mr Smythe, the Dowager Duchess of Wellford.’ She winced. Barton insisted on using her title to his friends, as though he wished to make sure that everyone knew the value of his new possession.

The man before her bowed low over her hand. ‘Your Grace.’

Although his face was unfamiliar, his voice struck a chord of memory. There was laughter in it. And the touch of his hand on hers was at the same time, ordinary and intimately familiar.

It was the thief from her bedroom.

He rose from his bow and looked into her eyes for a fraction of a second too long, as though daring her to speak and knowing she could not. His eyes were hazel and sparkling from the shared conspiracy, his smile was broad and a trifle too intense for a common introduction. If it were another man, she might think he had arrived half-foxed and up to mischief. But this man had already proven to be more than he appeared. If he meant to cause trouble, she doubted he would blame an excess of wine.

‘Mr Smythe?’ That was what Barton had said, had he not? She could not very well ask him to repeat himself, or demand to know how he knew Smythe. To express too much interest in a male guest was not the quickest way back to her necklace.

Of course, she could wipe the familiar grin from Smythe’s face, and prove to him that she recognised him. A casual word could ruin him just as quickly as it could her. She opened her mouth.

And perhaps he would ask about the money she’d stolen from him or the kiss he’d stolen in her bedroom.

She closed her mouth again, and pasted on a delighted smile. ‘How do you do, Mr Smythe.’

‘Quite well, thank you.’ She could swear he winked at her.

And then, he was gone.

If Barton had noticed anything pass between them, he said nothing. And soon the guests were through the line and Barton led her out in the first dance of the evening.

She moved through the patterns as if sleepwalking, speaking to her partner only when she could not avoid it. He danced with her several more times, when she could not manage to dodge his attention, and she maintained the same demeanour: polite, cordial and distant. Nothing that might make the guests assume there was anything of a more intimate nature likely to happen between them in the future.

And while she held Barton at a distance, she also managed to avoid contact with the curious Mr Smythe. It was possible that she had imagined recognising him. Perhaps she had been wrong. She could not very well ask him about it in a crowded ballroom.

But she was sure she was not mistaken. He was the thief. She had seen the recognition in his eyes. And she was somewhat frustrated to realise that it was not to be the least like she had fantasised, with him carrying some burning desire to see her again. She thought she could feel him, observing her from across the room, but this might be her imagination as well. He made no attempt to contact her; when she looked in his direction, he was always looking elsewhere. He seemed to care very little that she was in the room at all.

She was relieved when it finally came time for supper. Barton led her into the dining room, and her position as hostess meant that she was seated at the far end of the table from him. But nowhere near Smythe, either. The people around her were unexceptional, and she relaxed for a time, chatting amiably with them before the meal ended and she had to gather her wits and return to the dance floor.

When she reached the ballroom, she took care to get lost in the crowd and separated from her host. The next dance was a waltz, far more intimate than she liked, if she should have to dance with Barton. If she could find another partner quickly, it would be several minutes before she need speak with him again. She searched the room. Quickly, someone. Anyone.

‘Your Grace, may I have this dance?’

She’d said yes to the man before even turning to face him. And when she looked up, it was into the smiling eyes of Mr Smythe.

He saw her discomposure and said nothing, taking her hand and leading her out on to the floor.

As the music began, any doubt that he was the man from her bedroom disappeared. He held her as he had held her that night, in a grasp that managed to be both relaxed and intimate. It felt good to be in his arms again, and to be able to admire him in the candlelight.

And there was much about him that was admirable. His hair was brown, and had an appealing softness to it. She remembered how it had felt when she’d touched it, and wanted to touch it again. He had pleasant, even features, and the smile on his lips gave every indication of breaking into a grin, given the slightest provocation. His eyes were bright with suppressed mirth. If his profession left him racked with guilt, there was no indication of it, for he seemed a most happy fellow.

They danced in silence, until at last he leaned a trifle closer and whispered, ‘How long do you suppose we can pretend a lack of recognition to each other? We have managed quite well so far, I think. Longer than I expected. But one of us has to break eventually. I surrender. You have won.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

‘And now you are taking the game to extra innings. Not necessary. I am conquered. Vanquished. You nearly had me in the receiving line, you know. Finding you there, next to Barton, was a nasty surprise.’

‘You will survive it,’ she responded tartly. ‘Seeing an acquaintance unexpectedly in a public place is not nearly so shocking as finding a total stranger in one’s private rooms.’

‘Touché. But I had hoped you had forgiven me for that. Why so cold to me now?’

‘Perhaps I don’t approve of people who take things that don’t belong to them.’

‘Oh, really? But I notice, when you were in need, that you had no problem keeping the money I left for you.’

So he had left it for her. But did he expect thanks for involving her in a theft? ‘That was different. What else was I to do with it? I had no idea—’

‘Where to find me and who the money belonged to. And you were in desperate need, so you took it. Believe me, I understand completely.’

‘I will pay you back when I am able,’ she said.

‘You will pay me back tonight,’ he replied.

Her heart sank. He had seemed so nice. And he had promised not to compromise her. Now he would become just another man with a hold over her, and he would use it to his advantage like all the rest. She stumbled as they turned.

He caught her, incorporating the misstep gracefully into the movement of the dance. ‘Oh, do not give me that melodramatic look. We are in a ballroom, not Drury Lane. I have no intention of asking you to whore yourself to me. I merely need you to keep your lover, Barton, occupied while I go to search his study.’

‘He is not my lover,’ she retorted.

‘Really? But you stand as hostess, at his side.’

‘It was not my desire to do so.’

‘And you have been seen often in his company.’

‘For a time,’ she corrected, ‘but no more after tonight. He is nothing singular. I have been seen in the company of many men.’

His eyebrow arched suggestively.

‘I am in your company now. But that does not mean I would invite you to my bed.’

Of course, if he wished to be there, he would hardly require an invitation. She would be quite helpless to stop him, and perhaps next time he would wish to steal more than a kiss. Once the thought was formed, it showed no intention of fading.

He was staring at her again, noticing the gap in the conversation. And his smile was definitely a grin. She wished she had not mentioned the bed at all, for if he did not have the idea before, he must surely be thinking of it now.

She cleared her throat. ‘What I meant to say was, I hope to marry again, and that means I am likely to be seen in the company of gentleman who I think might be of a mind to take a wife.’

‘And you chose Barton as a possible husband?’ Smythe’s tone was incredulous and the smile disappeared from his face.

‘I sometimes find that the interests of gentlemen are less than worthy. It is a tribute to my naïveté and not my lowered standards.’

‘So you and Barton are not…?’ He spoke a trifle too hastily and his hand tightened on her waist.

‘He made an offer that had nothing to do with matrimony, and I gave him a set-down. More than once.’ She frowned. ‘At the end of the evening I will probably have to give him another, since he ignored the others. And he tricked me into coming here, for reasons I’d rather not discuss.’

He blinked down at her and his hand relaxed. He was holding her in the same loose grip as before, as though he was confident that she would stay with him, even if he had no hold on her. ‘Well, then. Perhaps I was misinformed.’

‘Most definitely you were.’

He looked bemused. ‘Then I hope you will not think it too rude when I will ask you to keep the man who is not your lover, though he seems to think he will be, occupied while I pay an unaccompanied visit to his study.’

‘And how do you expect me to do that?’

‘Use your imagination. A quarter of an hour is all I need and easily worth the hundred guineas I left in your room.’

The dance came to an end and he led her from the floor. ‘Your Grace, it was an unexpected pleasure. Now, if you will excuse me?’ There was the slightest inclination of his head, which seemed to hint that he had business to attend to, and that the clock was ticking.

She glanced across the room, and somewhere in the distance a clock chimed the three-quarter hour. Very well, then. She would give him fifteen minutes. It was a small price for the money he had given her. She glanced around the room, searching for Barton, and saw him too close to the stairs that must lead to the study. ‘My lord?’ She had hoped to ask him to dance, and out of the corner of her eye, noticed that the orchestra had chosen that inopportune moment to take refreshment. Very well, then. It was near enough the end of the evening. Now was as good a time as any to retrieve the necklace. ‘If I might speak to you?’

‘Certainly, my dear.’ He bowed low over her hand. ‘What is it?’

She resisted the urge to inform him that she was not now, nor ever wished to be, his dear. ‘In private.’

‘My study, then.’ He turned to lead her to the exact place that she did not wish to be.

‘Not so private as all that, I think. The garden, perhaps? It is quiet enough there.’

‘And most romantic in the moonlight.’

She bit back another retort. There would be time enough in fifteen minutes to set him straight.

He took her hand and led her to the balcony doors, and, at the back of her mind, she felt a minute pass. And another, as he led her outside, and down the stone steps to the garden. When they were in the darkness and a distance from the house, he turned to her and smiled. ‘To what do I owe this sudden desire to be alone with me? Have you reconsidered my offer?’

‘You know very well the reason. Have I performed to your satisfaction in this little farce?’

‘Most admirably. We can make it a regular occurrence, if you wish.’

‘But I do not wish,’ she said firmly. ‘I have told you over and over again.’

‘And yet, you agreed to do it tonight. And it was a delightful evening. Not so terrible as you made it out to be, I’m sure.’

‘There was only one reason I agreed to come, and you know it full well.’

‘Ah, the necklace.’ He reached into his pocket, and produced the rubies, holding them in front of her.

She snatched the thing from his hand and secreted it in her reticule, turning to go back to the house, no longer caring about Smythe and his fifteen minutes.

Barton’s fingers closed on her upper arm, holding her in place. She attempted to pull away, and he tightened his grip, ever so slightly. To struggle further might leave bruises on her skin. She imagined the shame of going back into the ballroom, the red marks of a man’s fingers already blossoming on her arm.

She stayed still.

‘Willing to stay with me, after all?’

‘I do not wish my behaviour to create gossip.’

He smiled, realising that he’d won again. ‘And why would a rumour frighten you? If I am in the wrong, and you do not wish to be with me, then surely you could appeal to one of the many gentlemen of your acquaintance for assistance?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘But that is right. Many of the gentlemen here have received set-downs from you, have they not? They are likely to be more sympathetic to my plight. Over and over again, you allow men to lead you to the fence, and then you do not jump.’

‘That is not the way it has been at all,’ she argued. ‘I had no idea that the gentlemen in question did not intend marriage. Or you, for that matter. I never sought anything less.’

Barton smiled. ‘How refreshingly naïve you are. I think it is the combination of experience and naïveté that attracts me to you. You believe it is possible to go back to the way things were, before you married, and to have a second chance at a husband and a family. But you will never again be that young and innocent. When men look at you, they know that you are too old to guarantee a first child, but fully ripe for all the pleasures that a man might wish to experience with a woman. When we look at you, my dear, we know that you know precisely what will happen when you are alone with us.’

He smiled and drew closer. ‘I can see it, even now. The lust sizzles in your eyes. You fear scandal, more than you fear my touch. I can steal a kiss, perhaps a caress in the darkness. These things do not alarm you so much as the thought that someone might catch us at it. I suspect that you would have no problem giving yourself freely, if you could be assured of the discretion of your partner. Take this instance. If you do not submit, you must walk away from me, and I have but to call out and draw attention to the fact that you are with me, or squeeze your arm, ever so slightly.’ He tightened his grip, and then relaxed it again, as he felt her submit. ‘Then people will notice that we were alone together, and there will be even more talk than there already is.’

‘People will think you a brute for forcing yourself on a woman.’

‘Since the woman is yourself, and you just spent the evening at my side as hostess, I doubt that anyone will assume force. It is far more likely that they will assume you were a willing participant in anything that might have occurred. The assumptions of a curious society will be confirmed, the minute you complain. Or you can allow me to kiss you, here in the dark, and we can return to the ballroom separately. No one will be the wiser.’

Damn her for her foolishness in thinking she could win against Barton in his own house. She had gained the necklace, only to lose more ground. And damn Mr Smythe for using her as well. He had been gone more than fifteen minutes, she was sure of it. And he thought nothing of leaving her in the clutches of Barton. Now that Smythe had what he wanted, he had forgotten her.

It would do no good to fight Barton now. If she gave in, perhaps the incident would pass quickly, and she might escape. She closed her eyes and tipped her head up to meet him as he leaned in and kissed her.

And she did nothing to stop him, because he was right. The last thing she needed was more gossip. When he wished for her to open her mouth, she did that as well. She could but hope that he would not take things too far in so public a place. And after tonight, scandal or no, she would not be alone with him again.

He was doing his best to arouse feelings in her, and she took great pleasure in ignoring the attempt. If he wished to make love to her, then let him. But eventually, when she did not respond, he would lose interest and let her go. In the meantime, she would see to it that the experience was not so pleasurable as he imagined.

He was working industriously on her mouth, and his hands were on her shoulders. It was only a matter of time before they strayed lower.

She was disappointed to find that she felt neither desire nor outrage at the fact. Her mind felt strangely detached from her body, uninterested in the proceedings and wishing only to go home and put the experience behind her. Let him do what he wished and be done with it. It had been so long since she’d felt anything at all, she doubted that Barton could move her with his fumblings.

As though he’d heard her thoughts, Barton’s hand began a slow descent towards the swell of her breast.

And then he pulled away from her with an oath. There was the sound of someone crashing clumsily through the ornamental shrubbery, soft, tuneless whistling growing louder as the intruder approached.

Barton took off in the direction of the sound. ‘Here, you. What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Trying to find my way out of this damn briar patch.’

Constance strangled a laugh. It was Mr Smythe, making it clear to all within earshot that he was done with whatever business he’d been up to.

‘I only wanted a breath of air. Two steps from the house and I was lost in the wilderness. I’ve a good mind to complain to the host.’

‘I am the host, you drunken idiot. And you’re stepping on my rose-bushes.’ Jack was furious.

Constance stepped off the path and disappeared into the darkness, leaning against a tree and giving way to silent giggles.

There was a pause as an apparently drunken Smythe took stock of the situation. ‘Roses? So I am. Oh, well. No harm done. The spindly little things were half-dead, anyway. Could have used more water.’

‘They are in perfect health. And they are imported from France.’

‘Well, that’s your problem. Get yourself some proper English flowers. Just as pretty and not so delicate.’

‘Get off of my yard, you drunken buffoon! I invited you here, Smythe, on the recommendation of a friend. I can see I was mistaken in the courtesy and it will not be repeated. Kindly take yourself from the premises, before I have you forcibly removed.’

‘I was going. Going. Know where I’m not wanted.’ She could hear more crashing, as Smythe wandered noisily away in the direction of the street, trampling more expensive landscaping as he went.

There was more swearing from Barton as he came back in her direction, and softly called her name.

She stepped behind a tree, scarcely daring to breathe.

He walked within an arm’s length of her, but she stayed still in the shadows and let him pass.

Barton released another quiet oath, and turned in the direction of the house, probably hoping to find her there.

She smiled in satisfaction. Let him look. She had the necklace again. There was no reason to stay a moment longer. It was not a chill night, she had no wrap. She could find her own way to the street through the garden, without taking leave of the host.

She turned into the darkness. At least she thought she could find her way to the street. If the house was behind her, then surely…

‘Allow me.’ A hand reached out of the darkness, and caught her arm.

She gasped. ‘Smythe.’

‘The same.’

‘I thought you had gone.’

‘And leave you alone in the dark? I think not. Do you have a carriage back at the house?’

‘Barton sent a coach for me. I assumed that I would find a friend to escort me home.’

‘And so you have. I will see you home, if you can leave immediately. I suspect I am no longer welcome in Barton’s home.’ She could see his grin in the darkness.

She smiled in return. ‘And I have no wish to return. It suits me well.’

‘Excellent.’ It was impossible to tell, but he sounded sincerely pleased to have her company. He slipped his arm through hers and lead her in the direction of the street.

A thrill shot through her at the idea of being alone in the dark with him again, far from the safety of the house. Anything could happen and no one would be the wiser.

‘You should not be so careless with your reputation, your Grace.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

His voice was gentle, but held a hint of disapproval. ‘You were alone in the garden. With Barton, I mean.’

‘Only because you wished me to distract him,’ she said acerbically. ‘You left the method to me.’

‘And I did not expect you to choose that one, after what you said to me as we danced. Did you wish for him to kiss you?’

‘Not particularly.’

There was a hesitation. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘That is a very impertinent question.’

‘And that is a very evasive answer.’

‘But it is all you will get from me,’ she said. ‘Did you at least get what you were searching for?’

‘No, I did not. And what makes you think I was searching for anything?’

She tipped her head to the side, considering. ‘I am not sure. But I hope, if you merely intended burglary, you would not want or need to involve me in it.’

He nodded. ‘That is true. And do not worry. It will not happen again. I have involved you too much already.’

‘That is all right,’ she said hurriedly. ‘It was not too great a burden.’

‘Allowing Barton to kiss you in the moonlight.’ There was a cynical bite to his words that did not escape her.

‘It was only a kiss,’ she responded.

‘Oh, really? But a kiss can be a dangerous thing, if done correctly.’ He swung her body into his and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Allow me to demonstrate.’ And then he brought his mouth down upon hers.

It was as it had been on the night in her room. His kiss was as heady and romantic as the smell of the roses in the garden, and she relaxed into it, letting it awaken her senses.

She slipped her arms inside his coat, and felt the muscles of his back and shoulders tense as her fingers touched him. His arms strained to pull her closer to him, and he stroked her tongue with his, varying the pressure of his lips against hers from punishing firmness to a featherlight touch. When he released her mouth, she caught him about the waist and arched her body away from him, baring her throat and willing him to kiss her there, and lower.

He accepted the invitation and his lips trailed fire down her neck to rest on her shoulder. ‘Do you enjoy it when I kiss you?’ he murmured into her skin.

‘Yes.’ She shuddered against him.

He ran a finger inside the neckline of her gown and pulled the dress away from her body, pushing to slide it down her arm. He planted a kiss just under the place where her dress should end, and she gasped.

He laughed and his finger traced her collarbone. ‘I am going to kiss you there again. Hard enough to mark you. No one will know it but we two, because your gown will hide all. Would you like that?’

‘Yes.’ She shocked herself by saying it, knowing that it was true. ‘Oh, yes.’

‘I thought you might.’ And he lowered his head again, and she felt him suck on the flesh, felt the feeling run through her all the way to her toes.

It was the work of a moment. And then it was over. He leaned his head against her ear and whispered, ‘If you would kiss, then do not give them cheaply to one such as Barton. Choose someone worthy of your affection.’ He walked her the last few steps through the trees and they came out at the bend of the drive. He whistled once and a carriage appeared from out of the darkness. Black and unmarked, with black horses and a driver muffled beyond recognition.

Smythe gave instructions to the driver and then he handed her up into the carriage, shutting the door behind her.

She leaned out of the window to where he stood in the road. ‘Are you not coming as well?’

‘My man will see you home.’ There was hunger in his eyes as he stared up into her face. ‘You are safer with him tonight than alone in a carriage with me.’

‘But how will you get home?’ And where is home? And are you alone there? She was bursting with unasked questions.

He smiled at her, his face dim in the light from the carriage lamps. ‘Never worry about me, your Grace. I have ways. Until we meet again.’ He bowed to her as the carriage pulled away and he disappeared into the darkness behind her.

She leaned back into the squabs, her heart hammering in her chest. He had been right about the danger in a kiss. His were as intoxicating as anything served at the party, and as compelling as Barton’s were not.

Perhaps what Barton accused her of was true. She was more than willing to bend the rules if she felt she would not be caught. And Mr Smythe would see to it that what they did was safe and in secret.

Perhaps it was no more than that. He was passionate, but solicitous of her reputation. Where other men wished to parade her fallen virtue as a trophy to their skills at seduction, with Smythe no one would know that they had been together. When he was done with her he would leave as quietly as he had come, moving through her life like a fish through water.

And when they parted tonight, he had not said goodbye. She could scarce control herself at the thought of seeing him again. She could still feel the kiss, hot and sinful, a brand on her shoulder to remind her of all the ways and places he might kiss her, should she allow it.

And why had she been so quick to agree? Was it because he had not asked at all?

Not at first, perhaps. But once he had started, he had asked her what would make her happy. He had not tried to negotiate her out of her honour, or worried that he was being outbid by some other man. He had not given her an ultimatum, or threatened her with shame or discovery.

He’d given her the first kiss as a sample of what was to come, and pointed out that he could give her even more pleasure, this instant, if she would allow him to. There had been no talk of bracelets or houses, or paying off her grocer and cutting back her staff. Or even what he wanted from her. He had kissed her again because he had wanted to, and because he had known she would like it more than she had when kissing Barton. Just a moment of shared bliss, and then he was gone.

She slipped her own fingers under the shoulder of her dress, imagining that his lips were still on her. He had said that she wouldn’t be safe with him, and she imagined him climbing in beside her and pulling her close in the darkness of the cab. She would be alone and completely at his mercy. And his hands would roam freely over her body, taking everything he wanted from her.

As though it mattered. She never wanted to be safe again.

She shook her head to clear the fantasy and leaned her face to the open window, feeling the breeze in her hair. She glanced at the passing streets. The direction seemed right, but how would the driver be able to find her house? She had not heard Smythe tell him the address.

She turned and knelt on the seat, opening the connecting window between the carriage and the driver. ‘I live on Grosvenor Square, just past—’

‘I know the way, your Grace. Do not concern yourself.’

He had used her title. And over the sound of the horses, she thought she heard a trace of amusement in his voice. He knew of her. And he knew other things as well.

‘Your master, Mr Smythe—have you known him long?’

There was no answer. And the driver tickled the horses with the tassel of his whip so that their speed increased.

He was loyal. Enough so as not to speak. And Smythe trusted him more than he did himself.

Then that answered the question. The man was no casual hire, but a trusted associate. A partner in crime, perhaps?

They were nearing her house, and she bit her lip in frustration. She knew nothing about Mr Smythe. He was not one of Barton’s familiars. And she had been too careless when he had been introduced to her and had not paid attention. She had not even heard his Christian name.

The carriage pulled smoothly to a stop in front of her home. The driver hopped down from the seat and opened the door for her, taking her hand and guiding her to the ground.

She looked at him, not sure what to expect. His face was no longer shielded from her, and she found it plain and honest. Surprisingly friendly. He was gazing back at her with a frank curiosity that she should have found inappropriate in a servant, had she not wanted words with him.

She tried again. ‘Please. About Mr Smythe. I know very little. Not his address. Or even his first name. If I should need to contact him…’ It was all horribly bold of her. The words died away in her throat.

The driver stared at her for a long moment, in a way that was totally devoid of subservience. And then his shoulders rose and fell once in a way that was part shrug and part silent laugh. He rummaged in his pocket, and came out with a white pasteboard, glancing at it before handing it to her. ‘His card, your Grace.’

She swallowed. ‘Thank you.’ She tried not to appear too eager, but snatched the card from his hand, and turned from him, concealing it in the bodice of her dress. And then she ran up the walk and into her house.

Once inside, she fled up the steps and into her room, shutting the door and reaching down the front of her dress to find the card, nestled close between her breasts.

‘Anthony de Portnay Smythe. Anthony Smythe. Tony. Anthony.’ She tried various versions of the name, tasting them, and enjoying the way they felt on her tongue.

Before Susan came to help her undress for bed, she looked for a place to secrete the card, finally slipping it under her pillow. She could not help smiling at the foolishness of it, as her maid undid the hooks of her gown. As a token of affection, a calling card was not much to speak of. And the man had not given it to her, after all. Perhaps he did not mean for her to know more of him.

Susan was undoing her stays and as she turned the maid gave the slightest gasp. The mark was there on her shoulder. ‘Did you have a pleasant evening, your Grace? At Lord Barton’s party?’ The remark was offhand, as though nothing unusual had sparked it.

‘Most pleasant,’ Constance answered, unable to resist a small sigh of pleasure.

‘So I suspected.’ Susan was faintly disapproving.

‘Despite the presence of Lord Barton,’ Constance corrected. ‘The man continues to be quite odious. I do not plan to see him again.’

‘I should hope not, your Grace.’ This seemed to put the maid’s fears to rest.

‘Although there is another gentleman…’ She hid her smile behind her hand.

Susan grinned back at her. ‘If he puts such a sparkle in your eye, then he must be a most singular person.’

‘But how is one to know, Susan,’ she asked impulsively, ‘what the intentions of a gentleman are? I have been wrong so many times in the past.’

‘If he makes you happy, your Grace, perhaps it is time to think with your heart and not your head.’

The thrill of it ran through her. If she were to think with her heart, the choice would be easy. She wanted Anthony Smythe, and she could have him.

For now. Her mind brought it all crashing back down to earth. It was seductively pleasurable to think of Mr Smythe. And surely there was no harm in dreaming. But it would be a temporary solution at best. If she accepted any more purses from him, while allowing him to toy with her affections and use her body for his own pleasure, then she was little better than what she feared she would become.

But suppose he offered marriage?

The thought was as fascinating as it was horrifying. And not something that needed reckoning with. She would be a fool to trust him, or read too much into a few kisses. The first night, he had sworn that he loved another. He might be faithless to the other woman, and willing to dally with Constance for a while, if she encouraged him to. But in the end, his intentions to her would prove the same as all the others.

Although it might be more pleasurable with him, than with others, for he was as passionate as he was considerate.

But he was a thief, she reminded herself. Even should she wish for an honourable union, there would be no way to overlook her lover’s chosen occupation. A breath of the truth would destroy her reputation along with his. Eventually, he would be caught, and hanged, and she would be ruined in the bargain. Worse than she was now, alone, unloved and disgraced as well.

She shook her head sadly at Susan. ‘Alas, I think I cannot afford to allow my heart to lead in this. The answer is not Barton, certainly. But it cannot be the other, no matter how much I might wish it so.’ She allowed Susan to help her into bed and to blow out the candle, leaving her in the dim light of the fire, alone between the cold sheets.

And almost without thinking, her hand stole beneath the pillows and sought the calling card, running her fingers along the edge, feeling the smoothness of the pasteboard, and stroking the engraving as sleep took her.

Chapter Six

Patrick opened the bed curtains with more vehemence than necessary. Tony squinted as the late-morning sunlight hit him. And now his servant was rattling the plates on the breakfast tray. ‘And a good morning to you too, Patrick,’ he grumbled, reaching a hand out for his coffee. Patrick did not approve of the hour his master had gotten in, did he? Then he could go to the devil.

After sending his carriage away, Tony had enjoyed the excellent hospitality of the Earl of Stanton, given his regards to Lady Esme, and assured St John that he had been quite mistaken about the Duchess of Wellford. The woman was innocent.

In all the ways that mattered to the State. He smiled in satisfaction as he remembered the way she’d bitten her lip when he’d sucked on her shoulder, and dug her fingers into his sides to pull him closer. A certain lack of innocence in other areas might not be the worst thing.

But it had been embarrassing to stand before Stanton and admit his lack of success, when it came to the rest of the Barton matter. He could report on the location of the printing press in the basement, along with the inks and the paper. There was no evidence that printing of any false bills had occurred, but all the components needed were easily accessible. It would do him no good to destroy the supplies, other than to demonstrate to Barton that someone had tumbled to his plan. Tony needed to get the plates, and they were most likely locked tight in the safe in the study, behind a Bramah lock where he could not get to them.

St John had been most unimpressed with the gravity of the situation.

‘Try again,’ St John had said, pouring another whisky for his guest.

The fact that the Bramah lock was reported to be unpickable had little impact on his host. Had he never seen the challenge lock that Bramah displayed in their shop window, to taunt thieves and lockpicks? The company offered two hundred guineas to the first man who could open it. It had stood for more than twenty years so far, with no one able to claim the prize.

Stanton was too kind to suggest the return of the down payment, but Tony suspected it might enter the conversation if he belaboured the impossibility of the task before him.

He could afford to return the money and walk away, of course. But it stung his pride to think that such a thing might be necessary. It went against his grain to admit defeat, and although the impregnability of the lock was common knowledge, common knowledge was frequently wrong. It might take more time than was available to a burglar, but perhaps with practice…

He looked at Patrick, who was laying out his clothes for the day, and turned his mind to more pleasant matters. Willing his face to give nothing away, he said, ‘The return trip to the Wellford house was uneventful, I trust.’

Patrick finished brushing his coat before responding. ‘A stray cat almost met an unfortunate end beneath the carriage wheels, but I was able to prevent disaster.’

‘And the duchess arrived home safely?’

‘To her very door. She was a most grateful, and, you will forgive me for noticing, sir, a most attractive passenger.’

Patrick approved. It was strangely pleasing to have his opinion of Constance confirmed by his valet.

‘Although strangely talkative, for nobility,’ Patrick continued. ‘Most of the peerage can’t be bothered…’

‘Talkative?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Patrick returned to the choosing of shirts as if nothing important had been said.

When Tony could stand it no longer, he asked, ‘And what did she say?’

‘She asked after you, sir.’

‘After me.’ Tony sat up, almost spilling his coffee in the process.

‘Indeed, sir.’ Patrick set the rest of the breakfast tray in front of him, refilled the coffee cup and stepped away.

‘And what did you tell her?’

‘I didn’t think it my place, sir.’

The man picked the damnedest times to remember his station and to behave as a servant.

‘I assumed you must have had a reason for neglecting to mention your Christian name, or to give her your direction. Perhaps you had no wish to be troubled by the lady again.’

Tony groaned, and wiped his face with his hands. She did not know who he was? He’d been formally introduced to her, for God’s sake.

And she had had eyes only for Barton. Tony stabbed his kipper with more force than necessary.

Patrick brightened. ‘And then I realised what a great ninny you are around women, and more so with a certain woman in particular. And I suspected that you had merely forgotten the importance of the information. So I gave her one of your cards.’

Tony slumped in relief. ‘And how did she receive it?’

Patrick mimed putting a calling card down the front of an imaginary dress. ‘I dare say your good name has got further with the lady than you have yourself.’

Later, as Patrick shaved him, Tony could feel his face, set in a ridiculous grin. She’d wanted to know his name. And carried it next to her…heart.

The image of the card nestling against her body, warmed by her skin, made him almost dizzy with desire. Patrick was right, he should capitalise on the situation immediately. He rubbed a finger experimentally along his jaw line. Smooth. Not that she had complained the night before. But it would not do to let her think he took her interest for granted. ‘Patrick, my best suit, please, I am going out. And extra care with the cravat, please.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And while I am gone, Patrick, I have a task that needs doing. Please go down to the Bramah Locks Company. I wish a safe installed in my study. Fitted with one of their fine locks. The job must be rushed, for I have valuables to store, and am most afraid of thieves.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Two hours later, Tony had to admit that the day was not going to plan. He had imagined a quiet chat with Constance, in her sitting room. Kissing in the moonlight was all well and good. Much better than good, to be truthful. But he must make some attempt to assure her that in daylight he was not without the manners of a common gentleman, if their association was to go any further.

He ignored the novelty of it, and called at the front door, but was disappointed to find her Grace was not at home. He left a card and enquired of the butler, as politely as possible, where she might be on such a fine day.

And now he found himself frequenting the lending library in Bond Street, hoping to catch sight of her as she ran her errands. When she entered, he was paging though a volume of poems that he had read a hundred times, trying to appear the least bit interested in contents that he could barely see, since his reading glasses were at home in his desk.

And she was not alone, damn the luck. There was a man at her side who gave every indication of solicitous interest, and two young ladies as well.

What was he to do? In the scenario he’d imagined, she’d been shopping alone, or perhaps with her maid to carry packages. It would be easy to approach her and he would make some offhand remark that might make reference to the evening before without mentioning it directly.

She would laugh, and respond. He would offer to carry her books. She would graciously accept. Conversation would ensue. He would let slip certain facts, recognition would dawn in her eyes, and he would be spared the embarrassment of having to reintroduce himself to a woman who had known him since they were both three.

Nowhere in his plan had he considered that the position of book carrier and witty conversationalist might already be occupied. Tony could not very well pretend not to see her, and she could not help but notice him, for he’d positioned himself in such a way as to be unavoidable.

Damn it to hell, but he must speak to her.

He turned and took a step towards her, just as she made to go past. And in the second before he spoke, he caught her eye as it tried to slide past without meeting his. There was alarm, followed by embarrassment, and finally resignation, before she managed to choose an expression to suit the situation—a friendly smile that said to the people around her, I think I know this man, but am unsure.

It was too late. The words were already out of his mouth. ‘Your Grace. A most lovely day, is it not?’

‘Why, yes. Yes, it is. Mr…’

‘Smythe, ma’am. We met at Lord Barton’s party last evening.’ The words sounded false, but she leapt on them as salvation.

‘Why, of course. How foolish of me. Mr Smythe, may I introduce Viscount Endsted and his sisters, Catherine and Susanne.’

‘Ladies. Your lordship.’ He made his best bow, and was dismayed to hear the ladies giggle in appreciation.

When his eyes rose to Constance, he saw fresh alarm there at the young ladies’ reaction. He was not suitable for them, either. Once he had gone, she would have to warn them off.

‘Mr Smythe.’ There was a slight emphasis on the mister, and the Viscount took a step forward to head off the interested sisters and gripped his hand.

His handshake was firm to an almost painful degree. Tony considered, for a moment, the advantage to responding in kind, then discarded it as infantile.

As the viscount sensed him yield, he released his grip as well. Endsted glanced at the book in Tony’s hand. ‘Byron?’

‘Yes. I find it—’ How did he find it? He did not wish to give the wrong answer and further jeopardise his position with Constance. ‘Most edifying.’

Endsted’s sisters giggled, and Endsted glared at them. ‘The man’s scandalous. I do not hold with him. Not in the least.’

‘I have no real opinion of the man,’ Tony responded, ‘for I have never met him. But his poetry is in no way morally exceptionable.’ He glanced to Constance.

She looked as though she would rather cut out her tongue than have an opinion. Endsted was glaring at her, waiting for her to agree.

‘He is rather fast,’ she managed. She flashed a brief, hopeless look in Tony’s direction, before looking to Endsted for approval.

Endsted nodded. ‘His works are not fit for a lady.’

Which showed how little the man knew of ladies or of poetry, Tony suspected. ‘I do not know, sir. I find his skill with words to be an excellent tribute for certain ladies.’

Constance pretended to ignore the compliment, but he could see a faint flush at the neck of her gown.

‘But not something one might wish to speak of in a lending library.’

Tony chose to ignore the man’s disapproval and answered innocently, ‘For myself, I should think there would be no better place to discuss books.’

‘I suppose it is a way to pass the time for one who has nothing better to do than read poetry.’ He said the last words as if reading were one step from taking opium with Lord Byron himself. ‘And now, sir, if you will excuse us.’ He took Constance by the arm and led her past.

She did not look back, although the Endsted sisters cast a backward glance in his direction, giggling again.

Tony debated calling the man back to argue poetry, morality and general manners, or planting him a facer and reading works by the scandalous Lord Byron over his prone body, then thought the better of it. He doubted demonstrating Endsted’s ignorance would win him points in the eyes of Constance, and might endear him further to the man’s sisters, which was a fate to be avoided.

And he had no evidence that there was any behaviour that might find favour with Constance. At least, in the light of day. There was no question that she responded to him in the dark. And she did so in a way that made it very hard for him to wish to remove himself totally from her company.

But it appeared likely that, should he continue to meet with her, he would spend evenings losing all reason in her passionate embrace, only to be replaced at the breakfast table by a viscount and his giggling sisters. And really, if she wanted to marry another peer, then who was he to stand in her way? She had her own future to attend to, and, if he loved her, he must accept the fact that it was not in her best interest to associate with him.

All in all, his life had been much easier before he’d climbed in her window. His nights had been lonely and his passion had been hopeless. But he had made peace with that years ago. Now, the only hope he had of a return to peace was to put all thoughts of Constance Townley aside, and spend evenings in quiet communion with his lockpicks and his new safe.

He set the book back on a nearby shelf, and yielded the field to the better man.

Chapter Seven

‘Lemon?’ Constance arranged the tea things, for the hundredth time, trying to ignore Endsted’s growing irritation with her.

‘No, thank you.’ Looking at the sour expression on the viscount’s face, she suspected he had no need of any additional bitterness. She offered the sugar, instead.

She offered each, in turn, to his two sisters, and they helped themselves, casting sidelong glances at her last, uninvited tea guest.

When there was no one else to serve, she turned to him, and repeated her offer in a tone that she hoped would tell him to take his tea and go to the devil.

‘Thank you.’ Jack Barton smiled as though there was nothing unusual in her voice, took the lemon she offered, and set it at the side of his saucer.

She felt his fingers brush hers, and silently cursed. She had been too slow to move, and he had managed to arrange the accidental touch.

And Endsted had noticed. He was an annoyingly observant man. He was also upright, noble and extremely respectable, if a bit of a prig. But he was the first man whose company she had shared who was clear in his willingness to introduce her to his family. His intentions were honourable, or he’d never have allowed her to meet his sisters.

And she had managed to disappoint him, first with Mr Smythe, now with Barton, who had been waiting in her sitting room when they’d returned from the library, uninvited and unmoving.

And Susan had made her day even more of a disaster, by whispering that, while Lord Barton had taken up residence despite her encouragement that waiting would not be welcome or convenient, Mr Smythe had been most co-operative and departed after enquiring of her whereabouts.

So Smythe had been hoping to see her when they’d met in the library. She had feared as much. From a distance, he’d appeared to be the poised and confident man that she’d seen at the ball the previous evening.

But as she’d approached him, she’d seen an eagerness in his manner that she had not seen in a man in…How long had it been? Since she’d had suitors, well before Robert. Long ago, when those who sought her affections had had hopes of success and fears of disappointment. There had been none of the sly looks and innuendos that accompanied all interactions with men now that she was a widow.

Tony Smythe had looked at her as though the years had meant nothing, and she was a fresh young girl with more future than responsibilities. And she had crushed him by her indifference.

She had feared, last night, that there would be nothing to speak of, should she see him in daylight. But today she had found him reading Byron.

She adored Byron.

She looked across the table at Endsted, and remembered that he found Byron most unsuitable. If she succeeded with him, there would be no more poetry in her life. She could spend her evenings reading educational and enlightening tracts to Endsted’s rather foolish sisters.

She looked to her other side, at Lord Barton. Surely a boring life with Endsted would be preferable to some fates.

Of course, Mr Smythe would read Byron to her. In bed, if she asked him to. Or would have done, had she not set him down in public to secure her position with Endsted. She doubted she would be seeing him again.

And why was she thinking of him at all, when she needed to keep her mind on her guests? She dragged her attention back to managing the men in front of her. Silence between them was long and cold on Endsted’s side. It appeared he had heard the rumours of Barton’s character and was only suffering contact with him out of straining courtesy to Constance.

Barton did not seem to mind the frigid reception. He ignored Endsted and smiled at the ladies. ‘Might I remark, Lord Endsted, on the attractiveness of your sisters.’

Endsted glared and the girls giggled.

‘I cannot remember a day when I have been so fortunate as to find myself in the company of so many charming young ladies.’ He focused his gaze for more than a little too long on the eldest, Catherine, until she coloured and looked away.

‘Are you a friend of Constance’s?’ the girl asked timidly.

‘Oh, a most particular friend,’ Barton answered.

Constance could not very well deny it while the man was in her parlour, sipping her tea. She dare not explain, in front of her other guests, that she allowed him there only because of the things he might say to them about her, should she try to have him removed.

‘Yes,’ Barton repeated, ‘I am a friend of her Grace, and would like to be your friend as well, should your brother allow it. Might I have permission to call upon you tomorrow?’

‘Most certainly not.’ Endsted’s composure snapped, and he rose from the table. ‘Catherine, Susanne. We are leaving.’

The girls did not like the command, but they responded quickly, and rose as well. He shepherded them towards the door, and turned back to Barton and Constance. ‘I know your measure, sir, as does the rest of decent society. And I’ll thank you to give my family a wide berth in the future. If I catch you dangling after my sisters again, we will settle this on the field of honour and not in a drawing room.’

And then he turned to Constance, and there was disappointment, mingling with his anger. ‘I cannot know what you were thinking, to allow him here. If you will not be careful of your guests, Constance, at least have a care for yourself.’ And with a final warning glance, he left the room.

She turned back to the tea table, where Barton had returned to his seat, and his cup. She stood above him, hands planted on hips, and he had not even the courtesy to rise for her. The insults and the threats from Endsted had had no effect on his composure, either. He had the same serene smile as when she’d returned home to find him waiting.

‘There,’ Constance snapped. ‘Endsted has gone, and I doubt he will return. I hope you are satisfied.’

Barton looked at her, and his gaze was so possessive and familiar that she wished she could strike him. He stared as if he could see through her clothes. ‘Not totally. But I expect I soon will be.’

‘If that was some pitiful attempt at a double entendre, you needn’t bother.’

‘Oh, really, it is no bother. In fact, I quite enjoy it.’

She shuddered in revulsion. ‘You horrible, horrible man. I do not care how you feel about it. I do not enjoy it. I find it offensive. It is vile. I cannot make it any plainer than that. I do not want you, or your rude comments. If you persist in your pursuit of me, my response will be the same as it was the last time: I do not want you. I will not want you. I never want to see you again. Now get out of my house.’ By the time she was finished, she was shouting.

‘Your house?’ He smiled and his tone never wavered.

And, suddenly, she knew that he knew about the loss of the deed and she also had a horrible suspicion about its current ownership.

‘I believe you are mistaken,’ he continued, ‘about this being your house. If it were yours, you would be able to show me the deed, would you not?’

He knew. He had to. But if there was even the smallest chance that she was wrong, she would keep up the pretence. ‘I do not have it here. It is in the bank, where it can be kept safe.’

‘Is it, now?’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘I think, Constance, that you are not telling me the whole truth. It is far more likely that your nephew had the deed in his keeping, not wishing to give up his power over you so easily. He is not the best card player, even when sober. And he is rarely sober, Constance. Quite likely to gamble away his estate.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Not his estate, perhaps. When one loses enough in a night to equal the cost of one’s townhouse…well, one might as well lose the cost of another house instead.’

‘He didn’t.’

‘I’m afraid he did. The deed is safe enough. I have it in my possession. Would you like to give me a tour of my property? We could begin upstairs.’

‘I do not believe you,’ she stalled.

‘Then you must go to the duke and ask him. It must be very trying for you to have your future in the hands of such an idiot.’

She grasped at her last hope. ‘Freddy cannot legally give away what is not his. I will appeal to the courts. It is my house. My name is on the deed.’

Barton shrugged. ‘Now, perhaps. But it does not take much talent to change a few lines of ink. By the time anyone sees the paper, I will be sure it says what I wish it to say. You will find, Constance, that the courts will want proof. You will have your word, of course. But I will have evidence. If you have any doubts, you can ask Freddy what he has to say on the matter.’

Too late to pretend, then. ‘Lord Barton…’ she began hesitantly. ‘I have already been to see the duke, and he has explained to me what has become of the house.’

Barton nodded, still smiling.

She swallowed. ‘And I assume that there will be a rent set, now that I am your tenant.’

He was enjoying her discomposure. ‘You know that it is not money that I want from you.’

She closed her eyes in defeat. ‘Then I will be out of the house by morning.’

He grabbed her wrist and her eyes snapped open at the shock of the unwelcome contact. ‘Not so fast, my dear. I understand it is fully furnished. There is an attached inventory. If you can assure me that everything is in its proper place, we can dispense with the tour.’

She wet her lips. He knew that her furniture had gone the way of her jewels. There was no point in pretending it had not.

‘There is an easier way, you know. You stay in the house. You keep the servants and I give you enough money to replace all that you have taken, even the stones in the rest of your jewellery. But you accept the fact that it is my house that you live in, and I will come and go, and do as I please when here. And no door will be barred to me.’

The hand on her wrist relaxed into a gentle grip. ‘It is not an unpleasant proposition I am making, I assure you. I am not a cruel man. My mistresses have always found me to be generous and they assure me I am good company. But I do not like to be opposed.’

‘And I do not like to be forced.’

‘You are not being forced. You have options. You can leave the house and its contents intact. Then there will be no reason for me to call the law to retrieve my property. Or you can accept that you are my guest here, and treat me with the gratitude I deserve for solving so many of your problems. I will give you two days to consider the matter. That should be enough time to put your house in order.’

He snapped his fingers. ‘Correction. My house in order. I will return on Monday, Constance. At that time, you will give me the keys. Whether you stay or go is completely up to you. Until then.’ And he bent his head to hers and kissed her.

She wished that it had been a repellent kiss, and that she had fought it, as one would fight untimely death. But instead, she closed her eyes and leaned into him, opening her mouth and trying to remember what it had been like to kiss Robert so.

She had to admit the truth to herself: Barton was not unskilled at kissing. If it were not Barton holding her, the experience would not be unpleasant. He did a creditable job of trying to arouse her passions.

She imagined she was in Tony’s arms, and she did a creditable job of pretending to be aroused. And so it was likely to be from now on.

‘That was not so very bad, was it?’

Her voice quavered as she spoke, and she could feel a flush of shame on her face. ‘We are not finished here, Jack. Do not think that you have won.’

‘We can discuss my chances of victory on Monday, Constance. Until then.’

And he left her there, trembling with rage. It was one thing to sell one’s dreams to get a husband. If there was no promise of love, then at least there was a guarantee of security until such time as the fool man had to go and die, leaving one’s future in the hands of his idiot nephew…

She shook her head. She would not let Barton use her at his will, and cast her off when he tired of her. There had to be another way. If she had the deed and the inventory, then the house would be hers. She would put it somewhere safe, out of the hands of Freddy and all others, as she should have done from the first. There would be no further discussion.

But Barton was not likely to give it to her just because she wanted it. He would make her earn it. If she wanted it, then she must find a way to take it from him. She imagined sneaking into his house in the night, and rifling his desk. He would keep it somewhere he could look at it and admire his cleverness, much as he planned to keep her on display in her own house.

All she need do was go to his house under cover of darkness, find the deed, and steal away with it without anyone noticing. An impossibility. Even if she could get past the locked door, she doubted she would have the nerve necessary to take the thing.

But she knew someone with nerve enough for both of them. Her heart skipped at the memory of him climbing boldly out of her window and down to the ground as silently as a shadow. And he had been in the study before. He might even know where to look.

If she could make him do it for her. She had done what he wished at the previous night’s ball. He had said that would clear any debt she might owe, with regards to the money he had left her. And she had allowed him to kiss her in the garden. But she had hurt him, too, in the circulating library. What reason could he possibly have to help her, after that?

The same reason everyone else had to offer her assistance. He, at least, had made a more interesting proposition when he’d made her pay him back. And he’d left her with hard currency to trade.

And, she had to admit it, a certain willingness to barter. Did she seriously plan to sell her honour so cheaply?

She thought of the single kiss in the moonlight, and the way her body had responded as they’d danced. She was hardly selling herself cheap if it was a house she gained. And it was not as if she would need feign too hard, when the moment came to give all. It might be quite pleasant to lie back and let him have his way.

She flushed. Her current fantasy of what might happen when next she was alone with Anthony Smythe had very little to do with passive submission to his advances. She must take care or her response, when the moment came, was likely to be aggressive to an unladylike degree.

But to the matter at hand, how did one go about offering oneself in exchange for services?

She shuddered. That was what she was planning to do. And it did no good to paint the act in romantic fantasies, even if the experience proved as pleasant as it was likely to. Any relationship they might have after tonight would be in fulfilment of a transaction and not the passionate idyll she’d created in her imagination.

She sighed. If life were dreams, it would not be as it had been in the library, today. She would have come upon Mr Smythe when she was alone, and he would ply her with poetry and promises of discretion. They would meet in secret, and he would grow bolder with each meeting. She would put up a token display of resistance before succumbing to his considerable romantic skills. Their inevitable parting would be bittersweet, but she would have a memory that she could carry into whatever cold future awaited her.

But now, she must forgo romance and throw herself on the mercy of the thief, or she would be spending her immediate future in the company of Lord John Barton. Nothing was lost, she reminded herself. Neither path led to a likelihood of slow seduction by Anthony Smythe, but one was infinitely more pleasant, once she got over the initial distaste of being so forward as to make the first move.

And if she was to move, there was no time to waste. She hurried up the stairs to her room and called for her maid. ‘Susan?’

‘Yes, your Grace.’

‘I am going out. The gold dress, I think.’ It was attractive on her, she thought. And she wished to look her best. Susan helped her into the gown and Constance appraised herself in the pier glass.

She had always thought this her most lovely gown, but now she was not so sure. It was grand, certainly. The gold threads caught the candlelight, and tiny beads glittered in the poufs of white satin that trimmed it, and weighted the skirt. But it seemed too stiff and formal for what she had in mind this particular evening.

She wanted to be beautiful for him. A prize worthy of any risk he might take to achieve it. But she did not want to seem unapproachable. How best to make the point clear? She took a deep breath to steady herself, and then she said, ‘Susan, help me out of these stays.’

Her maid’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘You are not going to see Lord Barton again, are you, your Grace?’

‘I should think not, Susan. I know someone who might be willing to help on that account, if I ask him nicely.’ And with no stays, she would not have to ask aloud.

The maid nodded. ‘Very good, ma’am.’ Susan removed the dress, helped her out of her corset and tossed the dress back over her head.

The effect was startling. While the fabric was not sheer, it clung to her body, heavy with the weight of the beads. She could almost see the outline of her breasts inside the dress.

And if she could see them, so could he.

She swallowed. Very well. At least there would be no misunderstanding. It needed but one thing to complete the effect. She closed her eyes in embarrassment. ‘Susan? How does one damp one’s skirts?’

‘Your Grace?’ Her maid gave an incredulous giggle.

‘I’ve heard of it’s being done, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen it…’

Chapter Eight

The evening found her shivering inside her cloak, waiting for Mr Smythe to enter his study. Constance had discovered the reason, firsthand, why the practice of dampened petticoats had never caught on. She had thought it was the extreme immodesty that prevented popularity. But now that she had tried it, she suspected it had as much to do with the discomfort involved. The fabric was cold and wet against her body, and she thought she was as likely to catch her death as catch a man because of it.

But the image presented when she saw herself in the mirror might be most effective, if the object of the evening was seduction. The thin fabric of the skirt clung to her legs and outlined her hips and belly. Without the troublesome stays, her breasts rested soft and full in the bodice of her dress, and tightened in response to the chill of the skirts. The rouge on her cheeks and lips was subtle, but made her mouth look kissable in the candlelight. There was no trace left of the aloof duchess to obscure the vulnerable and desirable woman she saw there.

When she’d arrived at Smythe’s rooms, she’d almost lost her nerve, and had clung to the cloak as her last line of protection when the servant had offered to take it. It would be hard enough to shed, once the object of her mission was in sight, and she meant to keep it as long as she could.

At last, Smythe stepped into the room, and she turned to greet him.

He smiled politely. ‘Your Grace? To what do I owe the honour of this visit?’

She let the cloak slip from her shoulders and drop to the floor around her.

There was a long pause, as he took in her appearance. And then, he said, ‘Oh.’ And his face went blank.

She waited, but no response was forthcoming. He stood, rooted to the spot, silent and staring at her as though he did not quite understand what he was seeing.

Dear God, what had she done? She had assumed that she recognised his interest. And he had kissed her. Twice. But perhaps he was thus with all women when he was alone with them.

It had been the servant who had given her the direction to this place, not Mr Smythe. She had not thought, before coming here, to question whether he wished to entertain her in his home. He had certainly never invited her to it. After the afternoon in the library, he might not wish to see her at all, much less see her nearly naked in his study.

He might have other plans for the evening. He might not be alone. Worse yet, he might be married, although there was nothing about the rooms to indicate the fact. And she had blundered forward, dressed like a courtesan and expecting a warm greeting.

She stared down at the cloak on the floor, willing it to jump back into place around her shoulders, and then she looked back at Mr Smythe.

He was still staring at her, taking in every detail. He forgot himself and sat down. And then sprang from his chair, and motioned to her. ‘Please, sit. May I offer you a drink? Tea?’

She sank gratefully on to a nearby settee. ‘Sherry?’

‘Of course.’ She noted the speed with which he summoned a servant, and the eagerness of his voice. He did not let his man come fully into the room, blocking the entrance with his body and taking the tray from him at the door. Then he returned to her, busying himself with the pouring of wine as though he did not know what to do with his hands.

Did this mean he was still interested in her? Or had she embarrassed him in some way? Until he spoke, it was difficult to tell. But whatever he felt, it wasn’t anger, for he showed no sign of turning her out, and he’d have done it by now, surely.

He offered her a glass, but still said nothing. She took her sherry and sipped, crossing her legs, and watching as he watched the movement of her skirt and swallowed some of his own wine.

At last she could stand the silence no longer. All the witty conversational gambits she’d imagined had involved two people who were capable of speech. There would be no clever sparring around the truth, or coy avoidance if she could not get Tony to respond beyond a monosyllable. Finally she gave up and went directly to the reason for her visit, without preamble. ‘I need your help.’

‘Anything,’ he breathed. And then he remembered to look into her eyes. He cleared his throat, and his face went blank again, as he pretended that he had not just been trying to stare through her clothes. When he spoke, his voice had returned to its normal tone. ‘How may I assist you? I am at your service.’

Very well. He wished to pretend that there was nothing unusual about her appearance? Then so would she. She stared unflinchingly into his eyes. ‘I need something taken. Stolen, from another person.’ Her nerve began to falter. ‘It was mine to begin with, so in a sense, it is not stealing at all.’

His voice hardened, as he responded. ‘Do not justify. I trust that you would never ask this of me if the reason were not a good one. You need something taken? Then I am your man. Direct me to it.’

‘Jack Barton has the deed to my house. My house, mind you. Not my husband’s or my nephew’s. It was promised to me.’ She heard the whine in her voice, and took a deep breath. ‘I assume you can guess the reason why he might wish to keep it. It is very economical on his part to allow me to remain in my own house, in exchange for my hospitality when he visits me there. He needn’t even let some rooms.’

She was pleased to see the murderous look on the face of Mr Smythe as the situation sunk in.

‘And I would like to have it back. But I am not sure where he might be keeping it.’

‘That is all right,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I have a pretty good idea of its location. It was a rum trick to play on you, and I have no objection to settling the score. I’ll fix the bastard so that he’s ill inclined to try it again.’ He seemed almost relieved not to have to think about her, and his eyes lost focus as he began to plan the job. ‘The thing will take several days, but you must be patient and allow me to know what is best in this matter. I will bring the deed to you as soon as I have it safely away.’

‘I need it before Monday. That is when he means to…take occupancy.’

His attention snapped back to the present, and he was aware of her again. There was a long pause, and for a moment, she feared that he was about to retract his offer of help. Then he said, ‘Monday? This is not an easy thing you are asking. But I understand that your need is urgent. I will adjust my own plans so that I may help you. You will have it by Monday.’

‘Thank you.’

There was another long silence. She had expected that this was where he would explain to her the cost of the service, and she took another sip of the sherry, wetting her lips to agree, when he asked.

But he said nothing. He just continued to gaze at her, watching her lips as she drank the sherry, scanning slowly down to admire her breasts, making no effort to clarify her position. She could feel her skin grow warm under his gaze, and her nipples tightening.

At last she could no longer stand the silence. She stared down into her wine glass and said, ‘If you were to do this for me, I would be very grateful. Once it is done, of course. Once the item is returned to me, there is nothing that you would ask that I would refuse.’

‘Nothing,’ he said flatly.

‘Nothing,’ she affirmed.

‘Anything I might think to ask in payment, any request I might make, you would be willing to comply?’

She ignored the heat rising in her. ‘Yes.’

His voice dropped to a sensuous murmur, and she could feel the words dancing along her nerves. ‘Be warned, I have an extremely vivid imagination.’

Suddenly, so did she. She closed her eyes tight and the fantasies that rose at the sound of his voice became more intense. Her blood sizzled as she imagined what it might be like to submit to the whims of a man who was little more than a stranger—a hardened criminal, accustomed to taking what he wanted. ‘Anything you wish.’

‘But what will you say in the morning, I wonder?’ His voice had returned to normal again.

‘I have no idea what you mean,’ she responded, a little too easily.

‘I should think it’s obvious. It was to me, at least. I am not good enough to be seen with, when you are in the presence of your friends. It is much safer here, is it not, where there is no one you know?’

The words stung her. ‘And how could I have introduced you to Endsted?’ she retorted. ‘This is Mr Smythe. We met in my bedroom, when he was stealing my jewellery. Really, Tony, you ask the impossible of me.’

‘Tony, is it, now? I had no idea, your Grace, that we had progressed to that level of familiarity. I suppose I should be flattered. When you meet me in the future, you may call me whatever you choose. You need not mention knowing me in my professional capacity at all. We have been introduced at a formal gathering, although you did not pay a great deal of attention at the time. You have danced with me. We have made polite conversation. I had hoped that you might be able to treat me as you treat others. And as I have treated you: with courtesy and respect.’

‘Courtesy and respect? That is beyond enough. You have taken liberties with my person.’

‘I apologise,’ he responded stiffly. ‘I rather thought, at the time, that you enjoyed them. And if I do not miss my guess, you just invited to do as I pleased with you. But if I was mistaken, and have been taking unwelcome liberties, then I humbly apologise. It will not happen again.’

Her anger faded, as she remembered how he’d looked in the library. She had hurt him with her snub. And now she had come to his rooms to hurt him again. She could feel the cool air passing through her gown, fighting back the heat in her skin. She was being utterly shameless, trying to trap Tony into helping her. And yet she was berating him for his behaviour. She looked down at the designs her toe was tracing in the rug. ‘I mis-spoke. You have not taken anything from me that was not freely offered. But Barton came to my rooms after we spoke this afternoon. And in my panic, I could not think where else to turn. I thought, after the kiss in the garden, you would not be averse to my offer tonight.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, your Grace, I’m not averse. Not in the slightest. Especially with you dressed like that.’ He stared at her body, making no effort to hide his interest. Finally, he gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. ‘Say the word and I’ll have you on the hearthrug, right now, and make sure you don’t regret the offer. But understand, if I wished to be compensated for my services, I would request payment in full, up front of the job.’ He stared into her eyes and his smile faded. ‘With the risks I’m taking, I never withhold pleasure or payment for tomorrow. One can not guarantee the outcome. If they catch me and hang me, your gratitude is worthless.’

‘Very well, then.’ Here and now? He would not even lead her to his bed? She felt her knees turn to water and a tremor of excitement go through her at the thought of what was about to happen. She reached to undo her bodice, trying not to rush in her eagerness.

‘I did not request payment.’

Her hand stopped.

‘When did I ever demand anything of you?’ he asked softly. ‘I said I would do this for you, and I shall. I do not wish to—how did you put it?—“take liberties”. From you, I do not wish to take anything at all. I will take care of your problem.’ He waved his hand as though dealing with Barton were no more difficult than shooing a fly. ‘Tonight, all you needed to do was ask and I would have offered to do all in my power to aid you. And as a gentleman, I do not require your gratitude afterwards. Do not mention it again.’

‘Thank you.’ But she did not feel like thanking him. She felt like shouting at him. And the flush in her cheeks was from shame, not excitement.

There was another long pause. And his eyes remained focused on her face, studiously ignoring the rest of her. ‘Is there anything else you wished of me?’

There were many things, none of which she could very well ask for. To begin with, she wanted him to gaze at her as he had done, when she had entered the room, and not with the coldness and disdain he was showing now. ‘No, I think that is all.’

He nodded, and said nothing more. His expression did not change. The silence stretched between them.

‘I should probably be going, then.’

He nodded. ‘I think that’s best. Do you wish me to escort you home?’ And now he showed the same level of concern that any gentleman might show to a lady.

‘No. I am all right. It was not far to walk.’ She could not stand the embarrassment of his respect a moment longer.

‘You walked?’ His voice held disapproval. ‘It is not seemly or safe for a woman to travel alone at night. I will tell Patrick to get you a hackney.’

‘No.’ She had shocked him, by her behaviour, by coming alone to his home, and by her dress, or lack thereof. This was not how the night was to end at all.

‘I insist.’ His voice was emphatic, so she nodded and rose. He reached for her cloak and dropped it on to her shoulders, concealing her body from view before opening the door. She reached to pull it closed in front of her.

He escorted her to the door of his study and out into the hall. He directed his servant to find her transportation. Then he turned his back upon her and returned to his room.

The servant whom she had met the previous night led her down the stairs and left her standing at the front door, as he hailed a cab for her, and she sensed pity in his smile as he helped her into the coach.

Anthony returned to his chair and waited until the door closed behind her, and then waited a little longer. He imagined her progress through the house and out of the front door. Then he drained his wine in a gulp, and called for his valet.

The man appeared like a ghost behind him. ‘Sir?’

‘Patrick, bring me brandy. And plenty of it.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Patrick was resigned to his master’s behaviour, even if he did not approve of it. He left the room and reappeared a short time later, carrying a tray laden with a full bottle of the best brandy in the cellars.

Patrick poured the first glass, and when he seemed to be finished, his master signalled him with a raising of the hand. ‘Eh, eh, eh, a little more, still.’ Tony watched the level rise in the glass. He held up a hand. ‘Stop. That’s the ticket. And keep them coming, Patrick.’ He drank half the brandy and blurted, ‘That woman. I swear, Patrick, she will be the death of me. I cannot countenance what she did, just now.’ He finished the glass, and held it out to be refilled.

‘First she snubs me in public, and makes it known to me that she prefers another. Then she comes to me, soft and willing, just as I’ve always dreamed she would. She is finally here, and wants my help. And at any time, does she recognise me? No.’

‘It has been a long time, sir. Both you and she have changed significantly.’

‘One thing has not changed. She did not want me then, and she does not want me now. Did you see her? Dear God.’ He allowed himself a moment of carnal pleasure at the memory. ‘No stays, thin silk gown, and I swear she’d damped the skirts.’ He shook his head. ‘Like a French woman. Nothing left to imagination, not that my imagination needs any help when it comes to her. But she should not have been out in the streets in that condition. She’d catch her death. She made it quite clear, in the library today, that she wanted no part of me, and that our association was an embarrassment.

‘Very well. I do not need to be told twice. I meant to avoid her in the future. If she does not want me, then there is no point in making an even greater fool of myself than I have been.’ He stared down into his second brandy. He was already feeling the effects of the first, and thought the better of the second drink, tossing the contents of the glass into the fire, listening to the spirits hissing in the flames.

‘A few hours pass, and she comes to my room dressed to seduce me. Very well, thinks I. She has no trouble acknowledging me when we are alone. If I had any pride, I would refuse her. Which would prove I’m an even bigger fool than I thought, for how can I turn down an offer like this? She’s been married long enough to know what’s what and widowed long enough to miss it. She might ignore me tomorrow, but the morning is a long way off, and we’ll have a time of it tonight.’

He stared down into his empty glass, and Patrick shook his head and poured again.

‘And why did she come to me? She wants me to steal for her. Not a problem, of course. I’d die for her, if she but asked. Burglary is not a sticking point. And if I did, she would deign to lie with me. Afterwards. In gratitude.’ He closed his eyes and drank more slowly this time.

‘She looked at me with those sherry-coloured eyes, and hung her head as though the path to my bed was a passage to Botany Bay.’ He finished the brandy and said sadly, ‘It was not the way I’d imagined it.’

Patrick looked at him in disappointment. ‘What you have wanted for half your life was here, within your grasp. And you choose instead to send it away and call for a brandy bottle.’

‘It wasn’t what I wanted,’ he argued. ‘Her gratitude, indeed.’

‘What, exactly, do you want from her, then, if not to lie with her?’

‘I want her to see me for who I am, even if she cannot see me for who I was. All she sees is the thief, Patrick. And to catch him, she was willing to be the whore that a thief deserved.’ He thought back to the sight of her, her breasts swaying beneath her gown, her legs outlined by the cloth. ‘Not that I minded, seeing her. But I wager she does not dress thusly when she is trying to impress Endsted.’

‘Would you wish her to, sir?’

‘No. Of course not. If it were my choice, she would not see Endsted, again, under any circumstances. And I would make damn sure that he never got to see what I saw tonight. The man is an utter prig. I doubt he’d have known what to do with her, in any case.’

‘Unlike you, sir, Endsted would have sat there like a lecher, staring at her charms while making it clear that he disapproved of her behaviour. And then he would have insulted her by sending her away. She would have gone home, with head hung low and near tears, convinced that she was in some way morally repellent or deformed in body. I am sure she will think twice in the future before exposing to the gentleman in question any sign of interest or vulnerability that might lead to further ridicule.’

Tony ignored the dark look that Patrick was giving him, to drive the point home. ‘You’re saying I should go to her, then. Apologise.’

Patrick nodded. ‘Because there is nothing that will make amends better than appearing on her doorstep after half a bottle of brandy, and trying to say the things in your heart that you cannot manage to say when you are sober.’

‘Damn it, Patrick. Other men’s valets will at least lie to them when they have made fools of themselves.’

‘If it is any consolation, sir, Lord Endsted’s valet often has cause to lie to his master on that score. We have discussed it.’

Tony held up a hand. ‘Let us hear no more of Viscount Endsted. My night is quite grim enough, without thinking of him, or knowing that valets trade stories when they are gathered together. It chills the blood. Instead, tell me, Patrick, since you are so full of honesty, what am I to do to make amends with the Duchess of Wellford?’

‘Perhaps, sir, it would go a long way to restoring her good humour, if you did the thing that she wished you to do in the first place.’

‘You have returned early, your Grace.’ Susan was looking at her with curiosity, no doubt trying to spy some evidence of carnal activity. ‘Was the gentleman you wished to visit not at home?’

‘On the contrary, he was in, and willing to see me.’

‘That was quick.’ Susan’s face moued in disapproval. ‘But I suppose it’s the same with all men. The more time we takes on our appearance, the less time they needs. It don’t seem right, somehow.’

Constance started at the familiarity, then admitted the truth. ‘He sent me home. He took one good look at me, and he sent me away.’ She looked at her maid, hoping that Susan could provide some explanation.

‘He did not find you attractive?’

She sat on the end of the bed, shivering in the damp gown. ‘He as much as said he did. He made comment on my appearance. He knew how I expected the evening to end. And he turned me down. I fear I have insulted him. Or lessened his opinion of me.’

‘Then your friend left you to settle with Lord Barton yourself?’ Susan looked more than a little dismayed at the thought.

‘No. There was no problem about that. Mr Smythe said he was most willing to help, but that my gratitude was not necessary. Then he covered me up and sent me away.’

Susan sat on the end of the bed as well, clearly baffled. ‘Forgive me for saying it, your Grace, but he must be a most unusual gentleman.’

Constance frowned. ‘I think so as well, Susan.’

Anthony stared at the locked door of Barton’s safe, and felt the sweat forming on his palms. He wiped his hands on his trouser legs and removed the picks from his coat pocket. Now was not the time for a display of weak nerves or a distaste for the work at hand. He could fulfil his promise to Stanton and destroy the plates by burning the house down if he could not manage to open the safe.

But for the promise to Constance? A fire would do him no good, for it would destroy the thing he searched for. And she wanted immediate action.

Patrick had been right. It had been stupid of him to give way to temper, and waste the better part of the evening with drink. When reason had begun to return, he had realised that he might need every spare moment between now and Monday, working on the lock, if he wished to deliver the deed to Constance and forestall Barton. He had been forced to spend several more hours becoming sober enough to do the job at all, and still might not be unaffected enough to do it well.

Now, it was past three and he had but a few hours before dawn. It was the quietest part of the night, when all good men were asleep, leaving the bad ones the freedom to work in peace.

Entry to the study was as uneventful as it had been the night of Barton’s ball, even though he’d climbed up a drainpipe and into the window instead of using the stairs. Would that the results with the safe would be more successful than the last attempt.

The thing was still there, taunting him from its place on the wall behind the desk. Barton had not even bothered to conceal it, leaving its obvious presence as a sign of its impregnability.

If the man had anything of value, it was most assuredly behind the locked safe door. Tony had found the printing press in the basement along with the rest of the supplies, hidden under a Holland cloth, with little effort made to conceal them.

But there was no law against owning a press. To rid Barton of the paper would require one lucifer and the work of a moment, perhaps doused with the ink. Tony did not know if ink was particularly flammable, but, since so many things were, it was quite possible.

The engraved plates had to be somewhere in the house or the press would be useless. He fitted his pick into the lock and felt for the sliders, working one, and then another before feeling the pick slip. And now he must start over.

How many were there supposed to be? As many as eighteen, and any mistake meant a new beginning and more time wasted. He tried again, progressed slightly further and felt the pick slip in his sweaty hands.

Damn it. Damn it all to hell. He swore silently and repeatedly. Then he took a deep breath and began again.

It would have to work, because he would not return to Constance empty handed. He imagined her as she had been when she visited him. Huge, dark eyes, smooth skin, red lips, body soft and willing.

And he had sent her away. He must have been mad.

Of course, what was one night of gratitude against a lifetime of devotion, if there was some way she could be persuaded to see his intentions towards her ran deeper than the physical? In the end, she would think him no better than Barton, if he took advantage of her need. There would be time, later, if he could wait.

He felt his pick catch another slider and move it into position. And he focused on the touch of the lock and the vision in his mind of her leaning close to whisper softly in his ear.

There was a click of the room’s door handle, which seemed as loud as a rifle shot in the dead silence of the house. Tony withdrew his pick and darted behind a curtain, praying that the velvet was not swaying to mark the passage of his body.

He could see the light at the edge of the curtain; the glow was faint, as though someone had entered the room, bearing a single candle.

A man, by the stride. Long, and with the click of a boot heel.

Barton.

Pace, pace, pace. Tony counted out enough steps for a man of nearly six foot to reach the desk.

He held his breath.

There was a faint rattle as a drawer was unlocked. The rustle of paper. A pause. A sigh. The sound of retreating footsteps, along with the retreating light. And the click of a door latch again.

Tony grinned to himself. Where best to keep a deed? In a safe? Hardly necessary, since no one would be seeking it. Best to keep it close, where one could admire it. Touch it when one wanted to reassure oneself of victory and fantasise over the conquered in the dark of night.

All in all, he was lucky that Barton was not keeping the document at his bedside. Perhaps with the prospect of Constance so firmly in his grasp, the deed was not necessary.

Tony stepped from behind the curtain and produced a penknife, then slid it along the space in the desk drawer until he heard a satisfying click. He opened the drawer and found the deed, face up in plain view.

Too easy, really, once one left common sense behind and entered the realm of obsession. He could almost feel sorry for Barton, had the man chosen a different object for his passion.

Tony folded the paper and tucked it into a pocket. He went to the window and was gone.

Chapter Nine

Music played softly in the background and Constance sipped her champagne and pretended to enjoy herself. Sunday night’s ball at the townhouse of the Earl of Stanton was to have been a night of pure pleasure in the company of friends. She had been looking forward to it for weeks. And now Barton had ruined everything. The music made no impact and the drink held no flavour. All she could think about was the impending doom of Monday morning and the cold look on Tony’s face as he had sent her away.

Her friend, the countess, had hugged her when she had seen the expression on Constance’s face, and enquired after her health.

She had pretended that nothing was wrong, but even the earl had noticed the change in her and remarked on it. And Esme had clasped her hand again and assured her that, whatever the problem might be, she had but to ask, and they would find a way to resolve it. She could treat the Stanton home as her own, if need be. Stay the night or longer, if she wished. And take pleasure in the entertainment at hand, for it was expected to be most fine.

Constance had insisted that she was in no dire need, and that her friend needn’t worry, although the earl’s look at her as she passed through the receiving line was too shrewd and it was clear that he was not fooled.

It had been a mistake to lie at all. For it would look even worse to her hosts when she needed to swallow her pride and beg Esme for refuge at the end of the evening, if it was to be a choice between her house and her honour.

There was some comfort, at least, in knowing that only the best company was invited through these particular doors. She had no reason to fear a run in with Barton before the morning, for such as he would never gain entrance to a ball held by the Stantons.

Which made it all the more surprising to see Anthony Smythe in close conversation with the host. The earl could not possibly know the man’s true occupation, or St John would throw him bodily from the room. And Constance could not very well inform them of what she knew. Certainly not when she had gone to Mr Smythe, requesting the very service she pretended to abhor.

He was across the room from her, and she tried to resist the urge to look in his direction. How utterly mortifying it had been to go to him, practically bare and obviously willing, only to be patted on the head and put from the room. If she had behaved in a similar manner, with any of the other men of her acquaintance…

Then she need not have gone to Mr Smythe at all. Upon seeing how she had costumed herself, and hearing of her willingness to co-operate, they’d have given her any sum she required to clear her debts. The ink would scarcely be dry on the cheque before they’d have taken her up on her offer.

Then why, for the sake of her already-battered spirit, had she gone to the only man unwilling to take her body as payment? Was it because she had known in her heart that he would be too honourable to accept?

Or simply because she wanted a reason, any reason at all, to see him again, tempt him in a way that would make him forget her behaviour in the library, and offer him no resistance when he pulled her close, laid her down, and took from her what she wanted to give him?

It had been so easy to restrain herself through the last year, as the suggestions she’d received had become bolder and bolder. And, on some level, she’d known that if there was no one to offer her marriage, there might be one whose offer was not quite so insulting as the rest. She had no desire to be a mistress. That would be no better than marrying for money.

But if there were a man who valued her, and whose company she enjoyed, and if he was willing to be discreet? She would gladly yield just to feel arms around her again, and lips on her temple, and to sleep secure in the knowledge that someone cared about her, even if it was for only a night.

She glanced into a mirror at the far end of the room, catching a glimpse of the image of Tony Smythe reflected back to her. His dark blue coat fit smoothly over the muscles she felt when he’d held her. His legs, as well, were straight and strong from climbing, and graceful as he walked. She thought she could hear his distant laugh, and could imagine the light in his eyes, and the way his smile curved a little higher on one side than the other.

It was a face not so much beautiful as it was interesting. There was energy in it, and enthusiasm. One could look at it for a lifetime and always see something different. And when he had a passion for something, or someone, his excitement would be impossible to resist.

Constance averted her gaze from the mirror, casting her eyes downward, focusing on the trails of bubbles arising from her champagne. It did no good to watch him now. She might see the one thing she most feared, a look of pity in the eyes for her pathetic behaviour of the night before, and confirmation of his lack of success in getting the thing she needed. How had she expected him to manage in a night what might take days of planning? She was a fool to even ask him.

And she would look an even bigger fool, if he caught her spying on him in public.

‘Would you stand up with me, your Grace?’

She was startled. He was close to her now, standing beside her, and she’d never heard him approach. Her heart was pounding in response to his nearness, and it was not because of fright.

He gestured to the dance floor. There was polite interest on his face now. Neither more nor less than she would expect from any of the other men attending.

‘I would be delighted, Mr Smythe.’ She tried to read his face, but it gave no clue. Did he have news for her? She was dying to ask it, but what was the point in swearing him to secrecy if she blurted out the whole truth in a crowded ballroom?

They took their place in the set and he bowed to her, and the music began.

He was an excellent dancer. His steps were sure and his touch light as he guided her down the row. She tried to relax and enjoy herself, but his steady gaze was both pleasant and unnerving. He wanted to tell her something, she was sure.

And found herself wishing that that was not the reason for the intensity when he looked at her. Robert had not cared much for dancing, and was most relieved when other men had been willing to stand up with her in his place. But none of them would dare gaze at her so, with the duke in the room.

She had watched other young ladies, and watched their beaus watching them. She had thought it sweet and tried not to lament on it. Men had looked at her thus once, very long ago, but so long ago that she could hardly remember how it felt.

They had looked as Anthony Smythe was looking at her now. His hand took hers again and he smiled. When it was their turn to wait at the bottom of the set, he leaned closer to her, and said, ‘You are very lovely tonight.’

‘Thank you.’ She wondered if that was the case.

He must have seen the doubt in her eyes. ‘You were lovely last night, as well.’

‘You did not seem to think it at the time.’

‘On the contrary. You were inordinately tempting. But speed was of the essence, was it not? If I had accepted your offer, we would be there still, on the floor of my parlour, too exhausted to move.’

She stared around her, to make sure no one had heard him speak. And, as always, he had taken care that the other guests would know nothing of his scandalous comments, but her delighted blush might make them stare.

‘I am just as diligent and careful in taking pleasure as I am in doing business, and I take care not to mix the two. In the future, there will be ample time to spend together, if you still wish it. But if I had lost myself in you last night, I would have quite forgotten to go to Barton and get the thing that you wished me to retrieve.’

She opened her mouth to speak, and he smiled placidly.

‘Please act as though nothing has happened. Remember where we are, your Grace.’

He was right. Throwing her arms around his neck and begging to see it this instant was sure to incite comment. But she could not help the joy that showed upon her face.

He looked at her, smiled back and said, ‘The look on your face right now is payment enough for me. Have you forgiven me for last night?’

‘There is nothing to forgive. It was I—’

‘Shh. Let us hear none of that. May I visit you, later? With your permission, I will come to your house, to return the thing that concerned you so.’

She whispered, ‘I shall leave here immediately and tell my servants to expect you.’

‘You shall do nothing of the kind. No one need know of what has transpired between us. Enjoy your time here, for Esme is a particular friend of yours, is she not? And this is a delightful ball. It would be a shame to go so soon. Return home after midnight, send your maid to bed and wait for me at one.’

She nodded, wondering how he knew of her friendships, for she had not told him.

And he nodded back to acknowledge her assent and led her through the rest of the dance as though nothing unusual had happened, with an occasional comment about the music, the fine quality of the food, and the fact that summer had been uncommonly warm.

But he continued to fix her with the same intense gaze that had unsettled her before.

He was coming to her rooms later, and in secret. She found the prospect quite exciting. And with the way he was looking at her, perhaps he had decided to mix business and pleasure after all. It was not so surprising, she reminded herself. Despite what they might claim to put one off one’s guard, men had needs and would act on them, given the opportunity.

He might say that he was honoured to help and needed no reward, but he had taken great risk to do what she had asked. She doubted that he would deny her or himself, once they were alone. And try as she might, she could not bring herself to be bothered. Why, if Lord Barton’s offer had been so distasteful to her, was she not offended now?

Because she did not want to lie with Barton, as she did with Anthony Smythe.

The thought of them together warmed her blood. She wanted to feel his hands upon her and see that crooked smile in the firelight as he took her. Her stomach gave a lurch at the thought and her steps faltered.

And he caught her hand and led her on, smiling in curiosity at the look that must be on her face, but making no comment.

Very well, then. Her virtue was not as steadfast as she had once thought. And she did miss the touch of a man, just as everyone kept reminding her.

Everyone except Tony.

Perhaps that was why she wanted him so.

The dance ended and she moved through the rest of the evening as if on a cloud. Her home was safe. Barton had no hold on her. And when she retired, she would have Tony.

When Esme saw her again, as she said her goodbyes, she proclaimed her looking better. The food and the dancing must have done her good, for she was in fine colour. Almost blushing.

Constance smiled the secret back to herself and agreed that she was feeling worlds better, and that she intended to retire early. Then she returned home, prepared for bed and sent the maid away. The lawn of her nightdress was crisp and cool against her fevered skin as she unlatched the window and waited for the clock to strike one.

As the bell was chiming, he stepped over the sill, smiling back at the window she had left open for him. ‘Thank you for the small courtesy, your Grace. It is rare to enter in this way and find evidence that I am welcome. Most refreshing.’

‘Did you find the deed?’ She hurried to his side.

‘What? No “Hello, Tony. So good to see you. Lovely dancing this evening…” No preamble. Small talk? Chitchat?’ He grinned. ‘I supposed not.’ He reached into his pocket and brought out a document, which he laid upon her night table. ‘It is exactly as you said. In your husband’s hand, the house is deeded to you. And here is the attached inventory. Put it somewhere safe. Your bank, perhaps. But do not trust it to that young jackanapes that holds your husband’s title. And do not mention it to Barton until you have to. He will know that someone has got into his study and taken it, and you do not want to be associated with other thefts that might occur there. I will be visiting him again, before my business with him is done, and he will be on guard against me.

‘If you can just stall him for a time, he will forget his plans for you, for I dare say he will have troubles enough soon and little time to pursue you.’

She wondered if this might have something to do with the theft at the ball, but was afraid to ask. Instead she looked down at the deed, which need be her only concern. She swallowed. ‘It is such a relief to know that, no matter what, the house is mine.’

Then she looked at him significantly. ‘And I am so very grateful. How can I ever repay you?’ And she leaned close to him in the moonlight and waited for the obvious suggestion.

He smiled. ‘No thanks are necessary. It is enough to know that I have helped a woman in distress.’

‘No thanks. At all.’ She hoped her disappointment was not too plain.

‘I know something of hardship, and of being forced to make decisions that might compromise myself, for the sake of stability. I would not wish it on another.’

‘Many men would take advantage, given the circumstances. You held the deed yourself and could just has easily have used it against me.’

‘But I would not.’

‘I am sorry to create more work for you, when I can do nothing in return for you.’

He sighed. ‘Some day, quite without even thinking, you might do a thing that seems like a trifle to you, but will make all my efforts on your part seem as nothing. Until then, do not trouble yourself. While it would be easy to accept what you are trying to give me, I fear you might live to regret it. If I succumb, in the end you will think me no better than Barton. You are safe now, but if Barton, or any other, should prove difficult, please feel free to call upon me.’ He started towards the window.

She followed him, searching for something that might stay him a little longer. ‘Will I see you again?’

He smiled. ‘It is likely. You have seen me many times before, you know. I certainly knew of you. But we have not been introduced until just recently. Now you know me, I suspect you will not be able to help but run into me again.’

‘I should like that.’ She touched his sleeve.

He had reached the window and then turned back when he felt her touch. ‘I should like that as well. Under better circumstances.’ He put his hand on the sill, ready to lift himself over the edge.

And she remembered the first night, when he had assured her of his character, and hazarded a bolt. ‘Your wife is very fortunate to have such an honest thief for a husband.’

He pushed away from the sill and turned back to her. ‘Wife?’ He looked puzzled. ‘I have none.’

‘But when we first met—’

‘When I was robbing your jewel case,’ he reminded her.

‘You said that you had loved but once, and I thought perhaps…’

He shook his head and stepped back into the room. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and paused to take a deep breath. Then he said, ‘And this is where I admit the truth, and you think me a fool. I’ve loved but once. But she has never loved me. It has been years…We were childhood friends.’ He shook his head again and muttered, ‘That puts too fine a gloss on it.’ And then he admitted, ‘We were acquaintances. I was too terrified to speak to her.’

‘You, afraid to speak to a woman?’ She stared at him incredulously.

He looked into her eyes and nodded. ‘I was then. And I still am, when it comes to her.’

‘Because she rejected you, all those years ago.’

He shook his head. ‘She did not give that much thought to me, I’m afraid. I doubt she said three words to me in the time we knew each other. She married young and well.’ He looked up at her. ‘She is as high above me as you are. And as beautiful. But I doubt she would know me if we passed in the street. She has forgotten all about me. There can never be anything between us, of course. How can there be, if but one of us loves?’

She took a step towards him. ‘But that is so sad. And you have kept yourself for her, all these years?’

‘Not as such. I have known the company of women, of course. But my heart is elsewhere. I do not wish to marry, if I cannot have her.’

‘But if you do not marry, you will not have children.’ The next question mocked her, but she forced herself to ask it. ‘Do you not wish for a son?’

He looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I had not honestly given it much thought.’

‘You did not think on it?’ It was her turn to look puzzled. So many hours of her life and her husband’s had been consumed with the subject of children. And here was a man who did not think about it at all. ‘But you will have no heir.’

‘Of course I will have an heir. I am quite well stocked with nephews. I have two of them, and a niece as well. I have been “dear Uncle Tony” for so long I can hardly remember a time when I wasn’t. And I have done my share to raise them up. I always assumed that what was mine now would some day be theirs.’ He smiled fondly, as he thought of children that had been fathered by others.

‘But they are not yours,’ she insisted.

‘As much mine as anyone’s. Their fathers are long dead. They have stepfathers now, at last. So the burden is no longer solely mine.’

‘You do not care for children,’ she surmised.

He shook his head. ‘You misunderstand. The raising of them was not so much of a burden, even at its worst. I like children. And I would welcome my own, should any appear through design or carelessness. But it has always seemed to me to be a frivolous thing to insist on raising the fruit of one’s loins when one is surrounded by windfalls.’

He would not care, even if he has already guessed the truth. Her legs almost collapsed under her, her knees trembled so. ‘Then, if your wife could not give you children?’

‘If the wife of my choosing could not give me children?’ He sighed. ‘If I could but get her to give herself to me, it would be more than I ever expected. What kind of fool would I be to win my heart’s desire and then find fault with her for a thing that was not under our control?’

What kind of fool would he be? A fool like her husband and all the other men of her acquaintance. Children did not matter to Tony. If he wanted her, he would have her, and not think twice about her infertility. There would be no snide offer of fun and games, followed by a pitying smile when the talk came to marriage.

‘It would not matter to me in the slightest. There is but one woman for me, Constance. And I will not love another, as long as there is life left in us, and even the smallest chance.’ He looked into her eyes and it was as if he were looking into her very soul and making the vow to her.

He shook his head again and looked down, unable to meet her gaze. ‘I do not expect you to understand. It really sounds quite mad, when I explain it thus.’

‘Oh, no. I understand perfectly.’ And, suddenly, she did. It was possible to fall hopelessly in love with someone who was totally wrong for you, and even worse, could never love you back, because of a foolish fantasy of perfection that he’d been carrying with him for his entire life. How could one compete with that?

He was smiling at her again. ‘That is most kind of you to say so. Because…’ He appeared to be about to speak. But he said nothing. There was a pause that seemed ready to become long and awkward.

So there was nothing wrong with her. He did not wish to raise false hopes by a casual seduction that would lead nowhere. He respected her. She should feel more relief than frustration. She broke the silence. ‘Do not feel you need to explain yourself further. I think it is very noble of you. I have often wondered what it might be like to be as brave as you and to not care for reputation or stability, hazarding all for the sake of love. But I fear I am disappointingly practical, far too concerned with my own security in the distant future to risk following my heart on the moment. Still, I very much enjoy seeing others do so, and will pray fervently for your good fortune. I fear some of us are not destined to feel that kind of grand passion.’

If possible, he looked even more mortified than he had the night she came to him to ask for the deed. He coloured again, and his eyes fell. And when he looked up, his expression was earnest, as it had been when she had seen him in the library. ‘Do not say that. Do not ever say that. You deserve all that love can give, and you should settle for nothing else.’ And when he pulled her to him, it was shockingly sudden and she had just enough time to lift her face to his kiss.

It wasn’t the same kiss that he had taken from her on the night they met. This one was hard and demanding. A soul-deep kiss, full of desire. And she kissed him back, hoping that the night might last just a little longer, that he might forget himself and stay.

He devoured her mouth and she took his tongue, thrusting into his mouth in return. And she felt his hand opening the buttons on her nightdress, cupping a breast and pinching the nipple between his fingers until she moaned.

She pushed her leg between his, and rocked her body against him. There was no question that he wanted her as she wanted him and she reached to pull him even closer so that he might know how well their bodies would fit together.

He pulled away from her, then, shaking his head. And he said, ‘I must go.’ He laughed, and it was unsteady. ‘Although you do make it most difficult to leave. Especially since I need my body to obey me as I climb down from your window, and it is making it almost painfully clear to me that it would much rather stay here with you.’

But his eyes were bright with excitement as he said, ‘I promise you, soon. But alas, I must not stay tonight. I have other work I must do before the sun rises. I cannot spend it in play with you. Besides, I have no desire to rush what I will do with you, the next time we are alone.’ He traced the line of her throat downwards with his finger to massage her breast again. ‘Are we in agreement?’

She nodded, dazed at the idea.

‘Very good, then.’ She looked into his eyes, and her body trembled at the suggestions in them. ‘And remember, if you need anything at all before I come to you again, you know my direction. Feel free to call on me, or send a message and I will come to you. But do not think that you ever need walk through life alone, or that you must be practical instead of happy.’

And he was gone again, taking her heart with him.

‘What do you mean, you did not tell her?’

Tony stared down into the glass in his hand, and willed himself not to throw it. But with Patrick standing between him and the fire, the temptation presented itself.

‘I mean,’ he responded to his valet, ‘that it is a damned tricky thing, when you have been speaking to a woman as one person, to suddenly come out and admit that you are not who you seem to be. I thought, once Barton was gotten out of the way, and there was nothing standing between us, it would be easier.

‘And in a way it was. She was not the false jade she played in my sitting room last night. She was much more herself, grateful, but not brazen. She cared enough to make conversation. She asked about me. She made it plain that she wanted to know me better.’

He remembered the feel of her body against his and her breast in his hand. ‘She was willing to know me even better, by the end, I dare say. And I did declare my continued and unwavering devotion.’ He shrugged. ‘Not technically to her, but I believe she was responding well, even though I did not specifically say I was speaking of her.

‘But then she declared me too noble and showed signs of giving me up entirely, for my own good, so that I could continue to worship her from afar. And so I kissed her again, and then everything got fuzzy and I quite forgot how it was I meant to go on. But I had to get back to Stanton’s damn ball since he wanted to speak to me in private, after. I could not very well drop anchor for the night.’ He grinned. ‘Although I got the distinct impression, there at the last, that I would have been a welcome guest, had I decided to do so.’

Patrick smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘But now she has the deed, and you have no reason to see her again.’

‘On the contrary, I have every reason. She might pretend uninterest during the day, but she has kissed me again. That is the third time and it is not often enough.

‘Now that she has noticed me, I plan to be very much under foot. She cannot ignore me for ever. Perhaps next time we meet, I will not need to climb through her bedroom window. If I am not conversing with her in her bedroom, it will be much easier to keep my head.’

And perhaps, in good light, she will recognise me. He did not want to think it. He did not want it to matter. And yet, it mattered so very much.

Patrick replied with confidence, ‘Once you tell her the truth, there will be no problem at all.’

Other than accepting that, if I am not attempting to rob her, I am utterly forgettable. ‘It is rather embarrassing, not to have told her from the first.’ He tried to toss the comment out in a way that made it unimportant.

‘It will only grow more embarrassing as time passes.’ Damn Patrick and his reasonable advice.

‘I gathered that. But it is vexing to have my true nature go unrecognised by one who has known me my whole life.’ There. The truth would out, somewhere, if not where he needed it.

‘Your true nature?’ Patrick snorted. ‘And by true nature, you mean the nice young cleric who pulled me out of Newgate, pretending charity, but really wanting me to help him dispose of his ill-gotten gains?’

Tony bristled. ‘That is most unfair.’

‘But it is the truth. You were only too happy to learn all I could teach you, and assume all the risks, while sensible men such as myself preferred to retire from crime and devote themselves to pressing milord’s coat and perfecting the knot for a Mathematical cravat.’

Patrick was staring at him in disbelief. ‘You insist on seeing yourself as no different than you were when you were children. But you are both changed by the past thirteen years. Your true nature, as you put it, was not in evidence when she saw you last. She paid you no heed then because there was no reason to. You were shy, bookish and painfully honest. It was easy enough to cure you of the honesty, and now that you are putting your education to use, you are not so quiet as you once were. Once you rid yourself of the shyness, there will be nothing left at all of the old you, not even the name. And you have her complete attention, do you not? She does not love another?’

‘There is Endsted,’ Tony admitted.

Patrick snorted. ‘Then you have nothing to fear. The results are guaranteed, once you declare yourself to her.’

Perhaps Patrick was right. ‘Very well, then. I shall call on her tomorrow. At her home this time, so she has no reason to be distracted by a rival. I have no doubt she will welcome me, since she said as much last night. In daylight with the servants about and a respectable distance between us, it will be much easier to part with the truth. And then we shall see how things go.’ And he knew the path was right because of the sudden flare of hope that sprang beside the banked fires of desire in his heart.

Chapter Ten

The next morning, Constance paced her rooms, uneasily, looking at the deed on the night table. And the note beside it: We must talk. Barton.

The note had arrived with the morning’s post, even before she could get the deed to the bank. And now she was afraid to leave the house with it, lest he be waiting outside to take it from her again. He knew. That had to be the truth of it. If he thought he was still in possession of the deed, he would have marched boldly into the house this morning, as he had threatened to do. Instead, he had missed the thing, and guessed her involvement in the theft. He meant to harass her about it. Perhaps he would go to the Runners.

But what could he do? He could not very well claim the deed was his and she had taken it, since it clearly stated that she was the owner of the house. Tony was right. She had but to avoid him, until he lost interest, and her life would return to normal and the already-long string of problems that she must deal with. But the sale of the house, along with the last of Mr Smythe’s purse, would lend some time in which she could think.

And what was she to do about Anthony Smythe? It was all so much more complicated in daylight than in moonlight. She wanted to see him again. As soon as possible. The pull on her heart was undeniable.

And he could help her against Barton. She pushed the note to the side, hiding it under her copy of The Times. Tony had helped her before, and proven a powerful ally. She needed help again. He was attracted to her, and knew she was attracted to him, but he showed no intention of forcing her to take action.

She knew what action she wished to take. But in the morning, she could remember why it was wrong of her to want him as she did.

She listed the reasons against it. She knew nothing of his family or his life. He was a criminal, albeit a charming one. And he loved elsewhere.

And on her side, if she took one lover, it would be easier to take a second, once the first lost interest. And then a third. And some day, she would awake to find she had no lover, no husband and no reputation. If she wished for marriage, she must not begin by settling for less.

Yet it was hard to think beyond the moment. She could have his help and his affection, should she but ask. He might leave some day. But she remembered the feel of his hands upon her, and the rushing in her that was unlike anything she had ever felt for Robert. He might leave and she might find another. But who was to say that her next husband could arouse such passion in her? If she did not give in to him now, she might never know that feeling again.

Her teacup trembled in her hand. Very well, then. She would ask him to be careful of her reputation, but she would yield to him as soon as he asked. And no one need ever know of it, but the two of them.

And then she stared down at the front page of her paper. A hanging. She stared down at the article, reading with horrible fascination. The man had been a burglar, stealing purses from a rooming house. The gallows mechanism had failed, and his body had dropped scant inches, leaving him to dance out the last of his life for nearly an hour. And the whole time his wife and children had stood, at the foot of the gibbet, pleading for leniency, or at least a quick death. The crowd had not wanted their fun spoiled and had mocked them, laughing and pelting them with offal until they had run from the scene. And the woman had lacked even the money necessary to retrieve the body for burial.

She imagined the man, spasming out the last of his life in front of a cheering throng while his family stood by, helpless. And then she imagined Tony, dancing for the hangman, and standing below him, crying her heart out and unable to help.

But if she kept to her current plan, it would be even worse. Then, she would hide in her house, afraid for her precious reputation, leaving him to die alone and friendless. And she could read in The Times, the next day, how he had suffered for the amusement of the crowd. She would hate herself, to her last breath, knowing that the man she loved had suffered, and she had done nothing to help.

Her hand jerked as a shudder racked her, and the tea spilled on to the paper, blurring the words.

‘Your Grace, there is a gentleman come to call.’ Her maid was holding a salver.

‘I am not at home to Lord Barton.’

‘Not Barton, your Grace. Mr Smythe.’ Susan had guessed the identity of her visitor, and was grinning in anticipation.

Constance stared in fascination at the card upon the tray. She wanted to go to the parlour, grab the man by the hand and pull him upstairs with her. If she asked him, he could help her forget Barton, Freddy and the horrible thing she had just read. For a few hours. And then she would have to come downstairs and face reality again. A tryst with Mr Smythe would be lovely while it lasted. But what future could there be in it?

Only the one she had just seen.

‘I am not at home. Not to anyone. If you need me, I shall be in the garden, but whoever else may call, I am not at home.’

She tried not to rush as she took the back stairs, far away from where anyone at the front of the house might see or hear her. Stopping in the tiny still room by the kitchen, she found a bonnet and basket, and her pruning scissors. It would all be easier in the garden, surrounded by her flowers and herbs. The sights, the smells, the taste. Everything made more sense there.

She stepped out into the sunlight, feeling the protection of the high brick walls on all sides that muffled the sound of the city. Here, there was only birdsong, the faint trickle of a fountain, and the fragrances of the plants. She ran down the path that led to the wrought-iron gate and the street, to the small bench hidden in the shade of a tree.

She sank down upon it, and let the tears slide down her cheeks again, now that she was safe where no one could see her. Her shoulders shook with the effort of containing the sobs. She did not want to be alone any more, and there was a man willing and full of life who could take the loneliness away. It was so unfair, that the one thing she wanted could lead to a pain and loneliness greater than anything she had felt before.

It had been hard to watch Robert die, but he had been older, and they had known the time would come. But Tony was likely to die a young man, suddenly and violently. And despite it all, she wanted him beyond all reason, aching with it.

And she heard a sigh and a faint rattle of the gate. She looked up to see Smythe, hands wrapped around the bars of the gate, observing her.

She wiped her face dry on the back of her sleeve. ‘Mr Smythe! What are you doing here?’

He was nonplussed to be discovered. ‘I beg your pardon, your Grace. I…I…I did not mean to spy on you.’

The stutter surprised her. When he came to her at night, there was no hesitation, only resolute action. But now, he seemed almost shy when talking to her. He was a different person in daylight. But then, so was she, or she would have opened the door for him when he had come calling.

She tried a false smile, hoping it did not look too wet around the edges. ‘You did not mean to spy, or you did not mean to be caught spying?’

He released the gate and held out open hands, and there was a flash of the smile she recognised. ‘I did not expect to find you here. I was told that you were not at home.’ There was the barest hint of censure there.

‘And yet you came to the back of my house. Were you looking for something?’

He leaned his forehead against the iron of the gate. ‘I often walk by on this street. And you must admit, the view of the garden is most restful. I greatly admire it.’ He stared wistfully in at her.

She gave up. At least, if he were near, she could touch him and reassure herself that the fancy she’d been spinning was not yet reality. She rose. ‘You might as well come in, then, and have a better look.’

Without further invitation, he took a few steps back, and ran at the gate, catching a bar easily and swinging his body over the spikes at the top with inches to spare, landing on his feet on the other side.

There was an awkward pause.

‘I meant to open that for you, you know.’ She hoped the reproof in her voice hid the thrill of excitement that she felt in watching him move. He was still very much alive, and it did her heart good to see it. She sat back down, arranging her skirts to hide her confusion.

‘I am sorry. It was most foolish of me. I am sometimes moved to rash actions. Rather like spying on you in your garden a moment ago, and then lying about my fondness of flowers to gain entrance.’

There was another awkward pause.

‘Not that I am not fond of flowers,’ he amended. ‘And yours are most charmingly arranged.’

‘Thank you.’ She patted the seat on the bench beside her, and he came towards her. His stride had the same easy grace she saw in the ballroom and in the bedroom, and she tried not to appear too observant of it. ‘Do you know much of flowers?’

He smiled. ‘Not a thing. I can recognise a rose, of course. I’m not a total idiot. But I tend to take most notice of the plants that provide cover when I am gaining entrance to a house.’ He touched the bush he was standing beside.

‘Rosemary,’ she prompted.

‘Eh?’

‘The shrub you are touching is rosemary.’

He plucked a sprig and crushed it between his fingers, and the air around them was full of the scent. ‘For remembrance.’ He held it out to her.

‘You know your Shakespeare.’

‘If you knew me, you would find me surprisingly well read.’

‘Is that important? In your line of work, I mean.’

He dropped the rosemary and looked away. ‘I am more than my work, you know.’

‘I didn’t mean to imply…’

His eyes were sad when he looked back to her. ‘There was a time when I intended something other than the life I chose. I was the third son, and there was not very much money. I knew that there would be even less, once I was of age and my brothers had families to support. I would need to fend for myself.’

She felt a rush of sympathy. He had been lonely, even in a large family.

He continued. ‘What I wanted did not matter, in any case. My oldest brother was killed duelling, and the second took a bullet to the brain at Talavera. And suddenly, there was only me, two widows, two nephews and a niece. My brothers were older, but not necessarily wiser. Their estates were in shambles and they had made no provisions for their deaths. The whole family was bound for the poorhouse, unless I took drastic action.’ He shrugged. ‘There are many who have more than they need.’

‘But surely, an honest profession. You could have read for divinity.’ She looked at his politely incredulous expression and tried to imagine him a vicar. ‘Perhaps not.’

He sat down at her side. ‘It was my plan, once. And I went to interview for a living, hoping that I would be able to send some small monies home. But the lord met me at a public house to tell me that it had gone to another.

‘And when he got up to leave, he forgot his purse. I was halfway out the door to return it, when it occurred to me that he had money enough to fill many such purses, and my family had no food on the table and no prospects for the future. I put the purse in my pocket, and brought the money home to my family. And that was the end of that.’ He smiled, obviously happier thinking of theft than he had been thinking of life as a clergyman. ‘And what of you? Did you always plan on the life you got?’

She frowned. ‘Yes. I suppose I did. My mother raised me so that I might be an asset to any man that might offer for me. And she encouraged me, when offers were made, to choose carefully in return so that I might never want. Until Robert died, things had gone very much as I would have hoped. I would have liked children, of course.’

‘It is not too late,’ Smythe responded.

She resisted the urge to explain matters to him plainly. ‘I fear it is not on the cards for me. But beside that one small thing, my life was everything I might have hoped for. I made a most advantageous marriage.’

‘You were happy, then?’

She answered as if by rote, ‘I had money, social position and a husband who treated me well. I had no right to complain.’

‘That did not answer the question.’

‘Of course I was happy,’ she said in frustration.

‘And yet, when you say it thus, I wonder if you were.’

She sighed. ‘It is different for men than for women. If you have a talent for something, you can proceed in a way that will develop it and find a career that will make the best use of your abilities. There are options open. You might study law, or go into the military, or become a vicar.’

‘Or a thief,’ he reminded her.

She nodded. ‘But because I was born female, it was my fate to marry. It is not as if I could expect another future. Fortunately, I had no talent to speak of, or any other natural ability than to be beautiful, or I might have felt some disappointment about that fact.’

He looked at her in surprise. ‘No natural talent? I’ll grant you, you are a beauty, a nonpareil. But you are wrong to think you have no other virtues. You are intelligent, well read, and you have a sharp and agile wit.’

She laughed. ‘You base these fine compliments on an acquaintance of several days. My dear Mr Smythe, I would be a fool to be flattered by one with such a shallow understanding of me. There was nothing about my character, my wealth or my family that would have led Robert to want me, had I not been a beauty. I assure you, it was a great weight off my parents to know, before they died, that I was to be well taken care of.’

Tony shook his head. ‘That sounds as if you were a burden to your family. But your parents spoke often of your fine character, although your mother was most proud of her only child being so well placed.’

She glanced at him sharply. ‘You speak as if you knew her.’

‘We were acquainted,’ he replied. ‘I knew your father, as well. I sympathise with your loss of them.’

‘You knew them both?’ She started. ‘They never mentioned you.’

‘It was a long time ago. You had been gone from the house for several years when last I met them. And they never knew of this.’ He made a vague gesture, meant to encompass his life. ‘Believe me, I never visited them in my professional capacity.’

‘I never suspected that you would.’ And it was strange, but she trusted his word on the matter.

‘You are being unfair to yourself, if you think you are without talent, or suspect that you might have no value to a husband other than to beautify his home.’

But the one thing that Robert had most wanted from her, she had been unable to give him, and she held her tongue.

‘I know for a fact that you are much more intelligent than you appear, even if you pretend it is not so in the presence of the Endsteds of the world. I saw the books he was carrying for you, and the ones you keep in your room. Philosophy, Latin, French. Not the reading of a simple mind.’

‘It is a pity, then, that I could not have put all that learning to use, and saved myself from the financial predicament I find myself in.’

He gazed at her with surprising intensity. ‘You have managed most cleverly with little money or help, where a foolish woman could not have gone on at all. It is not your fault that you put your trust in people who should have protected you, only to have them fail you.’

She found his comments both flattering and embarrassing, and sought to turn the conversation back to familiar ground. She summoned her most flirtatious look, fixed him with it and said, ‘How strange you are to say so. Most men content themselves, when I am alone with them, to comment on the fineness of my skin or the softness of my hand.’

He was having none of it, and responded matter of factly, ‘You know as well as I do the quality of your complexion. But I will comment on it, if you insist. Your skin is almost luminous in its clarity. Chinese porcelain cannot compare. But I also know that the skin is nothing to the brightness of the spirit it contains. I know you, your Grace, although you do not believe it. I do.’

She smiled, overwhelmed by his obvious sincerity. ‘And I do not really know you at all.’

‘You know my greatest secret: that I am a thief. It was embarrassing to be caught. But I was glad, when it happened, to find myself in the hands of such a charming captor.’

She blushed at the notion that she had taken him prisoner, and not the other way around. ‘You really shouldn’t steal, you know. It is wrong.’

‘I am familiar with the commandments,’ he said with asperity. ‘And follow nine out of ten to the best of my ability. It is a better average, I think, than the people I steal from, who have no thought to any but themselves. They are greedy, indolent and licentious.’

‘Is that why you came to my rooms? To punish me for my sins? Because I am guilty.’ She hung her head. ‘Of pride, and of lust.’

‘Serious, of course, but the seven deadly sins are not in the Bible, per se,’ he remarked. ‘But what makes you think you are guilty of them?’

‘Barton has been able to manipulate me easily, because he knows how carefully I guard my reputation. If I were willing to admit that I am poor, and that he has gulled me…’

‘Then you might ruin any chance to marry well. You are not guilty of anything, other than being forced to place your trust in one who proved unworthy. Why should you suffer, while the Bartons of the world live in comfort? You could don a cap and remain a poor widow, I suppose. Take in sewing. Do good works. Live off the charity of the church, since your wastrel nephew cannot be bothered to live up to his obligations to you.’ He made a face. ‘It does not sound very pleasant. And it would be a waste of one as young and lovely as yourself, if there is any other alternative.’

He paused, and then added as an afterthought, ‘You could marry below your station. No one would think you proud, then.’

‘I will consider it, if someone asks. But none has. No one offers marriage at all. Men below my station avoid me as unattainable. And men who would be fine catches want nothing more than…’ She shook her head. ‘Barton says that he, and the others, can see that I secretly desire what they offer. That I am too willing, too interested in their company. That I allow too many small liberties, and they are surprised when I refuse to follow through.’

Smythe sniffed. ‘Men have ever used this, when trying to persuade a woman to do more than she wishes. It is no reflection on you. Ignore them.’

‘But look how I behave, when I am alone with you.’ She blurted the words and stopped, embarrassed to have told him the truth. ‘I…I am wanton.’

He was grinning again. ‘Yes. I noticed. It is most flattering. Tell me, is this how you behave with all the other men of your acquaintance?’

‘Of course not. How dare you even think—?’

He laid a finger on her lips to silence her. ‘I did not think so. But it is even more flattering to hear you admit that I am the only one to move you so.’ He looked down at his feet, and she thought for a moment that she could see a faint blush in his check. Then he said, ‘It is not so bad a thing, to take pleasure in the company of the opposite gender. Of course, I am biased, since I am the man in question. I would have to be made of stone to wish you less willing when in my embrace. And I would have been most put out to find you sighing over Barton’s embrace, and behaving thus with him. But I would not expect that, just because you have lain with one man, that you are game to lie with any that might ask.

‘And because you allow me a degree of intimacy, for which I am most grateful…’ he looked up and smiled at her and there was a wicked glint in his eye that made her heart beat faster ‘…I do not assume that I can do as I please with you. If ever I make a suggestion that offends you, you have but to tell me to stop. I am yours to command.’

And thoughts appeared of what she wished to command him to do. They had nothing to do with stopping his current behaviour or being any less wicked in her presence. Quite the contrary. She blushed. ‘No. It is quite all right. You have done nothing to offend me. I am…’ She whispered the next words, ‘I fear I am enjoying it too much.’

He whispered back to her. ‘You have nothing to fear. As I told you the first night, your secrets are safe with me. All of your secrets. But if you enjoy my company so much, why were you not at home, when I called?’

‘What we spoke of last night…I do not know if I can go through with it. It seemed so right, at the time. But it is foolish of me to make promises in the moonlight that I am afraid to keep in daylight.’

‘I see.’ He reached out and gently touched her arm. ‘And why were you crying? This is the second time that I have come upon you and found you in tears. I do not believe you gave me a clear indication of the problem on that night, either. What is it that distresses you so?’

‘I thought I informed you then that it was none of your concern.’

‘But we hardly knew each other, then. I dare say we are much closer now. One might say, thick as thieves.’ He considered. ‘Although for the most part, I have not found thieves to be much in each other’s confidence.’

‘Then why should I trust you?’

‘Because I care enough to ask, and sincerely hope that the problem will be something I can aid you in. You must admit, I have helped you before.’

She laughed through her tears. ‘It is not so easy, this time, I fear. You tempt me. And it is hard to resist you. But the gentleman you discovered me with in the library? I had hopes…’ She left the sentence unfinished.

Tony stiffened next to her. ‘I see. And does the gentleman reciprocate your feelings?’

She blinked away the tears. ‘I did not claim to have feelings. It would be most insensible of me, at my age, to base everything on “feelings.” Instead, I had hopes.’

‘Oh,’ he said, clearly not understanding at all.

‘He is a gentleman, his income is not as great as my late husband’s nor his estates as fine, nor his title as prestigious. But, truly, I do not expect to find the equal of Robert. My first marriage was extremely fortunate in that regard. Lord Endsted was more than rich enough. And he seemed interested. Of course, they all seem interested, at first.’

‘I should think that they would be. You are a charming and attractive woman, your Grace. Any man would be honoured to have your attention.’ He opened his mouth, ready to say more, then stopped and looked at her. ‘But I take it, the man of your choosing is not among them?’

She shook her head. ‘As I said before, this is not so much about what I choose, or what I feel. I would have been more than willing, should he have offered, or any of the others. It would have been most foolish of me to say nay if he’d have offered matrimony. But he saw me with you, and then Barton was here, when we returned. And he now thinks me inappropriate company.’

Anthony exploded with an oath. ‘He does not want you because other men find you attractive? Then the man is a jealous fool. Or blind. I will find him and call him out.’

‘Don’t be absurd.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘He offended me, not you. And if you wish to call out every gentleman who has disappointed me, then I would have to make you a rather long list. I expect it to grow even longer, ere I find a man who will do otherwise. You came upon me in a low mood, that is all. I had not expected, at thirty, to be so thoroughly on the shelf with regard to matrimony. And I am not yet to the point where I find the other suggestions to be flattering.’

‘I should think not,’ he responded indignantly. ‘The cheek of these men. I had thought that one such as yourself, fair as any of the young ladies of the ton, but with grace and poise, with wit as well as intelligence…’ He showed signs of continuing, and then looked down. ‘I would have thought that one such as you would have no end of suitors.’

‘I have had suitors enough.’ She smiled sadly. ‘But they are rarely seeking a wife. I suppose it is a comfort to know that men still find me desirable.’

‘Oh, I must say yes, you are very much that. But that they would be so coarse as to suggest…’

She stared at him. ‘You yourself had admitted that you would have me, should I be so inclined. I fail to see the source of your indignation on my behalf.’

‘But that is before I realised that you would settle for nothing less than marriage.’ He dropped to his knees before her. ‘I am ever your servant, your Grace. You would do me a great honour, should you give me your hand, and I would endeavour to keep you in comfort and safety for the rest of your days.’

She pulled her hand from his grasp. ‘And now you are taunting me with my foolishness.’

‘I assure you, I am not. If you cannot find another who suits you, and do not wish to accept any of the other base offers made to you, then have me.’

‘Most certainly not.’ She had blurted out the words before she could stop to think how they might sound.

He looked up at her, eyes glazed with shock, and skin white, but with a streak of colour on each cheek as though she had slapped him hard. ‘May I ask why?’

‘I should think that would be obvious.’

His voice was steady, but strangely distant. ‘Not to me.’

She ducked her head so that he might not see the fear in her eyes. ‘We hardly know each other.’

‘I doubt you knew the other gentlemen so well as you thought, if you were surprised when none of them offered. So that is not the real reason, is it?’

‘All right. If you insist.’ She steeled herself and said the words, ‘You are a criminal. How could you expect me to accept that fact, and bind myself to you? You would ask me to live in comfort off ill-gotten gains and feel no guilt about it?’

He rose from his knees and dropped back into the seat beside her. There was a flash of pain in his eyes, but when he spoke, his colour was returning to normal and his voice was light, albeit with a slight edge of sarcasm. ‘Women I have supported in the past took care not to know where the money came from. They assumed, correctly, that someone would take care of them, and shield them from the unpleasantness of finances.’ He looked at her. ‘Just as I assumed that, since you took the first money, and had no problem with the theft of the deed, you would not be bothered with the rest.’

‘You assumed incorrectly. I take pride in knowing the details of my finances, although I cannot say I’ve done a very good job with them. And I am tired of men who promise to be a shield against unpleasantness, since unpleasantness has managed to find me in any case.’

‘You would not have the details of it rubbed under your nose. I do not entertain my fence at my rooms. I keep my private life very much removed from my professional one.’

‘Or you will until such time as you are caught and hanged. Then you will drag those around you to disgrace as well.’

The words pained him, and his voice was quiet when he responded. ‘It is not as if I have never considered the fact. And I have taken great care not to be caught. Another reason I never married, I think.’

‘It was probably wise of you. I cannot imagine a crueller fate for a woman than to know such a thing about her husband and to live in fear of his discovery. I could not bear it.’

A shadow passed over his face again. ‘Thank you for making your opinions clear on the matter. I intended no disrespect. I only wished to offer you a solution to a problem that seems to weigh most heavily upon you. The offer stands, of course, for I doubt that my attraction for you will wane. But I will not break my heart over your refusal, since I suspect there is nothing to be done to change your low opinion of me.’ His tone was light, and he seemed to have returned to normal, but she could tell he did not speak the whole truth.

‘Thank you for your understanding.’

‘And thank you for your honesty.’ There was more than a touch of bitterness in the word. ‘And tell me, does your refusal of my more noble offer extend to my friendship as well?’

‘No.’ Her voice was small and unsteady.

‘Because I will not trouble you with my presence again, if you find my criminality so offensive.’ She had hurt him again, and she felt her resolve wavering. But she could not very well marry him, just to spare his feelings. Why could he not understand that one of them must hurt, no matter what path she chose?

She reached out to take his hand again. ‘No. Please, do not forsake me. I cannot help the way I feel. I wish I could, in so many ways, and yet, I cannot. I know I cannot marry you. But neither am I able to let you go. And I do not know what I am to do, in either case. It hurts me to think of it, just as it hurt to say it aloud. And that is why I was crying.’

He laid his other hand over hers and squeezed it tightly. And his smile was sad, but it was a real smile. ‘That is all right. I did not think you would say yes, and yet I felt moved to ask. I do not wish to make you cry, and am sorry to have done so. And truly, I have no desire to leave you and will not unless you send me away.’

He sighed. ‘So let us not think overlong on the details of this, since they pain us both. Until such time as you say otherwise, I am yours to command, your Grace, and that should be more than enough to be happy on, I think.’ And he pulled her close to him, so that she could lay her head on his shoulder, and rocked her in his arms until she dozed.

When she awoke, he was gone.

Chapter Eleven

She returned to the house, lightheaded from her nap in the sunlight and unsure of her emotions. The crying had left her with a megrim that the nap had only partly soothed.

But it had been so restful, leaning against Tony, that she had quite forgotten what a bad idea it was to do so. And strange that he’d even allowed it. He had offered. She had refused. Afterwards, one of them should have slunk away in embarrassment, to nurse their wounds in private.

But he had been very accepting of her refusal, even though she could tell he was hurt. It would have been much easier if he had raged and stormed and then left her in peace. If he had abandoned her, she might have begun the difficult process of forgetting him, rather than closing her eyes and leaning into his shoulder, losing herself in a dream of what it might be like if they were two different people and she could say yes to him.

It could not have hurt him too deeply, then. It was a blow to the ego, of course. No man wanted to be told that he was not good enough to be marriage material. But it must not have been a blow to the heart. If it had been a mortal wound, he would not have recovered so quickly. It might actually have been the answer he wanted to hear, since he had done his best to help her, but had been able to keep his heart free, in case he ever managed to succeed with his dream woman.

All the more reason not to marry him. Although he might want her, he did not truly love her. Their marriage might have been a very workable relationship, if she had had the sense not to fall in love with him before he had asked. But if she had agreed to marry him because she loved him, she could see a grim future ahead. Once he had her, his ardour would cool and he would lose interest. And she would sit like the fool she was, suffering with every small indifference and worrying the night away that he would be captured and killed, or, worse yet, unfaithful.

He would be baffled by her behaviour, since he had given her no reason for it. He had made no grand promises of undying faithfulness before the marriage. Why should she expect them after?

So, it was all for the best. As long as she ignored the emptiness she felt, after denying him.

‘Your Grace.’ Susan rushed to her side, as she entered the house, trying to stop her as she walked down the corridor. ‘I am sorry. I tried. But his foot was in the door. And when I tried to close it, he pushed me and I fell. And I told him you were not at home, but he would not go away.’

The words were overwhelming, and made no sense, but Constance knew, before she opened the door to her sitting room, who she would find there.

Barton was smiling the same placid smile he always did when dealing with her, as though common sense and reason would eventually lead her to do the unspeakable. He did not rise as she entered, remaining relaxed and in control. ‘You ignored my note to you.’

‘Yes, I did,’ she responded. ‘And my servants were instructed not to open the door for you. You cannot continue to force your way into my home, Lord Barton.’

‘Your home.’ When he said it, it was no longer a question. He must know that she’d got the deed.

She pretended to ignore the fact. ‘I will have no more of these nonsensical threats of yours. I have no intention of becoming your mistress. And I do not acknowledge your ownership of my home. If you think you have a case, then take me to court, and prove that you own this house.’

He laughed. ‘You are beautiful, Constance, and more clever than I gave you credit for. I know you have taken the deed. I don’t suppose you would care to enlighten me on how that might have happened. I suspect that the one who helped you might have another motive to gain entry to my house. And I would like a word with him.’

‘I do not know what you are talking about.’

‘Of course you don’t, darling. To hear you, I am almost convinced. I doubt that you have the necessary skills to achieve this yourself. I know you had help. So I will watch you closely, and watch the men who watch you, until I see who your favourite shall be. And when I have discovered him, I will deal with him as he deserves.’

‘My favourite? I have no favourite.’

‘Not that I have noticed. But if you do not, you soon shall. The man that got the deed to your house made you work for it, I’ll wager, just as I intend to.’

She almost responded that Tony had been different, before she could help herself.

He smiled as he saw the look in her eyes. ‘You almost told me. But no matter. You will slip eventually. With a word. A glance. A chance meeting that is no chance. I will find him, and punish him. If it matters to you, you might warn him that I wish him to stay out of my business and that if he thinks he can take you from me, he is sadly mistaken.’ He looked up at her and reached into his pocket, producing a packet of papers. ‘I took the liberty of going up to your room as you slept in the garden, and retrieving what he took from me. And thus, we are back to where we started. You owed me then, and you owe me now.’

‘You lie.’ She reached to snatch it from his hand, and it disappeared again, inside his coat.

‘It was in the drawer of the night table, in your room. It is no trouble, getting by your servants, Constance. Freddy has kept anyone of value in his service. And you, with your soft heart, have employed his cast-offs. You are left with foolish girls and old men. It did not take more than a single blow to dispense with the few that stood in my way.’

‘You struck my servants?’ she said, with horror.

‘I taught them who the master of this house is to be. I doubt I will have to teach them twice.’

‘You had no right. They were doing their duty to me. You were trying to enter my room without permission.’

‘Then you had best give them permission to obey me, or next time I will strike them harder.’

‘If you must hit anyone, then hit the person who gave them the command.’ She stood in front of him, daring him to raise his hand to her.

‘And what good would that do, other than to mark that which I wish to remain unblemished? You are much more likely to obey me to save others, than you would to save yourself. Allow me to demonstrate. Call your maid into the room.’

‘I most certainly will not.’

He got up, stepped out into the hall and said, ‘Susan, come here, please. Your mistress needs you.’

‘I do not!’ But even as she said it, the girl had obeyed the first command, and come to the door of the sitting room. Barton seized her by the wrist and hauled her into the room, closing the door behind her.

Susan struggled, but was no match for him and he pulled her arm until her hand was held high above the flame of a candle. ‘At this height, she barely feels the heat.’ He pulled her arm lower, and the maid closed her eyes. ‘At this height, she is beginning to feel some discomfort. It is very warm on the skin, is it not? Answer me, Susan.’

The girl nodded.

He looked again at Constance. ‘Any lower, and the flesh will burn. Would you like me to demonstrate, or are you willing to see the value of co-operation?’

‘You cannot do this. I will call the Runners.’

‘Afterwards, perhaps. And what good will it do poor Susan then? If you try to leave the room, I will have cooked the flesh of her hand before you can return with help.’

‘Let her go.’

‘Give me the key to this house.’

Constance saw the resolve in his eyes and hurried to her desk, fumbling in the drawer for a spare key. Her hand trembled as she handed it to him.

He released the maid. ‘Very good. We have an understanding. And if you have a notion to bar the door against me or change the locks, know that the next time I come, I shall bring servants of my own, and it will go worse for all inside.’

He smiled thoughtfully. ‘And now, let us return to the matter of your lover, the thief. He is your lover, is he not? I suspect you traded that lovely body of yours for his assistance. You should not have done that, for you knew to whom you belonged when you went to him.’

He sighed. ‘And so, I will find him. And I will punish him for taking something that belongs to me. But how I punish him might well depend on how co-operative you are. I could be moved to leniency, if you treat me well and give me no more trouble. A light beating, perhaps, just as a warning. Or would you like to refuse me again, and see the consequences of your actions?’ He leaned close and whispered, ‘I will make him suffer. He will die screaming, and I will make sure that you hear it. Does that move you?’

‘You would not dare.’

‘Oh, I think so. The man is meddling in things far more important than the fate of your honour. I do not like my privacy invaded. And I do not like one to stand between me and that which I most desire. If you have any feeling at all for the man, you will warn him off, and submit to me. Or do as you please and let him feel the consequence of it. What is your decision?’

She felt her stomach drop, and she trembled. She looked at Barton’s eyes, willing them to be less heartless than they were, to give her any indication that he was not as dangerous as he appeared.

He was still smiling. ‘I’m waiting. Is your continued freedom worth the cost?’

By denying Barton, she had stumbled into a situation that was well over her head and now she was dragging others down with her. ‘If I agree to what you want, you will not harm him?’

‘When next you see him, tell him that you are finished with him, that you belong to me, now. And that he must cease meddling in my affairs. If he leaves me alone, he will escape unharmed. If he continues to interfere, I offer no guarantees. I suggest you be very persuasive, if you have the opportunity.’

She swallowed. ‘All right.’

He smiled again. ‘You will find you have made a wise decision. We will dine out this evening. Vauxhall Gardens. Wear something festive. I do not wish to see you in mourning. Red, I think. And the rubies.’

A scarlet woman, she thought.

‘When we have had supper, I will return here, to spend the rest of the night. Tell your maid that we are not to be disturbed.’

He rose, reaching for his hat. ‘And, Constance…?’

‘Yes, Lord Barton?’

‘From now on, you will call me Jack. And when I take my leave, you will kiss me as if you mean it.’

He stood in the doorway, waiting.

And she stepped close to him, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him as if a life depended on it.

Chapter Twelve

Tony dropped into the wing chair in his study, staring pensively into the fire before him. He was not moved to work on the lock, though he knew he must. He wanted nothing more than to sit in the gathering darkness, alone, for the rest of his life, if need be. Would that the end were not too distant.

Patrick, sensing his mood, brought the tray with the brandy.

Tony poured a snifter for himself and waved the rest away. ‘It is over,’ he said.

‘How so?’

‘I have proposed to her, and she has refused.’

‘This is most sudden.’

‘It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. She hid from me, when I tried to visit her. And when I found her in the garden, she was crying. Patrick, I was defenceless. It seems that other men are offering for her in ways that are less than honourable, and she longs for matrimony. I offered my services in that department, and they were firmly declined.’

‘Even after she knew who you were?’

‘The matter of my identity did not come up,’ Tony muttered.

‘Did not…’ Patrick sank into the wing chair on the opposite side of the fire, and poured himself a glass of his master’s brandy. ‘You expected her to take you, sight unseen, on a very limited acquaintance, and are surprised that she turned you down.’

‘She seemed willing to accept many other gentlemen, with little previous acquaintance, as long as they had money or position. And before I offered, I gave her a fair description of our childhood together. There were enough clues that, had she cared to, she could have seen the truth.

‘But it does not matter, whether she knows me or not. It is the reason she gave, not the denial itself that creates the problem. She said she could not marry a thief.’

Patrick shrugged and sipped his brandy. ‘Then the answer is simple. If you want the girl, stop stealing.’

‘There is the little detail of ten years of crime.’

Patrick waved his hand. ‘Immaterial to the discussion. How much have you personally profited from it?’

Tony considered. ‘Very little. When I began I had a small inheritance, and I invested it well. But it was in no way enough to support the family. So I stole. And since I enjoyed stealing, I continued. But my own money is still there, should I choose to retire.’

‘So you did not steal for yourself. You stole for others. And when you steal now?’

‘There is really no cause for it, other than to cover the activities I perform for Stanton.’

‘So you are, in effect, stealing for the Crown,’ Patrick reasoned.

‘I cannot very well tell her that, though, can I? It defeats the purpose of covert activities, if one goes trumpeting them about the neighbourhood.’

‘But you are not exactly trumpeting about the neighbourhood, if you reveal the truth to one person. Or do you not trust her to keep a confidence?’

He glared at Patrick. ‘I would trust her with my life. I already have. For she knows the truth about me, and has had the power to ruin me for several weeks. If she wished me ill, she had but to say something before now, to see me carted off to Newgate.’

‘Then reveal the better part of your occupation, since you have revealed the worst and not come to ill. Along with your true name and history, of course,’ Patrick added.

There was an annoying emphasis on the last bit of advice, and Tony chose to ignore it. ‘Perhaps when I have run Barton to ground…There are risks involved. He is a dangerous man, if Stanton is to be believed.’

‘All the more reason to tell her the whole truth, since she was involved with him before you entered the picture. It is the curate in you speaking again, sir. Humility does you no credit when you are using it to mask cowardice. And that is what it is. While you think nothing of staring death in the face while attempting a burglary, you stick at speaking the truth to Constance Townley since you are convinced that, once she knows who you are, she will reject you. But since she has already done that, sir, the worst is over.’

Tony readied a response, and then checked himself. What did he have to lose, after all, in telling her everything? ‘Much as it pains me to have a valet who continually points out my stupidity, you are right again, Patrick. It can be no more dangerous to her than it was at the beginning, when Stanton believed her an accomplice in treason. And whatever she thinks of me, I cannot let her go blundering about, where she might thwart my schemes, or put her own freedom at risk by inadvertently aiding Barton in his plans.’

And if revealing his reason for robbing Barton raised her estimation of him? He could not help smiling at the thought.

Tony knocked firmly on the front door of Constance’s house, hoping for better results in the evening than he had achieved in the afternoon. He had spent an embarrassingly long time on his toilet. His boots were polished to mirror brightness, his coat was fresh from Weston. His cravat was sublime. He had forced Patrick to shave him so close that he suspected he was missing a layer of skin, but his cheek was soft.

He hoped to be able to demonstrate the fact to Constance later in the evening.

She would be home, of course. He knew for a fact that there were no balls, soirées, or musicales of any value that evening—if there had been, he’d have been invited to them. His original plan had been for a quiet evening at home with a glass of port and his new safe, until he realised that Constance would be having a quiet evening at home as well. He had rehearsed his speech in his head, willing himself to stick to the plan and not be dazzled by the fineness of her eyes or the nearness of her lips. He would find her, and beg an audience. She would entertain him in the sitting room and they would chat casually of things that had nothing to do with Barton or her financial state.

He would make it clear over the course of the evening that his interest had nothing to do with the business of the deed, and everything to do with the high esteem in which he held her. In which any sane and decent man could not help but hold her.

He would explain his current interest in Barton, his present occupation and the relative safety of it, compared with his life of a year ago, when he had been stealing full time. Should he ever be caught now, Stanton would manage to free his neck from the noose and explain all. While it was not without scandal, and not so honourable as a title and land, it was not such a horrible thing as she imagined and she would not be embarrassed, should the whole truth of it come to light.

And then he would explain to her that they were not the strangers she might think them, and that it would make him the happiest man on earth if only she would consent to marry him.

But he remembered the kisses and the way she’d responded to them and changed his plan.

He would tell her that it would make him the happiest man on the planet if she might consent to marry him tomorrow, and consent tonight to everything else. Because he was quite mad with desire for her, and had been so for as long as he could remember. And there was little hope of him progressing with the Barton matter or anything else until he’d had her.

He grinned at the thought. Doubts presented themselves, of course. He had lacked the nerve to strike when the iron was hottest, the woman in his arms, and the bed scant paces away.

But he remembered the previous night, the way she had clung to him, when he had turned to go, and asked if she would see him again with such sweet hope in her eyes. That must have been more than gratitude. She might deny him in daylight, but the sun was down and his luck was about to change.

The maid, Susan, opened the door, and he was surprised to see fear in her eyes before she recognised him. And then, as she always did, she told him her mistress was not at home.

‘Susan, let us have no more of that tonight. Be honest with me. Is she not at home, truly, or is she not at home to me?’

Susan was looking at him as though she expected him to eat her. ‘Not at home, sir.’

‘Because I will hear no more nonsense on the subject, from you, or from her. If she is hiding in her bedroom, or the garden, or any other room in the house, you are to go to her immediately and tell her I wish to speak to her, just for once, in the parlour over a cup of tea, like a civilised gentleman. Tell her, if you would, that I have fallen off the ivy and twisted my ankle, and will not leave her sitting room until it is healed.’

Susan now looked both baffled and terrified.

‘It is a lie, of course,’ he assured her. ‘My ankle is fine, as is the ivy. But say anything you need to, to get her down out of her room.’

‘I cannot, sir.’

‘Can you say it for a crown, then?’

‘Sir!’

‘A guinea?’

‘I cannot…’

‘A five-pound note, Susan. Name your price, and I will pay, but you will not put me off.’

She ignored the money in his hand, closed her eyes and said, ‘Mr Smythe. I will not take your money, for it will mean disobeying my mistress. And she said I am, under no circumstances, to tell you that she has gone out this evening, to Vauxhall, with Lord Barton. If you arrive, I am to do whatever is necessary to get you to leave this house so that you are not here when they return for the evening.’ Susan seemed no happier saying the words than he was in hearing them.

He could feel the muscles of his smile tightening to a rictus. ‘Thank you, Susan. I will not seek her here, then. I feel the need of some night air. Perhaps a trip to the Gardens.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Susan whispered. ‘And be careful. He’s a bad ’un.’ And she closed the door to him.

The glitter of Vauxhall at night was lost on Tony, as he paid his admission to enter. Acres of land, much of it secluded walkways. How was he to find her in the throng of revellers present? He must trust that Barton meant to keep her where she could be seen, since there was little point in stepping out with her if he did not intend for them to be noticed.

Tony scanned the crowds in the avenues, and the people gathered around the tightrope walker, and worked his way around the dance floor near the orchestra until a flash of crimson caught his eye. She was there, on Barton’s arm.

She was stunning, as only she could be. He had grown quite used to seeing her about town in mourning, or half-mourning, but even after her recent return to fashion, he had not seen her looking so splendid as this. The deep red of her gown made her skin glow luminous in the lantern light, her dark hair was dressed with tiny red roses, and her throat and ears were adorned with pigeon’s-blood rubies that would have left the thief in him quivering with excitement, had the man in him not been more interested in seeing the bare skin beneath.

The image of her as she had been when she came to his rooms was still burning in his mind: the true outline of the body hidden just under the satin. There was the swell of her breast and the place where the nipple would raise the fabric of the gown, and there was the curve of her stomach, and the place where the gown would pool where her legs met. Her cruelty knew no bounds if she had revealed herself to him in that way only to give herself to another.

But now Barton was escorting her along the dim pathways, deeper and deeper into the dark walks of Vauxhall Gardens.

Tony knew the reason that a gentleman might escort a lady into the grounds, for he had done it himself. But the ladies were rarely ladies, nor did the gentlemen have any intention of keeping to manners.

Her dark eyes were unreadable and her face revealed neither joy nor sadness. She was as cool and aloof as any of the statues adorning the garden walkways. After all the fine talk of marriage and reputation earlier in the day, she showed no sign of caring how her behaviour must look to any who saw it tonight.

The couple disappeared around a bend on the darkened path, and Tony hopped the nearest hedge and cut across the grass, staying out of the glow of the lanterns to keep pace with them as they proceeded. Around him, on other paths in the darkness, he could hear the sounds of other couples: giggles, sighs and the occasional moan.

And a few yards away from him, Barton had stopped, and pulled Constance close to speak into her ear.

She was leaning into him and looking up into his face, and when he whispered to her, she did not pull away. She glanced around, to see if there was anyone following.

Tony stepped further into the darkness to be sure that he was hidden.

When she was sure they were alone, she kissed Barton quickly on the lips.

The bastard tilted his head and spoke again.

And again she kissed, more slowly this time, with her sweet mouth open to his. It was nothing like the kisses Tony had seen between them, in Barton’s own garden. That night, she had been awkward and it had appeared that she could barely tolerate the man she was with.

Tonight, she was kissing him with her whole spirit, her body tight against his, her arms clutching his shoulders.

Tony’s heart sank. Had anyone noticed the pair together, other than him? Most probably not. It was Vauxhall, after all, and the other couples walking these paths had secrets of their own to keep and no time to pry.

But Constance must have known what would happen if she came here. Why would she let Barton take such a liberty, after the way she had acted in her rooms, and his?

She had said that Barton had the deed to her house. And she had offered her body in trade to Tony if he could get it back.

But had she truly said that Barton’s attentions were unwelcome? Tony swallowed. Perhaps he had misunderstood. It was only the theft of the deed that was unwelcome. If she owned the house, she could invite who she chose to share her bed: him, or Barton or anyone else.

So perhaps what Stanton had first claimed was the truth. She was a faithless traitor, with no more loyalty to Barton than to anyone else.

The thought made him ache.

And yet, he could not stop wanting her. He had wanted her all the time she was married, he had wanted her before that, he had wanted her when they were children, before he even knew what he wanted her for. And because he was a fool, he would continue to want her, if she belonged to Barton or married another. It was lucky that he had not told her when he’d had the chance, or she’d have known the strength of her hold over him and left him with even less dignity than he already possessed.

But if he could not have her, the least he could do was get her clear of Barton before the man’s inevitable destruction.

The garden was as it ever was, gay and enchanting in the darkness. Robert had disapproved of Vauxhall, saying it attracted too common a crowd, but the few times she had gone, she had found it strangely exciting to be able to mingle with royalty and courtesans, watching the entertainments, and listening to the orchestra while eating overpriced ham sandwiches and drinking cheap wine. The pavilions glittered with gilt and mirrors. There was dancing and laughter all around her. And later, there would be fireworks.

She doubted she would be there to see them, for she would be home, in bed. With Barton. He had already led her down one of the dark walks so that they might kiss. She tried not to think of it as a preamble to what was coming. At least it had not been quite so horrible as when she had admitted defeat and kissed him in the sitting room, earlier that day.

This time, she had been able to close her mind to who she was with, imagining that she had been lured down a walk by another who wished to pull her into the darkness, a few steps away from the familiar world, and kiss her to insensibility.

And she had gone willingly, for after a few glasses of wine, the familiar world had seemed intolerably dull, and wickedness in the darkness of Vauxhall excited her.

When she was sure they were alone, she had kissed Barton once, and asked to go back to the dancing. But he had told her that she would need to try much harder. So she had closed her eyes and thought of how different it might be if she were here with Tony. And a few minutes later, Barton had pulled away and declared himself pleased with her response and led her back towards the light.

When they neared the orchestra pavilion, she requested another glass of wine, and he left her alone in the crowd to go find her refreshment. She suspected it would take many more glasses to get through the evening, but it would be worth any price to settle Barton’s vicious temper until she could think of a better plan.

The music began again. It was to be a waltz. She looked around her with resignation. Barton would return and claim her for a dance. She had been lucky so far, and seen no one familiar. But if any who knew her were present, there would be talk. It could not be helped.

A hand from the crowd seized hers and pulled her out on to the floor. And she found herself not in the arms of Barton, but staring into the face of Anthony Smythe, inches from her own.

‘There, now. Did I not promise you that you would run into me at many gatherings, now that you know me? And here the truth is proved, for you are waltzing with me.’

She looked over her shoulder, in panic. ‘I had promised this dance to another.’

‘I suspect it is Barton, for he is coming towards us and looks most furious.’

She struggled to escape from Tony’s grasp. ‘He must not see us together.’

Tony’s grip held tight and he pulled her closer. ‘I do not see how he can help it, for we are together before his very eyes.’

She stared into the crowd, looking for Barton, sick with dread of what was to come.

‘Do not search after other men, when you are in my arms. I find it most damaging to the spirit to think I cannot hold your attention for the space of a single dance.’ His tone hardened. ‘Particularly if you must look at Barton. I had hoped, after what I needed to do for you last week, and all the fine talk in the garden about wanting an honourable marriage, that you would have the sense to stay away from him.’

‘I could not help myself,’ she admitted with honesty.

‘Nor could you the last time. You needed my help, as I remember it. And were willing to go to surprising lengths to get it.’

She lifted her chin. ‘And I do not need you any more.’

‘You are done with me, then?’

‘Yes,’ she insisted. ‘I wish you to leave me alone. And leave Barton alone, as well.’

‘And what happened to all the pretty words about preferring my attentions to those of Barton’s?’

‘The situation has changed.’

‘I see.’ He could see exactly what she wanted him to see. He was angry. Angry enough to leave, she hoped, since she did not know how much longer she could stand to lie to him.

‘I do not need your help or your company, and wish you to stay far from me in the future.’

Instead he pulled her even closer, so that her body brushed his coat front and his lips were near her ear. His voice was rough as he said, ‘I will leave you, then. But before I go, let me help you one last time with a word of advice. Stay away from Barton. His star is no longer on the rise. When things come crashing down about him, I would hate to see you caught in the result.’

She felt sick and frightened and angry, all at the same time. She could go to Barton because he forced her to, only to have Smythe destroy her along with Barton. Or she could not go to Barton, and he would destroy Smythe and everyone else around her. Either way, she was trapped.

‘And that is your idea of help, is it?’ She slapped him on the shoulder hard enough to knock him out of step. ‘And now, Mr Smythe, I will tell you what I think of your help. You have been breaking into Barton’s home for reasons of your own, and only pretending to help me. But it does not really have much to do with me, does it? For you have been spying on Barton since that first day, when I caught you spying on me. You claim you want to help, and you pretend to be different. But you are no different than Barton is. First you flatter, then you steal, and if you are not successful, you try blackmail. And at last, you resort to threats to make me do as you wish.’

‘Threats?’ He pushed her away so that he could look down into her eyes, trying to read the truth in them until she was forced to look away to hide it. ‘He is threatening you still?’ The hand that held hers squeezed her fingers and he pulled her close again. ‘Why did you not just tell me? When I saw you together, I thought…Well, never mind what I thought. I was a fool.’ He glanced at the musicians. ‘The dance will be ending soon. Tell Barton whatever you like: that I forced you to dance or that you went willingly to spite him. Then, the first chance you get, lose yourself in the crowd. Do not go to him tonight, no matter what he is holding over your head. And I will be sure he does not come to you. You needn’t be afraid of him or do anything that you do not wish to do. I can still help you, if you will let me. Why did you not ask?’

She thought of Barton’s threats, and what might happen to Tony if she involved him again. ‘The last time, what I asked you to do was wrong. I can not ask it again. It is too dangerous.’

He leaned forward and laughed in her ear. ‘It is in my nature to do wrong. There is very little you can do to redeem my character other than to allow me to use my more improper talents in a good cause. What you asked was no imposition, and a chance to see some much-needed justice done in the world. I do not care a fig for the dangers that concern you. I will bring down Barton in any case, but I do not want my actions to injure you, for you are innocent of his villainy. If he is doing something to thwart that, then will you do me the great honour of allowing me to help you again?’

She hesitated, and he spun her around the floor so that Barton could not see them speak.

‘Say the word, your Grace. I will not impose on you further, if you truly do not wish it. But if you but nod, I will come to your rooms later, and you can tell me all. Then, if you do not wish my help, send me away.’

She was almost weak with relief at the thought of talking to him, and leaned against him and let him feel the change in her body as she gave herself up to his protection.

He squeezed her hand again. ‘Very well, then. Go home and unlock your window.’ He smiled at her. As the music ended, he spun her back to the place she had been, to stand by the irate Barton. ‘Delightful, your Grace, and so sorry to impose, but I could not resist the temptation to steal the dance.’

She watched the light of recognition flare in Barton’s eyes at his choice of words.

Barton glared at him. ‘You should be careful what you steal, sir. For you know what happens to thieves.’

Tony laughed. ‘I have but to read The Times to see that, sir. Hanging. But at least it is not so bad as the thing that happens to traitors. While the courts might show leniency to a thief, counterfeiting is high treason. To be hanged, drawn and quartered for acting against your own country?’ Tony shuddered theatrically. ‘A nasty end, is it not, Jack?’

Barton’s normal composure broke, and he grew even angrier than he had been; his cold smile turned to a grimace of fury and his colouring was mottled red. ‘Then a traitor need have no reason to fear doing murder, Smythe. The slow and painful death of another will add nothing to the severity of the punishment, should one be caught.’

She reached out and tugged Barton’s sleeve to distract him, and he shook her off.

Tony tipped his head to one side, considering. ‘I suppose it would not, if one could manage such a feat. But in your case, I have my doubts. Shall we see?’ And he turned and started towards the dark walks.

And Barton cursed once, and made to follow. Then he turned back to her. ‘You are to return home immediately, go to your room, and wait for me there.’

She grabbed his arm. ‘I will do nothing of the kind. I know what you mean to do. And you promised you would not.’

Tony turned back and looked at her curiously. ‘Do as he says, Constance. Go home. Whatever occurs, I do not wish you to be a part of it. Do you understand?’

She looked between the two men, both implacable. ‘Go.’ Barton pointed towards the exit as though ordering a dog to its kennel.

‘Please, your Grace,’ Tony added.

And then he walked away, in the direction of the most secluded paths, disappearing into the nearest crowd.

Barton followed.

Chapter Thirteen

Constance sat on the end of her bed, knotting and unknotting her handkerchief in quaking hands. Why had she listened to either of them? She should have thrown herself onto Barton and held him back.

But Tony had gone so quickly and left Barton to push and shove his way through a group of people. When she had gone after him, she had been swept along with the group, and was near to the exit before she got clear, having seen no sign of Tony or Barton.

She had searched for a while, but been afraid to venture into the darkness alone, and finally had hired a hackney and hurried back to her house, shooed the maid away, locked the door and unlocked the window. Please, dear Lord, let it be Tony who arrived and not Barton. She did not think she could bear the sight of him, much less his touch, if she knew that he had come to her rooms with Tony’s blood on his hands.

‘By your leave, your Grace?’ Tony stood framed in the open window, awaiting her permission to enter.

‘Oh, do not be such a fool. Come in before someone sees you.’ She rushed to the window and reached to pull him in herself, patting at his chest with her hands, searching for some sign of injury.

He stepped into her room as easily as if he’d entered it from the hall, laughing as her hands touched him, catching them and bringing them to his lips. ‘You thought I would come to harm from Barton?’

She looked at him incredulously. ‘I was terrified. You must have known what I would think.’

‘That I would go into the darkness and let him brawl with me, in a public park? Not knowing who he might have brought with him for aid or what trap might await me? I’m sorry to disappoint you, darling, but I ran like a rabbit until I was quite sure he was lost on the paths, and then I came here. And I can assure you; I am quite unharmed.’ He placed her hands against his chest again. ‘But you may touch me as much as you like. I find it most pleasant.’

She snatched her hands away and turned from him. ‘I was a fool to agree to this. I should never have allowed you to come. I put you at risk for helping me, and you treat it as if it were a joke. But I thought you deserved a warning. Barton knows I had help getting the deed. And yesterday he forced his way into my home and took it back. After tonight, he must know it was you who helped me. He wants revenge. He means to hurt you.’

Anthony laughed. ‘I gathered that. I wish him luck in it.’

‘Do not talk that way. You do not understand what he is capable of.’

He smiled. ‘I am sorry, but so many men have threatened me over the years. I am still here, and quite whole.’ He stood before her, hands outspread, inviting another examination. When she did not reach for him, he became serious again. ‘I thank you for the warning, although I am not particularly concerned by Barton’s threats. And what might all that have to do with your kissing him in a public place?’

‘You saw?’

‘Indeed. You were not enjoying it? Because you appeared most enthusiastic.’ His smile was gone, and his tone demanded an explanation.

‘What choice do I have? He gave me a demonstration yesterday of the depths he is willing to stoop to ensure my obedience. He beat my servants. He tortured my maid before my very eyes, until I gave him the key to my house. And threatened to do the same to you if I did not submit to him.

‘He has everything, and yet he wants more from me. I have no money, no power in this. But I cannot allow him to hurt you. And he would, since he knows how it might hurt me.’ Her hands had begun to shake and her breathing was becoming unsteady. If she did not get hold of herself, she would be gasping, and the gasps would turn to sobs. And she feared the crying would never stop.

‘And why did you not come to me when I asked you to?’ His voice was gentle.

‘He is watching me. Every move I make. He was waiting for me to go to you, so that…He said…’ She closed her eyes. ‘That he would know who helped me, because I would go to him, or he would come to me, just as you did tonight. And when he found you out, he would get back at you. It would go hard for you, but it would go harder still if I did not co-operate. He said that I must tell you he knows what you are seeking more than the deed. He will kill you, if you try again. There might be clemency, if I do as he says. But if I resist, he will take pleasure in hurting you, and that I should know that it would be all my fault.’ She stared at him, willing him to understand enough to be worried.

But he laughed. ‘That is all, then?’

‘Tonight, when we danced, he suspected. And then you taunted him and removed all doubt. How could you be so foolish?’

‘I could not help it. He stood there, all puffed up like an angry red balloon. It was too tempting to deflate him.’

‘You called him traitor.’

‘Because he is one,’ Tony replied simply.

‘And so you know he has nothing to lose. He is angrier still and will be watching us both. For all I know he has followed you here tonight.’

‘He did not follow me,’ he reassured her. ‘No one knows I am here. You need have no fear of it.’

She smiled in relief. ‘If he does not know where to find you, then you are safe for now. But he must know your direction. He will try to find you there. He may be waiting for you at your home, even now.’

‘Very astute of you. That is exactly where he is. I followed him to my home and have seen him, watching my house. I left him catching a chill on the street corner, waiting for me to return, so that he could do me mischief. And I have set a man of my own to watch the watcher. If Barton moves from the spot, he will not get far.’

She reached out to clasp his hand. ‘Then you can get away. Leave from here. Leave tonight. Get out of the country. Go to the Continent, or perhaps the Americas. I do not care. But swear to me that you will be far away from here by morning, so that I need have no fear for you.’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘And what will become of you, if I leave?’

‘He does not mean to hurt me. He has assured me of that.’

‘He will be quite public about keeping you, and everyone will know it. Think of what you will lose, Constance. Your friends. The prospects you held so dear, even this morning. All of it will be gone.’

‘Honour is only an idea. It will not hurt to lose it. I am no innocent, Tony. I know what must be done, and it means nothing, compared to your life. It does not matter to me, as long as I know you are safe.’

‘You would be willing to ruin yourself, to preserve my miserable hide?’ His eyes were serious. Then his face spread in a lazy grin, but he showed no sign of taking his leave. ‘On the contrary, I think it matters a great deal.’

‘Not to me. Not any more. I will go to him if I must. If that is what it takes to keep you safe. But you must leave him alone. Whatever you are after, do not seek it in his house. Has no one told you that it is wrong to steal? It was only a matter of time before you met someone like Barton, who was worse than you and could punish you for your crimes.’

He waved the argument aside, his grin wide and without care. ‘Leave off with your begging, for I am not moving from this spot until I am good and ready. But tell me again, because I love to hear you say it—you do not go to him by choice?’

‘Of course not. The man is horrid.’

‘And you are only tolerating his attentions to protect me?’ he prompted.

‘I cannot let this go any further. He will not have you, if there is anything I can do to prevent it.’

Anthony sighed and fixed her with his smile. ‘I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear that. I thought your problem was something serious, or difficult. Or that you secretly fancied Barton and were using me to control him. But you are trying to save me?’ He laughed. ‘And that is all? Do not worry. You need do nothing. I will take care of everything.’

She paced the room, wringing her handkerchief in her hands. ‘You will go back out the window to search his rooms, and I am to stay here and wait for a report of your death? I vow, your offer of assistance is most welcome, but there is nothing you can do that will not put you in greater jeopardy.’

Tony replied, with gentle insistence. ‘You need have no fear. Relax. Let everything to me.’

‘That is what my late husband said. Do not worry, Constance. Do not be such a goose. Everything will be fine. I trusted him in all things, and look what I have come to. Barton means to have me and kill you. It is too late for me. But you can still escape him. Run, Tony. Run far away. If you come to harm because of me, I swear I shall go mad.’

He moved as silently as a cat and was upon her before she realised, taking her by the shoulders and pinning her to the wall to stop her pacing. He looked down into her face with his wild smile and dream-filled eyes, and said, ‘I shall go mad, if I must watch you make another circuit of the room.’ He reached behind her and caught the tie of her bodice, tugging to undo the bow. ‘Although it is rather pleasant to see you so overwrought for my sake.’

‘But he is a villain, Tony, and he knows about you. What are we to do? I—’

His lips came down on hers, stopping her words. The kiss was forceful, almost brutal in its intensity, and he held her tight against him, so that she could feel his body responding to her. She could feel his hands on her back, dealing, one by one, with the hooks of her dress. Then he pushed away from her, placing his hands on her shoulders, holding her tight in place. ‘You shall do nothing tonight. Not with Barton, at any rate.’ He trailed his fingers forward, along the gaping neckline of her dress.

‘Stop it,’ she muttered. ‘We mustn’t. There isn’t time. He will come for me tonight. And if he finds you here…’

‘I said—’ he pushed at the fabric, and the dress slipped off her shoulders ‘—I would take care—’ he reached behind her to undo her stays ‘—of everything. But if you are sure you want me to run away, then you need merely say the word, and I shall go.’

‘He said—’

‘Never mind Barton, for a moment. What is it that you want, your Grace?’ He was trailing his fingers over the bare skin of her back and she shuddered with the shock of it.

And then his hands slipped beneath her chemise, stroking her sides, grazing her breasts. ‘All things being equal, do you wish me to stay?’

She closed her eyes and tried not to think of what his touch was doing to her, and spoke. ‘Of course I do not want you to go. But—’

‘Stop right there.’ He laid a finger on her lips. ‘Do not spoil it with more talking. You have said enough. Now let me help.’

Oh, dear. She stayed very still as he worked the rest of the laces free.

It was not as if she objected. But it all would have been easier a night ago, when she was not so frightened. Tonight, passion was the last thing on her mind. But if she could be still and give herself up to Tony, she could keep him away from Barton for the rest of the night. He had been working on her behalf for quite some time and she had done nothing for him but cause him trouble. And if this was to be goodbye, she could not send him away without something.

It would be better for him if he ran, as she had told him to. She would be alone again, but he would be safe.

But she did quite miss the comfort of a man’s arms around her, the soft words and gentle kisses.

He freed the corset and in one smooth move pulled it forward and away from her body and pushed her bodice and chemise to her waist. She was bare before him.

She closed her eyes, afraid of what she might see in his eyes. She was not old, certainly, but well past her prime. Suppose it was not what he had expected? She opened her eyes to look at him.

And he did not notice, for he was gazing at her breasts in hungry fascination. He reached up to cup them in his hands, closed his eyes and sighed, and when he looked at her again his smile widened.

All right. He seemed satisfied in that. And she had to admit that even though her nerves were jangling with dread, the feel of his hands as they caressed her was more than pleasant. There was a low humming in her blood as he looked at her. She was lying to herself to pretend that it would be a hardship to submit to him. And if they did it quickly, he would still be away before Barton tumbled to his whereabouts.

She reached up and pulled his hand away, ready to lead him to her bed.

And he shook off her touch and pushed her firmly back against the wall.

Dear Lord. Did he mean to take her standing up? The humming was a singing in her at the thought. It would not take very long at all, then. Or so she thought. She had never tried it. It would be something that required more co-ordination, more balance, more stamina than she was used to in a partner. It was not something she had experience in. And was unlikely to be gen—

His lips came down on hers, stopping thought as he took her tongue. His hands grasped her waist and found the strings of her petticoat, undid them and pushed the fabric to the floor, leaving her naked before him.

He stepped away to admire her.

She regained her thought. Gentle. He was not likely to be gentle, but she doubted that he would be so rough as to hurt her. She must need remember to relax, when the moment came, to make it easy for him to enter, and perhaps afterwards she could ask him to lie in her bed and hold her for a few minutes, before he had to go.

Did one ask for such things? She was not sure.

He was staring at her naked body, and she remembered too late that she should be embarrassed. At the very least, she should do something to help him out of his clothing, since the situation was highly unequal. She reached for the buttons of his waistcoat.

He seized her by the wrists and pinned them against the wall, and said, his face close to hers, ‘I said I would take care of everything, your Grace.’

And before she could suggest that under the circumstances he might call her Constance, his mouth was on hers again. She tried to pull her hands free, but he was too strong for her and held her pinned as he took her mouth. His grip on her hands was relaxed but unmovable, and she found she quite liked the feeling of struggling against his hold, the wool of his coat rubbing against her nakedness. And the way her movements seemed to inflame his ki—

He was kissing her mouth with savage ferocity, and she writhed in his grasp, and with a shudder, she gave herself up to him, going weak and pliant in his arms. Only then did his lips move to her throat, and she could feel his tongue licking and his teeth biting at her pulse and making it jump in response. He released her hands and imprisoned her body between his and the wall, stroking down her back to cup her bottom before taking her by the shoulders and steadying himself as he lowered his mouth to her breasts.

She tried to catch her breath, now that her mouth was free, but found it impossible. His mouth was greedy and hard against her and his hands slipped to her waist and squeezed, holding her steady as he su—

Oh, dear Lord. His mouth was on her nipple, pulling hard and his hand slipped between her legs and…

She pressed her back into the wall to keep from collapsing with the shock of it. He was making love to her with his hands, caressing her legs, spreading her sex and slipping those agile fingers in and out of her. She grabbed at her own hair, and it fell in a shower of pins and rose petals, the curls forming a curtain around him as he kissed her breasts. Then she ran her fingers through the waves in his hair, clutching at the back of his neck to hold his mouth to her and urge him on. Her breath was coming faster, sensations piling on top of sensation. And then subsiding as he pulled his mouth away to…

He cupped his hand over her sex and slid to his knees before her, trailing kisses down her belly until he came to her navel, setting up a rhythm with his tongue and his hand, until she was rocking against him and pressing herself down on his hand to push his fingers more deeply into her, clutching his shoulders as though he were the only solid thing in the world.

And he stopped. He lifted his head to look up into her face, dominating her even as he knelt at her feet. And again he smiled, and this time it was in triumph as he thrust into her with one hand, grabbed her hip with the other, and pulled her to his mou…

And she lost herself, her cares, her body, and her mind, and yet the kiss did not end. She begged him to stop and in the same breath begged him for more, and he laughed against her and began it all again until her legs shook under her and she writhed against him as the feelings rolled through her again and again.

‘Your Grace?’

He pulled away from her at last and laid his head against her thigh, idly kissing the soft flesh.

‘Your Grace, is anything the matter?’

She shook her head, trying to understand what she was hearing.

‘Because I heard you cry out.’ Oh, dear, she had forgotten the maid. ‘Your Grace? The door is locked. Do you need assistance?’

She leaned her head back against the wall, wondering if she could stand any more help for the evening without dying of happiness.

When Tony smiled up at her, the lazy, carefree grin was back. He bit her hip, and let his fingertips play over the back of her knees.

‘Your Grace?’ There was a trace of laughter in her maid’s voice. It had been obvious to Susan what she had been doing. And, Constance suspected, quite loud.

‘No, Susan. Do not trouble yourself. I am fine.’ The maid retreated.

‘You are fine. Very fine indeed,’ Tony whispered against her belly. ‘And I must go.’

‘But you haven’t—’

‘But you have. Twice, at least.’ He smiled with pride and rose to take her hands. ‘I told you I would make it all better. I must go and take care of Barton and retrieve your deed and your keys. I suspect he is quite cold and stiff after all this time standing in the street. Whereas I feel most refreshed.’ He let go of her hands and scooped her up in his arms, and she squealed in delight as he carried her to her bed and tossed her under the covers, pulling them over her naked body. ‘You need not fear a visit from him tonight. Now, go to sleep, and if you would…’ he kissed her ‘…dream of me.’

‘Sleep?’ How could he even suggest it?

‘I have work yet to do. It is a shame, isn’t it, that in my chosen profession the work begins when the sun goes down, for it leaves me less time to spend with you.’

‘But you will come again,’ she whispered. ‘Soon. When you can stay with me.’

And he grinned. ‘As your Grace pleases.’

There, he thought with some satisfaction as he climbed out of the window and gained the street. She had left off the notion that he need run for his life. In fact, he was quite sure that she would be most vehemently opposed to his going anywhere without her. And she had forgotten all about sleeping with Barton as well. Although the notion that she would make the ultimate sacrifice for him was flattering, under no circumstances would he allow her to do so.

But it gave him proof enough that he need no longer worry about Constance’s feelings towards him. She might think that marriage was an impossibility. But there were many other things she seemed ready to agree to, and he would soon teach her that the advantages of becoming his wife might outweigh the negatives of birth and career.

As he approached his rooms, he saw the shadowy figure concealed in the bushes long before it saw him, which was highly amusing.

‘Barton.’ He smiled his most unctuous smile, and strode up to the man, clapping him on the back.

Barton started at the unexpected contact, and then straightened and failed miserably at hiding his confusion.

‘Forgotten me so soon? My name is de Portnay Smythe. I believe we spoke this evening, when I was rescuing Constance Townley from the tedium of having to waltz with you.’ Tony smiled. ‘I was most disappointed to lose you in the crowd at the Gardens, for I rather thought that you meant to teach me a lesson.’

Barton’s eyes narrowed. ‘Someone must, Smythe. It is well past time you learned that sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong can be very bad for your health.’

Tony shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But I doubt you will be the one to teach me, for you have not learned that lesson yourself. Your continued harassment of the Dowager Duchess of Wellford, for example, is about to prove extremely unhealthy.’

Barton smiled. ‘I beg to differ. I was there first, Smythe. She did not seem the least bit harassed, when last we were alone, and I have no desire to part with her. I assure you, the lady’s services are already engaged.’

Tony ignored the red haze of rage that formed at the idea of Barton alone with Constance, and sneered. ‘Her services are engaged? You talk of her as though you are hiring a coach. If she were in agreement on that point, then we would have nothing to speak of here. But in talking to her, I gather she is somewhat distressed by your attentions. And so, you will cease them, immediately.’

It was Barton’s turn to sneer. ‘You believe that she prefers you, a low-born thief?’

Tony ignored the insult. ‘Whether she might prefer me is immaterial to this discussion. We are talking of that which she does not prefer. And that would be you. Noble birth does not erase the fact that you are a criminal as well, Lord Barton. Perhaps, in respect to your fine blood, I should offer you the chance to settle our differences on the field of honour.’ Tony laughed to himself at the idea. ‘But I am just a common man. I am no fencer, sir, and not much of a shot. I will not give you a chance to stick me when the sun rises, any more than I will allow you to knife me in the back on a street corner this evening. If you think you deserve Constance Townley’s affections, then prove to me that you are the better man. Try and take them from me.’ He raised his hands, prepared to fight.

Barton took the stance of so many fine gentlemen, fists up to protect his noble profile.

Tony ignored it and punched him once in the stomach, watching him fold and drop to the ground. He looked down at the man who lay gasping at his feet. ‘And this is why, if you wish to fight, it is better to learn it in the street, than from Gentleman Jim. You may find, Barton, that much of the prancing and preening you’ve been taught is quite useless against a rogue such as myself. And while you are quite terrifying to old men and ladies’ maids, I find you to be a bit of a joke.’

Tony reached down, grabbed Barton by a lapel and ran a hand efficiently through the pockets of the coat, until he came upon the deed. ‘Carrying it with you to prevent me from stealing it? I thought as much. And you see how well that succeeded.’ He continued his search, removing more papers and a key ring. He flipped through the papers. ‘Let us see what else we have. IOUs. And here is one from Constance’s idiot nephew.’ He stared down in disgust at Barton. ‘No one is this lucky at cards, Jack. Therefore, I will surmise you cheated and will take the lot. I suspect it will be like early Christmas for the owners to get them back.’

He examined the ring of keys, removing one that fit the lock he had noticed on Constance’s front door. ‘You will not be needing this, and so I will return it to its owner as well.’ He glared at Barton. ‘A true gentleman would never accept something that was not freely given.’

He made to return the keys, and then hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose, while we are here together, that you would like to tell me the location of the key to your safe. I do not see it, on the ring here. It would be round, with a notched end. With a little cap to keep the dust out of the grooves.’

Barton glared up at him with murder in his eyes.

‘Didn’t think so.’ Tony smiled. ‘Never mind. I didn’t really want it. I will open the lock on my own, soon enough. I enjoy the challenge, and having the key would spoil my fun. But do not think for a moment that you can succeed in your plans to mint your own money. The government is on to you, and has set me to stop you to prevent scandal. But they will have you, no matter what you do. My advice to you, as a fellow criminal, is to admit defeat, turn over the plates and run while they will still allow it.’

He tossed the other keys back into the muck of the street.

‘Do you understand?’

Barton had left off gasping, and he struggled up on one hand and spat on the ground at Tony’s feet.

Tony kicked the hand out from under him, rolled Barton over with the toe of his boot and planted his foot across the man’s throat. ‘I said, do you understand? I am concerned, predominantly, about the Duchess of Wellford. It stops here, Barton. You will leave her alone. Are we clear on that?’ He increased his pressure on the man’s throat.

Barton nodded with difficulty.

He removed his foot from Barton’s neck, allowing the man to sit up. ‘You are no doubt having thoughts right now about what you will do to me, once you get your wind back. If you mean to call me out, you will be unsuccessful, for I will laugh in your face. I am proud to be a live coward in a family of dead heroes and I do not need to duel to prove my worth. If you accost me in public, I will make it clear to all within earshot what I think of the sort of man who needs to use blackmail to gain the affections of a lady.

‘And if you think, as you did tonight, that it will be possible to waylay me, alone or with the help of friends, or that it will be possible to send servants or lackeys to give me a taste of what’s coming to me, then I suggest you think again. Better men than you have tried it, but none has been successful. Should you manage it, know that when I am not dealing with the likes of you, I am a likeable fellow with many friends in high places and in low. They should be unhappy, should anything happen to me, and have been warned from whom the attack is most likely to come. They will take action on my behalf should I be unable to do so.’

He smiled down at the prone man. ‘Likewise, do not attempt to harass the duchess further, or seek retribution for my actions. I will take a wrong against her as a wrong committed against my own person. I believe the Italians have a word for what I intend. Vendetta. It is much what you intended for me.’

He looked down at the beaten man. ‘You may consider this your last warning on the matter. I mean to finish you in any case, and will have those plates. I suggest you drop what you are planning and run, as far and as fast as you can. I will not follow, and the state is willing to let you go. But if I ever hear that you have interfered with the duchess or her household, justice will be swift and no distance great enough to protect you. Do you understand?’

Barton glared.

Anthony dug a toe into his ribs. ‘Yes or no, Barton. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

Tony smiled down at him. ‘Very good. We have an understanding. Good night to you, sir. And don’t make me have to do this again.’

Chapter Fourteen

Constance stretched under the sheet and enjoyed the feel of the linen on her bare body. She felt a frisson of desire and the memories came flooding back. In spite of herself, she smiled.

He had told her not to worry, and then he’d taken off her clothes, and pleasured her until she could bear it no more.

And then he’d put her to bed and taken his leave. She’d dreamed all night of him, lying next to her on the pillow, and it was sweet disappointment to wake and find that he wasn’t there.

There was a quiet knock on the door.

It was still locked, and her maid could not get in. She wrapped the sheet around herself, then hurried to the door in bare feet and turned the key in the lock, grabbed the clothing from off the floor and tossed it over the nearest chair, trying to give the illusion that she had found her own way to bed.

Susan came in smiling, and doing her best to pretend that there was nothing unusual about her mistress’s behaviour. There was an envelope, set beside the morning’s hot chocolate.

Constance looked to her enquiringly.

‘It was delivered this morning, your Grace, with the first post.’

She glanced down at the seal. An S, unfamiliar in its design. She slit the wax and unfolded the note. Her deed and inventory slid on to the tray.

So soon?

Obviously. She felt the last of the tension leaving her body. A short note slid from the envelope as well, and she laid it against her heart before reading.

I am safe as houses, as are you. If you would welcome a visit from one who will always be your humble servant, so that you might have return of your house key, send your maid to bed early and leave your window unlocked.

There was no signature.

She sank back into the pillows, and closed her eyes, holding the note to her lips. He had the key to her front door, and yet he asked her permission to enter. If she had not loved him before now, she would have been unable to resist him, just for that fact. And he still wished to use the window. Which was both discreet, and arousing. And he was coming to her tonight.

Susan gave a quiet cough to remind Constance of her continued presence.

She smiled up at the maid.

Susan smiled back. ‘Have you decided to listen to your heart after all, your Grace?’

‘It beats so loudly when I think of him that I have been unable to do otherwise.’ She allowed the maid to help her into her morning dress. ‘I think, Susan, that there is no hope for me. It is not wise of me to want Mr Smythe. It would be much better could I bring myself to feel this towards Lord Endsted. But my mind will not obey reason. When I think of Tony, the sun shines brighter, the air smells sweeter, and I feel as if I could fly, rather than walk.’

Susan nodded. ‘You are in love.’

Constance looked back at her, sadly. ‘I never meant to be. I never have been, before. And I am not sure, when it ends, that I will like it very much.’

‘It will be worth it,’ Susan assured her. ‘For you will always remember this morning.’

That night, supper was barely cold when she called for Susan to ready her for bed. It was foolish of her, she supposed, for it was far too early to expect a visit. But he had given no indication of the time he would come. And when he did arrive, she did not wish to waste a moment of his company in preparation. Susan had laid out her best night rail, and she allowed it to be put on, only to toss the thing aside as soon as her maid had left the room. Then she crawled naked between the sheets.

It was almost midnight when, at last, he climbed in the window, silhouetted in the light from the street. She leaned on her elbow and watched him, admiring his movements. How strange that he should be able to climb in and out as easily as going through the front door. And how accustomed she’d become to his habits.

‘Good evening.’ She could see his grin in the darkness, when he saw her already in bed. ‘I hope I am not disturbing you.’

‘Not at all.’ She stretched and let the sheet slip down her body so that he could see she was bare beneath the linen.

He caught his breath at the sight. ‘Not disturbed? Give me fifteen minutes and you shall be.’ He slipped off his coat and tossed it over a chair. ‘You received the deed?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

He undid his cravat and tossed it and his shirt after the coat. ‘Did you send your maid away this evening so that we might not be interrupted?’

‘Yes,’ she breathed. He was slim, unlike her husband. His belly was flat and his shoulders broad and she could watch the muscles move under the skin as he undressed.

He sat on the end of the bed and pried off his boots. ‘I hope that she is on the other side of the house.’ He looked over his shoulder at her. ‘You were quite vocal last night. It is most gratifying to get such an enthusiastic response.’

She blushed. ‘It was very…I don’t think I…Thank you.’

He turned to look at her with a fond smile. ‘You’re very welcome.’ He sighed and shook his head in amazement. ‘And very, very beautiful. Especially as you are now, naked in bed, and waiting for me.’ He stood and unfastened his breeches and let them drop to the floor. He was large, and already growing hard. But then, his whole body was well muscled and firm, and she longed to touch every inch of it. He stretched out on the bed beside her, with only the sheet separating their bodies.

He took her in his arms and cradled her against his body, and she felt the hair of his chest rubbing against her breasts and bringing every nerve alive in her.

In response, she kissed him.

There was nothing gentle in his answer as he kissed her back. There was the same intensity that she felt whenever he looked at her, as though he wanted to steal her away and keep her all to himself. His hands were on her back, stroking her and gripping her shoulders and her waist and anything he could reach.

She pushed the sheet down and out of the way so that she could feel even more of him.

And he pulled it back up to her waist, keeping them apart, but gripping her bottom and her legs so that she could feel how hard he was, even through the fabric.

She wrapped her legs around him, tangling in the sheet and rocking, letting the linen rub against them, as he reached to play with her breasts, cupping them with his hands, stroking and pulling at the nipples. And then he caught one of her hands, bringing it to his mouth to suck on the fingers and kiss the knuckles and the palm. At last, he whispered, ‘If you would be so kind.’ Then he led it down his body, over his chest and stomach, until it rested between his legs under the sheet.

She understood what he wanted, for she had often had to help her husband, before he was able to perform. But Anthony was not in obvious need of help. He was long and hard and ready, and he sucked in his breath when her hand touched him, and gritted his teeth in a smile.

She stroked him, running her hand along the smooth flesh and tightening around it, and he trembled next to her. She kissed his lips and bit his throat, and worked her way down his chest to explore his nipples with her tongue, tasting salt and feeling his gasps as her grasp grew stronger and longer and faster. She ran her other hand over his body, feeling the muscles tighten and his back arch as he grew near to climax and her own body grew wet and heavy, and eager to know his first thrust inside of her.

And when she knew it could not be much longer, she reached to pull the sheet out of the way so that they could join. But he held fast to it.

Did he mean to come without her, as she had without him the night before? She had thought, the way he looked at her, that he had wanted more from her than this. Was it the woman he said he loved that kept him from completing the act with her? Her stroke faltered.

‘Tony?’

‘Just a moment, darling.’ His words came between groans. ‘Just a little while longer.’

‘I must ask—’

‘After, please. Anything.’

‘But I need to know—’

‘Constance, I am dying,’ he begged. ‘Finish what you have started.’

She stilled her hand, holding him in a loose grip, and said, ‘Is there some reason that you cannot crawl beneath the sheet and finish yourself?’

He said through gritted teeth, ‘I thought that would be obvious. I do not want to get you with child.’

She yanked her hand from his body and rolled away, turning her back to him and wrapping herself in the bed linens. ‘Get out.’

He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, and his voice was unsteady. ‘I am sorry to be so selfish. You have needs as well and I should think of my lady before myself. But I have been able to think of nothing but your hand on me for the whole day…’

She shivered in the bed and wrapped the sheet even tighter around herself. ‘I can see to my own needs from now on.’

‘Constance,’ he whispered. ‘What is the matter?’

When she tried to speak, it felt as though her throat were full of tears. ‘You know what is the matter. How could you say that? I trusted you. And how could you hurt me so? To use such an excuse to avoid making love, when you must know as well as the rest of the world that I have been barren for thirty years. Producing a child will not be at issue. If you have a distaste for me, or for the act, or if there is another woman, can you at least tell me the truth? Do you think me a fool?’

‘Constance.’ He pulled her to him, so that she could feel him, still hard, and pressing against her from behind. Then he rested his head against her shoulder, so that he might speak in her ear. ‘I do not think you foolish. But I think that you have been told for so long that there is a deficiency in you that you believe it yourself. Now, answer me honestly. Have you ever lain with a man, other than your husband?’

‘No, of course not. How could you say such a thing?’

‘How old was he when you married?’

‘He was almost two score.’

‘And you were just out of the schoolroom, were you not?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘And did he have mistresses?’

She never liked to think of such things. But there had been the scent of strange perfume, and the occasional trace of rouge on his cravat, although she wore none.

‘Constance?’

‘Yes. There were other women.’

‘But no rumours of bastards?’

‘No.’ The thoughts that she had never dared think, when Robert was alive, mingled with the doubts.

‘Did you ever have to dismiss a chambermaid for getting herself in trouble? And I do not mean for carelessness with the silver.’

‘No.’

‘So your husband had no children when he married you, and in the last fifteen years he lay with several women, without issue. While you were only with him.’ He placed a hand negligently on her hip. ‘I told you before, Constance, I am not prone to gambling. But I’ll wager, if we are careless and lower this sheet, you are liable to find that the problem was not yours, much to your regret.’

Regret? He must be mad. Awareness flooded her. Tony was young and strong and hard. Virile. And he wanted her, as much as she wanted him. If there was a chance, even the slightest chance, that she could ever hold a babe…She yanked the sheet out of his hand and turned to face him, wrapping her legs around his body so that his sex could rest against her.

She kissed him, and rubbed her body against his, urging him to do what she knew he wanted to.

And he muttered, ‘You are not thinking clearly, Constance. God knows, I can hardly think at all. Now give me back the sheet before I do something that we may rue later.’ But he did not push her away.

‘Take me, Tony,’ she murmured. ‘I do not care. Take me, now.’ And she reached between them to guide him into her body.

He took a long breath and stayed her hand. ‘I must be mad to stop you. A moment. Please.’

There was a pause as he tried to remember what it was he wanted to say. ‘You may not care now. But no child of mine shall be a bastard. If I am right and there is a consequence to this act, do you swear to me that you will tell me, and accept the next time I offer for you?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Now, do it.’

Still he waited, and he was trembling with the effort. ‘There will be no fuss from you about my low birth, or my chosen profession, no nonsense about not knowing my family or my past. You will marry me without question, and follow where I lead.’

‘Yes, Tony,’ she panted. ‘Yes, now just do it, before it is too late.’

And he rolled over her, thrust into her, shuddered and collapsed.

She held him close and smiled into his shoulder, at the feel of him filling her, the thought of his seed inside her, and the idea that she might not be dead inside after all.

He raised himself up on his arms to look down into her eyes. ‘Woman, you are mad to be smiling at me. That was a pathetic effort on my part. I had hoped for so much more from our first true meeting. To leave you satisfied at least. But to so totally lose control of myself…’

‘It was fine,’ she assured him. ‘I am just so glad that we were not too late.’

‘Too late for what, sweet?’

‘You almost did it without being within me. I had hoped that it would happen this evening. And it would be a shame if I had missed it.’

He was staring at her in a most unusual way. And he muttered, ‘You husband was quite a bit older than you. Well, I suppose…’

And then he moved against her, to stroke inside her. ‘I think, my darling, that if you thought that was to be an isolated incident, there is yet more to teach you.’

She gasped as he grew hard again and her body tightened in surprise.

He sucked in his breath. ‘Do that again, love. Yes, just like that. And again. You are heaven, for I never expected to feel something so good in this life. You did not think I would stop at once, if you let me have you. I am insulted.’

More than once. He was right, there were things she needed to learn. He was large and he was hard for her again. Her excitement grew at the thought.

He paused. ‘Let us try something new.’

She wanted to argue that it was already new to her and quite good enough, when he had rolled so that she was lying on top of him.

She froze in confusion, wondering what he wished her to do next. And she shifted up on to her elbows so she could look at him. And the feeling took her. And she shifted, again. And again. And then she drew her legs up under her, and he grabbed her by the waist and let her do as she would, whispering words of encouragement as she rocked herself to climax upon him. Then he steadied her hips and thrust upward, again and again before his back arched, and he called her name, and then he pulled her down to lie on top of him again.

Their bodies were sweat slicked and chill in the darkness, and she shivered.

He threw the sheet over her back and wrapped his arms around her.

‘You were right,’ she whispered. ‘That was even better.’

‘And that was just the beginning,’ he promised. ‘We can try again, if you let me rest for a few minutes.’

‘Minutes?’ she asked in surprise.

‘Or longer, if you wish.’ He paused. ‘I had rather hoped to stay the night, if you would allow it. I will be gone before dawn, of course. No one will see me.’ He paused again, as though he thought, after what had happened, that she still might have the strength to deny him.

She snuggled into him, turned her face into his shoulder and kissed it. ‘Stay as long as you wish.’ Then she remembered her fears of the previous night. ‘As long as it is safe for you to do so. Barton is not still searching for you, is he?’

‘We are both safe from Barton. For a time, at least. He is not stalking me at the moment, and I hope he will have the sense to leave off bothering you, after the beating I gave him.’ His arm wrapped protectively around her to pull her closer. ‘So we should have several days of peace before Barton feels brave enough to try again. And I mean to spend every moment I can in your arms.’

Chapter Fifteen

Several days later, Tony was up early when Patrick brought him his breakfast tea, his pick working the lock mechanism in his practice safe. Barton’s lock would be keyed differently, but it would be good to have the confidence that picking the first lock might give him, and some idea of the total amount of time involved.

And the time it had taken so far was considerable. He had been working on his own lock for several days without success, even though he could work unhindered and get hints from the shape of the key. Stanton was becoming restless. There had been a terse note, reminding Tony of the urgency of the situation, as if he did not know it himself. Much more time and the government would be forced to take action, and the rest of the story would play out in The Times, much to the embarrassment of all concerned.

Patrick cleared his throat to announce breakfast.

‘Set the cup on the desk, Patrick.’

Patrick was looking over his shoulder.

‘You may go.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it. This is too interesting to miss.’

‘That is my repayment for rescuing you from certain hanging so many years ago. Continued insolence. I had been better off to hire a servant in the ordinary way, than to take a charity case from Newgate.’

‘And what would you have learned from this imaginary servant—how to polish your own boots? Have you tried oiling the lock?’

‘And it has done me no good, other than to make the pick slip.’

‘You could drill the lock out, and gain entry that way.’

‘If I wished to announce the theft. I assume that Stanton wanted this done discreetly. And it would take even more time to drill through the steel.’

‘Last night, were you attempting this at Barton’s home? What methods did you employ? Did he leave you to work in peace, the whole night? For you were gone until almost dawn.’

Tony winced. He had gone to Barton’s home and observed the study window for a time, but, seeing light and movement in the room, he had given it up as a bad job. ‘He and I have come to an impasse, I fear. I have frightened him enough to keep him away from Constance. But now he will not leave his house, for fear of giving me a chance to enter. It is actually rather annoying, since it will make it difficult for me to finish the job, even if I can manage to open the safe.’

‘If you were not with Barton, then where have you been spending your time?’

Tony cleared his throat. ‘I spent the evening with the duchess.’

Behind him, Patrick chuckled. ‘You have had better luck unlocking her affections than you have had with Barton’s safe.’

Tony laid his check against the cool metal of the safe door and grinned. He had meant to visit her briefly the previous evening, and then return to his work. But several hours later, he was too exhausted to rise in any way, begging the woman to leave off tormenting him, assuring her that he had not an ounce of strength left in his body for the things she was suggesting.

And she had smiled at him, and rung for a bottle of champagne.

She had ignored him as he had argued that the wine would do more damage than good. Then she had taken the glass from his hand and drunk deeply. And she’d kissed her way down his body, taking little sips of the wine, and he’d had the strange sensation of bubbles on his skin, along with the kisses.

Then she had disappeared beneath the covers. And suddenly he was not nearly so exhausted as he had been moments before, and any plan he’d had of returning to Barton’s was long forgotten.

He could hear the clink of the china as Patrick picked up the teacup and began to drink it himself. He glanced over his shoulder. His valet was balancing his hip on the corner of his master’s desk, and helping himself to a scone to go with his tea. He glared.

Patrick shrugged. ‘The tea is getting cold, and you would only get butter on your hands if you had a scone. I will get you more, when you have opened the lock. So, tell me, does the dowager have a lady’s maid?’

‘Don’t be an idiot. Of course she does. And stop eating my breakfast.’

‘Tell me about her.’

‘I have been telling you about her for years.’ Although he couldn’t help but smile at the memory.

‘Not the duchess. The maid.’

‘She is just an ordinary maid. Not much in evidence, when I am there. Constance generally sends her to bed.’

‘The dowager is a most understanding and generous mistress, to be sure. I look forward to meeting her, again. And her maid, as well. Whose name is?’

‘Susan,’ Tony responded.

‘And I suppose she is old, pinch-faced, and sour tempered.’

‘She appears to me to be a most pleasant girl of twenty, blonde, somewhat plump and quite attractive.’

Patrick offered a toast with his teacup. ‘To the fair Susan. Now that things are settled, and the duchess knows who you are, I can hope but to spend a happy future, below stairs with a beautiful blonde.’

Tony swallowed and renewed his efforts with the lock. ‘Well. About that…’

‘You haven’t told her. Have you?’

‘We have been rather busy.’

Patrick poured another cup of tea. ‘In the past week, you have spent more time in her company than you have in all of the previous thirty years.’

‘But I would have to have been a fool to have spent it talking, Patrick. Apparently, the late duke was neglectful of his marital duties. And the duchess wishes to make up for lost time. I am happy to oblige, although I am near to exhaustion. Once the novelty of my visits wears off, we will have time to chat about old times. But until that time…Well, I’ll be damned.’

The locked turned under his hand, and the door to the safe swung open.

‘I have done it.’ He stared from the lock to Patrick and back to the lock. ‘I have picked a Bramah.’

Patrick stared over his shoulder at the open safe, and patted him on the back. ‘Well done, sir. Do you mean to try the challenge lock in the Bramah Company window, next? You could claim the two hundred guineas.’

Tony sat on the edge of the desk. ‘I cannot very well tell them it has been done. They’ll want to know how I managed it. And then they will change the lock to make it impossible again.’ He reached forward to touch the open door, as though he expected it to be an illusion. ‘And worse yet, they’ll wonder why a gentleman, who is not a locksmith by trade or by hobby, had reason to try.’ He laughed to himself. ‘I am the man that beat Bramah. But I cannot tell anyone, or I will not be able to use what I have learned.’

Patrick nodded in sympathy. ‘But you can use the information now, can’t you? Against Barton?’

Tony stared at the open safe. ‘I certainly hope so. If the man ever leaves his house, I mean to try.’

Tony leaned against the trunk of the tree that had become his evening home. He had spent three nights, perched like a bird in front of Barton’s house, watching the man sit in his study until almost midnight, only to be replaced by a servant, who was left to sleep in the chair by the desk. Tony had returned to Constance’s rooms each night, and let her soothe the frustration away, only to see the process repeated again the next night.

Barton must know he was watching. The guard upon the things was obvious enough, and all carried out in plain view of the window. So it was left to him to find a way to force Barton from cover, or the pattern could play out indefinitely.

Tony glanced back at the house, in frustration. To be so close to the plates, and finally in a position to have another go at the lock, only to be thwarted…

The room was empty.

He stared again. The lights were on, and the room was empty. He shifted his position in the tree to view it from another angle. There was no sign of life in the study.

His pulse quickened.

The front door of the house opened, and Barton appeared on the front step and paused, almost dramatically. He looked in the direction of Tony’s tree and made a grand, welcoming gesture towards the house, before signalling to a servant to bring the carriage around.

Tony sat perfectly still, straddling his branch as the carriage accepted its owner and drove away. The bastard had known he was there, and known his location as well. And he was leaving the house in plain sight and daring Tony to enter.

It was a trap, of course. But an irresistible one. Barton knew, and was taunting him.

Tony considered. If he was wise rather than clever, he would head away from the danger, and not towards. But he was tired of sitting in trees and trying to wait the man out. Now or never, then.

He dropped to the ground and made his way stealthily across the grounds to the ornamental drainpipe at the corner of the house that had served as ladder on his last entry. He rattled it, examining the areas nearest the ground for loosened bolts. It seemed secure, and so he began his ascent, working up the first flight, and the next, to the level of the window he sought.

Only to slip rapidly down. He’d dropped almost ten feet, and very nearly lost his grip before regaining his hold.

The bastard had greased the metal. Tony grinned through gritted teeth. If he had been careless, other than merely rash, he might have fallen, as Barton had intended.

He examined the stone front of the house. A more difficult climb, but not impossible. Clinging to the pipe with his legs, he pulled gloves from his pockets to cover the grease on his hands. Then he renewed his grip and reached out with a leg, finding a toe-hold in the stone of the house. And then a hand hold. And so began his ascent again.

It was unlikely that Barton would guess his route and lay another trap, but Tony felt carefully as he went for loosened stones or chiselled mortar. He was progressing nicely, within an arm’s length of the ledge beneath the window. He reached, grasped, and felt the pain before his fingers had fully closed on the bricks. When he pulled his hand away it was followed by a shower of broken glass.

He shook his hand to dislodge the shard that had poked through the palm of his glove, thanking God that the leather had taken the majority of the damage, and then reached out to brush the area clear, so that he might proceed.

An excellent effort, Barton. But not quite good enough. He examined the window for traps before opening it. It was mercifully clear and unlatched. Perhaps the next snare waited inside, since Barton did not think the window worthy of his effort. Tony made a quick circuit of the lit room before setting to work on the safe. No servants concealed behind furniture or curtains. And the key had been left on the inside of the door, as though he were invited to lock it, if he wished to work in privacy.

He turned the key in the door, and, as an afterthought, pushed a chair under the door handle as an additional safeguard. Then he set to work on the safe.

Tony tried to ignore the creeping flesh at the back of his neck. There was something wrong. He had expected the traps. But there should have been more of them. Aside from the unpickable nature of the lock, which was proceeding rather nicely, he thought. There had to be something that Barton knew, that he did not. The man would not relinquish the prize so easily, if he thought Tony could make it into the room. There must be something he was not considering, then. The thought nagged at him, as he shifted the pick in his hand to catch the next slider. Barton could not have concealed the plates on his person before leaving. They were not huge, but too large to slip into a coat pocket. He would not leave something so precious unguarded, would he?

And then the thought hit him. Barton might leave the plates unguarded to go to something he wanted more.

Tony had left Constance. Unprotected.

Even as he thought it, he felt the pick slip home to move the last slider. With a slight turn of his wrist, he opened the lock and the door to the safe swung wide.

He reached into the opening.

There were no plates within.

Chapter Sixteen

Constance was waiting in her sitting room until it was late enough to go to bed. Her life was falling into a familiar pattern, now that Tony was part of it. She would nap in the afternoon, and have dinner, alone. She then sent the servants to bed early and spent the rest of the evening reading before the fire until almost midnight. Then she would find her own way to her room.

Shortly afterwards, her lover would come, and they would pass the hours until dawn.

Tonight, she had chosen Byron to keep her company until bedtime. She smiled and closed her eyes. When she had asked Tony to read to her, he had looked into her eyes and recited the poems from memory.

If she was not careful, she would become quite spoiled by his attentions. When the time came to return to reality, she would remember that Tony’s behaviour was an aberration of character, and a sign of the minimal depth of their relationship. Men might spout poetry to their mistresses, but never to their wives.

But it was lovely, all the same. ‘So lovely,’ she whispered.

‘Yes, you are.’ When she opened her eyes, Jack Barton was standing in the doorway.

She stood up and backed away, until she felt her shoulders bump the wall behind her. ‘How did you get into my home?’

He smiled at her, as always. ‘You gave me your key.’

‘Only because you forced me to. And Tony got it back for me.’

‘Tony.’ Barton sniffed in dismissal. ‘He is not much of a thief if he does not realise that keys can be copied. I let him take the one, and kept the duplicate, assuming rightly that I might need it later.’

‘Get out. I shall ring for the servants.’

‘I would not advise that.’ Barton pulled a pistol from his pocket, and pointed it in her direction.

‘Go ahead and shoot. You would not dare,’ she said and started for the bell pull.

‘Not you,’ he replied. ‘But I will shoot the first one through the door, if you ring for help. If you remember my last visit, you know I am capable of it.’

Her hand faltered before it reached the pull.

Barton nodded. ‘Very good. You must agree, it is better if we remain alone. And since you have dismissed the staff for the evening, they will not disturb us.’

‘But we will not be alone for long,’ she threatened. ‘I am expecting a guest.’

‘Anthony Smythe?’ Barton shook his head in disappointment. ‘I doubt he will be troubling us again. It was very simple, in the end, to beat your lover. It is a pity that I could not be there to see him fail. But I needed to be away from the house, to lure him in.’

‘What do you mean?’ Constance felt a chill.

‘The minute I was away, I have no doubt that he rushed into the house, ready to search the study. If he made it past the traps I set for him without falling to his death, he is still in for a nasty shock. The safe he has been trying to open for the last several weeks is, to the best of my knowledge, empty. I have never had reason or ability to open it. It was left by the previous owner of the house. For all I know, the man took the key to the grave with him. If he has not found them already, I doubt that your Mr Smythe will have sense to intuit the location of the things he is looking for.

‘I fear, darling, that in his initial excitement, he may have forgotten all about you.’

Constance tried not to imagine Tony, dangling unsteadily from a ledge or lying in a broken heap at the base of Barton’s house. He had made it into the house. She must believe that he had survived, if she meant to keep her wits about her. ‘I doubt he is so easy to beat as all that. He will come to my aid when he realises that you have tricked him.’

‘But if your vulnerability occurs to him later, he will come rushing back here, breakneck, to rescue you. He enters your room through the window, does he not?’

She stared at him, keeping her expression a blank.

‘Oh, come now. There are no secrets left between us. I have seen the ivy that leads right to your room. I doubt an agile climber could resist such an easy path. Now, where was I?

‘I have left him my plans for the evening. When he realises that I mean to have you while he is chasing after nothing, he will come rushing back to this house, to the bedroom, where he expects to find us. I will be waiting…’ he gestured with the pistol in his hand ‘…to rescue you from the intruder, bent on entering your room. One shot, as he is framed in the window. He will die from the bullet, or the fall, or a combination of the two.’

‘It will be murder. And I will tell anyone who will listen.’

‘I doubt anyone will, Constance. And even if they do, you might think before you speak. We will be in your room, together. There will be no question as to why I am there. It would be better, for you, should the world think that Smythe was attempting to rob you. If it appears you were entertaining two gentlemen, you will be the talk of the town.’

The book of poems slipped from her hands and dropped to the floor.

‘And you will want me to be free of prosecution. You will need my protection for quite some time, I think. If I am in jail for murder, or worse, you will gain nothing by it but revenge. Your reputation will be in tatters. You will not see another penny out of your idiot nephew, for he will cut you from the family for the disgrace.

‘On the other hand, if I am free, I will take care of you, just as I have always promised. We may have to leave the country, at least for a time. My business is not going quite so well as I’d hoped. But we will have the comfort of each other.’

Constance felt something snap, deep inside her. This was not how her life was to end. She was not some pawn to be passed from man to man and abandoned as they chose. She could not very well sit waiting for a rescue that might never come. Suppose Tony was dead, as Barton hoped. Or worse yet, on his way to her window so that she could watch him shot before her eyes and disgraced as a burglar.

She would not let it happen. If anyone was to be shot tonight, it would not be Tony.

Barton gestured with the gun.

‘We will go to your room, and wait.’

‘I suppose I have no choice,’ she said.

‘We have been over this before, Constance.’

‘If I submit willingly to you, will you spare Anthony Smythe?’

Barton laughed. ‘That offer is no longer available to you. What transpires now is a matter between gentlemen. You need not concern yourself with it.’

‘It is not the act of a gentleman to shoot an unsuspecting man.’

He smiled. ‘It is plain, Constance, that you are trying to prolong the inevitable. You have no need to be nervous, you know. I have every intention of being a gentle and courteous lover. Fine things should be savoured, not devoured.’

There he went again, referring to her as a thing. Not for very much longer, she hoped. Any minute, Tony would be here to put a stop to it.

Or he would not, and she would have to act for herself.

Barton reached across the table to stroke her hand. ‘And you are fine indeed. Your skin is soft, your eyes are bright…’

Her teeth were good, and her coat glossy. Soon he would be extolling her good wind and her ability to take jumps at the gallop. Tony never wasted half so much time on pretty words. And yet she had no doubt that he found her beautiful. She felt the anger in her, rising to push out the fear.

‘I will take great pleasure in loving you…’

And what was she to take from the experience? At least Tony did not blather on about how much he would enjoy being with her, although he clearly did. He seemed most concerned with how she felt about it. This man was obsessed with bedding her, nearly insane with it.

‘Come, let me show you.’ He rose and offered her his hand, and gestured towards the door with his gun.

She looked at the hand held out to her. Tony might be dead already. And if that was true, there would be no last-minute rescue. But if he was dead, then it did not matter, one way or the other, what happened to her. She no longer cared, so there was nothing to be afraid of.

She looked at Barton. He had seemed so frightening, but he was a pathetic creature who could think no further than the bed in her room. She knew his weakness, and she could exploit it to her advantage.

‘Very well.’ She took his hand and he escorted her towards the stairs, a pace behind, with the gun in his pocket. She turned as they were halfway up. ‘And you intend to be gentle?’

‘Of course.’

She allowed a small disappointed sigh to escape her lips.

Behind her, on the steps, she heard the slight hesitation in his step.

She paused again. ‘Robert was always very careful, when we were together. I assumed that it was the fault of age. Tony, as well, treated me as though I were made of glass.’ She turned to look back at Barton. ‘Some day, perhaps I will find someone who is not afraid to give me what I want.’ She glanced back at him and saw the avaricious glimmer in his eyes.

‘You do not wish me to be gentle?’

‘Let me be plain, Jack. You are a cold-blooded brute and I detest you. But perhaps I have had my fill of gentleman lovers. You mean to have me and I cannot stop you. But if you must, then do not bore me with talk of gentleness.’ She turned back to him on the stairs and kissed him, biting his lip.

She heard the intake of breath as she released him and watched his eyes go dark. He hurried the last few steps to draw even with her, pushing her back against the wall to kiss her hard in return.

She moaned convincingly back at him, tangling her hand in his hair and running a hand down his spine.

He pulled away again, smiling at her in surprise. And then his gaze turned suspicious. ‘If this is a trick, I will make you pay for it.’ But she could see in his eyes that he wanted to believe her.

‘You mean to make me pay, no matter what, Jack. There is nothing left to threaten me with.’ She walked the last few steps to her room, stepped inside and closed the door behind them.

He was on her as soon as the door was shut, shoving her against the wall, his fist in her hair and his mouth on hers. She felt his hands gripping her shoulders and fumbling at the front of her gown for her breasts.

Neither hand held the gun.

She made as if to hold him about the waist, then plunged her hand into his pocket to seize the pistol and point it into his ribs.

It took a moment for him to recognise the feel of the metal barrel in his stomach, and stop molesting her. ‘Constance!’

‘Step away from me, Jack. And do not make any sudden movements. I do not know much of guns, but I seriously doubt that I will miss you, should I shoot.’

‘Yes, Jack. Do step away from her. For if she does not want to shoot you, I most assuredly do.’

Tony’s voice startled her so much that she almost dropped the gun.

Seeing her indecision, Barton made a lunge for the weapon only to come up short, as Tony grabbed him by the coat collar and yanked him away from her, and back into the room. Barton tripped and landed hard on the floor, momentarily dazed.

‘Constance, if you don’t mind?’ Tony held out a hand for the gun, and she gingerly handed it to him.

He pointed it at Barton, and confided, ‘I really don’t know much more about weapons than you do, but I should hate to see you kill him, no matter how much he might deserve it. If either of us must shoot, let it be me.’

‘You’re all right,’ she breathed, leaning back to let the wall support her weight.

He reached over and yanked hard on the bell pull to summon the servants, and glanced apologetically at Constance, before focusing again on Barton. ‘I fear, darling, that I cannot keep my presence here a secret. I will need help removing this refuse from your room.

‘You will never believe the night I’ve had. First a greased drainpipe. Then a handful of broken glass. And when at last I get the damn safe open, there is no sign of the plates.’ He shook his finger at Barton.

‘You thought you had me there, I’ll wager. And perhaps, if you were decent to your servants, they’d have bothered to clear the evidence of the true hiding place out of the grate.’ He pulled a burned scrap of paper from his pocket, and held it out for Barton to see. ‘You burned a book, didn’t you? Two, actually. Volumes one and two of A History of British Currency.’

He glanced at Constance again. ‘That is Jack’s idea of wit, darling. Let us be glad you will not have to suffer with it. He ripped the books from their bindings and burned them, then wrapped the plates in the book covers and put them back on the shelves. I have spent countless hours, fiddling with picks to crack that safe, and all for no reason. The plates were in plain sight and I could have left with them at any time.’

There was a sharp knocking at the door and Constance rushed to let the servants enter. Susan entered, in her night clothes, accompanied by…

Constance stared in shock. Tony’s valet, Patrick, hair mussed and in his shirtsleeves, had followed her maid into her bedroom.

Even Tony looked surprised.

Patrick shrugged. ‘I recognised the pull on the bell rope. You ring as if you are trying to yank it off the wall. Most distinctive, sir.’

‘And you happened to be here, by fortunate coincidence?’ Tony enquired.

‘With you spending so many evenings from home, I had little to occupy my time. And it occurred to me that there might be another who would sympathise with my idleness.’

Susan giggled.

Tony struggled to find an appropriate response, before giving up. ‘Well, you will not be idle tonight.’ He pointed to Barton on the floor. ‘Patrick, I wish this removed. From the room, certainly. From the country, if possible. I understand there are often ships in need of crew and none too particular about where the men come from. Use your initiative.’

Patrick looked at Barton, and back to the maid beside him. And he said softly, to Susan, ‘This is the man who hurt you?’

Susan’s eyes grew round, and she nodded her head.

Patrick’s smile was broad and full of menace. Suddenly, he did not look like a humble manservant, but a large, and very threatening, man. He seized Barton from off the floor and punched him once, hard and in the face. ‘No problem, sir.’ He dragged the limp body towards the door.

‘Breakfast will be late tomorrow, Patrick,’ Tony called after him. ‘Do not trouble yourself.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Susan stepped out of the way and closed the door again.

Tony listened to the sound of Patrick and Barton retreating down the hall, before stepping close and seizing her around the waist. Then he spun her around in his arms, kissed her once, full on the mouth, and threw her on to the bed.

He was alive. Young and strong and safe. And she loved the feel of his hands on her, even as her mind struggled to sort out what had just happened. She pulled herself up to lean upon her elbows, trying to regain decorum. ‘Tony, what the devil are you doing?’

He was standing over her with a most curious expression on his face, a mixture of joy and lust. ‘Celebrating. You are safe, and Barton is in the soup. And I have done it, Constance. I have picked the unpickable Bramah lock. What say you to that?’

‘Thank you?’ she said, hesitantly.

‘Actions speak louder than words, Constance.’ And he climbed into bed after her and threw up her skirts.

‘You do not mean…’ She reached to smooth her skirts back down.

‘Oh, yes, I most certainly do.’ He caught her hand, and placed it on the front of his breeches, so she could feel how ready he was. Then he began to undo his buttons.

She had just threatened to shoot a man, after attempting to seduce him, and now, she was going to make passionate love to another. If she looked into the mirror, would she recognise the woman she saw? ‘Do not be ridiculous. I cannot. I am still dressed. The door is not locked. I—’

He pushed her down on to the bed, kissing her in a way that left no doubts as to how much he wanted her, and how soon.

‘Well, at least take off your boots,’ she suggested breathlessly, recognising the old familiar Constance, trying to regain control.

He ignored her.

And the woman that she had become did not care in the slightest. He came into her fast and hard, and she arched as the shock of it ran through every nerve in her body and hummed in her blood. And as he thrust, he told her of things he wanted to do to her, and with her, and for her, each one more scandalous than the last.

And she wanted it all. She wanted his breath on her throat and his voice in her ear, and his body hard inside her for ever. But for now, she wanted him harder and faster, and she told him so over and over again until her breath was a gasp and her voice a sob and her body was trembling with the need for release. And when he demanded it, she came with him, and they collapsed, shaking with weakness, into a tangle on the bed.

He moved against her and she caught her breath in surprise as her body shuddered again, and he rolled away so that he could look into her eyes, reached a hand to her and stroked her to another climax.

And somewhere, deep down, her brain was screaming that this was madness, and it must stop. What had she just promised him? And what could he make her do, when he took her to this state? He knew her body, and he used his knowledge. She was helpless to resist him because it was all too good, and the waves ran through her again as she trembled at his touch.

She looked into his eyes. They were not empty, like Barton’s, but full of shadows. He looked into her soul and he knew her. But who was he?

She sat up and looked around her in confusion. She was lying fully dressed in her bed with a strange man, whose boots were leaving mud on the sheets. And he’d just taken her so violently that her body ached, and then soothed the ache away with his hand.

And he’d done it all because she begged him to.

Now, he was undressing her with exquisite care, undoing her gown and removing her stays, pausing to touch and kiss with featherlightness in ways that he knew pleased her. And now he was taking the pins from her hair and letting it down, combing it out with his fingers.

He knew every inch of her. He knew her life and her finances, and her body, all the intimidate details that she’d never dared share with Robert…

Why had she told him? And why had she not told her husband? Who had she become, now that she’d chosen to fall from virtue with such wanton abandon? Because she certainly was no longer herself.

And who was he? What did she know of him, other than that he was a thief, and that he said she could trust him?

And that he loved another.

He was still fully dressed, and she was naked beside him with her hair free around her shoulders. He was smiling his enigmatic smile as he admired her in her vulnerability.

She pulled the sheet around herself before she let him pull her down beside him and love her again.

He looked at her curiously, waiting for her to speak.

‘It is truly over, then, with Barton?’

‘He would be a fool to remain in the country, even if Patrick allows him to. I will turn the plates over to the Earl of Stanton in the morning, to be destroyed. If Barton reappears, St John will have no trouble hanging him as a traitor. You need never worry about him again.’

He might as well have been speaking nonsense. ‘You spoke of the plates before. What are they? And what does St John Radwell have to do with it all?’

Tony pulled away from her, and puzzled for a moment, before saying, ‘Ah. Yes. I’d meant to tell you about that. Barton was a counterfeiter. Or wished to be. And St John works for the government, and they wanted the plates back, so he hired me to steal them.’

‘So you are not a thief at all.’

‘Well, I am still a thief. A very good one. But currently, I steal when I am ordered to, by a higher authority.’ He grinned. ‘Perhaps I am a humble civil servant. I quite like the idea. It sounds most respectable.’

‘Then why did you not tell me?’

He looked evasive. ‘Frankly, it had not really occurred to me that there would be a difference. Stealing is stealing, and I have not much concerned myself with the reason. St John does not wish me to discuss our association, since the world knows little of what he does, and to reveal my part in it reveals his.’

‘So you are a spy, then.’

He thought about it. ‘I suppose you could say that.’

The truth began to dawn on her. ‘When I found you here, in this room, you were spying on me. And my best friend’s husband sent you. Because he thought I was a traitor. Just like Barton.’

Tony tried to laugh, but it came out sounding small and nervous. ‘I soon set him straight on that. The very first night, I told him you were innocent.’

It was some consolation, she supposed, to know that he thought she was innocent, even though he continued to spy upon her. ‘And this great secret, which you could not share with me to spare my feelings. Is that the only secret? Or are there other things that you have not told me?’

He looked positively uncomfortable, and had trouble meeting her gaze. ‘Well, everyone has secrets, I suppose.’

‘But you have more than most, I think. What is it that you are still not telling me, that makes you so evasive now?’

He attempted to laugh again, and failed completely. ‘You make it sound very ominous. I swear, I was not attempting to hide things from you.’

‘But you have hidden them all the same. I do not like being played for a fool, Tony. Not by my friends, and not by you.’

He flinched at the word ‘friends’ and then looked her squarely in the eyes. ‘I do not think you a fool, nor do I wish to play games with you. But I wish, Constance, that by now you would have looked with your own eyes and known the truth for yourself.’

‘So that you did not have to admit to it? What is it, that is so horrible that you cannot speak it out loud? You had the gall to offer me marriage, and yet you cannot manage to be honest with me.’

‘Perhaps it is because I knew how you would respond, should I tell you the whole truth. It is quite plain, Constance, that whatever you might pretend, on the subject of love you are as cold hearted as any woman in my experience. It was a hundred times easier for me to steal your heart than it would have been to gain it by honest means. If I came to you and presented my case openly, with the rest of your suitors, you would have dismissed me as unworthy of your time and gone after Endsted and his title.’ He was able to laugh again as he mocked her. ‘But it excites you if I approach in darkness and you let me take what I want from you.’

Then he touched her skin, and her body responded with a shudder of passion. ‘You want what I can give you,’ he said, ‘but you wish to be free of me when the sun rises, in case there is a better offer. And I let you use me, because, God help me, I cannot resist you.’

‘I was using you, was I?’ She looked down at her bare body, next to his. ‘When you threw me down and took me, just now? Of course, you did manage to get rid of Barton for me. Although you said before that you did not wish to wait for payment, until after the deed was done, I should think, after tonight, that our accounts must be close to even.’

‘And now you are trying to tell me that you behaved thus just so that I would help you?’ He stared at her in disbelief. She could see the pain in his eyes. ‘Why are you doing this, Constance?’

‘I do what I must to survive, Tony. I did when I married Robert, and I must continue doing so, now he is gone. I am beautiful, or so everyone tells me. If that is all I bring to a marriage, then I must hold out for the best offer. Soon the beauty will fade, and, if I am not careful, I will be left with nothing.’

‘Just as you were when your husband died?’ His smile was sardonic. ‘A pity. For he seemed such a good choice and it all came to naught.’

‘Do not dare to question my marriage, you—’

‘Thief? Criminal? Commoner?’ He got out of the bed and did up his breeches. ‘Guilty on all counts.’ He turned and bowed to her, tugging his forelock. ‘And now you no longer need my services, am I dismissed, your Grace?’

It was over. His business was completed, and he was leaving, unless she could think of a way to stop him. But she was not sure she wanted him to stay, if she could not trust him to tell her the truth. ‘Well, you didn’t think it would last for ever, did you?’ She heard the quaver in her own voice, and wondered if she needed to speak the words to herself.

‘No, actually, I didn’t. In my experience, happiness seldom lasts for long. But I thought when we parted, you would not need to convince yourself that you had been coerced. Do you need me to be the villain of the piece? Does it make you feel better to think you had no choice?’

He stepped closer and she shrank from him, pulling the bedclothes up to cover her nakedness.

‘Let me tell you the way I remember what happened. I came to your bed because you invited me there. You wanted me, your Grace, because you knew what I could do for you, and it had nothing to do with money or deeds. You wanted me to love you as your husband could not.’

Even as he said it, she could feel the need burning inside of her.

‘Now you are going to pretend that while you writhed in ecstasy beneath me, it was because I was forcing you to make a noble sacrifice to preserve your reputation for someone more suitable.’

He reached to his throat and ripped off his cravat and threw it to the floor. Then, he opened his shirt and pointed. ‘See there? These are the marks of your kisses on my throat. Your nails have raked my back and your hands have held me so tight that my arms are bruised. I’ve heard every word you’ve said to me, when we made love. I know what you felt.

‘Perhaps there is already another player waiting in the wings. Someone with a title, or money honestly come by. Someone you can introduce to your friends.’

She watched as he stepped towards the door of her room, preparing to walk out, only to check himself, curse, and turn as usual to leave by the window. ‘He can be the one to ruin your reputation. For I suspect the next man to share this bed will think nothing of arriving at night and leaving by the front door in the morning for all to see.’

He reached into his jacket and dropped a card on the floor. ‘If you need further assistance, go directly to my man of business. There will be funds for you, should you ever need them. What I have is yours to command. You need never speak to me again, so there will be no misunderstanding of my motives. As I told you before, I do not expect payment for acts done in friendship. But do not ever claim again that you need do something against the wishes of your conscience, because of a lack of funds.’

And he walked across the room and stepped out of the window and out of her life.

Chapter Seventeen

Tony woke as the earth tipped out from under him, and he landed face first on the floor of the study.

‘Rise and shine, Smythe.’ Stanton’s voice was disgustingly cheerful as he dropped the wing chair with a crash, next to Tony’s prone body.

‘What the devil…You bastard!’ Light came streaming in the windows as his visitor yanked aside the velvet curtains. The sunlight was blinding, stabbing into his brain, as he tried to focus on the figure in silhouette against the morning sun.

‘And a pleasant good morning to you, as well. You missed our regular appointment. Twice. To prevent your missing it a third time, I have come to you.’ St John stared down at him in bemusement. ‘I have seen better things than you stuck to the bottom of my boot after a night in Whitechapel. And smelled better as well. For God’s sake, man, pull yourself together. There is work to be done.’

‘I resign.’

‘I am not totally sure that that would be permitted. While you have not technically enlisted, I might still find a way to court-martial you. Perhaps not. Thieves in the army are usually flogged or hanged. Do you have a preference?’

‘Why don’t you just shoot me and get it over with?’

‘Very well, then.’ And before Tony could process the action, St John produced a pistol and put a bullet into the wall next to him.

Tony rolled to the left, covering his head with his hands as the sound of the shot echoed in his ears. ‘What the hell are you doing in my house, firing a weapon? Are you mad? The ball missed my head by inches. You could have killed me.’

St John righted the wing chair and sat in it, arms folded. ‘The ball missed you by several feet, just as I intended. I am an excellent shot, especially at such close range. But I am pleased to see you have recovered the will to live.’ He gestured to the wreckage of the room. ‘And the ball in the woodwork is the least of the problems here. Explain this, please.’

Tony looked at the mess he had made of the room. The mirror was broken, and Patrick had not bothered to replace it. It was just as well, for he had a fair idea of what he must look like after who knew how long without a razor or change of linen. He did not need to see his reflection.

Broken glasses littered the cold fireplace, and empty bottles littered the floor. Patrick had continued to bring the bottles for a while, after refusing him glasses, and hiding the windows behind the curtains so as to remove temptation. And now he refused him brandy, hoping to starve him out. It had made Tony so angry that he’d thrown a small table at the head of his retreating servant.

And missed. He glanced at the chipped plaster of the wall and the pieces of broken table on the floor below it. ‘When you came, did I still have a servant to let you in?’

‘Yes. Patrick is most concerned about you. He sent me up alone and told me not to turn my back on you if there was anything left for you to throw. Now tell me, what happened to this room?’

‘A woman,’ Tony said with finality.

‘On the contrary, my man, I think it was you who did it.’

‘A woman happened to me, you idiot. And I happened to the room.’

‘What a relief. I thought it might be serious. Get yourself a bath and a shave and another woman. And then get back to work.’

‘There are no other women. None but her,’ Tony said sourly.

St John sighed. ‘May the good Lord spare me from melodrama. Are we all to suffer for your broken heart? Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Wellford was miles above you, in case you hadn’t noticed. I don’t see why—’

‘How did you know?’ Tony demanded.

‘Let me see.’ St John tapped his chin. ‘Perhaps it is because I am a spy, you moron. I set you to watch her. You were nervous when I suggested it. You have been distraught since the moment the project was completed. And you look like a gaffed flounder whenever I mention her name. As I was saying, the Dowager Duchess? I am most relieved to find that she had no part in any of this. She is a lovely girl. A favourite of my wife’s. What I’d have told Esme if I’d had her friend arrested for treason, I cannot say. And they are both quite angry with me for my part in this, although I expect to find forgiveness in time.

‘Tony…’ his tone became quiet and sympathetic ‘…Constance is charming, pleasant and totally out of your league. Far be it from me to let the cold light of day into your tragic fancy. While you have enough money to support a wife and a brood of little Smythes in sufficient comfort, I would suggest you choose a woman who is not a renowned beauty, accustomed to a thirty-room mansion and a coronet. Unless you wish to spend the rest of your life tossing furniture against the walls of a darkened room.’

Tony sat on the floor, trying not to notice the shambles he’d made of his life. He’d held on to the dream for so long that it had seemed quite natural, when the moment came, to have Connie fall eagerly into his arms. He’d had no trouble believing what he’d wanted to believe, that there was much more to it than there actually had been. He’d been a glamorous diversion, and an answer to so many of her problems, that she had succumbed to temptation, only to regret it later.

Perhaps, if he had taken time to court her, instead of simply seducing her, she’d have taken the whole thing more seriously. Perhaps not. It was a bit late to un-ring that particular bell.

And now Stanton was staring at him, waiting for a response. If he did not think of her, or the last few weeks, or any of the foolish assumptions he’d had over the last thirteen years…If he could focus on the task immediately in front of him, he would be able to move forwards, and put some space between himself and the whole situation.

He pulled himself up to his feet, leaning on the corner of the mantel. He could feel the brandy still fogging his brain and muffling the sound of his last argument with Constance, as it echoed endlessly in his head. Perhaps, if he had something to do with his time and kept very busy, he could ignore it all together.

Perhaps he would fall off an ivy trellis or out of a window somewhere and never have to think of anything again. But he could not stay locked up in his rooms, alone with the knowledge that the dream that had sustained him for many lonely years was over.

He brushed imaginary dust from his stained shirt, and lifted a stubbled chin to his guest. ‘Very well, then. I’ve made an ass of myself, and you have seen it. But the worst of it is over, I think. If you still wish to employ me, then give me time to bathe, shave and change. And then tell me what you want taken.’

St John smiled as if nothing unusual had occurred. ‘Good man.’

‘Susan, you know I don’t take milk in my tea.’

Her maid looked at her with guilty eyes. ‘I thought perhaps, your Grace, you might wish to try something more fortifying. Now that autumn is here, I mean. It wouldn’t do to take a chill.’

‘Fortifying.’ She looked at the tea. It was wretched stuff, but Susan was right. It was probably more nourishing. She took a sip.

Susan added, ‘If you are not feeling well, your Grace, there is a lady in Cheapside that sells certain herbs. And when brewed up in a tea, these tend to clear up the sort of malady that you might be coming down with.’

‘No!’ Her hand went instinctively to cover her belly. She relaxed. ‘I am sorry, Susan. I did not mean to shout so. You were right the first time to put milk in my tea. No matter how I might complain, it is good for me. And perhaps an egg and a bit of dry toast. Could you bring it to my room? I do not feel like going downstairs until I am sure that I will not be sick.’

There was no point in pretending any more with Susan, who knew her cycle almost as well as she did herself. She was two months gone with child.

‘Very good, your Grace. But…’ Susan left the statement open. She dare not ask the question, but she wanted an answer, all the same. Something must be done. They must leave London and retire quietly to the country where she could have the babe in secret. Or she must take the herbs and end it.

‘Please, Susan. A little breakfast, perhaps.’

‘Very good, your Grace.’

Her maid left the room, and she turned to the window, staring out into the garden. The trellis below her was bare, and she could see that it had been as if she had installed a ladder to her bedroom window. The garden gate and wall were still an easy climb, although the garden had less cover than when it had been in full bloom.

She closed her eyes, trying to imagine him making his way across it. It wouldn’t happen, of course. She had seen nothing of him for a month and a half. Even when she had gone out in public, the most she’d heard was someone mentioning that Anthony Smythe had just been in attendance, but had retired early. Or was expected, but seemed to be late.

He was avoiding her. And she could hardly blame him.

Fortunately, other men were not. Endsted had returned, and renewed his attentions with a kind of plodding respectability that rekindled her hopes for the future. And other, more eligible, men were more respectful, now that Barton was no longer warning off suitors and spreading rumours about her.

Of course, in a few short months, everyone would know that the rumours were true. If she wished to marry well, she needed to act quickly to put an end to the pregnancy. It was just as her own mother would have told her to do, had anything stood between her and her goal.

And it was the sensible thing to do, she reminded herself. She had proved her fertility to herself, at least. She could hint to any man who showed serious interest that she had reason to believe the problems getting an heir were her late husband’s and not her own. She could find another peer, and resume her status in society. She could have her comfortable old life back. But this time she might have children, as well as a husband.

She wrapped her arms around her stomach. Or she could go to Tony, and never be content again. She would spend her life alternately terrified by his job, and frustrated by his carefree attitude about the risks and his unwillingness to share everything that was in his heart or his mind. She might never have his full heart, and perhaps some day he would leave her to chase the dream woman he longed for. But when he came to her at night, she would have his undivided attention.

And she would not have a family in the future. She would have the baby she’d always wanted. The one that was growing in her now would be warm in her arms in a few months, smiling up at her, with his father’s smile. And no matter what might happen, she would love them both with her whole heart, for how could she help but do otherwise?

Susan returned with the tray, setting it gently down upon the bed.

‘Thank you, Susan. I am sure that I will feel much better after a little breakfast. And I will not be wanting any herbs.’ She looked at her maid. ‘I have waited too long for this. No matter what, I will not end it.’

Susan looked at her with pity. The poor abandoned duchess and her bastard. How could she explain that it was only pride keeping her from doing what she had promised?

Pride and the whirlwind of emotions that caught at her, every time she looked at the future. She had thought it would be easier to send him away than to keep him close. But life without him was every bit as hard as life with him had been.

She had told him it was over, and she’d regretted it the moment the words had been out of her mouth. She had finally managed to make him angry. He had shouted so. And his words had been so bitter. It was not, as she had expected, the cavalier agreement that the time had come to part. She had cut him to the heart in one stroke.

She’d cut herself as well. She had stood, frozen, watching him go. Wanting to call him back, even as he stepped through the window.

Every night since, she’d thought of him, burning hot and cold, with desire, or remorse, or longing, or the strange sensations coursing through her body that she had come to know as pregnancy.

She was having his child. Even better, their child. She could no more end it than she would end her own life. To be able to have something so precious, a gift that he had not wanted to give her, for fear that it would ruin her. Even then, he’d cared more for her reputation than he did his own pleasure. He’d left a bit of himself behind for her to keep, after vowing that he would protect her, and the babe, if it came to that.

He had never said he loved her. But did she really need to hear the words, if he would behave thus?

How could she have been so blind? He might not love her with the grand passion she wished, but he cared for her in all the ways that mattered.

She loved him, with a dizzying, soul-wrenching intensity that was nothing like the warm glow she had felt for Robert. And doubted that she could bring herself to marry another, no matter what Tony might feel for her.

Constance reached beneath her pillow for the strip of linen, hidden there. A man’s cravat, carefully folded, hidden where she could touch it, when the night was dark and she was feeling most alone. If she could bring herself to admit that she had been wrong, and persuade him to forgive her, she might never be alone again.

‘Susan,’ she called. ‘Lay out my clothes. I am going out.’

Chapter Eighteen

Patrick announced her, and she entered the study more hesitantly than she had the last time she’d needed a favour from him. She was dressed differently as well. Where she had come to seduce before, today she was attired modestly: the low square neck of her bodice filled with a fichu, the skirt of the dress cut so that it revealed nothing of the changes already taking place in her body.

Tony was sitting at his desk, papers spread out in front of him, but he rose as she entered. She thought she detected a rush in the movements, as though he was caught off guard and took a moment to control his actions, before she noticed. ‘Your Grace?’

He gestured her to the chair in front of the desk and then seated himself again. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ There was no trace of irony in his voice. There was no emotion of any kind.

‘Do I really need a reason to visit, after what we have known together?’

He looked at her. ‘In a word, yes. It has taken me several weeks to recover from our last discussion, and I have no wish to be unnecessarily reminded of it.’ He was staring at her body. ‘Unless…’

‘I have come to say that I am sorry.’ She hung her head.

He looked at her with concern. ‘Your Grace, you are white as a sheet. A drink, perhaps?’ He turned to the decanter on the desk and his glass next to it, and sighed. He finished the contents in a gulp. Then he wiped the rim and poured her a small brandy.

She found it an oddly fastidious gesture, from one who had known her so intimately. She took the glass, sniffed at the brandy, and felt her stomach roll. She set it down untasted. ‘I was wrong to leave you with the impression that I viewed your visits as unwelcome, or that I felt them to be a duty or an obligation, or anything that might be construed as a repayment of debt.’

‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘That is something, at least.’

‘It was just that, with the threats and the stress of the debts, and not knowing how to go on, I was not myself.’

His gaze was flat and sceptical.

‘I am normally a most proper and respectable person,’ she continued. ‘Although you would not know it by my behaviour when alone with you. Had it not been for circumstances, I am sure I would never have behaved as shamelessly as I had, or as abominably as I did in ending it.’

He rose. ‘And now you have quite undone any good you did before. If you wish to discount your behaviour with me as an aberration, then it is better we remain apart to avoid disappointment. If we are together again, either you will be horrified by your continued deviance, or I will be crushed by the lack of it. Please leave me, now. Unless…’ he stared at her ‘…there is any other reason for you coming here.’

She was afraid to meet his gaze. ‘There is another thing. I know that you made me promise to not trouble you on that account, but I cannot help it. While I am relieved to know that you do not steal for no reason, so much of your life is kept in secret. Have you never considered another career? I knew you would be angry, and that it is hardly a point of pride for me to intercede. But I have gone to my nephew, and enquired after a position for you. He needs a man of business to run his estates and prevent him from being as ninnyhammered as he was when he lost my house. And you are quite the smartest man I know.’ She laid the sheet of parchment in front of him.

He glared up at her. ‘You were enquiring after honest employment for me?’

‘Yes, Tony.’

‘Was there anything in our brief interaction that led you to believe that I might welcome a change of career?’

‘Well, no, Tony.’

‘And did I not specifically request that you never trouble me on the subject, and tell you that I had no intention to change for you or any other?’

She stared at the floor. She had promised. She had sworn to him that it would not matter, and, by asking, she was forswearing herself. She raised her chin to look into his eyes. ‘I understand. I am sorry. It was not my place.’

He stared back at her and she felt her lip begin to tremble. She wished she could turn and run, and not say the rest of the words she would have to say, before this could be over. ‘Tony.’ She tried a small sip of the brandy, but it did nothing to improve her nerves.

He held out a hand for the paperwork. ‘Do not look at me so. Give me the paper. I can at least read it, although I suspect you have heard my final answer on the subject.’

He took the papers away from her and sat back down at the desk, feet flat on the floor. Then he removed a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of his coat, brushed them absently against his lapel to clean them, and put them on. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his elbows, tossing his head to get the hair out of his eyes. ‘No, no. This will never do. You’ll have me counting sheep in the country for your half-witted nephew, so that you can have the comfort of knowing I lead a poor but honest life. It is not going to happen, no matter what your motives.’

And as she stared at him, the memory came flooding back to her. He had done the same in his house, and in hers, in chapel and in the library. She had always seen him thus, from the time he had learned to read, until she had left home and forgotten him. Anywhere that there was something to be read, she was liable to trip over him, polishing his spectacles and muttering over the paper. And some part of her mind assumed, should she go home, he would be there still, sitting under a tree in the garden, conjugating Latin and declaiming in Greek.

The brandy glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the desk. ‘Eustace Smith.’

Without looking up he said, ‘Connie, if you must insist on breaking the glassware, I’ll leave you to explain it to Patrick. And I can assure you that I do not need menial employment, so you can take your offer with you. Or better yet, leave it and I will pass it on to my niece’s new husband. Much more in his line, I think. He has a fine head on his shoulders, unlike your nephew the duke, and will soon have the estate put to right.’

‘Eustace? It is you, isn’t it?’ She stood and planted her hands on the desk in front of him. ‘Little Eustace Smith who used to live next door to me?’

When he looked up into her eyes, he was smiling, the smile of her lover, Tony Smythe. ‘There was nothing little about me, even then.’

She swallowed hard at the memory of him.

‘I have always been six months older than you, although you never noticed the fact. You were too busy dangling after my brothers, or the neighbours, or the duke.’

The words wounded her, for it made her feel like a fortune hunter, or, worse yet, the foolish young girl she had been.

‘You were most interested in anyone else but me, as I remember it,’ he reminded her.

Although the smile hid it, she could hear the pain in his voice, as though the wound was fresh. And perhaps it was, for she had been intimate with him, had loved him, and still not seen him for who he was.

‘Oh, Eustace…’ the name stuck on her tongue and she forced it out ‘…I am so sorry. So very sorry, not to have known it was you.’

He looked at her sharply. ‘I have never favoured the name Eustace, nor has it favoured me.’

‘But…but it is you, isn’t it? To see you sitting there with your head in your hands, you are just as I remember you. Why didn’t you say something?’

‘So that I could listen to you dismiss me as “little Eustace”? Not a memory I needed to renew. Perhaps if you had recognised me. But there seemed to be no risk of that.’

She stared into his face as he peered at her from over his glasses and wondered how she could not have seen it. He looked very like his handsome older brothers. She blushed to remember that she had been quite taken with the older Smiths. ‘You do not wear your glasses any more?’

‘I only ever needed them to read, and that was all I ever did, when you knew me last. Now I do so much of my work in the dark, glasses are really quite useless. It is easier to operate by touch.’

She blushed, remembering how good he was in the dark, when operating by touch. ‘It was a very long time ago. And you are most different than you were.’

He sighed. ‘And you are very much the same as I remember. Every bit as beautiful as when you left home. And still in search of a title. How goes the husband hunt?’

‘Better than it had been, now that Barton is out of the way.’ Her voice was a little tart. ‘I have you to thank, for clearing the way for more honourable men.’

He looked tired. ‘I would have removed Barton, in any case. But it pleases me you benefited from it.’

‘So when you took the deed for me?’

‘I was helping out an old friend.’

‘And I am just an old friend to you?’

He looked at her long and hard. ‘If that is what you wish. But I suspect that you came here for a matter more personal than friendship. Enough nonsense, Connie. I was right in my surmise, was I not? You were not to blame for the barren union at all.’

She shook her head.

‘Have you come to torment me with the knowledge that by removing Barton, I have helped clear the path for some other man? Or do you need me, again? Have you come as you promised to? Come, out with it. What is the truth?’

She nodded. She needed him again, to fix yet another problem. He must be terribly tired of women in distress to look after and change one’s plans for. He had just got free of his sisters, and now he would be saddled with her. And when she opened her mouth to speak, she sobbed.

He rose from behind the desk quickly and caught her in his arms. ‘I am sorry that I spoiled your plans to catch another peer. I know you do not want me, and that I am not nearly good enough for you.’ His voice was rough. ‘But if you are carrying my child, I really must insist.’ He swallowed, and when he spoke his tone was strong and confident again. ‘Let me take care of you.’

‘No.’

He stiffened against her.

‘I am honoured that you will have me. But I am so sorry, Tony. So very, very sorry. I do not want you to have to take care of me, yet again. It is not fair to you, to never have what you want, but to have your future forced upon you by a foolish woman. Once you have married me, you need hardly take care of me at all. I will not be a bother. And I will do my best to take care of you.’ She erupted in a fresh bout of tears.

‘There now, do not cry.’

‘I cannot help it. I cry at every little thing, I am sick in the morning, tired during the day, restless at night.’ She sobbed into the wool of his coat. ‘And I was afraid to come here, but afraid to stay away.’

‘You have nothing to be afraid of, any more.’ He was stroking her hair and holding her tight against him. ‘Everything will be all right, if you will just say yes to me. Everything. I promise.’

‘You warned me this would happen. But I wanted you, and I wanted a baby as well, no matter the consequences. And then I forgot all about the risks and wanted to feel what I felt whenever I was with you. I did not think what it might be like for the poor baby to have such a fool for a mother, or care that you would not want to marry.’

‘When did I ever say that?’

‘You said you loved elsewhere. And you would marry me for the sake of the child. I have been in such a marriage, Tony, and do not want another.’

‘Were you so unhappy with the duke?’ His voice was strange in her ear, shaky and hoarse. ‘I always told myself that you were happy, and had what was best for you. And that I needn’t concern myself.’

‘After a fashion. I was fond of him, and he of me. We did comfortably together. And I did not love him, so it did not hurt so very much when he grew bored with me and visited with other women.’

‘My poor darling.’ He stroked her hair again.

‘Now you will marry me, because you promised to. And I will be happy. I have always wanted children. Always. I will be very happy. And I will be a good mother, and a good wife to you.

‘But some day you will say you are going to your club, but you will not come home. And I will lie alone in my bed, knowing that you have gone to her, and because I love you, but you can love only one woman, I fear it will break my heart.’ She let loose with a fresh batch of tears.

He wrapped his arms even tighter around her, and waited for the sobbing to abate, passing her his handkerchief. ‘You love me that much, do you?’

‘Mnnnhmmm.’

‘And you sent me away because…’

‘It was foolish of me to fall in love with you. I could not keep you, and I could not control myself when you held me in your arms. I only ever felt alive when I was with you. The longer I kept you, the more I wanted you, and the more disgracefully I would behave to keep you with me, and the harder it would be to let you go. And it was already too late.’

The tears were ready to start again, but before they could, he kissed her and, for a moment, she forgot what it was that she was crying about.

‘There, now. No more tears. Lay your head on my other shoulder where it is dry and comfortable, for the coat on the right is cried through to the shirt front.’ He kissed her temple. ‘Better?’

She nodded.

‘Then I have a riddle. If I loved one woman my whole life, which is as long as I’ve known you, but she would look right through me if she saw me on the street, and she is as lovely and as far above me and unattainable as you are yourself, and I have kept myself apart from matrimony, until now, hoping for a miracle, can you not guess the identity of my great undying passion, the love of my life, the woman I would brave oceans and fight lions, and crawl in and out of three-storey windows to steal deeds for?’

She held very still, hoping he would just tell her what she wanted to hear. It couldn’t be. But it must be, for he would never tease her so, if it weren’t.

‘And yet I was terrified to tell you the truth. I could not speak to you when we were children, and I could not speak to you now. There was only ever room in my heart for you, Constance. But if fate had not forced my hand, I might have been fool enough to let you marry someone else.’

She laid her hand on his arm and whispered. ‘Do not think of it, again. Now that I have found you, there can be no other man for me, Anthony Smythe.’ She furrowed her brow. It was not his true name, though she would always think of him thus. She tried again. ‘I mean, Eu—’

He winced and covered her mouth with his fingers. ‘Connie? Before you speak, let me warn you that it will spoil a lifetime of fantasy if you ever again call me by my given name. I did not take you to bed wishing to make you cry “oh, Eustace” loudly enough for the neighbours to hear.’

He had called her Connie. No one called her Connie any more. Not even Robert. But to her true friends she had always been Connie. She snuggled into the warmth of his shoulder, feeling safe, and it made her smile.

‘If we have a boy, I’ll hear no nonsense of naming him after his father. My mother fought to defend my brothers from that fate, but when it came to me, she no longer cared to be bothered, and let my father christen me Eustace Anthony after himself.’

‘We will name him Anthony,’ she murmured. ‘After his father. It is a wonderful name. I am quite fond of it.’

‘Very good.’ He reached behind her knees and scooped her up into his arms. ‘And now we will adjourn to the bedroom, where you can tell me that bit again, about how losing me would break your heart. Not that you ever will, of course.

‘And perhaps later, we might go to Bond Street and choose a ring fitting worthy of a former duchess.’

‘You needn’t, really,’ she whispered. ‘Money is not important. If you truly love me.’

He laughed. ‘I know, darling. And I would be only too happy to live on love, if I have you. But what shall I do with the great stacks of money that I got off Barton? The safe did not contain what I was looking for, but it was full to the top with hundred-pound notes. Why did the fool want to print his own money, when he had a safe full of the stuff?’ He shrugged. ‘If he did not appreciate his wealth, I saw no reason to let him keep it.’

‘You thief,’ she said. But she was laughing.

And she raised her face to his, and let him steal another kiss.

Lady Folbroke’s Delicious Deception

Christine Merrill

To Dr Eugene Swanson and his helpful staff.

Thanks for taking care of my eyes.

Chapter One

While Emily Longesley could say with truth that she did not dislike many people, she had begun to suspect that she hated her husband’s cousin Rupert. There was something in the way he looked at the manor when he visited that made her think he wished to measure it for furniture.

It was all the more annoying to know that he was entitled to his feelings of possessiveness. If she remained childless, the title fell to Rupert. And as the years had passed since her husband had abandoned her, Rupert’s visits had grown more frequent, more intrusive, and he’d become more generally confident in the eventuality of his inheritance. Lately, he had taken to giving an annoying smirk as he’d asked after the health of her husband, as though he were privy to some bit of information that she was not.

It was even more bothersome to suspect that this might be the truth. Although her husband’s secretary, Hendricks, insisted that the earl was well, he was equally insistent that Adrian had no desire to communicate with her. A visit from him was unlikely. A visit to him would be both unwelcome and out of the question. Were they hiding something, or was her husband’s dislike of her as transparent as it appeared?

Today, she could stand it no longer. ‘Rupert, what is the meaning of that expression on your face? It almost appears that you doubt my word. If you suspect that Adrian is ill, then the least you could do is pretend to be sympathetic.’

Rupert looked at her with a smug grin that seemed to imply he’d caught her at last. ‘I do not suspect Folbroke of illness so much as I begin to doubt his existence.’

‘What utter fustian. You know perfectly well that he exists, Rupert. You have known him since childhood. You attended our wedding.’

‘And that was almost three years ago.’ He glanced around him, as though the empty air were some recent discovery. ‘I do not see him here, now.’

‘Because he resides in London for most of the year.’ All of the year, in fact, but it would not help to bring that to the fore.

‘None of his friends has seen him there. When Parliament is in session, his seat in the House of Lords is vacant. He does not attend parties or the theatre. And when I visit his rooms, he is just gone out and not expected back.’

‘Perhaps he does not wish to see you,’ Emily said. If so, she had found one point of agreement with her absent spouse.

‘I do not particularly wish to see him, either,’ Rupert said. ‘But for the sake of the succession, I demand to see some evidence that the man still breathes.’

‘That he still breathes? Of all the ridiculous things you have said, Rupert, I think that this is the worst. You are his closest living relative. And his heir. If the Earl of Folbroke had died, you would have been notified of it immediately.’

‘If you chose to tell me.’ He was looking at her with a suspicious cat’s gaze, as though he was sure, if he stared long enough, she would admit to a body buried beneath the floorboards.

‘Of course I would tell you if something had happened to Adrian. What reason would I have to conceal the truth from you?’

‘Every reason in the world. Do you think I cannot see how you are left in charge of this property when he is absent? The servants take their orders from you. I have seen the steward and the man of business come to you for their instructions, and caught you poring over the account books as though you would have any idea what to do with them.’

After all the time she had spent reading them, she knew perfectly well what to do with the accounts.

And her husband had no problem with her taking them on, even expressing his approval of her management in the few curt communications that had come to her through Hendricks. ‘Since you are not yet the earl, why should it matter to you?’

Rupert’s eyes narrowed. ‘Because it is unnatural. I do not wish to see my inheritance squandered through the mismanagement of a woman. I have written to Folbroke frequently with my fears. Yet there is no sign of him coming to take control of what is rightfully his. He is here so seldom that he might as well be dead. And perhaps he is, for all you seem to care. You have arranged the running of the place to your own satisfaction, have you not? But if he has passed and you think can maintain a charade that there is a master here, you are sorely mistaken.’

Emily gathered her breath, trying to remain calm in the face of the bombardment. Rupert had always been a bit of a pill, but she had done her best to be kind to him, for the sake of her husband. Her even temper had been wasted on both Adrian and his ridiculous cousin, and her patience had reached its end. ‘Your accusations are ridiculous.’

‘I think not, madam. The last time I visited his rooms, the servants claimed he was indisposed. But when I forced my way in to search for him, I could find no trace.’

‘If you abuse his hospitality and bully his servants, then no wonder he does not wish to see you. Your behaviour is beyond rude. The fact that you have not seen him does not indicate that I have not. How do you think papers of business for this estate are signed? I cannot sign them myself.’ Actually, she found her forgeries quite credible. And what could not be forged was passed through to her husband’s secretary and then returned to her. Though she knew Hendricks to be as devoted to her husband as he was helpful to her. While there was no proof that these papers were forged as well, she sometimes had her suspicions.

But Rupert had no faith at all. ‘On the contrary, I have no doubt that you could and do sign documents. Should a miracle occur, and I receive a letter from your husband, I will have no proof that his hand was the one that wrote it.’

‘And I suppose you do not believe me when I say that I have contact with him regularly.’

Her cousin laughed. ‘Of course I do not. I think it is a ruse to keep me from what is rightfully mine.’

His surety in the emptiness of her marriage had pushed her temper to the breaking point. ‘This estate is not yours. None of it. It belongs to Adrian Longesley, the current Earl of Folbroke. And after him, to his son.’

Rupert laughed again. ‘And when are we likely to see an heir from your invisible husband?’

The idea struck suddenly, and she could not help but express it. ‘Quite possibly in eight months. Although it is just as likely to be a girl. But Adrian assures me that in his family the first child is almost always male.’

This seemed to deflate Rupert, who sputtered his next answer. ‘You are … are …’

‘Increasing. Yes.’ Now that the first lie was out, it emboldened her to continue in it. ‘I did not mean to be so unladylike to broach the subject of my condition, but since you insist on trying me with baseless suspicions, I have no choice. And I would think carefully, were I you, to speak what is probably in your mind and hint that it is not my husband’s child at all. If I hear so much as a breath of that, I will tell Adrian how you speak to me when he is away. And he will think nothing of family connections and run you through for spreading salacious rumours about me. He was in the army, you know. He is still a crack shot, and a dab hand with a sword. And very sensitive of my feelings. He would not wish me to be hurt.’ The last was the biggest lie of all. But what did it matter, next to her imaginary baby?

Rupert’s face was white mottled with red, and his lips twitched as though she had pushed him so close to apoplexy that his speech had failed. Finally, he managed, ‘If this is true, which I sincerely doubt it is, then I hardly know what to say of it.’

Emily smiled, turning his sly looks back upon him. ‘Why, my dear cousin Rupert, that is simplicity itself. The only thing you must say to me is “Congratulations.” And then, “Farewell.” Women in my condition tire easily. And, alas, I have no more strength to socialise with you.’ She gripped him by the hand in a way that might appear fond were it not so forceful, and gave a forward tug, propelling him past her to the doorway of the salon and allowing his momentum to carry him out into the hall. When he was clear of the door, she shut it quickly behind him and leaned her shoulders against the panel, as though that were all it would take to block out any further visits.

It had been bad enough, at the beginning of the interview, when she had feared that she would have to produce her wayward husband. But now she would be expected to produce both him and an infant—and get Adrian to agree that he had fathered the child, whether he had, or not.

Or not. Now there was an interesting possibility. At the moment, she had no admirers to encourage in so passionate a way. And while she did not think herself unattractive, she suspected that there were some things that even the loyal Hendricks would not do in the name of maintaining the status quo.

But if Adrian had any interest in her continued fidelity, than he had best get himself home at least long enough to prove his good health, if not his virility. She had not heard a word from him in almost a year. Although the servants swore that they had seen him, they did it with the sort of worried expressions that told her something was seriously amiss. And they followed their avowals with equally worried assurances, similar to Hendricks’s, that there was no need for her to go to London to see for herself. In fact, that would be the worst possible thing for her to do.

It was a woman, she suspected. They were trying to shield her from the fact that her husband had taken up permanent residence with someone else. He was willing to let his own wife and the chance at a family go hang for a mistress and a brood of bastards.

She tried to tell herself she was being both ridiculous and overly dramatic. Most men had arrangements of some kind or other, and wives who were content to ignore them. But as months had turned to years, and he paid no attention at all to her, it grew harder to pretend that she did not care.

And at the moment, her problems were concerned less with what he might have done, and more with what he had not. While it was difficult to be the object of such a total rejection, it became untenable when it damaged her ability to stay in her own home. In her three years of residence here, she had come to think of Folbroke Manor as rightfully hers. And if the fool she had married was declared dead because he could not be bothered to appear, she would have to yield it to that oaf, Rupert.

It would result in inconvenience and bother to all concerned.

Emily glanced at the desk in the corner, and thought of composing a sternly worded letter on the subject. But this matter was far too urgent and too personal to risk exposing it to another’s eyes. If, as she expected, Hendricks read all of my lord’s mail, she did not wish him to know that she had resorted to requesting sexual congress in writing.

And it would be even more embarrassing if the answer came in someone else’s hand, or not at all. Or worse yet, in the negative.

All things considered, it would be far better to make a sudden appearance in London, camp out in Adrian’s rooms, and await his return. Once the servants saw that she was in earnest, they would accede to her perfectly logical demand for an audience with her own husband. When she saw him, she would tell him that either he must get her with child, or tell the odious Rupert that he still breathed so that the man would leave her alone.

Then they could go back about their business of leading separate lives. And he could pretend she didn’t exist, just as he obviously wished to.

Chapter Two

For the first time in ages, Emily was in the same city as Adrian Longesley. Scant miles apart—possibly even less than that. Even now, he might be in residence behind the closed door, just in front of her.

Emily fought down the wave of terror that the prospect aroused in her, placing her palm flat against the rain-spattered window glass of the carriage, willing herself to feel as cool as it did. The nearness to Adrian was a palpable thing, like a tug on a string tied to something vital, deep inside her. Although she had felt it for most of her life, she had learned to ignore it. But it grew stronger as the carriage had reached the outskirts of London, an annoying tightness in her chest, as though she could not quite manage to catch a full breath.

With that lack of breath would come the weakening of her voice, the quiet tone and the tendency to squeak without warning. And, worst of all, it would be impossible to talk to him. When she tried to speak, she would stammer things out, repeating herself or pausing inappropriately in the middle of a thought, only to have the words rush out in a jumble. Even if she could manage to stay silent, there would be the blushing, and the inability to meet his gaze.

And since she was sure that he felt no answering pull on this magical bond between them, her behaviour would irritate him. He would think her an idiot, just as he had from the first moment they’d married. And he would dismiss her again, before she could explain herself.

When dealing with Adrian, she found it much easier to express herself with written communication. When she had the time to compose her thoughts, and the ability to toss any false starts and missteps into the fire, she had no troubles making her point.

And in that she was the very opposite of her husband. He had been clear enough, when he’d bothered to speak to her. But the few letters she’d received were terse, full of cross hatching, and in a hand so rough as to be practically illegible. She suspected it was drink that caused it. While easy to decipher, the latest ones came with a brief preamble, explaining that my lord was indisposed and had dictated the following to Hendricks.

She glanced at her reflection in the watery glass. She had improved with age. Her skin had cleared. Her hair was better dressed. Despite her rustication, she took care to outfit herself in the latest styles. While she had never been a pretty girl, she counted herself a handsome woman. Although she did not agree with it, it flattered her that the word beauty had been applied by others. She had also been assured that her company was charming, and her conversation intelligent.

But to the one man she’d always longed to impress, she could not manage to behave as anything other than David Eston’s troublesome little sister. She was sure that it was only out of loyalty to his friend and family that Adrian had been willing to saddle himself with such a dull and graceless creature.

Before her, her own image dissolved as the coachman opened the door and put down the step for her, holding an umbrella over her head as he rushed her to the door, knocking for her.

The door opened and her husband’s butler greeted her with an open mouth and a breathless, ‘My Lady Folbroke.’

‘No need to announce me, Abbott. If you can find someone to take my cloak, I will make myself comfortable in the salon.’

When no footman appeared to help her, she untied the neck and stepped forwards out of the garment, letting it drop from her shoulders.

Abbott reached forwards, hurrying to catch it before it struck the floor. ‘Of course, my lady. But my Lord Folbroke—’

‘Is not expecting me,’ she finished for him.

At the end of the hallway, her husband’s secretary appeared, took one look at her, and then glanced behind him as though he wished, like a rabbit meeting a fox, to dart back under cover.

‘Hello, Hendricks.’ She smiled in a way that was both warm and firm, and pushed past the butler, bearing down on him.

‘Lady Folbroke.’ Hendricks looked quietly horrified to see her and repeated, ‘You were not expected.’

‘Of course not, Hendricks. Had he expected me, my darling Adrian would have been shooting in Scotland. Or on the Continent. Anywhere but sharing London with me.’ She tried a light laugh to show how unimportant it was to her, and failed dismally. She ignored the strange, sharp feeling in her stomach and the ache in her heart that came from knowing she was not really wanted.

The secretary had the courtesy to look shamed by it, but made no effort to deny what she had said.

‘I suppose it is too much to hope that he is here at the moment.’

‘No, my lady. He is out.’

‘That is the same story you give to his cousin Rupert, who has been tormenting me endlessly on the subject of Adrian’s whereabouts. I have had enough of it, Hendricks.’ She stopped to breathe, for while her tone had sufficient volume, she did not want it creeping into shrillness. Then she continued. ‘My husband must accept that, if he cannot deal with his heir, he will have to deal with me. It is unfair of him to avoid us both. And while I am quite willing to shoulder the responsibility of land, tenants, crops and several hundred-odd sheep while Adrian gallivants about the city, the added burden of Rupert is simply too much, Hendricks. It is the last straw to this camel.’

‘I see, Lady Folbroke.’ Hendricks had replaced his hunted look with an expression of neutral courtesy, as though he hoped that his silence would still her questions.

‘My husband is still in the city?’ She gave the man a critical look.

He squirmed and nodded.

She nodded in reply. ‘And how long might it be until he returns here?’

The secretary gave a helpless shrug.

‘Honesty, Hendricks. You know more than you are saying, I am sure. All I require of you is a simple answer. I intend to wait as long as is needed, in either case. But it would be nice to know if I should request a light meal, or send for my trunks and prepare for an extended stay.’

‘I do not know, Lady Folbroke.’ There was a kind of hopelessness in the statement that made her almost believe the man.

‘Surely he must tell you his plans when he goes out.’

‘When he bothers to make them,’ the secretary said, revealing a bitterness that smacked of honesty.

‘If he sets an agenda, he rarely keeps to it. Sometimes he is gone for hours. And other times days.’

‘Then he must be letting rooms elsewhere.’

‘This may be true. But I do not know where, for I have never visited them. And when he returns?’ Hendricks shook his head, clearly worried.

‘I suppose he is foxed.’ She gave a disgusted sigh. It was no less than she feared about him, but the confirmation did nothing to improve her mood.

‘If that were all. He is …’ Hendricks struggled to find a phrase that would not give up a confidence. ‘Not well. Unhealthy, my lady. I doubt he eats. Or sleeps. When he can bring himself to come home after one of these excursions, he collapses for days at a time. I fear he will do himself an injury through self-neglect.’

‘His father was around the same age when he lost his life, was he not?’

‘Yes, my lady. A riding accident.’

It was gently put, as was everything Hendricks said. The man was a master of understatement. But she remembered the circumstances quite well, for the severity of the last earl’s injuries had been the talk of the neighbourhood. Adrian’s father had been the worse for drink, and riding hell for leather through the woods, taking jumps that other men would not have risked while sane and sober. The fall had killed both man and horse in a way that was neither quick nor painless.

Her brother had said nothing of his friend’s reaction when the accident had occurred. But she could remember clearly the solemn darkness of the young man on the neighbouring estate, and the way it had both frightened and intrigued her. ‘Perhaps it preys upon his mind. And all the more reason that I should be here to put a stop to it.’

The secretary looked both doubtful and hopeful, as though he could not decide where his loyalty might lie.

‘Summon the coachman who took him when he departed, so that we might learn his destination. If we can find his normal haunts, then I will search them until I find him.’

‘You cannot,’ Hendricks leaned forwards, and she knew the situation must be serious for the taciturn man was clearly alarmed.

‘I mean to do it, all the same.’

The man stared into her eyes, as though to gauge the strength of her resolve. Then he sighed. ‘I will accompany you.’

‘That is hardly necessary.’

Hendricks squared his shoulders, doing his best to look formidable. ‘I am sorry, Lady Folbroke, but I must insist. If you mean to continue on this unadvisable course of action, than I cannot leave you to do it alone.’

‘And who gives you the right to question me?’

‘Lord Folbroke himself. He has been quite clear to me in his instructions, with regards to you. I am to assist you in all things, trust your judgement and obey you as I would him. But first and foremost, he trusts me to keep you from harm.’

The sentiment brought her up short. After a year of silence on his part, it had never occurred to her that her husband thought of her at all. And certainly not for a sufficiently protracted time as to concern himself with her safety. ‘He worries about me?’

‘Of course, my lady. He asks after you each time I return from Derbyshire. Normally, I assure him there is no reason to be concerned. But in this case?’ He shook his head.

Emily dismissed the momentary feeling of warmth at the picture of Adrian asking about her. ‘If my welfare is his foremost desire, perhaps he could have seen fit to share it with me. Or he could make an effort to stay out of low haunts himself. Then it would not be necessary for me to seek him in a place he did not want me to go.’

Hendricks was frowning at the twisted logic of her statement, trying to find a rebuttal, so she allowed him no more time. She turned to the butler. ‘Abbott, have the carriage brought around. Mr Hendricks and I will be going out. We will be returning with Lord Folbroke.’

She glared at Hendricks. ‘Whether he likes it or not.’

‘You are sure this is the place?’ The building before her gave every indication of being just what it was: a villainous hole that was well below the genteel debauchery she’d expected.

‘Yes, my lady,’ Hendricks said, with a grim smile. ‘Of late, the servants bring him here. He finds his own way home.’

She sighed. There was a sign swinging above the battered door that appeared to be a woman of limited virtue, and even more limited clothing. ‘What is it called, then?’

‘The Whore’s Left …’ Hendricks coughed as though he could not bring himself to finish the name.

‘Is it a brothel?’ She peered out the window at the grimy glass panes in front of her, trying not to show the curiosity she felt.

‘No, my lady. A public house.’

‘I see.’ It was nothing like the rather conservative inn in their village. But things were very different in London, she was sure. ‘Very well, then. Wait in the carriage.’

‘I most certainly will not.’ It was a moment before the secretary realised how completely he’d overstepped his bounds in his effort to protect her. Then he said more softly, ‘I have been through doors like that one, and seen the clientele inside. It is a dangerous place for Lord Folbroke and even more so for a woman alone.’

‘I do not mean to be there long enough to experience risk. If he is there, he will think the same as you, and though he might choose the place for his own entertainment, he will be forced to escort me out of it. But I do not mean to leave without him.’ She set her chin in the way she did, to let the Derbyshire servants know that she was brooking no more nonsense, and saw the secretary weaken before her.

‘If you find him, he might not be willing to go.’ Again there was a delicate pause as he searched for a way around her orders. ‘You might need my help.’

It was perfectly true. She had no reason to believe that her husband would listen to her entreaties, if he would not answer her correspondence. ‘Would you remove him by force, if needed?’

Hendricks paused again. To take her side when in the presence of her husband would seem close to mutiny. He had been Adrian’s aide-de-camp in the army, and had the fierce loyalty of a soldier to a superior officer to match his dedication to a friend and employer. But then he said, as though the confession was a thing he did not want to share, ‘If the instruction came from you, and it was meant for his own good, I would do it. There are reasons for his aberrant behaviour, which you will understand soon enough. But if he is no longer able to act in his own best interests, then someone must do it for him.’

Emily touched Hendricks’s shoulder to reassure him. ‘Do not fear for your position. I promise you will come to no harm for doing what is right. But we must be agreed on this before we begin. I will ask him to come. And if he does not, you must help me remove him.’

‘Very well.’ He nodded. ‘Let us do the thing quickly, now that we are decided. The situation cannot stand as it does much longer.’

They walked through the door together, Hendricks close at her shoulder. And Emily stepped back into him as she took in the room before her. The sound of drunkenness hit her first: laughing, fighting and ribald song. And then the smell—urine and vomit added to the smoke from a blocked chimney and burned meat to make the room even more unpleasant. She had expected to find Adrian in some normal gaming hell where the play was deep and the women were not ladies. Or perhaps a whorehouse where the play was of a different sort entirely. But she had assumed it would be the sort of place where lords went, when they sought to amuse themselves outside polite society.

There was no sign of even the lowest members of their set in evidence. This was a rough place full of even rougher men who had come to enjoy their vices with no care for the law of God or man.

Hendricks put his hand on her shoulder. ‘We will take a table in the corner, out of the way of this mob. And I will enquire after him for you.’ He led her to the corner, and a barmaid brought two mugs to the table with a sneer on her face. Emily glanced into hers to see that it was already filled. She smelled juniper.

Hastings placed a hand over her glass. ‘The strength of the gin will not make up for the dirtiness of the glass.’ He tossed a coin on the table. As the barmaid reached for it, he caught her by the wrist. ‘The Earl of Folbroke. Do you know him? Is he here?’ The girl shook her head, but he did not release her. ‘Do you know an Adrian Longesley?’

‘Addy?’ She gave a single nod, and he let go of her arm, but his action had drawn the eyes of others.

The men who rose from the nearest table were hulking brutes, looking for any reason to fight. ‘Here now, stranger. You have a dollymop of your own, do you not?’ The one who spoke gave Emily a toothless leer.

‘Aye,’ said another. ‘If you wish to share our Molly, then you must share as well.’ Behind her, a man leaned close, and she inched her chair away.

‘Now, see here.’ Hendricks’s gaze was steely, and his shoulders broad. Though she thought him timid when compared to Adrian, he had been a captain in the army, and she had no doubt that he would defend her honour to the best of his considerable abilities. But with so many against him, she doubted that his strength would do them much good.

And as she feared, when Hendricks started to rise, a fist to his jaw knocked him back into the chair.

She gave a little shriek of alarm as one of the men crowding the table reached for her. This had been a dreadful mistake. The place was horrible, the men were horrible, and what was likely to happen now would be the fault of her own stupidity. Even if her husband was here, she doubted she wanted to see him. If he were part of the crowd around her, he was most likely beyond redemption.

And then, as she gave another cry of alarm, a hand reached out through the press of bodies around her chair, seized her by the arm and pulled her forwards until she was crushed against the body of her rescuer.

Chapter Three

‘Can’t you see that she does not wish your company?’ A silver-headed cane shot out, rapping one man upon the head and another across the knuckles. The men who were struck gave sharp cries of pain, and grumbled as their fellows laughed at their distress.

Emily wrapped her arms about the waist of the man who held her to keep from swooning with relief. She recognised the voice of her husband, and was more gratified to be close to him than she had been at any time since the day of their marriage.

‘And you think she wants you instead?’ a man called. There was a chorus of laughter from around the room.

‘How can she not?’ Adrian called back. ‘I am the only gentleman amongst you.’

More laughter in response.

‘And she is clearly a lady of discerning taste, if she has the sense enough to reject you.’

There was yet more laughter to this, and she could not decide if it was directed to Adrian, or to the fact that she had been called a lady.

There was a pause, as she wondered if he meant to answer the insults to her with anything more than jests. Then he turned her to face him.

He had changed, of course, but not so much that she could not recognise him. His coat was of good quality, but ragged and dirty. His neckcloth was stained and his dark brown hair needed combing. But he still had shockingly blue eyes, though they gave her little more than a sidelong glance. And there was the roguish smile that he shared with other women more often than he did with her. His body was just as strong and solid as it had ever been, so muscular that she felt dwarfed against him as he held her close. Frightened of being crushed, and yet still protected.

She could feel her nerve failing now that he was close, and the growing desire to sink into him, soaking in the warmth of his body as though immersed in the bath. What was around them did not matter. She was with Adrian. She would be all right.

And then he kissed her. On the mouth.

The suddenness of it shocked her. She had expected a distant greeting, and his customary slight frown, as though, even as he was saying hello, he was thinking of ways to say goodbye.

But he was kissing her. They were really kissing. And it was like nothing she had experienced before. He tasted of gin and tobacco, smelled of sweat, and his cheeks were rough with several days’ beard growth. It was a sensory onslaught: a strange combination of the pleasant and the unpleasant. Joyful. Abandoned. And wet.

His kisses of the past had been unmemorable. Reserved. Flavourless and without texture. And much as she had wanted to feel otherwise, she had not liked them very much. He had been so careful to give no offence that he could not have enjoyed them either. Even in consummation, he had set himself apart from her, allowing no loss of self-control.

But today, in a crowded tavern, without asking her leave or showing a care to the men watching them, he devoured her mouth as he might a piece of late-summer fruit, giving a low hmmm of approval at the ripeness, the juiciness. He clutched her bottom through her skirts, and eased a leg between her parting thighs, giving her a small bounce there, to make sure that he had shaken her to the core.

And for a moment she forgot her anger with him and her fear. All the feelings of hurt and betrayal disappeared, along with the shyness she felt when she was with him. After all this time, he had decided he loved her. He wanted her. And if she could have him back, just like this, everything would be all right.

Then he pulled away and whispered in her ear, ‘Here now, love. Nothing to be frightened of. Let us leave these brigands behind. Come and sit on my lap.’

‘I beg your pardon.’ The happy thoughts froze in her head, and cold logic returned to its proper place. The request was odd, and delivered in a way that showed a strange lack of feeling for his friend and servant, Hendricks, struggling back to consciousness in the chair in front of him.

Adrian gave her another small hug and a quick kiss on the lips to coax her. ‘You may help me with my cards tonight. There will be a shiny sovereign for you, if you are good.’ He said it as if he were talking to a stranger. There was no trace of recognition in that voice. No hint that this was to be a shared joke, or a lark or that he was trying to protect her from the ruffians by hiding her identity.

Was he honestly so drunk that he did not know her?

‘Help you with your cards?’ she said. The last haze of desire cleared from her mind. If he did not claim her as wife, then just who had he thought he’d been kissing? ‘I should think you could manage them without my help, just as you normally do, my lord.’

The censure in her voice did not seem to register. ‘You would be surprised, my dear.’ He was whispering in her ear. ‘It seems I need more help by the day.’ He kissed her on the side of the head, as though to confirm to the others that he was whispering endearments, and then said more loudly, ‘Since we are to be fast friends, you may call me Adrian.’ And then he pulled her away from the crowd, stumbling back towards a gaming table on the other side of the room.

Emily struggled against him, trying to catch her breath long enough to argue that this behaviour was an insult worse than any she had yet borne. But he conquered her easily and sat down on a chair with his back to the wall, drawing her into his lap. And all the time he continued to kiss the side of her face and her neck, as though he could not get enough of the contact.

The feel of his lips, hot on her skin, made her anger seem distant and unimportant. If he could not overcome this sudden desire to touch her, then why should she? His body knew her, even if his mind did not. She arched her back and pressed her cheek against his lips, vowing that while they had differences to settle, surely it could wait a while longer.

And then he whispered in a calm voice, unaffected by the nearness of her, ‘They will deal a hand to me, and you must read the pips on the cards into my ear. Pretend it is merely affection, just as I have done to you. Help me to know the cards that are played. And as I promised, you shall have your sovereign.’

‘Pretend?’ Was that all this was to him?

‘Shh,’ he whispered, lips still against her jaw. ‘A guinea, then.’

Her anger returned. He was nothing more than she believed him to be: a drunken reprobate who could think no further than his own pleasure. And she was a fool who could not conquer the fantasies she had created around him, no matter how many times he showed his true face to her.

And with the anger came curiosity. He still did not know her. But it seemed his seduction was just as much a sham for the stranger he thought he held. He seemed to care more for the cards than he had for the kisses. And if that was true, his actions made no sense at all to her. So she did just as he had requested, hoping the motive would become clear with time. He held her close as the hands were dealt, and she whispered a description of the play into his ear.

Emily watched the men across the table from her, certain that they must have some idea of what was going on, for they kept their eyes on her, and their hands tilted carefully towards them, as though fearing that she might be attempting to read what was concealed there.

But her husband did not seem to notice the fact, nor care what the others might hold. He greeted each new hand with a vacuous and unfocused smile, head tilted slightly to one side so that he might concentrate on the words she whispered in his ear.

As she watched, she began to suspect that it was not his smile that was unfocused. It was the look in his eyes. He looked not on her, or the cards before him—not even the men across the table. It was as though he were peering through the space around him, a little to the left, at some spot near the floor, expecting an invisible door would open a view to another place entirely. Was he drunk, or was it something far worse?

Despite his strange behaviour, his mind was still sharp. After a single recitation of information, he had no trouble keeping his hand straight, nor with bidding or points. He won more than he lost. And then he ran his hands once over the winnings heaped in front of him, conscious of any move to cheat him out of what should rightfully come to his side of the table, reaching for his cane and tapping it sharply on the floor to emphasise his disapproval, if what he found was not to his liking.

She saw the wary look that the men around them gave to that stick and its heavy silver head, and the speed with which they put an end to any mischief when Adrian reached for it. They seemed to view it and her husband not with fear, but with a sort of grudging respect, as though experience had taught them he was an opponent who would not be easily bested.

After a time, Adrian seemed to tire of play, shifting her on his lap as though he grew restless. ‘Enough, gentlemen,’ he said with a smile, pulling the money before him to the edge of the table and into a purse he removed from his coat. He gave a theatrical yawn and turned his head to hers again and said, ‘I am of a mind to retire for the evening.’ And then, ‘If you would be so kind as to accompany me, I will give you the coin I promised.’

He pocketed the purse and his hand went back to her waist, and then up, stroking the underside of her breast through the fabric of her dress.

She gave a little yelp of alarm, embarrassed by his forwardness, and slapped his fingers away. ‘Please do not do that.’

The men around them laughed, and she kept her eyes firmly on the table, not wanting to see what Hendricks thought of this public affront upon her person.

Nor did she wish him to see the flush of excitement on her cheeks. Though she did not want to feel anything from it, her husband’s touch was arousing her. It was probably just as well that he did not know her. If he had, he would have stood up, spoken politely and taken her by the arm instead of the waist. Then he would have rushed her back to the country so that her presence in London would not have spoiled his fun.

Instead, she could feel the hardness beneath her bottom, and the way her denial of him had made his response more urgent. He buried his face in the hollow of her throat, inhaling deeply and licking once at her collarbone. ‘I cannot help my reaction. You smell wonderful.’

‘And you do not.’ She shook him off, sitting up straighter, angered by his weakness and her own.

Adrian gave a sharp laugh, and it was honest mirth, as though he had not expected to be matched in wit by a doxy. He gave a sniff at his coat, as though gauging his own unpleasantness. ‘Once I get out of these clothes, you will find I am not so bad.’

Although she doubted the fact, she nodded. It would be better to hold her temper for just a little while, for there was much that needed to be said, and she had no wish to do it in front of this rough audience. If she could get him to leave the place willingly, it would achieve her ends, and would be easier for both of them when difficult revelations had to be made.

He cocked his head to the side, not acknowledging her agreement, and so she said, ‘Of course, Adrian. Lead the way.’

He pushed her bottom and slid her out of his lap, then stood and reached for his stick. And she noticed with a grim certainty that he did not lean upon the cane for support, nor swagger with it, as though it was a mere ornament. Instead, he used it to part the crowd around the table, letting it tap idly along the ground as he walked. And instead of going towards the front door and freedom, he walked farther into the tavern, towards the stairs at the back of the room.

Emily pulled on his sleeve and said through clenched teeth, ‘My lord, did you not wish to leave this place?’

He took her arm, pulling her along with him. ‘I have let space here. It is easier, after a long night of play.’ He kissed her again, thrusting his tongue once deep into her mouth, until her mind went blank. ‘And much closer.’ When they reached the steps he put his hand on the rail, sheltering her body between his and the wall. As they started to climb, she turned back to Hendricks, who still sat by the door, giving him a helpless look and hoping that he had some wisdom or explanation to offer.

Instead, he gave a small shrug in answer, as though to tell her that this was her plan, not his. He would wait upon her orders to decide the next action.

So she shook her head and held up a staying hand, hoping that he would understand that she meant to follow Adrian, at least for now. There was no point in explaining her identity to him in this crush. It would be embarrassing enough when they were alone.

It was then she saw a body breaking from the throng below, running for the stairs. An angry loser from the gaming table had waited until Adrian’s back was turned and was coming after them, his arm raised in threat.

Her husband cocked his head at the sound of running footsteps on the treads behind them; without a word, he switched his stick to his other hand, turned and brought the thing down on the head of his adversary. Then he gave a shove backwards with it, knocking the other man off balance and sending him down the stairs.

‘Idiot,’ he muttered. ‘I shall take my play elsewhere, if this is how they wish to behave here. What he thought to accomplish by that, I have no idea. He should know damn well that I am blind, not deaf.’

Chapter Four

‘Blind?’ She should not have been surprised, for it had been obvious as she’d sat with him that he could not read the cards in his hand, nor recognise his own wife, though she sat in his lap.

He smiled, not the least bit bothered by it. ‘Not totally. Not yet, at least. I can see shapes. And light and dark. And enough of you to know that you are a more attractive companion than that blighter I just knocked down the stairs. But I fear that cards are quite beyond my scope.’

‘But how?’

‘You are a curious one, aren’t you?’ He climbed the rest of the stairs with her, opening the door at their head and leading her down the gloomy corridor behind it. ‘It is a family condition, aggravated by a war injury. There was a flash, you see. And I was too close. Without that, I might have lasted a good long time with these tired old eyes. A lifetime, perhaps. Or perhaps not. Not all the men of my family have the problem. I understand that it can take some time before the world begins to go dark.’

‘But I never knew.’ And his family had lived beside hers for generations.

‘A blind man?’ He smiled, and turned suddenly, pushing her against the wall and pinning her hands above her head with his ebony walking stick. Then he kissed her again, more ardently than he had at any point in their brief time together. His lips were on her mouth, her cheeks, her chin, her throat. And she felt the delicious loss of control she’d felt when he kissed her below stairs, and nothing had mattered but the moment they were sharing. He sagged against her so that he could suck and bite at the tops of her breasts, where they were exposed above the neckline of her gown, as though he could not wait a moment longer to bare them, and take the nipples between his lips. It made her moan in frustration, arching her back, struggling against the wood that held her in place and kept her from giving herself to him. It did not matter that he could not see who he was kissing. It was Adrian, and he wanted her. And, at last, she would have him the way she’d always imagined, the way she had wanted him for as long as she’d known the reason for kissing.

He gave a slight buck of his hips so she could feel what their kisses had done to him. And she felt her own wet heat rising in response at the memories of hardness and length and welcome penetration, and the panting eagerness to be so possessed.

And then he said in a voice that was not nearly flustered enough, ‘It is only the eyes that are the problem. The rest of me is quite healthy, I assure you. Once we snuff the candles, you will find me much like any other man.’

Like any other man? For her, there had never been another. But what was happening to him was so common he was barely affected by it. Her eyes flew open and she stared past his shoulder, aware of their shabby surroundings and remembering the reason that she had come looking for him. He had treated her abominably since the day they had married. And now, after a few kisses she had forgotten it all, willing to be used in a public hallway like one of his whores. ‘Let go of me. This instant. Release my arms, you beast, or I shall scream to bring down the roof.’ She struggled against his lips, against his body and against the stick that stayed her hands.

He stepped back and lowered his cane, a slight puzzled frown upon his face. ‘Are you sure? There is a private room just down the hall. The door locks, and only I have the key. We will be all alone, with no fear of interruption.’ He paused, and then his lips twitched into a coaxing smile. ‘I can give you the guinea I promised. There is more than enough from the table tonight. You should know for you saw it. I can tell money well enough, one coin from another,’ he assured hurriedly, as though assuming this might be the problem. ‘They feel differently in weight and size. And as for the rest of it?’ He stepped close again. And when she did not pull away he dipped his head and began to kiss her again, slowly working his way down her throat to settle on the hollow of her shoulder. Then he moved just enough so his lips were no longer touching her, then spoke and let his breath do the teasing. ‘I have been assured that the reliance on other senses has made me an unusually observant lover. I particularly value touch in these moments, and use it to good advantage. And taste.’ He licked with just the lip of his tongue, as though he were sampling her flavour.

Emily gave another dizzy shudder; she could swear that she felt that single lick to the very core of her body, making her imagine he was kissing her in a place that was most unlikely and very improper. And she wondered, would he be shocked if she suggested such a thing?

Or had he been doing that, and worse? He had been assured of his prowess, had he? Assured by whom? She buried her fingers in his hair, trying to pull him away, focusing on the last three years, the doubt, the loneliness, the anger. Had he been going blind, even from the first? Had he known when they married? Had he hurried to marry a foolish woman who was oblivious to his disability?

And what had he been doing since he left her?

Adrian gave a small grunt of pain from the tugging on his hair and lifted his face as if to gaze at her, but in the same sidelong way he looked at everything that told her he could not really see. ‘The coin I offered is still yours, for services rendered at the gaming table. But now that we are above—’ he gave a small shrug ‘—if you do not think it sufficient, I am open to discussion on the subject.’

She balled her fist and gave him a clout upon the ear. ‘I am not a whore, you cloth-brained drunkard. And even if I was, I would not lie with you for all the money in the world.’

The blow did not faze him at all. And the insults made him laugh. But he released her with a bow. ‘Then I apologise for my mistake, though I can hardly be blamed for it. If you are not a whore, then what are you doing in a place such as this?’

It was a fair question, and even she did not know the whole answer to it. At last she said, ‘I was searching for someone.’ She stared at him, willing him to recognise her. ‘For my husband.’

‘And I assume, since you are alone here with me that you did not find him?’

‘No, I did not.’ For the man before her, although right in appearance, was as far away from the man she’d thought she married as was possible. A little bit of her anger gave way to disappointment. And then she felt the growing heat of embarrassment. If he was already amused, how hard would he laugh to realise that he had wasted kisses on his own wife?

‘I should have recognised that you were a lady of breeding earlier by the tone of your voice.’ He sighed, and tapped his forehead with the head of his cane. ‘Perhaps the gin has finally addled my brains. But when you came upstairs with me, I was under the impression …’ He cleared his throat and grinned, allowing her to fill in the rest.

‘You might not be able to see where you gamble, but I have the misfortune of two good eyes. I foolishly blundered into a place that was not safe for me. You came to my rescue, and I thought that, unlike the other men here, if I got you alone it would be possible to reason with you. Which I am doing, now.’ Though he could not appreciate the fact, she reached to straighten her hair and clothing, trying to erase the signs of her earlier compliance.

‘Well. Never mind what I assumed.’ He gave another little clearing of the throat. ‘The less spoken of that the better. I was wrong, and I am sorry if I have given offence. If there is a way I can be of assistance, then, please, tell me.’ It was as if, with a few sentences, he thought to regain his honour and pretend the last few minutes had not occurred.

Emily did not know whether to be angry, or impressed by the transformation. From beneath them, she could hear the men in the tavern growing louder, angrier and possibly more dangerous. Perhaps now was not the best time to tell her husband what she thought of his behaviour, and his quick about-face turn on the subject of her virtue. ‘If you wish to help me, then take me away from here. It is a bad place, full of violent, drunken men. Is there some back stairway that we can use to escape?’

He shook his head. ‘The only way out is to go back the way we came.’

‘You allowed us to be trapped upstairs?’ This was certainly not the sharp military strategy she had expected from a former officer of his Majesty’s army. ‘Whatever were you thinking to take a room here? You might be able to fight them tonight, but some day the ruffians you gamble with will catch you unawares and make an end to you.’

He shrugged and fumbled to pat her on the arm. ‘Of course, my dear. I fully expect that to be the truth.’

She stared at him in amazement, and then realised that her shocked expression was useless as a way to covey her emotions. ‘Then why are you here?’

‘Because soon, the last of my vision will go, and I will be of no use to the world. Better to go out doing things that I enjoy, than to put a bullet in my head at the first sign of trouble. That is the way, in my family. My father died on horseback.’ He grinned. ‘Or just off it, actually. A snapped spine and a crushed body. But he loved to ride. And up till the end, he was sailing over jumps that he could no longer see. My grandfather was a crack shot. Until the day he missed, at least.’ He grinned as though it were a point of admiration. ‘Killed in a duel. Over a woman, of course.’

And hadn’t that been what she had always known about her husband and his family? But her brother had assured her that Adrian was wild like all the Folbrokes. But with a good heart, Emily. A very good heart.

‘And you?’

‘I am a soldier,’ he added. ‘And well used to drinking and gaming in rough company. If the night ends in a scrap? I like nothing better. When the odds are bad, it gets the blood flowing in the veins.’ He seemed to swell a little at the thought as though readying himself for battle.

‘And now, because of your foolish desire for self-destruction, I will end my night at the mercy of the gang below.’

He stilled, and then something in him straightened, as though he could cast off the inebriate as easily as throwing off his coat. And for a moment, in the dark, he was the dashing young man who had gone off to war, only to return and break her heart. Then he smiled. It was the old smile, too, unclouded by gin or lust. Brave. Beautiful. And a little sad. ‘Have I not proved to you already that I am still capable of taking care of myself, and you as well? Or is another demonstration in order?’

Although he could not see, he looked at her with such intensity that the pain inside her did not seem to matter. There was something in that gaze and that smile that said any action he might take was likely to be a great adventure, and that it would be his pleasure to share it with her. It made her heart flutter in the way it used to, before he had married her, and before she had learned what a mistake it was all likely to be.

‘Perhaps it would be better if we wait in the room you mentioned, until it is safe to depart.’ She could hear her nerve failing again, and her voice becoming weak. The old hesitant Emily was returning with her husband’s gain in sobriety.

He laughed. ‘I have done nothing yet to earn such intimacy from you, pleasant though the offer might be. But if you stay just behind me as we descend, I can get you to safety. Hang on to my coat tails and leave my hands free, for I may need to fight.’

‘But you cannot see,’ she said plaintively.

‘I do not need to. I know the way out. And I intend to hit anyone who stands between me and the door. Those that mean us no harm will have the sense to get out of the way.’

Emily had no answer for this, having no experience with fighting one’s way out of a tavern. So she took his coat tail in her hands, and followed close behind him down the stairs. As they breached the upper landing, she could tell from the sounds below them that the crowd had grown worse. There was more chanting, a raucous edge to the singing, the scuffling of boots and fists, and breaking furniture.

Adrian paused, listening. ‘What do you see before you? Quickly, love.’

‘Two men are fighting on a table to the right.’

‘Very good.’ He continued down the stairs, hugging the wall as he worked his way towards the door. As the fight spilled off the table and into his path, he struck out with the cane, just as he’d said he would. The first blow was a glancing one, causing the man in front of him to yelp and cringe back.

But the second man surged forwards as though willing to fight both his supposed enemy and any other that might stand against him. Adrian forced the stick forwards quickly, jabbing into the man’s midsection.

The drunkard retched, and then flailed out, trying to strike. Adrian brought the stick down upon the man’s back so hard that, for a moment, Emily feared the wood had cracked.

He stepped over the man’s prone body, reaching back to steady her. But the momentary distraction over her safety was enough to make him jeopardise his own. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the flash of a raised hand, and saw the man that had accosted them on the stairs throw a bottle up and out from the throng in the middle of the room.

Before she could get out a warning, Adrian had been struck, and was staggering backwards, clutching his temple. His body went limp in her arms as she tried to catch him.

Chapter Five

Then there was a flash toward the ceiling and the sound of a warning shot. Her husband’s secretary appeared out of nowhere to pull Adrian forwards again, and off her. In his usual quiet way, Hendricks said, ‘I apologise for not intervening until this delicate juncture. But I am sure that my lord would have preferred it thus. And now I think it best that we make a retreat while we are able.’ He pressed a second pistol into her hand. ‘I doubt this will be necessary now that I have frightened them. But it is better to be over-prepared.’

He pushed her husband back against the wall for a moment, and then slung the limp body over his shoulder, staggering towards the door to the street.

Emily held the pistol in front of her, hoping that she did not look as frightened by it as she felt. But it appeared to be effective. The man who’d hit Adrian had been preparing to strike again. At the sight of the gun he took a large step back, his anger dissolving into submission.

Hendricks lurched through the door and towards the waiting coach. When he saw them, the coachman rushed forwards to help his unconscious master up and into the carriage.

As they set off, poor Adrian remained slumped against the squabs, rendered insensible by the combination of violence and gin. It was not until they were nearly back to his rooms that he surged suddenly back to consciousness, throwing a hand out as though searching the air in front of him. ‘Hendricks?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘There was a woman in the tavern with me. I was trying to help her.’

‘She is safe, sir.’

He relaxed back into the seat, with a sigh of relief and a grimace of pain. ‘Very good.’

Once they arrived at the flat, she followed behind as the men helped him up the stairs. She noted the looks of alarm on the faces of his servants as they saw her appear from behind him. Clearly, the jig was up and they expected punishment from her for concealing the state of things, or from Adrian for revealing them.

As she passed them, she shot them glares that would warn them to silence.

Hendricks gave her a helpless shrug, opening the bedroom door and putting his arm around the shoulders of his employer. ‘The valet will help him from here, mmm—ma’am.’ He struggled a moment to choose an honourific, as though remembering that he apparently did not know the name of the woman who had come home with them. ‘I will find someone to see you home.’

When she was sure that her husband would see the shadow of her head, she nodded in approval. Then she backed from the room and shut the door.

‘Hendricks,’ she kept her voice low, so that it would not carry to the bedroom, but used a tone of command that had served her well when dealing with employees who thought, even for a moment, that they owed more loyalty to her husband than to the woman standing in front of them.

‘My lady.’ She saw his spine stiffen instantly to full obedience.

She glared at him. ‘You did not tell me.’

‘That he was blind? I thought you knew.’

She was his wife. She should have known that about him, if nothing else. But what was one more regret on a very long list? But now, Hendricks mocked her ignorance.

Then, as a sop to her feelings, he said, ‘The servants are not allowed to discuss Lord Folbroke’s indisposition. He pretends it does not matter. Often it does not. But he acts as if the careless things he does pose no greater risk to him. He is very wrong.’

She had to agree, for it was quite obviously true.

‘Between the drink, and the loss of vision, he did not know me.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ Hendricks did not seem surprised. But she felt some gratification to see that he looked ashamed of his part in the state of things.

‘It will save us both embarrassment if that is the way this night remains. You will inform the servants that, no matter what they might think they have seen, he was brought home by a stranger. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Lady Folbroke.’

‘When I have had time to think on this, I will have some words with him. But it must wait until my husband’s mind has cleared itself of blue ruin.’

The secretary’s reserve broke. ‘While I have no doubt that you will achieve the first half of the statement, the last may be beyond all of our control.’ Then, as though he could mitigate the forwardness of the statement, he added, ‘My lady.’ And then he gave her a desperate look as though it pained him to betray the confidence. ‘He is seldom sober any more. Even during the day. We who have served him for most of his life are at our wits’ end as to what can be done.’

Emily thought of the man in the other room, reeking of gin. Was it really so different than what she had feared? In her heart, she had been sure that she would find him drunk. But she had mistaken the reason. She reached out to touch the arm of the man beside her. ‘How long has he been like this?’

‘The whole of the last month, certainly.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘It is the eyes, my lady. As they fail him, he loses all hope. My lord’s valet has heard him laugh and say that it will not be a problem for long. We fear he means to do something desperate. And we do not know how to stop him.’

She closed her own eyes and took a deep breath, telling herself that this was an estate matter, nothing more. Her heart was no longer involved in it. She must remember her reasons for coming to find him, and that they had nothing to do with a reconciliation or delivering scolds about his scandalous conduct.

But no matter how she felt about his treatment of her, she could not very well allow him to kill himself.

‘My husband has taken the notion that this is for the best. I can see, as plainly as you can, that this is nonsense. He is not thinking clearly, and I will not allow him to do himself an injury. At least not until he can present a better reason than the minor problem he has.’

Or until I am sure that my own place is secure.

If he was truly resolved to end his life, she doubted that there was anything to be done. She was little better than a stranger to him. What would he care what she thought? She hardened her heart against the desperation and panic that she was feeling. ‘My orders stand, just as they are. You and the other servants are forbidden from speaking of my efforts to find Adrian, or my return with him this evening. Let him think me a stranger.’ Then she pushed past the secretary and went into her husband’s room.

The valet looked terrified by her sudden appearance, and she held up a hand as a sign of caution. Then she looked down at the man on the bed who was now dressed in a nightshirt, and sporting a makeshift bandage on his temple. ‘Before I left, I wished to assure myself that you are all right.’

At the sound of her voice he looked pained that she had found him helpless. There was a lost look in his blank blue eyes that made him seem smaller than she knew him to be. ‘It should not be your job to see to my safety. As a gentleman, I should have been able to take care of you.’

‘You succeeded,’ she said. ‘You fought well. We were within a few feet of the door when you were struck down. And that was by an unfair blow. A sighted man could not have done better and would have ended just as you did.’

There was a ghost of his old, rakish smile, as he tried to joke away his embarrassment. ‘My talents do not end there, my dear.’ He patted the bed at his side. ‘If you wish to come closer, I would be happy to demonstrate.’

‘That will not be necessary.’ She paused long enough to see the slightest crease of disappointment form on his forehead. ‘I prefer my companions to be washed and shaved. And not soaked in gin. However …’

She leaned in to give him a peck on the forehead as a farewell reward. But as she did so, she realised that the token kiss would be everything he feared about his future. What she had intended as comfort would seem a sexless and maternal gesture, a cruel dismissal to the man who had fought to protect her.

So she pushed back upon his chest, forcing him into the pillows, and kissed him properly on the mouth. His lips opened in surprise, and she threw caution to the winds and slipped her tongue between them, stroking the inside of his mouth as he had done to hers. She felt the same rush of excitement she had felt in the tavern, and the desire to be closer still. And the feeling that she had felt often, over the last few years: that something was missing from her well-ordered life—and that, perhaps, it was Adrian Longesley.

Then she ended the kiss and turned to leave.

‘Wait.’ He caught her wrist.

‘I must go.’

‘You cannot. Not after that.’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Neither can I stay.’

‘Meet me again.’ He ran his other hand through his hair in exasperation and his words were hurried, as though he was trying to think of anything that might tempt her to stay. ‘So that I might assure myself of your safety, when I am not indisposed.’ His smile was back again. ‘You will like me better when I have had time to wash, dress and shave.’

‘Will I have to go to a brothel to find you? Or merely a gaming hell?’ She shook her head, and remembered that he would not see her refusal, then said, ‘I think not.’

‘Why not here? Tomorrow morning.’

‘You expect me to come to a man’s rooms, in daylight and unescorted.’

His face fell. ‘Your reputation. I had forgotten.’

‘Thank you very much for your belated concern.’

He winced as though it were a physical effort to stumble through the courtesies she deserved. ‘If there were somewhere that we could talk, in privacy and discretion …’

Emily sighed, as though she were not sure of the wisdom of her actions and then let herself be persuaded. ‘I will send you a letter, and you will come to me when it is convenient.’

He released her hand, letting his fingers drag down the length of it until he touched only her fingertips. ‘I look forward to your communication.’

She was glad that he could not clearly see her. Had he not been blind, he would know that her cheeks were crimson and that the expression on her face was not the sly smile of a courtesan, but goggle-eyed amazement. Her husband looked forward to meeting with her. Before she could spoil the moment by saying something inappropriate, she turned and left.

It was not until she was in the carriage, on the way back to her brother’s town house, that she allowed herself to collapse, then glared across the coach at Hendricks. ‘How long have you known?’

‘From the first. It came on gradually, after we left Portugal. He insisted that I tell you nothing. And although you and I have had reason to work together, he is, first and foremost, my employer. I must obey his wishes before yours.’

‘I see.’ Therefore, Hendricks was not to be trusted. She felt a cold chill at the loss of one she had trusted almost as a brother since the day she’d married Adrian. But if he could keep hidden a fact this momentous, then there was no telling what other secrets he’d hidden from her. ‘So you meant to take the man’s pay and allow him to destroy himself, when a word to me might have prevented it?’

Hendricks was embarrassed almost to the point of pain. ‘I did not think it my place.’

‘Then you had best reassess your position.’ She took the stern, almost manly tone she used with him to indicate that she spoke for her husband and that disobedience was out of the question.

‘Of course, my lady.’

She had cowed him, and it made her feel better, more in control than she had since the moment she had realised that she must see Adrian again.

But on the inside, she was unsure whether to laugh or to cry. It had finally happened, just as she’d dreamed of it, since she was a girl. Tonight, the man she loved had looked at her with desire, hung upon her every word and clung to her fingertips as though parting with her was an agony.

Of course, he was drunk, blind and did not know who she was. And the whole thing had happened so long after it should have that the point was moot. It had been nothing more than a girlish fantasy to have the dashing Earl of Folbroke dote on her like a love-struck fool. But then, she had thought that wedding him would mean something other than the sterile arrangement it was. Time had proven to her that he had no feelings for her, or he’d have been home long before now. ‘I suspect the reason he found me so appealing is because he thought me married to someone else.’

‘Lady Folbroke!’ It was an exclamation of shock at her candour, but not one of denial. She feared it was a sign that Hendricks knew her husband only too well. She would return in the morning, when he was sober, and tell him what she thought of this nonsense. Disability was no excuse for the way he’d behaved. If he was not careful, he was likely to kill himself. Where would that leave her?

And if Adrian died, then she might never know.

Tomorrow, he would be hoping for a clandestine meeting, where they could be alone to talk. Ha. When she saw him next, she would talk aplenty. She would tell him what an idiot he was for not knowing her, and for thinking that his good looks and easy manner would be enough to make her forget his abandonment and let him bed her.

A delicious thrill went through her at the thought of being bedded, and she stifled it. It seemed there was no end to her foolishness over the man. She had known from the first that he was a rake. That knowledge should have provided some insulation against his charm. But his kisses made her wonder what it might be like, should he turn his full attention to winning her, even for a few hours.

And it might be the only way to get an heir by him. That was what she had wanted, above all. It was her reason for coming to London.

Emily stared at Hendricks, eyes narrowing and chin set to remind him that she was the Countess of Folbroke, and not some silly schoolgirl. She deserved his respect every bit as much as her wayward husband. ‘Adrian is sorely mistaken if he thinks to keep me in darkness about events any longer. And you are as big a fool as he, for helping him this long. I will not condone his drinking, or support this lunatic notion he has that being struck down in a common brawl is the way to meet his Maker on his own terms. But if a liaison with another man’s wife is what he desires, then I see no reason not to give it to him.’

She smiled and watched Hendricks draw away from her in alarm. ‘And how do you mean to do that?’

‘I mean to return to my brother and do nothing at all. But you will have a busy day tomorrow, Mr Hendricks. I wish you to engage a flat for me while I am in London. Something simple, small. A pied-à-terre. Decoration does not matter, since my guest will not see it. I will need staff as well. Choose what is necessary from our household, or hire if you must, but I will have no gossip. They will speak not so much as a word to identify themselves to Lord Folbroke, or I will sack the lot of them. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, my lady.’ Clearly, the actions were not understood at all. Judging by the look on his face, he found them to be incomprehensible. But he knew better than to cross her, and that was enough.

‘When that is completed, and not before, you will take a note to my husband. And you will give him no indication of my involvement in it, or I swear, Mr Hendricks, that no matter what my husband might say in the matter, you will be seeking other employment before the sun sets. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Lady Folbroke.’ There was a trace of awe in his tone. But she also recognised the relief in it, as though he understood that, if she were allowed to take the reins, they would all be the better for it. His obedience was gratifying, and yet strangely disappointing. She was tired of being surrounded by men that presented no real challenge to her authority.

But she suspected that she would be regretting the lack of just that by tomorrow evening. It made her tremble when she thought of the kiss Adrian had given her, and the kiss she had given him in return. She had never felt such power in her life and yet utterly in the thrall of another. The man she’d kissed had wanted to be seduced by her as much as he’d wanted to take her. And, for a moment, she had wanted the same.

Tomorrow, on neutral ground, they would meet.

She would invite. He would accept. She would feign naïveté. He would suggest. She would protest. He would cajole. She would be persuaded. The conclusion might be inevitable, but for a time there would be a battle of wits and wills leading to both a complete surrender and an equally complete victory. If handled correctly, there would be ecstasy, satisfaction and sweet, sweet revenge.

Across from her in the carriage, Hendricks looked quite unsettled by the latest turn of events. But with regard to Adrian, Emily had never felt so confident in her life. As soon as all things were in place, she would go about the tawdry, ridiculous and strangely exhilarating process of ensnaring her own husband.

Chapter Six

Adrian Longesley awoke the next day with the same nagging, drunkard’s headache he had grown accustomed to. A morning would come soon enough when he did not wake at all. In comparison, it would be a welcome relief. But today, he was alive and conscious, and feeling the worse for a lump on his forehead. If he had been coshed from behind, he’d have felt better about the injury. But to be hit from the front with a blow that had seemed to come from nowhere proved how far his abilities had diminished. He sighed into the pillow, waiting for the rolling of the room to subside enough so that he might sit up.

The nausea would probably be worse if he could see the movement. Even without that particular sense, he was sure that he could feel the rocking, as though he were making a rough crossing to France. But he was still in his own bedchamber, and could smell a breakfast he had no appetite for.

The woman.

He had been a drunken fool to think he’d be lucky enough to rescue her twice from the place he’d found her. If his carelessness had allowed her to fall into the hands of the men there.

He lurched upright in panic, and then regretted it, before remembering the end of the evening. He had a hazy recollection of her voice on the carriage ride home, along with that of Hendricks. His man must have found him in time, saved the girl and helped them to return here.

It pained him further that he had needed rescuing at all. If he had fallen to a place where he could no longer care for himself and put innocents around him at risk, then it might be time to seek a sudden end to things and stop dawdling about, waiting for nature to take its course. But last night had not been the time. The strange woman had needed him, if only for a short time. If the intervention of Hendricks had assured her safety, then his own pride could survive the damage of needing assistance.

She had claimed to be well bred, and gentle, though she certainly hadn’t been wise. A wise woman would never come to such a place. Maybe what she’d said was true, and she’d actually been looking for her husband. Sad for her, if that was the sort of place she might find him. While Adrian shared it, it was nothing to be proud of. But at least he had the small comfort of knowing that his wife had never seen it.

The stranger had refused him, when they’d been alone. So it was not a visit brought on by a secret desire to slum for the novelty of it. And then she had followed him back to his house. She had been in this very bedchamber, though not for long enough. He remembered her assurances that he had fought well for her, and the tiniest hint of awe in her sceptical voice.

She had been tart in manner and in kisses. And scent as well, for he could swear that the smell of lemons still clung to his skin where she had touched him. What a woman she had been. If his memory could be trusted, he’d have been happy to have more of her company. The round, soft way she had felt in his lap, and the tingling friction of her tongue in his mouth. The pleasant weight of her breasts brushing his arm as she bent over his bed. And a kiss that hinted of more to come.

He laughed. Another meeting was unlikely, and perhaps impossible. She had promised, of course, to get him to release her hand. But she had not given him name or direction and had called him rough company. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. She was probably right.

His valet must have heard him stirring, for Adrian could hear his entrance, and smell the morning cup of tea that he put on the bedside table and the soap that he carried as he went to the basin to prepare the water for washing and shaving. There was another set of footsteps, the scrape of curtain rings, and the sudden bright blur as the sun streamed into his bedroom. ‘Hendricks,’ he said, ‘you are a beast. The least you could do is allow a man to adjust slowly to the morning.’

‘Afternoon, my lord,’ Hendricks responded politely. ‘It is almost one o’clock.’

‘And all the same to me. You know the hour I came home, and the condition I was in, for you brought me.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘And how did you come to do that? When I left here, I was alone.’

There was an awkward shifting of weight and clearing of throat. ‘I came searching for you, my lord. While you were out, Lady Folbroke visited to inform you that she is staying in London. She was quite insistent to know your whereabouts. And I thought it best …’

‘I see.’ His wife had come to town before. And each time he had managed to avoid her. But it was damned awkward, after the events of last night, to think her so close. He reached for the miniature of Emily in its usual evening resting place on the table by the bed, fingering it idly.

‘You had been out for some time, already,’ Hendricks continued. ‘The servants were concerned.’

The voice in Adrian’s head snapped that it was no one’s business what he did with his time. Their concern was nothing more than thinly veiled pity, and the suspicion that he could not be trusted to take care of himself. He held his temper. If one had been carried insensible out of a gin mill, it hardly gave one the right to argue that one was fine on one’s own.

Instead, he said, ‘Thank them for their concern, and thank you as well for your timely intervention. It was appreciated. I will try to be more careful in the future.’ In truth, he would be nothing of the kind. But there was no point in rubbing the man’s nose in the fact.

And then, to make it appear an afterthought, he came back to the matter that concerned him most. ‘But you said Emily is in town. Did you enquire as to the reason for the visit?’

‘She did not say, my lord.’ There was a nervous rustling of the papers in Hendricks’s hands.

‘You saw to the transfer of funds to the working accounts that we discussed after your last visit north?’

‘Yes, my lord. Lady Folbroke inspected the damage from the spring storms, and repairs on the cottages are already underway.’

‘I don’t suppose it is that, then,’ he said, trying not to be apprehensive. The efficiency of his wife was almost legendary. Hendricks had read the report she had written, explaining in detail the extent of the damage, her plans for repair and the budget she envisioned. The signature she’d required from him was little more than a courtesy on her part, to make him feel he was involved in the running of his lands.

But if she had come to London, and more importantly, come looking for him, the matter was likely to be of a much more personal nature. He remarked, as casually as possible, ‘How is she?’

There was such a pause that he wondered if she was not well, or if there were something that they did not wish him to know. And then Hendricks said, ‘She seemed well.’

‘Emily has been on my mind often of late.’ It was probably the guilt. For he could swear that the scent of lemons still lingered in the room so strongly he feared Hendricks must smell it as well. ‘Is there anything at all that she requires? More money, perhaps.’

‘I am certain, if she required it, she would write herself a cheque from the household accounts.’

‘Oh. Clothing, then. Does she shop frequently? I know my mother did. Perhaps she has come to town for that.’

‘She has never complained of a lack,’ he replied, as though the subject were tiresome and devoid of interest to him.

‘Jewellery, then. She has received nothing since our wedding.’

‘If you are interested, perhaps you should ask her yourself.’ Hendricks said this sharply, as though despite his patient nature, he was growing frustrated by the endless questions.

‘And did she mention whether she’d be likely to visit me again?’ The question filled him with both hope and dread, as it always did. For though he would most like to see her again—as though that were even possible—he was not eager to hear what she would say if she learned the truth.

‘I think she made some mention of setting up housekeeping here in London.’ But Hendricks sounded more than unsure. He sounded as though he were keeping a secret from him. Possibly at his wife’s request.

‘Does she visit anyone else that you know of?’ As if he had any right to be jealous, after all this time. But it would make perfect sense if she had found someone to entertain her in his absence. It had been three years. In the time since he’d left she would have blossomed to the prime of womanhood.

‘Not that I know of, my lord. But she did mention your cousin Rupert.’

‘Hmm.’ He took a sip of his tea, trying to appear non-committal. Some would think it mercenary of her. But there was a kind of sense in it, he supposed, if she transferred her interests to the next Earl of Folbroke. When he was gone, she could keep her title, and her home as well. ‘But Rupert.’ he said, unable to keep from voicing his distaste of the man. ‘I know he is family. But I had hoped she would have better taste.’

If he had eyes as strong as his fists, there would be no question of interference from his cousin in that corner. Even blind, he had a mind to give the man a thrashing, next time he came round to the flat. While he might forgive his wife an infidelity, crediting the fault to his own neglect of her, it would not do to let Rupert think she was part of the entail. She deserved better.

Not that she is likely to get it from you …

‘It is not as if she shares the details of her personal life with the servants,’ Hendricks interrupted his reverie. Was that meant as a prod to his conscience for asking questions that only he himself could learn the answers to?

Surely by now Hendricks must have guessed his real reasons for curiosity, and the utter impossibility of talking to Emily himself. ‘It is none of my business either, I am sure. I have no real claim on her.’

‘Other than marriage,’ Hendricks pointed out in a dry tone.

‘Since I have made no effort to be a good husband to her, it seems hypocritical to expect her continued loyalty to me. And if she has a reason to visit me again? If you could give me advance notice of the visit, I would be grateful. It would be better, if a meeting cannot be avoided, that it be prepared for.’ On both sides. She deserved warning as well. He was in no condition, either physical or mental, to meet with her now.

‘Very good, my lord.’ Adrian could sense a lessening of the tension in the man beside the bed at the mention of even a possibility of a meeting. Acting as a go-between for them had been hard on his friend.

But now Hendricks was shifting again, as though there was some fresh problem. ‘Is there some other news that brings you here?’ he asked.

‘The post has come,’ Hendricks said, without expression.

‘If I have slept past noon, I would hope it has. Is there something you wish to read to me?’

‘A letter. It has no address, and the wax was unmarked. I took the liberty …’

‘Of course.’ Adrian waved away his concerns. ‘Since I cannot see the words, my correspondence is as an open book to you. Please read the contents.’ He set down his tea, took a piece of toast from the rack and waited.

Hendricks cleared his throat and read with obvious discomfort, ‘I wish to thank you for your assistance on the previous evening. If you would honour me with your presence for dinner, take the carriage I will send to your rooms at eight o’clock tonight.’

Adrian waited for more, but no words came. ‘It is not signed?’

‘Nor is there a salutation.’

‘Give it here. I wish to examine it.’ He set his breakfast aside and took the paper, running his fingers over it, wishing that he could feel the meaning in the words. There was no indication that they would be dining alone, but neither was there a sign that others would be present.

‘And there is no clue as to the identity of the sender? No address? A mark of some sort?’ Although he’d have felt a seal or an embossed monogram with his own fingers.

‘No, sir. I assumed you knew the identity of the woman.’

Adrian raised the paper to his nose. There was the slightly acrid smell of fresh ink, and a hint of lemon perfume. Had she rubbed the paper against her body, or merely touched it to the perfume bottle to send this part of the message?

He smiled. And did she know how she would make him wonder on the fact? He preferred to think of the paper held against those soft breasts, close to her quickly beating heart.

‘About that …’ What a blatant display of poor character that he had not even learned her name. It gave him no comfort to show Hendricks how low he had sunk, for the man was more than just a servant to him, after years together in the army, and Adrian’s growing dependence on him since the injury. But as Hendricks’s devotion to Lady Folbroke had grown, Adrian had come to suspect that the man’s loyalties were more than usually torn.

‘There was no time for a formal introduction last night. I had only just met her a few moments before you arrived. And, as I’m sure you could see, the situation was quite hectic.’ He paused for a moment to let his secretary make what he could of that, and then said, ‘But you saw her, did you not? What was she like?’

He heard Hendricks shift uneasily again. He had never before required the poor man to help with a liaison. It must prick at his scruples to be forced to betray the countess. But Adrian’s curiosity about the woman would not be denied. ‘Was she attractive?’ he suggested.

‘Very,’ admitted Hendricks.

‘Describe her.’

‘Dark blond hair, short and dressed in curls. Grey eyes, a determined chin.’

Determined. He could believe that about her. Last night, she’d shown fortitude and a direct way of speaking that proved she was not easily impressed by fine words. He could feel the attraction for her, crackling on his skin like the air before a storm. ‘And?’ he prompted, eager to know more.

‘She was expensively dressed.’

‘And when you returned her to her home, where was it? It was you that escorted her, was it not?’

Hendricks shifted again. ‘She made me swear, on my honour, not to give further information about her identity or her direction. You have a claim upon my honesty, of course. You are my employer …’

Adrian sighed. ‘But I would not use that claim to make you break your word to a lady.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘And I expect she will divulge what she wishes me to know, if I go to her tonight.’

He heard another uncomfortable shifting.

‘And I will not expect you to be further involved in this, Hendricks, other than to help me with the reading of any correspondence. I understand that you are a valuable aid to Emily, as well as myself. I will not force you into a position more difficult than the one you already occupy.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘This evening, I will take the carriage when it arrives, and whatever thanks the woman wishes to give me. I suspect that will be the end of it. You will hear no more of it.’

‘Very good, my lord.’ But Hendricks’s voice sounded annoyingly doubtful.

Chapter Seven

At a tap on his shoulder, Adrian lifted his chin to make it easier for the valet to shave him for the second time that day. He did not like the feelings of helplessness that the process of dressing raised in him. They were ridiculous, of course. He had stood for it his entire life. And it was done just the same as it had been, when his eyes had been good. But now that he could not see to do it himself, he sometimes had the childish urge to slap the helping hands away.

He focused on the letter in his hand to calm his nerves. When the mysterious woman in the tavern had refused him, it was because of what she could see, and not what he could. She had thought him slovenly and commented on his drunkenness. It had made him regret the numbing effects of gin for the first time in ages. She was right, of course. If he valued her company, he would need a clear head to appreciate it, just as she wished for a lucid partner.

To show his respect on their second meeting, he must be immaculate. It was not a condition he was likely to achieve by himself, and he should be grateful for what his servant could do. He rubbed a hand along his own finished jaw. Perfectly smooth. He stood to accept the shirt, the cravat and the coat, and the final brushing of hair and garments, before his man announced him finished.

Then he walked the three paces to the doorway, stopped and turned back, setting the letter aside and picking up the miniature of Emily to drop it in its usual place in his coat pocket. It would serve as a reminder, should the attractiveness of his companion make him forget where his true heart and duty were promised. Tonight would be an enjoyable evening. But nothing more than that.

He travelled out of his room, took the ten paces through the sitting room, through the front door, and down the four steps to the street.

He could hear the carriage waiting in front of him, smell leather and horses, and see the dim shape of it, clearer at the edges, but fading to impenetrable blackness at the centre. The touches of vision that still remained were almost more maddening than nothing would be, for it gave the futile hope that the picture might suddenly clear if he blinked, or that a slight turn of the head and shift of the eyes would make it easier to see what lay in the fringes.

He calmed himself. It was only when he did not chase clarity that he could use what sight he had. A groom stepped forwards to help him, and this time he shook off the assistance, feeling along the open door in front of him to find the strap, searching with his toe for the step that had been placed, and then up and into the seat. The man closed the door and signalled to the driver, and they were off.

To pass the time he counted turns, imagining the map of the city. Not too far from his own home. This would put him in Piccadilly. And then, past. They travelled for a short time more, and then the carriage stopped, the door opened, and he could hear the step being put down for him again. The same groom that had been ready to help him up offered no hand this time, but murmured, ‘A little to your left, my lord. Very good’, allowing him to navigate on his own. When he had gained the street, the man said, ‘The door you want is straight in front of you. Two scant paces. Then five stairs with a railing on your right. The knocker is a ring, set in a lion’s mouth.’

‘Thank you.’ He must remember to compliment his hostess on the astuteness of her servants. With a few simple actions, this man had relieved the trepidation Adrian often felt in strange surroundings. Following the directions, he made his way to the door and knocked upon it.

It appeared the footman was prepared as well, describing the passage as they walked down it, opening the door to the sitting room and informing him of the locations of the furniture so that he did not have to fumble his way to the couch. He could feel the fire in front of him, but before he sat down he paused. The air smelled of lemons. Did her scent linger in the room? No. He could hear her breathing, if he listened for it. He turned in the direction of the sound. ‘Did you mean to trick me into rudeness? You are standing in the corner, aren’t you?’

She gave a small laugh and he enjoyed the prettiness of the sound. ‘I did not think it necessary to have a butler announce you. We are meeting in secret, are we not?’

He walked towards her, praying that the confidence of the movement would not be spoiled by unseen furniture. ‘If you wish it.’

‘I think I would prefer it that way, Adrian.’

He started, and then laughed at his own foolishness. ‘I gave you my first name last night, didn’t I? And got nothing in return for it, as I remember. Perhaps a full introduction on my part will encourage you to reveal more.’

‘That is not necessary, Lord Folbroke,’ she said. ‘Even without your telling me, I recognised you last night. And you would recognise me, should you still have your sight.’

‘Would I, now?’ He paused to rack his brains, trying to place the sound of that voice with a name, or at least a face. But when none appeared, he shrugged apologetically. ‘I am embarrassed to admit that I do not know you, even now. And I hope you do not mean to punish me by keeping the secret.’

‘I am afraid I must. Should I give you any clue to my identity, you would know me immediately. And this evening will end quite differently than I wish it to.’

‘And how do you wish it to end?’ he coaxed.

‘In my bed.’

‘Really?’ He had not expected her to be so very blunt about a thing that they both knew to be true. ‘And if you were to tell me your name?’

‘Then it would be a significant stumbling block to that. It might give you reason to be angry with me, or to discover a distaste or a hesitance that you do not have now. It would change everything.’

So she was likely the wife of some friend of his. And she thought him honourable enough not to cuckold a chum. ‘Perhaps that is true.’ Or perhaps it wasn’t. His character did not bear close scrutiny at this time.

She sighed. ‘I would much prefer to have you think me a stranger, and to kiss me as you did last night, as though you had no thought for anything but the moment, and for me. As though you enjoyed it.’

‘I did enjoy it,’ he said. ‘And apparently so did you if you are willing to go to such great lengths to do it again.’

‘It was very nice,’ she said politely. ‘And unlike anything I have previously experienced.’

Should he discover that she was the wife of an old friend, he might be unwilling to continue. But he would have to hunt the man down and give him a lecture on the care and tending of his lady. Considering the state of his own marriage, the idea that he would give advice to anyone was laughable.

‘It pains me to hear you say such. There was nothing so unusual in the way I kissed you. You have been sorely neglected. And I would be honoured to rectify such a grievous error, if you will allow me to. Lips as sweet as yours are made to be kissed hard and often.’

She gave a loud sigh that ended in a little squeak of annoyance, as though she had thought herself too sensible to be swayed by his words. ‘Not quite yet, I think. We should eat. Dinner has been laid for us in the next room and I would not wish it to get cold.’

‘Allow me.’ He took her hand in the crook of his arm, wondering what he was meant to do next. Pride was all well and good, but what did it save him, if he did not know where to lead her?

She sensed his dilemma. ‘The door is in front of you. And a little to the right.’

‘Thank you.’ He walked forwards, and she let him guide her. He half wished that they’d cross the threshold and find themselves in a bedroom. Then he could rid himself of the tension that was building in him. But, no. He could smell a meal somewhere nearby. She showed no hesitation, so he walked forwards into the blur in front of him, putting his hand out nonchalantly to feel for the table that he was sure must lay before them.

There it was. His fingers touched the corner and a linen cloth. He led her to what he hoped was an acceptable chair and worked his way to the other side, finding his seat and taking it and running his hand over the plate in front of him to familiarise himself with the setting.

Now the tension in him was of an entirely different sort. Suppose he spilled his wine, or dropped the meat into his lap without noticing? Suppose, dear God, she served him soup? If he made a fool of himself, he might never have the chance to know her better.

Adrian listened for the approach of the servant, and sniffed the food he was served. Was it fish? Or perhaps lamb. There was rosemary there, he was sure. And fresh peas, for there was the smell of mint. Problematic, for they would roll across the plate, if he was not careful. Better to flatten them with the fork than to chase them about the plate.

There was a faint laugh from the other side of the table, and his head snapped up. ‘What is it?’

‘You are glaring at your plate as though it is an enemy. And you seem to have forgotten me entirely. I am trying to decide whether to be amused or insulted by it.’

‘I apologise. It is just that, meals can be a difficult time for me.’

‘Do you require assistance?’

‘That will not be necessary.’ It humiliated him to display his weakness so clearly, and he longed to end the game they were playing and lie with her. Once their bodies touched, she could see how little this mattered.

But she had ignored him, for he could hear her drawing her chair closer to his. ‘I said I did not need your help.’ His tone was sharper than he had intended.

But it did not seem to bother her, for her response was placid enough. ‘That is a pity. For it might be quite pleasant for both of us.’

He started as she touched his mouth with her finger, resting the tip on the centre of his lower lip, almost as though it were a kiss.

He touched his tongue to it and tasted wine. She had dipped her finger into the glass.

He reached out, very carefully, to his own glass, dipping a finger in the contents, and then following the sound of her voice to try to touch her lip.

She laughed again, catching his hand and bringing it the last few inches to her mouth to kiss it clean. At the touch of her tongue, his own mouth went so dry he could hardly speak.

‘You see?’ she whispered. ‘It might not be so bad to accept my help.’

‘But I would not want to grow used to being hand fed, no matter how attractive the hands might be.’

She laughed. ‘My hands might be ugly for all you know. And my face as well.’

He pulled his hand away from her lips, clasping her fingers in his. Then he turned it over, stroking the fingers, rubbing his thumb along the palm, over the back, circling the wrist. The fingers were long, the nails short, the skin soft. He held it to his cheek. ‘The hand is lovely, as is the woman. You will never convince me otherwise.’

She sighed in response and he could feel her lean towards him as the pressure of her hand increased. ‘You flatter, sir. But you do it well.’

‘And you tempt. I am utterly captivated.’ Which was not so much flattery as truth. He was hard for her, and they had not even begun to eat. But while he could not change his body’s reaction, control of the evening was returning to him, and with it, he relaxed and focused on his ultimate goal. ‘Before we go further, am I to be your only company tonight?’

‘Of course.’ She seemed surprised that he would ask. Surely that was a good sign.

‘Then I take it that you still have not found your husband? Or have you found him, and are punishing him for leading you into last night’s danger?’

She gave a little hiss of surprise and snatched her hand away. ‘I did not betray my husband. It was he who left me. I have not seen him in some time. And I suspect he would make sport of my search for him, just as you do.’

‘I am sorry. I did not mean to remind you of unhappiness. I only wished to ascertain that we would be alone for the whole evening.’ To cover the awkward moment, he went back to his meal. As unobtrusively as possible, he touched the food on his plate to learn its location, then wiped his fingers on the napkin and reached for a knife to cut the chop he had found. He could hear the scrape of her cutlery as she began to eat as well.

Then she spoke. ‘We need have no fear of interruption. This is not actually my home. It was let so that I might entertain in private. And tonight I am expecting no one else.’

So she had ample funds, and took scrupulous care of her reputation. He could not help trying to guess her identity from the clues she was giving him. ‘Have you brought many admirers here?’

‘There have been no others. Only you.’

His pulse quickened.

‘Do not think that I have not had offers,’ she added, as though she did not wish him to think her unworthy of masculine attention. ‘But they know that I am married. And that I will not allow them to do the things they hint at when they are alone with me.’

‘And yet you invited me here?’ He smiled at her. ‘I am truly flattered. What is the reason for my good fortune?’

‘You are different.’

The way she said that word felt wonderful and strange, as though she thought it a good thing to be unlike one’s fellows. Perhaps it was, if it attracted such a woman to him. ‘I spend much of my time wishing I were not. But you seem to deem it an advantage.’

‘I am not talking about your sight.’

‘What then?’

‘You are more handsome than the others, for one thing. And more brave.’ Her voice still had the solid, matter-of-fact quality of the previous evening, but he could almost feel the warmth of her blush on his own skin.

‘And what would make you think that?’

‘The way you protected me last night. I doubt that the men who normally seek me out would have the courage to do that with two good eyes. But you did not think twice.’

‘Which proves me a foolish drunkard, more than a hero.’

‘I think it may be possible to be both.’

And he felt the little puff of pride, along with the desire coursing in his blood. ‘And you wish to reward me for my gallantry with dinner?’

‘I told you before that it was more than that. I invited you here because you seemed to desire me. But I was not sure, when you were sober, that you would wish to come. I thought it would be better, should I be wrong, to enjoy a nice meal, than to sit alone, en deshabille, waiting for a man who did not want me.’ The need in her voice was evident, though she’d tried to disguise it with a light tone. Without thinking, Adrian reached out for her, almost knocking over his water goblet in the process. She steadied it effortlessly, meeting his hand with hers on the stem of the glass.

‘I think I have had quite enough to eat,’ he said, guiding the glass to his lips for a sip of water before kissing the fingers that rested beside his on the goblet. ‘If I had known that you were dressed to seduce me when I entered, I doubt we would have made it as far as the table.’ He put down the glass again and stood. Then he took a step closer to her, listening to see if she moved away.

There was a faint hitch in her breathing as she rose. ‘I had not expected it to be so easy to trap you. Should I take it as a compliment? Or is it that you are none too particular about your conquests?’

Was that bitterness he heard? ‘Are you angry with me for coming when summoned?’

‘Perhaps I am angry at myself for doing the summoning.’ There was another pause. ‘Or perhaps, now that the moment grows close, I cannot maintain a facade of sophistication. While I might wish to pretend otherwise, to be with you like this frightens me.’

There was that hint of vulnerability in her voice again, and it drew him to her in a way that was very different than the simple lust of the night before. He closed the distance between them and put his arms around her body, feeling her stiffen, and then relax. ‘Do not feel the need to play the coquette to hold my interest. Or to continue with the act, should you change your mind. I wish to know you just as you are.

And I wish to give you pleasure.’ And for a moment, he took comfort at how good it felt to have something to offer her, and to know that the night might be about more than his needs.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘The bedchamber is on the other side of the sitting room. If you wish to retire there, I do not mind …’ Her body tensed again.

‘There is no need to rush,’ he assured her, stroking her shoulder. ‘You were quite right to think that I desired you. I have been on tenterhooks the whole day, fearing that I misunderstood your offer. And if I seemed to rush through my meal, it was not because I wanted to be elsewhere. I worried that I would do something laughable, or give you a distaste of me.’

‘By dining with me?’ she said. ‘What a strange notion. I would never find you laughable, unless you sought to amuse me. And I’m sure that when you upset me, it will have little to do with your table manners.’

‘When I upset you? You seem most sure of the fact, madam.’

‘Of course. You will have your way with me—and then be off. That is your intention, is it not?’

And what could he say to that? For that had been his intention exactly.

‘But I am hoping that, after all of your bragging last night, that the experience is sufficient to assuage some of the pain of your departure.’

What had her bastard of a husband done to her that she was so eager to be used, and yet so convinced that she could not hold his interest for more than a night? It put him in mind to prove her wrong. ‘But suppose that was not my intention at all?’

She seemed to shrink, as though she wished to evaporate, even as he held her close. Then she said softly, with none of the confidence he’d grown used to, ‘Have I done something wrong?’

‘On the contrary. You are more right than I ever imagined. Why do you ask?’

‘If you do not want me …’

‘Of course I want you, my darling. But things have more flavour if we take the time to savour them. Is there a couch by the fire where we might take our wine and sit for a time?’ He could feel her taking a breath, ready to object. So he reached carefully and found the tip of her nose with his finger. ‘Do not worry. When the time is right, I mean to take you to bed.’ From there, he touched her chin with the same finger, guiding himself to her face until her lips met his. The briefest kiss was a taste of heaven, just as it had been the previous night. ‘As a matter of fact, I doubt I will be able to help myself.’

He kissed her again, slowly. Her mouth tasted of wine. He ran his knuckles over the curve of her shoulder, and felt the smooth fabric of her clothing. ‘What are you wearing? I think it is a dark colour. And it feels like silk. But beyond that …’

‘It is but a robe. Blue silk.’

‘Describe the colour. Is it like the sea? A robin’s egg?’

She thought for a moment. ‘I think it could be called sapphire.’

‘And what do you wear under it?’

He heard her swallow nervously. ‘My nightdress.’

Adrian wrapped his arms more tightly about her, stroking her body lightly, so as to satisfy his curiosity without arousing her. He felt no stays or petticoats. And he damned his eyes for their betrayal. He would not have been able to take food had he known that on the other side of the table there had been only a few layers of fabric between him and the softness of this woman’s body.

She was straining on tiptoe to match his height, kissing his ear with little licks of her tongue. He could feel each touch of it to the soles of his feet. ‘Let us sit,’ he whispered again. ‘Show me where to go.’

She slipped out of his arms and took him by the hand to lead him into the fog of the room, through a doorway, towards the glow of a fire. She sat him down on the grey blob before it, which turned out to be some kind of sofa, and he pushed her gently back against the arm of it. ‘Before I kiss you again, I would like to touch you.’ He wondered if it sounded strange to her. But there was so much he still did not know about her. It would not have mattered what she looked like if his intent had been to leave before the dawn. But with this woman? Somehow everything was different.

He could feel the hesitation as she tried to decipher the request. And then she said, ‘Where?’

He laughed. ‘Everywhere. But let us begin at the beginning, shall we?’ He reached out a tentative finger to touch her hair.

Curls, just as Hendricks had said. Although he’d thought he enjoyed long hair on a woman, the texture was interesting. He could feel the carefully styled ringlets at the side, the pins that held them in place, and the way they revealed the smoothness of her neck. He dipped his head close and found the place at its base where scent had been dabbed, inhaling deeply and touching the point with his tongue.

She gave a little jump of surprise.

He ran his fingers along the place his lips had touched, finding the tendons, the hollows, feeling movement as she swallowed. It was a lovely, long neck and he wondered if the complexion was pale or a dusky gold.

Her chin was well shaped, with a firmness that hinted at stubbornness. She’d proven that already, so it was no real surprise. And there was her mouth. He smiled, remembering the taste of it. High cheekbones, a dimple, a raised brow. He smoothed it, feeling the tiny wrinkle of confusion on the forehead and the beat of a pulse in her temple. Her eyes were closed. He brushed them with his thumb, feeling the long lashes lying upon her cheeks. When they were open, he was sure that the look in those eyes would be probing, discerning, intelligent. But she would look like a child when she slept, gentled and at peace.

‘Did you discover what you wished to know?’ He heard another faint twinge of doubt in her voice, as though she feared that she had been found wanting on close inspection.

‘You are beautiful. Just as I knew you would be.’

He could feel the heat in her cheeks, the little puff of exhaled breath, and the way her body relaxed beside his, knowing he approved of her.

Then he cupped his hand at the back of her neck, and brought her lips to his to take them as they opened to speak. Her tongue touched his eagerly, and she put her hands on his shoulders, holding him in place as though she suspected, at any moment, that he would regain his senses and reject her.

He took her mouth with deep greedy strokes of his tongue, letting his hands roam lightly over her body, feeling the heat of her through the fabric. Then he found the tie of her robe and reached beneath it, tugging her nightdress upwards until he caught the hem, pulling it until it rested even with her nipples and left her lower body sheathed in nothing but smooth blue silk. He stroked her side through the robe, moving the fabric against her until she gasped with pleasure and fought to free herself from her clothing.

He laughed, rubbing the rougher cloth of the dress against her nipples, dipping his mouth to the bare undersides of the exposed slopes beneath it, kissing the peachskin softness of them, licking up to the place where they puckered with excitement.

Her struggling ceased and she went still, waiting for the moment when he would uncover her. When he did not move, she arched her back and moaned, and he pulled the fabric aside suddenly and feasted upon her, drawing them in turn into his mouth, sucking hard, squeezing them with his hand.

‘Adrian.’ Her voice was tortured, desperate. ‘Adrian, finish quickly.’

‘I am just beginning, my love.’

‘But I fear … I think I am ill … I feel so strange …’ The words came out in a series of gasps.

And he wondered—could it be that a married woman might still be a virgin to her own pleasure? He released her breasts, slowing his attack to let her calm. ‘You will be fine, darling. But you must trust me to know what is best for you. Now help me remove your gown.’ He kissed her on the mouth again as he reached to untie the belt. She struggled out of the sleeves, and between them they pushed the cotton nightrail over her head and to the floor.

‘Now lie back upon the silk. Relax. There is a place on your body as wondrous as the pearl in an oyster. And I mean to touch you there until you submit to me.’ He sank his fingers into the warmth between her legs, deeper between the folds of her to find the spot that he knew would drive her mad. With his other hand, he found the belt of the robe and its silk tasseled ends, drawing one up her belly to dangle it back and forth over her breasts.

She was sobbing now, shaking as though she would fight against the release. So he slowed his hand, resting the pad of his thumb against her as he let his fingers sink deep inside her. She was hot, tight and wet, and he would go there himself soon. And as he stroked he felt an answering throb in his loins to match the one against his hand as her body gave up the last of her control to him.

‘Adrian,’ she cried louder than his pounding heartbeat, ‘I am yours.’ He could feel her, collapsed on her back before him, legs spread wide around his hand, ready to be taken.

He had thought to take her to bed, to carry her if he could. But it was quite impossible, for he could not stand to wait. He curled his fingers inside her and made her shudder again as he fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, and then in his pocket for the sheath he carried.

She froze, and then he felt her scrambling, crablike, away from his touch. ‘What is that?’

He reached for her again. ‘I do not expect you have ever seen such a thing. It is called a French letter.’

‘And what is its intended purpose?’ she asked.

He wanted to groan to her that there was no time for questions, and to put the thing on and ram himself home. But he struggled through the roar of desire in his head to be patient for the sake of her innocence.

‘One might call it a preventative. It can be worn by the man during the physical act of love.’

‘And just what do you seek to prevent?’ she said, distant and cold.

He gritted his teeth to keep his temper and lust in check. ‘Several things. Disease, for example.’

‘You think I have an illness?’ She struggled off the sofa and he heard a wine glass clink against the side table before tumbling to the carpet.

‘Of course not. You are a lady, and have limited experience with such things. But by my recent behaviour, I can hardly be called a gentleman. And it is better, if one cannot see, to be more careful than usual, when one decides to …’ He let the sentence hang open.

‘I found you yesterday, dead drunk in a gin mill, brawling with navvies. And now you wish me to believe that you care so much for your own health, and the health of your women, that you would bother with such a thing?’ The innocence was gone now, replaced by the tart, demanding tone that he had heard yesterday.

‘Better a quick death in a fight than a slow death of the pox.’ He patted his knee, inviting her back on to his lap.

‘Get out,’ she muttered, stepping even farther away.

‘Does it really bother you so?’ He stuffed the thing back in his pocket, wondering if it were possible to make her forget it again.

‘Perhaps it bothers me to think of you consorting with who knows whom. And then coming to me, treating me as a nothing, just as you have always done. Leave me immediately,’ she said more loudly.

‘Darling …’ he gave a diminishing laugh, as though it would be so easy to reduce the pain of what she was doing to him by her delay ‘… it is for the best, really. You are married, and so am I. We do not wish to risk an accident of another sort. Suppose you were to get with child?’

‘Of course we would not want that.’ Her voice was well on the way to being shrewish now. ‘Why would anyone wish to get a child on me? It is good that you cannot see, I am sure, for you would find me so repellent that you would run from me, after only a few days.’

‘That is not it at all,’ he muttered, his desire for her dying in annoyance with her foolish need for reassurance. ‘I am sure that you are most beautiful, as I have already said.’

‘Liar,’ she said, and the word ended in a sob. ‘Liar. Get out. Go away. Do not touch me.’ She pulled the silk robe around her body with a swish to make sure that he heard.

‘You were quite willing enough to have me touch you a few minutes ago. I do not understand your sudden change of heart.’

‘Well, I understand quite enough for both of us. You refuse to lie with me in a normal manner. And so I refuse to lie with you at all.’ She stomped her foot hard enough for him to feel the vibrations of the floor through his boot soles. ‘Get out.’

He stood, doing up his buttons, wanting to storm out the door and to the street, to take the first carriage he could find far away from this place, so that he would never have to see her again.

And then he barked his shin on the little table beside the couch, and remembered that he could not see her at all. Nor could he remember the way to the door. He was wilting with shame now, red faced, limp and weak and helpless in the presence of a woman he desired. ‘I am sorry. But I will not … I cannot …’

‘Of course you could. If you thought, even for a moment, about what damage you have done to those who care for you.’

‘No. It is not that at all.’ What she was saying made no sense, and had nothing to do with the confusion he was suffering. ‘Believe me, at this moment, I want nothing more than to leave this place and forget this evening as soon as I am able.’

Then he held his hand out in resignation. ‘But I will need someone to give me my stick and find my coat and hat, for I cannot. Then you will need to call a servant to lead me to a carriage, unless you mean to turn me helpless into the street. Or maybe you wish to laugh at my struggles.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Perhaps that was your game all along. Does it amuse you to see me in such a state over you, and then reject me, knowing how easy it will be to escape?’

‘Of course,’ she bit back. ‘Because everything that happens is about you and your pride and what people will think. For a few moments tonight, I was foolish enough to think that you were not the most selfish man in the world.’ She pushed him on the shoulder to spin his body a quarter-turn. ‘The door is in front of you. Straight forwards. Go.’

She did not say another word to him, but walked at his side until he was in the entrance hall. Was she ashamed at her outburst, or as disgusted by his weakness as he was? In either case, he knew she did not want him enough to relent, for she went to the bell to ring for aid.

As they waited in silence for a servant to come and lead him out, he felt carefully over buttons, arranging his clothes as best he could, double and triple checking to be sure he had not done up his trousers crooked, so that it was not obvious to all that he had left in haste from an assignation. When he was sure he would not shame himself further, he said, ‘And now you know why I am so careful not to spread my seed. This curse that has rendered me helpless came to me because my father, and his before him, had no compunctions about breeding. I have no intention of making the same mistake, leaving my son a useless joke of a man. It is the reason I fled my own marriage. And it is why I will not join unhindered with you. I am sorry if that displeases you, but it is a fact of life, and cannot be changed. Good evening to you, madam.’

Chapter Eight

Emily waited until she was sure that her husband was well on his way before moving from the doorway. As it was, she hoped he had not known that she watched him climb into the carriage to make sure he got to it safely. He was not a child. He did not need her help. And it would hurt him even more if she showed a final lack of confidence.

There was some relief in knowing that she had had her trunks moved to the bedroom of this apartment. At least she would not be forced to creep back to the Eston town house and risk revealing to her brother David the depths of her foolishness.

But she felt she must share some small part of the truth with someone if she was to keep from going mad. So she signalled the footman who had just helped Adrian out the door that she wished to speak with Mr Hendricks, and to go with haste to the rooms to retrieve him, before Lord Folbroke had returned to them.

Then she went to her bedchamber and summoned her maid, requesting that all evidence of her tryst with Adrian be removed from the sitting room and that she be dressed in a way more appropriate for a visitor.

But a part of her, newly awake and alive, did not want to dress. It wanted to recline upon the bed and revel in the touch of silk on skin, and the memory of her husband’s hands on her body.

This had been both the best and the worst night of her life. For most of it, he had been everything she had imagined he could be. Gentle one moment, forceful the next. But ever aware of her needs, eager to please her before he took pleasure.

And the pleasure he had given … She hugged her arms close to her body, feeling the silk shift over her aching breasts. Lord have mercy upon her, she still wanted him. Her skin was hot from his touches, and her body cried out that she had been a fool to let pride stand in the way of a more complete union between them.

Until he had produced his little sheath, she had all but forgotten how his neglect had hurt her, or how far she was from forgiving him. She had not thought further than the immediate need for intimate contact with his body, unhindered passion, and for even the smallest possibility that she might bear his child.

That was what she had come here for, after all.

And once the idea had planted itself in her mind, it had grown there, not unlike the baby she was seeking. If she could not have Adrian, then perhaps she could have some small part of him to raise and to love.

But now it appeared that this had been the precise reason he had left her. In his present state of mind, even if he went back to Derbyshire for a time to appease his cousin, he would refuse to touch her. He would die recklessly as his father had and leave her alone, just as she feared.

Even pretending that she was not his wife—it had not been as she had expected. She’d imagined the separation to be a personal thing. He was avoiding her in particular, but giving himself with abandon, body and soul, to any other woman that struck his fancy. In anonymity, she might have some share in what others had received from him. But it seemed the act was only a gratification of a physical urge, and that there had never been trust from his side at all. He kept himself apart both from her and any other woman he might lie with.

A footman tapped upon her door to signal that Hendricks awaited her in the sitting room. Her maid, Hannah, gave a final tug upon the sash to her dress and pronounced her respectable, and she went to greet the secretary. But entering the sitting room brought on a flood of embarrassing memories and she hurried to take a seat upon the couch before the fire, gesturing him to a chair opposite.

‘My lady?’ From the way he looked at her, she wondered if some clue remained in the room or about her person that might indicate what had gone little more than an hour before. He watched her too closely as she entered, lingering on her dress, her body and her face in a way that was most inappropriate.

‘You wish to know what occurred, I suppose?’ she said, trying not to let her failure be too obvious.

‘Of course not.’ The poor man must have realised that he had been staring. He looked away quickly and then went quite pink, probably afraid that he had been dragged out of bed to receive some all-too-personal revelation on her part.

‘You have nothing to fear.’ Emily scowled back at him. ‘The evening was without incident.’

‘Without …’ He looked back at her and pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose as he sometimes did when surprised. But behind the lenses, his eyes narrowed as though he doubted her word.

‘Well, very nearly,’ she said, trying to find an appropriate way to explain. ‘The situation is much more complicated than I feared. When I came to London, I had assumed for years that Adrian had a distaste of me, and that that was why he abandoned me in the country. Since I knew he did not like me, I thought there was little future for us, beyond the arrangement we have come to. One cannot change one’s nature, after all.

‘But our estrangement is not about me at all. He avoids me because he actively seeks to die without issue. He thinks by doing so, and letting Rupert take the title, that he can stamp out the weakness in his family … which is utter nonsense. But it means that I am the last woman in the world he wishes to know.’

‘But his idea is not without merit,’ Hendricks said sensibly. ‘It is logical that he would want a healthy heir, and to believe that his own child might share his problems.’

She glared at him. ‘I do not care to hear about the logic. I am sure, if we get out the family history and examine it, we will see some of the earls from this very line lived long and successful lives, fully sighted to their last day. As have many of the second sons and daughters. And it is quite possible, if we examine Rupert’s branch of the family, that we will find similar problems with blindness there. His own father was nearly sightless upon death, was he not?’

Hendricks nodded. ‘But nothing was made of it, because he was not Folbroke.’

‘Then Adrian’s plans are quite—Lord forgive me the expression—short sighted. It is only a medical anomaly that has caused the weakness in the last three earls, and not some dire curse upon the heir to Folbroke.’

‘The line would need new blood entirely to solve the problem,’ Hendricks admitted.

‘How democratic,’ she said drily. ‘Next you will suggest that I be bred like a mare to someone healthy, for the good of the succession.’ She shuddered in revulsion. ‘I believe I should have some choice in the matter. And like it or not, I choose the husband I already have. Perhaps Adrian thinks our marriage was forced upon him. But from the first moment I can remember, I have wanted no other man, nor is that likely to change now that I have seen his situation.’ She sat up straight and reached into a pocket for a handkerchief to wipe away the mote that was making her eyes tear. ‘We do not always want the person who is best for us, I am afraid.’

‘The poets never claim that the path of true love is an easy one,’ Hendricks added in a dejected tone.

‘No poetry was necessary to prove that for myself tonight.’

‘Then you told him who you were?’

‘I most certainly did not,’ she said, and was annoyed to notice the hole in her own logic. Her current understanding of her husband did not negate her previous one. While he had been most attentive to her when he thought her a stranger, he had not mentioned his feelings for his wife at all. ‘Things were difficult enough, without bringing my identity into the conversation. If he’d known I was his wife, we’d have …’ she shrugged, embarrassed ‘… we’d have got much less close to the thing he was avoiding than we already have.’

Hendricks was looking at her with a kind of horrified curiosity. She had spoken too much, she was sure. With a hurried wave of her hand, as though she could wipe the words from the air, she said, ‘I am sure, if I’d told him who I was, he’d have been quite angry at being tricked. It would be better, I think, to wait until I can find some other way to explain. And a time when he is in an exceptionally good mood.’ And let Hendricks wonder as much as he liked what might cause an improvement in her husband’s disposition.

She went on. ‘But tonight, he left angry. And it was my fault. We argued over … something. And when I turned him out, I had forgotten that he could not see to find his own way to the door. To see him standing there, proud, and yet helpless?’ And now, when she raised her handkerchief, she could not deny that it was to wipe away a tear. ‘He needs me.’

‘That he does, my lady.’ Hendricks seemed to relax in his seat, like a man who had found a patch of solid ground after getting lost in a bog.

‘I need you to deliver another letter to him, similar to the one you did this morning. Lord knows if he will welcome it, for I am sure he is very cross after the way I behaved tonight. But I mean to try again, tomorrow night, to gain his trust.’

When Adrian awoke the next morning, the lack of headache made the feelings of regret more sharp. He had come back to his rooms, ready to rave at Hendricks about the vagaries of the female mind. But the man, who seemed to have no life at all outside of his work, had chosen that evening to be away from the house.

And then he’d thought to find a bottle and a more sensible woman. Liquor would lift his spirits and a whore would not refuse the predilections of any man with the money to buy her time. In fact, the ladies of that profession were often somewhat relieved that a client would take the time to protect himself.

But a gentlewoman would have no such understanding. To her it was a grave insult to even mention such a thing. To imply that she was not clean enough, and to do it to a woman that had already felt the sting of rejection?

Any frustration that he felt after tonight was his own fault. And his own discomfort was probably a deserved punishment for leading the woman to believe he was worthy of her, and then leaving her disappointed and insulted. In the end, he had called for a single glass of brandy and taken it with him to his own large and empty bed.

This morning, the rattle of the curtains came as usual, but the daylight following it seemed more of a gradual glow than a rush of fire. ‘Hendricks.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘It is still morning, is it not?’

‘Half past ten. You retired early.’

‘Earlier than you, it seems.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ His secretary showed no interest in sharing his activities of the previous evening, and Adrian regretted the loss of the easy camaraderie they’d shared while fighting together in Portugal. At one time, they’d have gone out together, or shared the stories of their exploits over breakfast the next morning.

‘Lady Folbroke required my services.’

And that was the true reason for the breach, more than their inequality of rank, or his growing helplessness. And for a moment, Adrian wondered if there was a reason for the timing of the visit. When better to go to her, than when one could be sure that her husband would be occupied elsewhere? ‘She is well, I trust.’

‘When I left her, yes.’

Did that imply that she was the better for Hendricks’s company? They would make a handsome couple, similar in colouring and disposition, taciturn but intelligent. And yet the idea disturbed him, and he rushed to replace the image of them together that formed in his mind. ‘I congratulate you on your success. Would that my own evening had gone as well. It seems I am no longer fit company for a lady, for I could not manage a few hours in the presence of one without offering insult.’

Hendricks requested no details, nor did he offer to correct any misconceptions about his own activities. Adrian heard the nervous rattling of the morning paper against the post. ‘Do you wish me to read the news, my lord? Or shall I begin with the mail?’

‘The mail, I think.’ If he did not intend to attend Parliament when it was in session, then hearing the news of the day only made him feel helpless.

‘There is only one letter here. And it is similar to the one you received yesterday.’

‘Similar in what way?’ He doubted it would be in content, after the way they had parted.

‘In handwriting, and lack of a return direction. The wax is the same, but unmarked. I have not opened it.’ Hendricks gave a delicate pause. ‘I thought it better to wait upon your instructions.’

The embarrassment from last evening was still fresh, and a part of him wanted to throw the missive in the fire, unread. What would she have sent, so soon after parting from him? An angry diatribe? A curt dismissal? Florid words of love or a description of their activities on the couch were unlikely. But they would be particularly awkward today, delivered in Hendricks’s pleasant baritone as Adrian tried not to imagine the man doing similar things with his Emily.

He steeled his nerves and said, as casually as possible, ‘Best read it, I suppose, for the sake of curiosity if nothing else.’

There was a crackling of paper as the wax seal was released, and Hendricks unfolded the note.

‘I am sorry. If you would accept this apology, return tonight.’

So even after last night, she still wanted to see him. He felt both relief and shame that she should think she was the one who needed to apologise—and damned lucky that he would have a chance to set her straight.

But was it worth the risk of another rejection? If she meant to toy with him, then so be it. Even after the disasters of the previous two nights, he felt a singing in his blood at the thought that he might kiss her again, and that she might let him take more liberties than he had as yet achieved.

He grinned up at his secretary, who said benignly, ‘Will there be a reply?’

The things he wished to say to her came and passed in a rush, as he realised that they would need to be filtered through poor Hendricks, who would be feeling as uncomfortable as he. He had never before forced the man into a position of writing a billet-doux, nor would he today. ‘Normally, I would wish to send something immediately. But she has given no address. And after several hours in her company, I still have no idea what to call her, for she would not even give me her first name. If she wishes to shroud herself in mystery, I have no objection. But for punishment, she may wait in ignorance of my feelings until I see her tonight.’

Chapter Nine

Emily paced the front hall of the rented flat, unable to contain her agitation at the thought of the evening’s meeting. She had waited nervously for some response from her husband. In the afternoon there had come a hurried note, directly from Hendricks, that she could expect a visit that evening. But there had been no mention of Adrian’s reaction, whether he was angry, elated or indifferent.

She was both relieved and annoyed by this. While it was flattering to think that her rejection had not dampened his interest, she could not manage to forget that her husband thought he was rushing to a stranger with the intention of betraying his wife.

But then she remembered the feelings she had experienced on the previous evening. The things he had done to her were so different than his behaviour during the first week of their marriage that she could hardly believe he was the same person. If a revelation of her identity meant that they would be returning to the country for a life of such sterile conjugation, she much preferred being the mysterious object of his infidelity.

Promptly at eight, there was a knock on the door. Before the servant could arrive, she had opened it herself, and pulled Adrian into the hall with her.

At first he resisted, unwilling to be helped. But then he recognised her touch and submitted to her, fumbling to help with the closing of the door once he was through.

Before she could speak, he had seized her, the cane in his left hand bracing vertically along her spine as he kissed her. It was long and hard and unyielding, holding her body against his as he reached between them to unbutton his top coat with his right hand. With the open coat shielding them from observation, he began a careful examination of her dress with his fingers. ‘A dinner gown tonight, my dear? Afraid to risk the nightdress again, I see. But what is this, here amongst the net and beads?’ His hand cupped her breast. ‘You have not bothered with stays. That is a welcome thing to a sightless man. I can read your response to my arrival with a touch.’

‘You are terribly forward,’ she said, but made no effort to remove his hand from her body as it brushed against her sensitive nipple.

‘I am,’ he admitted. ‘And I had meant this evening to put you at your ease with my good manners. Already, I have failed.’

‘It does not matter. I am happy that you returned. And for last night, I am sorry.’

His fingers left her breast and unerringly found her lips, and he laid one against them to stop the apology. ‘It is I who must apologise. I was the one who offered insult. I treated you as I would treat someone who meant nothing to me.’

‘Which is how it should be. You barely know me.’

‘Now, perhaps. But I would like to know you better.’ His head bowed to rest against hers, forehead to forehead. ‘You could not understand my reasons for behaving as I did. And I gave you no reason to try. I thought only of my own needs, which were urgent, and offered no explanation for it.’

‘It is all right. It does not matter.’

‘It does. I hurt you. I made you feel that you are not worthy of love. But that is not the case.’

Emily laid a hand on the front of his vest, over his heart, and he clasped it there. They stood for a time, just like that, as though it had been ages since they had been together, and not hours. And for her, it had been. For how could a few evenings fill the void created by three years apart?

And as she thought of their marriage, she could feel the old breathlessness coming back, the terror of doing something wrong in his presence and spoiling this sudden intimacy. At last, she murmured into his lapel, ‘Supper?’

Adrian groaned in frustration and tightened his arms upon her. ‘Might it be possible to take light refreshment, and to sit before the fire? And I truly mean that we will talk tonight before anything else occurs between us. But you needn’t keep me at arm’s length across a table to ensure my good behaviour.’

It surprised her to find him as intimidated by a formal meal as she was in talking to him. ‘Very well. I will have the servants lay something simple for us, if that is what you wish. Come.’

She led him to the couch, and arranged for a tray of cold meats and bread to be brought to them, along with wine and fruit. And then she sat down beside him, and offered him a grape. ‘Do not think for a moment to deny me the pleasure of helping you.’

‘If it means that you will sit close beside me and let me kiss the crumbs from your fingertips? Then of course.’ He took the fruit from her hand, and said with a full mouth, ‘And while I eat, you will tell me about your husband.’

‘And … why would I do that?’ She hurriedly offered him more food, wishing that there were a way to get him to the table again so that they could be equally uncomfortable.

He smiled back at her and wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. ‘I will admit, there is an allure in an anonymous coupling. And a decided lack of guilt at parting from a stranger. But it has been a long time since I have been willing to play the fool for a woman. When I left here, I wanted to be angry, to blame you for all of it, and dismiss the incident from my mind. But I have brooded on it for most of last night and the better part of today as well. I want to know the meaning of your words.’

‘What did I say that you did not understand?’ She took a fortifying sip of wine.

‘You seemed more offended that I feared to get you with child than you were with the implication that I might think you poxed. You may tell me that I have no right to enquire, but it makes me wonder at your motives in lying with me, and fear that you are seeking something other than pleasure. If you cannot give me a suitable explanation, than I must leave you.’ He took her hand, and squeezed it. ‘But I very much want to stay.’

Emily leaned back in her seat and took another sip of wine. It was as good a time as any to explain to him, she supposed. ‘To make you understand, I must tell you about my marriage. My husband and I were together for but a brief time. And while we resided under the same roof, he barely spoke to me. As a matter of fact, he seemed to avoid my company.’

He gave a grunt of dismissal. ‘I cannot believe it.’

‘In his defence, I barely had the nerve to speak in his presence. I was quite in awe of him.’

‘This surprises me,’ he said. ‘You seemed fearless when I first met you. You have a direct and intelligent manner of speaking that is most refreshing.’

‘Thank you.’ She coloured. For while the compliment was delivered unawares, it was welcome.

He traced a finger along her cheek. ‘Of course, were I married to you, conversation would have been the last thing on my mind.’

‘Oh, really. And what would be the first?’

‘Getting you to bed, of course. Just as it was when I met you.’

‘Then you are obviously not the man I married,’ she said, ‘for on the three times he visited my room—’

Adrian’s brow furrowed. ‘Three times?’

‘Yes.’

He laughed. ‘You mean in the first night, of course.’

She grimaced. He did not even recognise himself in the quite obvious clue she had given him. ‘I mean in total. I remember it distinctly. How many women can, after several years of marriage, remember the exact number of conjugal visits and count them on less than a hand?’

‘That is an abomination.’

‘I quite agree.’ And she hoped that the frosty tone in her voice might bring some mote of recollection from the man at her side.

‘And these visits …’ he cleared his throat as though to stifle a laugh ‘… were they in any way memorable?’

‘I remember each instant, for they were my first and only experiences of that sort.’ ‘

And how would you describe them?’

Her timidity forgotten, she finished her wine in a gulp and said, ‘In a word? Disappointing.’

He seemed taken aback by this. ‘Was he not gentle with you? Did he give no thought to your inexperience?’

‘On the contrary. He proceeded with gentleness and all due care.’

‘Then what was the problem?’

Emily almost growled in frustration, for it was clear that he had no memory at all of what had been the most important week of her life. ‘He made it plain that he did not enjoy my company. My deflowering was done with martial efficiency, at a tempo that might have been more appropriate for a march than a frolic. And then he had returned to his rooms, without another word.’

Adrian gave a snort, before managing to master himself again. ‘You know little of the army, if you think that men in the, uh, heat of battle …’ And then, as though he remembered that he was speaking to a lady, he stopped. ‘Well, then. Never mind. But you are right in thinking that such restraint could not have been pleasant for him. And did you tell him, the next day, of your dissatisfaction with his performance?’ ‘How could I? I was innocent of the subject. For all I knew, it was the same for all. I had been watching him for years, and dreaming of how it might be.

And the waking truth was not at all as I expected. But when one can barely bring oneself to discuss the weather with the man to whom one is wed, how is one to explain that one had hoped, in the marriage bed, for something more?’

‘I see.’ He laid a hand on hers, in comfort.

‘And the next night was the same. And then the next.’ She was almost shaking with rage at the memory of it, and the returning shame. ‘And then, it seemed he gave our marriage up as a bad job. When evening arrived, a servant informed me that he would be dining with friends, and that I was not to expect his company. And shortly thereafter, he removed to London and has not returned.’

His hand reached up to brush her cheek again, and she shied away, trying to hide the tears of shame that had come unbidden at the recitation.

‘And all this time you thought it was somehow your fault?’

‘What else could I think? And when you came to me, with that … thing? Is there something wrong with me, that a man I want does not wish to touch me as he should?’

Adrian laughed. ‘It does no credit to my gender, but I assure you that there is little that a man cannot stomach when his appetite is good. I can find nothing about you so far that would lead me to believe you capable of inducing such a reaction. I might say, after last night’s intimate inspection of you, that you are sweetly formed and temptation itself. You had reduced me to such a state when you turned me out that even with two good eyes I doubt I could have found the door.’

‘Really?’

‘If the man you married was sane and whole, he would have responded differently.’

‘If he was whole,’ she repeated.

Adrian nodded. ‘Therefore, we must assume that the fault lies on his side. For myself, I would suspect impotence.’

She coughed on a bit of bread, and hurried to pour herself another glass of wine. ‘Really?’

He nodded again. ‘An inability to perform effectively, no matter how tempted. And he left before you might notice that he had given all he could. It is either that, or a penchant for other men.’

‘Oh, I seriously doubt that,’ she said, relieved that he could not see her smile.

‘It is not unheard of, you know. When you find him in London, it is quite possible that you will discover his relationship with one of his friends is … unusually close.’

‘I see.’

‘But in either case, it has nothing to do with you, or your attractiveness to members of the opposite gender.’

‘You think that is it?’

‘I have no doubt. You married a fool, too ashamed to admit a flaw in his own person. And it has caused you grief.’

‘When it is put to me thus, I think that is a very accurate assessment of the situation. Thank you for your opinion.’ For, although she did not think him a fool, per se, the rest of the sentence was true enough.

But the Adrian that sat beside her now did not seem likely to repeat the mistakes he had made in the past. He took the glass from her hands and set it aside. Then he trailed his fingers along the skin of her arms, tracing the line of her shoulder and neck. It made her feel sleek, graceful, desired. ‘Think of it no more.’ He kissed her shoulder.

‘Sometimes I find it hard to think of anything else,’ she admitted. ‘When I am alone at night.’

‘And unsatisfied,’ he whispered. ‘It is a condition that is easily remedied. Allow me.’

‘Allow you what?’ She pulled away from him, somewhat surprised by the husky tone of his voice.

‘Allow me to prove to you, as I did last night, that there is nothing wrong with you. And that the disappointment you experienced at the hands of your idiot husband need not be repeated.’

‘Oh.’ The word came out of her, part sigh and part moan, for his lips were on her throat, nuzzling at the place where her heart’s blood beat. ‘But last night, you said you could not lie with me without using that thing you brought. And I do not think I would like that at all.’ For while she wished to have his baby, suddenly, she wished even more to feel her husband inside of her, unsheathed, and as besotted with her as he seemed tonight.

He paused his kisses and looked into her face, his eyes sightless, but still searching to reach her, to make her understand. ‘If that one thing is so important to you, then I do not think it is possible for me to give you what you desire. There is only one woman on earth that could command such an intimacy from me. If I deny it of her and tell myself that it is done for her own good, but I give myself freely to another, I will sacrifice the last scrap of honour I have left.’ Without thinking, he touched the pocket of his coat, in a place just over his heart.

‘What were you reaching for, just now?’ she asked.

‘Nothing. It is foolishness, really. And certainly not the time …’

Emily ignored his protests, slipped her hand into his pocket and withdrew a battered miniature, no bigger than a locket. She’d remembered sitting for it when she was sixteen. She’d been quite miserable at the time, having just recovered from influenza.

‘It is my wife, Emily,’ he said softly.

Without thinking, she responded, ‘It is not a very good likeness’, forgetting that there was no way she could know. Then added, ‘Those paintings never are.’

He smiled and took it back from her, opening the cover and running a thumb over the ivory that it was painted on. ‘Perhaps not. But it hardly matters, for it has been some time since I’ve seen it clearly. Still, I like to look on it.’ He held it in front of him as though pretending he could see it, then passed it to her.

The question of a likeness was no longer a matter. In the place he had touched it, he had rubbed the paint away from the ivory, smearing her eyes and leaving only a white smudge in the place where her lips might be.

‘She was a sweet girl,’ he said, smiling and reaching out to take it back. ‘And from what I am told, she has grown into a fine woman.’

‘You do not know?’

‘It has been several years since I’ve seen her, and she has adjusted to my absence. She handles the business of the estate as well, if not better than I would. I sign what papers are needed when she sends them to me, of course. But her decisions are sound, and I have had no reason to question them. My holdings profit from her wisdom.’

‘You treat her no better than your man of business, then?’

‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘Our families were old friends, and when we married, we had been betrothed for ages, promised to each other almost in the cradle. I had no problems with it, at first. But then I learned the fate of my father, and my grandfather before him.’ He gave a wry shrug. ‘It was clear that there could be no normal marriage between us. But it hardly seemed fair to her to cry off. I was by far the best offer the girl was likely to have.’

‘Bloody cheek,’ she murmured.

‘But true, none the less. The title is an old one. The house and lands are enough to tempt any woman. By the time I wed her, she was nearly on the shelf. I had hoped that my neglect of her would put her off me. But she’d waited patiently for me to come back from the army when she could just as well have been at Almack’s on the hunt for a better man.’

‘Or you might have married her sooner,’ she pointed out. ‘Instead of risking your title by buying a commission.’

‘True enough,’ he agreed. ‘The army is a better choice for a second son. It is dangerous for an heir to go into battle. My cousin Rupert was ecstatic, of course.’ When she did not ask, he added, ‘He is next in line for Folbroke.’

She responded with an ‘I see’ to hide her lack of ignorance on the subject. ‘And are you pleased that he will succeed you? Is he worthy of it?’

Adrian frowned. ‘He is my nearest male relative. It does not matter whether he is worthy or not.’

‘Then you think he is not, or you would have answered in the affirmative without hesitation,’ she said.

‘He is not blind,’ Adrian said, as though that answered all. ‘And if desire for an earldom is an indicator of worthiness, then he has more worth than I possess. He wants the place more than I ever did. For my part, I expected Napoleon would finish me off before I had to admit the truth to Emily. Once gone, it would be no concern of mine. I would die gloriously and never have to face the future. Instead, a muzzle flash blinded me, and I was sent home. The surgeon told me that the damage to my eyes was a temporary thing, but I knew better.’

‘And did you explain any of this to your precious Emily?’

He shook his head. ‘I am a coward, and there is your proof of it. I counted her brother as a close friend and comrade, and even he does not know.’

‘There is comfort in that, I suppose.’ For she doubted she could have survived the shame if David had kept the secret from her as Hendricks had.

‘And I have made sure that she will want for nothing, during my life or after it,’ he said, as though it would justify his neglect. ‘She is my countess, with all the comforts and freedoms that the title allows her. She has free access to the accounts, and she may spend them as she sees fit. All that I have, outside of the entail, is deeded to her, secure in trust.’

‘And you think that will be enough to satisfy her, as she waits your return, never knowing what has happened?’

‘I doubt she misses me so very much. It has come to my attention that she means to take a lover.’

‘And who would tell you such an awful thing?’ Since she had only recently learned that he cared at all, it had never occurred to her that her husband might have developed an exaggerated view of her love life.

‘Hendricks, my secretary. He is the man who helped you from the tavern two nights ago. He makes frequent trips between us and acts as my eyes and ears at Folbroke Manor. When he comes to town, I question the poor man quite mercilessly about her.’ He laughed sadly. ‘Recently, it has grown increasingly difficult for him to recount her behaviour. He does not speak of it, of course, but he has a penchant for her as well. And I would not be surprised if she returned his affections.’

‘Certainly not!’ While Hendricks was not unattractive, the idea that she would choose him over Adrian was so ridiculous that she could hardly stand to hear it.

‘Oh, yes, my dear. One does not need eyes to see something like that. When I can get him to speak about her?’ Adrian shrugged. ‘I can tell that the respect in which he holds her is something more than what one would normally find in a servant. I force him to sit with me, share a brandy to loosen his tongue and tell me of her exploits. And through him, I have come to believe that I have quite the cleverest wife a man could wish for.’

‘Except that you think her unfaithful to you.’

Emily could see a muscle tightening in his jaw, as though the matter bothered him more than he was willing to admit. ‘I merely have realistic expectations of her. I abandoned her. And I have no intention of ever returning. If I deserved her fidelity, I would be with her this evening. But I will not saddle her with the care of an invalid. Nor do I wish to live at her side as an affectionate brother, leaving her untouched to spare her the risk of bearing my ill-formed whelps.’

‘But have you not considered? If you continue in this way, your heir is likely to be sired by another man.’

‘Do you think I have not realised the fact?’ He bit out the words, sharp and cold. ‘If she chooses her lovers with the care that she takes with the rest of my business, the child will be strong and sighted. But if I were to get her with child, there is no telling what might happen. And it would leave her stuck with the care of me. She might as well have two infants for all the use I am likely to be in a few short years.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Would you like to go and tell her that she must wipe my chin when the spoon cannot find my mouth? Or put me in leading strings so that I can find my own bedchamber?’

‘I have watched you, and it is not as bad as all that,’ she snapped back. ‘You manage quite well on your own, when you are in familiar surroundings.’

‘But I have no evidence that she will adjust as well as you have when faced with my disability. You have been unusually understanding, and our arrangement, pleasant though I hope it is for you, is a temporary one. But she should not be put through the bother of a lifetime with me.’ He closed the locket and put the picture back into his pocket.

‘Nor, apparently, should she be put to the bother of asking her what she wishes.’

‘It is what I wish that concerns me,’ he said. ‘I do not wish my heir to be blind, nor my wife to look on me with pity, knowing how easy it is to hide the truth from a husband who cannot see her.’

‘You do not trust her to be honest.’ And, in truth, she was not.

‘I would much rather she cuckold me when I am not present than when I am.’ He laughed again. ‘Either way, I cannot see it.’

‘You are horrible.’

‘One more proof that my wife is better off without me.’

Adrian was laughing at her, and at their marriage. ‘And have you thought, even for a moment, how she might feel to be abandoned, with no explanation? She blamed herself.’ She wiped the first stray tear from her eyes with her sleeve, reminding herself that it was unladylike and childish, and that there was no way to know what his wife thought. So she added, ‘Or so I would expect.’

He was watching her intently. Or rather he was listening. She could tell by the little cock of his head that he had noticed her stifled sob. ‘You are thinking of your own marriage again, aren’t you?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘And I promised that I would give you no reason.’ He gathered her close and kissed her upon the forehead, and then the cheek. And then the mouth again, his tongue moving against hers slow and soothing and then faster, as though he meant to tease her back to happiness. He whispered against her lips, ‘Let me take the hurt away.’

She could not tell any more who he spoke to. Did he mean to make her forget? Or did he need to be free of his darling Emily, who, even now, could be lying in the arms of his most trusted friend?

It did not matter. She wanted the same thing he did: for the pain she had carried for so long to go away, and to feel needed and wanted by the one who held her. ‘Yes,’ she whispered back.

‘If you allow me into your bed tonight, I will prove to you that it is possible to meet both my needs and yours. You will have much pleasure and no regrets tomorrow, I promise.’

Emily put her arms around his neck and clung to him, caring for nothing but the feel of his body, close to hers after so long. ‘As long as we can be together, that is enough.’

Chapter Ten

‘Adrian, please. No more. It is almost dawn and I swear I am exhausted.’ Emily laughed, for she had never thought to speak those words, and certainly not to her husband.

‘Are you sure, minx?’ His hand stole between her legs again, cupping her sex under his palm. ‘Although you have left me too weak for another go, I do not think it is possible for a woman to grow too tired for this. Let us see, shall we?’

And it seemed she would know soon enough, for his fingers moved upon her again, as they had so many times since she had led him to her bed.

He had not allowed her to undress him, for he’d claimed that when changing without a valet, he preferred his clothes laid out in a way that ensured he could find them again.

She had watched in eager anticipation as he revealed without shame the body she had only glimpsed before. The years had not changed him, and she was glad of it. He was as muscular as she remembered, large and strong in ways that made her tremble to the core to look on him.

He had come to her side, kneeling on the edge of her bed and peeled her gown away from her as easily as he had the night before, kissing her face and her body, then toppling her back on to the mattress, his nakedness blending with hers in a tangle of arms and legs and fingers and tongues. He had licked and stroked her to ecstasy more times than she could remember, and spent himself in her hands, between her breasts, and between her thighs, touching her sex with his in a way that was very close to heaven. And then they had slept together, through the night, skin to skin, so close and familiar that they might have been sharing one body.

But not close enough. As he touched her now and dipped inside of her with the tip of his finger, she imagined him entering her, taking her as she had always wanted. She pressed herself against his hand, urging him deeper and remembering the size of him resting heavy in her hands the night before. ‘You are bigger than that,’ she whispered. And then she gasped, for he had slipped another finger, spreading them inside of her, stretching and moving faster and faster. And she discovered that she was not too tired after all, losing herself all over again in the miraculous maelstrom that she had come to expect from his lovemaking.

‘There, my darling,’ he said with a smile. ‘Admit I was right. Your body wakes at my touch.’

Emily put her arms around his neck and kissed him for what must have been the hundredth time that night. ‘And now it would like to sleep at your touch as well. The fire is dying and the sun is rising, but it is still several hours until breakfast. And perhaps the servants would welcome the quiet.’ For he had reminded her frequently that he could not see her response, and that it pleased him to hear her cry out.

But now he kissed her gently upon the cheek and disentangled her arms from his neck. ‘I had not realised it was so late. You must have your rest.’

She reached out for him, but he had already turned from her, feeling along the edge of the bed and then taking the three steps from the corner that would lead him to the chair with his clothes. ‘You are leaving me?’ She sat up enough to see the clock upon the mantel. ‘It is just past four,’ she admitted, with a yawn. ‘You can have no other commitments at this hour. Must you go?’

He chuckled. ‘If I am honest with myself, probably not. When you know me, you will see that I am the most idle of creatures. I sleep the days away, and my evenings are spent much as you saw the first one.’ He pulled on his shirt, tied his cravat in a rough knot, and came back to her, reaching to find her, and kissing her outstretched hand. ‘But since I am a wastrel and a rake, it would be better for your reputation if I were not seen leaving this place after breakfast, satisfied by more than a hearty meal.’

She sighed, for perhaps now was the right time to tell him that it did not matter in the slightest. But while they had shared a bed for hours, and done more together than she had ever expected, he had not succumbed enough to do the deed. Nor would he be likely to, if she made him angry.

When she did not answer he said, ‘Have you fallen back to sleep?’

‘I am merely hoping that if I do not agree, you will not leave.’ Because this was how it was supposed to be. How it should have been from the first. The two of them together, sharing the night and greeting the dawn.

‘I must go, so that I might return again. And before then, I must have a change of linen and a shave, if you wish me to be the presentable man you want, and not the base ruffian you found me.’ He released her hand and returned to the business of dressing. Then he said, casually, as though he did not wish to presume the invitation, ‘If you are not busy, of course. And if you desire more of my company. My nights are not empty, but they are not so full that I would not be willing to dedicate them to you.’

He probably meant, if she rejected him, to slip back to the place she had found him, and his inevitable doom. ‘No.’ She climbed out of the bed to come to his side.

‘You refuse me?’

‘I refuse to allow you to fill your evenings with anything but me,’ she said, twining her arms about him and kissing him again. ‘I will meet with you again, as often as you like, night or day, it does not matter to me. I have but one condition.’

He smiled and hugged her. ‘I am yours to command.’

‘For the duration of our acquaintance, you must not frequent gaming hells or taverns or any other low haunts like the one I found you in. While you may not think yourself worthy of better company, I do not find it flattering to be lumped in with such as that.’

Adrian gave a small laugh, and for a moment she was sure that he would tell her in no uncertain terms that their short acquaintance gave her no right to dictate terms to him. And then he said, ‘Well played, madam. In three days, you have succeeded in doing what my friends and family have attempted for years. Of course, they might have had more success in reforming me had they the bait you offer. If you wish me to, I will leave off my vices, for a time, in exchange for the pleasure of your company.’

‘And there must be no more talk of seeking an end to your life or dying young by misadventure. You must assure me that whatever happens between us, you will die in bed, at an advanced age.’

‘I can hardly be expected to guarantee my own longevity.’

‘But you can safeguard what time you have for my sake.’ She ran a finger along his chest before buttoning his vest over it. ‘I will brook no talk of doom, nor do I wish you threatening to step in front of a dray horse, should I do something that displeases you.’ She kissed his chin, nestling her naked body against him and feeling his spirit weaken as his body grew hard.

He groaned and pushed her away, firmly back on her own two feet. ‘None of that, then. If I mean to leave you, I will not be able, should you begin again.’

‘I will not let you go until you promise. I could not bear it, I swear.’

He leaned against a bedpost, grunting as he pulled on his boots. But he was smiling. ‘Very well. To remain secure in your affections, I will do as you ask. Now tell me where to find a bell pull so that I might summon a ride home.’

When she offered to help him, he kissed her firmly on the lips, leading her back to the bed. ‘You need not rise. I will find my own way, with some small amount of help. And I dare say your servants must grow used to it. I expect they will see me often from now on.’

Adrian reached his own doorstep without a stumble, handing his coat and stick to a waiting footman.

This morning, it was almost a relief to be unable to read the expression on the man’s face. If he could see, he was sure that he would find the servant smirking at the master for coming in with the dawn with a smile on his face and smelling of a woman’s cologne.

He inhaled deeply. Lemons, again. His mouth watered at the thought of her. Or perhaps it was because he had barely eaten. He would have a wash, a shave and a hearty breakfast.

Adrian went to his room and pulled back the curtains, seeing the glow of the rising sun, and felt the first warmth hit his face as his valet came to prepare him for the day.

When Hendricks came to him, several hours later, he swore he could hear the man’s shocked intake of breath at finding him upright and taking eggs and kippers at the little table beside the window.

‘Come in, Hendricks.’ He made a welcoming gesture in the general direction of the door and indicated the chair on the other side of the table. ‘Bring the post and The Times and help yourself to a cup of tea. And try to contain your astonishment. I swear, I heard your jaw drop as you crossed the threshold.’

‘You must admit that it is unusual for me to find you awake, my lord.’

‘I am sober as well. And fully dressed. Of course, what I mean to do with all the extra time, I have no idea. I suspect I have put my valet to a great deal of bother, only to spoil my cravat by napping through the afternoon. But what can be done?’

‘You are in a better mood today, I see.’ His secretary was using his typically mild-mannered voice, but there was a hint of something in it that almost seemed like censure.

‘And what if I am?’

‘It is rare enough to be worthy of comment. The last time I greeted you cheerfully before noon, you threw a bookend at me.’

‘I apologise.’ He had been suffering that day from the headache that sometimes accompanied his troubles. Or, if he was more honest with himself, he had been suffering the after-effects of the gin. In either case, it had been no reason to take it out on Hendricks. ‘If you felt then as I do today, then I had no right to spoil the mood.’ He reached for his tea, and felt Hendricks stay his hand.

‘Excuse me, my lord. It has been incorrectly prepared for you. Someone has put lemon in it this morning.’

Adrian grinned. ‘And two sugars. Tart, and yet very sweet. Just as I requested it. Never mind the post. I doubt there is anything in it that I care about. But if you could read me the news of the day, I would be most grateful.’

Chapter Eleven

The vigour with which Adrian had started the day had faded by noon. He might have stood the fatigue if there had been a way to occupy himself. But with no word from Emily or his mysterious new lover, there was nothing in the mail that required his attention. And although the news was interesting, it gave him the familiar feeling of restlessness to hear it. If he refused his chance to be involved with the making of laws, he had no real need to keep abreast of current events. He soon grew frustrated with the paper and waved his secretary away.

When Hendricks was gone, Adrian roamed his small rooms like a lost soul. He requested an early lunch, which he promptly regretted, for the food lay heavy in his stomach. Then he went back to his bedchamber, and lay down upon the bed, closing his eyes and falling into an uneasy doze.

He dreamed of her, of course. And in those dreams, he could see her and call her by name. When they had lain together, near exhausted from love-making, he had asked her what she wished to be called, if she would not give him her name.

She had laughed and said, ‘Anything you like. Or nothing at all. While I appreciate endearments, I have learned to live without them.’

And it had angered him. For while some women could turn petulant if not given jewels, the woman at his side deserved to be showered with words of love, and yet had been forced to manage with none.

But then she had said, ‘But I do seem to enjoy attention that is physical in nature.’

‘Do you, now?’ He laughed again and moved to touch her, eager to give her what she hinted at. And a name for her had popped easily into his mind. He pushed it away, remembering that though he might imagine what he liked as they made love, he must guard his tongue. She knew too much already about his life and marriage to call her by the name that was always close to his thoughts. It would be an insult to what they shared.

But in his sleep he was loving a woman that was a perfect blend of what he had and what he wanted. Though it should have been the happiest of dreams, and one that he wanted never to end, he could not shake the feeling that the happiness would not last.

And then, at the penultimate moment of his fantasy, there was the sound of something heavy moving in the hall. And of men, grunting under the weight of it, and muffled curses as someone banged an arm or pinched a finger.

Adrian rose and stalked across his room, opening the door with such force that it would have slammed against the wall had it not met with an obstruction. ‘What the devil is going on out here? Do you not realise that I am trying to sleep?’

‘My lord, if you will excuse us, there is a delivery.’ They were trying to manoeuvre something past him, towards the sitting room. ‘We were instructed to place it in the corner, by the window.’

‘Not by me you weren’t,’ he said, and heard the footman take an involuntary step back and the burden bumping against the walls in a way that must have scratched the paper from them.

‘It is from … She said you would not mind.’ There was a tiny stammer at the beginning of the sentence, as though they were unsure how to broach the rest of it.

‘She?’ There could be only one she that would be so motivated. Whatever it was was probably offered as a ‘thank you’ for their extremely active night. He should accept it in the spirit it was given, no matter what it might be. ‘Well, if she insists that it must go in my sitting room, who am I to argue?’ Other than the owner of the room, of course.

‘Very good, my lord. If you would stand back, just for a moment?’ From the sound of his voice, Parker, the footman, was fading under the weight of the thing he carried, but made no move to proceed without his master’s permission. The man had made the mistake, when first he’d arrived, of trying to touch Adrian and move him manually out of the way of a delivery. But he had learned with the sharp rap of a cane on his knuckles to keep his distance and allow my lord his space.

Adrian raised his hands and stepped back to give them room to pass.

There was more grunting, and the sound of the two footmen manoeuvring a piece of furniture, followed by the instructions to a third man to ‘Get the stool as well’.

When things settled down, Adrian folded his arms and demanded, ‘What is it?’

‘A pianoforte, my lord.’

‘A what?’

‘A pianoforte. She said that we might have some difficulty with it, but that it was the smallest one she could find.’

Adrian waved his hands as they began to repeat. ‘Never mind. I heard you the first time. But what the hell am I supposed to do with the thing? The woman must be mad—take it away, immediately.’

‘There is a message, my lord.’ Hendricks spoke from the doorway, for doubtless there was little space left in the room for him.

‘Really. Well, then? Speak.’

‘She said you would likely object to it. And to inform you, when you did, that you needed something to occupy your days, since idle hands are the Devil’s tools.’ Hendricks sounded faintly amused, as he could afford to do, being well out of reach of my lord’s cane.

Adrian glared into the sitting room, then followed in the wake of the servants and the unwanted gift. His lady had been happy enough with the Devil’s tools when he’d left her. Perhaps she was afraid that he would use them on another, if she did not fill every minute of his life. ‘And I suppose, if I send it away …’

‘The note says she will find something larger, since simple presents do not seem to entertain you.’

He imagined her voice, framing those words with a hint of disapproval. ‘If her man is still waiting, tell him that I will be by this evening to deliver my thanks in person. I would go now, but there is a large piece of furniture blocking my way to the door.’

‘Very good, my lord.’

The men cleared away, leaving him alone with his present. And it was as though he could sense the interloper in the room, without even approaching it. He could feel the faint vibrations of the strings inside, for they still hummed with the recent disturbance.

He walked towards it, bumping into the corner and hearing the hollow rap of his cane against its body, running his hand along the side and hoping that she had not wasted money on some gold, heavily ornamented monster of an instrument. It felt simple enough. Rectangular, and with the slightly sticky feel of varnish rather than paint.

So she thought he should keep busy. Clearly, she did not understand what it meant to be a gentleman. His status in society removed the whole point of an occupation. He was not supposed to make work for himself. And many of the things that might have kept him entertained were quite lost to him, now that his eyes were gone. Even gaming had lost its lure. He could no longer read the cards without help, and his need to touch the face of the dice, to feel the spots and assure himself of the roll, was often taken as cheating by his opponents.

He sat down on the bench and laid his hands on the ivory keys, depressing one to hear the tone of it, and depressing his spirit as well. It would need continual tuning, of course. These things always did. But was he expected to know by listening whether it was right or wrong?

He walked his fingers up a scale and sighed, already bored with it in a few short notes. He laboriously picked out a folksong, and then a familiar hymn. The tunes were thin, and he was sure that a talented musician would be searching for seconds and thirds, and chords, finding harmonious combinations by trial and error.

What had he taken from the few music lessons of his youth? Damn little. While his mother had thought it a good idea to give him some understanding of the arts, his father had thought it a waste of time. The clock on the mantel chimed a quarter past the hour. It was just as it had been when he was a boy. He had been sitting at the instrument for only a few moments, and already he was stiff, bored and aching to leave it behind.

‘A visitor to see you, my lord.’ Abbott had entered with the announcement, and Adrian looked up with eagerness, forgetting for a moment that he had not accepted a guest in months as his condition had deteriorated.

‘Mr Eston.’

‘Damn and hell.’ Emily’s brother, and the last man on the planet he wished to see. ‘Put him off. Any excuse you like, I do not care.’

‘He will not be denied. He says that he means to wait in the entry until he meets with you, either coming or going.’

It sounded very like his old friend David, who in comparison to Adrian had both the patience and morals of a saint. ‘Give me a moment, and then show him in.’

When he heard the door close, he hurried across the room to the brandy decanter, filling a glass with such speed that he spilled some on his sleeve. Even better. The smell of the liquor burned in his nostrils, making an attempt at the appearance of drunkenness more obvious. For good measure he dipped his fingers into the glass and sprinkled more of it onto his coat then took a mouthful and swished it about a bit before swallowing. Then he went back to sprawl in a chair by the fireplace with the decanter in one hand and the half-empty glass in the other, barking his shin against the piano bench on the way, then sitting down again just as the door opened.

He looked up as though the hulking shadow in the doorway seemed the least bit familiar, and raised his glass in salute. ‘David, it has been so long.’

‘Over a year,’ his brother-in-law grunted at him.

‘And what brings you to London?’

‘I have come to fetch you home.’

‘Why, my dear sir, I am home.’ He waved the glass to encompass the room, spilling more of the contents in the process. ‘Please, avail yourself of my hospitality. A drink, perhaps?’

‘It is just gone noon, Adrian,’ David said with disgust. ‘Far too early for brandy.’

‘But this is a special occasion, is it not? We have established that you do not visit often. To see you now is a cause for celebration.’ To see him at all would be more of a miracle. But for now, his unfocused gaze and unwillingness to meet his friend’s eye would be blamed on a guilty nature and the glass in his hand.

Eston grunted again, and he did not need eyes to guess the expression of distaste on the man’s face. ‘You celebrate too often, as it is.’

‘There is much reason to make merry, for London is a fine town.’

‘But not so fine that you would bring my sister to it.’

‘I did not think she would enjoy it. You said often enough, before we married, that she was a simple girl.’

‘She is a woman, now. And she is here in town.’ David paused to give significance to the next words. ‘But she is not staying with me.’

Adrian gave an uneasy laugh. ‘Is that so?’

‘She has taken rooms, and refuses to tell me where. I assume that she is using them to receive someone that she does not want me to meet.’

‘I do not mind her coming to town. Nor have I forbidden her from socialising. There is money enough to take lodgings of her own, should she choose to. And there is hardly space enough here, should she want to come to me.’

‘If there is money enough to maintain two residences,’ David said with irritation, ‘then there is also money enough to get a town house large enough to share.’

‘But would that allow her the privacy she seeks?’ Adrian said with mock innocence.

David made a noise of exasperation. ‘Why should it matter to you? She is your wife and should not require more privacy than you wish to give her.’

Adrian took a swig of his brandy, and waved his other hand, as if the concept were too much for his addled brain. ‘Well then, we are in agreement. I wish to allow her as much privacy as she wants, and to allow myself the same.’

‘So it does not bother you that she has taken a lover?’

There would be no way of avoiding the truth if David insisted on sharing it with him. Adrian poured himself another brandy and drank deep, pretending that he cared for nothing but the spirit, ignoring the tightening in his guts. ‘And who might that be?’

‘I do not know his name,’ David said. ‘But I ran into her today, shopping on Bond Street. And it was obvious what she has been doing with the days she has been absent from my lodging. She positively glowed.’

‘I am encouraged by her continued good health,’ Adrian said absently, feeling both relieved and discouraged by the sketchy information.

‘It is not health I am referring to, you drunken ninny,’ David snapped back, all patience gone. ‘I have never seen my sister looking thus. She has been with a man.’

Adrian sipped his drink, looking down into it as though he could see it. ‘And I have been with a woman. I can hardly blame her, David. You know we are estranged.’

‘But I do not know the reason for the separation.’

He took another drink from his glass. ‘Perhaps not. But it is no business of yours. It is a matter between my wife and myself.’

‘And now it is a matter between you and me. You have made no effort to be a husband to her, and now she is likely to shame herself and you with a public affair.’

‘With my blessing,’ Adrian said, gritting his teeth.

David swore. And then the shifting shadows seemed to indicate him stepping closer, towering over Adrian as he sat by the fire. ‘You have been with Emily for three years, and it is clear that you do not mean to get her with child or show her even the slightest modicum of respect. If she looks elsewhere for affection, it is quite possible that your heir will be illegitimate, and then all will know you for a fool, and my sister for a whore.’

Adrian stared into the faint orange glow that marked the ashes from the previous night’s fire. ‘I think there is little doubt already that I am a fool. And as for her reputation?’ He shrugged. ‘She is my wife. Any child of hers will be my heir, no matter who his father might be.’

‘Are you saying you cannot stir yourself sufficiently to care for Emily that you would be with her long enough to ensure the parentage of your children? If you had so little regard for her, then why did you marry her?’

Adrian drank again. ‘Perhaps I never for a moment wanted her. But I saw no way out of it. My future was sewn up tight by my parents and by yours, before I had any say in it. I am willing to abide by my obligations. But it is a bit much to expect me to do it with a light heart.’

‘You selfish bastard,’ David said with disgust. ‘I remember you of old, Adrian. And I thought you near to fearless. Now, you are telling me that you lacked the nerve to stand up to a slip of a girl and trapped her in a sham of a marriage rather than set her free to find the love she deserved.’

‘It is not as though she gained nothing by marrying me,’ he muttered. ‘She has the land.’

‘You have the land,’ David reminded him. ‘And she has the running of it.’

‘And a fine job she does,’ he nodded, smiling. ‘In reward, I have given her the freedom to find love where she likes. That is what you wished for her, did you not?’

‘But it is not what she wishes,’ David insisted. ‘She adores you, Adrian. At least, she did when you wed her.’

‘She gave no sign of it, at the time,’ he answered. Not that he had made any great effort to discern the feelings of the woman he had married. But suppose there had been some affection there that he had been too thick to notice? The tiny portrait in his pocket seemed to grow heavier at the thought.

‘I know her, even better than I know you. She was too shy to say so, but she was overjoyed at the match. And at the time, she had great hopes that you would learn to love her as well. Emily wanted more than what you have given her.’ Now David spoke more gently. ‘When I press her about the estrangement, she claims to value her freedom. But I can see the look in her eyes. She wants a husband and children more than your estate. And though she might settle for any man willing to show her affection, her heart is not involved. There is a chance, if you return to her now, that it is not too late. Her tendre for you could be rekindled.’

Dear God, no. ‘And what would make you think that I had any desire for such?’ It was the last thing he needed to hear, now of all times. Sometimes it seemed that his only source of consolation was that his death would be a relief to her. But suppose it was otherwise?

‘Perhaps I think you should care less about what you desire, and stop behaving like some stupid young buck, fresh from the classroom and eager to indulge every whim. Go back to your wife before she sinks as low as you have and cares for naught but meeting her own needs.’

‘Now see here,’ Adrian snapped back, feeling the beginnings of a cloud over his thoughts from the brandy he had bolted. ‘What I do or do not do with your sister is no affair of yours. The only reason it bothers you, I think, is because you had some designs on my land yourself. See it as an extension of your own park, do you? Hunting and fishing and riding on my property as though you own it. You must think that I will go the way of my short-lived ancestors, and that when I am gone, you will twist my heir around your little finger.’ He laughed and took another gulp, letting his imagination run wild. ‘That’ll be much harder to do if the whole thing passes to some cousin, won’t it? If there is no heir, your sister will be put off to dower, and your plans will all be for naught.’ It was a disgusting picture. And he wondered if there was any truth in it.

David cursed and knocked the glass from his hand onto the hearth. ‘It is only affection for Emily that keeps me from calling you out.’

‘And I might say the same. If any other man had dared to come into my study to tell me how to organise my life and my marriage, I’d have run him through.’

He could almost hear David’s eyes narrow. ‘You needn’t fear that in the future, Adrian. All who once claimed you as a friend are gone, driven off by your shameful behaviour. But if they still existed, they would also tell you that you are a sot and a wastrel and they are embarrassed to know you. You lose yourself in liquor and whores, intent on destroying yourself like your father and grandfather did before you, little heeding the pain you heap on your wife and friends. I rue the day that a union of our families was suggested. I do not need access to your land, and will keep within the boundaries of my own estate, if the thought of my trespassing bothers you so. From now on, I will live as a stranger to you.’

‘At last! He means to leave me alone!’ Adrian hoped that volume would make up for the lack of true feeling in the dismissal.

‘And it is a shame, Adrian, for I once thought of you almost as a brother. I welcomed the connection between us and hoped that a wedding would bring you happiness, moderate your character and be a benefit to Emily. I have proved myself a bigger fool than you are for putting my trust in you.’

His childhood friend spoke with such disappointment that he almost admitted the truth. But what good would that do? The man would be just as angry that poor Emily had been tricked into such an ill-fated match. ‘You must have known,’ Adrian said softly, ‘that there was a chance that you were wrong. That blood might tell, and I would be no better than the rest of my family.’

‘But I knew you. Or thought I did. And I was sure, at one time, that you had a heart to be touched. I am beginning to suspect that it is not the case.’

Adrian hid his confusion in a cold laugh that he knew would enrage his guest. ‘Then you are learning me right, after all these years,’ he said looking up at the hazy spectre of his oldest friend, looming over him.

‘Very well, then. The interview is at an end, as is the last of our friendship. You have treated my sister abominably. You have scorned my efforts to intervene. What is likely to occur from all this will be entirely on your head.’

And even without sight, Adrian could chart David’s passage out of the rooms by the slamming of the doors.

Chapter Twelve

‘Hendricks!’ Adrian bellowed. If the man was still in, there would be no way for him to escape the sound of his master’s voice.

‘My lord?’ His response was so prompt that Adrian wondered if the secretary had been listening at the door.

‘I was just forced to undergo an excruciating fifteen minutes with Eston. Am I mistaken, Hendricks, or do I pay you to prevent such things?’

‘I am sorry, my lord.’

If he wished to be rational, he would admit that it had been the distraction of the piano delivery that had left the doors open and allowed the guest to enter, not any carelessness on Hendricks’s part. But the excess of spirits was making him irritable, as was the disapproving sniff that Hendricks gave at the spilled brandy. Adrian set the decanter aside. ‘To avert questions about my behaviour, I let him think me drunk. I have most likely ruined this coat by dousing myself with liquor. But he felt the need to tell me that my wife has taken a lover. What do you know of the situation?’

‘Nothing, my lord.’ But the man said ‘nothing’ with such a lack of conviction that he might as well have said everything.

‘Really. But you have seen her recently, I trust?’

‘Yes, my lord. This morning.’

‘And how did she look, when you last spoke with her?’

‘Well.’

‘Is that all, Hendricks? For her brother implied that she was looking, perhaps, too well.’

Adrian’s comment should have been incomprehensible. But Hendricks seemed to understand it perfectly. ‘I did not notice anything unusual about her, my lord.’ It was a pitiful attempt to hide the truth.

‘And where was she, when last you saw her?’

Hendricks paused, as though he could not seem to remember his story, and said, ‘At her brother’s town house, my lord.’

‘How strange. For she has not been in residence there for several days.’

Hendricks sighed. ‘At her rooms, my lord.’

‘So you have seen them, then?’ He resisted the desire to add the word Aha. ‘I suppose you have been there several times.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ He sounded glum now, as though any good spirits that the lady might have gained through his visits were not shared.

As an afterthought, Adrian asked, ‘As I remember it, Hendricks, you wear spectacles, do you not?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Hendricks, clearly baffled as to what this had to do with anything.

And there went his hopes that the next Earl of Folbroke would be unencumbered by difficulties with vision. Still, some sight was better than none. ‘Her brother David seemed most concerned at the damage to her reputation, should it be known that she is setting up housekeeping with a man. If she wished some space of her own, it is a shame that she has not seen fit to ask her husband for permission.’

‘Did you expect her to? It has been long since you have spoken to her—she no doubt assumed that you would not care.’ Hendricks had answered a trifle too quickly with this, and altered his tone to be less censorious before adding, ‘If you wish to see her today, I could arrange it for you.’

‘It merely surprises me that she has not sought me out. If she cannot visit her own husband when she is scant miles from him, then it gives credence to her brother’s theory.’

‘She did visit you, my lord, on the day she arrived in town. As you remember, I came to fetch you.’

And pulled me from another woman’s arms and dragged me home, insensible. Touché, Hendricks, touché. ‘Since she did not return, I did not think the matter was important.’

‘Perhaps it is because she has been spurned and avoided for such a long time that she has no more desire to try.’ His secretary’s voice was sharp and scolding. And there could be no questioning his meaning. ‘At this point in time, perhaps it is up to you to seek her.’

‘Do you presume to tell me how to handle my marriage?’

‘Of course not, my lord.’ But the tone said just the opposite.

‘You might as well do it, for it seems quite a popular activity this week.’ He gave a vague gesture towards the writing desk. ‘Draft a letter to Emily. I will see her this evening at six. Do it quick, man, before I sober sufficiently from Eston’s visit to realise what a mistake I am making.’

‘See her, my lord? Do you wish me to explain the unlikelihood of that? For I believe your condition still a mystery to her.’

For a moment he had forgotten. Damn that strange woman for getting under his skin and making him think, even for an instant, that his life could be ordinary.

‘No. Emily has no clue. Unless you have told her.’

‘You forbade me.’ It was a comfort to hear the resignation, and the resolution, in that sentence and the lack of even a fraction of a second’s hesitation. Whatever else he might be doing, it was plain that Hendricks followed some of his instructions to the letter, no matter how unwise he thought them.

Adrian shook his head. ‘After all this time, there are no simple words to describe to her what has happened, or to explain why I hid the truth. It will be easier when we are face to face to explain things, so that there can be no mistaking. It is not as if my lack will come as a severe shock to her. I am not disfigured in any way, am I?’ He touched his own face, suddenly unsure. Perhaps time had made him an ogre, and the servants were too kind to remark on it.

‘No, sir.’

‘Then I will explain to her, once she arrives. It is time, I think, that there be some truth between us.’

‘Very good, my lord.’

‘Mr Eston, my lady.’

When the footman announced her brother, Emily was enjoying what she’d thought was a well-earned cup of tea. With her morning’s shopping and calls, she had taken what she’d hoped were the first steps to sorting out her husband’s problems. Or perhaps they were steps towards encouraging him to do so, for she doubted there would be any change in his character without full co-operation from the man himself.

But since no one knew of her location, she had not expected visitors other than Hendricks. And she certainly had not expected to see her brother. ‘David?’ Thinking of the confrontation she expected from him, his name came out of her mouth in a breathless whimper that made her sound guiltier than she was over her behaviour. ‘What are you doing here?’ There, she noted with some relief. The strength returned to her when she turned the challenge back to him.

‘I have come to see what you are doing here, and who you are doing it with.’ Her brother signalled the footman for another cup and sat in the chair opposite her. His presence was so commanding that she thought for a moment that he had invited her to the room to explain herself.

‘It is not necessary for you to watch over me. Nor is it your place,’ she reminded him. ‘I am both grown and married.’

‘If you can call what you share with Adrian a marriage,’ he responded.

‘Says the man who is the same age as my husband, but has no wife of his own.’

The mention of this seemed to make him uncomfortable, so he turned the argument hurriedly back to her. ‘It is your husband I wish to speak of, and not my non-existent wife. I have been to see Adrian, since you have not.’

‘That was not necessary.’

‘I feel it was,’ he said, looking around him at her rooms. ‘I saw you this morning, shopping in Bond Street.’

‘I remember,’ she said coolly. ‘I greeted you, did I not?’

‘But you were behaving strangely. Secretively. There is but one reason that I can think of to explain such behaviour.’

‘Oh, I seriously doubt that,’ she said. Emily could feel herself begin to blush, which would make her look even more guilty. But there was little to be done to stifle the sudden and rather graphic memories of what she had been up to in the days since she had moved from her brother’s house.

‘You have taken up with some man.’ He was staring at her clothing, which was too casual to accept any but a lover, and the flush of her skin. And God forbid that he should look in the bedroom, for he might see the sheets, still rumpled from last night’s activities.

She took another sip of tea to hide her confusion. ‘Hardly, David.’

‘And you have rented rooms so that the meetings could be done in secret.’

‘Not much of a secret, clearly, since you have followed me to them. Was that how you found me?’ But he had clearly not looked too closely into the matter, if he had not identified the man in question.

He showed no sign of noticing her censor. ‘I questioned my coachman, since you seem intent on using my vehicle as your own. And he admitted taking your baggage to this place. But we are not discussing my behaviour. It is yours that is in question. I waited outside this morning. And in the dim light, I saw someone creeping away from here. He was in the carriage and away before I could get a look at him.’

‘Oh, David,’ she said, wincing with embarrassment at this further complication of her plans. ‘Why now? You have not given a thought to my behaviour in years. It is not as if I did not have admirers before.’

‘But you were not serious about them. And even if you were, that was in the country. It was not as if anyone was likely to notice you there.’

So she had been out of sight and out of mind to him as well, had she? ‘I suspect it was easier for you, when I remained there. But you could not expect me to avoid London for ever, could you?’

‘Perhaps not. But I expected that when you returned to town, you would be circumspect in your behaviour. If you cannot manage your reputation, you will come home immediately.’

‘I will not.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And just where do you mean to take me, if I must come home? Not to your house, certainly. I have not lived under that roof since I married.’

‘But perhaps you should, if you mean to disgrace the family.’

‘I am no longer a member of your family. But if Adrian has a problem, after all this time, then he should be the one to come here, and drag me back to the country.’

‘We both know that he will not,’ her brother replied with disgust. ‘If he exercised the discipline necessary in his own house, then the job would not fall to me. And if you did not go to such lengths to make absence easy for him, he might be forced to return home and see to his business.’

‘Then why do you not go to the source of the problem and talk to him? Why do you think it necessary to harass me over the state my marriage?’

‘I have been to him,’ her brother ground out through gritted teeth. ‘I took what I learned to Folbroke, just now. He was already drunk, though it was barely noon. And he showed no interest in my company, nor your presence in town.’

Drinking again? She frowned. Adrian had seemed sober enough when they had been together the previous evening. She had hoped that problem, at least, was in abatement. ‘And that was your only fault with him?’ For there was a significant matter that her brother had not mentioned.

‘Other than his damned stubbornness and bad temper. He barely looked at me the whole time I was there. As though, if he ignored me, he would not have to answer to me.’

‘I see.’ Her poor brother would be even angrier than she had been when he learned of the trick. ‘I expect he liked your interference no better than I do.’

‘Is it truly interference to wish that my oldest friend and my dear sister would find happiness with each other, instead of behaving in ways that are a scandal?’

Emily thought of the things that had occurred in these rooms, which, while exciting, were probably some of the least scandalous things her husband had done since their marriage. ‘Perhaps we shall. Perhaps I have my own plans to rectify the breach. You must trust that I can manage this. You are not married, and cannot understand what goes on between a husband and wife, even when they are not happy.’ She thought for a moment, and smiled. ‘Especially when they are not happy. Although it might not seem so, I find that I am quite capable of managing Adrian, now that I have set my mind to try.’

Her brother shook his head. ‘You had best manage this quickly, then, for my patience with his behaviour is nearing an end. If you cannot bring him home with you, by God, I will drag him back home by the ear. I cannot stand by any longer and watch him destroy himself, Emily. I simply cannot.’

She could see, by the look in her brother’s eyes, that his interference came not from a desire to control, but sincere pain at the way his friend was likely to end. She gave him a pat on the hand. ‘Trust me. A little longer. It will be all right. You will see.’

There was the sound of yet another guest, and Hendricks walked into the room, unannounced, as though he were perfectly at home there.

And Emily saw the narrowing of David’s eyes, as he came to a conclusion that was not evident to her. ‘Mr Hendricks?’

‘Mr Eston.’ There was a similar narrowing of Hendricks’s eyes behind his glasses, as though he answered some unspoken challenge. Then he looked to her. ‘My lady, I bring a letter from your husband.’

‘Do you, now?’ David said, as though he assumed there was some ruse in play.

‘I believe he wrote it at your suggestion, sir,’ Hendricks said innocently.

‘And you were able to deliver it here so quickly without stopping first to find Emily at my town house.’

‘Oh, really, David,’ she said. ‘Mr Hendricks knows the location because he helped me to let it. And if there is a letter from Adrian, you must assume that we are more simpatico than you know. Now, if you will excuse me, I wish to read the thing in private.’

‘Very well, then.’ He shot Hendricks another suspicious look. ‘But if I do not hear of a meeting between the two of you within a week, I will go back to Adrian, and tell him what I have seen here. I suspect he will find it of interest.’

When he had left, Emily looked down at the paper in her hand, thoroughly annoyed with her brother for spoiling what she hoped might be a pleasant read. And then she noticed that it was addressed to Emily, and written in the hand of his secretary. She glared back at Hendricks. ‘So my lord finally summons me, does he?’

‘Yes, Lady Folbroke. And he asked after you. He seemed most interested in your status, and rather ashamed of the length of time since he has last seen you and the fact that he has hidden his blindness.’

She sniffed. ‘The pangs of a guilty conscience, more like.’

‘He had just received a visit from your brother, and was concerned about the reason you removed from the Eston town house. Mr Eston thinks a gentleman is involved.’

‘Too rightly. And with your sudden arrival here, he has concluded that the gentleman is you. What nonsense.’

There was a long pause as Hendricks tried to decide how to respond to his change in status from servant to Lothario. ‘Of course, my lady.’

‘And my husband’s response to this rumour?’

Hendricks held out the letter to her again.

‘I see that. And that it is written in your hand. What, in your opinion, was his reaction to rumours of my infidelity?’

‘In my opinion?’ repeated Hendricks, as though he wished to make it clear that he did not speak for her husband. ‘He is jealous, my lady.’

She felt a brief moment of triumph, followed by annoyance. ‘So what is sauce for the gander is not sauce for the goose.’ She tapped the letter with her nail. ‘And has he set an agenda for this meeting?’

‘He means to tell you of his problems.’

‘And I already know of them. What is meant to come after this grand revelation?’

‘I think he means to come to some understanding between you.’

She tossed the paper on to the fire. ‘In which I am more discreet and he does not change at all. If that is the case, then I hardly need to stir myself, for I am having no part of that.’ She smiled at Hendricks, trying not to look as smug as she felt. ‘I am enjoying myself far too much to stop now. And if the thought of my happiness without him causes him discomfort, then all the better.’

‘Do you wish to send him a message to that effect?’

‘No.’ For some reason, Adrian’s sudden need to see her had angered her to the point where she could hardly speak, probably because she had worked hard and long to quash any hope that it would ever happen. ‘There is no message. If he asks, tell him I have refused. Since he has waited years to summon me, he should not be surprised to find me otherwise engaged on the night he is ready to unburden his soul.’

‘Very good.’ Hendricks frowned at her as though he did not mean it.

And he was right. It was not good. Her behaviour was foolish and childish. It should have been welcome news to find that he worried about her, pined after her and had worn the paint from her picture through constant handling of it. Instead, it reminded her of all the time that had been wasted. She resented being the afterthought to her husband’s infidelities, almost as much as she enjoyed receiving the attention from them. She sighed. ‘I am sorry, Hendricks, that I cannot make this easier upon him. His wife is quite out of patience with him. But I will wait upon him here, tonight, as I have done before. Perhaps he will be more free with his thoughts to his lover.’

Chapter Thirteen

Adrian arrived at her rooms that evening, so full of anger and indignation that he did not need to speak to show his mood. It was there in the set of his back, the tightness of his gait, and the staccato rapping of his cane against the parquetry floor. After a moment’s hesitation, she went up on tiptoes to kiss him, and he responded with a perfunctory peck upon the cheek.

Then he brushed off her advance as though he could not be bothered with it, tucking his cane under his arm so that he could tug the gloves off his hands, then tossed them into his hat with unusual force.

Emily stepped away. ‘I thought, after this morning, that I would receive a better greeting than this. What is the matter?’

‘It has been a trying day,’ he said with a glare, tapping about the hall to feel the bench beside him and landing the hat on it with a flick of his wrist. ‘When I am home, I prefer peace and quiet, uninterrupted by changes or surprises. But today it was impossible. Someone had taken it upon themselves to give me a pianoforte.’

‘Do you like it?’ she asked, although she could see by his expression what the answer was likely to be.

‘Have I given you any reason to think that I would?’

‘You had said that you were idle most days. And I thought, if you had something to occupy the daytime hours, then at night you would not need to go out.’

He closed his eyes and gave the frustrated sigh of a man pushed beyond the edge of his temper. ‘Did I not promise you last night that I would not carouse?’

‘While we were together, yes. But I am concerned that, once we are parted, you will forget your promise.’

‘Once we are parted?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you grown tired of my company so soon?’

‘It is not that at all,’ she said.

‘Or perhaps, after only a day or two, you think you have some claim on me, that you would reorder my life to suit you?’

‘A single gift is hardly an attempt to reorder your life,’ she said.

‘And a large gift it is. A large gift placed in a small space. When you know me better, you will find that I do not like the furniture rearranged once I have taught myself the lay of it. And your pianoforte presents more of an obstacle than an opportunity.’

‘That is because you have not tried it, I am sure,’ she said. ‘You do not need your eyes to play it. Once you learn the scales, you will find that you can make music with your eyes open or closed.’

‘So it is a gift of charity to the poor blind man, is it?’

‘Only if you choose to see it so,’ she coaxed. ‘Some people quite enjoy playing an instrument.’

‘I had quite enough of it, as a boy.’

‘You took lessons, then?’ For she did not remember hearing of them.

‘One or two. And then, in one of my father’s rare shows of sense, he fired the music master and freed me from the duty of it. He bought me a fine jumper, instead.’ He smiled as though he were remembering. ‘And a beautiful beast it was. He could take a fence as easy as walking, and went over the stone walls at the bottom of the yard as though we were flying.’

‘But you cannot do such as that any longer,’ she said.

‘Thank you for reminding me,’ he answered. ‘Neither can I shoot, for it would be a torture to the animals I hunted, more than a sport. From my father and grandfather I learned the dangers of pretending to be a gentleman—I no longer bother to try. And without your help, I have lasted longer as a rogue than either of them.’

She put her hand on his arm. ‘You might think I am showing a lack of faith in your abilities, but we both know that it is a matter of luck and not skill that has brought you some of the way. It is not that I have a claim on you, so much as I would not wish the fate you seek on anyone.’

‘And I have no desire to be led about on a pony, as though I am an infant. Nor do I wish to spend the rest of my life in the parlour, playing scales. Next you will be encouraging me to weave baskets or make buttons. Or maybe I can learn needlework, like an old lady. I swear, you are as bad as those meddling souls that incarcerate the sightless and train them like dogs.’

‘Hardly,’ she said. ‘And I have been to the blind school here, if that is what you mean. It is not so bad.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘It is not a school, my dear. Call it by its right name. The Blind Asylum at Southwark.’

‘It is called an asylum only because it is meant as a place of safety.’

‘Is that what you think? For I went there as well, while I could still see the place. And to me, it seemed as though it was meant to keep the sighted safe from the presence of those of us who are less fortunate.’

‘The children there are clean and well cared for.’

‘And taught to do simple trades as befits their intelligence, and their station in life.’ He sneered at her. ‘They are not taught to read and write and study.

They are made useful, and the training is done by men almost as common as they are themselves. My father would have ended his life before getting me, if he had thought that this was the only future that waited.’

‘And I am sure he is much more proud to think you gambled and drank and whored your life away, rather than finding some valuable way to occupy your time.’ His stubbornness infuriated her. But it was not without cause. Adrian had been a vigorous youth. And one by one, the things that gave him pleasure were becoming impossible. ‘If you do not like the pianoforte, then you need not play it,’ she said, in a soothing voice. ‘I will send someone to remove it tomorrow and that will be the end of it.’

But she could tell by his expression that he was not mollified. She put her arms around his neck and added, ‘If that is all that is bothering you.’

‘It is not,’ he snapped. And then muttered, ‘But the rest is no concern of yours.’

‘I see.’ She gave an audible sigh to let him know that she was pouting, surprised at her desire to try feminine wiles that she was sure must be long withered from disuse.

‘It was just that the damned instrument was followed by a visit from my brother-in-law, come to trouble me about my wife’s misbehaviour.’

‘And of course it annoyed you,’ she said with sympathy, stroking his arm. ‘It was rather pointless of him to bother you, since you do not care how your wife behaves.’

His head snapped up, as though he had been struck. ‘Do not dare to presume what I feel about the woman I married.’

‘I presume nothing,’ she said with a little laugh of surprise. ‘You told me how you felt not twenty-four hours ago. That it did not bother you what she did, and that you had no claim on her fidelity.’

‘But that was before she took up publicly with another,’ he answered. ‘And to think that I trusted the man. It upsets me that he can lie to my face. And it upsets me even more that he does not do a better job of it. I might not be able to see my hand before my eyes, but I can see through him like a piece of tissue.’

‘And who might he be?’ she asked, for it was clear that Adrian had formed an opinion.

‘Hendricks, of course.’

The idea was so ludicrous that she laughed out loud. ‘Are you still going on about him? I have met the man, and it hardly seems likely.’

‘Oh, I am almost sure of it. He has admitted knowing of her lodgings, and visiting her there. And he is quite clearly uncomfortable around me, as though he is afraid of being caught in some secret.’

‘And have you asked your wife what she has to say on the matter?’

‘I would have asked, had I been able to persuade her to visit me. I requested her presence this evening and she ignored me.’

‘So that is it,’ she said. ‘You are angry with her and everyone around you must take the blame for it. But you take no part of the fault for yourself, of course.’

‘I?’ He disentangled her arms from his neck.

‘If you had spoken honestly to her before now, she might not have chosen another. And you would be telling her of your displeasure, not some woman that you barely know.’

‘That is not true at all,’ he argued. ‘In my experience, I am doing nothing so unusual. Few men speak to their wives. When they wish to discuss things of importance to them, they seek the company of other men.’

‘And when they wish to unburden their souls?’ she pressed.

‘Then they go to their mistresses. When a woman is paid to do as she is told, she is less likely to disagree. A wife, though she might swear at the altar to be obedient, seldom is. Emily has proven thus. And I would have thought her the most tractable female on the planet. Until today.’ He stared up at the ceiling with a furrow in his brow, as though, for all his fine talk, he had never really believed her capable of leaving him.

‘And suppose you find yourself with a woman who owes you no obedience at all?’ She reached up to touch his face, putting a hand to his forehead and smoothing the lines with her fingers.

‘Then I would have a mind to show her a new use for her pianoforte.’ He kissed her palm.

‘Do you mean to invite her to your home, so that you might play a duet?’ she teased.

‘More likely I would be inclined to bend her over the stool for her impudence, and love her until she was more agreeable.’ His voice was husky, and he pulled her close, kissing her hard until his anger began to dissipate.

She opened her mouth, and let him convince her, marvelling at how little effort it took him to arouse her. A word or two, a kiss, a touch. And she wanted to be his. She pulled away, slow, almost drowsy, and murmured back at him. ‘You presume too much, my lord. Do you think you can force all women to submit to your every wish?’

‘Not all women,’ he whispered back. ‘Just you. Because you do not want chaste duets in the drawing room any more than I want to play a pianoforte. We are physical creatures, you and I. Not made to sit tamely to the side while the rest of the world dances.’

Emily had never thought of herself in that way before. But it was true. She was happier walking his land, visiting cottages and farms, meeting the stock and the people than she would have been sitting with her needlework in the drawing room, waiting for her husband to favour her with a visit. And when he talked to her, rough and low as he was doing now, she felt like a sybarite. The things he suggested made her flush with eagerness and not embarrassment. Instead, she focused her mind on more innocent pursuits. ‘If there is music, you would rather dance than play, my lord?’

He considered. ‘I have never tried. There has been scant little music in my life, these last few years.’ He swept her into his arms as though he heard a waltz and spun her once, bumping her into a chair.

She felt him hesitate, gripped his hand tighter and said, ‘A moment, please.’ Then she released him, righted the furniture and pulled him into the doorway of the salon. ‘Now try again.’

He began more slowly this time, and they took a few steps without incident. ‘I will lead,’ he said, ‘but you must guide me.’ He turned her again.

They were nearing a table now. ‘Left. No. Right.’ The turning had confused her for a moment, and they moved past it, rocking the china ornaments upon it, but not breaking them. ‘Now straight back for a bit. And turn again, another right. And there is a circuit of the room.’

He gave her a final flourish and her silk skirts sighed about her legs, and then settled.

Adrian nodded, as though satisfied with their success, and then dismissed it as unimportant. ‘Of course, there is no orchestra to keep the beat. And we did not have to navigate a room full of people.’

‘Dancers with all their sight cannot manage as well as you have done. It seems I cannot escape a rout without crushed toes and bumped elbows. And I am sure you would find a dance, with lines and patterns, to be easier. A drunken idiot can manage the Sir Roger de Coverley.’

‘Thank you for your confidence in me,’ he murmured sarcastically. ‘But dancing in a crowded room would not be quite so pleasant as holding my partner close like this when we are alone.’ He had her now, in his arms, swaying as though he still heard a tune. But they were far too close to be waltzing, their bodies rubbing together until she could feel them both becoming aroused.

‘I do not think what we are doing now can be called dancing,’ she said a little breathlessly, brushing her breasts against the front of his coat and feeling the roughness of the net bodice against her nipples.

‘What would you call it, then?’ he asked. His hands bunched in her skirt, pressing their hips together, but his lips brushed lightly against hers.

‘I think you are trying to seduce me again.’

One of his hands found the pocket slit in the side of her skirt, and reached inside to press his palm against the bare skin of her leg. ‘Am I likely to be successful?’

She rubbed her cheek against his. ‘I think you might be.’ She swayed against him, letting him urge her closer, slipping one of her legs between his and drawing her foot up the inside of his calf. He caught her leg between his, tightening his muscles, and she felt the now-familiar rush of feeling, knowing he was close to her, knowing what would come next between them.

She rubbed herself against him with a little moan, and he pushed her back against the edge of a desk, getting some distance between their bodies to put a hand down the loose bodice of her gown. ‘You are a most welcoming woman, my dear. Bare under your dress again tonight. I think, if I had a mind to, you would let me take you here.’

‘Yes,’ she said with a groan, thinking how wonderful it would be if he would lose control.

‘I could just hoist up your skirt …’

‘Yes …’ He was kissing her, short sharp bites on her lips, down her throat.

‘Undo a few buttons …’

‘Yes …’ One hand, tight upon her breast, the other in her skirt, squeezing her leg.

‘And I could be inside of you, before anyone was the wiser.’ He was holding her body a tantalising inch from his. And she pressed herself down onto his thigh.

‘Show me,’ she whispered back and pushed her hands between the buttons of his vest, searching to touch skin and not clothing.

‘Wait.’ He laughed. ‘Wait. There is time. We do not need to rush. Let me take you into the bedroom.’

But if they took their time, he would be careful. And while it would be wonderful, it would not be what she truly wanted. ‘No. Here, now. Quickly.’ She kissed him, deep and wet, pushing her tongue into his mouth, sucking his back into hers.

And for a moment, he stopped resisting her and pulled her hips forwards, wrapping a hand around them to lock her sex to his, grinding against her through their clothing. She wrapped her arms around his neck, lifting herself onto her toes, making it easier to join with him.

Then he pulled his lips from hers and gave a shaky sigh. ‘No, my sweet. Let us go lie down and treat each other properly.’

‘And suppose I do not wish you to be proper?’ she said. ‘Suppose I wish you to be rough with me, and finish with me quickly and carelessly, in a public room, because you cannot stand to wait?’ She ran her leg up between his thighs until she could feel his manhood and pressed hard against it, rubbing her knee against him until he groaned.

Then he unwrapped her arms from his body, trying to part them. ‘You do not understand,’ he said. ‘It is not that you do not tempt me.’

‘Then give me what I want,’ she demanded and lifted her own skirt to bare herself, pressing her naked sex against the front of his trousers, so close to him that she wanted to weep with frustration.

Without thinking, he swore and his mouth covered hers again, and his hand fumbled to open his trousers, pushing the cloth away until they were skin to skin. He parted from her, just enough to mutter, ‘Lean back, just a bit.’ And now he was resting between her legs, rubbing himself gently against her and peppering her lips with desperate little kisses. ‘Just for a moment. Just a taste of you. I will be careful. I promise.’

She smiled, trembling, waiting for the delicious shock of sensation that would soon come. ‘You do not have to be careful with me. Never with me. I am yours, Adrian. I love you.’

And then it was over. He jerked away from her so fast that it was as though she had burned him, hurrying to do up his buttons although he was still obviously in need of her. ‘I think, my dear, that we had best take supper. Suddenly, I find myself in need of a cooling drink.’

Emily held out a hand to him, remembering too late that he could not see it. But neither could he see her crimson cheeks, or the beginnings of tears. Then she smoothed her skirt back into place and wrapped her arms around herself as a shield against his rejection. ‘Do you really? Do you think I will forget my feelings for you? Or do you wish to distract yourself?’

‘Both, perhaps.’ He looked older than he had a few minutes ago. His face was serious and lined with stress, and his posture stiff and unnatural, as though he was guarding himself from her as well. ‘I do not think you understand what you are saying to me, and I do not mean to take advantage of a generosity that is based on lies and suppositions, no matter how pleasant they might be. You do not love me. You cannot.’

‘I do,’ she cried. ‘Do not think to tell me the contents of my heart, just because you wish it to be other than it is.’

‘We have known each other for only a few days. And what there has been between us is not love. It is something else entirely.’

‘Perhaps that is how it is for you,’ she said, ‘but I have known you for ever. And for as long as that, I have loved you.’

He had nothing to say to that, and stood a little bit apart from her with a strange, lost look on his face, as though he feared that any direction he might move would be misinterpreted by her, as his other actions had been.

She wanted to gather him close, to kiss his sightless eyes, and to tell him he had no reason to deny her or her love. There was nothing more natural in the world than for him to give in to the temptation and join with her. Her heart ached for it—just as her body ached for the child that he refused to give her.

She took deep, slow breaths, willing the passion in her to subside, leaving cold emptiness in its wake. For a few moments, it had been as if the barriers he kept between them had fallen. He had returned to her, was with her, body and soul. And for that time, no matter what he might claim now, he had been ready not just to make love, but to love her without fear of the future.

But now he was gone again. Hiding from his wife. Hiding from his lover. And even though they shared the same room, she felt lonelier than she had a week ago, when he had seemed as distant from her as a ship on the horizon.

Though it did not matter how she looked, she put on a false smile and said, ‘You are right. There is a supper laid for us in the dining room. Let me take your arm, that you might lead me to it.’ She put her hand in the crook of his elbow and gave him the direction he needed so that he might walk her to the table. They seated themselves and ate in near silence, with only the occasional nervous comment from him about the tenderness of the vegetables, and his gratitude to the cook for doing such a thorough job of boning the salmon.

When it looked as though he was ready to give a lengthy oration on the dessert, Emily cut him off. ‘I am sorry if I upset you.’

‘You did nothing of the kind,’ he assured her, a little too quickly.

‘Of course I did. And I would understand if you did not want to stay with me tonight.’

‘Of course I wish to stay,’ he said, reaching across the table to grasp her hand, ‘but I do not know if it is wise.’ And then he squeezed her fingers. ‘But I do not know if I want to be wise, if it means losing my time with you.’

‘That is a comfort. I promise not to say it again.

You needn’t worry.’ It. As though she felt some objectionable thing that needed to be hidden.

‘Actually, I would prefer that you are honest with me. It is most refreshing to find a woman who speaks frankly.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, hating herself for the lies, wanting to scream the truth in his face. I am your wife. Your Emily.

Love me.

‘It is just that I do not want you to raise your hopes about what can be between us in the end. It is not that I do not … have feelings for you. Strong feelings,’ he amended. There was a wistful quality in his voice, as though he were staring through a shop window at something he could not have. ‘You are a friend and confidante. Someone I trust implicitly and who trusts me in return. If that is the true definition of a lover, then that is what you are to me. And that is what I wish to be for you.’

Emily stared down into her plate, thinking of how it had been in Derbyshire. Then, such pretty words would have sent her heart racing. He felt strongly for her. He wanted her. She was something like a lover to him. Why could she not be satisfied? Why was that not enough?

Without releasing her hand, he stood, drawing her up with him. From memory, he led the way from the table to the bedroom. He took the time to arrange his clothes as he removed them, but took no such care with hers, opening the buttons at the back of her gown and letting it fall to the floor at her feet. He lifted her out of it and set her upon the bed with a kiss on the lips before sliding his body down hers, taking her breasts with long slow licks, smoothing his hands over her ribs and settling himself between her legs to kiss there, tenderly, worshipfully.

She closed her eyes and gave herself over to his ministrations, the tug of teeth, the gentle probing of fingers, the tentative invasions of his tongue. And she told herself that it was greedy of her to want more when he was giving her something that felt so good. And she knew, from the previous times he’d done it, that what he was doing had the strength to rend her soul from her body and send it crashing back to earth again.

The final pleasure was slow in coming. And when it came, she wept.

Chapter Fourteen

The sun was well up by the time Adrian awakened. He did nothing to acknowledge it for his lover was still sleeping on his arm. The night had been as glorious as the night before, and parts of the night before that. As exciting as the fight in the tavern. And probably almost as dangerous.

I love you.

When she had said it, along with the abject terror it had raised in him had been the ghostly echo of a response in his own heart—how could something as perfect as the time they spent together not have some deeper feeling in it? He smoothed a hand over her curls and she nuzzled him in her sleep.

If she had said nothing, he’d have ignored his intentions and taken her up against the wall in the salon, trusting that she would tell him if they were not alone—he could not have heard a servant’s footstep had he tried, his heart had been beating so loudly. Apparently, there was madness in what he felt for her as well.

And then she had said the words, and he’d stopped himself, too near the brink. He’d taken her to dinner, then he’d taken her to bed. And he’d loved her in all the ways he could until he was sure that she had forgotten.

But her pillow was wet with tears. And in her sleep, she had whimpered like a lost child.

She stirred; he ran a soothing hand over her back, wishing that she would sleep again. It felt good to be here and he did not want to go. She rolled off his arm to free it, and he could feel her and see the shadow as she propped herself up on her elbows in the pillows. ‘You are not going to run away from me in the dawn?’

‘I am afraid it is too late for that already. But I must go soon.’

‘Then stay a while longer,’ she said. ‘Give me time to wash and dress. I will go with you and see you home.’

He frowned. ‘There is no need to help me. I am quite capable of managing a carriage ride, you know.’

‘Of course you are, Adrian.’ She rose from the bed, and opened the window curtains without waiting for a servant, letting the light stream in on them. ‘But it is a beautiful morning. And to walk in the park, for just a little while, would be delightful.’

‘You should not go out without escort,’ he said absently, wondering if she meant to take a maid with them as well.

‘I will have you.’

‘You will not.’

‘Just a short outing together. In sunlight.’

‘Do you wish for me to ride in Rotten Row?’ he snapped, wishing that he had not just revealed the fear he felt when he thought of so public a place. ‘I suspect that would be most amusing for all concerned.’

‘Of course I do not wish you to ride. If you mean to break your neck, then I pray you, find another way. You cannot trust a horse to do the deed without undo suffering. To me especially, for I would not wish to watch.’

And now she had made him laugh, against his better judgement.

‘But there is nothing wrong with your legs, is there?’ She had come back to the bed and her fingers were stroking them, with faint touches meant to raise the hairs and tease the nerves to restlessness.

He pulled away from her and sat up, dangling his feet off the edge of her bed. ‘No.’

‘How long has it been since you have enjoyed a simple walk in the park? You prowl the streets at night, of course. But it would be nice to feel the sun on one’s face.’ She crawled after him, putting her arms about his waist and giving a little squeeze. ‘For both of us.’

She was right, of course. It must be difficult for her to meet only at night. While the secrecy was necessary, it must make her feel as though he was ashamed of her company. And he knew how sensitive she still was on the subject of her worth. ‘It is not just a matter of revealing ourselves, my dear. I have not made my condition publicly known. And while it is possible to disguise it in familiar territory and for short periods of time, should I be seen blundering into a tree in Hyde Park, I suspect that the world will be too soon completely aware.’

‘I am suggesting nothing of the kind,’ she argued. ‘It is not fashionable there until late in the afternoon. If we go now, no one will be about. We could keep our stroll short, on a path that is straight and level and far away from Kings Road. If you take my arm, you might lead me, and I will inform you of any obstacles, just as we do here. It will be most uneventful.’

‘And not particularly interesting. If you wish to spend the day with me, I can think of better uses for your time.’ He leaned against her, feeling her breasts pressing into his back, and her breath upon his neck.

‘If a morning outing bores you, then you need have nothing to fear from it,’ she responded tartly.

‘Fear? I faced Napoleon’s army without flinching. I do not avoid the park because I am afraid.’ Terrified was more the word.

‘Of course you are not. But I do not see why you cannot give me what I ask, when it is such a small thing.’

‘It is because it’s so small that I see no value in it.’ He reached behind him to touch her face. ‘Perhaps I could buy you a trinket. Some fobs for those lovely ears.’

‘And how would I explain them to my friends? Would I tell them that my husband had given me a gift?’ Now it was her turn to laugh bitterly. ‘They will assume that I am unfaithful far more quickly from that than if they see me taking the air with a male acquaintance.’

She was glib this morning, and as frank as she had been from the first. But last night she had said she loved him. And he was pretending she had said nothing, and treating her little better than a whore, kept for one purpose, and plied with jewellery to avert a sulk. He shamed himself with his behaviour more than he ever could by groping his way around Hyde Park.

As if she could sense his weakening, she said, more softly, ‘We will not be out for long. And tonight, for your reward, you can do as you like with me.’ She was kissing his back now, and spreading her hands in his lap over his manhood, perfectly still as though waiting for his instructions. ‘But for now? You owe me this, at least.’

Because you will not love me. That was what she meant, he was sure. And he wondered if this would be the first of many such bargains: pouts and capitulations that would lead to arguments, bitterness and regrets. If it was, it was likely the beginning of the end for them. The scales that had been so delicately balanced would never be right again. Last night, words had been spoken and they could not be unsaid.

But he did not want to give her up. Not yet. It was too soon. And although he had not intended to feel anything, ever again, she made him happy. He captured her hands before she could arouse him, and turned his face to kiss her, then pretended to consider. ‘To do as I like with you? That is an offer I have no power to resist. Even without it, I will go. I need no other reason but that it pleases you. Now if you mean for me to leave this room in daylight, you had best let me dress before I change my mind and take you back to bed.’

Emily could see, from the moment they left the carriage, that the trip had been a good idea. She allowed the coachman to help her down, and then took her husband’s arm as he waited on the ground for her. Adrian’s face was tipped towards the sunlight; he was staring up into the canopy of leaves above them as though he had never seen such a wonderful thing.

Without knowing it, she would never have guessed that the sense of wonder had less to do with the fine day than his inability to see the trees with any clarity.

He looked down and to the side again, as he always did, tipping the brim of his hat a bit to provide more shade. ‘There are tinted glasses they gave me, after the injury on the battlefield, to shield my eyes against the glare of the sun. Perhaps I shall find them again, for occasions like this.’

‘You mean to go out with me again?’

He sighed. ‘With or without you. Someday, rumour of my condition is bound to get out. There will be no point in hiding in my rooms when it does.’

It was the first she had heard of him planning for anything but his premature death. She stifled the surprise she felt, fearing that an acknowledgement of it might scare the idea from his head.

But he did not seem to notice his own change in attitude, and touched his own eyes thoughtfully. ‘It might make it easier to manage in sunlight, with what vision I have left. And disguise any unfortunate staring on my part. I would not want to be thought rude.’

‘An interesting sentiment, coming from the man I met a few days ago,’ she answered.

He laughed again. ‘No gentleman wishes to be met by a lady in such surroundings as you found me. It makes it too difficult to pretend to any gentility at a later date. Come, let us take a turn around the park, so that I might prove I have manners.’

She gave his elbow a little squeeze. ‘The path is just to the left. And straight on. There is no one in sight.’

‘There never is, my dear.’

She cringed at her own insensitivity. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Why ever for? You did not strike me blind with your beauty,’ he said, taking her hand and raising it to his lips for a salute. ‘Nor do I begrudge you your vision.’

She relaxed a little as he put her hand back on his arm. ‘Sometimes, I am still unsure how to behave around you. You have been angry enough to destroy your life over this, you know. It does not bespeak a man content in his disability.’

‘Perhaps not. But today, things are different.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It is much harder to be bitter when the sun is shining and the roses are in bloom.’

‘You can smell them?’

‘You cannot?’

Emily paused and sniffed. Of course she could. But she had been far too focused on the delicate colour of them to notice the fragrance. She let him walk her closer to the bank of carefully tended flowers. ‘They are beautiful,’ she said.

‘There was a fine garden of them at my home in Derbyshire. York and Lancaster and white damask, with boxwood hedges. I wonder if it is still there.’

Yes. We will walk in it yet this summer, my love. ‘I would expect so,’ she said. ‘A country home is nothing without a rose garden.’

‘Describe these to me.’

‘Red, pink, yellow.’ It was quite inadequate to his needs, she was sure. ‘The red has a touch of purple in it. And shadows. Like velvet in candlelight.’

He reached out a hand, and she put it on a bloom. ‘The texture is velvet as well. Feel.’

She touched them, too, and found that he was right, then moved to the next bush. ‘And these,’ she said, ‘are apple roses. Big and pink, and the velvet is more in the leaves than the flowers. And here are your damasks.’

He gave a nod of approval. ‘As there should be.’ And then he cocked his head. ‘And there is a lark.’

She glanced around her. ‘Where? I do not see him.’

He pointed, unerringly, towards a tree on their left. When she looked closely, she thought she saw a flash of feathers in the leaves. ‘Poor confused fellow,’ he said. ‘It is past nesting season. Unusual to hear that particular song so late in the year.’

‘They have different songs?’

‘They speak to each other, just as we do.’ He smiled, listening again. ‘That is a male, looking for a mate.’

There was an answering warble, in a tree on the right. ‘And there she is.’ He sighed. ‘He has found her after all. Well done, sir.’ And, almost absently, he patted her arm.

She smiled up at him, happy to be in her rightful place, on the arm of the handsome Earl of Folbroke, even if it was just for an hour. She had never noticed the park to be so full of life before. But Adrian was quick to discover things that she had not noticed and to point them out to her as they passed. The few people that they met as they walked smiled and nodded, taking no more notice of her husband than they would have in any other passer-by.

She could feel him tense each time, as though fearing a response. And each time, when none came, he relaxed a bit more. ‘There are more people here than you promised,’ he said absently.

‘I might have lied a bit in calling it empty. But it is not crowded. And not as bad as you feared, I am sure,’ she said. ‘I see no one that I recognise. And the people that are out take no notice of us, walking together. There is nothing so unique in your behaviour as to incite comment from a casual observer. In truth, we are a most unexceptional pair.’

He chuckled. ‘My pride is well checked, madam. I have made an appearance in public and the sky did not fall. In fact, no one noticed. If they thought anything about me, I am sure they whisper at what a lucky fellow I am, to be taking the air with such a beauty.’

‘You are in excellent spirits today.’

Adrian looked up, and around him, as though he could still see his surroundings. ‘It is a beautiful day, is it not? You were right for forcing me into the sunlight, my dear. It has been far too long.’

‘It has,’ she said softly back to him. ‘And I have another gift for you, if you will accept it from me.’

‘It is not another piano, is it? Or perhaps some other musical instrument? Are you about to pull a trumpet from your reticule and force me to blow it and scare away the birds?’

‘Nothing so great as that, I assure you.’

He smiled down at his feet. ‘And it is not your own sweet person that you offer. Although if you were to suggest that we nip behind a rosebush for a kiss, I would not deny you.’

She gave him the mildest of rebukes, nudging his arm with her shoulder ‘Not that, either.’

‘Then I have no idea what you are about. But since we are in public when you offer it, I assume you are unsure of my reaction. Here you know I do not wish to call attention to myself, and will have little choice to accept, with grace, whatever you offer me.’ There was a sardonic twist to his lip. ‘Out with it. You are making me apprehensive.’

She reached into her reticule, digging for the card she had found. ‘Can you read French?’

He gave her a dubious grin. ‘Madam, I thought I made it plain enough the night we met that reading of any kind is quite beyond me.’

She responded with a sniff so that he might know of her annoyance, and said, ‘You are being difficult with me again. And I am not being clear enough with you. For that, I apologise. I should have more rightly said, before your difficulty overtook you, did you learn to read the French language?’

It was his turn to huff impatiently at her. ‘Of course I did. Despite what you might think, after finding me in such low estates, I was brought up properly and well educated. It might have been easier had I not been. One cannot miss what one has never known.’

‘But you were fluent?’

‘Better in Greek and Latin. But, yes, I managed tolerably well in French. I could understand and be understood. But I fail to see how that matters.’

Emily thrust the stiff sheet of paperboard into one of his hands, and placed the fingers of his other on the raised letters there. ‘See what you can make of this.’

He frowned as he dragged his fingers over the surface, moving too quickly to interpret the patterns. ‘What is it?’ he whispered.

‘A poem. The author was a Frenchman, and a scholar. And blind,’ she added. ‘From what I have been able to gather on the subject, the French people seem much more enlightened in the education of those with your problem. There are quite interesting experiments in place for the teaching of mathematics, geography and even reading and writing. But much of the work is all in French, and I have not …’

He held the card loosely, not even trying to examine it. ‘And if you have not noticed, my love, we are currently at war with France.’

‘But we will not be for ever. Once we have conquered Napoleon, there will be peace between our countries. I am sure of it. And then, perhaps, we might go to Paris.’

‘And perhaps they will have established a language for me, and perhaps I shall learn it. And we will live together, in a little flat on the banks of the Seine, and forget our spouses and our common English troubles. And I will write French poems to you.’ He handed it back to her.

‘Perhaps we shall.’ She took the card and turned to him, forcing it into the pocket where he kept her picture. ‘Although I understand the impossibility of some of what you are saying, is it really such a strange idea that you might be able to better yourself, or to live very much as other men do?’

He sighed, as though tired of arguing with her. ‘You do not understand.’

‘But I am trying to,’ she said, ‘which is more than your family taught you to do. When faced with the same challenge, your father and grandfather gave up. And they taught you to do the same.’ She held his arm again, wrapping her fingers tightly around the crook of his elbow. ‘But you are not like them. You are so much more than they were. And you will not know, until you have tried for yourself, what you are capable of. If you do not see that, then you are crippled with something far worse than blindness. You suffer from a lack of vision.’

Adrian stood still, as unresponsive as a mannequin. For a moment, she hoped that he was thinking about her words. And then he said in a gruff, irritable voice, ‘Are you quite finished? Or do you have other opinions that you wish to share with me?’

‘That is enough for the morning, I think.’ She let out her held breath slowly, hoping that he did not notice, but was sure that he had, for he could read her like a book.

‘I quite agree. I think it is time for me to escort you back to the carriage, if you will tell me where it is.’

She was in no mood to help him, fairly sure that he knew perfectly well where to go and was only feigning a need for instruction. ‘The carriage has not moved since we left it. Take us back the way we came.’

There was a miniscule pause as he retraced his steps in his mind. Then he turned and led her back down the path that they had walked, feeling along the grassy edge of it with his stick to help him find the way.

They went along without incident, not speaking. She forced herself to stay relaxed at his side, praying that there would be no familiar faces amongst the few strollers there. She had half hoped, when they stood happily by the roses, that they would see some members of their set and engage them in a brief conversation, to gently reveal her true identity to her husband. But after the fresh start they had made this morning, she had overstepped herself. The distance born between them last night was growing. And if she could not find a way to stop it, she would lose him. She doubted it would be a pleasant experience for anyone should he be hailed by a friend and forced, without warning, to explain his condition.

They were within steps of the carriage, now, and she knew by the relaxing of the muscles in his arm that he knew it as well. While they walked, she had felt him tensing as he listened for clues, alert to any change, but now he had heard the jingle of the harnesses, and the chatter of the driver and grooms, silencing to attention as they drew near. He’d released her arm, putting a protective hand upon her back as she moved to step up and into it, when a call came from behind him.

‘Alms!’

Adrian froze for a moment, as though the single word had the power to control him. Then he turned back, his head tracking to find the source.

‘Alms for a blind beggar! Alms!’ There was a woman beside the entrance to the park, probably hoping to catch some member of the ton on their way in or out. She stared towards them with eyes clouded milk-white, with no idea who she accosted, other than that they had sufficient funds to afford a carriage and should be able to spare a few pennies for her. When she shook the cup in her hand, it gave off the pathetic rattle of an unsuccessful morning.

Emily could feel the fingers on her back sliding away, as her husband turned, forgetting why he touched her. And she turned with him, taking her foot off the step and waving the groom away. She caught at Adrian, her fingers tightening on his arm, and he reached up with his other hand to grip them. It was not the gentle and reassuring touch she had grown accustomed to, but a rigid, claw-like reflex.

She tugged at his arm, trying to get him to move. ‘Come, Adrian. We can go back to the carriage, if you like.’

Then his grip began to relax again, and he led her towards the woman, and not away. ‘Tell me what you see. Spare no detail.’

‘She is an old woman,’ Emily said. ‘Her clothes are clean and in good repair, but they are simple. There are worn patches at the elbows, and the lace at the throat will not see many more washings. Her eyes were blue, but are obscured by pearls. Cataracts, I think they are sometimes called. I doubt she has been blind her whole life.’

As she spoke, the woman before them stood mute, accepting the scrutiny as though she had given up being anything more than an object of pity. And then her hand tightened on her cup and she gave it another little shake.

‘Is this an accurate description?’ he said. When he got no response, he fumbled to touch the beggar on the arm.

The woman started and shook his hand away, unsure of the reason for contact and frightened by it.

‘I need to ask, because I am blind as well,’ he said, in a soft and reassuring voice.

‘Yes, sir.’ The old woman gave a relieved smile.

‘My lord,’ Adrian corrected absently, reaching in his pocket for his purse. ‘I am the Earl of Folbroke.’

The woman dropped into a curtsy.

And feeling the movement in her arm, he dipped his head in response to the gesture of respect. ‘What brings you to this, old mother? Do you have no one to care for you?’

‘My husband is dead,’ she said. Her accent was not refined, but neither was it coarse. ‘And my son is gone off to war. For a time, he sent money. But it has been long since I’ve heard anything. And I fear …’ She stopped, as though she did not wish to think of what news was likely to come.

‘It might mean nothing,’ he assured her. ‘I served as well. It is not always easy to get word home. But perhaps I can discover something. Today, I am busy. But tomorrow, you will come to my rooms in Jermyn Street. I will tell the servants to look out for you. And I will take your information and see if anything can be done with it.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ The woman was near to breathless with shock, already. But when she heard him drop a coin into the cup, it was clear that she could tell the difference between gold and copper by the sound. Her surprised mouth closed, and widened in a smile. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said with more emphasis.

‘Until tomorrow,’ he said, and turned away from her, signalling the coachman for assistance with a whistle and a tap of his cane.

They rode in silence toward his rooms, until she could stand it no longer. ‘That was a wonderful thing you did for her.’

‘Soldiers have enough to worry about on the battlefield, without coming home to find that their mothers are begging in the streets,’ he said, as though that was the only thing that concerned him. And then, as an afterthought, added, ‘What I did was not enough. If there is a way to find honest employment for her, it will be done.’

There was a lump rising in her throat as they pulled to a stop before the building that housed his rooms. And as he rose to exit, she touched his arm to make him pause.

He turned his head, waiting for some word from her.

‘I know you do not want to hear it. But I cannot help but speak,’ she said. ‘I love you, Adrian Longesley.’

He swallowed. Then he said, ‘Thank you.’ And then he left her, tapping his way to the steps of his door.

Chapter Fifteen

Thank you.

What an idiotic thing to say to a woman who had just bared her soul to him. But what else could he say to her? The response she wanted was not the one he wished to give her. And anything else seemed inadequate.

‘Hendricks!’ Adrian handed his hat and gloves to the footman and went directly to his room, hearing the secretary fall into step behind him.

‘My lord?’ Hendricks said, the words muffled by what was probably a mouthful of his breakfast.

‘What time is it?’

‘Half past eight. Very early for you, my lord.’ This seemed to be not a reproof, but as an apology for his own lack of preparation.

‘Very early for any coherence, you mean. Well, prepare to be surprised. Not only am I sober, but I have slept, breakfasted and gone for a walk.’

There was a little cough from behind him, as Hendricks inhaled a toast crumb from the shock.

Adrian smiled to himself. ‘I am getting ahead of you today, it seems. Go, finish your breakfast. Or, if you wish, bring it to my room, along with the paper. You are welcome to use the table by the window, if you wish. The breeze this morning is particularly nice. And the view, from what I can gather, is quite pleasant.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

His valet had preceded him and was waiting in the bedroom to take his coat, making every effort not to appear as flat footed as Hendricks. As it slid from his shoulders, Adrian reached, as he always did, for the miniature in the breast pocket.

His fingers brushed something unexpected. It was a moment before he remembered the bit of card that had been forced on him in the park.

He balled his fist in frustration, then quickly relaxed it so as not to crush the paper. He had not handled that well. He should not have laughed at her attempts to help him, or snapped. It would be all his loss if she left him after one of those outbursts of temper.

Especially when fate had then demonstrated just how small his problems were in comparison to others. Perhaps his lover was wrong and he had reached the end of his usefulness. Perhaps he would spend the rest of his life sitting in the window, listening to the world pass by. But at least he would not be forced to spend it on a corner with a tin cup.

The image in his mind of such a common thing, a future in Paris, or anywhere else, with his lover sprawled close to him on a chaise while they drank wine and read poetry to each other, had been sharp and painful. The idea that there could be any permanence in what they had seemed as unattainable as if she’d told him they would fly to the moon.

As he sat to be shaved, he fingered the card in his hands, tracing the rows of pinpricks with his nail. If he’d simply attempted to read the thing while she was there, she’d have seen how hopeless it was, and she’d have given up bothering him with it.

Or he’d have proved her right. His pride must be a very fragile thing, if he feared success as much as failure. He ran his fingers over the surface of the card, noting that the bumps were set in patches, and the patches in rows. And when he forced himself to move very slowly, he could begin to make out letters.

She was right. It seemed to be in French. He chuckled, as he began to understand the words, wondering if she had attempted them herself. How hard could it have been to read them, if one was able to make out the embossing on the page?

“Love is both blind itself and makes all blind whom it rules,”’ he read aloud, and heard the valet grunt in irritation and give a stern warning of ‘my lord’ against sudden movement while at the mercy of a man with a razor.

Adrian smiled cautiously to prevent injury and thought of the woman who had given him the card. It was very like her to choose these as the first words he had read in months. For a moment, he thought it might be Shakespeare, and nothing more than an ironic choice on her part. But she had been wrong about the contents being poetry. It seemed that the man was not a poet at all, but a Latin scholar, and a blind one as well.

He traced his fingers over the letters again, faster this time, as they grew more fluent with the feel of what he found there. Still not as fast as if he could read. But it felt good to recognise the ideas forming under his hand. The writer had called blindness a divine good, rather than a human ill. The idea made Adrian smirk, causing another groan from his valet. If the Almighty had smitten the Folbrokes in an attempt to make them divine messengers of goodness, then God must be blind as well. Choosing such an unworthy lot did not bespeak much for His taste in servants.

And yet …

‘Hendricks.’

‘Lord Folbroke.’ His secretary, who had settled at the little table by the window, answered in a voice clear of any obstruction.

‘Can you recall—has there ever been a Member of Parliament who was struck blind?’

‘Of course, my lord.’

Adrian leaned forwards hopefully, only to hear, ‘You, my lord. And your father, of course. And grandfather.’

‘No, you ninny. Someone from another family.’

‘None that I know of, my lord. But certainly it is not impossible. There are those that are lame, aren’t there?’

‘And deaf, as well. And probably without sense,’ Adrian added. ‘For how else can we justify the decisions that are made by them?’

‘I can look into it, if you wish. But I suspect that they would have little choice but to make accommodations for … any peer that was so inconvenienced.’

Good old Hendricks. He had been about to say you—and had taken care to stop himself, lest he be guilty of putting words in my lord’s mouth. ‘Please, do. And let me know what you discover. I have another task for you as well. I need to speak with someone in the Horse Guards to see if there is anything to be done about locating the fate of a soldier. I met the man’s mother in the park today …’

‘In the park,’ Hendricks parroted, as though he could not quite believe what he had heard.

‘Just outside of it, actually. Circumstances had reduced her to begging in the street. And I said that I would attempt to help her, if she came to my rooms tomorrow.’

‘A beggar is coming here, my lord?’

‘Yes, Hendricks. A blind beggar. She is the mother of a soldier.’

‘I see, my lord.’

‘And whether the news is good or bad, if some sort of pension could be arranged for her …’

‘Consider it done, my lord.’ Hendricks set down his cup and rose from his chair, ready to begin his errands. ‘Is there anything else?’ The last was said as though he assumed dismissal was imminent.

‘Actually, there is.’ As the secretary neared him, Adrian passed him the card he had been holding. ‘What do you make of this?’

‘It is a lecture by Jean Passerat, my lord.’

‘I am aware of that, Hendricks. Because I read it.’

‘My lord. ‘ The exclamation was so surprised that Adrian suspected it was a hushed prayer and not meant for him at all.

‘You can see how the letters are raised up. I can feel them, Hendricks. It is a laborious process, to read these pinpricks, but not impossible. And it occurs to me that there might be a stationer or a printer who could do something similar. They have the raised lead type already in their possession.’

Hendricks thought for a moment. ‘That is backwards, to make the impression on the page.’

‘But if they could make a mould, somehow. Or if special letters were struck that were the right way round.’ Adrian drummed his fingers on his knee, imagining all the ways that such a system could be applied. And suddenly he felt eager to be up and doing something. ‘It would be expensive, I suppose. But I have the money.’

‘You do indeed, my lord.’ Hendricks sounded relieved, now. And happy.

‘And if it can be done for me, then I see no reason why other reading materials cannot be made. Perhaps the Southwark Asylum could take some on. I know they do not think it is their place to educate the residents, but I beg to differ on the subject.’

‘And who would know better than you, my lord? You have a very personal interest in the subject.’

‘Which would put me in an excellent position to become a patron of that institution, I am sure. The combination of money and influence could be instrumental in making a long-lasting change in the place.’

‘Of course, for the residents to feel the full benefits of your assistance, a considerable amount of time might need to be devoted to the subject,’ Hendricks cautioned.

Time. And when had he not had enough of it? Days stretched on before him, and the rush to dull the ennui had been at the base of so many of his diversions. Adrian smiled. ‘It seems to me, Hendricks, that of all the mad endeavours of my family, in three generations, the support of a charity has not been on the list. By the traditional standards of the house of Folbroke, I shall be behaving quite recklessly should I rush in any direction other than my own doom.’

‘Very true, my lord.’ There was definite amusement in the voice of his servant. ‘You could very well be the wildest of your family, if you mean to squander your estate in philanthropy.’

‘It would give me a chance to appreciate your dry wit, Hendricks. It is a quality I have missed in our recent interactions.’

‘Of late you have given me little reason for mirth, Lord Folbroke.’

‘Change is in the air, Hendricks. I am my old self, again, after a very long time.’

‘So it would seem, my lord.’

‘Can you not manage, after all the time in my service, to call me Adrian? Or Folbroke, at least.’

‘No, my lord.’ But the title was given with affection, and so he allowed it to pass. Hendricks cleared his throat. ‘But if I might take the liberty of informing Lady Folbroke of your improved mood, she might be most gratified.’

Adrian felt the return of the old panic at the realisation that Emily would get wind of his plans, should they be carried too far before he had explained himself. ‘That must wait until I have had a chance to speak to her myself. But you think she would approve?’

‘Yes, my lord. She still enquires after you regularly. And she has been concerned by your silence.’

‘But she did not respond to my summons.’

‘If I might be so bold, my lord, as to offer advice?’

‘Of course.’

‘I believe it was the manner, and not the man, she objected to.’

Adrian sighed. ‘I have made so many mistakes with the poor girl I hardly know where to begin to rectify them.’

‘She has not been a poor girl for some time, my lord.’ And there again was that strange sense of admiration that he heard sometimes when Hendricks spoke to him of his wife. And he remembered that the reconciliation he imagined might not be welcomed by his friend.

‘It is my own punishment that I was not there to see Emily blossom into the woman she has become. Too proud to watch her with half my sight. And now I cannot see her at all.’ He sighed. ‘Thank you for taking care of her, Hendricks.’

‘I? I have done nothing, my lord.’

‘I suspect that is not true.’ And what did he expect the man to say? Nothing he wanted to hear. But Adrian could not seem to leave the subject alone.

Hendricks said, after some thought, ‘For the most, she takes care of herself. I do very little but to follow her wishes. But I am sure, if you speak to her for yourself, you will find her eager to listen.’

‘Perhaps I shall.’ And his nerve failed him again. ‘But not today. Today, I think I shall go out for lunch.’

‘Out, my lord?’ He could almost hear Hendricks’s brain, ticking through the possibilities, trying to decide where he would be drawn so early in the day. And whether there would be a way from dissuading him from whatever fresh folly he had discovered. For though the morning had been full of promise, Adrian had given his poor friend no reason to believe that his good intentions would last to the afternoon.

When Hendricks could not come up with the answer on his own, he responded, ‘When I have completed the tasks you set for me, I will accompany you.’

‘Will you, now? And did I ask for a companion, Mr Hendricks?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Then you needn’t stir yourself. What I do, I must do for myself. You are not a member, after all.’

‘Not a member? What the devil …?’ For a moment, Hendricks was completely lost. And his subservience slipped, revealing the man underneath.

Adrian reached out into the open air, until he could find the secretary’s arm and give it a reassuring pat. ‘Do not concern yourself, man. I am not an infant. I will manage well enough on my own for a few hours in broad daylight. Now, call for the carriage. And tell the cook I will not be home for supper.’

White’s.

It was the very bastion of the sort of gentlemanly society that he had denied himself in the months since his sight had utterly failed. He had forgotten how peaceful it was, compared to the taverns he had been frequenting, and the sense of belonging and entitlement that a membership carried with it. It was a place where eccentricity was ignored. If a man had the blunt and the connections to be invited through the front door, then even aberrant behaviour might be deemed, if not creditable, at least not worthy of comment.

And when comment could no longer be restrained, then someone would most likely get out the betting book. Adrian grinned in anticipation.

‘Lord Folbroke. May I help you with your hat and coat?’

‘You can help me with several things,’ he said, turning to the servant and placing his hand on the man’s arm. ‘It has been some time since I have been here. Have the arrangements changed at all?’

‘My lord?’ The footman seemed surprised, and a little confused at the question.

‘It is my eyes, you see.’ He passed his own hand in front of his face, to indicate the imperviousness of them. ‘Not as blind as a bat, perhaps. But near enough.’ Blind. Saying the word aloud felt good, as though it had been trapped on his tongue for an age, waiting to be shaken off. ‘Take my hat and gloves. But my stick must remain with me.’ Then he added, ‘And I would appreciate a brief description of the room and its occupants.’

Once he was aware of what was required, the servant was totally amenable to the task, and not the least bit shocked or embarrassed by the request. He explained, sotto voce, who and what were to be found on the other side of the threshold. Then he said, ‘Will there be anything else, my lord?’

‘A drink, perhaps. Whatever the others are enjoying. You may bring it to me, once I have found a seat. And please announce yourself when you do so, for I might not hear you approach.’ Then he turned back to the difficult task of re-entering society.

He stood for just a moment, taking a deep breath of the familiarly stuffy air. It was a trifle too hot in the room for him. But hadn’t it always been so? He could smell alcohol and tobacco. But not the foul stuff he’d grown accustomed to. The smell of quality was as sharp as the ink on a fresh pound note.

‘Folbroke!’ There was a cry of welcome at the sight of him, followed by the sudden silence as his old friends realised that something had changed.

‘Anneslea?’ He started forwards, towards the voice of his old friend Harry and forgot himself, stumbling into a table and almost upsetting a game of cards. He apologised to the gentlemen in front of him, and turned to go around, only to feel Harry seize him by the arm and draw him forwards.

‘Folbroke. Adrian. It has been almost a year since I have seen you. Where have you been?’ And then a quieter, and more worried, ‘And what has happened? Come. Sit. Talk.’

He smiled and shrugged, allowing the help of friendship. ‘I have not been very good company, I am afraid.’ Anneslea pressed him to a chair, and almost instantly the servant returned with a glass of wine. Adrian took a sip to steady his nerves. Suddenly, speaking a few simple words seemed more fearsome than a cavalry charge. ‘My eyes failed me.’

‘You are …?’

‘Blind.’ He said it again, and again there came a small lightening of spirit. ‘It has been all downhill since that flash burn in Salamanca.’

Harry gripped his arm. ‘There is no hope for recovery?’

Adrian patted his hand. ‘The eyes in my family are no damned good at all, I’m afraid. The same thing happened to my father. I had hoped to dodge the condition. But it appears I am not to be spared.’

There was the pause he’d expected. Then Anneslea burst forth with a relieved laugh. ‘Better to find you blind than foxed before noon. When I saw you running into the furniture, I feared I’d have to take you home and put you to bed.’

The men around him laughed as well, and for a change he laughed with them, at his own folly.

‘Folbroke?’

Adrian offered a silent prayer for strength. ‘Rupert. How good to see you.’

‘But you just said, you cannot see me.’

Some things had not changed. He still enjoyed the company at White’s—except for the days when his cousin was present. ‘I was speaking metaphorically, Rupert.’ As I was when I said it was good to see you. ‘Although you are not visible to me—’ and that is a blessing ‘—you can see that I have no trouble recognising you by your voice.’

‘Your other faculties are not impaired?’ Rupert sounded almost hopeful to be proven wrong. Could the man not pretend, even for an instant, that he was not waiting in the wings to snatch the title away?

‘No, Rupert,’ he said as patiently as possible. ‘You will find that I am still quite sharp. And since my brief period of reclusion is nearing its end, I will be returning to my usual haunts, and my place in the Parliament.’

‘And I suppose Lady Folbroke spoke the truth as well?’

About what? he wondered. And then decided to give his wife the benefit of the doubt. ‘Of course. She would have no reason to lie, would she?’

‘I suppose not. But then, congratulations are in order,’ Rupert said glumly.

‘Congratulations, old man?’ Anneslea addressed this to him. ‘You come to me with your dead eyes, and nothing but bad news. But your wife spreads the glad tidings, I suppose. What is it that we are celebrating?’

Not a clue. ‘I will let Rupert tell you, since he is obviously eager to share what he has learned.’

Rupert gave a sigh, sounding as far from eager as it was possible to be. ‘It seems that there will be a new heir to Folbroke, by Easter.’

Chapter Sixteen

When Hendricks came to her that afternoon with news of his errands, Emily could barely contain her excitement. It seemed the blind beggar had done more in the space of a few moments than she had managed in a week. ‘He saw himself in her, I am sure. And has been reminded of the advantages of his rank. Thank you so much, for helping to lead him the rest of the way.’ She leaned forward and clutched Hendricks by the arm, as he sat taking tea with her, so overcome with emotion at the thought of a brighter future that she thought she would burst from happiness.

At her touch, Hendricks gave a start that rattled his saucer, and glanced down at her hand as though he did not know quite what to do about it. ‘You give yourself too little credit, Lady Folbroke. It is your devotion to him that made the difference.’

‘And did he say anything of me?’ she asked hopefully. ‘Emily, that is. His wife.’ And she began to realise the extent of her confusion. It was as if she was two people, and unsure which of them would deserve Adrian’s attention.

‘I asked if I should go to you with this news. And he acknowledged that you would need to hear of it sooner, rather than later, and that he wished to speak to you himself. You will have some contact from him in the next day or so. I am sure of it.’

‘That is good,’ she said, closing her eyes in a silent prayer of thanks.

‘Perhaps his outing this afternoon will shed more light upon his plans.’

‘An outing?’ This was news, but she could not tell whether it was good or bad. ‘Did he say where he was going? Or when he might return? And who accompanied him?’ She peppered Hendricks with questions, until the poor man held up a hand to stop her.

‘He would not tell me, nor would he accept my escort. He left word that he would not be dining at home. But I assume he means to return long enough to dress and then visit you here, this evening. Beyond that, I know no more than you.’

‘That leaves me nothing to do but wait,’ she said, getting up to pace the room. ‘I did not give two thoughts to the risks he was taking, for all the time he was gone. I just assumed that he would be well.’

‘And he managed well without your help,’ Hendricks reminded her.

‘It is not as if I do not trust him to take care of himself,’ she said, trying to convince herself that it was a fact. ‘But now that I have seen him, and know how reckless he can be—’ she looked desperately at Hendricks ‘—what shall I do? What shall I do if he does not come back?’ When she had come to London, she had been worried about household economies and the loss of her freedom. But now the thought consumed her that, if she should never see him again, it would mean that he would never know who she was, or how she felt for him.

Hendricks stared down into his teacup. ‘Lord Folbroke would be most annoyed with me should I leave you to worry over nothing. You need have no fear for yourself, for even if the worst should occur, you are not without friends. You will not be alone, Emily. You shall never be alone.’

‘But I have no thought for myself,’ she said, going to look out the window in the vain hope that she would see his carriage pass by. ‘It is only he that I care about. He is at the centre of all my happiness. And now that I have found him again, I must keep him safe and healthy, and happy as well. Just as he was this morning.’

‘Then you must trust him,’ Hendricks said. ‘In a few hours, all will be right again. You will see.’

At a little before eight o’clock, she heard the sound of Adrian’s step in the hall and his call for a servant to take his hat and gloves. She rushed past the footman, dismissing the servant so that she could tend to him herself, running into his arms and pressing a kiss upon his lips.

Tonight, though well dressed, Adrian was not his usual, immaculate self. His cravat was tied loosely, his brown hair was mussed, and there was colour in his cheeks as though he had just come back from a ride, or some other strenuous pursuit. He gave a laugh when he recognised the feel of her, and gathered her close in a kiss so hungry that it bordered on violence.

He tasted of brandy, and salt as well. She felt a strange wetness upon her own lips. When she managed to push him clear so she could wipe it away, there was red on her fingers. She reached out gently to touch his mouth, and he flinched and batted her hand away. ‘There is a cut on your lip.’

It was odd. For instead of the reaction she had been expecting, of a curse or another wince of pain, he ran a finger tentatively across the wound and grinned at her, wolfish and wicked. ‘So there is.’

She reached into her sleeve and withdrew a handkerchief, wetting it the tip of her tongue and reaching up to dab away the blood.

He pulled her close again, lifting her so that her toes barely touched the ground and gave a growl. ‘Kiss it better?’

‘I do not want to hurt you.’

“Tis a pity that the man who hit me did not feel the same. Of course, I’d pegged him good by the time he landed this on me. So I suppose I had it coming.’ Her husband was still grinning, blue eyes sparkling with an emotion that she had not seen before. And he kissed her again, as he had on that first night, as though he could not wait to take her to bed and did not care who knew it.

‘You were fighting?’ The words and the kiss sent her thoughts rushing back to the man he had been when she’d found him. She sniffed his breath again. ‘You have been drinking, haven’t you?’

‘And what if I have?’ He kissed her throat, fondling her body through the gown she wore.

She pushed at his hands, trying to catch her breath. ‘You promised me that there would be no more of that. You are too valuable to me to squander yourself. I was beside myself with worry over you.’

He paused, leaning his face against her hair. ‘Really, madam, you cannot expect me to place my calendar totally in your hands, no matter how lovely those hands might be. My life is still my own, is it not?’ But somehow, he did not sound particularly happy with his freedom.

‘Of course it is,’ she assured him. ‘You know I have no claim on you. But no matter what happens between us, it is very important to me to know you are safe and well.’

He leaned against her for a moment, as though his day had exhausted his strength. ‘And I thank you for it. It is good to know that someone cares. And you need have no fear of my condition. I gained it as any proper gentleman should. I went to White’s for luncheon.’

‘You went out again? And without me?’ She could not control the little shriek of delight she gave and threw her arms about his neck.

He gave her a pat upon the shoulder and shrugged as though the sudden change was nothing unusual. ‘I could not very well take you to my club, darling. No ladies allowed. Not even wives, thank God.’ The last was uttered under his breath, so quiet that she barely heard it. And then he continued, as if he had said nothing. ‘My taking lunch there should not be such an uncommon thing to you. I am still a member, in good standing. Anneslea was there, as was his brother-in-law, Tremaine. Good to see them again, after all this time. Anneslea asked about the eyes, of course.’

‘And you told them?’ She leaned away from him, staring into his face.

‘Unlike some problems, my condition is rather hard to conceal.’ He looked past her, not even pretending to see. Then he gave another non-committal shrug, as though his mind had moved on to other, far more important matters than the one thing that had consumed him for months.

She hugged him again and kissed him on his sore lip. ‘But what of this?’

‘After we got the niceties out of the way, there were others who were eager to share the news of the day with me. Some of which was quite surprising. It seems I have much reason to celebrate. My cousin Rupert was there …’ He frowned again, pinching his lips tight together until the cut went white.

That might explain his strange mood. She doubted he had wanted to reveal himself so soon to his family. And she knew from experience that Rupert had a way of ruining even the happiest of days.

Adrian seemed about to say something, and then smiled again, and went on with his story. ‘In the course of the afternoon, the bottle was passed around. We got to talking about what was possible for a blind man to accomplish. And then, someone got out the betting book.’ He gave another shrug, as though to minimise the foolishness of it. But it was coupled with a satisfied grin. ‘Some of the fellows and I went off to Gentleman Jackson’s for a bit of pugilism, as any proper gentleman of the ton might. Blindfolds for both men. Since I have the advantage of some sight, it would be hardly fair for me to go without. When equally blinded, it seems that I can manage two out of three opponents. A healthy average, I think. I proved quite good at finding my mark. If I can stay out of reach of the first few blows, I can hear the other fellow breathing like a bellows, and take aim upon the source of the sound. I am not as fast as I used to be, and my form was sadly lacking after this extended period of inactivity. But they could not fault my enthusiasm. Although it was a shame that the man I wanted to stand up with was not there to share the moment.’

‘You boxed?’ She did not know whether to laugh or scold him.

‘Just a little harmless sparring. No anger behind it.’ But the glittering of his eyes and the set of his jaw made her wonder at the truth of that. ‘It was a shame that dear Rupert was too big a coward to share the ring. I dare say, after today’s demonstration, he will not think me a helpless invalid, and will know to shut his mouth and keep his distance.’

And wasn’t that what she had wanted all along? She gave him another enthusiastic kiss.

‘You are glad that Anneslea split my lip?’

‘I am glad that you left the house in daylight, and spent time in the company of true friends.’ She stretched to kiss both of his damaged eyes. ‘And that you told them.’

Adrian pressed his lips on the top of the head. ‘It is your fault, you know, with your continual prodding that I do something with my life. And you were right. It was time. A little past time, I think.’ And then he kissed her on the mouth. But although it started as a gentle kiss of thanks, it soon became something different.

His hat and gloves fell to the floor, and he gave them a kick that sent them across the hall, clear of their feet. Then his empty hands found her body, moving from her shoulders down her back, crushing her breasts to the front of his coat so he could feel them, and lower until she could feel the first stirrings of his erection pressing against her belly. Though his injured lips were soft on hers, his tongue moved in her mouth, rough and hungry. The brandied taste of it made her drunk with answering desire.

It would take little seducing to gain her ends tonight. He would make love to her, if she asked him to. For there was no sense of playfulness in his kiss, only the demand for swift release.

And as her body readied itself to succumb, her mind whispered that more had changed than this. In the new world he was creating, there would be no place for secrets. And no way to hide his mystery lover from his friends, or his illness from his wife. Now that he had moved into the light, he was poised on the brink of yet another decision. And there was a chance that she might lose him for ever, if she did not talk soon and tell him everything. She broke from the kiss and freed herself from his grasp, then grabbed his arm and tugged. ‘Come. You may tell me all about your plans, over dinner.’

‘I have already eaten,’ he said, pulling her back and running his hands over her bare arms.

‘A glass of wine, then.’

He kissed her again, and said, ‘You know what I want. And it is not food or wine. Do not deny me.’ With one hand, he locked her hips to his, and with the other he pushed her breasts high, until they strained at the neckline of her bodice. Then he gave a yank on the fabric that covered them. She heard a button pop and her dress gaped. And he bent her back over his arm, and took her nipples in his mouth by turn, sucking hard upon them, biting them, leaving the exposed breast marked with his kisses, plain to see by anyone who might wander into the entranceway of the flat.

He was holding her so tightly that she had no breath to resist him. But the helplessness felt right. This was her husband, after all. And he was so overcome with desire for her that she doubted he’d have heard an objection, had she made one.

And then he paused, raising his head from her aching breasts. ‘Last night, and this morning, when you said—’

‘Let us pretend I said nothing.’ She answered hurriedly, for she did not want him to stop again. ‘Do not punish me for what I feel.’

‘I do not mean to punish you. I only wish to be sure that your feelings have not changed.’

‘They will never change,’ she swore, panting, eager for him to resume. ‘No matter what might happen between us, I will be steadfast.’

He seemed to flinch a little at this, as though he had hoped for some other answer. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Because otherwise, I would not …’ And then it did not seem to matter, for he was kissing her again, undoing fastenings, pushing her dress farther down her body until he could stroke the tops of her hips above the fabric as he nibbled her shoulders. ‘Say whatever you like. Nothing stands between us.’

She gasped, and said, ‘I love you.’

He made no effort to answer with a similar sentiment. Instead, he said, ‘Show me.’ Then he pulled her, as sure as if he could see the way, through the sitting room and towards her bed.

She closed the door behind them. And before it was shut, he had pushed her gown to the floor and was tearing at his cravat to loosen the knot. When he tossed the fabric away and reached for the buttons of his vest, she stayed his hand. ‘You will not be able to find things again, if you are so careless.’

He gave a strange laugh. ‘Tonight, I am quite past caring.’

She stepped clear of her own clothing and kissed his bare throat. ‘Then let me. I have watched you, these last nights. I will lay them out, just as you have. There will be no mistakes. But do not deny me the pleasure of undressing you.’

He gave a chuckle that was half sigh. Then he stood still, his arms a little apart from his body, as though he were standing for a valet. She felt a tremor go through his body at the first touch of her hands.

First, she took his coat, feeling the weight of her own picture and the purse in his pockets, and set it on the back of the chair. And then the waistcoat, and the cravat that she’d picked from the floor, one on top the other, folded and draped over the coat.

She paused to touch him. Broad shoulders, straight back, trim waist—she had seen him in bed, and touched every inch of him. But it had never been like this, with his body half-hidden by clothing. She pressed her lips to the opening at the throat of his shirt, spreading her fingers over the linen, feeling. Then she pushed the cloth out of the way and kissed his chest.

‘You are a most interesting valet, madam,’ he said, stroking her body before cupping his hand to the back of her neck and urging her to take his nipple into her mouth. ‘A man could grow used to this.’

And she thought the same. He made her feel safe and cared for, even as he allowed her to care for him. And it was good to feel the hair on his chest brushing against her cheek, a hint of softness over muscles that were strong and sure. She stripped the shirt over his head, shook the wrinkles from it and laid it carefully with the cravat, then went back to him, rubbing her hands over his bare chest, before pushing him the few steps back to sit on the bed behind him. She sat on the floor to pull off his boots and stockings, stroking his calves, working her way up his legs and undoing buttons, pulling trousers aside and finding him fully awake to her touch.

She set the rest of his clothing by the chair. Then she went to the night table and doused the last candle so that they could lie in darkness.

As she did, he called out to her in surprise.

‘Does it bother you to have no light?’ she asked.

He reached to take her hand as she climbed up on to the bed with him. ‘You will think me foolish, but I have a fear of the dark, when it comes on me suddenly. I am never sure if the last of my sight is leaving without warning, or it is merely a guttering candle.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘With the lights extinguished, we are both equally blind, are we not?’

‘Yes,’ she said, surprised that she had not thought of it. ‘It will teach me to use my hands to find my way, as you do.’

‘In darkness, we could be anyone. We could imagine anything. Fulfil our darkest wishes,’ he whispered. ‘And no one will see.’ He kissed, long and hard, full of need, holding her so tight against his body as he did it that she could scarcely breathe. It was another proof of how easily he could dominate her, should he choose, and it made her shudder with anticipation. Then he relaxed back upon the bed to prove how utterly she had tamed him, giving her leave to explore him further, waiting to see what she would do with the freedom.

She straddled his legs, squeezing his thighs between hers and leaning forwards over him so that she could touch the muscles of his chest with her breasts. She could tell by his breathing that the faint touches of her nipples against his skin were as arousing to him as they were to her. He reached for them, pulling her breasts up and cupping them in his hands so that he could take them into his mouth again, rubbing them against the front of his teeth and nipping suddenly, then releasing them to blow them dry with his breath until they felt tight and cool.

She sat up and slid away from him again, running her hands down his abdomen, settling them upon his member and stroking it from base to tip, holding it against the skin of her belly in a way she knew he liked.

He let her work over him for a few moments before bringing his own hands down his body to meet hers, grasping her around the crease at the top of her thighs until his thumbs met between her legs, stroking her. ‘Slowly,’ he cautioned, while speeding up his own hands. ‘Let me last. I want to enjoy you the whole of the night.’ His hands came around her body, grasping her bottom. ‘Slide forwards. Onto me. I want to be in you.’

She glanced at the chair across the darkened room, thinking one last time of the sheath in his pocket. ‘Did you want …?’

‘Do not think of it,’ he commanded, as though he could guess her thoughts. Then he pulled her hips up his body so that he could rub himself against the wetness between her legs. ‘This will be better. If you still wish it.’

‘Yes,’ she answered, guiding him even closer to where he belonged. She bent forwards and kissed him and rose up on her knees so she could touch herself with the tip of him, as though that were a kiss as well. Then she eased forwards, just an inch, and felt the beginnings of satisfaction as he began to slip inside.

‘So good,’ he whispered. ‘But I want more.’ He reached behind her again, trapping her hips and forcing her suddenly down and on to him in one quick, smooth stroke, until he filled her completely. ‘There.’

She gasped in shock. She had forgotten how big he felt, resting inside her. And this sudden entrance was nothing like the cautious way he had thrust when he had last done this. Then he had seemed afraid to frighten her.

But tonight there was none of that. Before she could catch her breath, he was moving under her, into her. His hips rose and fell, bucking and grinding against hers as he sought release, making her tremble with excitement at the ease with which he controlled her body.

He slowed for a moment, seeming ready to withdraw. So she pressed against him again, guiding him farther, letting him slide deeper into her until she was sure that he would not change his mind. ‘You did not want this from me, Adrian. What has changed?’

He groaned, but did not pull away. ‘Am I hurting you?’

‘No. It is so good. I want it.’

‘Then nothing has changed. Say the words you said to me last night.’

‘I love you, Adrian.’ She tried to give an answering thrust, but he held her in place against his body. ‘Take me. Please, Adrian, make love to me.’

‘Yes. Again.’ He sank into her, sighing in satisfaction. He was stroking slowly now, in and out of her, making her forget that it could be any way else.

‘I love you.’

Then he slowed even more, skin sliding against skin, his hands on her back, moving to clutch her so that he could push with more force. She leaned forwards to lie on top of him. Suddenly, he rolled with her, over and onto her.

She dug her fingers into him, raking his back, afraid that he was trying to escape, and terrified that he would not finish what he had started.

And he laughed at her, as wicked as he had been that first night, straddling her as she had him and pumping hard into her until she lay breathless under him. She was close, so very close now, and he knew it. And he stopped to touch her face.

She nipped at his fingers, begging him to finish her, and he felt her eagerness and pulled his hand away and left her body.

She reached for him, flailing in desperation, and he grabbed her hands and rolled her onto her side. ‘No, my darling,’ he murmured. ‘I will give you what you want, soon enough. You promised this morning that I would have whatever I liked from you. There are other ways to join. And tonight, I mean to try as many as I can.’ He was entering her again, from behind, pushing up and down, and pressing hard against places inside her body that had barely felt him before. His hands were on her breasts now, circling the nipples as he thrust, his lips on her ear. ‘Does this please you?’ he growled, holding her tight.

‘Yes,’ she gasped, totally possessed by him, totally in his power.

‘I am going to make you mine, soon,’ he said close to her ear. ‘And then I will do it again. And again. I will love you until there is nothing left in you but need of me. And then I will love you again.’ He thrust harder and her climax began at the thought of having his seed inside her. And as she relaxed, satisfied that he would finally be hers, his hand came down to press between her legs and rub against her special place. He moved his thumb there in little flicks, keeping time with his thrusts until she broke again and again, mindless and helpless, shaking in his arms, crying his name.

And he felt her surrender and followed her, releasing deep inside her with a cry of ‘Emily’.

The joy of it shot through her in a final spasm. He knew her. In this most intimate moment, without sight or words, he had recognised her.

Then he groaned and pulled away, shuddering and covering his face with his arm, as though he could hide himself from her by the act.

She rolled to lie close to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling at his hand until she could see the faint glitter of his eyes in the moonlight as he stared, sightless, towards the ceiling.

At last he spoke. ‘I am sorry. I did not think. But I have saved myself for her for too long.’

‘Your wife?’ she asked softly.

‘When I could not stand to be alone, and availed myself of the services of some nameless woman or other, it was her I imagined. Always her.’

He reached out to touch her hair. ‘This week has been different, I swear it. But tonight, when it should have been no one but you, I used what you felt for me. I lied and pretended to be what you wanted me to be. And while I did it, I thought of her. I did not mean to say that name. You are precious to me. It would not have been thus, were you not. And I do not wish to hurt you.’

‘It is all right,’ she said, trying to gain understanding of what had just happened. The man beside her was racked with guilt over feeling just what she wanted him to feel for the woman he had left behind. She rolled even closer to lean over him and put her hands on his face, kissing his eyes and his lips, and whispering words of love. ‘It is all right. It changes nothing between us. I understand. She is with you, even as my husband is never far from my thoughts.’

‘She is in London. She will hear of my visit to White’s. She will hear about my eyes.’

‘Rumours, perhaps,’ she answered. ‘But it will be better if she hears the rest of it from you.’

‘And I have heard things as well,’ he whispered. ‘But not rumours. More truth than I ever wanted to know.’ He pulled her down on top of him, into his arms, crushing her cheek to his chest and she could feel the pain in him in the vibrations as he spoke. ‘She came to me, on the day we met. And I was not there for her. It would have been so much easier, had I been there when she needed me. And I failed her, because of my selfishness. It must not happen again.’

‘Your words do you credit,’ she said, glad that he could not see the smile on her face, for there was no way she could have explained it.

He must have caught some trace of her mood, for he said, a little puzzled, ‘You understand what this will mean to us?’ His voice was sad, but resolute. ‘This cannot go on. I must go home to her.’

‘I knew that what we shared could not last, as did you.’ She gathered his hand to her mouth and kissed it lightly, in the dark, glad that he could not know how happy she felt. ‘And I know that you love her. You cannot see it, of course. But on the day you showed me her picture, I knew. You have worn the paint away from the continual touching of it. You want to be with her. You know it is true.’

He gave a weak laugh. ‘More than I understood. More than I ever believed possible. I can deny it no longer. The woman is my home, and all I could have hoped for, had my life been different. I wronged her horribly by keeping the truth from her. And I have waited too long. Things have been lost that can never be regained.’

‘You will not know for sure until you speak to her,’ she urged.

‘I know it, true enough,’ he said. ‘About some things, there is nothing more that can be done. And now, I must make the best of what I have left.’

She touched his face again, wishing she could soothe his worries away and tell him how little the blindness mattered. ‘It will be all right. But you must go to her.’

He laughed again. ‘It is most unusual to accept advice from one’s mistress on what to do about the deep and unrequited feelings one might bear for one’s wife.’

‘Your feelings are not unrequited.’

‘How can you know?’

‘Because I know you. And as I love you, so will she. If you let her.’

He pulled his hand away and wrapped his arms around her again, holding her close to him as though he were afraid to lose her. ‘And then, what will become of you?’

‘I will find my husband again, just as I planned to from the first.’

‘He left you.’

‘And yet I have never stopped loving him.’

He held her even tighter. ‘I know it is wrong. And that I cannot have you. But I envy him even a portion of your affection, just as I long to be elsewhere. I am selfish and stupid, and I want to stay with you.’

‘It feels so good to hear those words from you. No matter what happens, I will remember them always. But you know what we must do.’ She kissed him then, letting the warmth of his love sink into her bones.

‘This could not last for ever,’ he whispered.

‘Perhaps, in a way, it shall,’ she whispered back.

‘We are happy now. And we shall be happy again. I am sure of it. But you need to do this one thing, to make it all right.’

Chapter Seventeen

When Adrian arrived back at his rooms it was well past breakfast, and he made no attempt to disguise his entry from Hendricks. The man was at the desk in the small sitting room, giving disapprovingly sharp rattles to the paper as he read, as though he could pretend that he had not been checking the clock and waiting for milord to come back from his whore.

Let him wait, said the irritable voice in Adrian’s head. What right does he have to complain about your behaviour, if he has been using your absence to put horns on you? Had it been just yesterday morning that he had convinced himself that the man was guiltless, and that David was clearly mistaken about Emily’s behaviour?

He struggled to calm himself, as he had lying awake in his lover’s arms. It did not matter what had happened, now that it was too late to change anything. The best he could hope for was to contain the damage. He could hardly blame Hendricks for loving the woman he wanted. And if she had true feelings in return, his attempting to slaughter Emily’s lover might break her heart. And nothing he did now would make him any less a cuckold.

He stared in the direction of the rattling paper and said in his most bland voice, ‘If you will give me a few moments to prepare myself, then I will be ready for the post and the paper.’

‘Very good, my lord.’

As the valet helped him to change, he could hear the sniff of disapproval at the condition of his cravat, and the ease with which the man had noticed that it had been tied by hands other than Adrian’s.

On any other day, he would have found it amusing. But today, a part of him wished that he could tell the man to take the razor and slice it up the back. After today, there was a chance that it was the only evidence he would have of the touch of her hands, anywhere in his life.

And his valet might as well follow the act by slitting his throat. He had lain there, after they had spoken of the future. And much as his mind had wanted to begin again, and to love her until he forgot what was to come, his body had found it impossible. He had done nothing but let her hold him. He had dozed as their last hours together ticked away, waiting to see the hazy glow of sunlight that was still allowed him.

And when he’d awakened enough to listen, he could tell by her breathing that she slept soundly, as though she had no fears. Perhaps her feelings had not been as she’d claimed. Faced with their inevitable parting, it had not caused so much as a bad dream for her. And when the sun was fully up, she’d woken, washed and dressed him, and sent him out of her life with a hearty breakfast and a kiss upon the cheek.

Halfway through his shave, Hendricks came into the room and went to the little table, bringing a cup of tea and lemon and forcing it into his hand.

Much as he wanted it, he said, ‘Pour this out and bring me another. Just the tea. No sugar. No lemon.’ Perhaps some day, when he felt himself starting to forget her. But not today.

‘Very good, my lord.’

Hendricks returned shortly with the corrected cup, and drew up a chair and his little writing desk, and began reading the mail. And Adrian allowed the ordinariness of it soothe his mind, pretending that nothing had changed between them.

After dispensing with a tailor’s bill and an invitation to a ball that Adrian had set aside as a possible peace offering to Emily, Hendricks said, ‘The next is from your cousin Rupert.’

Adrian took a sip from his cup. ‘Must we?’

‘Hmm.’ There was a pause as Hendricks scanned the letter. ‘If you will trust my opinion, my lord? No. It is more of the same, really. He saw you yesterday?’

‘At White’s,’ Adrian affirmed.

‘He wishes to see you again.’

‘How unfortunate for him.’

‘There is the matter of your wife …’

‘My response is the same as always,’ Adrian snapped. ‘Throw it on the fire.’

‘Very good, my lord.’

And for the first time, Adrian wondered how much of his mail was read properly, and how much Hendricks had chosen to censor. For there was a chance that each letter he had received from Rupert had been full of warnings that his secretary had not seen fit to convey. ‘Hendricks.’

‘My lord?’

Adrian reached into the pocket in his coat, and held out the locket containing the miniature. ‘Describe this to me.’

‘It is Lady Folbroke, my Lord,’ said the man, puzzled.

‘But what does it look like?’

‘It is done on ivory. In the painting, she is younger. Sixteen, perhaps. Her hair is longer and darker than it is now. Her face not so full.’

‘And the quality of the work?’

‘It does not do her justice, my lord.’

‘I see.’ And he had been displaying the ruined picture to the man for who knew how long, with no mention of it, with no clue that things were not as he thought they were.

‘I mean to write to her, today.’

‘Will you be needing my help, my lord?’

‘No. This is something I must do for myself.’ Then I shall hope that you are not so far gone in love for her that you do not deliver the letter. For I know we are rivals for her affection, even if you do not admit it.

There was a rattle as Hendricks opened the desk drawer and got out the little frame that Adrian sometimes used to help him in his rare correspondence, with the notches to space the letters and the little bar on the paper so he could write a straight line. He arranged the pen and ink, explaining the location of each item as he placed them. Then he stood back to allow Adrian the seat.

‘A few minutes’ privacy, please, Mr Hendricks.’ God knew, the composing of the thing would be hard enough without having to concern himself with other eyes than his catching sight of the letter.

‘Very good, my lord.’

When he was sure that the valet and secretary had left him alone in the room, he put pen to ink, and hoped for the best.

Dear Emily,

Now he was lost as to what he must say next. He got the little miniature back out of his pocket, rubbed his finger across the face of it again and set it next to the letter. It did not matter what was truly there. For a little while longer, he must believe in what he wanted to see.

Almost without thinking, he picked it up and touched it again. It had been years since he’d seen Emily. And now that she was lost to him, he regretted not having looked at her more when he’d had the chance.

He dipped his pen again.

How are you faring in London?

No, that would not do. She would look at the line and think that if her welfare concerned him, he should have come and seen for himself long before now. Hendricks had said she’d thrown the last letter into the fire, just as he had the note from Rupert.

But he could not very well lead with a demand that she reveal the identity of her lover. Or a description of the events that had made his contacting her necessary. There had to be some preamble, some words that she would want to hear that would make her read more than a line or two.

And so he wrote the words that he knew she most deserved to hear.

I am sorry. Sorry for so many things that I hardly know where to start. But you have felt the sting of my neglect, and could give me a beginning, if I asked. Was it worse that I abandoned you? Or that I married you at all in the slipshod, neglectful way that I did, never asking your opinion in the matter, or taking the time to know your mind on the subject? I am sure that rumours of my disgraceful behaviour in London have reached you. Too many of those rumours are true. And I am sorry for the shame that they might have caused you.

And for burdening you with the responsibility of my property and all that it entails, I am equally sorry. If it gave you pleasure, then I am glad of it. But if it caused you pain or worry to take on the part of a man while receiving none of the privileges, then I am sorry for that as well.

He paused to wet his pen again. How could he tell her the rest?

I wish to assure you that none of what has happened between us is any fault of yours. In many ways, you are a better wife than I deserved.

All perfectly true, if a trifle understated. The fault lies with me.

I am blind.

Say it, he commanded himself, as though he could order his hand to move and write the words. Just say it. No dancing about.

There are certain impediments to our marriage.

No, that was not right. It sounded as if he had another wife.

Problems.

And that was too small. She was well aware that there were problems, unless she was as blind as he.

I am unable to be the husband that you deserve.

And that made him sound impotent. He cast another paper to the floor. He began again.

I have been hiding from you the cause of our separation. I find that I am unable to explain the difficulty, and my conscience can no longer bear the weight of the secret. Were I to come into your presence, it would be plain enough. And so, my dear, I think it is time that we talked. If you are as bothered by this prolonged separation as I am, then I would have you come to my rooms this evening to discuss it. And if you are not, then I will plead all the harder that you grant me an hour of your time. If you cast this on the fire, as you did the last missive, know that I will not relent until we have spoken.

I think I have guessed the reason for your recent visit, and there are things that must be settled between us before any more time passes. For my part, I wish to begin again and start fresh as though the last years that passed have never occurred.

If you do not, I can hardly blame you. If another has captured your affection, then I am glad for him and will regret my folly for waiting too long and losing the chance for happiness between us.

Either way, if you come to me tonight, you need have no fear of reproach. You will find me a humbled man, willing to take any course of action that puts your happiness ahead of my own. With my most heartfelt respect.

His pen hovered for a moment and added, ‘and love’, before signing his name. After the last week, it would be a lie to say that she had all his love. But she held the place closest to his heart.

And now, he began the other letter that he knew he must write. He scribbled the words hurriedly, not caring how they would look, just wishing to be done with it before he changed his mind, or said something he might regret. Then he blotted the ink, and fumbled for the wax and seal as he waited for it to cool. He addressed only one paper with a name and called for Hendricks, handing his secretary the two letters. ‘One to my lover. If you do not know by now how to reach her, then wait for evening and send this back in the carriage I know she will send. And the other …’ he moved the second letter carefully to the side ‘… to Emily.’ He smiled. ‘And careful not to confuse the two. That would be rather embarrassing.’

From the silence from the man, and his rather abrupt movement in reaching for the papers, Adrian could feel the disapproval crackling in the air.

‘I know you think less of me because of my behaviour towards Emily, Hendricks.’

‘I have no opinion on the matter, my lord.’

‘Nonsense. If you weren’t so damned polite, you’d have told me so to my face, long before now.’

There was another telling silence, rather than the quick denial of an honest man.

‘If it is any consolation to you, there will be no more of this after today. I have chosen in a way that will do credit to my family and to myself.’

‘Very well, my lord.’ Hendricks was a good man. But he could not manage to sound pleased by this either, managing to say too much, in no words at all.

‘But while I have much to be ashamed of, and much to apologise for, I cannot feel guilty for what has happened. Although I have tried to do so, I simply cannot. The woman I have been with has loved me. Truly, and for myself. Not the title, but the man and all his flaws. It is not something I have experienced before. It was a wonderful thing, Hendricks.’

‘I would not know, sir.’

Adrian bit his tongue to hide his surprise. Was it possible that he had misunderstood the reason for the man’s hesitance when speaking of Emily? Or perhaps it was that she did not return his feelings for her. If so, there was hope for him, though it might come at the expense of his friend.

But then, who was the source of the rumours about her?

And here was another unexpected gift from his lover. The sudden ability to feel sorry for someone other than himself. ‘That is truly a pity, Hendricks. I hope, for your sake, that your circumstances change. Love, whether given or received, is transformative, in and of itself.’

And then he sat back in the desk, knowing that there was little for him to do but wait.

Chapter Eighteen

Emily sipped her morning chocolate, stretching luxuriously under the silk wrapper she wore. Lord, but she was stiff. And it made her blush to think of the reason for those sore muscles. Her darling Adrian had loved her quite enthusiastically.

And he had loved his wife as well. Her heart had ached afterwards almost as much as her body did now, to see him curled against her, broken by his betrayal of both the women he imagined were a part of his life. And she had wanted to reveal herself to him, to ease his suffering.

But a small part of her had cautioned her to stay silent. And as she thought about it, that bit had grown, reminding her that he was not the only one to suffer for his actions. Her misery had lasted for nearly the whole time she had known him. And his could last a day more. At least until his repentance bore fruit, and he made some kind of overture to the woman he had promised before God to cherish.

There was a knock at the door, and her maid informed her that Mr Hendricks was waiting in the sitting room with news for her. Emily gave a quick glance in the mirror to be sure that the robe she wore was decent enough to receive company, tightened the belt under her breasts and went out to greet her husband’s secretary.

He held two sealed papers out to her and said, ‘He has written to you. In both your guises. I was instructed to be sure not to confuse the letters, to take the first one immediately to his wife, and that if I did not know the direction to you here, to send this with the coach that would come for him in the evening.’

‘I see.’ So whatever he had to say, he meant to speak first to his wife on the matter. Emily weighed the two pieces of paper in her hand, trying to guess the contents without opening them, and nodded absently to Hendricks, directing him to await her replies.

Did it really matter which she opened first? For if she had read the situation correctly, they would be two sides of the coin. She must trust, now that she had met the man, that the pair of them were not full of lies.

She cracked the seal on the one that bore no name, and read.

My love.

It is with difficulty that I pen these words to you. More than the usual difficulty, of course.

So he had taken the time to joke with her? The news must be bad, indeed.

But it seems some things are better written, for they prevent me from avoiding what could be an unpleasant truth.

In this, she was very much in sympathy.

I have taken your suggestion, and written to Emily, in hopes of resolving the difficulties in our marriage. After last night, I proved to both of us that I cannot leave the spectre of her between us any longer. And I know that you will understand when I say I have no desire to hurt you, any more than I did my poor wife.

Obviously. Her eyes rushed down the uneven lines on the page.

And know also that I would not have had the nerve to face this, had it not been for the time spent in your arms. It has brought about a change in me. A change for the better.

She smiled, thinking how nice it was that he would say so.

This evening, should my wife desire it, I will return home to face what future there is for me, and you will see me no more. I beg you, my darling, understand that I would not leave you were it my choice. For this time we have spent together has been some of the happiest of my life. The past days with you have been closer to perfection than any man deserves. And thus, I fear, they cannot last.

Your words of love were not unwelcome. And though I wish I could say otherwise, I hold honour too dear to reciprocate them. My first obligation must be to the woman I married, and I can no longer fulfil it from a distance, any more than your husband can for you.

Emily had his duty. Which was all well and good. But love would be better.

If my wife rejects me, which I fear is quite possible, then I will write to you immediately and you will know that my heart has no claim on it. It is yours to command, should you still wish it. Half of it is already yours, and always will be.

But whether we be together or parted, Emily has the other half. And the better portion, for it was the one I gave first.

She stopped reading for a moment, and looked at the other letter, wondering if it was half as sweet. Then she returned to the one in her hand.

If I had known you three years ago, I like to think that things might have been different and that I would be at your side today. But if you have the love for me that you claim to, I pray you, wish me well in this most difficult decision and let me go. I must try to make my Emily happy, just as I wish you all the happiness in the world.

For ever yours, Adrian.

Without thinking, she clutched the paper to her lips and kissed it. Then she tore the seal on the next letter, and read what he had to say to his wife.

It was cautious. Polite. And shorter. And when she got to the line about his being humbled, she almost laughed aloud. Even in humbleness, he was more proud than any two other men.

But his willingness to put her pleasure before his own? She thought of how he had treated her when he took her to bed. He had proven that he could do that so often that it made her blush to think about it.

She kissed the second letter as well. Fondly at first. And then touching her tongue quickly to the paper and thinking of how it would be, tonight, when she came to him in his own bed. A marriage bed. Just as it ought to have been between them all along.

Was this not the best of both worlds? She was his lover, and had half his heart for the asking. And she was his wife as well, and commanded his honour and loyalty, along with the rest of his love. He would be her faithful servant, if she wished to take him back. And though he came to her with head bowed, she would make sure that he lost nothing by it. They would both gain by his homecoming.

Once they got past the surprise he would get on learning her identity.

Emily smiled to herself and dismissed it. Surely that would be as nothing. It would set his mind to rest to realise that the woman he loved and the woman he had married were one and the same.

From his place in front of her, Hendricks cleared his throat, reminding her that she was not alone. ‘Well?’

She smiled up at him. ‘He has chosen me. Me. Emily.’

The man at her side looked confused, as though he did not see a distinction. ‘Was there ever any doubt?’

‘Surprisingly, there was. And now I must go to him, and explain the meaning of his choice, as gently as possible.’

‘I suppose you will expect me to come along in this, to support you when it goes wrong.’ Hendricks was glaring at her. His tone was sharp, as though he had any right to question her activities.

‘I do not expect you to make the explanation for me, if that is what you fear,’ she said back, equally annoyed. ‘It is my husband who leaves you to write his messages for him, not I.’

‘While you have never made me write them, you have had no qualms in making me carry them,’ he reminded her. ‘You have forced me to lie to a man who is not just my employer, but an old friend.’

‘As he forced you to lie to me,’ she said.

‘But he did it in an effort to protect you,’ Hendricks answered. ‘Can you say the same?’

‘What makes you think you can question me on my marriage? After all this time, neither of you has cared to inform me of the truth. If I choose to keep a secret for a matter of days, you have no right to scold me.’

‘I do not do it to scold,’ he said, more softly, ‘but because I know Folbroke and his pride. He will think you did what you did to amuse yourself with his ignorance.’

‘And now, after all this time, I do not know if I care,’ she admitted. ‘If what I have done annoys him? Then it will pay him back for the hurt I suffered, all the time he has been away. When he did not know me, and I told him the truth of our marriage, he did not recognise that, any more than he did me. He thought my husband’s treatment of me was unfair. And he had admitted the same of his treatment to his wife.’

‘Then you must realise that he has suffered as well,’ Hendricks said.

She spread her arms wide, to encompass the problem. ‘And tonight, he will apologise for it. And I will apologize for tricking him. And then the matter will be settled.’

Hendricks laughed. ‘You really think it will be that easy. And have you thought what you will do if he does not forgive you? He might well cast you off for this. And if he does, he will be in far worse shape than you found him in.’

‘It will not come to that,’ she insisted, but suddenly felt a doubt.

‘If it does, he will not last long. You will have taken his hope from him. It might be more merciful of you to leave him with that than to bring him a truth that comes too late.’

What good would it do her to leave him his fantasy, and destroy any hope she had that they would ever be together? And what would become of her, if she could not have him?

Then she remembered Adrian’s suspicions about his secretary’s interest in the unobtainable Emily. And she said the words that she was sure both dreaded, but that needed to be spoken. For if there was any truth in what her husband took as a fact, than she must settle it now, once and for all. ‘Mr Hendricks, if there is something else you have to say on your hopes for my future, then you had best say it, and clear the air between us. But before you do, know that I decided on the matter from the first moment I laid eyes on Adrian Longesley, many years ago and long before I met you. Nothing said by another is likely to change me on the subject at this late date.’

She waited in dread that Hendricks might speak what he was really thinking and thus ruin their friendship and any chance of his continued employment.

There was a pause that was longer than simple circumspection. And then, he said nothing more than a curt, ‘I understand that, my lady. And I have nothing to say.’ And for a moment, she could see that he smouldered with frustration and a range of other emotions inappropriate to his station. Then they submerged beneath the surface again, leaving him the placid and efficient secretary she had grown to depend on. ‘I will accompany you this evening to assure Lord Folbroke that there is no hidden motivation to your actions, and that all was done in his best interest. But I suspect that although he may say he loves you both, it might not extend to an easy forgiveness to all of us who have had a part in this attempt at reconciliation.’

As the afternoon changed to evening, Adrian paced the floor of his sitting room, wondering if he had done the right thing. After a few false moves, he had learned to correct his course to avoid the pianoforte that still blocked the corner. And he wondered—would he ever have to explain the thing? Or would Emily take it as a given that it had come with the rooms? Perhaps she would expect him to show some interest in playing it, just as its giver had done.

If she did, he would admit his ignorance, but would submit meekly to lessons, if they were necessary to keep the peace. And if, each time he touched the keys, he thought of someone else?

It would be better if he did not think of the thing at all, and suggest they remove to Derbsyshire. It would give them a chance to discuss their differences in private, and he would be far from temptation. And if necessary, it would disguise the length of Emily’s confinement.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, realising that it made no difference. His progress across the room was unaffected, and it did nothing to shut out the pictures in his mind of his wife growing big with another man’s child. One did not need eyes to see one’s thoughts.

But he had told himself for over a year that this was likely to happen, and that it would not bother him. Now he must survive the future he’d created with as much grace as he could manage. Tonight could not be about recriminations. He had promised something quite different in his letter.

And had that been the correct course of action? Perhaps it would have been better to go to her, rather than expecting her to come to him? It would have shown more respect.

And that would have left him fumbling his way through Eston’s town house, demonstrating the worst of his condition before he had a chance to speak to her. Or, worse yet, he’d have discovered she was at her rooms.

‘Hendricks?’

‘He has not yet returned, my lord,’ said the footman who had come into the room to bring his afternoon tea.

Now Adrian imagined his secretary and his wife in the process of a tearful parting, spending a languid afternoon alone in each other’s arms.

He sat and took a sip of tea, scalding his tongue and focusing on the real pain instead of the imagined one. He must not doubt his choices, now that they had been made. Here, in his own home, he could show to best advantage that he was not the helpless invalid she might fear him to be. He had told his man to take care with his dressing, that everything about him must be just so, clean and unrumpled. And he had not taken so much as a drop of wine with his noon meal, that there would be no evidence of excess in his diet. He would hold himself with a posture worthy of a dress parade, so that, in the first glance she had of him after so much time, she would think him strong, capable and worthy.

Yet he knew them to be superficial changes that might not be enough. Perhaps it would be better if he were not alone for this. He was blind. And he had not told her. There was no way to excuse that.

He called out to the footman, ‘Parker, I wish to see Mr David Eston. Send someone to his rooms and request his presence, tonight, a little before seven. Explain to him that his sister will be visiting me. And that we may require his assistance in a delicate matter.’ Her brother could act as a buffer between them and escort Emily home, should the worst occur and she rejected him.

But if she was truly in a delicate condition, it was unfair of him to expect her to weather this alone.

Chapter Nineteen

That night, Emily twisted nervously upon the handkerchief in her hands as they came into her husband’s lodgings. Hendricks glanced at her and then at the footman, waving aside an announcement of their entrance. Then he threw himself down on a bench by the front door as though he suspected the need for a hasty retreat and gestured towards the sitting-room door. ‘He will be there, waiting for you,’ he said in a surly voice. ‘I am staying here. Call if you need me.’ He glared up at the footman, as though daring the man to find anything odd about the situation and said, ‘Parker, bring me a brandy. A large one.’ And then he stared at the opposite wall as though he had arrived alone and unwelcome in the home of strangers.

Emily walked down the hall and away from him, hesitating on the threshold of the room where she knew her husband waited.

But the pause had been without purpose, for she could not have turned and left unnoticed. Adrian’s head lifted eagerly at the faint scuffling of her slippers. ‘Emily?’ He listened for the clock. ‘You are early.’ He stood at her approach and her heart nearly stopped at the look on his face and the way he reached out to the doorway, welcoming her through it. He was wearing a coat of midnight-blue wool that lay smooth over his broad shoulders. Black trousers covered his well-shaped legs without a wrinkle. His cravat was a Mathematical and starched to an almost painful formality, and his boots gleamed in the candlelight as though his valet had made it a life’s mission to show her the reflection of her entrance back into her husband’s life.

It was a stark contrast to the casual handsomeness that he normally showed her. He had wished to look his best when they finally met.

And then he seemed to lift his face and scent the air. There was a growing look of alarm in his blank eyes. He had recognised her even before she spoke.

‘Adrian?’ she said softly.

His hand dropped and his smile faltered, becoming a frown. ‘I am sorry. I was not expecting …’

‘Perhaps you were.’

They both paused then, trying to decide who should speak next. She closed the distance between them, coming behind his desk to lay her hands on his face in reassurance. He closed his fingers over hers and felt the ring she had taken from her jewellery case for the occasion.

‘Your wedding ring,’ he said.

‘It belonged to your mother,’ she reminded him. ‘I have not been wearing it for some time. It is quite heavy. And I found the continual reminder … difficult.’ Then she brushed his fingers over her own features so there could be no doubt that he knew her for who she was. ‘There is something I must explain to you.’

‘I expect there is.’ His voice was as crisp and tight as his cravat.

‘Our first meeting was not by chance. I sought you out.’

‘I know that,’ he said. ‘But I did not know that you had found me.’ He pulled his hand from her grasp and away from her face.

‘Mr Hendricks warned me that I would not like what I found.’

‘Hendricks.’ Adrian gave her a cool smile. ‘Why am I not surprised that he was involved in this?’

‘But I insisted he take me to you. I did not know how horrible the place was, and when you rescued me …’

‘Lucky for you that I did, my lady,’ he said. ‘To go there demonstrated no care for your virtue or your safety.’

It had not bothered him so much when he had thought her another man’s wife. But perhaps she deserved his scorn. ‘I was wrong. I know that now, and will not make the same mistake again. But you saved me from my own foolishness. And you were so heroic. And when you kissed me? It was just as I’d always imagined it could be.’

He pulled her close to him suddenly, and the contact was more frightening than comforting. ‘And now you will tell me that you have spent our time apart, dreaming of the taste of my lips. Please spare me the poetry, for there is much more to this story, I am sure.’

She turned her head away from his sightless stare. For the first time since she’d found him, it was unsettling her. ‘I wanted to be with you. But there was so much wrong.’

‘Finally. We come to the meat of it,’ he said.

‘What if you laughed at me? What if you rejected me, once you knew?’

He pushed her away from him, and turned away from her to face the fire. ‘And in an unguarded moment, I told you that such a rejection was unlikely. That I suspected already, and would forgive you anything. Why did you not tell me the truth then?’

She struggled to remember what he had said that might have been a cue to a revelation, and could think of not one thing that mattered more than any other. ‘I did not tell you because I did not want what we were doing to end. It had not yet been as it was last night.’

‘But now that I have planted my seed in you, you have nothing to fear. You know there is no chance I will cast you off, now that you might carry my heir.’

‘Adrian,’ she said, disappointed, ‘that is not what I meant at all.’

‘Then perhaps you should explain again. For I fail to see any other logical explanation for your behaviour.’

There was a commotion from the hall. The sound of Hendricks’s voice raised in protest, and the curt dismissal of someone who had no intention of listening to him. Parker’s voice was raised as well, so that he could be heard over the din and making his usual offers of assistance and announcement.

‘Emily.’ Her brother burst into the room, staring at the two of them together. ‘It is about time that you have come to your senses. When I heard that you were invited here tonight, I was afraid I would have to drag you to the meeting. Or do you think that this is the result of your plans to sort your affairs?’

‘David. What are you doing here?’

Adrian said, more to the fireplace than to them, ‘I invited him because I feared that the shock of discovering my condition might unsettle your delicate nerves.’

‘Your condition?’ David strode across the room to her husband and seized him by the shoulder, passing a hand in front of his face. ‘Adrian, what is this I hear about you from Anneslea? It is a joke, is it not, for I saw you just last week.’

‘But I did not see you,’ Adrian responded, laughing bitterly, and slapped his hand away. ‘I have enough sight left to know that you are waggling your fingers in front of my eyes, trying to catch me in a trick. I can see the shadow of them. But that is all. Now stop it, or I will find sight enough to thrash you for the impudence of it.’

‘And you let me stand here yammering at you the other day and said nothing about a problem. You let me think you were drunk. Or were you drunk? I no longer know what to believe out of you.’ She could see the anger and confusion clouding David’s face, and held up a warning hand, hoping that he would not muddy the situation any more than it already was.

‘You can safely believe that I did not tell you, because it was none of your damned business. Any of it,’ her husband snapped. Then he pushed David away and walked back to her, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to his side. A hand came up to her face, and his head cocked to the side as he traced the lines of her, as though trying to replace this image with the one he held in his mind. His other hand released her, reaching for the miniature, as though there were some way left to compare the two.

‘Then you shouldn’t have invited me into the middle of things tonight,’ David shouted at the back of his head. ‘And you.’ Her brother stared at her, almost shaking with rage. ‘It was him, all along, wasn’t it? I do not know which is worse—that you do not admit to the world that you are together again, or that you could not at least admit it to me.’

Adrian smiled at her. And his expression was so cold and heartless that she was glad he could not see her fear. ‘Oh, I think there is much more that needs to be confessed, if you wish to know the whole of the story, isn’t there, Emily?’

‘Certainly not.’ Surely he did not expect her to tell her own brother the most intimate details of the last few days.

‘You could at least assure David that he was right in his assumptions about your entertaining another gentleman under our very noses.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Where had he gotten such ideas?

Adrian looked at her brother. ‘Your little sister has led me a merry dance, David. She tricked me into thinking she was another woman, rather than admitting from the first that she was my wife. She would not even give me a name, because she said I would know her in an instant, should she give me the smallest clue to her identity.’ He laughed. ‘And I have been dangling after her for days like a lovesick idiot, racked with guilt at my betrayal of my wife and the depths of feeling I had developed for this supposed stranger.’

David was staring at her, his anger stifled by bafflement. ‘Why would you do such a foolish thing, Emily? Would not the truth have been simpler?’

‘Oh, I think the answer is obvious,’ Adrian announced. ‘She came to London to trick me into bed, hoping that she could hide the evidence of her infidelity. And when she realised that I could not see, she found it good sport to trick me with lies. I hope that you have gotten sufficient amusement from our time together. For I certainly have.’

She gasped in fury at the thought that he might refer to the things they had done together, even in such an oblique way. ‘Of course, Adrian. Because why would I not find it amusing that my husband had been so long away from me that he did not even know me? Or to have evidence of your frequent infidelity thrust in my face?’

‘My infidelity?’ he shouted back. ‘At least you did not have to drink endless toasts to celebrate the results of it, as I did for you at White’s.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ she said, angry, but still confused.

‘When, exactly, am I to expect the heir you seem to have got for me? Or is the date of delivery to be as much of a surprise as the parentage?’

‘I say …’ David sputtered, ready, once again, to come to her defence. ‘Emily, are you …?’

‘Oh, hush,’ she said, glaring at him. ‘If you have nothing constructive to add, then please refrain from speaking.’ She turned to Adrian and said, ‘I did not tell you the truth because it was apparent, almost from the first day we married, that you wished no part of me.’

‘If my treatment bothered you, then you could have spared yourself the trip to London and written me on the matter. If you had explained your dissatisfaction, we might have discussed the matter like adults.’

She could feel him growing distant again, as though it were possible at this late date to go back to the way they had been. ‘If you had bothered to answer my letters at all. Or told me the whole truth when you did. I had to come to London to see you, to learn about the loss of your sight.’

‘And when you did, you thought it would be easy to trick a blind fool into thinking he’d got you with child so that you would not have to explain yourself.’

‘I have done nothing that needs an explanation. But if you wish to think of yourself as a fool,’ she said, ‘then far be it from me to change your mind. It is clear enough to me that you are little hampered by your condition, when you want something. It is only when you do not get your way that you insist on reminding people of it. If I turned to childish subterfuge, it was in response to my adversary.’

‘I am your adversary now, am I?’ He smiled again, as though satisfied that he understood the situation at last. ‘On second thought, it is well that you came to see me, so that I could know the way of things. It seems that my idealised view of my little country wife was quite naïve. You run the estate because I allow it, and now you have arranged for my successor. And in all the recent foolishness, I have forgotten how well the arrangement suits me. I will return to my diversions, and you may return to Derbyshire with your bastard, secure in the knowledge that I will offer no objections.’ He turned to go into his bedroom and her brother made to go after him.

She placed a hand on David’s arm and pushed him firmly out of the way. ‘I am dismissed again, am I? And I suppose I should not be the least bit surprised by it. It is just as I suspected, from the first. Once you knew who I was, you would want nothing to do with me.’

He turned back to her. ‘I do not want anything to do with a woman who would use my blindness to her own advantage against me.’

‘To my advantage?’ She laughed. ‘And what advantage did I gain that I was not entitled to? In exchange for having you treat me as one might normally treat a wife, I have made every attempt to improve your character. I dare say the man I found was a drunken, suicidal wreck, too steeped in self-pity to be worthy of his estate, his title or the woman he’d married. And now, after the fine promises you made in the last day, you plan a return to that state. By all means, if it pleases you, make yourself as miserable as you do your wife and friends.’

His blank eyes glittered; for a moment, he looked as disappointed by the idea as she was. But then he regained control and stared through her, speaking as though he did not know or care if she was still in the room. ‘This interview is at an end. I find further communication between us to be both unnecessary and unwelcome. If it is absolutely required, we will communicate through an intermediary.’ He turned to walk back into his room. Then he turned back suddenly and said, ‘And for the love of God, woman, choose someone other than Hendricks to carry your messages. Allow me that, at least.’ Then he turned again and disappeared behind the slammed door.

Emily reached for her brother’s arm before the trembling began, for the outpouring of emotion had made her almost physically weak. ‘Take me home, David. I wish to go home.’

She did not have the heart to tell him that his obvious rage at her husband was totally lost on the man, who had not seen the dark scowls he was receiving from his own friend. He was helping her through the front door now, to his carriage.

And for a moment she thought she heard the sound she longed for. A call from the open door behind her, the sound of contrite footsteps hurrying down the tiles of the entry hall. A sign that her husband wanted her, now that he knew who she was.

But there was nothing. Only Hendricks, standing framed in the open doorway.

She turned away from him, far too confused to seek his comfort. Instead, she leaned upon her brother’s arm with her whole weight, letting him lead her the rest of the way to her seat. When they were safely inside the carriage, she thought about allowing herself the luxury of tears. But they would only reveal what she suspected her brother already knew: how deeply Adrian’s latest rejection had hurt her.

David was staring out of the back window in the direction of Adrian’s flat, as though he could not quite believe how suddenly and totally wrong the evening had been. Then, he turned to her, accusing her with his eyes. ‘You could at least have told me about the child.’

‘There is no child,’ she snapped.

‘Then why did he think there was?’

‘Possibly because my own brother came to warn him about my affair.’ She hoped he did not expect some sort of absolution for all the trouble his meddling had caused her.

‘I am sorry. I did not know.’

She said, ‘You could not be expected to. The circumstances were … unusual. But in future, when I request you not to intervene, I would appreciate your co-operation.’ Then she remembered the comment about his afternoon at his club. ‘And I think it was Rupert who misled him about my supposed pregnancy. You only added fuel to the fire.’

Her brother fell silent for a time, and then said, ‘Perhaps, once he has had time to think, he will relent and come to you.’

‘Or perhaps not. He is a very proud man. And I have hurt him.’

‘He is afraid of exposure.’

‘He is no coward,’ she argued.

‘Of course not,’ her brother said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘He merely hid a problem from us, for our own good. He feared the family would remove the title from him.’ And then he added more thoughtfully, ‘There is a chance we could do it, you know. He has been behaving little better than a madman, shirking his responsibilities, risking life and limb. Perhaps we could arrange an annulment, if this is a family condition. If you had been together, then the children—’

‘No,’ she snapped back. ‘There is nothing wrong with his mind. It is only his eyes.’ She glared at her brother, daring him to oppose her. ‘You were quick enough to marry me off to him when he was your friend. And still content when he left me. You cannot just grab me back, three years down the road, because you fear that he is likely to leave me childless and lose the entail.’

‘It is not that at all, Emily.’ David groaned in frustration. ‘Why must everyone expect the worst from me? Can you truly be happy with him, in his condition? He will be helpless, and you will need to care for him, just as you would a child.’

‘You know nothing of him, and what he can do,’ she said hotly. ‘He is quite capable, when he has a mind to be. As sharp as he ever was. And if he needs my help?’ She lifted her chin. ‘I have been waiting for the chance to be his helpmeet for some time. And if there is to be a baby, there can be no question of it being anyone’s but his.’

Her brother raised his hands in front of him, in a gesture of helplessness, as though afraid to ask for further explanation. ‘I swear, it all grows more confusing, the longer you explain it to me.’

‘It is very simple. All that I have done, I’ve done out of love for Adrian. And I think, given the time, he will realise that he feels the same for me.’

David looked at her doubtfully. ‘Very well. If a reconciliation with him is what you wish, then I hope you succeed in it. But after today’s interview, it appears that Adrian is just as stubborn as he ever was at avoiding his marriage to you.’

And remembering what she had told herself on coming to London, she should be satisfied with the results of the visit. She had been with him, in the way a wife should be with a husband. She had assured herself that he was indeed alive, and Rupert had been assured of his well-being. She had ascertained the reason for his absence. If he continued to remain apart from her, she would at least know why. And in the end she had managed to speak clearly to him and to make him well aware of her displeasure at the separation.

She had succeeded in all the things she’d set out to do.

And done the one thing she had never meant to. She had fallen truly in love with her husband.

Chapter Twenty

When his guests had left him, Adrian stormed back to his sitting room, still furious with the way he had been tricked. Emily had known him from the first moment. And had taunted him with the knowledge the whole time they had been together. How she must have laughed, to hold that from him, just out of reach.

The servants had known as well, for they had known her when she’d brought him home from the tavern. And Hendricks had been complicit in the elaborate scheme, for she could not have managed it without his help. Everyone surrounding him had kept mum on the truth, smirking as he mooned over his own wife, pitying him for the poor blind fool he was.

If they had the time to laugh, then perhaps they did not have enough to occupy their time. He swept a hand across his desk in the corner, sending pen, inkwell and writing frame all to the floor in a heap. He pulled down the books on the shelves as well, useless things that they were now that he could not see them. He upended the piano stool, and wishing he had discovered enough about the instrument to destroy the thing so that it would never trouble him with memories again. He slammed the lid down over the keys, and his fingers touched the decanter of brandy that had been set on top of it. To a man who did not play, such a thing was little better than a makeshift table.

His fingers closed around the neck of the bottle and he imagined the sound of shattering crystal, and the sight of the brandy, running in fine rivulets down the wall, or dripping amongst the piano strings, and the pungent scent of the spilled liquor …

Then he stopped. It would be better to drink the stuff than to waste a chance at oblivion. No need for a glass …

His arm froze with the bottle halfway to his mouth, and he held it there. How much of the last year had he spent just that way? Blundering about, breaking things and drinking. Time drifting by, and him neither knowing nor caring how it passed. How long had it been since he had given up even trying to care?

His Emily had been waiting at home for him, doing her best. She had said as much, hadn’t she, when she’d told him about her marriage? How she worried that it had been her fault he’d left. And how frightened she had been at first that he would reject her again. She had been sure that if he ever really knew her, it would be all over between them. He had made it his mission to prove otherwise.

In the end, she had been right. The moment he had learned her identity, he’d sent her away.

She had been quite accepting of his truth when she had learnt it. He had assured her that there was nothing on earth his wife could do to lose his trust, for the fault of their parting had been his, and his alone.

Still holding the brandy, he stooped to the floor, fumbling to pick up the books around his feet. How much damage had he done in his rush to destroy what he could not appreciate? The wreckage around him was the result of another selfish act on his part. Just one of many in the last few years.

But when had he ever learned to be otherwise? He thought of how angry he had been with his father’s foolish disregard for the future of the family. And how angry his father had been, when talking of Grandfather. All of them angry at fate for the hand that they had been dealt.

But while Emily might be cross with him for his treatment of her, she worked to change the things that made her unhappy and made the best of the rest.

She accepted him.

He took a deep breath and walked through the debris to the door, opening it suddenly on the shadow waiting in the hall.

‘Hendricks.’

‘Yes, milord.’ It was not the usual calm tone of his old friend, but the clipped words of a man simmering with rage.

Adrian cleared his throat, wishing he could call back any of the last fifteen minutes. ‘It seems I have had an embarrassing display of temper.’

‘I can see that.’

‘It will not happen again.’

‘Not to me, at least. I am giving my notice.’

For a moment, he felt the same as he had when his eyes started to fail him. As though everything he’d taken for granted had slipped away. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I am always serious, sir. You comment often on my lack of humour.’

‘It was never an issue, when we met,’ Adrian reminded him. ‘On the Peninsula, you were quite good company.’

‘And you never used to be such a damned fool.’ The blow seemed to come from nowhere as Hendricks kicked the brandy bottle from his hand. It hit the floor with a thump, and Adrian could hear the glug of the liquid spilling from it, and the smell of it soaking into the rug.

‘Perhaps not.’ Adrian stood, straightening to full height and taking a step forwards, knowing that whether he saw it or not, he still towered over his friend. It would not be wise to let him think he could strike twice. ‘But then I did not have to worry about you lying to me to cement your position with my wife. You have known of this charade from the beginning, haven’t you?’

‘Of course. Because I am not blind.’ Hendricks had added the last to goad him, he was sure.

‘I can think of only one reason that you would go along with such nonsense. Rupert told me, yesterday, that Emily was with child.’

Hendricks gave a hiss of surprise, and stifled an oath.

‘And I assume that the child is yours, and that you rushed her to London so that she might lie with me as well and there would be some assumption of legitimacy.’ Adrian laughed. ‘Why you would think such a thing might work, I have no idea. I do not need my eyesight to count to nine.’

Hendricks swore aloud now, as Adrian had not heard him do since their days in the army. ‘You really are an idiot, Folbroke. And it amazes me that I had not noticed it before now. Do you wish to hear how I found your wife, when I went to her today?’

‘The truth from you would be a welcome change,’ Adrian snapped back.

‘Very well, then. When I saw her this morning, she was nothing like that silly picture you carry of her. The miniature that you have worn to the bone with your fondling is of a rather plain, ordinary young girl. But the woman I saw today was fresh from bed, and wearing nothing but a blue silk wrapper. She had tied it tight under her breasts in a way that left little to the imagination. And as she sat, the skirt slipped open and I could see her ankles, and the slope of her bare calf.’

Adrian’s hand clenched, wishing that he had the bottle again so that he could strike out at the voice and shut the man’s mouth for good.

‘She took the letters you sent her, and read both of them in quick succession. She sighed over them. She kissed them. She all but made love to the paper while I stood there like an idiot, admiring her body and wishing that just once she might give me an instruction that did not involve running back to you. But nothing has changed. In regards to men other than the Earl of Folbroke, she is every bit as blind as you are to her.’

‘So you know nothing about this supposed child?’

There was a long pause, as though the next words were difficult. ‘She has been faithful to you. From the moment you married. I would stake my life on it. There is no way she can be pregnant.’

‘But at White’s, Rupert said—’

Hendricks cut him off. ‘If you had used the brains you used to have, you would consider the source of the rumour, and remember that your cousin is an even bigger fool than you.’

To the trained ear of someone who had no choice but to listen, there was as much emotion in the last speech as there had been in the first. Regret, frustration and jealousy of a husband so unworthy of the devotion he had received from his beautiful wife.

Adrian knew the feelings, for he had felt them himself when he’d thought of Emily.

‘You are right,’ Adrian said at last. ‘If there is any truth at all, or any explanation that can be made, I should have asked her for it, rather than trusting the man who wants nothing more than to ensure that I do not have a child. And I think I understand your reasons for leaving me as well.’ For how awkward would it be if Adrian apologised to his wife and they all went back to Derbyshire together. The two of them, living side by side in the same house, both loving the same woman? And all the worse for Hendricks, forced to witness their happiness, and to know that though Adrian was his equal in ability and his inferior in temperament, he had the superior rank, and the unwavering love of his countess.

He put the thoughts of Emily aside for the moment and said, ‘You will have letters of reference, of course. And anything you might need.’

‘I have already written them.’

Adrian laughed. ‘I expected no less from you. You are damned efficient, when you set about to do something.’ He stepped over the bottle on the floor and gripped the man by the hand. ‘I trust that I was effusive in my praise of you. And generous in my severance?’

‘Of course, my lord.’

‘I expected nothing less of me. You have been invaluable as an aide. And you shall always be welcome in my house, as a guest, should you ever wish to return there.’

‘I do not think I will be back for some time,’ Hendricks said. ‘If things go as I expect, you will be too busy for company, at least until after the new year.’

‘Next year, then. The fishing is good in the run at Folbroke. You still fancy trout, do you not?’

‘I do indeed, my lord.’

‘Then you must be sure that the money I give to you in parting is enough so that you might live comfortably on it for twelve months and then visit me as a man of leisure before taking another post. I will not take no for an answer.’

‘Of course, my lord.’ It would have felt deuced odd to touch the man’s face, after all these years. But suddenly, as though there had been a change between them, it was hard to read any truth in Hendricks’s words. Adrian had heard the worry and frustration plain in the man’s voice for so long that the sudden absence of it was like a void in the room. It had been foolish of him to think that there could ever be mockery or cruel deception. ‘Hendricks, I am sorry. I understand that I have not been an easy master …’

‘Lord Folbroke. There is no need—’

He held up a hand to forestall the man’s excuses. ‘It is true. But there will be no more nonsense after today. If you mean to leave me in the hands of my good wife, I will be an amiable man and not trouble her unnecessarily.’

‘Very good, my lord.’ There was blessed relief in the man’s voice, as though he had given him compensation beyond money in that one little plan.

‘Of course, I shall have to square things away again, after the mess I’ve just made of this interview.’ He dropped out the statement in the most offhand way possible, as though the entire staff had not heard the argument that had just ensued. ‘Eston has taken her back to his town house, I assume?’

‘I believe so, sir. I could send for her, if you wish.’

‘No, that is quite all right. I will go to her.’

‘I will have the carriage brought round.’

‘No.’ An idea had suddenly occurred to him. ‘It is less than a mile from here. And the night is clear, is it not?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Then I shall walk.’

‘I will have a footman accompany you.’

Adrian stood and reached out to grip his old friend’s arm. ‘If you mean to leave me to my own devices, then I will have to learn to do without you.’ Although damned if he knew how. ‘The streets are not crowded. And I remember the way. I will go alone.’

‘Very good, sir.’ There was only a trace of doubt in Hendricks’s voice, which Adrian took to mean that he was not suggesting something beyond the realm of possibility. It was something he had never tried, of course. But his sight was unlikely to get any better. It was high time he learned to navigate the city. They walked together into the front hall, and instead of Parker coming to aid him, he felt the familiar hands of Hendricks helping him into his topcoat and handing him his hat and gloves. Then the door opened, and he sent Adrian on his way with a pat on the back.

And almost as an afterthought, there came from behind him a soft, ‘Take care of her, Adrian.’

‘I mean to, John.’ Then he walked down the steps to the pavement and set out into what might as well have been a wilderness, for all he knew of it.

Chapter Twenty-One

Four steps down, to the street. He felt the edge of the kerb with his cane and stepped a little back from it. And now, a left. It would be two roads down in this direction, he remembered, before turning onto the busier street ahead. He listened closely as he set out, to gauge his surroundings. It was more difficult in darkness than it might have been in the light, for he could not use the rays of the sun to set a direction.

But for this first trip, it was better to be out when the way was not so crowded. He heard a single walker on the other side of the street from him, and remembered that he would have to be cautious of footpads and cutpurses. Though the areas he travelled were good ones, not all that ventured out after dark could be trusted.

He tapped ahead of him with his stick, to make sure there were no obstacles, and set out at a pace that was slower than normal, but still little different from a stroll. He almost stumbled, as the pavement gave way in another kerb. But then he caught himself and stood, looking both ways for changes in the shadows that obscured his sight, and listening for the sound of horses’ hooves and the rattle of carts or carriages.

When he was sure there was nothing, he made sure his course was straight, stepped forwards, and made an uneventful crossing, gaining the opposite side. He proceeded for a little while longer in the same fashion, before everything began to go wrong.

He could hear the increase of traffic around him as the way became busier. While most passers-by gave him a safe space to walk in, he was occasionally jostled and forced to adjust his pace to those around him. The changes in speed made it harder to keep a straight course, and the corner seemed to come much sooner than he expected. Had he passed two or three streets?

Suddenly, he felt a hand, light as a moth’s touch, on the pocket that held his purse.

He caught the tiny wrist easily in the fingers of his left hand. ‘Here, you. What are you about?’

‘Please, sir. I didn’t mean nothing.’ A child. A girl? No. A boy. He was sure of it; though the wrist he held was bony, it did not feel delicate, and the sleeve that it jutted from was rough wool.

‘You just choose to walk with your hand in my pocket, then? No more of this nonsense, boy. You meant to have my purse. And now the Runners shall have you.’

‘Please, sir …’ there was the loud, wet sniff of a child who was near tears and with a perpetual cold ‘… I didn’t mean any harm. And I was hungry.’

‘And I am blind, not stupid. And certainly not as insensate as you expected. I am much harder to sneak up upon, because I pay better attention to small things such as you.’ He gave a frustrated sigh to persuade the boy that he was serious in his intent, but not without sympathy. Then he said, ‘If you want to avoid the law, then you had best prove your worth. I am walking to St James’s Square. Do you know the way?’

‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

‘Then take my hand and lead me the rest of the distance. Keep a sharp eye out and steer me clear of any pickpockets. And I will know if you lead me wrong, so do not try it, or it will be off to the Runners with you.’ Then he pretended to soften. ‘But if you lead me right, there will be a shilling for you, and a nice dinner.’ And at the sound of another sniff, he added, ‘And a clean handkerchief.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He felt a small hand creep into his, and a tug, as the boy turned him, and set off at a brisk pace in the other direction. After a while, he could tell that the boy was honest, for the sounds around him and the echoes off the buildings of the square changed to something more like he had expected.

It annoyed him that, in his first outing, he had proved himself unable to find a house he had visited hundreds of times. Perhaps that meant that he was as helpless as he feared, a useless invalid that would only be a burden to his wife.

Or perhaps it proved that he would manage as best he could, under the circumstances. In any case, it had been better than hiding in his bedroom. Even having accepted aid, he felt an unaccustomed sense of power.

The boy read off the numbers to him as they passed, and then led him up to the door he specified. ‘Here we are, sir.’ The boy was hesitating as though afraid to lift the knocker.

For a moment, Adrian hesitated as well, then mounted the step and fumbled and then grabbed the ring, giving a sharp rap against the wood. ‘Very good.’

‘Lord Folbroke?’ The butler’s greeting was unsure, for it had been a long time since he’d visited. And if the servants’ gossip here was as effective as it was in his own home, the whole household must be buzzing since the return of his wife and her brother.

Adrian gave a nod of affirmation and held out his hat, hoping that the man could understand the nature of his difficulty by the vagueness of his gaze. ‘And an associate,’ he said, gesturing down to the boy with his other hand. ‘Could someone take this young man to the kitchen and feed him? And give him the shilling I have promised him.’ He glanced down in the general direction of the child and heard another sniff. ‘And wipe his nose.’

Then he reached out, and found the boy’s shoulder, giving it a pat. ‘And you, lad. If you are interested in honest work, some might be found for you in my house.’ If he meant to walk the city in future, a guide would not go amiss. And he suspected a child of the streets should know them better than most.

‘Yes, sir,’ the boy answered.

‘Yes, my lord,’ Adrian corrected. ‘Now get some dinner into yourself and wait until I can figure what is to be done with you.’

Then he turned back, looking down the entrance hall of his brother-in-law’s home and trying to remember what he could of the arrangement. The butler stood behind him, still awaiting an explanation. ‘Is my wife in residence?’ he asked. ‘I wish to speak with her.’

He suspected the man had nodded, for there was no immediate answer, so he tipped his head and prompted, ‘I am sorry, I could not hear that.’

The man cleared his throat. ‘Yes, my lord. If you would wait in the salon …’

Adrian felt the touch on his arm, and shrugged it away. ‘If you would describe the way to me, I prefer to walk under my own power.’ The man gave him instructions, and Adrian reached out with his stick to tap the way into the sitting room.

As he crossed the threshold, he heard a gasp from the left, on the other side of the hall. Higher than it should be. There were stairs, certainly. And a woman in soft slippers, running down them with short light steps.

‘Adrian.’ Her voice was breathless and girlish, as he had remembered it, as though she could not quite overcome the awe she felt, and her pace was that of his eager young bride.

But now, before she reached him, she slowed herself so he would not think her too tractable, and changed her tone. ‘Adrian.’ In a few paces she had changed from the girl he’d left to the woman who had come to London for him. She was still angry with him. And pretending to be quite unimpressed with his arrival.

‘You notice I have come to you.’ He held his arms wide for her, hoping that she would step into them.

‘It is about time,’ she said. ‘According to David, you never visit him here any more, though it is not far, and the way is not unknown to your coachman. Not an onerous journey at all. Hardly worthy of comment.’

He stepped a little closer to inhale her scent. Lemons. His mouth watered for her. ‘I did not request a coach. The night is clear, the breeze fresh. And so I walked.’

He thought he heard a faint gasp of surprise.

‘I very nearly got lost along the way. But there was a boy in the street, trying to pick my pocket. And so I caught him, and forced him to help me.’

Now he could imagine the little quirk of her mouth, as though she said the next stern words through half a smile. ‘That was very resourceful of you. There is no shame, you know, admitting that you need help from time to time. Nor should a minor setback on the journey keep you from taking it.’

‘Trying to teach me independence, are you?’

‘I think you do not need teaching in that. It is dependence that you fear.’

‘True enough.’ It had made him resist her for far too long. ‘It was wrong of you to lie to me, you know. I felt quite foolish, to think I had been seducing my own wife.’ And now he had wrong footed it, for that sounded like she was not worth the effort.

The smile was gone from her voice. ‘If you had not kept the truth from me in the first place, then I would not have needed to lie to you. And I doubt you’d have bothered to seduce me at all, had you known who I was. If the first week of our marriage was any indication of our future, you’d have grown bored and left me by now.’ Her voice was smaller, and with the breathless lack of confidence that he remembered from the girl he had married. Then there was the tiniest sniff, as though she might have a tear in her eye at the thought, but it was stifled and replaced with the firmer resolve of the new Emily. ‘And I would have found a less tame lover to satisfy me.’

Damn the woman. He had forgotten her assessment of his abilities, in the early days of their union. And she had chosen to remind him of it, in a common hallway where anyone might hear. He stepped the rest of the way into the salon and pulled her in after him, closing the door so that they could be alone together. Then he let the heat of anger spread lower in him, to change to another kind of heat entirely. ‘Or you would have learned to speak aloud what you wished from me, so that you were sure I understood. I am blind, you know, and need an understanding woman.’ He tried to sound pitiful.

But she was having none of it. ‘Your eyes were good enough when we married, and yet you were blind to my charms.’

‘Which are considerable,’ he added. ‘Given a little time, I’d have discovered them. It is far more likely that I would have crept away to London by now just to get some rest.’ He leaned closer to her, so that he could whisper into her ear, ‘I swear, after only a week in your company, I am exhausted by your appetites.’

‘Exhausted already?’ She was definitely smiling again. ‘I thought it was just getting interesting. But, of course, you had already begun to think of another while you bedded me. Some paragon of innocence and common sense named Emily who is most unlike me.’ She caught him by the lapel and fumbled in his coat pocket to be sure that the locket was still where he always carried it. ‘And she is most unattractive, to judge by this likeness.’

He gripped her wrist to stay her hand. ‘She is a goddess.’

‘Your picture of her is spoiled.’

‘And yet I am loathe to part with it. It got me through Talavera unscathed, and many other battles after that one. I do not need to see it, for I carried it halfway across Portugal and I memorised every line.’

‘Really.’ There was a quiet awe in her voice as she softened to him, and he knew he had won. ‘But I am not the girl in the picture any more. I have changed, Adrian.’

He eased the locket from her hand, and replaced it in his pocket, marvelling that he had not known her from the first. ‘Not as much as you think. You were beautiful then, and you are beautiful now. Emily,’ he said, enjoying the sound of the word on his lips and the little cooing noise she made when he named her. ‘Emily.’ His body tightened in anticipation, just knowing she was with him after so long. ‘Have I ever told you how completely I love you?’

‘I don’t believe you have.’ She leaned against him until his shoulders bumped against the door behind them.

‘I expect you will hear it frequently, now that I have returned to you.’ He kissed her gently, marvelling at how right it felt, holding her close, enjoying the warmth of her body, the now familiar curves of it, and the smell of her hair, and wondering why he had been foolish enough to deny himself.

And then he remembered what she had said to him on the night that they had spoken of their marriages. ‘Three times?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You told me that your husband had made love to you only three times, before leaving you.’

‘Yes, Adrian,’ she said, giving an impatient little stamp of her foot. ‘Of course, the number is greater after this week. Now it is four. Or perhaps four and a half. I am not sure how to count some of the things that have happened.’

‘But still. Three times.’ He shook his head in amazement. ‘I could swear it was more.’

‘And you would be wrong. It was only three.’ She pressed her body tight to his. ‘Now you are treating me so politely that it makes me wonder if I must force you to tend to your obligations.’

‘My obligations?’ he asked.

‘To your wife,’ she said significantly. And she slipped her hands beneath his vest, spreading her fingers over his ribs, then tugging at the tails of his shirt. She was eager for him again. And he remembered what Hendricks had said, and did his best not to wonder at the reason for it.

He stayed her hands. ‘Before we continue. When I went to White’s yesterday, I chanced to meet Rupert.’

‘How unfortunate for you,’ she responded. ‘But it explains the nonsense you were ranting at me a few hours ago. Your cousin has been harassing me endlessly in Derbyshire over your absence. You had been away so long that he had begun to doubt your existence.’ She went up on her toes to kiss him, catching his lower lip in her teeth and nibbling upon it.

‘Rupert is a blockhead,’ he muttered around the kiss, wondering if he cared one way or the other for the truth. If she meant to distract him from it, she was doing a damn fine job, for her hands had started to move again, reaching for the buttons of his trousers. ‘The next time he visits, I will box his ears and send him on his way. As I wished I could have yesterday. He was quick to offer me congratulations on the impending birth. I assured him that you told the truth, of course. And that I was very happy. As I am, of course.’ He felt her shoulders begin to shake and feared that tears were imminent. He reached up to wipe them from her cheek and his hand felt nothing but her soft, kissable skin. ‘What the devil? You are laughing at me. What do you find so amusing about this?’

‘That you insist on being so noble about my poor unwanted child.’ Her hands left his body, and he heard the rustle of her skirts and felt the hems brushing his fingers as she drew them up to her waist, then pressed his hands against her belly to prove to him that it was soft, flat and empty. ‘Have you not touched me here often enough to find the truth?’

‘I was not paying attention,’ he said. Nor was he now. He was too busy feeling the bottom of her stays, the tops of her stockings, and all the delicious flesh in between. He ran a finger under the bow in her garter. ‘This is new.’

A silk-clad leg twined about his to help her balance as she kissed his throat. ‘Your darling Emily is a virtuous lady and does not go naked beneath her gown. But there are limits to my propriety. Your tiresome cousin would not stop bothering me about his plans for the estate when he was Folbroke. So to put him off, I told him I was pregnant with your child and he had been cut out of the succession.’

‘You little liar. Do you know what agonies I went through, thinking you loved another?’

‘I suspect I do. For I have felt them every day that we have been parted.’

He winced, imagining the pain of the last day, magnified by weeks and months and years, and then pulled her close to him for a kiss that was not nearly enough to expiate it. But it seemed to help, for she purred in satisfaction against the skin of his throat. ‘Tell me, when you discovered this supposed truth about my infidelity, did you rush your mistress’s bed so that you might vent your frustrations?’

‘Perhaps,’ he admitted.

‘Then I hope that we might go back to my rooms to be alone, and that you are similarly frustrated tonight.’

He remembered their lovemaking of the previous night, and her eager response to it, after her lies to Rupert. ‘And when my cousin came back in nine months with a christening gift, where were you planning to get a baby?’

‘From you, of course. I came to London to seduce you.’

They were the last words he had thought to hear from his wife. Not unwelcome, of course. Merely unexpected. In response, his pulse increased and his mind filled with possibilities.

‘And do not tell me that you do not want a child, for I will not hear of it. Sighted or blind, it will not matter, as long as he has a strong father to show him the way.’

‘You think that, do you?’ He could not help smiling at the prospect. For a child who had such a mother could not help but grow right.

‘And his brothers and sisters as well.’

‘Brothers and sisters?’

‘You do not know it,’ she assured him, ‘but brothers, when they are not cutting up one’s peace, are a great comfort.’

‘We do not have one, yet, and you are already planning a family.’

‘And I am quite tired of planning,’ she whispered. ‘Now that you have taught me what it means to act on the desire.’

He gave a weary sigh, as though it was a burden to please her and to hide how perfectly wicked he found her plan, now that he had grown used to it. ‘You are a most trying woman, my Lady Folbroke. If that is all that will please you, then I am tired of fighting you on it. Take me, and get it over with.’

‘As you wish, my lord.’ And she was reaching for his buttons again. He grabbed for her wrists. He had not expected that she would take him seriously and now things were getting quite out of hand.

‘Emily.’ That had been a mistake. For while the feeling of her hands was making him hard, speaking that beloved name nearly made him lose control. ‘Can you not wait until I might take you to bed?’

She tugged at the end of his cravat with her teeth. ‘I have waited three years, Adrian.’ She pulled her hands up until she could kiss his fingers, sucking the tips of them into her mouth. He released her hands, trying not to imagine the lurid things that he wished to do with the mother of those future children.

He would act on them, in time. Soon, he reminded himself, firmly. Very soon. Just not now. He had a lifetime with her. Surely he could wait a few minutes, until they could go to her rooms. Or his. He withdrew his fingers and ran them over her face, tracing her smile, her cheeks, her jaw, in a chaste examination of each feature. How could he not have known this face? It should have been as familiar to him as his own. ‘You are so lovely,’ he said, trying to fill the void of neglect he had created with a more worthy emotion than lust. ‘If you mean to take the locket from me, then I must find something else to carry, so that I can share your beauty with others while I enjoy it myself. Will you sit for a cameo?’

She stepped with her little slipper-covered feet onto his boots to make it easier to kiss him. ‘What a clever idea.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ He smiled and ran a finger down her cheek. ‘Something Greek, I think. I see you posed as Athena.’

‘Aphrodite,’ she offered, ‘with bare shoulders.’

He ran his fingers lower, touching her throat. ‘And bare there as well. And here.’ His fingers touched her skirt, still raised and crushed between them, and remembered the treasures exposed beneath it. ‘Perhaps an artfully arranged drape,’ he conceded, stroking diagonally across her body until his hand rested on her bare hip.

‘And you could touch me, whenever you liked,’ she encouraged. And her hands slipped lower again.

‘This is madness,’ he said, without much conviction. ‘Stop it this instant.’

‘Why?’ she whispered.

‘Because we are in a salon and not a bedroom. It is not respectful of your brother. It is not proper.’ He tried to think of other reasons. But as she exposed him, stroked him and eased him between her legs, he did nothing to stop her.

‘And I am your wife and not your lover,’ she said, stopping herself. In her voice, he heard the hesitance and resignation that had been there on their first nights together.

She was soft, warm and willing. And he was harder than he’d ever been for her. The contact with her body made every nerve in him tingle with eagerness. The air was full of the scent of lemons, and he was wasting time with propriety. ‘You are both,’ he said. ‘Wife and lover. Let me prove it to you.’ Then he leaned back against the door, shifted his weight, bent his knees, found her body and lost himself.

The next minutes were a blur. His hand behind her knee. Her leg wrapped around his hip. His hand on her breast. Her mouth on his, kissing as though she could suck the life from him. And their bodies meeting, over and over in subtle, silent thrusts so as not to summon the servants or alert his childhood friend to the delightful debauchery taking place in his home. And all the while, the thought echoing in his head was that most men would give two good eyes for the opportunity to have a woman like this, even for a single night.

But the lascivious creature panting out her climax in his ear was his wife. His Emily. Emily. Emily. And he finished in her with a soul-wrenching shudder, and a single rattle of the door that they rested against. As their bodies calmed, he held her, amazed.

Behind them, the door rattled, and bounced against his shoulders as though someone was attempting to open it. ‘What the devil?’

‘David,’ Adrian said, remembering why he had resisted this interlude. ‘A moment, please.’

‘Folbroke?’ There was a moment of suspicious silence. ‘And I suppose my sister is in there with you.’

He smiled, and said, ‘My wife. Yes.’

‘We are working out our differences,’ Emily said, with the smallest sway of her hips before she parted from him and let her skirts fall back into place with a rustle.

‘But must you do it in the salon?’ David muttered from the hall.

His wife was giggling into his lapel and smoothing his clothing back into place as he said, ‘My apologies for the momentary lapse of judgement, Eston. It was …’ he rolled his eyes towards heaven for the benefit of Emily ‘… unavoidable. In a moment, we will be retiring to Emily’s rooms, and will bother you no further.’

‘But perhaps you might join us for dinner,’ Emily offered.

‘Later in the week,’ Adrian added.

‘Several days from now,’ she corrected.

From the other side of the door, there was a disgusted snort and the sound of retreating footsteps. Emily burst into another fit of giggling, then she was reaching for him again.

This time he stopped her, ignoring her pouts and the demands of his own body. ‘Lady Folbroke, your behaviour is disgraceful.’ And then he whispered in her ear, ‘And I was a fool to have run from you.’

‘Yes, you were,’ she agreed. ‘But you are my fool, and you will not get away from me again.’

‘Quite true.’ He grinned. ‘Thanks to you, I think I will be the first in a long line of Folbrokes to die in his bed.’

Proposals in Regency Society

Make-Believe Wife

The Homeless Heiress

Anne Herries

ANNE HERRIES lives in Cambridgeshire, England, where she is fond of watching wildlife and spoils the birds and squirrels that are frequent visitors to her garden. Anne loves to write about the beauty of nature and sometimes puts a little into her books, although they are mostly about love and romance. She writes for her own enjoyment and to give pleasure to her readers. She is a winner of the Romantic Novelists’ Association® Romance Prize.

Make-Believe Wife

Anne Herries

Prologue

‘Damn you, sir. I have had enough of your wild behaviour,’ the Earl of Hartingdon thundered at his grandson. ‘I shall not tolerate the disgrace you have brought upon us.’

‘Forgive me,’ Luke, Viscount Clarendon, said and looked contrite. ‘This should never have come to your ears. Rollinson was a fool and a knave to come prattling to you, sir.’

Tall and almost painfully thin, yet with a commanding presence, the earl’s bushy white eyebrows met in a frown of disapproval.

‘Do you deny that you seduced the man’s wife?’

Luke hesitated. The truth of the matter was that he had no idea whether or not he had seduced Adrina Rollinson. The evening in question was hazy to say the least. He had been three sheets to the wind and, when he’d woken to find himself lying next to the naked and undoubtedly voluptuous beauty, he had hardly been given time to wonder before her husband came storming into the summerhouse to demand satisfaction.

‘I can only tell you that I have no memory of it happening, sir.’

‘What sort of an answer is that, pray?’ the earl demanded. ‘You puzzle me, Luke. You have had every advantage and yet you insist on carrying your wildness to excess. If you cannot recall making love to a woman like Lady Rollinson, you must have been drunk.’

‘Indeed, that I shall own,’ Luke said instantly. ‘I would not call the lady a liar, but I doubt I was capable of making love that night.’

‘I suppose your taste is for whores?’

‘I do not know what you may have been told of me, sir, but I assure you I have done nothing of which I am ashamed.’

‘Indeed? I know that you have bought a house and intend to set up your mistress in Hampstead.’ The earl’s top lip curled in scorn. ‘You are a disgrace to your family. Thank God your parents did not live to see what you have become.’

‘Perhaps had they lived I might have been otherwise.’

‘Are you blaming me? Impudent pup!’ The earl’s eyes darkened with temper. ‘Well, sir, I have done with you. It was in my mind to make you my sole heir, for although the estate is entailed, the patent allows the title to pass through the female line and my fortune is my own to dispose of as I wish. However, I have a cousin who would restore both honour and fortune to the family name.’

‘Horatio Harte, I presume? I wish you joy of him, sir.’ Luke’s temper was barely in check. ‘Good afternoon. I shall not trouble you with my presence again.’

‘I did not give you leave to go.’

‘Yet I believe I shall. You have never liked me, sir. I have done things of which I am not particularly proud, but I am not the rogue you think me.’

‘Come back here!’ The earl’s voice rose petulantly. ‘You will hear me out. I shall give you one more chance, but you must marry a decent girl—one with perfect manners who knows how to behave in good society. I need an heir I can be proud of before I die.’

Luke turned at the door, denial on his lips. He would marry when and whom he wished and meant to say so, but even as he began the earl made a choking sound and sank slowly to his knees before collapsing in a heap on the floor.

‘Grandfather! Someone, give me some help in here.’

Luke rushed to his grandfather’s side. Rolling him on his back, he saw that his colour was slightly blue and acted swiftly in untying the tight starched cravat at his neck. He felt for a pulse and discovered a faint beat and yet his grandfather did not appear to be breathing. He was for a moment unsure of what to do for the best; then, recalling something he had once witnessed a vet do for the foal of an important mare, he opened his grandfather’s mouth and made sure there was no obstruction in the throat. Then he pinched the earl’s nostrils and breathed into his mouth. Luke repeated the action three times and noticed that a more natural colour had returned, though he had no idea if his actions had helped.

A voice spoke from behind him. ‘He has had one of his attacks, my lord. He will recover in a moment.’

‘He just keeled over. I thought he was dead or dying.’

‘Milord has had one or two close calls, sir. Nasty little attacks that the doctor can’t quite make out.’

‘Why was I not told?’ Luke rose to his feet. The colour was back in the earl’s cheeks now.

‘He did not wish to bother you, sir.’

‘The stubborn fool—’ Luke began and stopped as he heard a sound. The earl had his eyes open. He was staring up at them.

‘Don’t just stand there, fool. Help me up, Marshall.’

‘You should have told me you were ill, Grandfather.’

‘Stuff and nonsense! It is nothing. As you see, I am perfectly fine now.’

Luke and the butler helped him to his feet and assisted him to a sturdy mahogany elbow chair. Luke felt his body trembling and realised how thin and frail his grandfather had become. When had this happened? Why had he not noticed?

‘Forgive me, sir. Had I known you were ill…’

‘What? Would you have mended your ways?’ The elderly man’s eyes gleamed. ‘Want to make amends, eh? You know my terms. Get yourself wed and give me an heir.’

‘I am sorry you are ill, but I shall not make a promise I cannot keep. However, I will promise not to become so drunk that I do not recall with whom or where I go to bed.’

‘Not enough,’ the earl growled. ‘Leave me to Marshall and come back when you have a wife.’

‘Grandfather, that is unfair,’ Luke protested, for he was genuinely upset by the news of the earl’s ill health.

‘Unless you oblige me I shall not leave you a penny—and, what’s more, I’ll tell the lawyers to cut the allowance you receive from your paternal grandfather’s fortune.’

‘You cannot do that, sir. I have commitments…’

‘To your mistress, I suppose? Well, the choice is yours, Luke. The terms of the Marquis’s will state that I can limit your income until you are thirty if I so choose. I have never done so, but now I shall make a change. I need an heir soon, Luke—and I want you to give me a grandson. Marry well and everything will be as it was. Turn your back on me now and you’ll find yourself short in the pocket. Show me that you intend to settle down and make me proud of you.’

Luke hesitated, a grim set to his mouth. Had he not just witnessed his grandfather’s collapse he would have told him to go to the devil and bought himself a pair of colours while he still had the money. Yet despite his harsh words, there was something vulnerable about the earl, something that made Luke realise that deep within him he cared what happened to the old devil.

‘I must have time to think this over, sir.’

‘Yes, of course, and to find a suitable girl—but do not take too long, Luke. I may not have more than a year or so left to me.’

Luke inclined his head and left, feeling his temper surge as he curled his nails into the palms of his hand. He ought to walk out and never return. The lawyers would probably tell him that the earl was lying through his teeth—yet if it were the truth Luke would be in trouble.

He had made a promise to his best friend and nothing would make him break it.

Chapter One

Roxanne glanced back over her shoulder, listening for the sounds of pursuit, but all she could hear were birds calling one to the other as they flitted between the trees and the occasional snuffle of a small animal in the undergrowth. The woods themselves held no fear for her, but she was afraid of being made to return to the camp.

She had been walking for hours without stopping, but now she was hungry. She was fairly certain that no one had followed her. It must be safe now to stop and eat some of the food she had packed. Placing her larger bundle on the ground, Roxanne spread her shawl on the dry earth and sat down, opening the cloth that carried her bread, cheese and the preserved fruit she had brought with her. Sofia had always kept a jar of dried fruits on her shelf, because she said figs, dates and apricots were good to eat in the winter when they could not pick fruit from the hedgerows.

She missed Sofia so much! Her friend’s sad death had left her alone and in fear of the future. She had no one who cared for her and no one to care for. She was not sure which felt the worst, because she had enjoyed caring for her friend in her last months when she became too feeble to care for herself.

Blinking away her tears, Roxanne rose to her feet and gathered her bundles. Sofia had been one of a band of travelling players, almost a mother to her, and she had given Roxanne so much, even her name.

‘If anything happens to me you should go to London,’ Sofia had told her only a few days before she died. ‘You are a fine actress, my love. You could find fame and fortune—and perhaps marry a man of substance and be the lady I believe you truly are.’

Roxanne had begged her not to talk of dying, tears stinging her eyes, but after her death it had become clear that Roxanne could not stay with the band of travelling players with whom she had lived for the past five years. She was in danger and her only choice was to run away before he returned to the camp.

She had made up her mind that she would get to London if she could, though it would mean walking for many days, perhaps weeks. Before she reached the great city, she would need to find work for a few days to earn her food.

Lost in thought, she was startled as she heard a loud cry and then a horse came crashing through the trees towards her. It was saddled, but without a rider, its reins hanging loose, and she realised that someone must have fallen.

Instinctively, she ran in the direction from which the cry had seemed to come. She had gone only a few yards when she saw a man lying on the ground. His eyes were closed and his face looked pale. Her heart caught and for a moment she thought he was dead. Dropping her bundles, she knelt by his side and touched his face. He felt warm and she drew a breath of relief. His fingers were moving and he was still breathing, though seemed unaware of her. He must have been knocked unconscious by the fall from his horse.

She hesitated, then unwound his white stock from his neck; taking out her precious store of water, she poured some of it onto the fine linen and began to bathe his face. His lips moved, a groan issuing from him, then his eyes flickered open and he looked up at her.

‘What happened?’ he muttered. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Roxanne. I think you fell from your horse. It came rushing at me through the trees and I heard your cry.’

‘It was the fox,’ he said and pushed up into a sitting position. His dark grey eyes fixed on her face. ‘It started up just in front of us. I tried to stop, but I was riding hard and the stupid horse reared up in a fright.’

‘The horse was startled. They are nervous creatures, sir. If you were riding too hard, the fault was yours.’

‘The devil it was.’ His slate-coloured eyes narrowed, became intent and suspicious. ‘What is a lady like you doing alone in these woods—dressed like that?’

Roxanne hesitated, for to tell him her true story was too risky. She did not know him and should use caution. He was undoubtedly a gentleman and Sofia had warned her to be careful of the gentry, for they were not to be trusted.

‘I was with a band of travelling players, but I had to leave. I am trying to get to London to find work as an actress.’

‘Are you indeed?’ His gaze was unsettling. ‘I see you have water, Miss Roxanne. Will you give me some?’

‘I used some to bathe your face, but you may have a few sips.’ Roxanne handed him the stoneware flask and he lifted it to his mouth, drinking deeply. ‘Please leave some. I may not find a stream to refill my flask for hours.’

‘I passed a stream not far back,’ he replied. ‘But if you are making for London you are walking in the wrong direction.’

‘Oh…’ Roxanne frowned as he handed her back the bottle. ‘Perhaps you could—’ She broke off as he attempted to stand and shouted with pain. He swayed and would have fallen had she not caught hold of his body and supported him. ‘Where does it hurt?’

‘My right ankle,’ he groaned. ‘I think it must be broken. If I sit down again, could you take the boot off for me?’

‘Do you think that wise, sir? The boot will probably have to be cut off if your ankle is broken—and a doctor should do it. Sofia would have known how to treat you, but I do not have her skills.’

‘Who the hell is Sofia? Is she with you?’

‘She was my dearest friend and she died recently.’

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, his face white with pain. ‘I have a knife. Cut the damned thing off and bind the ankle with the stock. It will have to do until we can find an inn and a doctor.’

‘We—are you expecting me to go with you?’

‘How do you imagine I can get anywhere alone? Or were you planning to go on and leave me here?’

‘Your temper does not help your cause, sir. If you will sit, I shall attempt to do as you ask—and, no, now you mention it, I was not planning to abandon you.’

His eyes narrowed in annoyance, his mouth set hard. ‘You speak in the tones and manner of a lady, yet you say you are an actress. You must be a clever one.’

‘Sofia said I could play royalty to the manner born,’ Roxanne said, helping him to lower himself to the ground so that she could attend to his ankle. ‘She was once a courtesan and had both royal and aristocratic lovers in her youth so I imagine she would know how they behave.’

‘She sounds quite a remarkable lady?’

‘She was wonderful.’ Roxanne hesitated, then ran her hands down the length of the boot. Not yet! She would not tell him too much too soon. ‘It is difficult to tell while this is on, but I think you may have a break just above your ankle. It will hurt too much if I try to pull the boot off—have I your permission to cut the leather? I dare say it may have cost a great deal of money.’

‘I have other pairs; just do it.’ He thrust a hand into his pocket and brought out a silver penknife.

‘I think I have something better.’ Roxanne opened her large bundle and took out a long thin dagger. ‘The blade is very sharp. It will slit the leather easier than your knife.’

‘Good grief, what are you carrying a dangerous thing like that for?’

‘I am a woman travelling alone. I needed to be sure I could protect myself.’

‘Remind me never to try to seduce you when I’m drunk.’

‘Are you in the habit of seducing women when drunk?’

Roxanne’s eyes held a sparkle of amusement as she glanced at him and then back at the boot. It was long and tight fitting and obviously the best quality. She inserted the knifepoint into the leather and began to slit the length of the boot. Her patient groaned once or twice as she worked, a muffled cry escaping him as she finally drew it from his foot.

‘Damn!’ he muttered as her fingers began to explore his ankle and the region above. ‘It hurts like hell.’

‘I think there is a small break just above the ankle,’ Roxanne said. ‘The flesh is not torn, but there is a bump where there ought to be straight bone—it might have been worse.’

‘You cannot feel the pain,’ he muttered fiercely.

‘I am certain it hurts, but I shall bind it with your stock and use the last of the cold water. That may stop the swelling from becoming too bad, but I am not an expert, sir. If we can make you comfortable enough to ride your horse, it will be much easier for you to continue your journey.’

‘Supposing we could find the damned creature.’

‘I dare say it will not have gone far. I will look for it after I’ve bound your ankle.’

‘You’ll go and leave me here.’ He looked angry, as if he believed she would simply walk away.

‘I promise I shall not. All I have in the world is in these bundles. If I leave them with you, I must return.’ She finished her work and rose to her feet. ‘Try to rest until I return with the horse.’

‘And if you cannot find it?’

‘I shall return and try to help you, though it may be best to fetch help. Wait patiently if you can. I shall not be long.’

‘Damn you,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. ‘You’re made of iron. You should have been born a lady, you belong with the starched-petticoat brigade.’

‘Sofia always said I was from good family.’ Roxanne smiled. ‘Lady or not, I shall not desert you, sir.’

She walked back the way she had come. The horse had been in a blind panic, but once it stopped its mad flight it would stand and wait to be reclaimed by its owner. She must just hope that it had not injured itself because she needed it to be strong enough to carry them both and her bundles.

Luke cursed as he reached into his coat pocket and took out his pocket flask, which was still half-filled with brandy. His ankle was hurting like the devil and the girl had been gone too long. If she did not come within a few minutes, he would have to try to find help himself. If he ignored the pain, he might hobble far enough to find a farm or a woodcutter’s hut. He was attempting to rise when he heard a rustling sound and, a moment later, the girl appeared through the trees leading his horse.

‘I thought you had decided to leave me after all,’ he said a trifle sulkily. ‘You were gone a long time.’

‘Your horse was not sure he wanted to come to a stranger. He was a little shy at first, but we have become friends now.’

She led the horse to Luke. ‘I think he will carry us both and my bundles, sir. If not, then I can walk beside you. I do not think you capable of riding hard this time.’

‘Impertinent wench.’ Luke scowled at her and then laughed. ‘You remind me of my Great-Aunt Dorethea when she was young.’

‘Indeed? I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or insulted.’ Roxanne’s brows arched. ‘Do you think you can mount if I hold the horse?’

‘Flattered. I admired her. Give me your arm, Miss Roxanne. I need you as a crutch.’ Holding on to her arm, Luke levered himself on to his left foot. He hobbled towards the horse, then, as she held its head steady, took hold of the saddle and belly-flopped over it, using the strength of his arms and body to pull himself into a sitting position. Beads of sweat had gathered on his brow by this time, but he controlled his desire to yell out with pain. Roxanne had fitted her bundles round the pommel of the saddle; then, with an agility that surprised him, she took his outstretched hand and swung herself up behind him. ‘You’ve done that before?’

‘I’ve been riding horses barebacked since I was thirteen or so. We did an act that involved my having to jump up on to a moving horse.’

‘You are full of surprises, Miss Roxanne. I thought you a lady at first, but no lady of my acquaintance could do what you just did.’

‘A lady might not have been near when you fell,’ she reminded him. ‘I may not be a gentlewoman in the sense you mean, sir—but I will thank you to show me the proper respect. I am not a lightskirt and shall not be treated as one.’

Luke glanced over his shoulder. ‘How do you imagine I would treat you if you were a whore?’

‘I have no idea how a gentleman behaves with a lady of easy virtue, though Sofia told me that gentlemen are invariably the worst. I only know that I did not like the way Black Bob looked at me.’

Luke was intrigued. ‘Who is he and how did he look at you?’

‘He is the leader of the troupe and looked at me as though he could see through my clothes. He told me that now Sofia was dead, he would claim me as his woman—so I ran away.’

‘You have run away from your people?’

‘Yes. He had to go somewhere on business and so I took my chance while he was gone.’

A rueful laugh escaped Luke. ‘And you ran into me. Well, Miss Roxanne, I must thank my lucky stars that you did. If you help me as far as the next inn, I shall return the favour by hiring a coach to take us both to London.’

Roxanne stiffened. ‘I told you, I am not a whore—and I shall not be your mistress.’

‘Have I said that I wish you to be? I am merely repaying a favour, miss—and if you have any sense you will accept my offer. A girl who looks like you will have offers enough, I dare say, but most of them will not be to your liking. If you are to become an actress you will need patronage, and you may as well accept mine as another’s.’

Roxanne’s breath caught. She almost wished she had walked away from him in the woods. He could surely manage now he had his horse.

‘Put your arms about my waist,’ he instructed. ‘Hold on tight, Miss Roxanne. My ankle is painful and we had best find an inn before I pass out and you have to cart me there in an unconscious state.’

Roxanne did not reply. She put her arms about his waist, holding him tightly. She did not fear him, as she did Black Bob, but if he were to fall unconscious she might have difficulty in getting him safe to an inn. Perhaps the feel of her at his back would keep him awake long enough to reach the nearest inn. She hoped that he would not fall senseless, because she had no idea of where she was headed and the sooner he reached a doctor the better.

Roxanne could have no idea how very aware Luke was of his passenger, her full breasts pressed against his back. He had noticed her perfume as soon as he became conscious and found her bending over him. It was light and yet sensual, unlike any he had smelled on the ladies he met either in society or in the world of the demi-monde he sometimes frequented. She was different, unusual, and he’d felt intrigued from the first.

Roxanne was a woman most men would notice, her figure not willowy slender, but athletic—statuesque, might be a good word. She reminded him of the marble figure of Diana the Huntress he had commissioned for his country house, which stood in a fragrant corner of his garden, but warm with life and passion instead of white and cold. He could imagine what the leader of the travelling players had planned for her and the thought brought a frown of anger to his brow.

Damn the man for his impudence!

Clearly, her friend Sofia had been a person of influence, protecting the girl as she grew to womanhood, but once she was dead, Roxanne was at the mercy of any rogue who saw her. Luke did not know why that thought made him angry, but his protective instincts had been roused and, in thinking of her and ways to make certain she was protected, he was able to fight off his pain.

He cursed himself for riding carelessly as a wave of faintness washed over him and it took all his willpower to stay in the saddle and hold on to the reins.

‘I could take control of the horse if you wish, sir. He would respond to me, as he did earlier.’

Roxanne’s words jerked him back to reality and her arms about him helped fight off the faintness. He must stay awake, because he needed to be in command. She must not be allowed to slip away when they reached the inn. He could not lose her yet; he needed her help.

‘I can manage,’ he growled. ‘It cannot be much further.’

‘I pray you are right,’ she said and her arms tightened about him, as if she would save him from falling.

A sharp wave of desire shot through Luke, bringing him to his senses more surely than any words. He laughed deep in his throat—it was like him to want the unobtainable. Luke had met with little resistance in his adult life; the ladies were usually more than willing to share his bed—or even entice him into the summerhouse. It was ironic that the first one to evoke such a strong response in him for an age had placed herself out of reach.

Roxanne had made it clear she would not be his mistress and in all honour he could not use his charm to persuade her after all she had done. However, it would not suit him if she were to run away. He might never see her again, and that thought was sufficient to stave off both the pain and the faintness. An ironic smile settled over his lips. She had already shown herself compassionate; perhaps the best way to keep her with him was to plead his need of a nurse or helper to see him home.

‘Hold me tighter,’ he said. ‘The pain makes me faint. I beg you, do not desert me, Miss Roxanne. In this state I am helpless and at the mercy of unscrupulous rogues—men who would see me dead as soon as look at me.’

‘You have enemies?’

‘An enemy,’ Luke improvised. ‘You accused me of riding too hard, but I was trying to escape from him when the fox startled my horse.’

He justified his lie to himself. His enemy was the bitter anger that had been festering inside him since the interview with his grandfather. The Earl of Hartingdon’s unfair accusations and his outrageous demands had smouldered in his brain, making him careless.

‘Will you be safe when you reach London?’

‘Yes.’ Luke waited, holding his breath. ‘Once I am home I shall be perfectly safe, but I need help lest I lose consciousness and lie ill by the wayside.’

‘It is true that not everyone would help if you became ill of a fever. I know that men like Black Bob might take advantage and rob you.’ Roxanne seemed to hesitate, then, ‘Very well, I shall not abandon you. I will see that a doctor is fetched, and, if you are ill, stay with you until you are home. I will nurse you and care for you should you need it. However, you must give me your word not to take advantage, sir.’

‘You have my word as a gentleman,’ Luke said. ‘I am Luke Clarendon, a man of independent means and of good family. You may trust me, Miss Roxanne. Watch over me until I am fit again. I shall reward you by taking you to London—and I will introduce you to the manager of a theatre.’

‘Very well, it is a bargain,’ Roxanne said and her arms clung comfortingly to him once more.

Luke smiled. He did not think she would break her word for she might have done so in the woods. If he could delay their journey for a few days, she might come to like him—and once they were in London, he would find a way of keeping her with him.

Chapter Two

The inn they came to a little later was a small posting inn, not one of those Luke had frequented in the past, but decent in appearance; its yard was swept clean and the groom who came running to help respectful and eager to serve.

‘Mr Clarendon has had a fall from his horse,’ Roxanne said and slid down from the saddle unaided. ‘He cannot walk without assistance. We need a room for him and one for me—and a doctor must be called at once, for his ankle is hurt and he is in great pain.’

Luke moaned as he slid down from the horse and his injured leg jarred. The action had caused the pain to intensify and he swayed as the faintness swirled in his head. Roxanne and the groom rushed to his aid, managing to save him from a further fall. The groom shouted for help and another two came running.

‘Ned, take the gentleman’s horse—Jeremiah, help me and then fetch the doctor. Mr Clarendon is in pain with his ankle.’

The two grooms supported Luke towards the inn, which was a modest building, with whitewashed walls, a thatched roof and small leaded windows. Luke glanced over his shoulder and drew a sigh of relief as he saw Roxanne was following with her bundles. His whole leg was throbbing now and he felt very faint. Indeed, he might have fallen had the grooms supporting him not been strong men.

He was supported into the inn. A large portly man came to greet them, his knowing eyes going over both Luke and then Roxanne.

‘Would you be needing a room for you and the—lady, sir?’

‘We need two rooms,’ Roxanne said. ‘Mr Clarendon has hurt his ankle. I think there may be a small break. One of your grooms has gone for the doctor. However, I shall be nursing Mr Clarendon until we leave.’

‘And who might you be, miss?’ The landlord’s brows met in a frown.

‘I am Mr Clarendon’s new governess,’ Roxanne said in a clear firm tone. ‘He has employed me to teach his nephew. My horse was lost in the woods; it ran off and we could not waste time looking for her. My name is Miss Roxanne Peters.’

Luke glanced at her, resisting a grin. It appeared that she could spin a tale as easily as he. The landlord looked uncertain whether to believe her, but was galvanised into action by a moan of pain from Luke.

‘Take the gentleman up to the best chamber,’ he commanded his minions. ‘The governess can have the smaller room two doors down.’

‘Thank you, landlord,’ Luke said and glanced back at Roxanne. ‘Follow us up, Miss Peters. I shall want you in attendance when the doctor arrives.’

‘I shall be with you in a moment, sir.’

The landlord had gone before them. He gestured at the room that was to be Roxanne’s, leaving her to make her own way while continuing further down the passage.

Roxanne went inside the small room. There was a narrow iron bedstead with a white counterpane, blue curtains at the window and a small chest of drawers. To a girl who had been used to living in a caravan it was perfectly adequate. Roxanne dumped her bundles on the floor, took the key from the inside of the door and locked it as she went out, pocketing it safely. Her possessions were not valuable, but they were all she had and she could not afford to lose them—nor did she wish the landlord to go poking his nose into her things.

Walking quickly to the room where she had seen them take her employer—she had decided that the best way to go on was to act the part of an upper-class servant—Roxanne entered and saw that the landlord was standing by the bed. Both the grooms had gone.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I can manage him now.’

The landlord turned, his eyes narrowed and not exactly friendly. Roxanne felt a prickling at her nape. Mr Clarendon seemed barely conscious. She had a feeling that had she not been here to protect him, he might well have been robbed of his possessions. Perhaps she was wronging the landlord, but she was not sure he was honest.

‘Right. I’ll send the doctor up when he gets here.’ He looked at her hard. ‘I’ll be wanting five shillings a night for this room, two for yours—food and the doctor extra.’

‘Yes, of course. You will be paid. Mr Clarendon is a respectable man and we should not dream of running off without paying you.’

‘You better hadn’t. Jake Hardcastle never forgets a face—and I reckon I’ve seen yours before, but I can’t recall where. You weren’t a governess then.’ He leered at her. ‘If I don’t get paid one way, I can take my dues another.’

‘Will you please leave us.’ Roxanne’s manner was haughty, more the great lady than a governess. ‘After the doctor has been we shall want food—perhaps some good chicken broth and fresh bread.’

He inclined his head, but made no other answer. Leaving the room, he paused to look back as Roxanne bent over the bed.

‘Mr Clarendon,’ she said, placing a hand to Luke’s forehead. He was feeling warm and a little damp. She thought perhaps he had started a fever. ‘Do not worry. I am here. I shall not leave you.’

The sound of the door shutting soundly made Roxanne look round. The landlord had gone and when she turned back, her patient’s eyelids fluttered and then opened.

‘Has he gone?’ he muttered. ‘The place looks decent enough, but that fellow is a rascal. I don’t trust him. You won’t leave me, Roxanne?’

‘Miss Peters. I am your employee, remember?’

A wry laugh was wrung from his lips. ‘You will make a damned fine actress, Roxanne. You reminded me of a strict governess I once had—she frightened the life out of us all, except the earl.’

‘The earl? Who is he?’

‘Oh, just someone we lived with when I was young. He isn’t important.’ Luke moaned and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. ‘I am sorry to make so much fuss. I wouldn’t have thought a broken bone could be so painful. I do not recall it hurting this much when I broke my arm as a youngster.’

‘You had to ride here and be manhandled up the stairs. I have not been trained to set broken bones and the bandage I applied may have made the pain worse. When the doctor comes he will rebind it and give you something to help you sleep.’

‘Will you sit with me while I sleep? Or perhaps you should keep the money with you? I do not trust him.’

‘Nor I,’ she admitted. ‘Do you trust me with your gold?’

‘What choice have I?’ Luke reached out to touch her hand as she frowned. ‘No, that was badly put. Yes, I trust you, Roxanne. It is odd, but I feel I have known you for ever. I know you will not desert me, for you have given your word.’

‘Then I shall put the money somewhere safe.’

‘It is in my coat pocket, in a leather purse. I do not know exactly what is there but it should be enough to see us safely back to London.’

Roxanne examined his coat and found the purse. She opened the strings and counted the gold, holding it out on her hand so that he could see.

‘You have ten gold sovereigns, sir. I think it should be adequate for the journey, don’t you?’

‘You did not need to show me. I told you, I trust you. Now put them somewhere safe.’

‘Yes, I shall.’

Roxanne turned her back on him. Lifting her skirts, she located the secret pocket sewn into her petticoats and added the gold to her secret treasure. It felt heavy, making her very conscious of its presence, but she would become accustomed to the extra weight.

She turned back and saw Luke staring at her.

‘It is the safest place I know. My bundles could be searched or snatched.’

Luke nodded, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful. ‘You are a resourceful woman, Roxanne. I wonder what your secret is—what you are not telling me?’

‘Why should you think I have a secret?’

How could he know? No, he could not. He was just testing her.

‘I shall not pry,’ Luke said and yawned, closing his eyes. ‘You keep your secrets, Roxanne—and I shall keep mine.’

Roxanne turned her head. How had he sensed that she was hiding her secret? She had not told him about the day Sofia found her wandering, all memory of her previous life gone. Nor had she told him about the jewel she carried in her secret pocket. Sofia had told her she had been clutching it tightly in her right hand when she was found and refused to let go for days. She also carried a lace kerchief with the initials R. P. embroidered into the corner in red. Sofia had said the name Roxanne suited her. They had never bothered with a second name and she had used Peters when the innkeeper asked, because it was the first to come to her mind. She had once done some sewing for a Lady Peters and been given a gold sovereign for her trouble.

Sofia had hidden the ruby safely and Roxanne had forgotten its existence until her friend reminded her as she lay dying. Sofia had said she should sell the jewel, but Roxanne was not certain she had the right to do so, for she did not know whether it belonged to her or someone else. Had she stolen the jewel and run away from her home—or her employer?

Why had she refused to let it go for days?

She hesitated, considering whether she ought to tell Luke Clarendon the rest of her story, but the moment had passed; she heard the sound of voices outside the door and then it opened and a man entered. He was dressed in a shabby black coat and knee breeches, the battered hat he deposited on the chest having seen better days. However, his linen looked clean and he nodded his head respectfully as he approached the bed.

‘The gentleman took a fall from his horse, you say?’

‘Yes,’ Roxanne replied. ‘He has been in considerable pain since.’

‘I shall examine him,’ the doctor said and bent over Luke, pulling back the covers. He unwound the stock Roxanne had used and ran his fingers over the swollen ankle, frowning and nodding to himself. ‘I think this may be a case of dislocation rather than a break. Your employer has been lucky, miss.’ Hearing a moan from the patient, the physician turned his gaze on him. ‘This may hurt a bit, sir. I am going to…’ He pulled Luke’s leg out straight, making him yell out with pain as something clicked. ‘Yes, I thought so. It will be painful for a while, but I shall put a tight bandage on and visit again tomorrow. You will need to rest for a time, but in a few days it should start to mend. You had dislocated the bones just above your ankle and the ligaments will be inflamed, but I am sure the bones themselves are not broken.’

‘I pray you are right,’ Luke muttered between gritted teeth. ‘It hurts like hell now.’

‘Yes, I dare say it may.’ The doctor dipped into his bag, brought out linen bandages and rebound Luke’s ankle and above to his calf. ‘That should help the damage to settle and it will heal naturally. I’ll give you something for the pain.’ He delved into his bag again and took out a small brown bottle. ‘This will help you sleep, but it is dangerous if you take too many doses. You will have to measure it—just four drops into a cup of water every six hours. Miss Peters, is it?’

‘Yes, that is my name,’ Roxanne lied and took the bottle. ‘Is this laudanum?’

‘Yes—have you used it before?’

‘A friend of mine used it sometimes. I know that it must be handled carefully, sir.’

‘Then I can trust you to look after our patient.’ He glanced down at Luke. ‘You will sleep soon, Mr Clarendon—and there should not be a fever, but if it happens you may send for me again.’

The physician took his leave. Roxanne carefully measured the drops into a glass of water. She helped Luke to sit up and he took the cup, gulping it down and draining the lot. Then he lay back against the pillows with a sigh.

‘I was selfish to ask you to sit with me. You should go to bed and rest.’

‘I shall sit here by the fire for a while. The doctor says there will be no fever, but I want to be sure you are peaceful. You were warm and sweaty earlier. I thought you might take a fever, but perhaps now you can rest you will soon feel better.’

Roxanne sat down by the fireplace. Someone had lit the fire when they brought Luke Clarendon up and it was just beginning to draw well. Her room had no fire and she might as well sit here in comfort—but she would lock the door first, just in case she dozed off.

Roxanne woke with a start. The fire was still burning so she could not have been asleep long. She got up quickly and went to the bed, bending over Luke. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully and when she placed a hand to his forehead, he was only slightly warm.

If he had not made a sound, what had woken her? She went to the door and stood with her ear against it, listening.

‘Is anyone there?’ she asked softly, but received no answer. ‘What do you want?’

Another sound alerted her and she turned swiftly towards the window, just in time to see a man’s face looking in. Someone must have fetched a ladder to try to gain entrance that way after realising the door was bolted on the inside. Instinctively, Roxanne bent down and retrieved the iron poker from the fireplace. She approached the window, raising her arm high, making it clear that she was ready to repel any intruder. For a moment she stared at the face looking in. The features were coarse and common, unknown to her. Aware that he had been spotted, the man hesitated and then disappeared. Roxanne looked out and saw the top of his head hurriedly descending the ladder, which he then picked up and ran off with towards the stables.

Roxanne’s legs felt slightly shaky as she sat down by the fire once more. She had not known the man attempting to enter by way of the window, but she was certain the landlord would. Her instincts had been right. Their host was a rascal and it would not be safe for her to leave Luke Clarendon alone while he was in a drugged sleep.

For a moment she wondered if the doctor had been in with them, but Luke seemed to be easier now and she thought the physician had known his job well enough. She shivered and bent down to place another log on the fire. If Luke were well enough to hire a carriage of some sort, they would do better to move on as soon as they could.

‘Have you been to bed at all?’ Luke asked as he opened his eyes and looked up at her. She had been applying a cool cloth to his brow. ‘That feels good, but I do not have a fever. My mind is quite clear now. I think I slept for a long time?’

‘Yes, you did. I stayed with you all night. There was an attempt to gain access through the window, but it woke me and I faced the intruder down with the poker. He ran away, back to the stable.’

Luke’s mouth thinned. ‘In league with the innkeeper I imagine? Some of these fellows are rogues. Not content with their pay, they will rob the unwary.’

‘He must have thought you were alone. I am afraid I have wasted two shillings of your money. I did not use the room I asked for at all.’

‘Well, you should go there now and rest. But first, give me my pistol—it’s in my coat, the inside pocket—and then ask the landlord to bring food and drink, Roxanne. I doubt he will try anything in broad daylight, but if he does I shall show him I’m no fool. I shall enquire what kind of transport is for hire—but if there is none available here we shall go on together on my horse.’

Roxanne fetched the pistol from amongst his things and handed it to him. Had she known it was there, she might have used it to protect them instead of the poker the previous night.

‘Are you sure you can manage to move on so soon? The doctor said you should rest and he would come again today.’

‘My ankle feels sore at the moment and there is some pain in my calf, but the excruciating pain of yesterday has gone. I would rather leave if I can manage it.’

‘If we can hire a chaise of some sort, will you leave your horse here?’

‘I doubt I should see it again. I shall pay the man for the hire of his vehicle and change at the next posting house, but take my horse with us.’

‘I confess I cannot wait to see the back of this place. Had I not been with you, you would certainly have been robbed as you slept.’

‘I should not be the first vulnerable traveller to die in his bed at the hands of rogues calling themselves landlords.’ Luke frowned. ‘I have much to thank you for, Roxanne. It seems as if you have saved me from my own folly more than once.’

‘I have done nothing any decent person would not,’ she said, a faint flush in her cheeks. ‘Travelling with you will save my small store of money and I shall reach London sooner.’

‘I might not have reached it at all without you.’

Luke’s gaze was so warm and so intent that her cheeks flamed and he laughed as he saw her discomfort. ‘Now I have embarrassed you. Forgive me, Miss Roxanne. I have not forgotten my promise. I shall not try to seduce you—at least until our bargain is at an end.’

‘You should not try it at all, sir. You will be disappointed. I have no intention of becoming your mistress—or any other man’s.’

‘So you say.’ Luke smiled lazily. ‘You are far too beautiful to remain untouched for the rest of your life, Roxanne. Someone will persuade you to part with your innocence—I should prefer that it was me.’

‘I think you must have a fever, sir. You hardly know me—and you should know better than to mock me.’

‘I was not mocking you, Roxanne. Believe me, there are not many women who make me feel the way you do—but I shall not tease you, because I might frighten you away. I may be able to leave this place soon, but that doesn’t mean I am safe until I get to London.’

‘Are you thinking of your enemy?’ Roxanne looked concerned. He might be arrogant and too sure of his power to charm, but she did not fear him, as she had Black Bob. ‘I thought it was one of the landlord’s rogues trying to rob you last night, but your enemy may have followed you here to try to kill you.’

‘No, I do not think so.’ Luke frowned and wished he had not spun her such a tale. ‘He might want to punish me, but he would not kill me.’

‘Oh—then I dare say it was not he.’ Roxanne looked thoughtful and he wondered what was in her mind. ‘If you truly know a theatre manager who might give me a trial, I should be grateful.’

‘I shall help you, as you have helped me,’ Luke promised. ‘Whatever else I may be, Miss Roxanne, I am not ungrateful. One day I may try to make you my mistress, a position you might find to your liking if you gave it a chance, but it shall not be while we journey together.’

Within two hours, they had left the inn. The groom who had first aided them the previous day was driving a chaise, which was in reasonable order, with Luke’s horse tied and trotting behind. Roxanne sat beside Luke on the seat facing forwards so that they could see the groom’s back. He had told them his name was Harold and seemed likeable. Hopefully, he was honest, but they would only need his services until they reached a well-known posting inn a few miles further on the London road. Roxanne was not sure what Luke Clarendon had said to the innkeeper, but though he had looked at her in a surly way when they left, he had not spoken to her disrespectfully. She had previously returned Luke’s gold to him and he had paid for their lodging and the doctor’s fees.

Roxanne was certain their host had added extra to the bill for himself, because his charge of two guineas for the doctor’s visit seemed extortionate to her, but Luke had paid it cheerfully.

‘It was worth treble for the relief he has afforded me,’ Luke said. ‘I am still in pain, but it is bearable now.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’ Roxanne was thoughtful. If Luke Clarendon was capable of travelling alone now, she ought to leave him and make her own way. He had offered her help, but she was uncertain of the price she might be asked to pay.

Sofia had so often warned her to be careful of gentlemen, especially those who smiled and promised her help or a fortune. This man was charming and handsome, but she did not quite trust him.

Well, he might attempt seduction, but she did not believe he would force her—the way Black Bob would have had she stayed with the travelling players. Luke Clarendon was a gentleman, after all.

Roxanne knew that his warnings were valid. If she became an actress, she would be offered protection by various men—perhaps the manager of the theatre himself or gentlemen who came to watch her perform. If she gained admirers, she might follow in Sofia’s footsteps and become the mistress of an aristocrat or even royalty. It was not what Sofia had wanted for her or what she planned for herself, but it might be impossible to avoid some such relationship.

Why not a man she had already begun to like?

The thought had wormed its way into her mind against her will. Roxanne did not wish to become any man’s mistress, but if it was inevitable— Her thoughts were interrupted as Luke glanced at her.

‘You look pensive, tired. Why do you not lean your head back against the squabs and sleep for a while? I think we may trust Harold. Relax your guard and rest.’

‘Yes, perhaps I shall.’

Roxanne leaned her head back against the squabs, closing her eyes. When Luke Clarendon looked and spoke to her in that way her defences crumbled. He was such an attractive man and she was beginning to like him all too well.

When she woke an hour or so later, the chaise was drawing into the yard of what was clearly a prestigious inn. She discovered that she had been leaning against Luke’s shoulder and apologised, her cheeks warm.

‘Forgive me, sir. I hope I have not made you uncomfortable. Does your leg pain you very much?’

‘It is sore and, yes, a little painful,’ he said. ‘I shall live, Miss Roxanne—and you did not make me uncomfortable at all.’

The groom had brought the chaise to a halt. One of the inn’s employees had come to open the chaise door and let down the step. Seeing that Luke was carrying an injury, his breeches split and opened to allow for the bandages, the man offered his hand, helping him to descend. Luke did so slowly and carefully, his flinch of pain not going unnoticed by either the ostler or Roxanne.

‘I have suffered an accident, as you see, Johnston,’ Luke said with a friendly smile at the man who clearly knew him. ‘If you would have someone care for my horse and ask someone to give this kind fellow something to eat before he goes on his way again. Please help me inside yourself.’

‘Yes, sir, of course,’ Johnston replied and signalled to his minions, who came running and were given curt instructions to see to the horses.

Roxanne frowned as she thanked Harold for bringing them here safely and gave him a shilling of her own money for himself.

‘I’m sorry if you weren’t treated right at the last place,’ he said and pulled his cap. ‘I heard what happened, but I didn’t know until I was told what you did, miss. You were right brave.’

‘I do not think you belong at a place like that, Harold.’

‘No, miss, nor don’t I,’ he agreed. ‘I stayed because it were better than being on the road, but when I take this rig back I shall give me notice and look for work elsewhere.’

‘I am sure you will find it,’ Roxanne said and inclined her head before following Luke into the inn.

When she entered she saw him in close conversation with a man who looked to be the landlord. He was a very different man from the last one they had met; portly and pleasant-faced, he smiled and nodded at her in a friendly way.

‘This gentleman has told me he owes his life to you, miss. I know there’s more than one who should be grateful to you. My wife will take you up to a nice comfortable room and look after you. I dare say you are very tired.’

‘I slept a part of the way here,’ Roxanne replied. She looked at Luke, her fine brows raised. ‘Have you asked our host to fetch a doctor, sir? I think your leg may need further attention—just to make certain it has been properly treated.’

‘Don’t you worry, miss. His lor…his honour is in good hands now.’

Roxanne heard the change in the landlord’s tone and his hasty correction. What had he been going to say? It was clear that Luke Clarendon was well known and respected here—but how was he normally addressed?

She frowned as the landlord’s wife came to greet her, curtsying respectfully. ‘Come this way, miss. We are always glad to have his lordship come to stay—’ She clapped her hand to her forehead. ‘There, if Sid didn’t tell me I was to call Lord Clarendon his honour. My tongue runs away with me, so it does—but everyone knows who he is so why not say it openly?’

‘Why not indeed?’

Roxanne felt her cheeks getting warmer. What a fool she was not to have made sure of her facts for a start. He had told her his name was Luke Clarendon and she had assumed his title was plain Mister. He must have been laughing at her behind his hand.

Luke Clarendon was an aristocrat and therefore not to be trusted. Sofia had told her that they were the worst of all and warned her never to lose her heart to a member of the upper classes. ‘If you do, he will use you and then abandon you. Take notice, child, for I know of what I speak.’

Roxanne felt her stomach knot with a mixture of anger and disappointment. For a short time she had begun to think that perhaps Luke really liked her—so why had he not told her he had a title from the start?

He had pretended to trust her, but he hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her who he really was. She felt the sting of tears, but blocked them out. There was no sense in crying. She didn’t know Lord Clarendon at all and, after listening to Sofia’s opinion of the aristocracy for years, she was sure she did not wish to. Her friend had warned her that they were all the same: proud, arrogant and ruthless.

‘They know how to be charming and they will smile and tell you they adore you, but underneath they are cold and heartless. They will not marry out of their class—and they toss you to one side when they are finished with you. The English aristocracy are the worst. Some foreign royalty are kinder and more generous. Never trust an English gentleman, Roxanne—particularly if he tells you he will always love you. Just take what you can from him and move on before he does.’

Roxanne kept her anger in check as she followed the innkeeper’s wife along a hall and into a room. It was large and comfortable, well furnished and, with a fire burning in the grate, warm.

‘This is next to his lordship’s chamber,’ she said. ‘He always has the same one when he visits on his way to stay with the earl.’

‘Who is the earl?’

‘Why, his grandfather, of course.’ The woman gave her an odd look. ‘I thought you would know that, miss, being a cousin of his lordship.’

‘Yes, of course. There is more than one earl in the family.’

Her quick answer banished the other woman’s frown. ‘So there will be,’ she replied and laughed, her large bosom shaking. ‘Silly me. Now, is there anything more you need, miss?’

‘May I have my supper here, please? Just something light—and I would love a cup of tea.’

‘Yes, of course you would. You ladies love your pot of tea and bread and butter—but I’ve a nice pie cooking and some chops for his lordship. His lordship is partial to a nice chop or two.’

Roxanne inclined her head. She was so angry that she barely knew how to answer. One part of her mind was telling her to walk out now and make her own way to London. If Harold had not left, he might have taken her a bit further before returning the rig to its owner. Yet if she did that she would not have the chance to tell Lord Clarendon exactly what she thought of him and his lies.

The warmth of the fire was enticing and Roxanne’s feeling of annoyance faded as she moved closer, holding her hands to the flames. There was nothing to stop her moving on alone, because Lord Clarendon was amongst friends and would be properly cared for. Her instincts told her that she might be laying up trouble for herself if she stayed here and yet she was seduced by the thought of a warm bed, the fire and some hot food.

What harm could it do to travel on with him, even if he had not been entirely honest with her?

It was good to be in a house again instead of the cramped conditions in the caravan… Now where had that thought come from?

Try as she might, Roxanne had never been able to remember anything about her previous life. Sofia was convinced she had run away from her home, that she was the child of gentry, but had been in some terrible danger.

‘Something happened to you, my love,’ Sofia had told her. ‘You were frightened and ill. In your fever you spoke of many things, of places you’d seen and people you knew. For weeks you woke crying and screaming, frightened of a dream, but you could never recall it. It is the reason I did not try hard to find your family. If you ran away in such distress there must have been a reason—and I would not give you back to people who might ill treat you.’

Had Roxanne’s family mistreated her? Sofia had burned her clothes, because she said they were not fit for use and could tell them nothing about her past, except that they were of good cloth.

Roxanne shook her head. If her family had wanted her, she would not have been wandering the roads alone and in such a state. It hardly mattered where she had come from. Sofia had been like a mother to her, giving her all the love she instinctively knew had been missing from her previous life. A wave of grief swept over her, bringing tears to her eyes. She dashed them away with her hand, determined not to give into foolishness. Sofia was gone and she must manage alone.

Faced with walking the rest of the way to London alone or travelling in a chaise with a gentleman, who was truly in no condition to ravage her, she thought she must be sensible and choose the latter. If Lord Clarendon tried to seduce her as he recovered his strength, she could leave him and go on alone.

Removing the black-velvet cloak that had been Sofia’s, a relic of the days when she had moved amongst gentlemen of fortune and their mistresses, Roxanne sat on the edge of the bed. Her dress had also belonged to Sofia when she was a young woman; though old-fashioned, it was of good cloth with a low, dipped neckline, in which Roxanne had sewn a frill of soft cream lace for modesty’s sake. Amongst her things was a silver hand mirror that she had inherited from her friend, an ivory comb and a bristle brush. She took them out and then tidied her dark red curls, glancing at herself once before replacing them securely in her bundle.

When she heard the knock at the door, she gave permission to enter, but was surprised when Lord Clarendon walked in.

‘I thought it was the innkeeper’s wife, my lord,’ she said and raised her head defiantly. ‘Why did you not tell me you were the grandson of an earl? I should not have called you Mr Clarendon had I known your title, sir.’

‘It hardly matters. Hartingdon is about to disown me anyway.’

‘Why?’ Roxanne asked. ‘Is he not your grandfather?’

‘He brought me up after my parents died, but I was a nuisance. He did not truly wish for the trouble of a young boy and I was left to the care of servants. When he was forced to discipline me, he was harsh. As soon as I inherited my father’s estate I left Hartingdon and have visited very seldom since—and yet…’

Roxanne sensed his hesitation. ‘You are troubled over something?’

‘Hartingdon is an old man. He fell down in some kind of faint while I was visiting there recently and—to be honest, it distressed me. Had you asked me a week ago if I cared a damn what happened to him, I should have said no but now…’ Luke shook his head and laughed ruefully. ‘I am a fool. His health changes nothing. And if he makes that popinjay Harte his heir…it is not my affair.’

‘Why would he disown you?’ Her clear eyes disconcerted him and he dropped his gaze.

‘He wishes me to marry a suitable young lady, someone with good manners who will not disgrace the family.’

‘Why should he imagine you would marry anyone other than a respectable girl?’

‘Because he has been told that I have a string of mistresses and it is true that I have found pleasure in the arms of whores. I have found them kinder and more generous than young ladies of my acquaintance.’ He frowned. ‘I dare say it was my fault that he was ill.’

‘You are blaming yourself, are you not?’

‘Yes. I thought he was going to die. It shocked me and I realised I did not wish for it.’

‘You care for him,’ Roxanne said and nodded, looking at him curiously. ‘Why do you not do as he asks and marry a suitable girl?’

‘Because the only ones I know bore me to tears. I would make him happy if I could, for I believe he may not have long to live—but to marry a woman I could not love is a life sentence. Even for his sake I could not do such a thing.’

‘No? I thought men of your class often married for land or money?’

‘If one is in difficulty…’ Luke glared at her. ‘My father was forever having affairs. He broke my mother’s heart. As a consequence they quarrelled and…the chaise he was driving went off the road into a ditch filled with water and they were both killed. I was thrown clear and survived. The last thing I remember of that day was my mother screaming at him, crying because he had broken yet another promise. I would not wish to make any woman that miserable.’

‘How terrible for you. I think I understand why you feel as you do.’ Roxanne frowned. ‘If the earl does not have long, could you not let him believe you mean to marry and then…?’

‘Break it off?’ Luke raised his brows. ‘I should be a fine rogue to dash a young lady’s hopes, should I not? Society would throw me out and I should deserve it.’

‘Yes, it was a foolish idea, though if she knew and it was a business arrangement it might be possible,’ Roxanne said and then changed the subject hurriedly because she had been outspoken. ‘I have asked for my supper to be brought here. Did you want something, sir?’

Luke was staring at her. He looked as if he had been struck by lightning. ‘What did you say—a business arrangement? What exactly did you mean?’

‘It was mere foolishness.’ Roxanne’s cheeks burned. ‘I meant nothing—did you want something of me, sir?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said and looked thoughtful. ‘I came to ask if you would dine with me down in the parlour, but perhaps I shall have my meal brought up to my room, too. You have given me food of another kind, Miss Roxanne—something to chew on for a day or two until I am certain of my own mind.’

Now what did he mean by that? Roxanne would have asked, but her supper arrived and Luke walked away with a nod of the head.

Chapter Three

The sun shone through the small leaded window the next morning, bringing Roxanne from her bed with new energy. She had been up for some minutes when the innkeeper’s wife entered bearing a can of hot water and was grateful for her thoughtfulness.

‘Thank you. I was about to use the water left from last night and this is a kind thought.’

‘His lordship would expect it, miss. Would you like to eat your breakfast here? His lordship is having his in the private parlour. You could join him, if you wish? He has bacon, devilled eggs, kedgeree and also cold roast ham, besides the toast, of course. You could have the same unless there is something else you would like?’

‘If I could have some bread or rolls with honey, that would do very well. I shall come down as soon as I have washed and tidied myself.’

‘Of course, miss. Whatever suits you.’

Roxanne thanked her and she went away. Despite some fears about the future and her present situation, Roxanne had slept well and was feeling refreshed. She was ready and downstairs in a very short time. In the private parlour, Lord Clarendon, as she was trying to think of him, was drinking coffee and reading a newssheet. He looked up as she entered and smiled. She realised not for the first time that he was very attractive and her heart did a funny little skip.

‘Ah, Roxanne, did you sleep well? I trust there were no untoward incidents to disturb you last night?’

‘None at all, sir. I slept perfectly and feel much refreshed this morning.’

‘That is excellent news. I, too, am feeling less strained. I have been thinking about our situation and would like you to consider a suggestion that I believe might suit us both. Am I right in believing that you need to find work almost immediately?’

‘Yes, that is so,’ Roxanne replied and sat down just as the innkeeper brought in some warm soft rolls in a covered dish, also butter and a pot of dark honey. ‘Thank you so much.’

She took a fresh baked roll and spread it with honey. Their host poured her a bowl of fragrant coffee, adding a drop of cream, and then left them alone together. Raising her clear eyes to Luke’s, Roxanne questioned, ‘I am not certain of your meaning?’

‘It is a little difficult to explain. Have you been honest with me, Roxanne? From your story I think you honest and of good character—is there something I should know that you have not told me?’

‘I do not see why you should need to know anything about me, sir.’ She hesitated, then, ‘I will tell you that I have no memory of my life before Sofia found me more than five summers ago. I was in great distress, near to starving and out of my mind with a fever. I had a kerchief with the initials R. P.—and that is why Sofia called me Roxanne—and Peters was the name of a lady I once did some sewing for. It fits and might be my name, but I do not know the truth.’

‘Good grief! So you have no idea who you are?’ He frowned. ‘That could complicate things…’

‘What do you mean? What can my past life mean to you?

‘Perhaps nothing, perhaps much.’ He glared at her. ‘What else have you kept from me?’

Roxanne thought of the ruby but decided she would not tell him everything just yet. ‘I do not see what difference it can make to you.’

‘It is in my mind to do as you suggested last night—but I should not wish for an unpleasant surprise. I do not want an irate brother or employer turning up on my doorstep causing trouble.’

‘I fear you have lost me.’ But she was beginning to feel an odd churning in her stomach and her suspicions were aroused. He could not be suggesting what she thought?

‘You want work as an actress and you assured me that you can play royalty or the aristocracy to perfection. What I need is a make-believe wife, Roxanne, a woman who can play the part of my fiancée, and, if necessary, marry me. The marriage would be annulled later—and you would receive a generous settlement. You could then live your own life, abroad should you wish it—or perhaps a nice house in the country, where you could entertain your friends.’

Roxanne was stunned, speechless at first, and then firm in denial. ‘That is ridiculous, sir. I do not know how you could suggest such a thing. You do not know me—and I do not know you. Even if I agreed, it would be wrong to deceive your grandfather so cruelly.’

Luke frowned. ‘Last night you said it could be a business arrangement. What is different about my proposal?’

‘I meant a young woman of good family who would marry without love for the sake of a home and children—a lady who would be content to remain at home in the country while you lived as you pleased in town. Is that not the way many marriages are arranged?’

‘Yes, of course, but I explained how I felt about that, the distress and misery it can cause. A proper business arrangement, where the lady in question is paid a sum of money and understands her position from the start—that should not cause unhappiness at all, should it?’

‘No, not if the lady was content with the arrangement.’ Roxanne saw the slightly excited, expectant look on his face. ‘I am not a lady, sir. I told you, I do not know who I am—and I have lived with travelling players for some years. I have appeared on various stages about the country and might be recognised.’

‘That might be a drawback, if you had played in London—but I think you have not?’

‘No, I have never played at a large theatre. Sometimes we were employed by a provincial theatre, but often we set up on village greens or in the yard of an inn, as travelling players have for centuries.’

‘Black Bob is not your relation—or your lover?’

‘Certainly not!’ she cried indignantly.

‘Then I see no reason why you should not oblige me.’

‘Do you not?’ Roxanne pressed a spotless white napkin to her mouth, then laid it by her plate. ‘I am grateful for the bed and my food, but I think we should part company now. I will find some way of reaching London alone.’

‘You promised you would not abandon me. We still have one more day on the road.’

‘You are perfectly safe now. These people are honest and they know you. Besides, I do not think you are in pain now.’

‘I am not in as much pain as I was, but if I wanted to get down from the chaise on the road I could not do so without assistance. If my idea upsets you, I withdraw it. Last night I thought you willing. I misjudged the matter. Forgive me, but allow me to take you on to London and find you a place to stay and at least an interview with the manager of a theatre.’

‘I see no reason why you should do anything for me. I have done very little to deserve it, sir.’

‘Apart from saving my life twice?’ Luke grinned at her. ‘Say you are not offended, Roxanne. I assure you that my motives are not those of greed or wishing to deceive—except in a kind way.’

‘A kind way?’

‘I should like my grandfather to die with an easy mind. Is that so very terrible?’

‘No, and if the young lady were willing I should not entirely condemn the idea—but I am not a lady. You would be lying to him if you presented me as a lady of good birth.’

‘Supposing I merely said you were a young lady of good character—would that be a lie?’

‘No.’ Roxanne met his searching gaze. ‘I am untouched—if that is what you mean. Sofia kept me safe. She believed I was of a good family and she wanted me to become a lady. She did not wish me to follow in her footsteps—but a lady is born, not made. I could live quietly, perhaps in Bath, as you suggested, but without patronage I should not be accepted.’

‘Supposing I could find a lady who would sponsor you? Supposing you found yourself able to mix in company—would you then consider becoming my fiancée or, if necessary, wife for a short time?’

Roxanne hesitated. She hardly knew why she was resisting. Sofia had kept her jewel safe, telling her that she need not work on the stage. The chance to be accepted into society, to live as a respectable young lady, was something that might never come again. If she refused and insisted on finding work as an actress, her future was inevitable. In the end she would be trapped or persuaded into taking a protector.

‘I might consent to a long engagement,’ she said and then wondered if she had run mad. ‘I think marriage might be a step too far, but if you were to introduce me as your fiancée and explain that we could not marry until…my father returns from India, it might serve.’

‘Is your father in India?’

‘I have no idea who my father is or even if he is alive. It was a game Sofia invented. She said I was the daughter of an English lady and an Indian prince. She was once the mistress of a maharajah and liked to tell me tales of India. I think her stories were so vivid that sometimes I saw the prince in my dreams. She said it would take away the bad dreams and she was right.’

‘Your friend was a remarkable lady.’

‘She taught me so much and I loved her. Sometimes her stories seem real to me, but I remember nothing beyond waking and seeing Sofia smiling at me.’

‘It must have been terrifying for you.’

‘Yes, at first, but Sofia helped me through the dark times when the nightmares came.’

‘You were lucky to have her.’

‘I think had she not found me I should have died—but you do not need to tell your grandfather lies. Surely there must be a young woman of good family who would oblige you?’

‘I do not wish to make a marriage of convenience.’ A tiny nerve flicked at his temple. ‘My mother made such a marriage and was desperately unhappy. I would not inflict that pain on anyone. I truly do not wish to harm anyone.’

‘Then…’ Roxanne sighed ‘…perhaps we might have a business arrangement if you wished for it.’

‘I begin to see how the story might work,’ Luke said, his gaze narrowed. ‘I could say that you were the daughter of an employee of the East India Company. You have not heard from your father for some time and, while consenting to an engagement, could not marry until he replies to your letter. If necessary, we could always kill him off at some future date.’

‘Do not joke about such things.’ Roxanne twisted her napkin in her fingers. ‘I feel that we are discussing a wicked trick and I am not sure that I could carry it through. If the earl were to discover the deceit he would be devastated—it might lead to his death.’

‘Why should it be discovered?’ Luke’s cool gaze intensified. ‘You are an attractive young woman, Roxanne—but your clothes do not do you justice. Dressed as a young woman of good family you will look very different. No one is going to recognise you as an actress—none of my friends or family will have seen you on the stage. An engagement may be broken. If something goes wrong, we can end it and my grandfather will understand that these things happen. However, he may not live for many months. After his death, you will be free to go wherever you please. Is it too much to ask—to make an old man happy?’

Roxanne considered, then, ‘No, that part at least is commendable. Yet I still feel it wrong to deceive him. Could you not bring yourself to make a marriage of convenience to a young lady of your own class, my lord?’

‘I fear it is out of the question. If you will not accept, I must forget the idea. Grandfather has given me an ultimatum and if I do not abide by it… He has threatened to disown me and—make life extremely difficult for me and the people I support. Besides, his cousin Harte is a pompous fool and not fit to stand in Grandfather’s shoes.’

‘What happens to you if the earl disinherits you?’

‘I lose the earl’s title, his estate and fortune—but do not imagine I care for his money. I have sufficient of my own…or I had. He has told me that he can withhold the inheritance I had from my paternal grandfather until I am thirty if he chooses. I do not know if it is an empty threat. I must speak with my lawyers in town. It would be deuced awkward. I have commitments to some people that I would be loath to break.’

‘What kind of commitments?’ She saw his quick frown. ‘That is not my business. Forgive me. It is just that I would be certain what is in your mind concerning this arrangement.’

‘My suggestion stemmed from your own, Roxanne. Forgive me, I should not have mentioned it. After all, you hardly know me. I might be a ruthless rogue out to rob the old man of his money.’

‘No, I do not believe that,’ Roxanne replied. ‘You must allow me a little time, sir. I shall complete the journey to London with you—and then we shall discuss this again, perhaps in a few days.’

His gaze fastened on her face. ‘Yes, of course. We have another day on the road and then I shall take you to a place where you can stay until a decision is made.’

The journey was completed without incident. They were obliged to get down from the chaise once so that Luke could relieve himself. He had not lied when he told her he would need assistance to hobble into the bushes at the side of the road and leaned heavily on her arm. From the grimace on his face, she thought that he was still in some pain. She turned her head modestly and ignored the sounds from behind her, waiting patiently to help him back into the carriage when he was ready.

Luke shot her an amused glance. ‘You play the part of a long-suffering wife to perfection, Roxanne. If you chose, you could easily fool Grandfather or anyone else into thinking we had been married for an age.’

Roxanne looked at him disapprovingly. ‘I know you are jesting, but I do not find the suggestion funny. Marriage would not be an option. Even an engagement seems so deceitful when there is no intention on either side—but I do understand why you wish to please him.’

‘He gets so distressed over the smallest thing,’ Luke told her. ‘I fear a fit of temper may carry him off. Once, that would not have concerned me, but now—I find I should not like to be the cause of his death.’

‘You really believe that your refusal to marry may cause the earl to die in distress?’

‘Yes.’ Luke’s expression was serious. ‘You are right to accuse me of levity. It has always been my way to make light of things—but it shocked me when he had that turn. I thought he was going to die, and, had he done so, it would have been my fault.’

Roxanne nodded, but made no further comment. Luke sat back with his eyes closed and the remainder of the journey was accomplished in silence. However, he stirred himself as they approached the heath and told her that they had reached Hampstead.

‘There has been a highwayman waylaying travellers hereabouts for some months, but last month they caught him and I dare say he will hang. The house I told you of is nearby. It is being prepared for someone—a lady and child. At the moment she is staying with friends in the south of England, but in another week or two she will take up residence. She will not mind if we use it for a few days.’

‘You intend to stay there with me?’

‘Not to sleep, but I must visit often. You have my word that I shall not take advantage. If you are to play the part of my fiancée, you will need to know certain things and we must dress you accordingly.’ He smiled at her. ‘Can you trust me, Roxanne? You must know that I would not harm you after all you have done for me?’

‘I hardly know you—and I have been taught not to trust gentlemen of your class.’ Roxanne was thoughtful. If the house had been prepared for a lady and child, she was probably his mistress and perhaps the child was his. He would surely not attempt to seduce her in the house he had bought for his mistress? ‘Yet I believe you to be a man of your word.’

‘That is something.’ Luke was unsmiling as the chaise came to a halt. ‘You may help me down if you will, Miss Roxanne—it is best I address you formally now. Mrs Mills is the caretaker here for the moment and will respect you more if she thinks you a respectable young lady fallen on hard times.’

‘What do you mean to tell her?’

‘Just what I intend to tell everyone.’ His grey eyes were intent on her. ‘You do not know who you are. Yet I am certain you came from gentry—and you suggested India, which may be the truth for all we know.’

Roxanne climbed down from the chaise and gave Luke her hand to steady him. He winced as his injured leg touched the ground, but immediately recovered and took the arm she offered. As they approached the front door of the modest red-bricked villa, it opened and a woman of some forty-odd years stood in the doorway, looking at him expectantly.

‘Mrs Mills, I am pleased to see you again,’ Luke said with the easy charm that had drawn Roxanne to him. ‘This is not Mrs Fox, who is to live here, but a lady who has done me the honour of accepting my help.’

‘Lord Clarendon, how good to see you,’ she said and dipped a curtsy, her curious eyes on Roxanne.

‘This is Miss Roxanne Peters,’ Luke said without batting an eyelid. ‘I have brought her here for a few days, because she had nowhere else to go. Her best friend has recently died and she is alone. Roxanne’s father is in India and she is having difficulty in managing. She needs somewhere to stay for a little while—until we can settle things with the earl. In confidence, this lady is to be my fiancée.’

‘Then you are planning to marry.’ Mrs Mills looked surprised and pleased. ‘Well, sir, I am sure the earl will be glad to hear your news.’

‘We must hope so, Mrs Mills—but you know my grandfather.’

‘Indeed, I do, sir, and if you will forgive me, I thought him a harsh guardian after your dear parents died so tragically.’

‘I dare say he did his best,’ Luke replied, a little nerve flicking at his temple. ‘If you will be so good as to look after Miss Roxanne for me, I have business to attend. I shall return later to dine with you, Roxanne.’

Oddly, now that he was leaving, she wished he would stay. She offered her hand and he took it, bending his head to kiss it briefly.

‘Until later, dearest,’ he said and her heart jolted. He was playing a part, but for a moment she felt something so sweet and delicious that she wished their game was not merely make believe.

Roxanne nodded, turning to watch as he left before following the housekeeper up the stairs to her room.

‘Such a kind man,’ Mrs Mills was saying and she realised that she had not been listening. ‘Always thinking of others. People try to paint his lordship black, but take no notice, Miss Peters, he has a good heart.’

‘Yes, I am sure you are right,’ Roxanne said as she was shown into a bedchamber. ‘What a lovely room.’

‘And this is the guest room. It’s as I was saying, no expense spared for the widow and her child. Mrs Fox is a fortunate young woman if you ask me.’

‘Mrs Fox is the lady who is to live here?’

‘She and her son, the poor lady. Such a sad tale—but my tongue runs away with me and his lordship would be cross with me for tattling. I shall leave you to rest, Miss Roxanne—please ring for tea in the parlour when you come down.’

Roxanne looked about her at the pretty satinwood furniture, the silken hangings of green and white and the crystal trinkets with silver tops on the dressing table. If this was the guest room, Mrs Fox’s room must be something special. Clearly Luke had deep feelings for the widow.

Was Mrs Fox his mistress? The thought troubled Roxanne. If he had feelings for the lady—and he must, for he would not otherwise have provided her with a house and Mrs Mills to care for her and her son—why had he brought Roxanne here?

If he already had a son, why did he not produce him as his heir and marry the boy’s mother? It would surely solve all his problems.

Luke had told her he did not wish for a marriage of convenience. Was that because his heart belonged to a woman he could not marry?

Perhaps the earl thought Mrs Fox unworthy. What would he think of a young woman who knew nothing of her background and might even be a thief?

No, Roxanne was certain she was not a thief. She did not know why she had the ruby in her possession when she was found, but she would not have stolen it—would she?

Sighing, she gave up the attempt to remember. She remembered nothing but her life with the travelling players and Sofia. The vivid pictures that flitted through her mind at times were merely Sofia’s stories—put there to fill the blankness that had been there when she woke from her illness and cried for days.

‘Oh, Sofia,’ she whispered as she sat down on the bed and ran her hand over the silken covers. ‘What am I to do? I like him so much—but I fear that I am headed for trouble. I should run away now, go to London and forget him…but I feel as if something binds me to him.’

‘He will break your heart.’

The words were only in her head. Sofia was no longer there to guide and comfort her. She was alone and must use her wits to keep herself safe. Luke Clarendon was offering an arrangement that would make her independent for the rest of her life. All she had to do was to play a part—and keep a little distance between them.

A tiny voice in her head told her it was already too late, but she was no longer listening.

Roxanne smiled and lifted her face to the sun. She had been staying here for almost a week now. Life was comfortable and pleasant; Roxanne was beginning to feel at home, but she did not dare to let herself feel too settled. She was here under false pretences and that made her feel a little guilty. Once or twice she had considered hiring a cab to take her into the centre of London in search of work at a theatre.

‘Roxanne…’ Mrs Mill’s voice calling to her made her glance over her shoulder. She looked at her basket. She had enough flowers for now. ‘His lordship has arrived.’

‘Thank you.’ She saw that Luke had come out into the garden in search of her and her heart quickened as she went to meet him. ‘I thought you would not be here until this evening.’

‘I was able to get away sooner.’ He looked at her approvingly. ‘That gown suits you well, Roxanne.’

‘I am glad you approve. You chose it.’

‘So I did,’ he said. ‘Fetch your bonnet and a shawl if you wish for one. As I rode here I saw a fair on the Heath. It is an age since I visited a fair. Shall we go, Roxanne? I’ll buy you a toffee apple.’

She laughed and shook her head. ‘I do not think I should care for it, but there will be other treats I dare say. Yes, if you wish, we may as well spend a little time there for it is a lovely afternoon.’

‘Then we shall go and if you do not wish for a toffee apple I will win you a fairing at the shooting range.’

Roxanne agreed and ran inside to fetch her bonnet. She did not know why, but the prospect of spending the afternoon at the fair with him was delightful. She had come to know him a little these past days and to like what she learned of him very much.

The fair had spread out over much of the Heath. There were stalls of all kinds and the smells of hot pies and toffee apples were mouth watering. A man on stilts was walking through the crowds, telling people to visit the bearded lady and the dog with two heads, as well as to watch the wrestling match and the bowling for a pig. Luke paid to try his hand at the shooting range, but his shots went astray and he made a sound of annoyance.

‘I am sure the barrel is not straight. I will have one more attempt. Walk a little further and I shall catch you up in a moment.’

Roxanne smiled and left him, feeling amused that he was so determined to win her a fairing. She would not go too far, but wander around the stalls, which sold all manner of pretty trifles. She would have liked to buy a small gift for Luke, but her few pennies would not stretch far and she was afraid to spend them in case she needed them.

She stood for a moment watching a man swallowing a sword and juggling with fire. Then, feeling a tingling at the nape of her neck, she glanced to her left where a group of men were standing haggling over horses and a shiver went down her spine. A man with black hair and a swarthy complexion was looking at her. She knew him at once and felt the fear sweep through her. How unfortunate that he should be at the fair! If he came to her and demanded she return with him, he might force her to go.

She had to return to Luke! Yet if she did so, she might bring trouble on him; his leg was better than when he fell, but she knew it still pained him. Perhaps she could lose Black Bob in the crowd. Turning away, she began to walk hastily back the way she had come, but almost immediately collided with a man. He put out his hands to steady her.

‘Whoa,’ he said and laughed as she gave a cry of alarm. ‘Where are you going in such a hurry, Roxanne? Were you running away from me?’

‘Not from you.’ Roxanne breathed a sigh of relief as she looked up at Luke’s teasing smile. ‘I saw someone I did not wish to meet.’

‘The man you ran away from after Sofia died?’

‘Yes.’ Roxanne drew a deep breath. She glanced back and saw that Black Bob had followed her but now he was hesitating, looking uncertain. ‘Please give me your arm. He is watching us. I was afraid he might try to grab me; but he did not expect to see you. If you seem to be a friend, he may think he was mistaken.’

Luke offered his arm and she took it, her hand trembling slightly. He glanced down, a frown on his face. ‘You are afraid of him, aren’t you?’ She nodded. ‘Damn the fellow. Shall I thrash him for you?’

‘No, please do not try. He was stronger than all the other men—and you are injured.’ She glanced down at his tight-fitting breeches and long, highly polished boots. ‘Is your leg better?’

‘Much. My doctor bound it and instructed me to rest, which I have as much as I could bear. I have an ache now, but the sharp pain has gone. It was a dislocation after all and not the break I feared—so it seems our rustic physician knew his trade. My own doctor had nothing but praise for his work.’

‘I did not doubt it, but you were in such pain afterwards that I feared he might have done some damage.’

‘My physician told me I was lucky. Had the fellow not acted as he did, I might have had an infection in the leg and been far worse. I might even have lost the use of it. However, I fear I made too much fuss of a slight thing.’

‘I am sure you did not. Do you think Black Bob is following us?’

Luke glanced back. ‘I believe he has gone. He will have realised he was mistaken or given up, I dare say.’

‘Yes, perhaps.’ Roxanne caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Luke’s timely appearance might have put him off for the moment, but it would not stop him if their paths crossed again. ‘I do not think I can continue to stay here. If that man discovered where I was living, he might make trouble for you—and for Mrs Fox when she takes up residence.’

‘Surely he would not?’ He arched his fine brows as if to dismiss her fears.

‘You do not know what he is like. He is a violent, brutal man who never considers the wishes of others.’

‘I believe you, but surely it is not necessary to hide from him?’

‘If he found me, he would try to force me to go with him.’

‘Then what would you like to do?’

Roxanne looked at him hesitantly. ‘To be honest I do not know. Now that he has seen me here, London may not be the best place for me to find work.’

‘Then let me take you to stay with my grandfather. We can announce our engagement—and you can help me do something kind. Had my grandfather not set his mind on this I should simply have ignored his demands. My lawyer tells me that he could in law withhold the income from my trust, though he is not the only trustee and my godmother might take my side. Yet because of his illness I would make his last months happy if I can. To engage in bitter arguments and legal battles could only shorten his life.’

‘Are you sure he would accept me?’ Roxanne glanced down at herself. Inside she was trembling. The life he offered was a golden prize. Yet she was wary too, conscious that she might be laying up trouble for herself. ‘I know the clothes you have given me have made me look the part—but are you sure he will not see through my disguise at once?’

‘I do not think it. You are everything Grandfather asked me to provide in the woman that I intend to marry, Roxanne. Charming, good mannered and conscientious—what more could he want in a wife for me? Besides, if he does not approve that will end it. I shall bow to his judgement, take you to Bath and make sure you have all you need to live in comfort for the rest of your life.’

Roxanne gazed at him in silence for a moment. Sofia’s voice was in her head, warning her to be careful. Was he merely trying to deceive her into an illicit entanglement? No, no, she believed he had a true concern for his grandfather.

‘You are quite sure you wish to do this?’

‘I have given the idea more thought since I left you with Mrs Mills. She has served my family all her life and her opinion of you has confirmed mine. You may have lived in the company of travelling players for a few years, but before that you were strictly reared. I had wondered if I should need to teach you how to behave in society, but you know instinctively. Do this for me, Roxanne. Please, help me to make Grandfather’s last days more content. Afterwards, you will be free to live your own life.’

‘Supposing he lives much longer than you expect?’

Luke gave her a thoughtful look. ‘You may have to marry me. I know it isn’t what you want—but it would be temporary, and in time you could live your own life. We could have the marriage annulled and you would still be young enough to marry again.’

It would be like an acting contract with a theatre manager. She would play a part for some months, perhaps longer, and then move on. Easy enough, perhaps, yet supposing her emotions became involved?

‘An engagement is easily broken but…’ Roxanne hesitated, then, ‘Marriage is a last resort and only if it becomes impossible to prolong the engagement. It cannot be what you wish for?’

‘I have no wish to marry, but it would be a business arrangement, nothing more. I enjoy my life the way it is—but for Grandfather’s sake I am prepared to play a game of make believe.’

‘It is really just a part I must play, but on a smaller stage and in private rather than public,’ Roxanne said thoughtfully.

‘Yes, mostly in private—though I dare say Grandfather will give an occasional dinner for us.’

‘I can manage that,’ Roxanne replied confidently. ‘Besides, your grandfather may think me unsuitable and then I can simply go away and disappear.’

‘Yes, exactly.’ Luke stopped walking and looked into her eyes. ‘Will you do me the honour of wearing my ring for a time, Miss Roxanne?’

For a moment it felt as if he were truly proposing and her heart jerked, but then she saw the mischief in his eyes and smiled.

‘Yes, I shall do as you ask, sir. Just until you decide that you are ready to abandon the masquerade.’

‘Do not think of it as a masquerade. It is a gentleman’s agreement between friends—a small deception for the best of reasons, do you not agree?’

‘I cannot disagree when you wish only to give an old man peace of mind—and to honour your commitments,’ Roxanne said. For a moment she wondered where Mrs Fox came into his plans, but dismissed her doubts. ‘You will be my employer and may dismiss me when it pleases you.’

‘Please.’ Luke made a rueful face. ‘You must not think of me in that way or it will show. I am Luke—the man you intend to marry.’

‘Yes, of course you are, dearest.’ Her manner was light and teasing, exactly right for a woman who had just become engaged to the man she loves. Roxanne placed her hand playfully on his arm. ‘Do not be anxious, Luke. I shall not forget my part and let you down. The earl will have nothing to complain of in my manner or deportment.’

‘We must order you some more clothes and then we shall leave.’ Luke smiled, his eyes thoughtful. ‘I am certain Grandfather will like you, but you must look the part. Tomorrow I shall take you shopping. I intend to write to my grandfather and tell him that I shall be bringing a young lady to meet him in one week from now.’

Chapter Four

‘Your belongings are strapped to the back of the carriage. Is there anything more you require before we leave, Roxanne?’

She thought of the two trunks packed with pretty gowns for all occasions, silk undergarments, stockings, shoes, slippers and gloves, besides several pretty bonnets. She had taken her pick of the wardrobe when acting in plays on their travels, but never had she seen so many beautiful clothes as Luke had so recklessly purchased for her. Too many by half and expensive, far more stylish than anything she’d ever worn before.

‘You have been most generous and I have all I need, thank you.’

‘Then we should go.’ Luke offered his arm and they strolled towards the carriage. ‘I intend to ride most of the way, Roxanne. We shall stop one night on the road—and your new maid will meet us at the inn, where we stopped before.’

‘My maid?’

‘Yes, of course. A respectable young lady cannot travel without a maid. I sent word ahead and I am sure a maid will have been provided by the time we arrive. Grandfather would be shocked if we visited without one.’

‘What would he think if he should learn how we met?’

‘It will not happen. I met you at the house of a friend and we liked each other very well. You have consented to an engagement, but we are waiting for your father’s permission to wed.’

Roxanne stifled her feelings of unease. ‘I pray you will not invent too many lies, sir, for I may forget them.’

‘We shall keep your story as simple as possible,’ he promised. ‘You must expect some questions, Roxanne. Grandfather is bound to wonder why I have given into his request so tamely.’

‘You must endeavour to look as if you are in love, Luke,’ she said and gave him a smile of positive wickedness. ‘Liking will not serve or he will sense a mystery. If you have resisted his plea thus far, he must be convinced of your sincerity or you may do more harm than good.’

‘You are very right,’ Luke agreed and looked thoughtful. ‘Let us hope that I can play my part as well as I expect of you.’

‘Watch me often and look pleased or brooding,’ she suggested and her mouth pouted at him. ‘It should not be beyond you, Luke. I dare say you have wooed enough ladies to know how to court the love of your life.’

‘You have a wicked tongue,’ Luke remarked and grinned. ‘Do not be afraid of Grandfather, Roxanne. I think his bark worse than his bite—besides, he should be happy to meet you. You are exactly what he has looked for.’

‘Let us hope that is the case. If not, you can apologise to him and take me away.’

‘He wants me married and an heir,’ Luke said. ‘Play your part well and he will soon be eating from your hand, my love.’

‘Yes, that is better,’ Roxanne approved. ‘You had the tone just right then. I was almost convinced myself.’ She took off her smart leather glove, looking at the huge square emerald-and-diamond ring on her left hand. It was proof that she was truly caught up in this masquerade, pretending to be Luke’s betrothed. ‘This is magnificent enough to convince anyone.’

‘I could not do less. Had I given you something paltry Grandfather would not have been fooled for an instant.’

‘Any jewels you lend me will of course be returned when we part,’ Roxanne replied. ‘All I shall ask is a small income so that I can live quietly but respectably.’

‘Yes, well, as to that we shall see. That ring belongs to you, Roxanne, whatever may happen when we get to Hartingdon.’ Luke helped her into the carriage and stepped back. ‘I shall be close by. Should you need to stop, you may tap the roof and the driver will oblige you.’

Roxanne sat back against the squabs and looked out of the window. She had butterflies in her stomach, for the role she was about to play was important, far more demanding than anything she had accomplished before. If she failed, she would be letting Luke down and perhaps hurting a vulnerable old man.

She would not fail. Roxanne did not think she had come from Luke’s class, but she was certain that she had been reared as a gentlewoman. Why had she run away from her home—and what had frightened her so much that she’d lost her memory?

It could not matter. Her engagement was merely make believe and intended to be a temporary arrangement.

Would the earl be fooled by their little charade? Luke wondered as he rode just behind the carriage. It was perfectly possible that he would throw them both out and disown his grandson, as he had threatened. That would be a deuced nuisance and the ensuing row would be messy and unpleasant. He could not let Beth Fox and her son Harry down. He had promised to support her for the rest of her life in comfort and would keep his promise, which meant he must fight for his income if forced. He would also need to keep his promise to Roxanne if things went wrong.

Luke wanted to avoid a quarrel if at all possible. He had no desire to be the cause of the earl’s death—nor did he particularly wish to inherit a large and cumbersome estate that would require a much larger commitment than his own did at present. It would suit him if the earl lived for some years longer, yet he needed his own income intact.

It was such a coil and so unnecessary. Why must the earl be such a pompous fool, making unreasonable demands on his grandson? Anger mixed with regret as he considered his childhood. Alone and grieving for his parents, he had looked for a sign of love or softness in the earl and found none. Because he was hurt, he had drawn into himself and rejected his grandfather. The estrangement between them had begun years ago and they had drifted apart. For a long time Luke had believed there was nothing between them, but now he was not so sure.

Had he been as indifferent to his grandfather as he had pretended to be since reaching his maturity, he would simply have walked away and left him to make Harte his heir. However, that particular rogue would rejoice at the earl’s early demise and make short work of his fortune. He might behave as if butter would not melt in his mouth when in the earl’s presence, but Luke knew him for what he was—and that was something that left an unpleasant taste in the mouth. Naturally, he would never mention Harte’s true nature to his grandfather.

On the other hand, Hartingdon might embrace Roxanne with open arms and demand a marriage sooner rather than later. At the moment she was resisting the idea stoutly, but once she had become accustomed to her surroundings she might change her mind. Luke had dismissed the idea of a convenient marriage for years, but since coming up with the idea of this make-believe engagement, he had found that he did not dislike it as much as before—providing the young woman in question was Roxanne.

The calm and enterprising manner in which she had embarked on this whole adventure had made Luke admire her more than any other young woman of his acquaintance. Her circumstances would have broken a lesser spirit, but she seemed resilient and eager for life. She was courageous, honest, and, of late, he had found her both charming and amusing as a companion. It might be perfectly possible to have the kind of businesslike marriage they had spoken of with Roxanne—if she could be brought to agree.

Love was something he still felt belonged to the realms of myths and fairy tales. However, he did like the young woman riding in the carriage ahead of him, and if she were to agree, he would not entirely dislike the idea of marriage and children.

Yet there might come a time when he found someone he truly wished to wed. Luke shook his head. His father had strayed from the marriage bed, not just into the arms of a mistress, but with a woman he professed to want too much to give up. That day in the carriage when his parents had argued so disastrously, Luke’s father had been talking of a separation or a divorce. When Luke’s mother became hysterical he had begged her pardon, but she would not listen—and then it was too late for all of them.

Thrown clear of the wreckage that had taken their lives and changed his own so dramatically, he had vowed that he would never hurt anyone as his father had hurt his mother. A sham marriage built on lies was bound to end in bitterness and tears—but a business arrangement was another matter and perhaps a sensible young woman like Roxanne would be able to see its advantages.

As yet they hardly knew one another. Some time spent visiting the earl would rectify that and, if they continued to get along, Luke could suggest that they turn this make-believe engagement into a real marriage.

Naturally, she would still be free to lead her own life much of the time, as would he. Their children would be in the nursery, cared for by a nurse and— No! Suddenly, Luke recalled his own childhood after he was left to the mercy of his grandfather. He would wish to spend time with his own children and to help teach them what life was about. They should not be left to the sole care of servants.

Luke frowned, for the thought brought complications. It might not be as easy to partition his life into different compartments as he had imagined.

Perhaps for the time being it would be best to stay with his original idea and separate once his grandfather was dead. He was amazed at how disappointed that thought made him feel.

Roxanne’s heart thudded as she glanced out of the window and saw the huge sprawl of Hartingdon. She had known it must be a large house, but this was so big, way beyond her expectation, some parts much older than others and an ancient tower at one corner. How did one ever find one’s way about in such a place? She had thought she would find it easy to play the part of a respectable young lady, but suddenly the task seemed far more daunting than she had imagined. She would be unmasked immediately and the earl would have her thrown out on her ear.

Risking a glance at the girl sitting opposite her, she saw that Tilly was looking terrified. The girl had no previous experience of working in a house such as this, though she had sometimes helped ladies who stayed at her aunt and uncle’s inn without their own maids.

‘Do not be too anxious, Tilly.’

‘It is a big house, miss.’

‘Yes, it is. I dare say you will soon get used to it.’

Roxanne smiled reassuringly, though her stomach was tying itself in knots as the carriage slowed to a halt and then stopped. A groom opened the carriage door and immediately stood back, allowing a man in a black-and-gold uniform to assist her. She took the footman’s hand and was helped down just as Luke gave the reins of his horse to a groom and came to her.

‘Have courage,’ he whispered. ‘It looks daunting, I know, but it is just a house.’

Roxanne lifted her head proudly, but she could not quite control the trembling of her hand as she placed it on his arm. Briefly, Luke covered it with his own and smiled at her. They walked towards the door, where a small group of servants wearing the earl’s colours of black and gold had assembled.

‘This is Marshall, my grandfather’s valet, and Mrs Arlet, the housekeeper.’

A tall thin woman dressed completely in black dipped a curtsy. ‘Welcome, Miss Peters. Please allow me to present the staff.’

Roxanne was led down a line of maids and footmen, ending with the scullery maid and the boot boy. She kept her head high and a smile on her lips, giving just the faintest nod to them all. It was the way a properly brought up young woman would act, she was sure, and brought her a look of respect from the housekeeper. However, she noticed that Luke chatted to one or two of the footmen and smiled at the pretty parlour maid. Such behaviour was acceptable from him, for he had known the staff all his life. She was a newcomer and should keep her distance, at least for the moment.

‘Perhaps you would take my fiancée up to her chamber, Mrs Arlet?’

‘Yes, my lord, of course. This way, Miss Peters.’

Roxanne glanced at Luke, but he was talking to the earl’s valet. She steadied her nerves and followed the housekeeper up the wide magnificent staircase, her gaze moving to the high-vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall. The banisters were heavily carved mahogany, which had darkened with age and polish, the stone steps covered over with a rich blue Persian-style carpet. The entrance hall floor was tiled in black-and-white marble, but the hall upstairs was covered in the same carpet and looked a recent addition to the elsewhere-faded grandeur of the house.

‘The earl ordered that you be given the best suite of guestrooms, miss,’ Mrs Arlet said as she led the way along the hall and into the east wing. ‘They have recently been refurbished. This is a large house and in constant need of repair or refurbishment. Some of the family rooms have not been used in an age, so nothing has been done to them. No doubt that will change when his lordship marries.’

‘Yes, I would imagine so,’ Roxanne said, her heart racing. Naturally everyone would expect a marriage to be forthcoming. A tiny pang of guilt pierced her, because the housekeeper looked pleased at the idea of change. ‘I think—perhaps you would give me a little tour of the house one day, Mrs Arlet? Not just the main reception rooms—but the kitchen and anywhere else I ought to see.’

‘Yes, miss. I should be pleased to, though Lord Clarendon will show you his own rooms, I dare say. The west wing is not often used, because the tower is in need of repair. Lord Clarendon’s parents once occupied that wing but after the accident the earl closed the whole wing off, and no one bothers to go there.’

‘The accident…’

‘When the late Lord and Lady Clarendon were killed, miss.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Roxanne nodded. ‘I was not sure of your meaning.’

‘No, miss. I suppose there have been a few accidents in the family, what with the earl’s only son dying of a fever when he was in his teen years—and then the earl’s wife taking a chill after being caught in a rainstorm. I think it broke the master’s heart when his daughter was killed so cruelly. He never quite got over it, for she was his favourite.’ Mrs Arlet shook her head. ‘They have not been a lucky family, but I am certain that is all about to change now, miss.’

‘Yes, we must hope so,’ Roxanne replied. It was amazing how much she had learned from the housekeeper in just a few minutes. Luke had told her his parents’ story, but not the rest of it. She understood now why he was prepared to go through with this sham engagement in order to please his grandfather in his last months. She must not let him down, however hard it might be to carry off the part of a loving fiancée. ‘That is up to me in part, is it not?’

‘There’s been a different atmosphere here since the letter came,’ Mrs Arlet said. She unlocked a door and stood back for Roxanne to enter. ‘The earl gave orders for most of the rooms to be opened up immediately. We’ll be giving a ball to celebrate his lordship’s engagement, miss. Everyone will want to meet you.’

‘Oh…yes, of course,’ Roxanne said and took a deep breath as she looked about her. ‘This is beautiful, thank you. When will the ball be held? I am not sure I brought a gown suitable for a grand ball.’

‘No doubt that can be rectified, miss. There are bales of silk in the sewing room waiting for just such a purpose. We’ll fetch the seamstress from town and she will be pleased to serve you. You’ll be the countess one day, after all.’

‘Yes.’ Roxanne looked round. ‘I think perhaps I should tidy myself.’

‘Yes, miss. The earl will be waiting for you in the main parlour downstairs. If you could be ready, I shall serve tea in twenty minutes.’

‘I can be ready, but I’m not certain I know where to go.’

‘Lord bless you, miss. Just go down the stairs to the main hall and someone will direct you. The footmen are here for that very purpose and we are all eager to make your stay at Hartingdon as pleasant as possible.’

Roxanne thanked her and she went away. She was left standing in a small but pretty sitting room and beyond that was a bedroom. The main colours were green, gold, cream and yellow, which gave the rooms a light bright appearance. Roxanne ran her fingers reverently over the surface of a delicate and very pretty desk suitable for a lady. An elbow chair was set ready for use; the sofa was covered in green-striped silk and there was a rolled cushion at each end. Small occasional tables were dotted about the room and a bookcase with leather-bound volumes and porcelain figures behind the glass doors occupied the length of one wall.

Going into the bedroom, which was equally well furnished with a dressing table, matching chests and a padded stool at the end of the bed, Roxanne took off her pelisse and let it fall on one of the pretty chairs. She sat down in front of the dressing table and studied her reflection in the shield-shaped mirror. The frame was fashioned of smooth mahogany and inlaid with satinwood, set on a stand so that it could be moved to give a better view. The table was set out with silver items, including brushes and combs and perfume pots. How much luxury there was in a house like this!

She had removed her bonnet earlier and now took the brush to smooth over her hair, pulling at the tendrils that framed her face. She was wearing a silver brooch in her lace, but otherwise had no jewellery other than her ring. Touching the brooch, she smiled because it reminded her of Sofia and she could almost hear her friend applauding.

‘Now we shall see if I really am fit to be a lady,’ she said softly. ‘Wish me luck, dearest Sofia.’

‘You were born to the part, dearest.’

For a moment it was as if her friend were with her and she felt her courage return. Her part here was not to deceive for advantage, but to bring comfort and joy to an old man’s last days.

Roxanne’s things had not yet been brought up so she did not have the opportunity to change her gown; deciding that she looked the best she could after her journey, she left the bedroom and retraced her steps to the landing.

At the bottom of the stairs two footmen were discussing something and she caught the words ‘beauty and better than expected’, before they became aware of her standing there.

‘You were quick, miss,’ one of them said, a faint colour in his cheeks. ‘Mrs Arlet said to take you to the back parlour when you came down. It is the master’s favourite room these days. He mostly uses it when he is alone, though we’ll be using the drawing room for tea in future.’

‘Shall you?’ Roxanne said, controlling the urge to smile. Clearly the servants here considered themselves part of the family and that was somehow fitting. ‘There is no need to stand on ceremony for my sake. Please take me to the earl—I believe Mrs Arlet said your name was Jarvis?’

‘Yes, Miss Peters,’ he replied, seeming surprised that she should remember. ‘If you would like to come this way.’

‘Thank you,’ she said and inclined her head in her most regal manner.

Roxanne’s heart was hammering against her ribs as she followed the footman through to the back of the house. He paused before a pair of impressive double doors and then threw them open with a little flourish.

‘Miss Peters, my lord.’

Jarvis stood to one side so that Roxanne could enter; when she did so, he closed the doors behind her with a snap. Immediately, she saw the elderly man rise to his feet. He was tall, though a little stooped about his shoulders, thinner than she thought healthy, his hair dark pewter and his white brows bushy and slightly raised, intimidating. His eyes, though, were of a similar colour to Luke’s and for some reason that made her smile. She was, she imagined, looking at Lord Clarendon as he would be one day in the distant future. The two gentlemen were very alike despite the years between them.

‘Miss Peters? You are down sooner than that graceless scamp my grandson.’

‘Since I could not change my gown to greet you, I thought it better to come sooner rather than later,’ she replied and moved towards him, her hand outstretched. ‘Luke has told me a little about you, sir—and you are very like him.’

‘You are the first to say so in an age, though his mother often told me that he would be my image one day. Unfortunately, she did not live to see it. I have thought that a good thing, for she would have been disappointed in the young rogue—but now I am not so sure.’

‘I know that Luke has not always behaved in a way that pleased you,’ Roxanne said. ‘But you must not disparage him to me, you know.’

‘You are prepared to defend him if I do?’

‘I should be a poor fiancée if I did not—do you not think so, sir?’

The earl glared at her for a few seconds, then gave a harsh laugh. ‘I think he has done better than I imagined. I was prepared for you to be one of his doxies—but you ain’t, are you?’

‘Certainly not. I have been no man’s plaything and have no intention of it.’ Her eyes flashed a challenge at him. ‘Do you really think so poorly of him, sir? It would be unkind to bring a lady of that nature into your home. From what I know of Luke, he would not be so discourteous to you.’

‘You’re an outspoken miss. I can see why he picked you, Miss Peters.’

‘I fear I was taught to speak my mind and to be independent as much as possible. I should be happier if you were to call me Miss Roxanne—or simply by my given name.’

‘You have an older sister?’

‘No—but everyone always calls me Miss Roxanne. I prefer it.’

‘Do you, now? I wonder why?’ He stared at her a moment longer, then took her hand and bent over it, lifting it to his papery-dry lips to salute her with a kiss. ‘Come and sit down and tell me something about yourself.’

‘I am quite unremarkable, sir,’ Roxanne replied. She sat in the chair at the opposite end of the imposing fireplace so that he too might sit. ‘I have little family and, until she died, lived with the lady who cared for me after…I lost my home.’

‘Clarendon’s letter said that your father is in India and you do not wish to marry until he gives his permission?’

‘Do you not think that the proper thing to do, sir?’

His bushy brows met in a frown. ‘Humph. Clever with words, ain’t you? No fortune, I suppose—are you after his money, girl?’

‘I did not agree to this engagement for money.’

‘It was a bit sudden. He told me nothing of you the last time he was down here, then announces he’s engaged. Why would he do that—and why should you agree?’

‘I should be a liar if I said that Luke’s proposal was not appealing. I was in some difficulty and I am almost alone in the world, for I have not heard from my father in years. However, I have respect and liking for Luke and I believe he feels the same. I consented to the engagement—with the understanding that it would not continue if you should dislike it.’

Hartingdon’s gaze narrowed. ‘Willing to give him up for a consideration?’

‘I said no such thing,’ Roxanne replied, refusing to be ruffled by his pricking at her. ‘I should not wish to cause trouble between you, for I know that he holds you in affection. You do not need to pay me to make me go away, sir. I shall leave at once if my presence here offends you.’

‘Do not talk rubbish, girl. You look and behave like a lady. Might not be out of the top drawer, but I ain’t fool enough to send you packing—at least until I discover the truth of the matter. If he really means to settle down and provide me with an heir, you will do well enough, I dare say.’

Roxanne was not called upon to reply for the doors opened and a footman announced Lord Clarendon. Luke advanced into the room, looking strangely apprehensive.

‘Roxanne, I intended to be with you when you met Grandfather,’ he said, his gaze going from one to the other. ‘Everything all right, sir? How are you today? Better, I trust?’

‘Well enough. Don’t fuss, boy. I cannot abide people fussing over me. That fool of a doctor is bad enough without you.’

‘I see your mood has not much improved, sir.’ Luke’s mouth firmed. ‘I hope he has not bitten your head off, Roxanne? I assure you he is not always this ill tempered.’

Roxanne looked from one to the other and then laughed. ‘Oh dear, you both look so cross—like two bulldogs who have been quarrelling over a bone, which has been suddenly snatched from under your noses by a mongrel pup.’

For a moment there was silence and then Luke grinned. ‘You are perfectly right, dearest. It is ridiculous to argue over trivial things. Forgive me, Grandfather. I did not come down here to quarrel with you.’

‘Why did you come?’ The earl looked at him suspiciously. ‘Am I supposed to believe that you truly intend to settle down and do your duty?’

‘What is my duty, sir? I hope that you will continue to live for some years yet in the full enjoyment of your estate. If you need help or advice with business matters I should be pleased to give it—though whether you would wish to receive it is another matter.’

‘I have agents and fellows enough to run the place,’ the earl grunted, ‘though you might take the trouble to ride the estate with Tonkins while you are here. Some of the cottages may need renovation. It was in my mind to do it some years back, but I let things slip, though I’ve no cause for complaint in Tonkins’s management as far as I know.’

‘I shall be pleased to do so, both with him and on my own, while we stay with you,’ Luke told him. ‘May I take it that Roxanne and I have your blessing?’

‘You puzzle me, Clarendon. You have flouted my wishes since you reached your majority and became independent. Now, it seems you wish to please me—why? Afraid of losing your inheritance?’

‘I find that it does not suit me to be at odds with you, sir. Is that so very strange?’

‘I suppose it threw you into a blue fit because of that little incident.’ The old man glared at him. ‘Well, I mustn’t nag on at you or your fiancée will scold me. I am pleasantly surprised, Luke. When your letter came I scented a rat, thought you would try to play one of your tricks on me, but Miss Roxanne seems a decent gel. For the moment I shall reserve judgement.’

‘I hope I shall not let you down,’ Roxanne said. ‘The marriage cannot happen until I have my father’s permission, so there is plenty of time.’

‘Indeed, I might argue with that,’ the earl said. ‘What makes you think your father will write if he has not done so for years?’

‘I can only hope that he will do so, sir.’

‘And if he does not?’ Hartingdon’s eyes gleamed suddenly. ‘I shall give you three months to seek his permission. If after that there is no word, I shall insist on the banns being called.’

Roxanne looked at him and saw the challenge in his eyes. She sensed that he was testing her and smiled, but before she could answer Luke spoke.

‘I am certain we could agree to that,’ he said. ‘After all, your father could not blame you for going ahead if he makes no attempt to contact you, Roxanne.’

‘It is so long since I heard anything, he may be dead,’ Roxanne said carefully. ‘If in three months’ time nothing has changed—and we are all content with the situation—I shall agree to the banns being called.’

‘Then you have my blessing,’ the earl said and looked smug, as if he had gained what he sought. ‘However, there is one caveat—and that is that Miss Roxanne remains here with me so that I may get to know her. If you have business elsewhere, Luke, you may leave us for as long as it takes. Your fiancée will reside here.’

‘I’m not sure…’ Luke looked stunned. Clearly he had not expected anything of the kind. ‘Roxanne—how do you feel about living here with Grandfather?’

Roxanne hesitated. She had expected a visit of two to three weeks at the longest. To live in this house for three months under the eye of the earl would be a huge challenge.

‘I…’ she began and then encountered a strange expression in the old man’s eyes. The challenge was there, as she had expected, but there was something more—a vulnerability and frailty that seemed to be pleading with her rather than demanding. ‘I think that would be an excellent idea. I have a great deal to learn if I am to be the mistress here, Luke. I hope you will stay with us as much as you can, dearest, but I shall be perfectly content to help Mrs Arlet. I believe she is quite keen to open up some of the family rooms that have been under covers for years.’

‘Told you that, did she?’ For the first time there was a glimmer of true respect in the earl’s eyes. ‘Jane Arlet knows quality when she sees it. If she approves of you, miss, I expect you will do. Don’t worry that I mean to keep you a prisoner. We shall have guests to entertain and you can visit our neighbours, though I do not go out at night these days. Barely go further than the garden even in summer, but I’m not too decrepit to entertain the family and our neighbours. We shall have a ball in a couple of weeks. Mrs Arlet will give you a list and you can write the invitations, girl. You can write, I suppose?’

Roxanne laughed softly. ‘Sofia said I had the most beautiful copperplate hand she had seen, sir.’

His brows met in a frown. ‘And who, pray, is Sofia?’

‘She was my dearest friend, almost a mother to me. Unfortunately, she died recently. I miss her very much.’

‘Humph…’ His gaze narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Name seems familiar, though I can’t think why. Well, why are you both still here? It is a beautiful morning. Get off out and leave me in peace. You should show Roxanne the gardens, Luke.’

‘Yes, sir, delighted.’ Luke held out his hand as Roxanne rose to her feet. She took it, smiling up at him when his fingers closed about hers. ‘Would you like that, my love?’

‘Yes, I should,’ she agreed and bobbed respectfully to the earl. ‘Thank you for receiving me, sir.’

‘Come and see me again tomorrow in the morning and we’ll talk. I may dine with you this evening, but we have no guests until the following day. I wasn’t sure whether you would really come.’

‘Or whether I should be presentable,’ Roxanne said and gave him a look that was deceptively demure. He glared at her, but she thought there was a glimmer of appreciation in his eyes. ‘Please dine with us if you feel able, sir.’

She took Luke’s arm and they left the earl’s room, going downstairs, through the hall and out of a side door into a small walled garden. It was square with rose beds on all sides and a sundial in the middle. Most of the roses were still in tight buds, though some had begun to show signs of opening.

‘Was it too much of an ordeal?’ Luke asked and looked down at her, a flicker of doubt in his face. ‘He seemed to like you, though you might not have thought it—but believe me, he can be much worse.’

‘Yes, I dare say he could. You told me not to be afraid of him and I thought it best to speak out from the start. I believe he prefers plain speaking.’

‘He cannot abide mealy-mouthed women. I have a godmother, who was also a great friend of my mother’s. Hartingdon was abominably rude to Lady Paula the last time she was here. She left in tears, vowing she would never visit again.’

‘I dare say he can be intimidating if he chooses,’ Roxanne said. ‘Yet I think underneath the growling and the harshness, he is lonely and vulnerable.’

‘Good grief.’ Luke stared at her in astonishment. ‘You saw that too? I thought I might have imagined it—he does his best to drive everyone away, you know. All the time I was growing up, he never showed me any sign of affection. He shut himself away from everyone after my mother died and often went for days without speaking to me. He was a harsh disciplinarian, though, when I look back, I believe he was fair. I dare say I was a rebellious lad and even more so as a youth.’

Roxanne laughed and hugged his arm. ‘I can understand why you rebelled when you reached your majority. Sofia always said that if you tied a dog to a short lead it made him wild when let free—and I think it is much the same with us. The best discipline is that which we apply to ourselves, do you not agree?’

‘You are amazing,’ Luke said. ‘You seem to have wisdom beyond your years, Roxanne. How old are you actually, do you know?’

She shook her head. ‘I think I may be nineteen or perhaps twenty. Sofia was never certain, but I was with her for more than five years and must have been thirteen or fourteen when she took me in. If I seem wise, it is because I spent all my time listening to her. She was an intelligent woman with great experience of the world and its foibles.’

Luke nodded, his eyes intent on her face. ‘You still recall nothing of your past?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then what are you hiding from me? I have sensed something, but did not wish to pry lest it was painful for you.’

Roxanne hesitated, then made her decision. She must trust him with her secret. ‘I have in my possession a ruby of great value. Sofia says I was clutching it in my hand when she found me. I held on to it fiercely and would not be parted from it for some days. When I finally did release it, she hid it and kept it for me. I had forgotten about the jewel until she reminded me just before she died. She says that when I was found, I was dressed in good plain clothes, but not silk, and I had no other ornament.’

‘Are you thinking that you may have stolen it?’

‘I do not know. Sofia told me that I should sell it and set myself up as a lady, but I should be reluctant to do so. It is the only clue I have to what happened before Sofia found me. Besides, it may not be mine to sell.’

‘You think you took the ruby and ran away? Are you certain it is a real jewel and not simply glass?’

‘Sofia thought it valuable. I will show it to you later. I do not know if there is any way to trace the rightful owner…’

‘How do you know that you are not the rightful owner?’

Roxanne looked at him, wrinkling her brow in thought. ‘Sofia told me that I kept saying it was mine, but after I relinquished it to her, I seemed to forget about it and did not ask for it again.’

‘It must have held great importance to you at the time.’ Luke looked thoughtful. ‘You told me that India came to mind when you thought of your father. It is quite possible that a man who either served with the British army or for the trading company might acquire such a jewel. Perhaps it belonged to your father.’

‘Why would I steal a jewel from my own father?’

‘He might have given it to you.’

‘The memory of India was just Sofia’s game.’ Roxanne sighed. ‘I have tried so hard to remember, but I cannot.’

‘Did you keep the jewel hidden in the secret pocket beneath your gown when you travelled?’

‘Yes, in the place where I put your gold to keep it safe. It is not there now. I will show you this evening and then you can tell me your opinion of its worth.’

Chapter Five

Roxanne took the jewel from the dressing case Luke had bought for her. She had placed it in the secret compartment for safekeeping. It was as large as a pheasant’s egg, a strange oval shape with slightly pointed ends and a deep dark red in colour. When it caught the light from the candles on her dressing table it sparkled and glowed with fire. Something about it at that moment sent a shiver down her spine. She had not noticed before, but there seemed something mysterious, even sinister, about the jewel.

She tucked it into the bodice of her gown and went out of her room, her heart beating faster. It was a relief to share her secret with Luke, because it had lain heavy on her conscience ever since she’d rediscovered the ruby in Sofia’s things. Making her way down to the smaller of the two dining parlours, Roxanne wondered if it would be possible to trace the origin of the jewel. She thought Luke was right. It had most likely been brought from India—but was it a gift to her from someone or stolen from its rightful owner?

The earl had decided that he would dine with them that evening. Dressed immaculately in evening clothes that belonged to an earlier age, he seemed more formidable than previously, a proud autocratic man with a strict manner. However, he was the soul of courtesy to Roxanne and did not once give her reason to blush or feel uncomfortable. With Luke he was sharper on one or two occasions, but, receiving only polite answers, he lapsed into silence and then glanced at Roxanne.

‘Do you play chess, Miss Roxanne?’

‘Yes, sir. Sofia taught me. We played in the evenings for there was little else to do…except sew, of course.’

‘You did not have an instrument?’

‘No, not for some years.’

‘We have some excellent instruments here. You are welcome to use them whenever you wish. I enjoy music. I could employ a music master for you if you wish to be taught.’

‘I shall attempt the pianoforte tomorrow,’ she promised. ‘If I have the aptitude, a music master might be useful to improve my skill. I am good with the needle.’

‘Do you like to sketch or paint?’

‘I think I have not had the opportunity.’

‘Your guardian was remiss in your education. You may need some social skills, Miss Roxanne. Perhaps we should send for your godmother, Luke. She is a foolish woman, but might be of some use in giving our gel a little nudge. What do you think?’

‘I believe I shall leave the decision to Roxanne, sir. I am not certain Lady Paula would come.’

‘Nonsense. Write to her and ask her to come down for the ball. She will be here before you have time to turn round. Her curiosity will bring her, if nothing more.’

The earl waved the footman away as he offered more wine. ‘Nothing more for me. I think I shall leave the pair of you to amuse yourselves. If I stay up this evening, I shall not be fit for guests tomorrow. No, no, do not get up. Finish your meal. Jarvis, give me your arm. Goodnight, Miss Roxanne. My suggestion was for your benefit, not an order.’

‘I thank you for the thought, sir.’

‘Well, he is certainly taking an interest,’ Luke remarked as the door closed behind his grandfather. ‘Shall we go through to the parlour, Roxanne? I thought we might use the front parlour when we are alone. It was my mother’s favourite and the drawing room is far too large. Shall I ask Mrs Arlet for some tea and coffee?’

‘Would you not rather have port or brandy? Tea will do very well for me.’

‘If you do not mind, I shall have brandy.’ He nodded to the remaining footman. ‘In twenty minutes or so, Smith.’

Roxanne proceeded him into the front parlour. It was of a similar size to the one the earl preferred, but its décor was a little in need of refreshment, though comfortable and with a pleasant aspect out over steps leading down to a wide expanse of lawn in the sunken garden. At that moment the light was fading and she could not see beyond the windows, for the candles had been lit.

‘Did you bring it?’ Luke asked, having made certain the door was closed behind them. ‘I must admit I am curious to see this jewel.’

Roxanne reached inside her bodice and took out the ruby. It was warm where it had lain nestled against her breasts. She held it out on the palm of her hand and it glowed in the candlelight.

‘Good grief,’ Luke exclaimed as he saw it. ‘I have never seen its like. This must be worth a king’s ransom, Roxanne. It looks as if it came from an Indian maharajah’s crown.’

‘Then it is valuable,’ Roxanne said as he held it to the light between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Sofia said as much, but I was not certain. How could I have come by it, do you imagine?’

‘I believe it must have come from India. The secret of its origin must lie locked in your subconscious, Roxanne. Could your father have brought it home? Did something happen that made you take it and run away?’

‘I truly wish I could answer that question.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘I have wondered if Black Bob guessed I had something valuable. He was determined I would be his woman—did he know that Sofia had hidden this for me? He would not have dared to steal it from her. The other players respected and revered her. Had he stolen from her or harmed her, I think they might have turned on him.’

‘So he waited until she was dead.’ Luke inclined his head. ‘It is possible that he might have suspected something. One of the others might have seen it in your hand when you refused to be parted from it.’

‘Yes, perhaps. What do you think I should do about this? Would it be possible to trace the rightful owner?’

‘I dare say a good few would claim it as theirs if they could whether or not they had the right,’ Luke said. ‘I suppose I might place a vague advert in The Times newspaper and see what happens. I should ask any respondent to contact a solicitor by letter and see what replies we get, but I think we must take great care of the jewel, Roxanne. If Sofia told you that you claimed it was yours, it may be—and this ruby is extremely valuable. If no one likely comes forward in response to the advert, I think you should accept that you own the jewel.’

‘Would you have it placed somewhere safe for me? I was nervous enough of carrying it before, but now—I should hate to be accused of being careless if it was lost.’

‘I shall have it stored in my grandfather’s strong room until I return to London,’ Luke said. ‘We keep all the more valuable heirlooms there when they are not being worn. Hartingdon thinks them as safe here as in a bank and I think he is right. The strong room was once a dungeon and the locks have been made stronger.’

‘Is it in the old wing—where the tower is?’

‘Yes. We seldom use that wing, because parts of the tower are unsafe. Grandfather hasn’t opened the strong room in years, but I shall ask him for the key. You will not mind if I show him the ruby?’

‘Supposing he asks where it came from?’

‘I shall tell him it is your inheritance from your friend, which in a way it is. Had Sofia been other than she was, she might have sold it long since.’

‘She would rather give me all she had than take something of mine,’ Roxanne replied with a smile. ‘Yes, it should be safe in the strong room—though if it is claimed we shall need to explain.’

‘I doubt it will be,’ Luke said. ‘The only person who might know of the ruby would be the owner, whoever that might be.’

‘My father…’ Roxanne sighed. ‘I think it must have been his and that it came from India, just as we have surmised, but perhaps I wish to believe it. Perhaps I have invented the fairy tale?’

‘Did Sofia never try to find out where you had come from?’

‘We were always moving from one place to another. Besides, I think she was afraid someone would take me away from her. She says that I was very quiet and I cried in my sleep for months when she first took me in. It was in her mind that I had been harmed in some way. She would not have given me up to someone who might hurt me.’

‘A jewel like that might cause many people to do things they would not otherwise do,’ Luke said and frowned. ‘I shall seek the advice of my lawyer before placing the advert, Roxanne. It may bring more than we would wish for and I must be certain it cannot be traced back to you.’

‘You think I might be in danger?’

‘I cannot know for certain—but there must have been something that frightened you or you would not have been in such distress when Sofia found you. If you were so determined not to give the ruby up, you must have had good reason to think it was yours.’

‘Sofia has said much the same to me.’ Roxanne looked up at him. ‘I would willingly return it to its rightful owner if it is not mine.’

‘Yes, well, we shall see what happens,’ he said and his eyes were thoughtful, as if wondering how much he could believe of what she’d told him. ‘Do not worry about it, Roxanne. I think Grandfather seemed pleased with life this evening, do you not agree?’

He had pocketed the ruby and Roxanne was glad to see it in his safekeeping. She did not wish to be responsible for such a jewel and felt she would not mind if she never saw it again—and yet, according to Sofia, as a young girl, she had been determined not to give it up.

‘I hope he will be as pleased with me in a few weeks. I am doing my best, Luke, but he is bound to discover gaps in my education. Sofia taught me so much about the world, and I read plays and poetry, but I know little of the things most young ladies learn.’

‘And your mind is all the better for it,’ Luke said. ‘You cannot imagine how boring some of them are, Roxanne. I would swear you could discuss Shakespeare in more depth than most.’

‘Yes, at least the roles I have played,’ she said and dimpled. ‘I shall not mind if the earl employs tutors to rectify my lack. It will pass the time and give me something to strive for.’

‘Have you thought about what happens in three months?’

‘It is a long time,’ Roxanne said. ‘I dare say he will have discovered I am a fraud and declare me unsuitable to be the mistress of a house like this long before that, and if he does not…well, that is up to you, I think.’

‘Would you go through with the wedding if I asked it?’

‘On the terms you offered before?’ He inclined his head and Roxanne was silent for a moment. ‘If we are both of the same mind in three months, I think I might.’

Why on earth had she agreed to marry him in three months if he should ask her? Roxanne wondered what had got into her head. A sham engagement was as far as she had been prepared to go initially, but, oddly enough, she had begun to find the idea of marriage to Luke Clarendon more and more appealing.

What else could she do with her life that would bring her comfort and safety? A woman alone in her position would be prey to rogues and predators, men who would trick her and seduce her for their pleasure. As Luke’s fiancée, and perhaps his make-believe wife, she would have respect and a settled income. Surely that was enough for any woman?

Yet there was something inside her that wanted more. How foolish she was! Luke had never intended more than a temporary arrangement, but now the earl was insisting on a marriage after three months. No doubt he wanted to know a grandchild was on its way before he died.

Luke’s child. For a moment the thought sent a warm spiral curling through her and she smiled. How pleasant the picture was, though quite impossible, of course. They must try to please the earl in his last months, but a child would be too much. She frowned as she recalled her first meeting with the earl. He looked frail, but he did not look particularly unwell.

Could Luke have overreacted to the earl’s illness? Was he truly as sick as his grandson believed?

What would she feel if Luke expected her to provide the heir?

The questions went round and round in her head as her maid helped her prepare for bed. When she was in her nightgown, Roxanne sent the girl away and curled up on the deep window seat to gaze down at the gardens. She was already beginning to feel more at home here and she could not help but think it might be nice to live in a house such as this, not just for a visit, but as the mistress.

‘Foolish,’ she murmured aloud as she twirled a strand of red hair over her finger. ‘It is not poss…’

The words trailed away as she saw the shadow of a man reflected on the lawn in the moonlight. He appeared to be trying to hide in the shrubbery, but the moon was at his back and cast a shadow for a few seconds before he moved further back into the darkness and was lost to sight.

She did not think it had been Luke and it was certainly not the earl. Perhaps one of the servants? Yet it had seemed to her that there was something furtive about the man, as if he wanted to watch the house without being seen.

Could Black Bob have followed her here? For a brief moment the thought sent cold chills winging down her spine, but then she dismissed them. The leader of the travelling players was an opportunist. Given the chance that day at the fair he might have grabbed her and forced her to go with him, but she did not think he would spend days following her to this house, only to hide in the shrubbery and spy on her.

Now she was being very foolish. Why should the man in the shrubbery be spying on her? Luke had said something about having an enemy when they first met. It might be that someone had followed him, intending some harm.

It was too late to go in search of Luke now. She did not know where his rooms were. Besides, the servants would be shocked if she went looking for him at this hour. She would just have to wait until the morning. Slipping into bed, Roxanne tried to be sensible. The man in the shrubbery was probably only one of the servants.

‘Someone hiding in the shrubbery watching the house?’ Luke looked incredulous when she told him her fears at breakfast. ‘I imagine it must have been one of the keepers. They probably take a walk round the house at night just to make sure everything is secure.’

‘Yes, I expect you are right. Though, whoever it was seemed a little furtive, as if he wanted to watch the house without being seen, but perhaps that was my imagination.’ She helped herself to a little scrambled egg and ham from the vast array of dishes under silver covers on the sideboard and carried her plate to the table. Luke was finishing his rare beef eaten with sauté potatoes and pickles.

‘I dare say he was being discreet rather than furtive. Grandfather would not want the keepers to be patrolling in full view of the house, but I think that is what you saw, Roxanne.’ He pushed his plate aside and poured more coffee into a delicate porcelain bowl.

‘I am relieved to hear it. I wondered if Black Bob had followed us here, and then I thought that perhaps—you spoke of an enemy when we first met?’

‘An enemy?’ Luke looked puzzled, then smiled ruefully. ‘In truth, I do not have an enemy, Roxanne. Are you anxious about this fellow who threatened you before?’

‘No. He would grab me if he saw me by chance, but I do not think he would take the trouble to follow us here. I am sure you are right. The man in the garden was merely a keeper on patrol. I shall not give it another thought.’

‘You are safe now, dearest,’ Luke said and smiled across the table. ‘You have me to look after you—to say nothing of the earl’s household.’

‘Yes, of course. I am not anxious for myself, but I thought I should tell you what I saw.’

‘I am glad you did. What are your plans for this morning, Roxanne?’

‘I have been invited to visit the earl at eleven o’clock. Until then I think I shall try to make myself familiar with the house.’

Luke got to his feet, tossing his napkin on the table. ‘I would love to stay and show you round, but I have an appointment with Grandfather’s agent and bailiff. Perhaps we can spend the afternoon together? Do not let Grandfather bully you, Roxanne.’

‘I have no intention of it. He is a peppery gentleman, but I rather like him.’

‘You do?’ Luke arched his brow, a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. ‘Well, I wish you luck. He is seldom at his best in the morning. Excuse me, I must go or I shall be late—finish your breakfast at your leisure. Had you wished, I am sure you could have had a tray in your room.’

‘I like to rise early. Please do not let me keep you from your appointment.’

After Luke had gone, Roxanne drank her coffee and then pushed back her chair. She examined the contents of the silver dishes and saw that most had not been touched. Leaving the room, she glanced at the maid hovering outside the door.

‘You may clear now, Maisie—it is Maisie, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Miss Peters.’

‘Please call me Miss Roxanne. Everyone does and I prefer it, as I have told Mrs Arlet.’

‘Yes, Miss Roxanne. Mrs Arlet said she was at your service if you should care for a tour of the house.’

‘I think I should like that very much.’

‘I’ll tell her you’re ready, miss, before I clear.’

‘How kind of you, Maisie, but I think I know where her sitting room is; she told me where to find her yesterday.’

Maisie bobbed a curtsy and went into the breakfast room. Roxanne wandered through the hall to the back stairs and then went down to the area that was used exclusively by the servants. The housekeeper’s sitting room was on a small landing just above a short flight of stairs, which led to the servants’ hall and the kitchen. Pleased that she had remembered correctly, Roxanne knocked and was invited to enter.

‘Miss Roxanne,’ the housekeeper said and looked surprised. ‘I would have come to you if you’d sent for me.’

‘I wanted to see if I could find my way here,’ Roxanne said. ‘I should like to begin with the kitchen, if you please. I have no intention of interfering with the way you do things, Mrs Arlet, but I think I should know the layout and the way everyone works. It is a long trek for the servants to carry the food to the dining room. I find it hardly surprising that things get a little cool sometimes.’

‘Yes, miss, that is a fault. Cook has been asking if we couldn’t have a serving hatch somewhere. It would save Mr Marshall going up and down those stairs so much—and the food would keep hotter.’

‘Would you like me to speak to the earl for you?’

‘If you think he is up to it, miss. When he was down a year or so back, his lordship did mention having a modern range put in and a tap in the scullery to save us fetching water from the well, but nothing happened.’

‘I dare say he might have forgotten,’ Roxanne said. ‘Gentlemen have such a lot to think of, do they not? They tend to leave the house to us.’

‘Well, Miss Roxanne, it is a treat to have a sensible young woman in the house. We’ve servants enough, it’s true, but life could be a bit easier for us all and there’s no mistake. A house like this needs constant attention to keep it right.’

‘I am certain it does,’ Roxanne said. ‘We shall begin with a tour of the house this morning, then, when I know my way about, we shall discuss menus. Cook is providing a huge choice of food in the morning. That is as it should be when we have guests, but we hardly need so much for the family.’

‘The master eats like a bird, miss. I think Cook likes to show what she can do when his lordship is down.’

‘Yes, of course. Well, we are to have guests very soon now and she will have plenty of chance to show off her skills.’

Roxanne noticed a glimmer of respect in the housekeeper’s face. She suspected that too much waste had gone on for years with no one to keep a check on things and Cook probably sent leftovers to the village or the servants took it home with them. Since there was no need for strict economy, Roxanne would not interfere—providing the neglect was not actually abuse of the earl’s laxity. She felt it did no harm to let the servants see she intended to keep an eye on such things.

Where had she learned about these things? Roxanne frowned. She did not know why, but her instincts were guiding her.

‘Did you say something, miss?’ the housekeeper asked, looking at her curiously.

‘No, nothing at all,’ Roxanne said and smiled. The memory had been so clear for a moment but she did not wish to think of it now. ‘Shall we go down to the kitchen?’

‘So, Miss Roxanne, you have been inspecting the kitchens,’ the earl said when she bent to kiss his cheek. ‘Discovered they are cheating me, have you?’

‘I think too much waste has been going on,’ Roxanne said. ‘I am not sure you have been cheated, sir. Waste food is usually passed on to the poor or beggars, is it not?’

‘I can’t be bothered with that business,’ he said. ‘It will be your place to see we are not being abused now—and to sort out any problems. Do not bring them to me. There is an allowance for repairs and maintenance below stairs. Ask Clarendon if you must, but, otherwise, deal with it.’

‘In that case, I shall authorise a serving hatch, a new sink in the kitchen and taps, also a larger, more modern cooking range—but I shall not trouble you other than to ask who has charge of the allowance for repairs.’

‘Tonkins, of course. Clarendon is with him this morning.’

‘Your agent, I imagine. Very well, sir, this is the last you shall hear of it.’

‘Good.’ He glared at her. ‘What do you make of the rest of it—think it an old wreck of a place? Clarendon does. He’ll tear it down and build new when I’m gone, I dare say.’

‘Oh, I do not think it, sir. I have no idea what it costs to run a house like this, but I imagine it is a great deal. Perhaps if you were to pull down the tower and the wing you never use, you might build a more modern section there—and keep the rest of this lovely house as it is.’

‘Humph. Think you’re the first to come up with the idea? Clarendon’s mother wanted me to do it years ago. She always hated the tower—said it was haunted.’

‘Is it?’

‘Don’t believe in that rubbish, do you? The roof has gone in parts and rooks nest there. The sounds people hear are wind and birds or rats in the eaves.’

‘Yes, I expect you are right,’ Roxanne said. ‘At night it is easy to imagine all kinds of things.’

‘You are a woman of sense,’ the earl said, his gaze narrowing. ‘Is it all an act, Miss Roxanne? The ruby Clarendon showed me—it doesn’t fit with the rest. What are you keeping from me, miss—and does Clarendon know it all?’

‘The ruby is my inheritance. I wasn’t sure it was valuable, but Luke says it is and I believe him.’

‘He told me he has to return to London tomorrow. He will be gone for a few days and then he intends to stay until after the ball. What do you think of that, miss?’

‘I expect he has some business in town. There is little he can do here, really. I am sure he will have sorted any estate business this morning.’

‘Don’t mind him running out on you, then? What if he decides not to bother about coming back until the day before the ball?’

‘I should miss him, but I believe he will keep his word.’

‘You have a deal more faith than I, Miss Roxanne. He usually stays two days at the most and then I don’t see him for months.’

‘Things are different now, sir.’

‘Are they?’ The earl’s eyes seemed to pierce her with their intensity. ‘I thought this was just a masquerade to keep me sweet—are you telling me that you are really going to marry him?’

Roxanne looked at him in silence for a long moment, then smiled. ‘We have to wait for three months—but if you give your blessing and Luke still wants to marry me, yes, I shall.’

‘I haven’t made up my mind about you yet, miss. There’s something you’re both hiding—but I’ll get it out of you or him. Wait and see if I don’t.’

Roxanne hesitated, then, ‘Tell me, sir—what is it that you want most in the world?’

‘To see my great-grandson and know there will be someone to carry on here when I’ve gone. Clarendon will never settle here—but you might. Is that the idea? You’ll give me what I want and he gets to live in town as he pleases? You won’t like that much, girl, and you’re a fool if you settle for it.’

‘Please, do not think so ill of him, sir,’ Roxanne pleaded. ‘I know things have not always been right between you—but will you not give Luke a chance to make this work? He is genuine in his desire to mend fences.’

The earl’s gaze narrowed, his mouth pursed. ‘Hmmm, we shall see.’

‘I hope Grandfather did not bully you too much?’ Luke said when they met for nuncheon later. Roxanne shook her head and he nodded in satisfaction, looking so much like his grandfather that she had to hide her laughter. ‘Well, what would you like to do this afternoon? I know you can manage a horse—have you done much riding? Proper riding, I mean, not as part of a circus show.’

‘All kinds,’ Roxanne replied. ‘Barebacked, astride, but I have not much experience of riding sidesaddle. I can drive a caravan. I dare say I could learn to ride like a lady easily enough.’

‘I am sure you could and I will arrange a suitable mount for you when I return from town. For this afternoon I think perhaps we should drive round the estate, just to give you an idea of its size and where it is pleasant to walk when you are alone. When I was out with Tonkins this morning everyone was asking about you. Since it is a pleasant afternoon we can use the curricle and allow the curious to see my fiancée. It is only necessary to wave and smile at this juncture.’

‘I think that would be very pleasant. Did you have a good morning with your grandfather’s agent?’

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

‘I understand the monies for minor repairs to the kitchens are lodged with him. Mrs Arlet has spoken to me about various needs and your grandfather has told me it is up to me to sort out domestic problems in future.’

‘Has he, indeed? Clearly he trusts you more than me, Roxanne. I spoke to him about a serving hatch some months back and he sent me about my business, told me he didn’t need help with arranging his household.’

‘Well, perhaps things have changed. I have been told not to bother him with trivial domestic affairs and I shan’t—but the hatch would improve the quality of the food for us and make less work for others. I think it would repay the cost many times over.’

‘I can see the future of this place is in safe hands, at least for the moment.’ Luke frowned and stood up. ‘I shall arrange for the curricle to be brought round. It is warm, but there may be a breeze so you will want your bonnet and a pelisse.’

‘I shall fetch them,’ Roxanne said.

She was thoughtful as she walked upstairs. Luke had not seemed particularly pleased with the news that the earl had placed domestic affairs in her hands. Perhaps he was beginning to regret bringing her here? His idea of a temporary engagement seemed to be getting out of hand.

Had Roxanne been able to read Luke’s mind she would have discovered that he had mixed feelings and was in something of a turmoil regarding the situation between them. It was surely a good thing that the earl should feel able to place his domestic affairs in Roxanne’s hands. He was uncertain of her true feelings regarding the situation. She had been quite adamant that there would be no wedding, just a fake engagement for a few months, but she seemed to have changed her mind since their arrival at Hartingdon.

She had been running from a man who was determined to make her his mistress when they met, her future dubious to say the least. It would be tempting for any woman in such difficulty to be seduced by the house and the obvious wealth here. Yet if the ruby truly belonged to Roxanne she had money of her own. Luke did not know exactly how much it would fetch, but he was sure it would be more than a few hundred—perhaps as much as two thousand pounds or more to the right person? With such a sum she could set up her own establishment and live comfortably for the rest of her life or until she found work or married. She did not need to live here at the mercy of a cantankerous old man—or to marry a man she did not love.

So why had she changed her mind? She was unsure if the ruby was legally hers, but she might have sold it and risked the consequences had she been less than the honest woman he believed her.

Having placed the ruby in his safe keeping, she had surrendered her independence and shown great trust in him. Luke could not recall anyone else placing that amount of faith in him and his reactions were a mixture of gratification and panic. At the start he had thought the sham engagement might eventually lead to a physical arrangement between them. Luke would have been very ready to become her protector had she chosen a life in the theatre. He had been aroused by Roxanne’s vibrant beauty from the beginning, but did he really wish for marriage? Luke had avoided being caught in what he thought of as a trap for so long, he could not help wondering just what he had got himself into.

It was to be merely a sham marriage, of course. That was the reason Roxanne had agreed to it when the earl insisted on the three-month engagement. She knew that he would keep his word to let her go once the earl had died.

Roxanne would give him his freedom once the earl was in his grave. He was certain that she would keep any bargain he made with her, but by the time he was able to ask for his freedom, would he still wish for it?

Damn the earl for interfering in his life! Hartingdon had no right to dictate terms to him and his threat to restrict his income could be overcome in a court. How could he think of destroying the man who was his only close family? Such a breach would surely kill the old man. Despite the anger and frustration inside him, Luke knew he would never deliberately harm his grandfather. It might be that he would have to make more than a sham marriage and actually give the earl his heir.

Roxanne would never agree to it—would she? He could not expect her to provide an heir and then simply disappear when the marriage ended. Yet need it necessarily end so finally? There was always the alternative of a marriage of convenience.

No, he had vowed he would never go down that road. His parents had been so desperately unhappy. He had witnessed his mother’s tears too many times. His father had been a heartless brute who cared only for his own pleasure and Luke suspected he might be the same. To marry under false pretences might cause too much pain in the future.

The Roxanne who had bound his leg and threatened an intruder at the inn was exciting and amazing, but if she settled into a life of domesticity to please the earl Luke might become bored and begin to stray.

He knew his own faults only too well and he liked Roxanne too much to want to hurt her. It might be as well to remind her that this relationship was a temporary affair. It would be best to stick to the business arrangement they had made at the start.

The earl’s estate was vast, much larger than Roxanne had imagined. She had no experience of land husbandry, but from what she could see as Luke drove her about the estate it was in good heart. The people looked prosperous and they smiled and waved, the labourers and farmers doffing their hats to her. Some children ran out of one of the farms and stood waving and giggling as Luke brought the curricle to a halt.

‘Mam said to wish you happy, sir,’ one of the boys said. ‘She wants to know if there’s to be a bit of a do for the tenants and all.’

‘Yes, I am sure we shall arrange something when the wedding happens, but it is not to be just yet.’ Luke thrust his hand in his pocket and brought out some silver coins, which he tossed to the children before driving away.

‘Your tenants seem pleased to see you, Luke.’

‘They will be disappointed if there is no wedding,’ Luke remarked. ‘Perhaps we should hold some sort of fête in the park this summer. Grandfather always had a late summer party in the gardens for the tenants and labourers. I suppose an engagement is as good an excuse as any other. I’ll speak to him later.’

‘Your grandfather suspects you of trying to fool him, did you know that?’ Roxanne said, keeping her gaze to the front. ‘If we were to break the engagement too soon, he would be certain that he had been right all along.’

‘We shall see whether his health improves. We might have to marry to satisfy him, but do not worry, Roxanne. I should give you your freedom afterwards. He can push us into marriage, but even he cannot hurry the arrival of an heir. It should content him to know that I am married—if you are still prepared to go so far?’

‘Yes, of course. I know that the last thing you want is a life of domesticity, Luke. You need not fear that I shall cling to you and beg you not to leave me. I will not ask for more than we agreed.’

‘No…’ A little pulse flicked at his temple. ‘Well, we shall see how things go, but you must tell me if the situation becomes too difficult for you here. I know Hartingdon is a past master at inflicting wounds.’

‘I think he is a lonely, unhappy man. He shut you out when you were younger, perhaps because he was grieving for your mother—but then, when he might have reached out to you, it was too late. You are very like him, you know.’

‘Like Hartingdon?’ Luke turned his head to look at her in astonishment. ‘What on earth makes you say that? I do not think I have given you cause to fear me?’

‘No, you have not—but neither has the earl. He may be grumpy and harsh at times, but I do not fear him. Indeed, I rather like him. I should not wish to be the source of pain to him.’

Luke made a face of disbelief. ‘If he appears to reciprocate, beware. He is probably trying to get beneath your guard to discover your secrets.’

‘You are unfair,’ Roxanne replied and gave him a look of reproach. ‘Why does neither of you trust the other? You say you wish to make his last months happy—yet you will not allow him to have a heart or a conscience.’

‘If he has a softer side, he has given no sign of it in my presence.’

‘You are so used to quarrelling with each other that neither of you can see how foolish it is. If you let down your guard, Luke, you might actually enjoy a pleasant relationship with him—become friends or at least respect one another.’

‘If I offered affection, he would throw it in my face. My advice to you is to be careful, Roxanne. Allow him to get inside your head and he will hurt you. Do not imagine that anything he has said of late means he is happy to accept you into the family. I have no doubt that from the moment I told him I was engaged, he instructed agents to discover who you are and where you came from.’

‘He is unlikely to do so.’ Roxanne kept her face turned from him as she said, ‘Since I am well aware that this is all a masquerade I am not likely to be hurt, whatever happens.’

‘That is as well,’ Luke said. ‘Neither of us is to be completely trusted, Roxanne, but you have my word that you will never want for money for the rest of your life. I intend to have the ruby valued when I am in town; I shall try to discover if it has a history—but regardless of what I discover, my promise to you holds true. When this is all over I shall set you up with a house and an income that will be more than adequate.’

Roxanne made no answer. He was merely reminding her of their arrangement. Luke Clarendon had never pretended to care for her. She ought not to feel disappointed or upset. Indeed, she would not allow herself to feel anything. She would simply make the most of her time here—and when it was over she would know what to do.

Chapter Six

After Luke left for London the next day, Roxanne set her mind to the tasks she had taken on in the house. A list of guests for the ball was drawn up and the invitations written carefully in her best copperplate hand. She spent an hour with Tonkins and set the work in hand for the improvements to the kitchen, and, after speaking to the head gardener, arranged for fresh flowers to be brought to the house each day.

When she carried a bowl of yellow roses into the earl’s sitting room that evening he stared at her as if she had run mad.

‘What is that for, miss?’

‘To brighten your room and bring some sunshine indoors to you. The weather is so delightful, sir, and the gardens are glorious. We have so many lovely blooms it would be a shame not to enjoy some of them indoors.’

‘Like flowers, do you?’ His thick brows knit as he stared at the offering.

‘Yes, I love them. I think I should like to improve some parts of the garden—if I stay here for long enough, of course.’

‘What would you do?’

‘There are some unused areas at the back of the house that are merely grass. I would like to make a wild garden, with your permission, sir. I have spoken to the gardener and he says there were plans to make a garden of box hedges and herbs there once, but it never happened. I thought something similar, but less formal. I should like plants that invite butterflies and birds to visit often, and perhaps some running water—a fountain of some kind.’

‘The herb garden was my wife’s intention, but she died.’ The earl glared at her, seeming angry or at the mercy of some deep emotion. ‘I suppose you can do as you please—if you stay long enough.’

‘Luke says you will have instructed agents to discover who I am and where I come from, sir.’

‘And what if I have? Worried about what they will find, miss?’

‘I believe I have done nothing of which I ought to be ashamed, sir.’

‘There’s something, though. I’ve sensed it since the beginning. You are a mystery, Miss Roxanne—but I don’t dislike having you visit me, and the roses can stay.’

Roxanne smiled. Impulsively she bent and kissed his cheek. ‘Perhaps there is a mystery, sir—perhaps even I do not know its answer, but believe me when I say I would not harm you or Luke. Indeed, I would rather go away, disappear altogether, than bring shame on either of you.’

The earl grunted, making no other reply, but his eyes looked very bright as she glanced back from the doorway. Walking down to the hall, Roxanne felt at a loss. She had become acquainted with all parts of the house, including the disused wing. The tower was out of bounds so she had not attempted it, but, walking up to the stairway to look at the curving stone steps, she’d heard a screech and some fluttering that she took to be the rooks the earl had spoken of once.

The tower had no appeal for her and she decided to walk in the garden for a while. Perhaps she would have a talk to the gardener or the bailiff about the new wilderness. It could not hurt to make plans for her wild-flower plot, even if her stay here was only temporary. Walking round past the tower to the back of the house, something made her glance up. For one moment she saw something at a window about halfway up, but in an instant it had gone. She frowned, because it had looked like a face—a man’s face, dark-complexioned and strange—and yet she was sure that the earl had given orders no one was to go up the tower because it was unstable.

It must surely have been a trick of the light? Why would anyone be in the tower? The earl’s servants were all aware of his orders—and yet there might be good reason for someone to visit surreptitiously. When he spoke of putting the ruby somewhere safe, Luke had told Roxanne that the earl’s strong room was somewhere either in the tower or beneath it.

Would a thief try to find the entrance and break in? Roxanne did not know what to think, because it seemed so unlikely. If no one had ever attempted it before, why should it happen now?

Had Luke been at home, she would have told him immediately, but the earl was not to be made anxious or worried about something of this nature. It might be nothing more than imagination, but rather than simply leave it, she decided to speak to someone. Knowing that Tonkins had gone into town that day, she thought of the bailiff. She’d seen Higgins going into his office earlier and turned in the direction he’d been heading, which was towards the stable block.

Higgins was in conversation outside his office with a stout man who looked as if he might be one of the earl’s tenant farmers. He lifted his battered brown hat to Roxanne as she approached, nodded to Higgins and went off.

‘Forgive me for interrupting you, Mr Higgins,’ Roxanne said. ‘It is a small matter—but, since Lord Clarendon is away and Mr Tonkins has gone to the market, one I thought should be brought to your attention, sir.’

‘Nothing is too much trouble for you, miss. Was it about the plants for the wild garden?’

‘I was hoping to speak to Minty about that later,’ Roxanne agreed. ‘It may have been a trick of the light, Mr Higgins—but as I passed the tower just now I thought I saw a face at the window—not at the top, but at that little round window halfway up.’

‘You didn’t investigate yourself, miss?’

‘I know it isn’t safe, which is why I thought it curious that anyone should be there.’

‘Everyone knows it isn’t safe, miss. None of our people would dream of going there—unless ordered to by the earl and then we should send a party armed with ropes for safety’s sake.’

‘No one who knows that it is unsafe would go up the tower—but a stranger might. A stranger intent on robbery or some such thing.’

‘Lord Clarendon told you about the strong room,’ Higgins said and nodded. ‘Only a handful of us know the secret, miss. I’ve never known anyone to attempt a break in, but I suppose there is always a first time. His lordship may have been seen when he visited it recently—though I cannot think any of our people would consider doing such a thing. The door is solid iron. It would be impossible to break it down—but I’ll make sure the lock has not been tampered with. I’ll go there myself now, miss.’

‘Do you think someone should accompany you?’

‘I’ll take a pistol with me, but I doubt there’s much to worry about, miss. As you said, it will be a trick of the light.’

‘May I come with you?’

‘Now that I can’t allow, miss. I couldn’t live with myself if you were to fall and have an accident. You’ll find Minty in the hothouses. Go and have a talk with him, discover what he has to say about your wild garden, miss. I’ll let you know if I discover anything.’

Roxanne agreed and left him. She was almost sure that it must have been a trick of the light and half-wished that she had not put Mr Higgins to the trouble of investigating.

Returning to the house after a long and pleasant talk with the head gardener, Roxanne washed her hands and changed into a fresh gown for lunch. She had instructed Mrs Arlet that she would have just a little bread and butter and cold chicken in the small parlour. Her meal was finished and she was about to leave when the housekeeper came in.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Roxanne, but Mr Higgins has asked if you will visit him at home.’

‘At home?’ Roxanne was puzzled. ‘Is he not in his office?’

‘It appears he had an accident, miss. Johnson will take you in the governess’s cart—if you wouldn’t mind travelling in such a way?’

‘Of course not. I shall get ready at once. Is it far?’

‘Not far, miss, but Johnson says he was instructed you wasn’t to walk there alone. He’s to take you and wait to bring you back.’

‘I shall fetch my pelisse at once.’

‘I took the liberty of sending for it. Tilly is waiting in the hall to help you with it, miss.’

Roxanne thanked her. Going into the hall, she put on her pelisse and bonnet and then went out to the courtyard at the back of the house, where the groom was waiting with the governess’s cart.

‘Is Mr Higgins badly hurt, Johnson?’ Roxanne asked as she was helped up into the little seat at the back.

‘He’s got some nasty cuts and bruises,’ the groom replied. ‘His wife made him lie on the sofa in the parlour and the doctor told him he should go to bed and rest for a few days, but he won’t until he’s seen you, miss.’

‘Please take me to him at once,’ Roxanne said. ‘I know this must be important or he would not otherwise have sent for me.’

She twisted her gloves in her hands, feeling a heavy weight of responsibility. Higgins had gone to the tower on her behalf and it was her fault if he had taken a tumble down the stairs. She was distressed because he was hurt and blamed herself.

The bailiff’s cottage was through the park, at the edge of the road that led to Harte Village. It would have taken her a good half an hour to walk here, but the drive was accomplished in a fraction of the time. The groom helped her down and, as she walked up the path of the neat garden, the front door opened and a plump, pleasant-looking woman opened the door to her.

‘I’ve been watching out for you, Miss Roxanne,’ she cried. ‘I am that grateful you’ve come. Higgins won’t go to bed until he has spoken to you—and the foolish man has refused to take his medicine for fear it sends him to sleep.’

‘I came as soon as I heard,’ Roxanne said. ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Higgins. I fear I am to blame for this.’

‘You, miss? I should say not—but come through to the parlour and let my man tell you himself.’

Roxanne followed her into a pleasant parlour with a sunny aspect at the back of the house. Mr Higgins was lying on a large comfortable sofa with his head on a pile of pillows and his eyes shut. He opened them as she approached and sat up, looking anxious.

‘Please do not disturb yourself, sir.’ Roxanne drew a parlour chair and sat close to him. ‘Did one of the steps give way beneath you? I am so sorry for sending you there. I do hope you are not badly hurt?’

‘It was not the steps, miss, though one or two are crumbling, but I didn’t go up the tower. The place we spoke of is below it. I went to look at the lock and found some signs that someone had tried unsuccessfully to open the door. I was about to leave and report it to Mr Tonkins when something hit me from behind. I went down like a light and it must have been some minutes before I came to myself enough to get up and stagger out. One of the gardeners saw me fall as I left and called for help.’

‘You were hit on the back of the head? That is terrible.’ Roxanne felt shivery all over. ‘So I was right—there was someone in the tower. I am so sorry you were hurt, Mr Higgins.’

‘Serves me right for going there alone, miss. I thought you had imagined the face and took a risk. In future I’ll be more careful and respectful of what you say. I gave instructions that a search should be made. Six of the men went to take a look in the tower after they brought me home—and I’ve since heard that someone has been camping out in the tower.’

‘Good gracious! How long has this been going on?’

‘A day or two at most the men think. It might have been a tramp, miss—or it might have been a thief, as you suggested. Whoever it was, he didn’t want to get caught.’

‘No, indeed, but this is serious, Mr Higgins. You must take great care and rest, as your doctor told you.’

‘I shall for a day or so, if only to appease Mrs Higgins—but you must promise me you will not attempt to visit that wing or the tower again, miss. His lordship would never forgive me if anything were to happen to you. One of us should have noticed something before you did, and that can’t be denied.’

‘I shall certainly not attempt to enter the tower,’ Roxanne assured him. ‘I have been wishing that I had not told you. I am so sorry you were hurt.’

‘It was my own fault for not taking anyone to guard my back. I didn’t give you credit, miss, and I should have known you’re not the sort to imagine things. I’ve given instructions that the grounds are to be patrolled at all times. If there are dangerous intruders about, we cannot be too careful.’

‘I thought I saw a man hiding in the shrubbery outside my room the first night I came here,’ Roxanne told him. ‘Lord Clarendon thought it must have been one of the keepers, but now… Why would anyone watch the house and then hide in the tower?’

‘There’s something he’s after,’ Higgins said and looked grave. ‘I don’t know what it is, Miss Roxanne. We’ve never had anything like it before—so why now?’

‘I do not know,’ she replied. ‘I promise I shall take great care when walking in the gardens—and you must rest, sir.’

‘I shall for a day or so, miss. It seems I’ve a tough skull for the blow did no more than knock me unconscious. I may have a headache for a while, but I’ll be as right as rain soon.’

‘I am relieved to hear it.’

‘Shall you tell the earl, miss?’

‘No, not unless he has heard something,’ Roxanne said. ‘As you know, his health is not good. I do not wish him to worry. I dare say the intruder has gone. With the increased security he is unlikely to return.’

‘I doubt he will risk it again—unless there is something he desperately wants to get his hands on. You cannot think what that might be, miss?’ The bailiff looked at her hard. ‘No idea what he’s after?’

‘No,’ Roxanne said. ‘I cannot tell you, for I do not know.’

Yet as she was driven back to the house some minutes later, Roxanne was thoughtful. Had the intruder been after her ruby? It would explain why the attempt on the strong room had happened now—but was the jewel valuable enough to bring whoever it was here? It had been in the strong room only one night, because Luke had taken it to London with him to be valued.

Besides, no one knew she had it. How could they? Sofia had kept it hidden for years and no one had tried to take it from them. Roxanne had wondered if Black Bob suspected she had something of value, but would he attempt to break into the earl’s strong room? It did not fit with what she knew of him. Petty thieving or cheating a traveller of his purse was the gypsy’s style, but not robbery on the scale that had been planned here. To break into an earl’s treasury would be a serious matter.

Yet if it was the Hartingdon heirlooms that were wanted, why had it happened now and not at some time in the past?

What was so special about the ruby that it had provoked an attempt to break into the earl’s strong room and an attack on his bailiff?

Why had it been in her hand when Sofia found her? She had been so determined to keep it, so adamant that it belonged to her. The earl was right when he said something did not fit with the rest. How could a girl of modest family come to own a jewel like that one?

Roxanne thought about the game they had played when she was recovering from her illness. Sofia was an intelligent lady. Had she suspected that the ruby had come from India? She might have invented the game to try to jog the memories in Roxanne’s mind. It was possible that as she lay delirious she had said something that made Sofia believe she had once lived there. Rather than try to force her to remember, Sofia had invented the game.

The face at the tower window had been dark and not English. Roxanne strained for a memory, anything that would make sense of what was happening, but nothing came to her. Yet there was something that warned her she might be in danger, some instinct that told her Mr Higgins had been set upon by someone who wanted that ruby.

The thoughts went round and round in her head like a trapped animal trying to escape from its cage. If she could remember what had occurred to frighten her when she ran from her home, she might be able to understand what was happening now.

‘What is this I hear about Higgins?’ the earl asked when Roxanne visited him that evening before going down to supper. ‘What on earth was the fool doing in the tower in the first place? He knows it is dangerous.’

She hesitated, then, ‘Do you truly wish to know the answer, sir? You might find it concerning.’

‘Damn it, I ain’t on me last legs yet. Tell me the truth, girl. All of it, for I shall know if you lie.’

‘I saw a face at the round window halfway up the tower earlier today. I told Higgins, because I knew the strong room was there somewhere. He went to investigate, found an unsuccessful attempt had been made to open the iron door—and someone knocked him unconscious. The tower has since been searched by some of the men and no one is there now.’

‘So the rogue has escaped. Is Higgins badly hurt?’

‘No. I think he has a sore head and is shocked—but the doctor said the blow was not severe enough to kill him. Perhaps whoever it was did not wish to murder him, merely to stun him while he made his escape.’

‘Humph. Got it all worked out, have you? Answer me this—why now? That strong room has been there for a hundred and fifty years and no one has ever tried to break in before this—couldn’t if they tried. It would take a team of men to break that door down—and then they couldn’t open it unless they knew the trick. It’s a secret puzzle lock known only to me and now Luke.’

‘I do not know why now, sir. Why do you think it happened?’

‘I knew there was something suspicious about that ruby. Who did you steal it from?’

‘I did not steal it.’

‘Where did it come from then? It ain’t the kind of thing a girl like you ought to have—unless you got it from a lover. Have you been the mistress of a rich man, girl? Did you steal it from him in a fit of pique?’

‘No, I have not been a rich man’s lover, sir.’ Roxanne hesitated, then, ‘I am not sure of its history. Luke is trying to find out what he can for me. I had it in my hand when—Sofia found me. I was about fourteen, very ill, alone and frightened—and I had lost my memory. I did not know my own name then and to this day I do not recall it. She says I would not let go of the ruby and claimed it was mine. When at last I did let her take it from me, she hid it and I forgot about it for years, until she reminded me as she was dying.’

The old man’s eyes gleamed. ‘I knew there was something. You were too good to be true, miss. I suspected something was wrong from the start.’

‘Well, now you know it all. Do you wish me to leave?’

The earl was silent for a moment, then, ‘You had best tell me all of it, girl. How did you meet my grandson—and why did he bring you here as his fiancée?’

‘After Sofia died I was not safe amongst the people we travelled with. One of them wanted me as his mistress so I ran away when he was making arrangements to give a performance at a theatre in the town nearby.’

‘You are an actress?’

‘Yes, I have been an actress—but Sofia was certain I had been properly reared, though I have no memory of my past.’

‘So it was a lie about your father being in India?’

‘It was just something that came into my mind. I believe there may be a connection between the ruby and India. I do not know who my father was—or if he is still alive.’

‘You think it has a connection with India, but you do not know?’

‘I am not certain, but recently the idea has become stronger.’

‘So how did you meet Clarendon?’

‘He had a tumble from his horse. His ankle was painful and we thought it might be broken, though it was actually a displaced bone. I helped him and then recaptured his horse. We went to an inn to stay for the night and a doctor was called. The landlord sent someone to break into the chamber and rob Clarendon when he was sleeping, because he was unwell and vulnerable—but I had stayed to care for him lest he took a fever. I was awake and I had a poker. When the intruder saw that I was ready to fight him, the rogue ran off. The next day, your grandson begged me to stay with him until he was safe in London—and he took me to stay with someone called Mrs Mills.’

‘Saved his backside for a second time, did you?’

‘He insisted I had saved his life, but I dare say it was no such thing. The lady I visited was very respectable. I might have been in London still, but at a fair on the Heath I saw Black Bob and told Luke I must leave. He asked me to enter into an engagement and—you know the rest.’

‘I knew it.’ The earl glared at her. ‘It was all a masquerade from start to finish.’

‘No…not quite. Luke wanted to make you happy. At first I agreed reluctantly, but then I came here—and I wanted to stay. If this had not happened I might have married Luke, if he wished it—and you agreed. I think we might have given you an heir and then, if he wished, parted. Now I think perhaps I should leave before he returns.’

‘Leave the sinking ship, eh? Is that all you’re good for—running away? I thought you had more spunk than that, girl?’

Roxanne’s cheeks flamed. ‘No, that is not fair. I would have married Luke if he wished…but you cannot want me to stay now you know the truth. You cannot wish him to marry a girl who does not know her own family.’

‘Know my mind better than I do, do you?’ The earl stared at her hard. ‘You’ve told me the truth as you know it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Held nothing back?’

‘Nothing, I swear.’

‘I ought to send the pair of you packing—but I want that heir. Clarendon isn’t going to oblige me in a hurry if I send you away, so you can stay. You will marry him in a month or so. No reason to wait for three months if a letter isn’t coming.’

‘You want me to marry Luke?’

‘Nothing the matter with your hearing, is there? I don’t know who your father was or whether he gave you that damned ruby, but I can see quality in you. Tell you the truth, our family goes back to a privateer who came from yeoman stock and rose to be an earl through pleasing Good Queen Bess. Since then we’ve married into good and bad blood. It may be time we had some fresh blood in the family. If you’ve lied to me, we may both be sorry, but I’m going to trust you—on one condition.’

‘That is?’

‘Luke is not informed that I know the truth.’

‘You wish me to lie to him?’

‘You have been lying to me.’

‘No—at least I didn’t actually lie. I merely allowed you to think what you would, sir.’

‘I said you were clever with words. I suppose that comes from being an actress. Is it all an act or do you actually care for the fellow?’

‘I believe you know the answer, sir.’

‘Humph. He’s bitten off more than he can chew, hasn’t he?’

‘I shall not demand more than he is willing to give.’

‘My grandson chose to play a little trick on me—now I’ve turned the tables, but it may all be for the best. So—what do you say?’

‘I can only say yes—and thank you.’

‘Nothing to thank me for, girl. I’ll still throw you both out on your ear if I discover you’ve spun me a tissue of lies.’

‘I promise you I have not—though in truth I do not know who owns the ruby. Perhaps I did steal it. I cannot know for certain.’

‘Damn the thing. If the owner wants it back, he can have it. You won’t want for jewels as my grandson’s wife—there’s a strong room full of the damned things if you’ve a mind to wear them.’

‘If there were some pearls I could wear to the ball, I should be glad to borrow them, but I have no great desire either for jewels or huge wealth. However, a beautiful home where I feel safe and might do some good is a precious thing I should value.’

His eyes glittered. ‘You are either a treasure or a consummate liar. We shall just have to see whether you fall flat on your face, Miss Roxanne.’

‘I still do not know why someone should attempt to break into your strong room. How could anyone know I had the ruby or that I had given it to Luke?’

‘Whoever it was may have tried to enter the strong room on the chance it was there. If he followed you here in the first place, the rogue must have discovered you have the ruby. Perhaps he has only just discovered that it is in your possession?’

‘Yes, perhaps.’

Roxanne was thoughtful as she left the earl’s apartments. It did seem as though the intruder might have been after her ruby—if she was the rightful owner. How could she have come by it unless someone had given it to her?

Why was it so important and why could she not remember her past life? What had happened to make her forget so completely?

She tried to recall more of the game she had played with Sofia. Fragments of Sofia’s story came into her mind, but she had forgotten it as the years passed and she had become a woman.

‘Who was the prince, Roxanne? What did he look like?’

Had Sofia actually asked her that question or was it merely a part of the game?

Roxanne wished she could lift the curtain that hid her previous life, but it remained as firmly down as ever. Yet she was growing ever more certain that the ruby was part of a mystery that she must solve before she brought danger to the people she had come to care for.

‘That is a remarkable jewel, my lord,’ Mr Brandon remarked. ‘What exactly is that you wish me to do for you?’

‘My fiancée believes she was given this by her father as a child,’ Luke replied. ‘However, she wishes to be certain that she is the rightful owner. She has not heard from her father in years; he may be dead. We were thinking of placing an advert asking for information about the ruby and offering a small reward—say a hundred guineas.’

‘You want me to place the advertisement for you so that it cannot be traced to you?’

‘If you are willing, I feel that it may be for the best. We are not sure where the jewel came from and should there be a dispute would wish to hear the claimant’s story. However, an advertisement of this kind may bring unscrupulous rogues who would lie to gain something that was not theirs.’

‘Your wording is vague.’ Mr Brandon read the words Luke had written, ‘A ruby of good colour and size. Lost five years ago. Anyone with any information concerning this jewel should apply in writing to Mr Brandon of W. R. Brandon and Associates.’

‘I kept the wording vague on purpose,’ Luke agreed. ‘Nothing may come of it. If we do not hear within a few weeks, I think we may assume that my fiancée’s recollection is correct. We shall at least have tried and may then use or dispose of it with a clear conscience.’

‘I dare say most would simply have sold it,’ the lawyer said. He frowned as he looked at the jewel. ‘If I were you, I should place that in the bank for safekeeping. I do not think I have ever seen such a magnificent ruby—and yet there is something about it that makes me feel it may be dangerous.’

‘A ruby is simply a ruby,’ Luke said and laughed. ‘I shall not ask you to keep it here, sir. If no one comes forward to claim it as theirs, I may have it set as a pendant for my wife.’

‘The shape of it is unusual,’ Mr Brandon said. ‘It could almost be a large eye…’

‘It is an unusual shape,’ Luke agreed and slipped it back into his breast pocket. ‘I think perhaps I shall lodge it at my bank, Brandon. You will let me know if you hear anything of interest?’

‘Yes, of course, sir. As for the other little matter, I shall set that in hand at once.’

‘If you could bring the papers down, sir? You might like to attend the ball at Hartingdon next week.’

Mr Brandon looked pleased. A short stay at the country house of a wealthy client was a break from the routine of life in London.

‘I should enjoy that very much, my lord. I am certain we can have the papers ready for your signature by the fourteenth—and I should be delighted to attend your engagement ball.’

‘We shall look forward to seeing you,’ Luke said and shook his hand. ‘I have ordered a gift for my fiancée. My bank is near the jeweller’s, so I may as well kill two birds with one stone.’

Luke left the lawyer’s office and crossed the road. He was lost in thought and did not notice the man following a short distance behind as he walked the length of two streets and entered his bank, before making his way, some minutes later, to a large jeweller’s establishment at the opposite side of the road.

He did notice the man who entered a few moments after him and asked to look at a tray of diamond rings, because he was young, attractive and spoke in a soft voice that sounded foreign and his skin was deeply tanned. An Indian of a high caste, perhaps, Luke thought as the man took his time examining the expensive rings, perhaps the son of a wealthy maharajah. His English was perfect and he was dressed in Western clothes, but his accent was definitely not English.

‘Your pearls, sir,’ the jeweller said and opened the black velvet box to show Luke the single strand of large creamy pearls. ‘I hope they are to your liking?’

‘Yes, they are perfect. My bank will settle your account as usual.’

‘Thank you, sir. Do you wish them wrapped?’

‘No, the box will fit into my pocket,’ Luke said. He noticed that the shop’s other customer had agreed to purchase one of the rings as he slipped the box into his pocket and left the shop.

Outside, he hailed a hackney cab and asked the driver to take him to his club.

A few moments later, the dark-skinned gentleman came out of the shop and stood on the pavement in thought for a few minutes before turning away.

‘Luke, you are back!’ Roxanne cried as she saw him leave the house by way of the French windows and enter the rose garden. She moved swiftly towards him, her hands outstretched and a smile of welcome on her lips. ‘Your grandfather thought you would not arrive until the day before the ball.’

‘I told you I should not delay,’ he replied and took her hands. ‘How are you? I hope the old scoundrel has not been too grouchy?’

‘Luke! You really must not.’ She laughed and shook her head reproachfully. ‘He has been very kind to me. I must tell you that time goes very quickly here. The curate has been giving me piano lessons. He comes twice a week in the morning—and the earl actually left his apartments so that he could listen. They are both of the opinion that I have been taught to play, but need to practise often to become proficient.’

‘And do you enjoy your lessons?’

‘Yes, I do,’ she said. ‘No, do not look so dubious. I find playing very worthwhile and relaxing. I may never be as good as your mama was, but if I play well enough for my own amusement and the enjoyment of others it will be sufficient. I tried my hand at sketching, but I do not think it will suit me. I have no talent for it, I fear.’

‘You have talents enough, Roxanne. Do not be bullied into doing anything you do not wish to do.’

‘No, I shall not. There is more than sufficient to keep me occupied here. I have with the earl’s permission begun to plan a wild garden at the back of the house and the kitchen renovations have already started. The invitations for the ball took two days to complete, but since they went out we have been inundated with kind letters—and also some generous gifts. I have written thank-you notes, which the earl was good enough to frank for me.’

‘And so he should since he insisted that we hold a ball.’

Roxanne looked up at him, caught by an inflection in his tone. He sounded annoyed, almost bitter. ‘Did you not wish for a ball?’

‘It makes no difference to me one way or the other— I thought it might be difficult for you, since you do not know any of our friends and relatives.’

‘We have had several morning visits since the news got out,’ Roxanne said. ‘Just a few of the earl’s neighbours. They were all very pleasant and friendly. I do not think the ball will make me uncomfortable.’

‘I am relieved to hear it.’

The look on his face struck her as brooding and she felt her stomach twist with nerves. He was regretting the ball—and perhaps his impulsive suggestion that they should become engaged. Had he visited Mrs Fox in London? Was that why he seemed moody and disgruntled? If she was the woman he truly loved and could not wed, this arrangement must irk him. A sharp pain struck her to the heart, but she ignored her doubts and lifted her head to meet his gaze.

‘Yet the sooner it is all over the better.’

‘Is something wrong, Luke? It is not too late. If you wish to change your mind, I can leave. You could cancel the ball and tell everyone I jilted you—or was not suitable.’

‘Do not be foolish. Nothing has changed. Why should it? Grandfather seems to have accepted you and I see no reason to disappoint him. If you were agreeable, I might persuade him to have the wedding sooner than later—what do you say?’

‘If we are to be married, I see no reason to wait,’ Roxanne replied, though she could not meet his eyes. ‘I made a bargain with you, Luke—and I shall keep it to the last letter, if you wish.’

‘You mean you are willing to give Grandfather an heir?’ His gaze narrowed, intent and seeming to penetrate her mind, his look almost an accusation, though of what she did not know.

Roxanne’s cheeks were burning, but she did not look at him as she replied, ‘Yes, I think we should not disappoint him if it is possible to oblige.’

‘Supposing an heir comes along—and then the old devil dies on us? What terms will you demand of me then?’

‘I have never demanded anything of you,’ Roxanne replied a trifle haughtily. Her head went up, her manner proud. ‘I should want to be a mother to my son, either here or somewhere else. Naturally, you would visit him, or, as he grew older, have him to stay with you wherever you wish.’

‘I do not much care for this place, but my son will inherit it one day. You could continue as its mistress, Roxanne. Unless you wish for your freedom, divorce is hardly necessary. I do not believe I should wish to remarry. I think I am not the domestic type.’

‘No, perhaps not,’ Roxanne admitted, her throat tight. Each word he spoke was like a blow to her pride and her heart, but she managed to conceal her feelings. She held herself stiffly, speaking carefully. ‘I believe you are telling me not to expect love or attention. You will continue to live in London and visit us occasionally—is that your wish?’

‘Yes. I have come round to the idea you suggested, Roxanne. I do prefer you to almost any other lady I have met. You do not bore or irritate me and I think we should suit—but I want your promise that you will not weep and reproach me if I take a mistress or stay in London for months on end. I cannot give you love and you must not expect it.’

Roxanne hesitated. Could she keep such a promise? Her feelings for him had gradually become deeper since they had first met and she was very much afraid that her heart was already engaged. She ought never to have agreed to accompany him to London in the first place, or to entertain what was meant to have been a sham engagement. Somehow they had been drawn into something far deeper and for her more meaningful. It hurt to realise that for him nothing had changed. Yet Roxanne knew that she could not bear to walk away from him now. She must just bring all her arts as an actress into play and allow him to believe her feelings were not affected.

‘You know my situation, Luke. Here at Hartingdon I am safe from Black Bob—and I enjoy living here. I believe I should be happy as its mistress and as the mother of your children. If you truly feel there is no need for a divorce, then we may continue the marriage after the earl dies. However, I must tell you that he seems much stronger of late. He has come downstairs for the last three evenings and says he means to walk in the gardens with me tomorrow if it is fine.’

Luke inclined his head, the tiny flicker of a pulse at his temple. ‘I am glad to hear it. However, I have it from his own doctor that he could have a fatal attack at any time, so we must take care not to upset him over small things.’ He hesitated for a moment, then, ‘We are of one mind that there is no point in delaying the wedding—if Grandfather agrees?’

‘None whatsoever,’ Roxanne said, though her heart raced and for one second her knees felt weak.

‘Then it is settled.’ He smiled and her breath fled. ‘I see no reason why it should not be a pleasant arrangement for us both, Roxanne. I may not believe in the fairy tale of romantic love, but I know how to please in bed, and I believe we should suit well enough. Now tell me—has anything much happened since I left?’

Roxanne flinched, but managed to show no emotion. ‘Yes. I shall tell you in a moment—but first, pray tell me what happened in London. Is your lawyer to place the advert?’

‘We have worded something vague, but enough to arouse curiosity if someone feels they lost a similar jewel.’ Luke frowned. ‘You have remembered nothing?’

‘I remembered that Sofia once asked me what the prince looked like. At the time it was a part of the game we played, but I have wondered if Sofia had reason to connect the ruby with India and if her game was meant to jog my memory.’

‘How could she?’

‘When I was ill I may have rambled in my mind, said something that made her wonder.’

‘Would she not have asked you outright?’

‘Sofia cared for me as if I were her own. She would have done nothing that might hurt me—and perhaps she feared what might happen if my memory did return.’

‘Yes, perhaps. It seems odd she made no effort to find your family.’

‘She had no money to hire agents. Besides, I had bruises on my arms and legs, and she wanted to protect me. I think if anyone had asked after me, she would have lied to keep me safe.’

‘My lawyer was of the opinion that the ruby came from India. He thought it sinister and found the shape odd, which I suppose it is in a way. Had you noticed that if you turn it on its side it has the shape of an eye?’

‘I cannot say I had thought of it that way, but I suppose it does—an elongated eye with pointed ends, but, yes, I can see what he means. Did you have it valued?’

‘No. I placed it in the bank in London. I hope you do not mind?’

‘It may be as well,’ Roxanne said. She took a deep breath, ‘There was an attempt to break into your grandfather’s strong room when you were in London and Mr Higgins was struck over the head when he went to investigate a face at the window of the tower room.’

‘Good grief!’ Luke looked at her in horror. ‘Was he badly hurt?’

‘Fortunately not. I visited him at home afterwards and he said it was his own fault. I told him that I had seen someone at the window about halfway up the tower. Mr Higgins was not impolite enough to say so, but he thought it my imagination. The tower has since been searched and there were signs that someone had been there, but has now gone.’

‘Frightened by what he had done, I dare say.’ Luke frowned. ‘Did the rogue manage to get inside the strong room?’

‘No, I believe not,’ Roxanne said. ‘Do you think it was because of the ruby? It does seem a little odd that it should happen now, do you not think so?’

‘The ruby?’ Luke considered for a moment. ‘How could anyone know you had given it to me for safekeeping? I placed it there for one night, no more. Only the three of us knew. Unless you told someone, it was impossible for them to know. Besides, there are more valuable jewels in the strong room. It is mere coincidence that it has happened now.’

‘Of course you are right.’ Roxanne drew a breath of relief. ‘It was just that the face I saw was not English—the man had dusky skin and I thought he might be Indian, which was why I wondered if he was searching for the ruby.’ It had all seemed to fit in her mind, but now she felt a little foolish. Of course her ruby was not that important.

‘Did anyone ever come looking for either you or the ruby when you were with the travelling players?’

‘Not to my knowledge. However, Sofia was respected and loved. If she asked the others to keep the secret, no one would have given us away while she lived.’

‘So the only man who might look for you is the one you ran from that day at the Heath—might it have been he?’

‘No, I do not believe it was, though he would have hit poor Mr Higgins and he might have attempted to break into a door that looked intriguing enough to hide valuables. However, I am almost certain that his was not the face at the window.’

‘Then it must have been an itinerant, an opportunist who found himself a place to sleep and attempted to break open a locked door. I am sure the incident had nothing to do with you or the ruby.’

‘I am glad of your good sense. I had been feeling guilty,’ Roxanne admitted. ‘Now I can forget it and concentrate on other things.’

‘You should certainly not let it bother you. Shall we go in and have some tea?’

Roxanne took the arm he offered and walked into the house with him. She was glad to have him back, even though there was pain mixed with the pleasure.

Chapter Seven

Luke paused in the act of tying his cravat before dinner that evening. His talk with Higgins had elicited no more information than Roxanne had given him earlier—apart from one thing.

‘There was a strong smell,’ Higgins said. ‘Just before I was hit I smelled perfume—not the kind Miss Roxanne uses, but something heavy and exotic. Nothing I’ve ever smelled before. I forgot when I was telling her about it, but then it came back to me. One of my men found a length of cloth in the tower and it had the same smell about it.’

‘Might the cloth have been used for a turban, do you think?’

‘Yes, sir. As you know, my son is an army sergeant and he sent me a tinted drawing of an Indian soldier he served with when he was in India. The cloth that was found could easily be from a turban.’ Higgins seemed puzzled. ‘What do you think a person like that would be doing in the tower, sir?’

Luke was thoughtful. ‘I think it best we keep this to ourselves, Higgins. At the moment we cannot be sure of anything.’

‘Yes, sir. I understand. The men will keep a sharp eye out for any strangers. Do you think there is something odd going on, my lord?’

‘At the moment I am not certain,’ Luke replied. ‘It may just have been a vagrant who saw an opportunity and then panicked when you arrived. Or it may be more sinister. We shall employ more men and patrol the grounds day and night.’

‘Right you are, sir. May I say how happy everyone is that you are spending more time here, sir. Mr Tonkins is a good man and I’ve done my best, but there are times the earl just does not want to listen.’

‘He has always been stubborn, but he is frailer than I like, Higgins. Any problems regarding this business should come to me, not my grandfather.’

‘You’ll be staying here now then, sir?’

‘At least until after the wedding. What happened may be just an isolated incident. Unfortunate for you, but over. However, if anything else happens I may have to rethink my plans.’

Now, as he tied his snowy white cravat into intricate folds, Luke was remembering the dusky-skinned gentleman who had followed him into the London jeweller’s. He had noticed a rather exotic perfume that day, though of course it could all be a coincidence. Yet Brandon had disliked the ruby, implying that there was something dangerous or sinister about it.

It could be that there was something significant about that ruby, something that made it worth sending people to England to search for it—but why now?

Luke had told Roxanne not to worry, dismissing her fears that her ruby might have brought the intruder here, but he could not help wondering if he had been too hasty. The ruby might have more worth to someone than the amount it would fetch in a jeweller’s shop. Luke had not considered it important at first, but now several threads were running through his mind.

Damn the thing! He had more to concern him than the blasted ruby. Having spoken to his grandfather that afternoon about bringing the wedding forwards, Luke knew that he had committed himself to marriage. While doubts remained, he could not deny a feeling of satisfaction. It was as if he had been resisting subconsciously, but now that had fallen away and he found he was looking forward to the wedding—but first there was the engagement ball.

While in town he had given Roxanne’s measurements to a French seamstress and she had promised to deliver the gown he had ordered in time. She was coming herself to fit it and make any last-minute adjustments. He knew that Roxanne had some idea of making a gown herself, but the magnificent creation he had bought for her would be a surprise—as would the pearls he had purchased in the London jeweller’s.

Once again he considered whether the attack on Higgins and the man he had seen purchasing a ring in London were connected. Had he been followed to the jeweller’s that day? Had the man he’d noticed hoped to discover the ruby’s whereabouts?

‘Imagination,’ he murmured aloud, fastened a magnificent diamond pin in his cravat and went down to dinner.

After Luke’s return the days seemed to fly past so quickly that Roxanne hardly had time to think or worry about what she was doing. The incident in the tower had been dismissed from her mind completely and she was thoroughly enjoying each day.

Luke had purchased a beautiful mare for her. Rhoda, as he informed her the horse was named, was a chestnut and a perfect mount for her, being spirited and yet good natured, even playful. The mare had responded to Roxanne’s touch and voice immediately and, if Roxanne did not watch her, would give her new mistress a sharp nudge in the back with her nose.

‘She is lovely,’ Roxanne cried as she thanked him. ‘I am so grateful for your kindness.’

‘You must have a horse of your own. The saddle belonged to my mother. It takes time to make one to suit an individual and we shall commission a new one once you have got used to this, which has been worn in and should be comfortable both for you and the mare.’

‘It is perfect,’ Roxanne said and ran her hand over the soft leather, which, though not new, had a pleasant feel. ‘I do not think I need another just yet.’

‘My mother was an excellent horsewoman, Roxanne. I am certain you can do as well if you are willing to learn.’

Roxanne assured him that she was and allowed him to help her into the saddle and to explain how she should hold her reins. Although she had been used to riding astride when with the players, she immediately settled to the new position and needed telling only once how to sit and hold her reins.

Luke watched her walk the mare about the paddock, making only an occasional remark about posture or commands to the mare. After some minutes had passed, he nodded his head and walked up to her as she halted the mare.

‘Are you sure you have not ridden this way before?’

‘I may have done years ago…’

‘When you were a child in India?’

‘If I was ever there. Sometimes in my mind I seem to see a beautiful pink palace with cool rooms and fountains in the gardens—but it may just be one of Sofia’s stories.’

‘Are there people in your dream?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I have no real memories, Luke. I think the palace was where Sofia lived with her prince.’

‘You are sure she never mentioned anything you told her when you were ill?’

‘No, I am not sure of anything.’

Luke’s eyes were very intent. ‘You have not been lying to me, Roxanne? I would rather hear the truth from your lips now than discover it is all lies later.’

‘Are you accusing me of trying to deceive you?’ She raised her head proudly. ‘Why should I do such a thing? I have no wish to be other than I am.’

‘Forgive me, that remark was uncalled for. It is just odd that you should have this feeling about India—and now it seems as if there may be a connection. Does that not sound strange to you? In my place would you not wonder?’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ she agreed. ‘May we speak of something else now? Your grandfather spoke of dancing lessons, but it may have slipped his memory. The curate is coming this afternoon. If he played for us, would you teach me some steps, please?’

‘Yes, of course. I should be delighted. I will call the groom. You have done enough riding for today. You should learn at least one or two dances before the ball.’

‘Count in your head, Roxanne…one two three, one two three—and follow me. Trust me and you cannot fail.’

‘Thank you, I shall try.’

Roxanne stood as he placed his right hand at the small of her back and let herself relax, feeling the warmth that flowed through her. The curate’s playing was pleasant and she felt as if she floated on air as they waltzed the length of the gallery, where the ball was to be held.

‘Yes, that is exactly right,’ Luke told her. ‘You were born to dance, Roxanne. It is a natural talent that may be learned, but you feel the music and you are like thistledown in my arms.’

Roxanne closed her eyes. In her head she seemed to hear strange music and for a moment she felt light-headed, as if she were not quite herself. Luke’s voice came from a distance. The dreamlike state still held her and she stumbled, falling into his arms.

Luke caught her and carried her to a sofa, sitting her against the soft cushions as she stirred. She opened her eyes, looking at him in a puzzled way.

‘What happened?’

‘You were faint for a moment. Are you ill?’

‘No, I do not think so. How foolish of me.’

Luke placed a hand to her forehead. ‘You do not seem to have a temperature, but you said something just before your faint.’

‘Did I?’ She looked up, feeling bewildered. ‘For a moment I thought I was somewhere else.’

‘You said a word I did not recognise. I think it may have been another language—perhaps Hindu or some such thing.’

‘How could I know an Indian word?’

‘Easily, if you were truly brought up there.’ He frowned. ‘This business of the ruby has been playing on your mind. It might be that the face you saw at the window was Indian. A turban cloth was found at the tower when the search was made.’

Roxanne shivered. ‘That is a little worrying, Luke. What is so important about the ruby that someone would follow us here and attempt to break into your grandfather’s strong room?’

‘If we knew that, I think the mystery might be solved.’ Luke offered her his hand as she attempted to rise, catapulting her into his arms. It surprised them both and Luke’s kiss was completely without intention. He kissed her lightly at first, but it deepened to intensity before he let her go. ‘It was the look in your eyes,’ he excused himself. ‘There is no need to fear, Roxanne. I shall protect you.’

‘Yes…’ Roxanne spoke in a faint voice unlike herself. ‘I am not afraid, just curious as to why the ruby is so important.’

‘Yes, it is curious,’ Luke replied. ‘I think enough dancing for today. We shall send for some tea—and I think our kind pianist should stay and enjoy it with us.’

‘Yes, of course, Luke,’ Roxanne said and went off to speak to the curate.

Luke’s eyes narrowed as he watched her. She looked every inch a lady—but supposing she had lied in an attempt to ensnare him? Supposing she’d stolen the ruby? She might be Black Bob’s accomplice; they could have stolen it together. Perhaps she’d wanted the jewel for herself and run off with it. That might be the reason she was frightened of being found and dragged back to her former life. He knew a moment of intense pain at the thought. If she had played him for a fool, he would feel betrayed.

Luke was aware of a sense of unease. He knew that he was being drawn into something beyond his control. What exactly did Roxanne want of him? She had refused to enter a sham marriage at first, but now she seemed prepared to become his wife and to give him an heir.

Could he trust her? More importantly, perhaps, could he trust himself? The feelings he’d had for Roxanne from the beginning had grown stronger, but surely a night in her bed would satisfy his hunger. It had always been that the chase was more important to him and he soon tired once the game was won. Perhaps he was a shallow fellow, incapable of feeling more than a fleeting affection—if that were so, why was he beginning to feel obsessed by Roxanne and a need to know the truth about her past?

He was a fool to let down his guard. Until he was certain this was not all an elaborate plot to ensnare him he refused to feel more than liking for her. He had met many beautiful women, but none had touched his heart—why should it be different now?

Roxanne glanced at herself in the mirror as she prepared for dinner that evening. Why had Luke kissed her that way earlier? She could not convince herself that he cared for her, so why had he suddenly kissed her with such intensity? Was it merely a passing impulse—or lust?

He’d told her that he did not believe in romantic love, yet he knew how to please a woman in bed. Her mouth felt dry and her stomach cramped with nerves. Luke felt physical desire for her and he would be a passionate lover.

She supposed men often felt desire for a beautiful woman. Roxanne had seen lust in the eyes of men many times, but she had never been kissed like that because she’d always avoided any involvement. Sofia had warned her to be careful, telling her that men were not to be trusted—especially the aristocracy.

Was she a fool to let herself be used both by the earl and his grandson? They both wanted something from her, but were either of them prepared to give her anything of value in return? Luke had offered an income, but money was not important to Roxanne. She wanted to be respected, liked, even loved for what she was—especially by Luke.

How foolish she was to have let down her guard even for an instant. Luke had made it plain from the start that he did not wish for a true marriage. It was a business arrangement and she must accept it—or walk away.

To walk away would cause too much pain. She had become fond of the earl and must do nothing that would bring on his illness. Luke might come to admire her qualities in time and it should be possible to have mutual respect.

Was that enough in a marriage? It had to be, because Roxanne knew that she could not expect more from a man who refused to give his heart.

‘Would you like to wear your hair up this evening, miss?’

Roxanne’s thoughts were recalled to the present. She looked at the face of her young maid and smiled.

‘Yes, thank you, Tilly. I shall have it dressed with a ringlet for the ball, but tonight I would prefer it to be quite plain.’

‘Yes, miss.’ The girl took up the brush and began to stroke it through her hair, leaving Roxanne free to continue her thoughts.

That evening they dined with friends of the earl and Roxanne began to understand what her life would be like here. Although curious, the earl’s neighbours were friendly and prepared to accept her, because Hartingdon had made his wishes clear.

‘This young woman has done wonders for the house already,’ he remarked to a gentleman of similar years. ‘I never expected to see such a day and I am truly grateful to her. Clarendon is fortunate to have found her.’

‘I’m sure he knows it,’ General Forster said and nodded approvingly. ‘Luke, you must bring Miss Roxanne to dinner soon—and I should be delighted to take you fishing in our lake one day, should you care for it.’

‘Very kind of you, sir,’ Luke said and sent a brooding glance at Roxanne. She thought that he was learning to play his part very well. ‘It is a while since I went fishing.’

‘Do you enjoy music, Miss Roxanne?’

She turned to the young man sitting beside her. ‘Yes, Sir James, very much. I fear I am an indifferent pianist, though I am attempting to improve.’

‘Do you sing at all?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Roxanne said, recalling some of the performances she’d given when with the players. ‘I enjoy listening to others play and sing. I also enjoy the performance of a play.’

‘Ah yes, I’m fond of the theatre myself.’ He beamed at her. ‘You put me in mind of something, Miss Roxanne. I mean no insult when I say that you remind me of an actress I once saw. She was very talented, but just a provincial actress, not famous at all—however, the likeness is superficial.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ Roxanne said and laughed, hiding the fact that his remark had made her heart beat fast. ‘Tell me, where was she performing?’

‘I hardly remember—an open-air performance, as I recall, at an inn or somewhere like. Do not be offended by the comparison, for I meant none.’

‘I am not offended.’ Roxanne smiled as the moment of panic receded. He did not remember her. ‘If the lady was talented there is no reason.’

She had been apprehensive for a moment but she saw there was no need. Even though the young man had undoubtedly seen her performing, he did not dream that Roxanne was the actress he’d watched. He thought the likeness superficial, which indeed it was for she had changed considerably since those days. That girl had been left far behind as she became more confident and sure of her place here.

‘Oh, very talented. I thought she belonged on the London stage. I would have spoken to her about it, but I could not stay until the end of the play.’

‘Roxanne, may I speak with you?’

She stood up as Luke came up to her, nodding her head to her companion and moving aside to the window.

‘You looked slightly disturbed. James was not annoying you?’

‘He wished me not to be offended, but saw a vague likeness in me to an actress he’d once watched performing somewhere.’

‘Ah, I see…’ Luke nodded, his gaze intent on her face. ‘You are not distressed?’

‘No, certainly not.’ Roxanne lifted her head proudly, every inch the great lady. ‘You wished to speak with me?’

‘I forgot to mention it earlier, but a seamstress is coming down in a couple of days. She has made a gown for the ball for you and will fit it and make any adjustments needed while she is here. I thought you might like her to make a wedding dress for you? We shall buy most of your trousseau in Paris after the wedding—if that suits you?’

‘Of course, if you think it necessary.’ Roxanne’s heart thudded in her breast, her throat tight suddenly and for no good reason. ‘Your grandfather looks a little tired. If there is nothing more, I shall see if he wishes to retire.’

‘No, nothing more,’ Luke replied with a little frown.

‘Then please excuse me for the moment.’

Luke watched as she walked to the earl. The old man listened to what she said to him and then inclined his head. Roxanne gave him her arm and they left the room together. For a moment the earl’s face was unguarded and his grandson saw real affection in his eyes as he responded to her caring.

It was evident that a bond had formed between them while he was absent. Luke wasn’t sure how he felt about the situation. Roxanne seemed fond of the earl and sure of her place here. For a moment he was irked by the affection between them. Roxanne had found a way past the prickly outer skin the earl had used to shut out everyone else, including his grandson. Why was he prepared to accept her when he had shown little but indifference towards his own flesh and blood?

Luke ought to be delighted that his plan to make his grandfather’s last days happy was working so well and yet once again he had a sense of unease—almost fear. It was ridiculous to feel trapped. He could walk away, go back to London whenever he chose, and yet something was holding him here. It was as if invisible chains bound his limbs and he did not understand his own feelings.

It was not as if the marriage was to be a true one. He felt passion for Roxanne and knew that he would find great pleasure in teaching her the delights of the bedroom—but he was not sure that she felt anything for him.

She was always welcoming, pleasant and amenable to his wishes, but was that what he wanted from her? Was this show of affection and content merely a consummate actress at work? He had made a bargain with her and Roxanne was playing her part all too well.

Luke wasn’t sure what he wanted or expected of her—or what he hoped the future might bring. His uncertainty had not improved his mood and he was on edge, moody, anger simmering beneath the surface—but he did not know why he was angry.

Roxanne was surprised at how many people had come to wish them well. She had written the invitations to whole families and it seemed that uncles, aunts and cousins had turned out in force. They had been arriving for the past two days and the house was already overflowing. The arrival of neighbours and friends later that night would ensure that the ball was a success.

‘That’s a beautiful gown, Miss Roxanne,’ the housekeeper observed when she brought up a posy of fragrant lilies the gardener had sent. ‘I think you will be the centre of attention this evening—as you deserve to be, miss.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Arlet,’ Roxanne said. ‘Lord Clarendon ordered the gown in London, as you know. He has excellent taste. Those flowers are lovely—did they come from his lordship?’

‘I think it was Minty’s idea, miss—though I dare say his lordship asked for flowers suitable for the occasion.’

‘Well, they are delightful,’ Roxanne said and the housekeeper left. She glanced at her reflection, thinking that the gown called for an ornament of some kind. Her request to the earl for the loan of some pearls had not been met and she regretted her lack. She was just considering whether she could pin a single flower to her gown when someone knocked. Opening the door, she was surprised to see Luke. ‘Oh…I am nearly ready.’

‘You look beautiful, Roxanne,’ he said, staring at her in such a way that her heart fluttered and her mouth was suddenly dry. ‘I brought you a little gift to wear this evening—if it pleases you.’

Luke offered her a black velvet box, which Roxanne took and opened. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the single string of beautiful creamy pearls fastened with a clasp of emeralds and diamonds.

‘Oh, these are beautiful. My maid has gone—would you fasten them for me, please?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Luke followed her into the bedchamber. Roxanne lifted her hair and he placed the pearls around her throat, his fingers lingering against the sensitive skin at her nape. ‘The clasp is meant to be at the front.’ He turned the necklet, his hand just brushing against her dipping décolletage for an instance.

The dizzying sensation that shot through her at that moment almost took her breath. Roxanne’s lips parted on a sigh and she felt a spasm of desire and need so strong that it required all her willpower not to melt into his arms. Just for a moment she wished there was no ball, nothing but Luke and a soft bed where they could lie together.

The sensation was sweet and overpowering, but Roxanne forced herself to remain aloof. To beg for kisses and more would shame her and she had no intention of allowing her feelings to become plain. Luke wanted a business arrangement and that was what she must accept because anything else would end in pain. The last thing Luke wanted or needed was a clinging wife who would love him and make him feel guilty for neglecting her when he returned to the life he enjoyed.

She would be a poor actress if she could not hide her feelings for him, but she must remain outwardly in control. He would hate her to fall in love with him. He had no wish for a clinging wife.

Glancing in the mirror, Roxanne was satisfied that apart from a faint flush in her cheeks she had given no sign of the intensity of her feelings. She touched the emerald clasp and smiled.

‘How did you know that I longed for such a necklace?’ she asked, for all the world without a care as she met his brooding look. ‘The pearls are wonderful, Luke, and the clasp goes so well with my ring.’

‘That was my intention,’ he said, a faint smile in his eyes. ‘Grandfather asked me to find something for you in the strong room, but I told him I had my own gift for you.’

‘I see.’ Roxanne nodded, because that explained why the earl had not kept his promise. ‘I must thank you so much for my gifts, Luke.’ She looked up at him, seeing a blaze of passion that made her tremble. ‘Luke—what are you thinking?’

‘I think we should go down before I am tempted to lock the door and stay here with you instead of entertaining our guests.’

Roxanne’s heart pounded. Her stomach clenched with something she instinctively recognised as desire. The look in his eyes was so hot that she could not doubt he felt desire for her, but she was certain that his feelings were no more than that; he wanted her, but love was not something Luke was prepared to give. His touch would make her flesh sing, but love was the forbidden fruit she must not taste.

‘Yes, we must not keep our guests waiting or the earl,’ Roxanne said, painting a smile in place as she lifted her head. ‘Our audience awaits, Luke.’

‘A performance? Is that all this is to you, Roxanne?’

‘Of course. What else?’ she said. ‘That is what you required of me, as I recall.’

She moved past him into the hall, then turned and waited expectantly. Her composure was perfect, she was ready for the stage.

‘You’re a clever actress, Roxanne. I dare say you will have our friends eating out of your hand, just as you have Grandfather. He prides himself on his judgement, but you have him purring like a kitten.’

She felt as if he had pricked at her with long thorns, but kept her smile in place. ‘If I have the ability to make people like me, that is a good thing, is it not?’

‘I think they will love you. Grandfather certainly does.’

Loved by all, but not by you. The words were in her head, but not spoken aloud.

Lifting her head, she looked into his eyes. ‘His happiness is your main concern, is it not? That is the reason you brought me here?’

‘Yes…’ Luke’s gaze narrowed. ‘I would not wish to see him hurt, Roxanne.’

‘Then we are of one mind,’ she said and took his arm. ‘Come, Luke, need you look so sober? This is meant to be an evening of pleasure for us as well as our guests. You must try to look as if you are enjoying yourself or your friends will wonder.’

‘You are right.’ He smiled suddenly and her heart skipped a beat. ‘I have no right to expect more than you wish to give. We shall dance and enjoy ourselves this evening. More serious matters can wait for another day.’

Now what did he mean by that? Roxanne wondered, but she put the little puzzle from her mind. Tonight she was playing the part of a girl very much in love who was announcing her engagement to the man she loved. It was not a difficult part to play, as long as she did not remember that Luke did not love her.

Chapter Eight

As Roxanne had imagined, the evening was a huge success. The ballroom was decorated with banks of fragrant flowers from the hothouses and reels of white-silk tulle hung in drapes above the dais where the musicians were seated. Sparkling chandeliers threw out showers of light, which were picked up by the glittering jewels worn by both ladies and gentlemen. They had come dressed in their best finery, prepared to enjoy the celebrations, and laughter reverberated through the rooms, the sound of chattering voices almost deafening.

Roxanne soon discovered that she was the centre of attention.

‘To tell the truth I never expected to see this day,’ Luke’s Uncle Frederick on his father’s side told her as he claimed one of the first dances of the evening. ‘I believe Hartingdon had given up all hope of Clarendon ever doing his duty.’

‘Surely not?’ Roxanne gave him an amused smile. ‘Luke is not in his dotage, I think?’

‘Good lord, no, he’s a young man, but he seemed set in his ways. I always knew it would take an exceptional young woman to catch my nephew and it seems I was right.’

‘Thank you for the compliment,’ Roxanne replied mischievously. ‘I shall do my best to live up to what is expected of me.’

‘You’ll do very well,’ the talkative gentleman said. ‘Beauty and brains, to say nothing of charm. Now that is a combination not often found, Miss Roxanne. Luke is a lucky fellow.’

Since that seemed the consensus of the guests, Roxanne did not find herself left without an admirer at her side all evening. She danced every dance, sipped at, but did not finish, several glasses of champagne brought to her by a string of helpful gentlemen and ate sparingly of the delicious supper that had been provided for them.

‘Where did you meet Clarendon?’

The question had been asked again and again by curious aunts and cousins throughout the evening. Roxanne gave the same reply to all of them.

‘I was staying with a friend and we met by chance when Luke was out riding,’ she told them, embroidering the truth only as necessary. ‘We were mutually attracted and liked each other immediately.’

Surely that much was true. Roxanne had felt an instant liking for the man she’d helped in the woods, despite his hostility. He’d been angry and in pain at first, but later he’d been grateful for her help. That meeting seemed so far away now, her life revolving round the earl and his grandson these days. Sometimes she almost forgot that she had ever known another life.

The Roxanne who had lived with a band of travelling players was someone different. She was Miss Peters and her father lived and worked in India… The story she’d invented for herself was now so real that she believed it must be the truth.

As far as she understood, Luke’s lawyer had heard nothing from the advertisement. Roxanne might never discover whether the ruby was truly hers or the property of another person. Perhaps it was not important. She had become a part of Luke’s family, welcomed and accepted amongst them. It did not matter that she could not remember her own family—at least she must try not to let it matter.

She had danced three times with Luke during the evening. Each time it had been a waltz and Roxanne felt as if she had been floating on air, his nearness giving her such pleasure that she felt she could melt into his body. The feeling was so perfect that she knew she could become his lover easily. There would be no hesitation on her part, because already she felt as if she belonged to him, in his bed, in his arms. He had called her a clever actress, but he gave such a convincing display of affection towards his fiancée that Roxanne might have been deceived herself had she not caught a hint of mockery in his smile once or twice. It was as if he were showing her that he, too, could play his part.

What was in his mind? What did that look mean? Sometimes she thought he was like a cat playing with a bird it had caught in its claws.

‘Have you enjoyed this evening?’ Luke whispered as the hour grew late. ‘I believe you have charmed all my uncles and my cousins have fallen in love with you. Cousin Horatio is quite eaten up with jealousy, though I am not certain whether he envies me you—or my grandfather’s estate, of which he had hopes before you arrived.’

‘Luke…’ Roxanne tapped his arm with her fan ‘…that was not well said of you. Mr Harte was charming to me and told me how pleased he was that you’d decided to marry.’

‘Horatio is charming when he wishes to be, Roxanne, but do not be fooled by him. I dare say he is spitting venom in private.’

Roxanne shook her head at him. She had noticed a certain underlying tension between the cousins, but there was often rivalry between gentlemen and she took little notice. Cousin Horatio was one of those staying overnight and she noticed that he was absent for a while towards the end of the ball, reappearing just as the guests that lived locally were leaving.

The earl had gone to his apartments soon after supper, and when there were only a handful of gentlemen left, all of them related and preparing for a last nightcap before seeking their rooms, Roxanne said her farewells.

She went upstairs to her own bedchamber and entered. She’d instructed her maid that she was not to wait up, because she could manage to unhook herself and would not need assistance. However, when she opened the door and walked in a feeling of shock ran through her. It was immediately obvious that the room had been searched.

The drawers had been pulled out of the chest and the contents scattered on the floor, her underclothes, scarves and gloves scattered in little heaps. The armoire had been opened and dresses pulled from the shelves, as if whoever had been searching had been in a hurry. Yet there was more, a kind of venom, almost as if the mess had been intended to punish and hurt.

Since the only things she had of personal value were her ring and the pearls Luke had given her, which she was wearing, there was nothing much for a thief to steal. The silver pots on the dressing table, which were the earl’s property, were still there, though lids had been removed and the contents examined.

Who had been here and caused such upheaval? It did not seem to Roxanne that anything had been taken, but it was obvious that someone had been searching for something in particular. Who would dare to do such a thing when the house was full of guests?

Roxanne trembled, a slither of ice sliding down her spine. It was a most unpleasant feeling to discover that her room had been ransacked in this way. What had the intruder been looking for—was it the ruby?

She hesitated for a moment, wondering what to do for the best. It was too unsettling to sleep in her room like this, but she was unwilling to rouse the servants at this late hour.

Luke ought to be told. Roxanne knew that she must speak to him at once about what had happened here. There might still be an intruder in the house. He would know what to do, because the house ought to be checked. If an outsider had broken in while they were all at the ball, he might be dangerous. Perhaps other guests had had their rooms searched.

Still fully dressed, Roxanne made her way through the halls and up a short flight of stairs to the wing where Luke had his rooms. Would he have come up yet or was he still downstairs, taking a last drink with his cousins?

She tapped at his door and after a short pause, during which Roxanne wondered what to do if he were not there, Luke opened his door. He was still dressed in his breeches and shirt, but he’d taken off his coat and neckcloth and his feet were bare.

‘Roxanne—what are you doing here at this hour?’

‘May I speak to you, please?’

‘Of course, come in,’ Luke said, then took her arm and drew her inside his sitting room. It was furnished with two leather elbow chairs, a bookcase and a writing table and chair; there was also a collection of paintings of horses, also two bronze figures holding torches aloft, which held lighted candles.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, but I did not know what else to do—my rooms have been ransacked.’

‘What?’ Luke looked startled. ‘Your rooms—was anything valuable taken?’

‘I was wearing the only items of jewellery I possess, but the silver pots on the dressing table are all there and they have been opened.’

‘Someone was searching for something they did not find.’ Luke’s brow creased. ‘Do you suppose it was the ruby?’

‘Yes, perhaps it was,’ Roxanne said. ‘Whoever it was must have taken the opportunity to search while we were all dancing. I suppose there were so many people about that he was able to slip in without being noticed.’

‘Yes, I imagine it must have seemed a good opportunity.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘You saw no one—you are not harmed?’

‘I saw no one and I am not harmed—but I felt uneasy and wondered whether to call my maid to tidy the room or sleep elsewhere this evening.’

‘You must stay here for now,’ Luke said. ‘I shall put on my boots and check your rooms and the downstairs rooms also, Roxanne. I want to make sure the windows and doors are locked, though I prefer not to rouse the guests or Grandfather. I do not wish to disturb him.’

‘No, of course you must not,’ Roxanne agreed. ‘I was not certain what to do, but I hope no one else need know about this unfortunate incident.’

‘Mrs Arlet must be told and the servants will know, but it is best if the guests do not learn of this—unless any of them have suffered something similar.’

‘Had they done so, I’m sure someone would have told you,’ Roxanne said. ‘I think it was just my room, Luke—and I believe it must be because of that ruby.’

Luke had sat down to pull his boots on. He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then inclined his head.

‘It seems the most likely explanation. Unless Horatio wanted to see what he could find to discredit you. He knows what he has lost because we are to wed and he was absent for a time this evening.’ He saw her look. ‘You don’t believe it was him. Well, you may be right. Stay here, Roxanne, and lock the door behind me. I shall take a look at your room and make a tour of the house. When I return we’ll talk about this again.’

‘Yes, of course. Please take care, Luke. I would not have you come to harm for the sake of that wretched jewel.’

‘I shall be perfectly safe. Whoever wants that ruby seems not to mean harm to either of us. There has been plenty of time for him to attack me had he wished it. No, it is the jewel he wants for some reason best known to himself.’

Roxanne went to the door with him and he locked it after he went out. She chose one of the elbow chairs and sat down, but could not rest. As she paced about the room, the minutes dragged by and, when Luke did not return after more than half an hour, Roxanne went into his bedchamber. Luke was not particularly tidy and she noticed discarded neckcloths and a dressing gown lying abandoned over a chair. She sat on the edge of the bed, then laid down, resting her head on a pillow that smelled faintly of the cologne he sometimes wore. Lying with her knees pulled up to her chest, she closed her eyes.

Movement close by woke Roxanne and she opened her eyes and then sat up as she saw Luke standing there looking at her.

‘Is all safe?’ she asked, her heart pounding.

‘I discovered a window catch in the library that was loose and I believe that may have been how our intruder got in. There was a smear of earth on the window-sill and what may have been a footmark. I think our intruder was bare-footed.’

‘He wore no shoes?’ Roxanne frowned. ‘I remember that Sofia told me shoes are not worn in the house in India. The face at the window in the tower might have been Indian—it all seems to point to the ruby, do you not think so?’

‘Yes, it would seem the jewel is important to someone,’ Luke agreed. ‘I wish whoever it is would just ask for the damned thing. My concern is for your sake, Roxanne. If he becomes frustrated, he may attack you…’

Roxanne got to her feet. She shivered, feeling chilled and uneasy.

‘I’m sorry to have caused you so much trouble. I wish I could remember what happened…why I had the ruby…’ A tear spilled from the corner of her eye. ‘Who am I, Luke? Am I a thief? Why did I have that ruby? I wish I could remember.’

‘Don’t cry, dearest,’ Luke said softly. He reached out and wiped away the tear with his fingertips. ‘You mustn’t be upset over this. I’m here. I shall protect you, Roxanne.’

‘But why is all this hap—’ She got no further for Luke’s arms were about her. He drew her close to his body, his head bent towards hers, his mouth covering hers in a kiss so hungry and intense that all else fled from her mind. Roxanne’s arms folded about his neck, her fingers reaching into his hair at the nape as the kiss deepened between them. Then Luke was lifting her in his arms, carrying her back to the bed. He placed her amongst the covers and lay down beside her, gazing into her eyes.

‘I want you so much,’ he whispered passionately against her ear. ‘I’ve wanted you from the moment I first saw you, Roxanne. You are so beautiful and you’re mine. I swear that no one shall harm you. I will protect you with my life. You must never be afraid while I am with you.’

‘Luke…’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Luke, hold me, love me. I want you, too. I love you…’

As soon as the words left her lips Roxanne regretted them. She had not meant to say the one thing she knew he would not want to hear, but her feelings had rushed to the forefront because of her distress and the words had slipped out. She thought that for a moment he stilled, as if he would withdraw from her, but then he was kissing her again, hungrily, passionately, as if his need was as great as her own.

Giving herself up to desire, Roxanne responded to Luke’s loving with an equal passion of her own. She had never known that such feelings lay within her, waiting to burst forth in a torrent of need and hunger. All the years of not knowing who or what she was, all the pain, uncertainty and fear, the need to be loved came out of her in a frenzy of wanting and loving. His hands were gentle but firm as they explored her body, seeking out the secret places of her femininity, touching her where no one else had touched her, bringing her sweet pleasure. Her hands moved over his arms, his back, following the firmness of his shoulders and the honed muscles, moving over skin that was now naked and slicked with sweat as their bodies came together in sweet ecstasy. His throbbing manhood sought entry and she felt pain, but then the pain was forgotten in the sweet pleasure of his kisses.

‘Yes…’ Roxanne moaned as he moved within her, deep and firm, bringing her to such exquisite delight that she writhed and arched beneath him. She moaned and clung to him, her breath soft and sweet as she sighed. ‘So good…so very good.’

‘My sweet, beautiful Roxanne,’ Luke murmured against her ear. ‘Such passion and heat. No one has ever made me feel as you do, my darling. You are exquisite, perfect. I want to hold you and make love to you always.’

His words were so tender and loving that Roxanne felt tears of joy on her cheeks as they lay together, entwined, satiated and at peace before they slept. During the night, they woke, loved again, as sweetly and as urgently as before. Roxanne slept deeply, curled into his body, her legs captured and held as he clasped her against him. Her long red hair was spread over the pillows and had entangled itself about him as they loved.

When in the morning Luke moved her hair from his face, carefully disentangling himself from her limbs that curled about him, Roxanne did not wake. She was caught up in a dream so sweet that her lips curved in a smile of content.

‘Love you,’ she murmured. ‘Always love you…’

Luke knew that she was still sleeping and that she did not know she had spoken. He frowned as he moved carefully about the room, collecting the clothes he needed for riding. He watched Roxanne sleep while he dressed, a look of gravity on his face, then went out, leaving her to rest.

He needed to ride and to think about the future. Roxanne’s distress the previous evening had led him into something he had not planned and he was not sure what it meant for the future. In her dreaming state she had spoken of love, but was it real or part of the story she’d invented for herself—and did he want his marriage to be more of a real marriage than he’d intended?

He suddenly felt trapped again. He was being drawn into something that threatened to overturn all he had believed and he could not handle the feelings churning inside him.

He must think about what had happened the previous night and what it meant—and he must question the men he’d had patrolling the grounds. Why had they not seen the intruder and who had been so desperate to find Roxanne’s ruby that they had risked breaking into her room when there was a house filled with guests?

Roxanne stirred and stretched, a feeling of well being stealing over her as she opened her eyes. What had happened the previous night to make her feel so good? Letting her gaze move about the room, she realised that she was not in her own bed and then the memories came flooding back. Suffused with warmth, she felt herself blush as she recalled how gladly she had surrendered to Luke’s loving the previous night. She had gone to his arms like a wanton instead of the gentlewoman she was supposed to be, giving no thought to propriety or the future.

What did that say about her? What kind of a woman was she truly?

Sitting up in bed, she saw her clothes strewn over the floor and recalled the way they had come off with such abandon. Indeed, she’d behaved like a harlot. No well-bred young woman would behave in such a way—and yet she did not regret it. Roxanne knew that she would do it again, because one night of love like that was something she would never forget. Even if Luke did not love her in his heart, he’d made her feel loved and needed, and something deep inside her had responded, had been waiting for him. She’d felt as if her whole life had been waiting for that moment—the moment she became one with him.

Rising, Roxanne picked up her clothes and dressed. It was time she returned to her own room. She was about to do so when the door of Luke’s bedchamber opened and a maid entered. She did not seem surprised to find Roxanne there and bobbed a curtsy.

‘Lord Clarendon said to tidy your chamber, Miss Roxanne, and then inform you that you could return. He told us he gave up his room for you last night because of what happened, miss. It must have been such a shock to find it that way.’

‘Yes, it was,’ Roxanne replied and glanced towards the bed. The sheets were open, as she’d left them, and she could see some small bloodstains. Her cheeks felt warm as she left the room. Luke had told the servants that she’d slept alone, but the maid would see the evidence of what had taken place here and she could hardly be expected to keep such knowledge to herself. The servants would smile to themselves and whisper that Lord Clarendon had anticipated his wedding night.

It was an embarrassing thought, but there was nothing she could do to change things. She could not go back and act differently, nor did she wish to in her heart. The dice was cast now. She had given herself to Luke body and soul. Roxanne had no intention of drawing back. If Luke did not wish for a loving wife, he would make his feelings known. She loved him, but she was strong enough to let him go when he needed to be free. She would not cling and weep as his mother had to her husband. Perhaps next time Luke came to her bed she would be more prepared and be able to control her feelings, giving herself with less abandon.

Making her way back to her own room, Roxanne wondered where Luke was. At what time had he left her and where had he gone?

Her bedchamber had been put to rights, everything back in its place and the scent of fresh lavender polish making it seem welcoming and normal. A frown touched her forehead as she remembered her distress the previous evening; it was that distress that had prompted Luke to kiss her and carried them both on a tide of passion.

What must he be thinking of her now? Roxanne knew that she had been abandoned, almost wanton in her passion, and wondered what Luke thought of the bargain he’d made. Was he regretting it? Was that why he’d left without waking her, because her passion had disgusted him—or did he simply want to ride in the early morning, as she knew he often did?

Roxanne washed in the warm water she found waiting for her and dressed in a fresh morning gown. She had brushed her hair into a knot at the back of her head and was about to leave when the door opened and her maid entered.

‘I did not ring, Tilly,’ she said. ‘I was able to manage for myself—but if you will take away my soiled things and see to them, please.’

‘Yes, Miss Roxanne.’ The girl bobbed a little curtsy. ‘I’ve washed all the things that were on the floor, miss, because I knew you would wish it. I came to tell you that you’re needed in the earl’s chambers. Marshall said to tell you that Lord Hartingdon is a little out of sorts this morning. It may have been all the excitement of last night, miss.’

‘Yes, perhaps.’ Roxanne looked at her in dismay. ‘Is he just a little tired or unwell?’

‘I’m not sure, miss. Marshall said to ask if you would come at once—and I think the doctor’s been sent for.’

‘I see…thank you,’ Roxanne said and went hurriedly from the room. If the doctor had been sent for, it was more than just a little tiredness.

Her heart was thudding as she walked along the hall to the earl’s chambers. She had become more than a little fond of the elderly gentleman and it would distress her if he were seriously ill. Luke had known that his grandfather was frail; it was for this reason that she had been brought here as Luke’s fiancée, but somehow she hadn’t expected anything to happen. Indeed, she’d hoped, expected that Hartingdon would go on for some years yet. If he died now…Roxanne shut out the unwelcome thought. She did not wish to think about such a prospect.

Reaching the earl’s room, she knocked softly and then entered. His manservant was in the small sitting room, but there was no sign of the earl.

‘How is he?’ she asked, her throat catching with emotion. ‘I was told he wished to see me?’

‘His lordship had a bit of a do first thing, miss,’ Marshall said. ‘I’ve persuaded him he should stay in bed and called the doctor just in case. His lordship wanted to see you, miss. He’s very fond of you—if you don’t mind my saying it.’

‘Not at all.’ Roxanne smiled at him. ‘The feeling is mutual. I was most concerned to hear he was unwell. May I see him, please?’

‘Go right in, miss. He might be dozing, but if you sit in the chair I’ve put ready he’ll see you when he wakes.’

‘Yes, of course. Thank you, that was so thoughtful, Marshall.’

‘We’re all pleased to have you here, miss. The family and servants both. We’ve taken you to our hearts, Miss Roxanne.’

She thanked him, her cheeks a little warm. Marshall would never show by gesture or innuendo that he knew she’d spent the night with Luke, but she doubted it was a secret. If her first child was not long in coming, the servants would count the months after the wedding back to the previous night.

The earl was resting as she walked softly into his bedchamber. He was lying back against a pile of pillows, his eyes closed, but as she bent over him to kiss his cheek he opened them and looked up at her.

‘Ah,’ he said in a satisfied tone. ‘There you are, girl. You did me proud last night, Roxanne. I was complimented on Luke’s happy choice many times. Most of them seem to think I must’ve arranged the whole business. I didn’t contradict ’em. You’re either a truly great actress or you were born to be a lady.’

‘Does it matter now, sir?’ Roxanne asked. She sat down on the edge of the bed and took his hand. ‘It was a tiring evening for you. I hope you mean to be sensible and keep to your bed for a few days?’

‘You’re right, it don’t matter where you came from,’ he said and sighed. ‘You’ll make a good mother for my boy’s children and that’s what counts. I’m not sure he’ll make you a good husband, but you took him on and I think you’ll see it through. You won’t let me down?’

‘Do I look like a bolter?’

He gave a harsh laugh. ‘It’s a while since I heard that expression. Luke’s godmother used it when she was younger. She didn’t come to the ball. I was disappointed that she stayed away. Her influence on Luke was always for the good—but I suppose I scared her off with my harsh tongue. I must make it up to her before the wedding. I’ve mellowed a bit. In the old days I was sharper than a razor.’

‘I’m glad you’ve mellowed, sir.’

There was a hint of laughter in her voice and his brow lowered. ‘Are you mocking me, miss?’

‘Just a very little, sir. Do you not think it is time that someone did? Perhaps you have taken yourself a little too seriously at times—would you not say so?’

He glared at her, then made a sound between a snort and a guffaw. ‘You’re a minx, Roxanne. Think you’ve got me eating out of your hand, do you? I’m not to be fooled by a few smiles, miss.’

‘Why would I wish to fool you, sir? All I wish for is that we should live together happily as a family. I want to make you happy.’

‘Want to make Luke happy too?’ He raised his bushy brows at her. ‘Planning on getting him to settle down to married life—is that it?’

‘I am not sure that would be possible,’ Roxanne replied honestly. ‘However, it seems to me that you are very alike, sir. If what you both want is an heir for the family, I shall do my best to oblige.’

‘And what do you get out of it?’ The earl’s eyes were very bright. He was intent as he waited for her answer.

‘A home and perhaps affection,’ Roxanne said. ‘I shall make no demands on you or your grandson, sir—but if things go well I shall have children and perhaps they will give the unconditional love both you and Luke seem incapable of giving.’

‘Will that satisfy you, girl?’

‘I think it may have to,’ Roxanne replied. She saw his eyelids flicker and moved to the chair beside the bed. ‘You should try to rest for a little before the doctor comes, sir.’

‘You’re a fine girl, a decent girl,’ the earl said. ‘I’m not sure we’ve been fair to you. This is a selfish family, Roxanne. I think you deserve better.’

He closed his eyes and she saw that he was drifting into sleep. It had been a huge effort for him to attend the ball and he was very tired. She hoped that he was not actually any worse than before. Perhaps all he needed was a little rest.

Luke was greeted by the news that the doctor had been called when he returned from riding. He threw his crop and gloves on the sideboard in the hall and took the stairs two at a time. When he entered his grandfather’s sitting room, Marshall was just tidying the grate with a small brush. He put a finger to his lips.

‘He’s sleeping at the moment, sir. Miss Roxanne has been with him for the past two hours. The doctor came and said he was exhausted. He’s not to be upset and he must rest for at least a couple of weeks. Miss Roxanne was reading to him just now, but I think he may have gone off again for a while, because she stopped. Now she’s started again. She has a fine reading voice, sir. Your grandfather was chuckling away for a while there. Reading Shakespeare she was, but in a way I’ve not heard before.’

‘Thank you.’ Luke said. ‘Perhaps you have something you need to do elsewhere? I shall sit with my grandfather for a little now.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll fetch up some brandy and warm water. It helps his lodship to sleep sometimes and the doctor said anything that made him rest was good.’

‘Yes, you do that,’ Luke said. He walked to the door of his grandfather’s bedchamber and then listened. Roxanne was reading The Taming of the Shrew and acting out the parts. He heard his grandfather chuckle and hesitated, hardly liking to intrude on what was clearly an enjoyable companionship.

‘You are a wicked minx, as I said before,’ the earl said and laughed. ‘I think you have missed your calling, Roxanne. You are wasted here. You should be on the London stage.’

‘I would much prefer to be here with you and Luke.’

‘I think you mean that,’ the earl said. ‘It isn’t just an act with you, is it, Roxanne?’

‘No, sir. I am very fond of you and…’

Luke walked in before she could finish. Roxanne was standing at the foot of the bed, a book of Shakespeare’s plays in her hand. She was smiling, but when she saw him, her cheeks turned pink and she glanced away from his searching gaze.

‘How are you, sir?’ Luke asked and went to his grandfather’s side. ‘I hear the doctor has been to visit you. I think you found the ball too much, sir. Perhaps we should postpone the wedding for a month or two?’

‘You will do no such thing on my account,’ the earl said. ‘It will take place as planned in three weeks from now or I’ll want to know the reason why.’

‘Please do not distress yourself, sir,’ Luke said quickly. ‘I was merely concerned for your health.’

‘My health is neither here nor there. I did not summon the family here for you to change your mind the next day, Clarendon.’

‘Please do not get upset, sir,’ Roxanne said and bent to touch his cheek. ‘I shall leave you with your grandson—Luke, you should not tire him. The doctor told me it is important that your grandfather rests as much as possible.’

‘Of course.’ Luke inclined his head stiffly. ‘I shall speak to you later, Roxanne.’

‘Of course, Luke. Whenever you wish.’

‘You’ll come to visit me again later, girl?’

Roxanne looked at the earl and smiled. ‘Of course. You must have a sleep when Luke leaves you, but I shall come back before dinner.’

Roxanne was sitting in the back parlour she favoured when Luke entered later that day. He frowned to find her alone and asked why she was not in the drawing room with their guests.

‘I wanted a period of quiet reflection,’ she said and stood up. ‘I shall join your Aunt Jane and Uncle Frederick for tea. Most of the others left an hour or so ago. Your Cousin Horatio asked for you, but I was forced to say that I did not know where you were, since I was told you were not with Grandfather.’

‘The earl asked to be left alone. He seems weaker than before. I fear that he may not live much longer. The doctor told me that if he takes a turn for the worse it could be his last illness.’

‘I know he seems very tired, but the ball took a great deal of his energy. I pray that he will recover. He so longs for an heir. It would be wonderful if he could at least know that a child was on the way.’

‘After last night that may already be the case.’ Luke frowned, turning to gaze out of the window. ‘I should apologise for what happened, Roxanne. I did not behave, as a gentleman ought. If I could change things, I would, but unfortunately we cannot turn back the clock.’

His words stung like the lash of a whip. If the previous night had been as wonderful for Luke as it had for her, he would not need to apologise.

‘I think no harm was done since we intended to marry as soon as the banns are called,’ she said. ‘It need only be a small affair. I see no reason why Grandfather should be forced to attend. He will be satisfied if all is done as it should be.’

‘You seem to be on excellent terms. I must bow to your superior judgement in this matter.’

She glanced at him. His lips were white and set in a thin line.

‘Are you angry with me for caring about his welfare?’ Roxanne asked in a carefully flat tone. His manner was so rigid, his anger barely under control. ‘The earl requested that I call him Grandfather. If it annoys you, I can be more formal.’

‘Why should you? He clearly likes it and you.’ Luke frowned as he turned to look at her. ‘Forgive me. I was anxious and when I’m anxious I become angry. I had no right to interfere.’

‘You have every right. I have not forgotten the reason you brought me here, Luke—but I find that my affections are engaged. Grandfather has been generous to me with his own affection and I genuinely wish to make him happy. I hope he will rally again, but I know that he could take a turn for the worse.’

‘If he should die, you would not need to keep your bargain.’

‘Should I not? That would be your decision, naturally.’ Roxanne got to her feet. ‘Excuse me, I should go and take tea with your family. If you wish to disappoint everyone, you must take the necessary steps, Luke. I gave my word to the earl and I shall not break it. However, I shall not hold you to a bargain you dislike so much. Please inform me of your wishes when you are ready. Now, if you will excuse me.’

She walked out of the room with her head high. Luke cursed himself for a fool. She had been on the verge of tears, but hiding it as best she could. He had hurt her and it was the last thing he wanted to do and yet he was hurting too, so badly that he was striking out blindly. He was so confused at this moment that he did not know what he wanted.

Waking to find Roxanne sleeping so sweetly in his bed had thrown his senses into disorder. She was beautiful, generous and passionate—what more could any man want in a wife? He knew that he had discovered a treasure beyond price and it frightened him. How could he ever deserve such a woman?

One day he would break her heart and she would leave him—she might be killed in an accident because he’d broken her heart. To know that he was guilty of bringing her to such misery would destroy him. If he loved her, he would lose her. Far better not to love than to love too much.

Chapter Nine

Roxanne saw the last of the guests leave and then went upstairs. She knocked at the earl’s door and was invited to enter by his manservant.

‘How is he now, Marshall?’

‘Not so clever, miss. I was just about to send for you to ask what you thought. He doesn’t want a fuss, but I wondered if we should have the doctor again?’

‘I think he would prefer just to rest. There is very little the doctor can do for his condition, you know. I’ll sit with him for a while now. He seems easier when I’m with him, I think.’

‘Yes, he does, Miss Roxanne. I’ve not seen him take to anyone as he has to you, miss, not for years. He’s laughed more these past few weeks than he has since his wife died. He became almost a recluse after his daughter died young. If it had not been for Master Luke he might have given up altogether. Yet he found it hard to show his feelings—just as Master Luke does. I know the earl better than most and I can tell you that his heart has been broken more than once.’

‘I dare say he missed both his wife and his daughter a great deal.’

‘Not that he let on. He just became more buttoned up, if you’ll excuse the phrase—but I think you’re right, miss. Shut himself off, he did, but he’s come back to us since you arrived. I don’t know what he’d do without you now, miss.’

‘Yes, I think he is happier than when I first came,’ Roxanne said and went into the bedchamber. The earl was lying with his eyes shut, but when she sat down close to his side, he opened them and looked at her.

‘You’ve come, then,’ he said. ‘I hoped you might when they’d all gone. Has that grandson of mine gone too?’

‘No, I do not think he plans to leave us just yet,’ Roxanne said. ‘He cares for you more than you might think, sir.’

‘He never showed it before you came. Mind you, I haven’t exactly been loving towards him. I was grieving and so was he. We lost touch and when a breach opens up it’s hard to cross it. We’re both too damned proud for our own good and that’s the truth. We can’t say sorry—and neither of us knows how to love.’

‘I would not say that, sir. Perhaps you find it hard to show your love. I imagine it must be difficult, particularly for two very prickly and stubborn gentlemen.’

‘You’ve worked us out, haven’t you?’ The earl nodded as she merely smiled. ‘I underestimated you when you first came. I wonder if Luke has too. He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, girl. I was just the same as a young man. It took my Emily to make me realise what love should be and when she died she took my heart with her.’

‘Yet you do love Luke and he loves you. Do you not think you should tell him before it is too late?’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘I’ve held back all my life—afraid of making a fool of myself or being hurt again, I suppose.’

‘It is hard for everyone to trust once they’ve been hurt. Now, would you like me to read to you for a while or would you prefer to sleep?’

‘I’ve all night for sleeping. Tell me about yourself, Roxanne. Tell me about Sofia—and the life you led with her and the travelling players. I knew a young woman by that name once. She was very beautiful, but she never looked at me. Who knows, had she given me encouragement everything might have been different.’

‘While Sofia lived I was happy with her,’ Roxanne said. ‘She was like a mother to me and she took away the dark emptiness inside me. I wish I might tell you who I am, sir, but apart from a vague feeling about India, which may be merely a game we once played, I remember nothing.’

‘I can tell you that you’re a lady born,’ Hartingdon said. ‘I’ve watched to see if you would let the act slip and you never have. If it were an act, Roxanne, you would make a mistake. No, you’re a lady—and you love my grandson, whether he deserves it or not.’

‘Yes,’ Roxanne said softly. ‘I do, but please do not tell him that for he may not wish to hear it. Sofia was a lady, too, though she did not care for society. She found the social drawing rooms shallow and too insipid. For her drama and life lived to the full was more exciting than a life of domestic cares. She led an exciting life, but in the end I think she regretted that she had not known a true and lasting love.’

‘And you—are you like her, Roxanne?’

‘No, I do not think so. I believe I should enjoy a life in the country, devoted to family and friends and the service of others. I do not wish to be a courtesan and have princes fight over me, as she did.’

‘You’re like my Emily,’ he said and closed his eyes. ‘Tell me some more…about your acting and…’ His voice trailed away and she knew he was sleeping.

Roxanne sat quietly by his side. He woke after a little while and smiled at her, then drifted off to sleep again, reassured that she was there. She held his hand for a while and gave him a drink when he asked.

It was almost midnight when the door of his bedchamber opened and Luke entered, wearing a long silk striped robe, his feet bare.

‘Are you still here?’ he said softly. ‘You should go to bed now, Roxanne. I shall sit with Grandfather for a while.’

‘I will return in a few hours,’ Roxanne said. ‘I do not want him to be left alone, Luke. It is important that he feels loved and wanted, because then he will have the strength to go on.’

‘You really do care for him, don’t you?’

Roxanne inclined her head. She wanted to tell him that the earl was not the only one she cared for, but the words remained unspoken. She’d said too much the previous night and Luke’s anger had shown that he did not wish for her love. He had offered her a business arrangement, not a loving relationship. Unless she wished to end it, she must let him think that her emotions were not truly involved. Luke had been deeply scarred; he was afraid of loving, afraid of commitment.

‘Yes, I have become very fond of him,’ she said. ‘I shall sleep because I must, but call me if you need me.’

‘Yes, of course. If he wakes and asks, I shall send for you, Roxanne. Goodnight, sleep well.’

Roxanne made no reply as she walked from the room. Her thoughts were with the earl, but as she opened the door of her bedchamber, for a moment she was apprehensive as she recalled the events of the previous night. However, her room was just as it ought to be.

She refrained from summoning a maid and managed to unfasten her gown without help. In bed she lay for a moment, her eyes stinging with tears she would not allow herself to shed. It was her fault for allowing herself to fall in love. Luke had never promised her love, only comfort and a home. She told herself it was enough and then at last she slept.

Roxanne was not summoned to the earl’s side that night but at half past six the next morning she went to his room and found that Luke was still there, his long legs stretched out before him as he dozed in the armchair. He woke as she entered and looked at her sheepishly.

‘I must have dozed off,’ he apologised. ‘I do not think he called out or I should have heard.’

Roxanne looked down at the earl. His eyes were closed, but as she bent over him, he opened them and then deliberately winked at her.

‘Good morning, Grandfather,’ she said and bent to kiss his cheek. ‘How are you this morning?’

‘Better,’ he grunted. ‘What on earth that grandson of mine wanted to sit there all night for I’ve no idea.’

Luke had risen to his feet and was stretching his shoulders, clearly feeling the effects of an uncomfortable night. ‘Roxanne would have insisted on sitting with you had I not taken a turn,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to see you better, sir. I will call and see you later. Please excuse me.’

‘Much good he would have been,’ the earl said as the door closed behind him, but there was no malice in his words, just a hint of amusement. ‘His snoring would waken the dead.’

‘I’m sorry Luke’s snoring disturbed you. How long had you been awake?’

‘An hour or so, perhaps. I hadn’t the heart to wake him, but I need Marshall’s assistance. Fetch him to me, girl, and then take yourself off for a few hours. You must have something you need to do?’

‘I believe I shall speak to Minty about flowers for the wedding,’ Roxanne said and smiled. ‘You’re a sly old fox, sir. If I didn’t know better, I would think you had a plan to bring us all to heel.’

‘Do that graceless scamp good to think of someone else for a change. He’s like me, too selfish and careless of others—but you were right, girl, I do care for him and I shall tell him so next time he comes. No good leaving it until it’s too late.’

‘I shall see you later,’ Roxanne said and went off to summon his manservant before going in search of the head gardener.

After an hour spent in delightful discussions about the various flowers needed for the church and the reception, Roxanne returned to the house. Entering the hall, she discovered Luke reading a letter. He turned to look at her with a frown.

‘This is from my solicitor. He writes to tell me that he has had no replies to his advertisement as such—but his office was ransacked by persons unknown the night he stayed here for the ball.’

Roxanne went cold all over. ‘You think someone was searching for that ruby? What is so important about it? I know it is valuable, but it is not priceless—or is it? Is there something special that draws others to it?’

‘I think we can be certain that someone is desperate to recover the ruby. I should be prepared to give it back to whoever is the rightful owner—if that is your wish?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She shivered. ‘It is a dangerous thing, Luke. I wish I’d never seen it.’

‘When Grandfather is well again I shall place another advertisement and offer to return the damned thing to the person who has been searching for it. We shall all sleep sounder in our beds once this business is over.’

‘Yes, I believe so,’ Roxanne agreed. ‘I think Grandfather is better this morning. His health is clearly still fragile, but I believe he was just exhausted after the ball. We should keep the wedding list to a minimum so as not to tire him too much.’

‘If I know Grandfather, he will insist on having a grand affair, even if he goes to bed for a week afterwards. This wedding means a great deal to him.’

‘Yes, but if we told him we wished for a quiet ceremony I believe he would agree.’

‘I’ll have a word later,’ Luke said. ‘You look very well, Roxanne. Have you been for a walk?’

‘Only to the hothouses. Minty has been showing me his pride and joy, which are some very rare plants. We were discussing flowers for the wedding.’ She looked at him uncertainly. ‘You do wish to continue with this?’

‘Yes, of course. If I have given you reason to think otherwise, I apologise, Roxanne. I will admit to having a temper and I am sometimes rash when anger gets the better of me.’

She swallowed hard, her heart thumping. He was not saying that he loved her, merely that he wished to continue with the make-believe wedding they had planned.

‘Then I shall begin to write out the cards. I will send the family invitations first and you must tell me if there are friends you wish to ask, Luke.’

‘You have none you would wish to ask yourself?’

‘Perhaps Mrs Mills if it would not be too far for her to travel? I have no other friends or family, Luke, or none that I know of—but I shall content myself with yours. Your Uncle Frederick is a very pleasant man and I like his wife. Some of your neighbours are very companionable and I am sure I shall make friends here.’

‘You are quite settled here,’ Luke said with a rather odd look. ‘I think you would be happy to make it your home, even after Grandfather dies?’

‘It is such a lovely house and the estate is thriving, the people honest and hard working—and I should enjoy helping to keep it in good heart. To live as the steward of such a house and care for its people is a good life. Do you not think so?’

‘I like London,’ Luke said. ‘When a man is tired of London he is tired of life.’

‘A profound sentiment, Luke. Is it your own?’

‘No. I believe it was once a favourite saying of Dr Johnson.’

‘Ah, yes. Grandfather spoke to me of Dr Johnson’s dictionary, something he would like to add to his library, I believe.’

‘I must see if a copy can be subscribed,’ Luke said. ‘I will enquire when I go up to town—which puts me in mind of your wedding gift. Is there any particular jewel you like, Roxanne? I gave you pearls and emeralds, but you might prefer something different.’

‘Oh, no, I am very happy with what I have,’ she denied, her cheeks warm. ‘I do prefer simple things—a gold brooch for wearing in the mornings might be nice, but I have no particular need.’

‘People will expect you to have jewels to match your status, Roxanne. If I did not give them to you, they would imagine I neglected you and my duty. I am very sure Grandfather would have given you something for the ball had I not had my own gift to give you that night.’

‘We have been given several gifts for our engagement,’ Roxanne said. ‘Mrs Arlet told me that a silver tea service arrived from your godmother this morning. Your uncles and aunts have also been generous, and Cousin Horatio gave us a particularly beautiful silver inkstand. Shall I write to thank them all or would you prefer to do it yourself?’

‘If you have time, I shall leave you to do the honours,’ Luke said. ‘There are estate matters enough to occupy me while I stay here.’

‘Are you thinking of leaving for London soon?’

‘I may go up in a day or so. I should probably get this business of the ruby over as soon as possible, Roxanne. I will arrange for an agent in London to handle the affair. We do not need to be involved ourselves.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, conscious of a feeling of disappointment. No longer angry, Luke was being considerate and generous once more, but he had given her no reason to think that the feelings that had boiled over on the night of the ball had been anything more than an impulse he had since regretted. ‘It must be just as you wish.’

‘Must it?’ Luke’s gaze narrowed, becoming brooding and thoughtful. ‘I wonder what you would say if I told you what I wish for, Roxanne?’ She raised her brows and he shook his head, laughing ruefully. ‘If only I knew, my dear. I fear I am an impossible fellow and I dare say you are wishing you had never come to my aid that day in the woods.’

‘No,’ Roxanne said. ‘I have never wished that, nor shall I. You may have regrets, Luke, but I regret nothing.’

With that she walked away, leaving him to stare after her and wonder what was in her mind.

‘Ah, you look better, sir,’ Luke said as he saw his grandfather sitting propped up in bed reading the latest newssheet from London. ‘I wanted to see how you were. I have some business to attend in London, but did not wish to leave until you were over the worst.’

‘Running off before the wedding?’ The earl looked at him over the small round glasses that he wore perched on the end of his nose for reading. ‘Do you think that entirely fair on Roxanne?’

‘Roxanne will not mind. She does not expect me to dance attendance on her all the time, sir.’

‘No, of course not. She made a bargain with you and she’ll stick to it, because she is honest and decent—but there’s no cause for you to treat her as if she were a doormat.’

‘I cannot think I have done so,’ Luke replied, stung by the accusation. ‘Roxanne has not complained to me—has she said something to you?’

‘She would not complain, but I’ve had the truth out of her. She told me after that fellow attacked Mr Higgins. The gel doesn’t know who she is or where she came from before Sofia found her. She’s afraid she stole that wretched ruby, but I don’t believe she’s a thief.’

‘Roxanne told you all this?’ Luke frowned, his mouth thinning. ‘Did she tell you everything?’

‘About the bargain you made to give me something to please me in my last days?’ The earl’s gaze narrowed. ‘I’d guessed some of it and I made her tell me the rest. Did you imagine I should be fooled, Luke? You haven’t been behaving like a man who has fallen head over heels. She’s a better actress than you—though I’m not so sure she’s acting now. She’s a tender-hearted woman, Luke—and I don’t want to see her hurt.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you’re doing this for my sake, perhaps you shouldn’t,’ the earl said. ‘I know I’ve pushed you towards marriage, but that girl means something to me. If you don’t love her, let her go and stop this masquerade before it’s too late. I’ll do something for her myself. Indeed, she is welcome to stay with me for the rest of my days if she chooses. You can go back to the life you enjoy. I know now that I was wrong to demand so much of you, Luke. It isn’t right to force you into marriage for my sake. I don’t want either of you to ruin your life for me. That gel cares about us both and I won’t see her hurt. If you marry her, make it a proper marriage and forget this foolish bargain.’

‘I think marriage to Roxanne would suit me well enough. It is no different to many marriages made for position or money. I doubt I shall ever fall in love or want to settle for domesticity. I’m a loner like my father. It wouldn’t be fair to make any woman love me, because I should hurt her.’

‘Your father may not have been what you think him,’ the earl said and sighed heavily. ‘This marriage and an heir before I die would make me happy, Luke—but I’ve been selfish too often in the past. I want both of you to be happy and I’m releasing you from your promise. If you marry her, let it be because it’s what you want.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Luke inclined his head stiffly. ‘I shall leave you to rest. You may be certain that I shall give this some thought.’

Luke left his grandfather’s bedchamber, striding along the hall and down the stairs. He could feel the anger building inside him. Why hadn’t Roxanne told him that the earl knew everything? Why had she allowed him to think that she was still going through the motions of a make-believe marriage?

She was in a plot with his grandfather to trap him into making this a proper marriage. Once his ring was on her finger there would be no going back. Luke could divorce her, but the scandal would be horrendous and he would never be able to face it. Hurting Roxanne would be like inflicting pain on himself. He’d meant it to be a simple arrangement with no ties on either side, but Roxanne had broken the terms of their agreement.

He felt resentful and bitter, because she had taken his grandfather’s side against him. He could imagine them smiling over their plot, reeling him in like a fish on a line. How dare she talk about him behind his back?

Luke knew that he was the one who had swept her off on a tide of passion on the night of the ball, but he was struggling to keep his head above water and only by transferring the blame could he justify his own reactions. He’d meant it to be the way it was when he took a mistress, passion and pleasure but no emotional entanglement. Roxanne had declared her love in the heat of desire and it had sent him running in a panic.

He couldn’t handle love. Luke’s mouth was dry and his stomach was tying itself in knots. Love hurt too much. It was a black choking sensation that made small boys weep in the darkness and cry out for the mother they had lost. He wasn’t in love with Roxanne. He couldn’t love anyone. He was like his father. She had lied to him by keeping it secret that the earl knew of their bargain.

Roxanne was in her favourite parlour. She was matching silks against a piece of embroidery she’d found somewhere, a look of such perfect content on her face that his fury broke loose in a torrent of bitter words.

‘How dare you lie to me?’ he demanded without preamble, ignoring the look of shock on her face. ‘Have you been plotting together—you and Grandfather? Did you laugh at how easy I was to fool?’

‘I have no idea what you mean? Why should I wish to lie to you—or to make a fool of you?’

She rose slowly to her feet, looking as if he’d struck her. It was the way his mother had looked at his father so many times and it made Luke feel guilty. He struck out blindly, because he could not stand to feel her pain.

‘You did not tell me that you had confessed everything to him.’

Roxanne’s cheeks burned. ‘Grandfather made me promise I would not tell you he knew. I could not keep it from him because he guessed a part of the whole and was angry. I thought he would send me away and I did not wish to leave.’

‘It suits you to live here as a grand lady, I suppose,’ Luke thundered, his expression one of fury and disgust. ‘You’ve been fooling us both, haven’t you? Laughing at us all the time. Who are you really? An adventuress out for what you can get? I fell right into your little trap, didn’t I? You played me so well, pretending to be reluctant and making me persuade you into marriage and giving me an heir. You must have been laughing at my gullibility all the time.’

Roxanne was deadly white. He saw her hands shaking and knew that she was fighting her desire to weep, but his anger was so intense that he could not control it.

‘Have you nothing to say to me?’

‘I believe you have said it all,’ Roxanne murmured between stiff lips. ‘Excuse me. I think I must leave.’

‘I’ll save you the bother. I’m going to London.’

Luke strode from the room. His temper carried him as far as the stables and then he suddenly felt all his energy seep away. Leaning against the wall, he discovered that tears were streaming down his cheeks and he could not stop them. A choking sob broke from him as he mumbled, ‘Roxanne, forgive me. Such a fool. I’m so sorry. So very sorry.’

What had he done? He’d said such dreadful things to her. Terrible, cruel, wicked things that she did not deserve. He knew that she was not an adventuress, nor had she planned this for material gain. Yes, she was glad of a settled home, but she was prepared to give so much in return—all the things that he had lost when his mother died. All the things his soul craved and he feared. He was a craven coward and deserved a horsewhipping for the way he’d spoken to her.

Roxanne would hate him. He had destroyed any feeling she had for him.

She’d said she must leave. In his rage he hadn’t listened. Did she mean leave the room—or leave him? Go away for ever?

He might never see her again. The thought sent such a wave of agony lashing through him that Luke groaned. He had not realised what he had and he’d cast it away without a second thought.

Perhaps it wasn’t too late. If he went back now and begged her pardon on his knees, perhaps she would stay—if not for his sake, for his grandfather’s. She loved the earl. Surely she would not desert him?

Luke strode towards the house. Please let him be in time. If she’d already gone, he would find her. He would find her and bring her back for the earl’s sake.

Even now he was in denial. Even now he could not quite admit that he needed her, needed her more than he had ever believed possible.

He had no right to care. He was not worthy of her love. He did not know how to love. She had the right to walk away if she chose, now that she knew him for what he was. His damnable temper and the way he hurt people—how could Roxanne ever love him?

Roxanne had left the sealed note on the silver salver in the hall. Mrs Arlet would find it and deliver it to the earl later. It would hurt him, though she’d promised that she would return to see him if she could one day—one day when Luke was back in London and she would not have to see him or the lashing scorn in his eyes.

How could Luke have said such things to her? Roxanne felt her throat tighten with pain. It hurt so much to know what he truly thought of her. How could he believe that she was pretending to care for the earl? He must know that she loved him. He must know that she loved them both so much that this was tearing her into shreds.

She was carrying one small bundle, very similar in content to that she had taken when she left the camp of the travelling players. She’d had no choice but to take the gown she was wearing, some underclothes and a spare skirt and bodice, but the ring and necklace Luke had given her were left on the dressing table in her room.

She had less money than when she’d fled from Black Bob. She’d had no need of money in the earl’s house and none had been offered to her. Instead, Luke or the earl had met all the bills for her clothes and anything else she needed was provided.

She would need to find employment quite soon. Roxanne had packed her things, written her note and left in haste. She had not given a thought to what she would do in the future. Now she realised that she must begin working almost immediately. The ruby had gone and she was without friends. Her dream of becoming an actress must be put to one side for the moment. To eat and have a roof over her head, she must take any work that was offered.

She could not look for a position too close to the estate. People might know her and gossip and she did not wish to cause a scandal for Luke and the earl. There would naturally be some scandal when it was discovered that the engagement was over, but Luke could explain to his family that he’d been mistaken in her; they would sympathise with him and it would blow over after a few months.

Roxanne recalled that they had passed a staging inn on the way here. That meant that the mail coach would call there on its way to and from London. She might just have enough coins to travel a part of the way to London. She could find an inn or perhaps a farmhouse where they were looking for a girl to help with the chores. It was not the life she would choose for herself, but she must make the best of it until she could earn enough to set up for herself. Perhaps she could become a seamstress. She had some talent for sewing and she would prefer that kind of work.

She had left by a side door in order to avoid being seen and made her escape through the walled garden and out into a lane that led through the earl’s estate to the village. Once there she could find her way to the staging inn and then… Roxanne choked back her tears and looked about her.

The lane had come to an end. She must either cross over a stile and a meadow, which appeared to be filled with cows and what she thought might be a bull, or go through the wood. She’d imagined the way across the field would lead her to the village, but now she knew she was lost. Hesitating, she avoided the meadow and the bull, which was eyeing her in a way that she preferred not to challenge. If she kept walking, the wood must lead somewhere and eventually she would find a main road or a village where she could ask the way.

She had been walking in the cool shadow of the wood for some twenty minutes or so when she heard something rustling in the undergrowth and then a stick snapped. Someone was close by. She turned her head, eager to find whoever it was and enquire the way, and then something struck her on the side of the head and everything went black.

‘Fool,’ the voice said as a pair of strong arms caught her as she fell. ‘His Highness will be angry if you’ve harmed her. He gave orders that she was to be taken, but not harmed. May the goddess protect her and keep her from harm.’

Roxanne heard nothing of the argument that ensued, nor was she aware of being carried through the wood to where a closed carriage and four horses awaited. Although she was treated with respect after the first crashing blow, she had no knowledge of what was happening to her, her eyes closed and her face pale as the darkness held her mind.

‘What does she say?’ Luke asked as he watched the earl open his letter and read its contents. Discovering that no one had seen Roxanne, he had found the letter on the salver in the hall and taken it at once to his grandfather. ‘Has she gone away? Has she left me? I think she left nothing for me.’

‘What on earth did you say to her?’ Hartingdon handed him the letter after skimming its contents. ‘You have a careless tongue, but this was more than a harsh word, Luke. She begs my pardon for breaking her promise and regrets she must leave—though she promises to let me know how she is and to visit often if I wish it. Damn it, why does she need to ask? I did not wish her to leave me.’

‘It is my fault. My fault entirely,’ Luke said. ‘Forgive me for hurting you like this, sir. I know you care for Roxanne. I was abominably rude to her and I said things I did not mean in temper.’

‘She said we were very alike,’ the earl grunted. ‘I can imagine what you said, what you thought. You’re a damned fool, Luke. You’ve thrown away your chance of happiness, boy. Couldn’t you see that she was perfect for you? She loved you.’

‘I know, at least I thought…’ Luke caught his breath as the pain knifed through him. ‘It was fear of her love that made me cruel, sir. I didn’t want to do to her what my father did to my mother. I was afraid of hurting her, of breaking her fine spirit—and I’ve done just that, haven’t I?’

‘Your mother should never have married,’ the earl said. ‘I loved her, but she was a foolish silly girl and your father needed a woman with passion in her bones to help him forget. I should never have pushed them into marriage.’

Luke’s brows knit in a frown. ‘Help him forget—what? I do not understand you, sir.’

‘Your father married on the rebound, Luke. As a young man he was very much in love. Your mother liked him when they first met at a society ball, but he didn’t look at her that night. He was in love with Helene Digby, the woman he planned to wed, but she died of a sudden and terrible fever. I believe your father was with her, held her in his arms as she died. He never truly recovered from her death. A love like that comes but once in a lifetime.’

‘My father was in love like that—really, deeply in love? I thought him a shallow fellow given to affairs and not capable of love.’ Luke stared in disbelief, his memories in disarray.

‘He loved too deeply, that was his trouble,’ the earl said. ‘When I coerced him into marrying my daughter he told me that he couldn’t love her. I thought it an ideal marriage for my silly girl. She would live here with me, give me an heir for the estate, and her husband would go his own way. My silly Sarah couldn’t let him go. She didn’t truly enjoy the physical side of marriage, but she wanted a romantic husband to fuss over her and bring her presents. Clarendon wasn’t that kind of man. If she’d had passion in her, she might have held him, but she didn’t and so he broke her heart with his affairs. She should have let him go, been content with what she had, but she demanded too much of him.’

‘Good grief.’ Luke sat down heavily, his legs going weak as the shock went through him. ‘I had no idea. All these years I’ve thought…’

‘You thought you were shallow and worthless and I let you believe it. Instead of appreciating your qualities, I drove you away, blaming you for what your father did to my silly girl. It wasn’t his fault and it certainly wasn’t yours, Luke. I don’t believe you take after either of them. You’re like me—Roxanne knew it instinctively and she loved us both.’

It was like a light breaking over him, the realisation that he loved Roxanne with all his heart. Tortured by his memories that were false and seen through the eyes of a child, who did not understand what was happening between his parents, he had fought against his love for her. When he realised there was no longer a reason to hold her to her promise, he had lashed out in fear and despair, driving her away.

What had he done? All he had ever secretly longed for and needed had been within his grasp and he had thrown it away.

‘I am a crass fool and I have to pray that she will forgive me.’

‘She might if you can find her,’ the earl said and frowned. ‘You rode to the village and enquired, but no one had seen her?’

‘One of the gardeners thought he saw her in the lane that leads to the meadow where the cows are. If she’d crossed that, she would have come out on the high road and followed the signs to the east, but there is also the wood and if she took that route she might end up on the road north.’

‘Where would she go?’

Luke moved his shoulders negatively. ‘She was heading for London when I first met her…’

‘You must find her,’ the earl said urgently. ‘Don’t blame yourself for the whole, Luke. I made her promise not to tell you that I knew the truth. I am as much to blame as you are in this.’

‘No, sir. Roxanne certainly didn’t run away from you. I’m the one that hurt her. I intend to find her, however long it takes me, and when I do I shall beg her to return, but it may be too late. Some things are unforgivable and, in truth, I do not deserve her forgiveness.’

‘I think she may give it,’ the earl said and smiled at him. ‘You haven’t yet realised how lucky you are, Luke. Roxanne is a wonderful and very loving person. You must find her because if you do not you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Luke said. ‘I think I must travel to London. Will you forgive me for leaving you at such a time?’

‘I’m not going to die just yet, boy,’ the earl said. ‘Find Roxanne and bring her back for all our sakes.’

Luke smiled oddly. ‘I promise I shall leave no stone unturned, sir, but for the moment it seems that she has disappeared into thin air.’

‘That isn’t possible, Luke. Roxanne was on foot. It would have taken her hours to walk anywhere.’

‘Unless…’ Luke shook his head. He would not distress the earl yet by suggesting that she might have been kidnapped. Somehow Roxanne had avoided detection, but he would find her if it took him the rest of his life.

Chapter Ten

Roxanne stirred and moaned, turning her head on the soft pillow. She was dreaming and tears were on her cheeks as she cried out, ‘Mama, please don’t leave us. Papa, why must she die? I want Mama, I want my mother…’

‘Your mother is dying of a fever. Her heart is not strong enough to fight it. You should blame me, child. I should never have brought you both out here to this dreadful climate. It is my fault, but you shall not fall victim to this accursed place, as she did. I shall take you home to your aunt.’

‘Mama…please don’t leave us. Mama…’

‘Hush, memsahib,’ a soft voice said and gentle hands stroked her brow. ‘You are ill, but you will be better soon.’

‘Mama is dying…’ Roxanne’s eyes flicked opened and she saw a face, the face of her nurse. The Indian woman was kind and loving and she was comforted. ‘Mama is so ill.’

‘That was long ago, little one. Rest now and when you wake you will be well again.’

Roxanne closed her eyes as the soft hands stroked her forehead and she smelled the exotic perfume of flowers and spices.

The dream was changing. She was in a different place and someone was saying she must die. Now she was lost…running from something…someone. Her uncle wanted her father’s ruby, the precious jewel Papa had asked her to keep for him until he returned from India. Her uncle had demanded that she give it to him, telling her that she could not look after it properly.

‘No…’ she cried out. ‘Please help me. He will kill me…he wants Papa’s ruby.’

A cool dark hand touched her brow and a woman’s beautiful, dusky-skinned face appeared through the mist for a moment.

‘Do not fret, little mistress,’ the woman’s soft musical voice soothed her. ‘You are safe now. My lord is angry they hurt you so. He will not let more harm come to you. Rest now and sleep.’

‘My uncle…he wants the ruby,’ Roxanne moaned, her eyelids fluttering as the words came tumbling out. She clutched at the bedclothes with restless hands. ‘My aunt said she would steal it while I slept, but he said it would be best if I were dead. He says they will tell my father I died of a fever and the ruby was lost. I must get away…I must get away…’

‘Hush, little one. You are safe now.’

‘No…Luke, I want Luke…’ Roxanne’s cheeks were wet with tears as the fever raged through her. ‘Please, ask him to come to me. I need him so…’ She was sobbing, tossing restlessly on the pillow, her long hair damp and clinging to her forehead.

‘The memsahib is very ill,’ another voice said. ‘Those fools hit her too hard. If she dies, the lord will be angry and he will punish them harshly. She must drink this medicine; it may ease her. She must live or all will be lost. Without her to help us, the ruby may never be recovered and our people will continue to suffer.’

‘Give me the cup,’ the woman’s soft voice said. ‘I will get her to swallow your potion, honourable doctor, but she is wandering in her mind and she may not remember where the ruby is or even her own name.’

‘It is in the hands of the gods,’ the doctor said. ‘I shall pray for her life, for if she gives back what was stolen our people may prosper again.’

‘Help me…’ Roxanne cried. ‘Sofia…help me. Papa, why do you not come back to me? I need you…I need you so.’

‘Drink this and it will ease you.’ The woman’s soft voice was close to her ear and gentle hands stroked her face.

Roxanne gave a cry of fear. ‘They are searching for me. I’m so hungry and thirsty. I want Papa…if they find me they will kill me.’

‘No one will kill you. You are going to get well and strong again.’

‘Sofia, please don’t leave me, don’t die. I shall be so alone…’ Roxanne sat up, her eyes wide open. ‘Luke! Please don’t hate me. I love you. I love you.’

‘Hush then, the medicine will work soon.’

The soothing hands were stroking her brow, helping her to relax. Roxanne knew there was something she must do or say, but she was sinking back into the darkness and a strange lassitude was binding her limbs and her mind. She fell back against the pillows, her eyes closed.

‘She will sleep now,’ the doctor said. ‘We must pray that the fever will leave her and when she wakes she will tell us what we need to know.’

Roxanne felt that she was dying and feared she would never see Luke again. The words she wanted to say were in her mind, but would not come. She was slipping away, away into a deep dark place. For a moment everything had been so clear, but the drug claimed her senses and she slept.

‘She has not been seen in the village and she did not board the stage for London. The coachman and ostlers were quite adamant that they had not seen her. I do not know where to look next.’ Luke ran his fingers through his thick hair in frustration. There was a shadow of beard on his chin and his clothes were less than immaculate. ‘Where could she have gone?’

‘She must either have been picked up by a carter or she has walked in another direction,’ the earl said, looking at Luke in concern. He’d hardly slept for the past week, spending every daylight hour out riding or walking in the hope of discovering Roxanne’s whereabouts. ‘She cannot have gone very far on foot, Luke. Perhaps she has found work somewhere, in an inn or a farmhouse.’

‘She would not?’ Luke stared at him in horror. ‘I think she had very little money. I gave her jewels, but she left them behind. She is proud and independent and would take nothing we had given her.’ He sank down onto a chair, a look of despair on his face. ‘What can I do, Grandfather?’

‘You cannot give up yet,’ his grandfather said. ‘She must be somewhere, either hiding or working.’

‘Unless…’ Luke held back the fears that haunted him night and day.

‘What?’ The earl’s brows met in a frown. ‘You are hiding something from me, Luke. Tell me the truth or I shall worry more.’

‘Someone has been searching for that damned ruby. I don’t know why, but it is important and these people might do anything to recover it.’

‘But she no longer has it. You placed it in a bank in London.’

‘The men who want it may not know that—they may think Roxanne has it or that, if they hold her captive, we shall give it back to them.’

The earl looked at him in horror. ‘You think she might have been kidnapped?’

‘I don’t know,’ Luke said honestly. ‘No one has seen her, but one man did tell me that a closed carriage was seen in the lane near the woods on the day Roxanne disappeared. It is possible that she might have been abducted.’

‘Surely we should have been sent a ransom note? They must know she does not have the ruby by now.’

‘Perhaps.’ Luke shook his head. ‘I think I shall search again in that direction. I will ask at the inns and farms, too, anywhere that she might have enquired for work. She must be somewhere and I intend to find her.’

‘Yes, you must.’ The earl looked anxious. ‘If she was kidnapped her life may be in danger, Luke. We shall offer a reward for her return.’

‘Yes, I’ll arrange it before I leave. I may be gone for a while—you will be all right here alone?’

‘I have Marshall and a house full of servants,’ the earl grunted. ‘I’m not about to die on you, Luke. Get out there and find our girl or neither of us will know a moment’s peace again.’

Roxanne’s eyelids fluttered and her eyes opened. She looked up at the woman bending over her. Her perfume was deep and sensual and it had become familiar as Roxanne lay in her fever, because the woman had tended her day and night, caring for her when she was raving and out of her mind.

She had thought when she was ill that she was her ayah and that she was a child again, growing up in India with her tall strong father and her sickly mother, but now she knew the woman was a stranger.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, her voice cracked and hoarse. ‘Where am I?’

‘My name is Shulie,’ the woman smiled down at her as she eased herself up against the pillows. ‘You are at the house of my husband, Prince Ranjit.’

‘Prince Ranjit…’ Roxanne wrinkled her brow in thought, trying to remember. ‘I think…I believe I used to know a Prince Ranjit. We played together in the gardens of the palace in India. My father…my father was the prince’s tutor.’

Suddenly, it was as if a curtain had been pulled aside and she remembered everything: her life as a child in India and what had happened when her father had taken her to his sister’s home and left her in her aunt’s charge while he returned to his work.

‘My lord has told me that you were his friend,’ Shulie said and smiled at her. ‘I am my lord’s first bride and he trusts me. He gave me the honour of caring for you when you were ill.’

‘I was ill? What happened to me?’ Roxanne frowned and then gave a little cry. ‘I was in the woods and someone hit me on the back of the head.’

‘The prince was very angry that you were harmed,’ Shulie told her. ‘You must not think that he wanted you to be hurt, memsahib. He remembers his playmate Rose Marie very well and he did not believe that you would withhold the ruby if you knew its importance to our people.’

‘That will do, Shulie.’

The man’s voice made both women glance towards the door. A man of perhaps five and twenty, dressed in rich clothes and wearing a purple-silk turban with a magnificent diamond in its folds, was standing there, watching them. Shulie fell to her knees, bowing her head.

‘Forgive me, my lord. I only wished to reassure the memsahib that she was with friends.’

‘So, you have returned to us,’ the man said and moved towards the bed. His dark eyes went over her. ‘You look better, but I see that you are still not truly well. Shulie will continue to care for you and we shall talk when you are better.’

‘Is it the ruby you seek?’ Roxanne asked, holding the sheets against her defensively as she looked at him. This man was very different to the thin and gangly young prince she’d known and admired as a child. ‘How is your family, sir?’

‘My father is sick and we fear his death. Before he dies he wishes to see the eye returned to its rightful place.’

‘The eye?’ Roxanne was puzzled. ‘I fear I do not understand, sir.’

‘You may think of it as merely a ruby, but to others it is a sacred thing—but I shall tell you the whole story when you are able to leave your bed.’ He turned to Shulie. ‘Bring Miss Rose Marie clean clothes and food. She is to be told nothing more until she is able to hear the story from me.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Shulie approached the bed as the prince left the room. ‘My lord has spoken. Please do not ask questions, for I may not answer them. I shall bring food, water for you to wash and clothes. You will feel much better when you have eaten.’

‘Please, one thing,’ Roxanne said. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘You lay in a fever for ten days,’ Shulie said. ‘We feared you might die, but the honourable doctor has saved you. It was the will of the gods.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Roxanne said. She lay back against the pillows, closing her eyes as the woman left the room. Ten days. She’d been here ten days—but what had happened just before she was brought here? Someone had hit her on the head, knocking her unconscious—but where had she been and where had she been going?

She could recall running away from her aunt and uncle just before her fifteenth birthday. Her father had written to tell her he would be home before Christmas and would be taking her to live with him.

I’ve made my fortune here, Rose Marie, he’d written. It is time I came back to England to live and made a home for us both. The ruby will be the icing on the cake, though I have other jewels and money enough. Take good care of it, Rosie my love, for it is special.

It was two days after her letter arrived that she’d heard her uncle telling her aunt what he planned for her as she went down to have afternoon tea.

‘She is old enough. He wants her and when he’s done with her he’ll put her to work for her living. She’ll not last long enough for her father to find her. If she doesn’t die of the whore’s disease, she’ll be beaten to death.’

‘Frank, you cannot do it,’ her aunt had protested. ‘Rose Marie doesn’t deserve to be treated that way.’

‘She should have given me the ruby when I asked her. It’s either the whorehouse or the river—make up your mind. My debts must be paid and that ruby will see us in comfort for the rest of our lives.’

The past was so clear now. Her name was Rose Marie Pearson and her father’s name was Captain Peter Pearson. He’d been an Indian Army officer and then left the service to work for a rich maharajah, first to train his private army and then to teach his sons how to be gentlemen.

When her gentle mother died of a fever, her father had sent her home to live with her aunt and uncle. He’d sent the ruby to her a year or so later with a special messenger he trusted. She had been so proud of being trusted to care for the jewel, but her aunt had seen her admiring it and demanded to know where it came from.

‘Papa sent it to me. He told me to take great care of it, because it is worth a small fortune.’

‘It is far too valuable to entrust to a young girl. Your father meant me to look after it for you, Rosie.’

‘No, Aunt. Papa told me to wear it inside my gown always and never be parted from it. If he’d wanted you to care for it, he would have sent it to you. He trusted me, not you and my uncle.’

‘How dare you speak to me that way?’

‘The ruby is mine. I shall not give it to you or anyone.’

Even then, Rose Marie had not trusted her aunt and uncle. They had called her Rosie and she had disliked the name, but they had said her own was too fanciful. She’d known instinctively that if they once had the ruby they would keep it, but she had not dreamed they would kill her to get it. She’d run from them that very moment, clutching the ruby and in fear of her life.

Roxanne’s mind was clear now and she recalled that she’d run until she could run no more. After that she’d wandered for days, perhaps weeks, always in fear of being caught, hungry, thirsty and cold. Then one night as it grew dusk a vagrant had attacked her and attempted to rape her. She’d fought him off and run away into the night with no more than a few scratches and bruises, but the smell of him had sickened her and she’d been terrified. She had not dared to approach anyone to ask for food and she had wandered, her stomach aching for want of food. She had fallen and hit the side of her head. After that she had been very ill. As she starved, her mind became hazy and she could recall nothing until Sofia found her and nursed her back to health. Sofia…Black Bob…Luke.

The memories slotted into place one after the other. Tears trickled down her cheeks as the names came to her mind and everything became crystal clear. Now she remembered both the past and recent events. She recalled meeting Luke and falling in love with him and his grandfather.

She loved Luke so very much, but he did not love her. He did not truly wish to marry her.

What was she going to do? Prince Ranjit wanted his ruby back—but surely it was her father’s ruby? Roxanne did not believe that her father would have stolen the jewel from his employer.

There was still a mystery here to be solved.

Roxanne seemed to have vanished into thin air. No one had seen her. Luke was met with shakes of the head and blank faces wherever he enquired for her. With each day that passed he grew more desperate. If she were lost for ever, he did not know how he would live with himself. He must search and search until he found her.

‘No, sir,’ one innkeeper told him. ‘We did have a coach stop to change its horses on the day you mention. I recall it particularly because of the odd clothes the servant was wearing. They were foreigners, your lordship. The servant who arranged everything was wearing a white turban and inside the carriage I saw two women, but they were wearing odd clothes, too, and had veils over their faces. One was enveloped in a thick dark cloak, though it was a warm day. I did think that odd—also that she never moved or spoke.’

‘I see…’ Luke frowned as icy chills crawled over his body. ‘You did not notice anything else—any sign that one of the women was captive?’

‘I wasn’t allowed to speak to either of them, sir—but I did think that the one in the cloak seemed to be sleeping heavily; at least, that’s what it looked like from a distance.’

‘You have no idea of where the carriage was heading?’

‘I think one of them spoke of London, but I couldn’t say for sure, sir. It’s a while ago now. I doubt I’d have remembered anything if it hadn’t been for their clothes.’

‘Thank you, you may have provided a clue,’ Luke said and gave the man a gold sovereign.

He was thoughtful as he left the inn. If the men who were searching for the ruby had captured Roxanne, they would know by now that she did not have it with her. What would they do next? Pray God they would not harm her.

His search had widened the last few days and this was the first clue he’d discovered, but it was of little real worth to him. If Roxanne had been taken to London, it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. He must certainly make enquiries, but a team of agents would do that far more efficiently than he could, especially in his present state of mind. He could not concentrate long enough, his thoughts wandering to her smile, the touch of her hand and the knowledge that he felt devastated by her loss.

He might do better to return to Hartingdon to discover whether or not a ransom had been demanded for Roxanne’s safe return. Luke was praying hard as he made his decision. He would retrace his steps, make certain that he hadn’t missed anything, but first he must send word to the agents who had worked for him on various occasions and instruct them to search for the mysterious owner of the carriage. Surely such a man and his servants could not hide themselves completely. If they were in the vicinity of London or its outskirts, his agents would find them.

Luke saw the gypsy camp gathered on the common at the edge of Hartingdon woods. Suddenly, he recalled that Roxanne had been frightened of the man called Black Bob. It was possible that he had taken her. He might have been following the wrong theory all this time.

Dismounting, he tied his horse to a bush and approached a woman who was stirring something in a large black pot on a trivet over a fire. She glanced at him suspiciously and called out to someone. A man came down from one of the caravans and stood looking at Luke as he walked up to her, his arms crossed and a menacing look in his dark eyes.

‘Good day, mistress,’ Luke said politely and doffed his hat to her. ‘I mean you no harm. I am looking for someone and wondered if you might help me?’

‘It depends whom ’tis you want, sir.’ The woman spoke in a voice that surprised him; looking closely, Luke was certain she was not a gypsy, as he’d first imagined.

‘The man I seek is named Black Bob and he leads a troupe of players—actors who perform all over the country.’

‘And what would you be wanting of him, sir?’

‘You’re not Romany,’ Luke said. ‘Your voice has a good resonance. I believe you are an actress—am I right? Did you know Roxanne? She lived with Sofia until her friend died.’ He saw a startled look in the woman’s eyes and knew that he’d touched a raw nerve. She did know Roxanne—or she had once. He moved towards her, taking hold of her arm. ‘You do know her. Is she here? Has he got her?’

‘Leave me be.’ The woman cried, a look of fear in her eyes now. ‘I don’t know this woman you speak of—leave me be.’

‘Leave her be.’ The man who had come out of the caravan moved towards Luke threateningly. ‘You take your hands off my woman or you’ll be sorry. You damned aristocrats think you own the world. If you persist, I’ll thrash the life out of you.’

‘I mean your lady no harm,’ Luke said and let his hand drop from her arm. He was armed with a loaded pistol, but had no wish to use it, for he would lose all chance of discovering Roxanne’s whereabouts then. ‘I do not fear to fight with you, sir—but I came here in peace. I am searching for Roxanne and I thought you might know of her.’

‘Clear off or I’ll bash your head in,’ the man said fiercely, but another man had come up to them and the first moved back out of respect or fear. ‘We’ve told him nothing, Bob.’

‘Quiet, fool,’ the tall dark-eyed man grunted. He scowled at Luke. ‘Run away from you, too, has she? She’s an ungrateful wretch and a thief. Has she taken something of yours?’

‘No. Roxanne is not in trouble with me. I am afraid her life may be in danger. Why do you call her a thief?’

‘He told me she had something that belonged to him.’ Black Bob’s eyes narrowed. ‘I saw it once before Sofia hid it—a huge ruby bigger than a pigeon’s egg. Stands to reason a girl like that weren’t the rightful owner of a valuable jewel. He told me if I knew where she was he would pay me so I gave him the direction of the house she was living in. Followed you, I did, out of curiosity. When they come looking for her I knew something didn’t smell right. There alus was somethin’ odd about the girl.’

‘Where is she? Have you got her?’

‘I ain’t got her. She’s got the mark on her—I wouldn’t have her now if she came crawling on her knees.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘She’s cursed. He told me that whoever has the ruby is cursed. Until it is returned to its rightful place the mark of doom is on anyone that touches it.’

‘Whoever this man is, he meant to scare you,’ Luke said scornfully. ‘Roxanne is not a thief. She was given the jewel to keep for someone. Tell me, was the man who offered you money for information an Indian?’

‘I reckon he might be. He were dressed much like you, a wealthy man—but his servants were dressed strange and their faces were darker than his. Some of them wore turbans on their heads and one had a curved sword hanging from his belt. They looked a strange lot and I didn’t trust them, though he paid me my money.’

Luke inclined his head. He believed Black Bob was telling the truth. It tied in with what the innkeeper had said and pointed towards the ruby. Roxanne had been kidnapped because of that damned jewel.

‘If this man speaks to you again, tell him to come to me at Hartingdon. I shall give him what he wants, but first he must release Roxanne. If anything has happened to her I shall punish him—and you.’

‘All I done was tell him where he could find her.’

‘Roxanne was once one of your people. If you cared for her at all, you would have come to us and told us about this man instead of betraying her.’ Luke’s eyes flashed scorn. ‘You are a greedy rogue and deserved to be punished. I cannot prevent you from camping here, but I would not advise you to return once you leave.’

He was furious as he mounted his horse and rode off. It had taken all his strength of will not to go for the man and give him a good hiding. Only the knowledge that there were more than a dozen men watching him prevented him from seeking physical revenge. The whole tribe would no doubt have set him on and it was more important to keep searching for Roxanne than to make a fool of himself by indulging in a fight merely for his own satisfaction.

Feeling frustrated by his inability to discover Roxanne’s whereabouts and afraid of what might be happening to her, Luke rode towards his grandfather’s house. It was six days since he’d last visited. Perhaps there might be some news. The earl might have received a ransom note. He must speak to his grandfather before going out to search again, though he did not truly know where to look next. He’d tried every posting house, every inn and every village within a thirty-mile radius of the estate. He was beginning to think she must be in London—or, worse still, on a ship bound for India. Her beauty would be appreciated by certain men who thought nothing of holding women captive in their households.

No! It must not be. The thought was so terrible that it tore him apart, a groan leaving his lips. Rumours and tales of the white-slave trade passed through his mind. Roxanne was so beautiful. Once this man had her, he might think she was of more value than that damned ruby.

Roxanne looked at the clothes Shulie had brought her and smiled. She had wondered if she would be given something similar to the clothes her nurse wore, but instead she was being offered a beautiful silk gown of French design and make. As she slipped it on, her heart raced wildly. She had remembered more about Prince Ranjit and she seemed to recall that he was charming, but a little selfish, inclined to lose his temper if he did not get his own way. Yet as a child she had admired him, following him about and hanging on his every word. He had grown up to be a handsome man with an exotic and slightly dangerous air.

What did he want to tell her himself? Why had he not allowed Shulie to tell her about the ruby?

She decided to fasten her hair back in a severe knot at the nape of her neck, but, glancing at her reflection, Roxanne knew that it did not make her look any less attractive. The gown was so very elegant and flattering that she needed no jewels to appear to advantage.

‘The memsahib is beautiful,’ Shulie said and looked at her oddly. ‘My lord has always admired you—and I think he looks for another wife. I have been his wife for nine months and I have given him no sons.’

‘Nine months is not long,’ Roxanne said and smiled. ‘You do not need to fear me, Shulie. I would not seek to take your place. I am grateful for all you have done.’

‘My lord does not acknowledge the word no,’ Shulie replied and looked doubtful. ‘If he wants you, he will take you for his wife.’

‘At home Prince Ranjit may soon rule in his father’s place,’ Roxanne said. ‘This is England and he cannot take me as his wife against my will. Besides, I am already promised to another man. I am betrothed. I do not think Prince Ranjit would take the wife of another man.’

‘No, perhaps not, if you belong to another.’ Shulie’s face cleared and she handed Roxanne a spangled drape to wear over her head and shoulders. ‘If my lord wished you for his wife, I think I should not mind too much. You are lovely of nature as well as face; there are some who look for the honour who do not deserve it.’

‘Perhaps the prince will be satisfied to have just one wife.’

Shulie shook her head sadly. ‘It is the custom for a man to take several wives. If I had given him a son, my place as his chief wife would be assured, but now he may put another in my place.’

‘You must make him understand it would hurt you. If he loves you, you will remain the first in his heart even if he takes other wives.’

‘Perhaps.’ Shulie beckoned her. ‘We should not keep my lord waiting, memsahib. I know he will want you, but if you belong to another perhaps he will not insist that you become his wife.’

Roxanne’s heart raced as she followed Shulie out of the room and along the hall. There was no point in thinking of trying to escape. She had no idea of where she was being held and the prince’s men would be watchful. They had not gone to the trouble of kidnapping and then nursing her when she was in a fever simply to allow her to escape. The prince wanted something. Roxanne must pray that it was only the ruby he required from her. She knew that Shulie believed he wanted her for his second wife, but Roxanne had no intention of being taken off to India to live in a harem as one of the prince’s wives.

‘Nothing,’ the earl said and shook his head. ‘I cannot understand it, Luke. How could she have disappeared so completely? Had she been seen walking the roads we should have heard. She has not visited an inn or attempted to buy food at the markets or someone would have reported it to us for the reward money. I fear that she is either dead or kidnapped.’

‘From what I now know, I think she was taken by the servants of a wealthy Indian man,’ Luke said, his mouth pulled into a grim line. ‘I believe they want the ruby. It may have some religious significance, but that is merely a guess. Why they did not simply come and ask for the damned thing I do not know. I would willingly have given it.’

‘That gypsy fellow told you it is cursed,’ the earl said and his hand trembled. His eyes held an urgent appeal as he said, ‘You don’t think…she’s not dead, is she? Our girl’s not gone?’

‘No, Grandfather. I’m sure she is still alive. I would know if she were dead.’ Luke ran tormented fingers through his thick hair. He had dark shadows beneath his eyes and his face looked haggard from lack of sleep. ‘She can’t be dead. She must be a prisoner somewhere. I’m certain she would have written to you otherwise. It is too cruel to just disappear like this. I do not believe Roxanne is that careless of another’s feelings, especially someone she cares for. If she could have got word to us, she would by now.’

‘We must pray for her safe return,’ the earl said. ‘Have your agents heard nothing?’

‘I shall ride to the village and ask if there is a communication for me,’ Luke said. ‘Do not look so distressed, Grandfather. I shall find her. I swear to you that I will never rest. She shall be brought home…’ The words he added in his own mind were not meant for his grandfather’s ears.

Even if she is dead I shall find her body and bring her home to us. His throat closed and the agony in his mind was fearful. Roxanne, my love, please be alive. Your death will kill him…and me.

‘Come, sit here near me,’ Prince Ranjit said and captured her hand, leading her to an elegant little sofa. He took the gilded chair just opposite and waited for her to sit before sitting himself. She recalled that his father the Maharajah Jankara had had impeccable manners and he, too, behaved as a gentleman should. ‘Please tell me what happened to you, Miss Pearson. My father has been trying to find you for many months. Your family had no knowledge of your whereabouts and believed you dead.’

‘Some years ago I found myself in danger and I ran away from my aunt’s home. I became very ill and was rescued by a wonderful lady; she cared for me and became like a mother to me. Her name was Sofia and she lived with a band of travelling players. She had been a lady and the mistress of aristocrats and princes and we travelled together until she died.’

The prince nodded and Roxanne realised he already knew this part of her history. Somehow he or his agents had managed to trace her, not only to the camp, but also to the Hartingdon estate. He wanted to know the things his men had not already discovered about her life.

‘My father gave me a ruby to keep for him, your Highness,’ she said. ‘He said I must keep it with me always because it would make our fortune. He was returning to England to set up a home for us. However, my uncle and aunt coveted the jewel and they planned to sell me to a revolting man—a man who meant to use me in a way I cannot bring myself to mention. This was the reason I ran away.’ She paused, then, ‘Can you tell me where my father is living, please? Has he been looking for me?’

‘Forgive me, Rose Marie,’ the prince said and leaned forwards to touch her hand. ‘Your father believed you dead—a letter came from your uncle saying that you had run away and were believed to have died of a fever in the poorhouse. They said you had the ruby with you when you left—did you?’

‘Yes, I took the ruby when I fled—but my father?’ Roxanne’s throat tightened. ‘Please tell me, sir.’

‘Your father had planned to return to England and make a home for you. However, when he believed you dead, he decided to remain in India. He left my father’s employ and lived in solitude doing good works amongst the poor and sick. He died of a fever about eighteen months ago.’

‘My father is dead?’ A single tear trickled down Roxanne’s cheek. For years she had forgotten the tall handsome man she’d adored as a child, but the last few days had brought him back to her. It hurt to know that he had died not knowing that she was alive and well. ‘Then I shall never see him again.’

‘I am so sorry to be the bearer of this sad news,’ the prince said and touched her hand again. ‘When he knew he was ill, Sahib Pearson left you a letter and also a small inheritance, which I have placed in a bank in London for you. You see, in the last months before he died, he had begun to believe you were not dead, though his reasons for this belief are not clear. He sent the letter with another of explanation to my father and asked that you might be searched for. It was then that he told my father of the ruby he’d given you. It was only at that time that my father learned yours had possessed the eye for a time. My father sent his men to England to search for you, but it was many months before we traced you to the camp of the travelling players and by then you had disappeared once more.’

‘You did not begin your search until eighteen months ago?’

The prince shook his head. ‘Until we had your father’s letter, the eye was thought lost and you were believed to have died.’

‘The eye? Was it stolen? Surely my father would not have stolen from yours?’

‘No, the ruby did not belong to us—it is the eye of the goddess Bersheira and it was stolen by thieves who raided the temple. My father believes that your father bought the eye in good faith. He did not know that it was stolen from the goddess, for he would never have bought it and given it to you. Until the eye is returned to its rightful place, all those who touch it are cursed. Since it was stolen the people of our province have suffered in many ways: sickness, fires in the villages, mysterious deaths and other evils. They believe that they will be cursed until the eye is returned and it was for this reason that my father decided to send me to discover you and the eye. I arrived in England only a few weeks ago. Our men had failed and it was I who finally discovered the man who revealed your whereabouts to me.’

‘Black Bob—was it he who told you?’

‘The leader of the travelling players, yes. I had advertised with posters for a missing girl who disappeared five years ago and offered gold for information of her whereabouts. We had heard vague whispers of a girl travelling with the players, a girl who had lost her memory, and I wondered if it might be you. But until he came to me I had no idea of where you might be. Then I saw the advertisement for a lost jewel and I began to link the pieces together. When that rogue told me you had a fabulous jewel I was sure it must be you.’

‘Why did you not simply come to me and ask for its return? Was it necessary to kidnap me?’

‘You must forgive me, Rose Marie. It was not my men who attacked you—though we took you from the aggressors and brought you here.’

‘Not your men? I do not understand.’

‘My father has a brother—my Uncle Sangyo,’ the prince said and looked angry. ‘He is a ruthless man and covets my father’s throne. Sangyo believes that, if he finds the eye and returns it to the goddess, the people will place him on the throne when my father dies instead of me.’

‘So it was your uncle I saw in the tower—it was he who tried to break into the earl’s strong room and he that hit the bailiff?’

‘I fear this may be so,’ Prince Ranjit said. ‘I was in London for a time on other matters and, when I was informed of your whereabouts, did not immediately send men to the earl’s estate to watch for you. When I did, they reported to me that Sangyo was lurking, intent on mischief. I decided to let him make his move and then punish him. Until he tried to abduct you I could not prove he was guilty of anything. He has been made a prisoner and sent home, to be punished by my father. It was necessary to do this or he would have remained a threat to us all.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ Roxanne said. ‘Though I cannot help wishing that you’d acted sooner for you might have spared me an unpleasant illness, sir. Had you asked for the ruby it would have been given to you.’

‘I have suffered for your suffering,’ the prince told her. ‘I must beg your forgiveness and shall do what I can to make reparation for your pain. I am sincere in my regret, Rose Marie.’ He hesitated, then, ‘Do you still have the ruby?’

‘No, I gave it to my fiancé. Lord Clarendon has placed it somewhere for safekeeping. He will, of course, give it to you if you take me to him and offer him proof of your identity. I remember my friend Prince Ranjit, but the years have changed us both, sir. I think Lord Clarendon would require proof that you are the prince before giving you the ruby.’

The prince frowned. ‘It is easy enough for me to supply proof of my identity, but this man—Lord Clarendon—he is truly your husband?’

‘Yes—at least, we are legally betrothed and intend to be married soon, sir.’

‘I see…then it is my duty to take you to him,’ the prince said. He gave her a brooding look that told of his displeasure in the discovery that she was betrothed to another. It seemed that Shulie was right to suspect the prince had entertained ideas of making her his second wife. ‘I am disappointed. I had hoped we might renew our friendship—the warm affection we had as children, Rose Marie.’

‘I am called Roxanne these days,’ she said and smiled at him. ‘You are right to think I remember you with affection, sir. You were as a brother to me when I lived at the palace and we played as children. I have to thank you and Shulie for your care of me, Highness. I believe that your wife saved my life. She is both beautiful and wise. I think she will give you handsome and clever sons.’

‘We have no sons yet,’ the prince said and frowned.

‘You will have sons, I am certain of it,’ Roxanne said. She hesitated, then, ‘Perhaps it is the curse of the eye that has prevented you from having a son thus far, sir. When you return it to the goddess, she will favour you and your wife will give you healthy sons.’

The prince looked struck by her words. He took her hand, bringing her to her feet, then bowing to her before placing a kiss on the back of her hand.

‘The Lord Clarendon is a fortunate man,’ he said. ‘I envy him his wife, Rose Marie. Your words are wise and I am sure that you speak truly. It was my destiny to find the eye and restore it to the goddess. When this is done, Shulie will give me sons.’

‘Yes, I am certain this is your destiny, sir.’ Roxanne smiled at him. ‘If you would please take me to Hartingdon, I shall arrange for the eye to be returned to you.’

‘I shall escort you myself,’ the prince said. ‘It has been a privilege to speak with you, Rose Marie. If things had been otherwise…but a betrothal is sacred and I must follow my destiny.’

Chapter Eleven

Luke sighed as he dismounted and gave the reins of his horse into the hands of a waiting groom. He was tired and hungry and, as he noticed the carriage and horses waiting in the courtyard, resentful of whoever had come calling at such a time. He was in no mood for visitors. What he needed was a hot bath, food and some sleep. His search had once more been in vain and he was beginning to think he would never see Roxanne again. The thought was like a heavy weight, dragging him down.

‘My lord…’ the groom began, but Luke waved him away in frustration. ‘But, my lord…’

Ignoring the man’s attempt to attract his attention, Luke walked into the house. He was heading for the stairs and his own room when Mrs Arlet came rushing into the hall.

‘Thank goodness you’re back, sir,’ she cried. ‘She’s home, my lord. Miss Roxanne is in the back parlour with the earl this very minute.’

‘Home? Roxanne is here?’ Luke stared at her in disbelief. A great wave of euphoria and relief rushed over him, making him weak. He had been at the end of his tether, afraid that she must be dead, and now he could hardly believe she was here. He must go to her at once, tell her how sorry he was for the things he had said to her. If need be he would beg for her forgiveness.

Flinging open the parlour door, Luke stopped abruptly on the threshold as he saw that his grandfather and another gentleman were in conversation but there was no sign of Roxanne. Luke instantly recalled the stranger as being the rich Indian he’d seen in the jeweller’s shop in London. Where was Roxanne? Had she run off again?

‘Where is Roxanne?’ he burst out as his heart suddenly plummeted in fear. ‘I was told she was here.’

‘Luke,’ the earl said and both he and the stranger stood up. ‘This gentleman is Prince Ranjit and the son of the ruler of a great province in India. He saved Roxanne from rogues who might have taken her life. His wife has nursed our girl through a severe illness and now he has brought her back to us.’

‘Then where is she?’ The question came out of Luke in a rush of agony.

‘I am here, my lord.’ Roxanne’s soft tones made him swing round to discover that she was standing a little way behind him in the hall. ‘I went up to change my gown, for I wish to return this to the prince.’ Luke saw she was carrying a rich silk gown that looked as if it had come from Paris. She was now wearing a simple grey gown that he’d purchased for her in London. His eyes ran over her, seeing her as pale and tired, a shadow of the girl he adored, and his heart caught with pain. ‘I am sorry to have caused you so much trouble. Grandfather says that you have been searching for me. Had I been able I would have let you know where I was. It was not possible.’ Her eyes conveyed a message that silenced him.

Luke inclined his head, standing back to allow her to enter the parlour before him. He followed and took up a position between the prince and the door, standing rather than sitting, his manner one of belligerence that seemed to say he was prepared to throw the intruder out if he attempted to take Roxanne with him.

‘Perhaps someone would explain,’ he said in a carefully controlled tone, his hands clenched at his sides. ‘You seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth, Roxanne.’

‘Yes, I think the prince wanted to keep our whereabouts a secret until he was certain that his uncle’s men were all taken and rendered harmless. It was Prince Sangyo that attacked our bailiff and his men that tried to abduct me. I was fortunate that Prince Ranjit was able to rescue me, otherwise I fear I might have died.’

Luke’s brow lowered. He glared at the prince, but resisted the impulse to throw himself on the man and strangle him. How dare he sit there looking so pleased with himself—and why did Luke get the feeling that the prince wanted more than the ruby?

‘May I ask why that ruby is so important that your life was at risk in the first place?’

‘It is a sacred thing—the eye of a goddess—and Prince Ranjit’s people have been cursed since it was stolen. My father bought it from the thief. He did not know that it was stolen and I have agreed that we should return the ruby to Prince Ranjit so that he can take it back where it belongs.’

‘What proof do you have that he will return the ruby and not sell it?’

At a movement of anger from the prince, Roxanne held out her hand. ‘I know you are angry, Luke. Please save your anger for later. Prince Ranjit is my friend. I knew him as a child and he has letters for me from my father and others from his own father. He is the man he claims to be and I trust his word. He is an honourable man, as is his father. I know that the ruby must be returned to the goddess and I beg you to arrange it with your bank, Luke. Please do this for me as soon as it may be arranged. We shall speak of other things later.’

Luke clenched his teeth. She claimed the man was her friend and the accord between them was obvious. From the way the prince looked at her, he admired her, wanted her—and she seemed dazzled by him.

After the way he had treated her it would not be surprising if she preferred the exotic prince to a man who had bullied and insulted her.

Prince Ranjit rose to his feet. His manner was haughty as he approached Luke.

‘May I assure you that my father was willing to pay the price asked so that the ruby could be returned. He would have paid twice its worth to a jeweller—but Rose Marie has given it of her own free will.’

‘Rose Marie…?’ Luke’s gaze went over her, his heart catching. She was so beautiful and she deserved so much more than he could give her. He loved her, but he had discovered his love too late and she must hate him. ‘Is this what you truly want, Roxanne?’

‘Yes, of course it is. You know that we always meant to give it back if we could discover the rightful owner. My father has left me an inheritance and the prince placed it in a bank in London for me. I have ten thousand pounds, which is more than sufficient for my needs.’

Now that he had had time to look at her, he saw that Roxanne looked different. Despite her pallor she was confident and sure of herself, with a glow in her eyes that he had not seen before. She no longer needed his help. She had a fortune of her own—and an ardent admirer in the prince. Luke had no claim on her. If she wished to be free, he must let her go.

He inclined his head to the prince. ‘Very well. If you will come to the library with me, sir. I shall write a letter to my bank and they will release the ruby into your care.’

‘As you wish, sir.’ The prince bowed to the earl. ‘I thank you for your hospitality, sir.’ He took Roxanne’s hand and kissed it. ‘Should you wish it, my father would welcome you to our palace, Rose Marie. I myself have a deep admiration and warmth for you; it would be my pleasure to serve you if you came to me. May the gods watch over you and keep you from harm.’ He shot a look of dislike at Luke and then followed him from the room.

Roxanne stood undecided for a moment, but the earl shook his head at her. ‘Let them settle it between them, girl. Sit down and tell me again what happened. Is that rogue truly what he says—and do you believe that it was his uncle’s men that attacked you?’

Roxanne smiled, drew her chair close to him and reached for his hand. ‘Yes, Grandfather, I do,’ she said. ‘Prince Ranjit is a terrible liar. When we were children he often lied to us to get his own way, because he was spoiled and a little selfish. We always knew when he was lying and I’m certain I would have known this time. His uncle wants to rule in Prince Ranjit’s stead after the present ruler dies. If he could have found the ruby and taken it back to the temple, the people might have rejected the prince and placed him on the throne.’

‘Yes, I understand that part of it,’ the earl said. ‘But why could he not have told us that he had you? You said you were ill?’

‘I lay in a fever for some days and then I was weak and unable to rise from my bed. Shulie nursed me and the doctor helped me to recover. When I was well enough to leave my bed, Prince Ranjit told me the truth. I think…’ She hesitated, then, ‘I believe he may have hoped to make me his second wife. Shulie seemed to fear it, but when I told him I was Luke’s betrothed wife he brought me back to you.’

‘Where you should always have been,’ the earl grunted. ‘It was foolish running off the way you did, girl. I shan’t demand that you marry Luke if you’d rather not—but your home is here with me. I need to see your pretty face, Roxanne. If you’re not here, what is there to look forward to in the mornings?’

‘Forgive me,’ she said and reached for his hand once more. ‘I regretted running off as I did and I think I might have returned sooner had the kidnap not happened. I was distressed, but it was foolish of me. I know that Luke does not love me, as I love him—but I did give my word that I would marry him and I should like to live in this house with you, sir.’

‘What about my foolish grandson?’

‘Luke must tell me what he wants,’ Roxanne said and her eyes shone with the tears she was too proud to shed. ‘If he still wants me, I shall marry him.’

‘My grandson is a very mixed-up young man and a part of that is my fault,’ the earl said. ‘I resented him because of his father and I blamed John Clarendon for not loving my daughter.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I pushed them into the marriage and I almost did the same to you and Luke. Please forgive me and stay with me, Roxanne. You are as a granddaughter to me and I hope you will make this your home—whatever you and Luke decide.’

‘I shall be glad…’ Roxanne’s words trailed away as the door opened and Luke entered. The look on his face was so harsh that she caught her breath. ‘Has the prince gone?’

‘That damned fellow,’ Luke said in a haughty tone. ‘He had the effrontery to tell me that he would be happy to wed you if I no longer wished for the connection.’

‘I’m sorry he made you angry,’ Roxanne replied. ‘I believe he had some idea that because we had been childhood friends he would like to make me his second wife.’

‘Insufferable.’ Luke fumed, his eyes glinting with temper. ‘You may think yourself fortunate that you did not have the ruby with you, Roxanne. You might otherwise have been left in a ditch to die.’

‘Luke, that is despicable. You should not talk about him in such a disrespectful manner. I believe the prince honourable in his own way,’ she replied stiffly. ‘I know his father sent him to recover the ruby, but they gave me my father’s fortune even though they might have withheld it had they wished.’

‘Your father bought the ruby in good faith. It was yours by right, Roxanne, and worth twelve thousand pounds if a penny.’

‘I did not want it. Such a jewel could only bring ill fortune to anyone who kept it, knowing its history. The prince will return it to the goddess and perhaps his people will prosper again. They are a superstitious people and the curse may only be in their minds, but with the ruby back in place they may be happier.’

Luke threw her a smouldering look. ‘I was merely thinking of your rights. Since you do not choose to take anything I gave you…’ He glanced at her left hand and saw that she was wearing her emerald ring. ‘You are wearing your ring, yet you left it behind—why the change?’

‘I did not wish the prince to think I had lied to him concerning my situation. I believe that he wished to marry me and I wanted to make it clear that I was not free without hurting his feelings.’

Luke frowned. ‘I shall not keep you to your promise, Roxanne. I can see that you no longer need me. Marry your prince if that is your wish. I have no right to hold you here.’

‘Luke, how could you? You are too cruel.’

‘Luke, do not be a fool,’ the earl said. ‘Roxanne has just come back to us. You should not quarrel with her. Besides, she has decided to stay with me—whatever the pair of you decide between you, Roxanne’s home will be here with me.’

‘How very convenient for you both,’ Luke snapped and turned on his heel, striding from the room without another word.’

Roxanne’s eyes filled with tears. ‘He is angry again. I did not mean to make him angry. What did I say?’

‘He is a pig-headed fool,’ the earl said, making a sound of exasperation. ‘I fear we are too much alike. It is his pride talking, Roxanne. He will apologise to you when he has cooled down and beg you to marry him.’

Roxanne felt the prick of tears and blinked hard. ‘I fear Luke no longer wishes me to be his wife, Grandfather. He never did truly. The engagement was make believe—I would have been his wife only for as long as you lived. Then he would have asked for a separation.’

‘Stuff and nonsense. Luke is in love with you, girl. When you were lost he searched for you constantly. He was like a man possessed. He neither slept nor ate and I think, had you not returned, he would have gone mad with grief. Why should he react so strongly to a rival if he is not in love with you?’

‘You cannot mean it?’ Roxanne stared at him in disbelief. ‘He is so angry. Surely…was he really in distress because I was lost?’

‘I would never lie to you,’ the earl told her and smiled. ‘Go after him, girl. Sort it out between yourselves—but please do not run off again. My heart won’t stand it.’

‘I promise I shan’t leave you again, sir—though I think you a fraud. I am certain you will live many years yet.’

The earl laughed. ‘You may be right, especially if I have good news.’

Roxanne bent and kissed him and then went hurriedly from the room. Where would Luke be? She prayed that he had not gone off to London in a temper.

His grandfather was right to call him a fool. Luke left the house with his pride in tatters and his temper still raging, but he had not gone farther than the rose garden when he realised that he was in the wrong. Why must he always quarrel with the woman he loved? The desolation that had come over him when his search for her had proved in vain was surely enough to tell him that his life would be empty without her. He should have taken her into his arms rather than raging at her, but the interview with Prince Ranjit had not improved his temper, and Roxanne’s defence of her old friends had made him snap at her once more.

Yet his honour would not allow him to force her into a marriage that she might regret. The prince had made it clear that she would be honoured in his country and she had changed since meeting him. Had she rediscovered a lost love? Why did she have that new glow about her? She had always been vibrant and beautiful, but now there was something more—a certainty that had not been there before.

He was a fool and he did not deserve her. No wonder she’d decided that she did not wish to marry him. Why should she? He’d asked her to enter a make-believe engagement, spoken of a convenient arrangement, seduced her and then lost his temper with her. No woman with any pride could accept such treatment. It was not surprising that she’d walked out on him. Now she was back and he had insulted her again. He was a damned fool and he was very much afraid that he’d lost her for ever.

‘Luke, please wait for me.’

Turning, he saw Roxanne walking towards him and his heart took a flying leap. The gown she wore was simply cut, but she looked like a queen, regal and proud. In the sunshine her thick luxuriant hair was touched by fire and she was so beautiful that he felt weak with longing. If he lost her, he would have no reason to live.

‘Roxanne,’ he began hurriedly. ‘I know what I said was unforgivable. I had no right or justification for speaking to you so harshly. You have every right to do exactly as you wish.’

‘Yes, Luke, I do.’ Roxanne raised her head and met his eyes with a cool frank look. ‘I am very fond of Grandfather and I shall not leave him here alone again, though I believe his health is more stable than you may imagine. It is true that he has bouts of illness that could be his last, but he has a very strong will. For as long as he has something to live for he will fight to live.’

‘What are you saying?’ Luke’s gaze narrowed as he tried to gauge what was in her mind. ‘Are you suggesting that we should go ahead with our marriage to please him?’

‘Perhaps.’ She took a deep breath. ‘When I left this house that day I felt that your harsh behaviour towards me made a marriage between us untenable. However, after my distress eased, I came to realise that I did not wish to leave Grandfather—or you. I believe I should have returned to discuss the matter with you in a sensible manner had I not been kidnapped.’

She seemed so calm, so in control that Luke hesitated, not knowing what to believe. ‘I am not certain what you mean,’ he said. ‘Are you intending to go on as before—or is this to be a genuine marriage?’

‘That is up to you,’ she replied. ‘My own preference is for a true marriage. I wish for children and—I am very fond of you, Luke. I like you when you are not in a temper and I believe we could go on very comfortably together.’

‘You like me when I am not in a temper?’ His hands curled into balls at his sides, tension creeping into his voice. ‘The evening of the ball you said…I thought there might be more to your feelings than mere liking.’ His gaze was intent on her face and he was pleased to see a slight unease dawn in her eyes. She was not truly as calm as she pretended. Roxanne might be a superb actress, but she could not quite shut her feelings out. Making a giant stride towards her, Luke took hold of her, one hand on each of her upper arms, staring down at her fiercely. ‘Supposing I want more than mere liking? Supposing I want passion and love—the kind of love that blazes out of control and takes over your life?’

He felt her tremble and she caught her bottom lip between white teeth. Luke smiled, the despair inside him beginning to give way before a new certainty and hope.

‘Is that what you want from me?’ Roxanne asked, a tremor in her voice now. ‘I thought you did not wish to commit to such feelings? You said you did not believe in romantic love, only passion.’

‘It was my belief that I could never truly love,’ Luke said and smiled. ‘Grandfather speaks the truth when he calls me a fool, Roxanne. Everything I ever wanted was there—mine for the taking—but I did not have the sense to see it. Only when I thought you lost, perhaps dead, did I begin to understand how deep my feelings for you actually were. I love you, Roxanne. Not mildly or with fond affection, but with a passion I hardly know how to control. I find the idea of life without you appalling. I want to see you every day, to wake up and find you beside me in my bed—to know that you are mine and always will be.’

Roxanne held back a sob, her face pale and tense. ‘Luke, I do love you. You must know it. Surely you must have known that night?’

‘I discovered something so sweet in your arms that night,’ he murmured huskily, his arms going about her waist as he pulled her close. ‘Yet I feared it. I fled from you before you woke because I was terrified of letting you discover my vulnerability. I was uncertain whether you truly loved me.’

‘You must have known when I clung to you and held nothing back? Surely you knew then?’

‘Yet you so rarely let your feelings show. You are a clever actress, Roxanne. It might have been an act—and it was not all fear that you did not feel as I did; I was afraid that I would hurt you, destroy you, if I allowed myself to offer you a true marriage. I believed my father shallow and thought I might be as he was, but I misjudged him. He lost the woman he truly loved and married my mother just to have an heir for the earldom. He could never love his wife because his heart was in the grave with his one true love. When I thought you might be dead, I knew just what my father felt, Roxanne. Even had I married for an heir in years to come, I should never have loved another woman. You mean everything to me; if you leave me, I shall have nothing left to give anyone.’

‘Oh, Luke…’ Roxanne’s voice caught and a tear escaped, sliding down her cheek. He wiped it away with his fingertips and then bent to kiss her lips. She gave a little moan and pressed herself against him, melting into him so that he felt as if they were one person, one being. ‘Luke, my dearest. When I recovered my senses I knew all that I had lost and I feared I might never see you again. Shulie believed the prince meant to make me his wife and for a short time I feared he might take me with him whether I wished it or not.’

‘But you admired him. I saw it in your eyes—and there is something different about you…’

‘I know who I am now, Luke. Before I wondered if I might be a thief or worse. I was not sure that I was good enough to be your wife and the mistress of this house.’

‘Grandfather knew you were a lady born. He saw quality—as I did had I the sense to realise it.’

‘Yes, but I did not know. I wanted to be worthy of you, Luke. Now the shadows of the past have gone and I know who and what I am.’

‘The notion of India was more true than you knew?’

‘My father was the prince’s tutor. When my mother died of a fever my father brought me home to live with my aunt and uncle—but her husband was a greedy rogue. When Papa sent me the ruby to keep for him, my aunt saw it and her husband was ready to give me to a man who would have used me for his pleasure and made me work as a whore until I died of some disease. I heard him telling her it was either that or he would kill me himself.’

‘Damn him! If I’d known, I would have killed him myself!’

‘My aunt pleaded with him, but she was frightened of him. I ran away that night. I was afraid he would catch me and I ran and ran for a long time…then I was attacked by a vagrant and after that I became ill and I must have wandered in a daze. I remember now that I told Sofia some of the story when I was ill, just little things about India. I cried for my mother and my ayah.’

‘Why did she not tell you later?’

‘Perhaps because she knew it distressed me to try to remember. She invented the game to try to jog my memory, but it did not work and so she decided that it was best to forget the past. She loved me and wanted to keep me safe. Because she feared for me she tried to keep my past a secret, and that is why no one found me for a long time, even when the prince’s men began to search. When she was ill she told me she was sure I was a lady and that I should sell the ruby and set up with a companion. She hoped I would marry well.’

‘She thought you enamoured of the prince,’ Luke said, a hint of jealousy in his voice.

‘I was but a child when we were friends,’ Roxanne said and smiled at him. ‘Sofia asked me about the prince once, but I could not recall him, though I must have said something to her when I was rambling. When she spoke of him I thought she meant one of her lovers, because when I recovered from the fever I had no memory of anything.’

‘He remembered you. He wanted you.’

‘Then why did he not simply take me? I should have found it difficult to escape had he decided to keep me.’

‘He wanted the ruby more,’ Luke said. ‘He knew that I would never give it up while he had you and that’s why he brought you back to me.’

‘Yes, perhaps, though I believe he understood that I belonged to you. I know he made you angry, but his father was always an honourable man and the prince did what was right in the end.’

‘You may think so, but I cannot excuse the fellow. He had the effrontery to offer to buy you from me,’ Luke said, a grim look on his face. ‘He said that he would pay my price whatever that might be. I told him that you were a pearl beyond price and not for sale.’

‘He tried to buy me from you?’ Roxanne was stunned, incredulous. ‘Is that what made you so angry?’

‘What would you expect? He said that if I was making a marriage of convenience, he would make it worth my while to give you up.’

‘How could he?’ Roxanne felt a surge of anger. ‘He had no right. I am not your property. I am not anyone’s property.’

‘That is the gist of what I told him, though perhaps not quite in those words,’ Luke said. He hesitated, studying her face and trying to read her mind. ‘Can you forgive me, Roxanne? Will you give me another chance?’

‘Are you asking me to marry you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Luke suddenly dropped on one knee before her, gazing up at her in earnest. ‘Roxanne, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? I love you and your agreement will make me the happiest man alive.’

She seemed to hesitate for one instant and Luke’s heart sank; then she smiled and inclined her head.

‘Yes, of course I shall, Luke. Please get up. There was no need to kneel to me. All I want is to know that I am truly wanted and loved. I do not require homage, nor shall I tie you to me. You may live as you wish, visit London as often as you choose. I ask only that you love me and return to me when you are ready.’

‘Unless forced by business, I shall never want to leave you for more than a few hours, my darling.’

Luke was on his feet, drawing her into his arms. He crushed her against him, knowing that she must feel the heat and force of his arousal and he held her pressed into his body. He wanted her to know how fierce was his need and his desire.

‘I wanted you from the first moment we met,’ he said hoarsely. ‘At first I thought to make you my mistress, but…’ His hold tightened as he felt her stiffen, pressing her even closer. ‘For a long time now I’ve known that making you my mistress would not serve. I suspect that even when I first asked you to enter a make-believe marriage, I knew somewhere deep inside me that once I had you I should never wish to let you go.’

‘Luke…I hoped, but was never certain…’

‘You do care for me a little? I know I am far from perfect—but you do truly love me?’

Roxanne smiled tenderly. ‘I think I fell in love with you the moment you opened your eyes and looked at me, but I did not admit it until much later. I was afraid that you would never love me—afraid that if you sensed my feelings you would feel trapped.’

‘I did for a short time,’ Luke admitted honestly. ‘I did not want to feel love, because I know that it can bring so much pain. I saw my mother’s misery and my father’s chafing at the bonds that tied him to a woman he did not love. I was a coward to run from love, Roxanne—but I swear I shall never give you cause to doubt me again.’

‘Then we shall be married as soon as it can be arranged,’ Roxanne told him. She offered her hand, her eyes bright with love. ‘I believe we should tell Grandfather. He cares for us both so much, Luke. Before we came here he was lonely and unhappy. The breach between you was too wide for either of you to cross. Now I think you have reached an understanding?’

‘Because of you the breach has closed and we are a family once more.’ Luke reached out to touch her cheek. ‘While you were missing, our mutual despair drew us together and we realised that we loved each other. Grandfather told me I was a fool and he was right. I had no idea how fortunate I was that day my horse took a tumble in the woods.’

‘If I had not run away from Black Bob that day, we might never have met.’ Roxanne shuddered and moved closer to him. ‘How much we might both have lost, Luke.’

‘I think it was our destiny.’ He leaned down to kiss her once more. ‘Come, we should put Grandfather’s mind at rest, though I am certain he already knows.’

‘I think the old rascal is truly content now,’ Luke said as he took Roxanne’s hand. The earl had retired to bed after eating supper with them in the parlour and they were strolling in the moonlight, enjoying the warmth of a summer night. ‘He seems much better now, though at times I see that he is still frail.’

‘We must make his life as full as possible,’ Roxanne said. ‘We shall live here for most of the time, Luke, though I know you have other estates and a house in London.’

‘Once I thought the country boring, but it cannot be so when you are here, my love. It may be that I shall have to tend to business at my own estate from time to time and if you cannot accompany me I must leave you here—but I shall return as soon as I can.’

‘Perhaps one day we shall spend more time in London or at your own estate, but for Grandfather’s sake we must be here as often as we can, dearest.’

‘You are as caring as you are beautiful,’ Luke said and drew her near, bending his head to kiss her mouth. ‘I want you so much. I can hardly bear to wait for our wedding night, Roxanne.’

‘And why should you wait?’ she whispered against his mouth. ‘I do not think you need to consider my modesty or my reputation since the servants all knew what happened on the night of the ball.’ She gurgled with delicious laughter and pressed herself against him. ‘Take me to bed, Luke. I am as impatient as you—and it is only another ten days to our wedding.’

‘Wicked seductress,’ he murmured and touched her cheek. ‘Since it is too late to save either your reputation or mine, I believe I shall take you at your word.’

‘You look beautiful, Miss Roxanne,’ the housekeeper said when she brought up the posy of white roses and lilies tied with red ribbons. ‘It’s a shame that you’ve no family to share your special day.’

‘My family is here,’ Roxanne said and impulsively kissed her cheek. ‘You are as a friend to me, Mrs Arlet. Everyone has made me welcome, right from the first moment I came here. If I have no mother, I have my memories and I have my friends. Grandfather is to give me away. Why should I need anyone else?’

‘You’re a proper lady, miss, and no mistake,’ Mrs Arlet said. ‘We’re all so happy that you and his lordship intend to make this your main home.’

‘We shall honeymoon in Paris and we shall spend a few weeks in London sometimes, but I love this house. Lord Clarendon knows that and it is the reason that he has agreed to live here.’

‘We are all so excited, Miss Roxanne. His lordship was telling us about the plans he has for bringing the house and estate up to modern standards.’

‘Yes, I know. Grandfather had allowed things to stagnate a little, but Clarendon will change all that—and that is as it should be. I know the earl is delighted with the way things have turned out.’

‘Is there anything I can do for you, miss?’

‘No, thank you. I am almost ready. I shall come down in a few moments.’

‘I’ll leave you with Tilly then.’ Mrs Arlet nodded as the maid entered bearing some floral tributes, gifts and cards. ‘We all wish you happiness, Miss Roxanne.’

‘Thank you,’ Roxanne replied and nodded as she went out, closing the door behind her. ‘So many people have sent gifts,’ she said as her maid laid the packages on the dressing table. ‘Where have all these things come from?’

‘Some were delivered by hand, miss. I think his lordship sent this one.’

Roxanne took the small package she offered and opened it, smiling as she saw the diamond-and-pearl earrings, which would go with the pearls he had given her and the bracelet of pearls and diamonds that the earl had sent her earlier that morning. She read the card, smiled and then slipped them into her ears. Looking at her reflection, she nodded in a pleased way. She picked up a posy, held it to her nose and smiled, then indicated another small parcel.

‘What is the other package?’

‘That came from London this morning, miss.’ She picked it up and handed it to her.

Roxanne opened it and gasped as she saw the huge pearl. It was pink, flawless and shaped like a teardrop. Set in gold at the pointed end, it could be worn as a pendant. She picked it up, looking at it as it lay in her palm and thinking that it must be very valuable, then saw the card that had lain beneath it.

For a pearl beyond price, she read and frowned as she saw the signature. This comes from Prince Ranjit on behalf of his family.

Replacing the pearl in its nest of black velvet, Roxanne fastened the pearls Luke had given her about her throat.

‘I shall go down now, Tilly,’ she said. ‘Please finish packing my things for me. There are only a few trinkets for my dressing case. Everything else we have not already decided on can remain here. Clarendon says that we should not take too much, because he intends to buy clothes in Paris.’

‘Very well, miss.’ Tilly couldn’t keep the note of excitement from her voice. ‘I’ve never been to France, miss.’

‘I visited with friends when we travelled as a group,’ Roxanne said with a smile. ‘I liked it well enough then, but I think it will be wonderful this time.’

Picking up her posy, she walked from the room and negotiated the stairs with care, her train flowing behind her. The earl and most of the servants had gathered below to greet her. She kissed the earl and then turned to a young woman whom she had met for the first time and immediately liked the previous evening.

‘Mrs Fox, I am so glad you could come to us—and I hope you like the gown we chose for you. Luke has told me so much about you. Your husband was his dearest friend and I am so pleased that we are to be friends.’

‘It is a lovely gown and it was kind of you to invite me to be one of your attendants,’ Beth Fox said. ‘Please, you must call me Beth. I owe so much to Luke, as you know. After my darling Harry died and I was left alone with a child and no money, Lord Clarendon found me and provided me with a house of my own. I believe you stayed there for a short time before I moved in?’

‘The charming house in Hampstead? Yes, I stayed in your guestroom for a short time. Luke told me your story recently,’ Roxanne said with a smile. ‘Your father and your husband’s family rejected you because they did not approve of the marriage. It was unkind of them to leave you to fend for yourself with a young child to bring up alone. I am glad Luke helped you and I want you to visit with us whenever you choose.’

‘Luke is fortunate in his choice of a bride,’ Beth said and kissed her. ‘Many would have believed the whispers and thought me his mistress—though it has never been so, nor could it be. We both loved Harry and felt only friendship for each other.’

‘Luke is an honourable man and those who think otherwise malign him,’ Roxanne said. ‘Now that you are here for our wedding people will see that they were mistaken. Luke ought to have told Grandfather the truth before, but his stubborn pride would not let him defend his honour. It made him angry because the earl believed the tittle-tattle that you were his mistress.’

‘You are all so kind. I was not sure I should be welcomed by the earl, who was a close friend of my father-in-law, but I have been invited to bring my son and stay whenever I wish. The earl is so generous, Roxanne. I am not surprised you are so fond of him.’

‘Grandfather has made me welcome here from the beginning,’ Roxanne said and went to his side, taking his hand. ‘Shall we leave? I should not wish to keep Luke waiting.’

Luke turned his head as the organ began to play. Roxanne had just entered the church, standing at the far end of the nave with his grandfather, Beth and some young girls as her bridesmaids. She was so beautiful. His heart caught with pride as she walked towards him. As she reached his side, he offered his hand and she took it. He smiled and whispered, ‘You look lovely, my dearest one.’

‘Thank you.’

Her hand trembled slightly and he pressed it as the ceremony began.

‘Dearly beloved. We are gathered together to see this man and this woman joined in Holy matrimony…’

The words droned on and Luke gave his responses in a firm strong tone. Roxanne’s voice was clear and light, carrying to the rear of the church. Luke reached out to lift the white veiling that fell from her satin bonnet and leaned forwards to kiss her softly on the lips.

They advanced towards the high altar to be blessed and then to the vestry where they both signed their names. Then the bells rang out joyously and they were walking into the sunshine. A small crowd awaited their coming and rushed forwards to shower them with flower petals and rice.

After receiving good wishes and small tributes from the villagers, Luke took his bride’s hand and hurried her to the carriage drawn up in the lane. He helped her inside, waiting until the door was closed fast before drawing her into his arms to kiss her.

‘My sweet love,’ he murmured huskily. ‘I was afraid this day might never happen, but it has and I am the happiest of men.’

‘Thank you for my surprise gifts,’ Roxanne said and touched the magnificent earrings she wore. ‘You have given me so much…’

Luke smiled, touching her cheek with his fingertips. ‘The earrings are just one of many gifts I intend to make you, my darling. I have others for this evening when we are alone—and in Paris I shall buy you all the clothes and trinkets you could desire.’

‘You are intent on spoiling me,’ Roxanne said and leaned closer to kiss him. ‘I love the gifts you’ve given me, Luke—but it is your love I prize more than any jewel.’

‘My love is yours for ever,’ he murmured huskily. ‘I shall show you later how prized you are, Roxanne.’

‘This is the happiest day of my life.’

She reached up and kissed him.

‘My beloved.’ Luke drew her close as passion surged between them. ‘How fortunate I feel.’

The large reception hall was overflowing with guests. They spilled over into the parlours and out on to the terraces in the sunshine, the sound of laughter and chattering voices resounding throughout the house.

The bride and groom stood together to welcome all their guests. It was a glittering occasion, for friends and relatives had come from all parts of the country to stay and witness the wedding.

‘I never thought I should see this day,’ the earl said to Roxanne when she brought him a slice of rich fruity wedding cake with thick white icing. ‘I don’t know when I’ve ever seen Luke look this happy, girl. I never expected to see him head over heels in love, but there’s no doubt of it. It’s a transformation and one that gives me a deal of pleasure.’

‘We are both very fortunate,’ Roxanne said and took his hand, holding it to her cheek. ‘I owe this to you, Grandfather. Luke told me what you said to him—the way you made him realise that he was in danger of losing everything he truly wanted.’

‘I told him the truth about things he should have known long ago,’ the earl said, shaking his head. ‘If it made the difference, I’m glad.’

Music had begun to play. Luke came to Roxanne and took her hand, leading her out to the middle of the floor. They danced together, a slow stately performance, then suddenly the music changed and he swept her into his arms as they waltzed.

‘I want to take you somewhere quiet and make love to you,’ he whispered against her ear. ‘How much longer must I wait?’

‘Luke…’ Roxanne drew back, her mouth soft and seductive as she smiled. ‘Be patient, beloved. We shall be together very soon now—and we have the rest of our lives to make love.’

‘Hardly enough,’ he murmured throatily. ‘I want you for ever. Eternity is not long enough for all the things I want to tell you.’

It was as if Luke had suddenly discovered a well of emotions and feelings that he’d never known existed and they spilled over, engulfing her in a tide of love and desire.

‘Well, I shall go up and change very soon,’ Roxanne told him. ‘You could follow me if you wish and…’ She left the words unsaid, but her eyes told him all he wished to know.

Roxanne slipped out of her wedding gown and put on a soft silk wrap. She took the brush in her right hand and began to stroke it over her hair, letting the dark red tresses fall over her shoulders and down her back.

‘Come back when I send for you, Tilly,’ she said. ‘I want to rest for a little while before I change for this evening.’

‘Yes, miss—I mean, my lady.’ The girl blushed and bobbed a curtsy. ‘Ring when you need me.’

Roxanne nodded and smiled. She was dabbing a little light perfume at her wrists when the door opened and Luke entered. She stood up and moved towards him, a smile of invitation on her lips.

‘I told Tilly I wished to rest before I change for the evening,’ she said huskily. ‘I am not tired, but the sheets have been turned back. Shall we rest for a while together?’

Luke moved in closer and reached for her, his arms sliding about her waist. ‘Those of the guests who are staying have gone up to change for the evening and the others are departing. I do not think we shall be missed for an hour or so, dearest.’

‘Luke…’ Roxanne lifted her face for his kiss, melting against him as his lips took possession of hers. ‘I love you so very much.’

Then she was in his arms, responding to his kiss, and the next instant he was carrying her to the bed, placing her carefully amongst scented sheets.

Going to him without reserve, Roxanne shuddered with delight as his hands stroked up the arch of her back. Luke reached for her wrap, slipping it back off her shoulders to kiss her soft skin. The touch of his warm mouth on her breasts and then the inside of her thighs made her whimper with pleasure and she trembled, arching to meet him, lips parting as his kiss swept her away on clouds of exquisite pleasure.

Luke removed his own clothes and she saw the urgency of his need as he lay down beside her and drew her into his body. She felt the burn of his desire next to her thigh and then her legs were parting and he was between them, thrusting up into her. She gave a cry of pleasure, opening to him, wanting him deeper and deeper inside her. Her back arched and her hips thrust forwards to meet him as the desire pooled and grew into a raging need.

Together they reached for and found that wonderful place that is known only to true lovers. Luke gave a great shout of joy and triumph as he came inside her and she found her climax rolling through her as it came and came again in waves.

Afterwards, he lay with his head against her breast, their sweat mingling as they held on to each other, replete and content.

It was some time later that they left the bed. Roxanne sat at her dressing table and began to brush her hair.

‘I must go and change,’ Luke said and lifted her hair to kiss the back of her neck. He moved round to look at her and watch as she brushed her hair, perching on the edge of the dressing table, reluctant to leave despite his avowal that he ought to go. He picked up a small box casually and opened it, then stiffened as he saw what lay inside. ‘Where did this come from?’

Roxanne looked and saw the magnificent pearl. ‘Oh—that arrived just before the wedding. Tilly brought it up with some other things. Prince Ranjit sent it on behalf of his family.’

‘It must be almost priceless,’ Luke said and frowned, taking it out so that it lay on the palm of his hand. ‘You did not choose to wear it today?’

‘Of course not. I wore the gifts you gave me—and Grandfather’s bracelet. Why should I wear that pearl, Luke? It is lovely, but I think we should send it back. I have no need of such gifts from the prince.’

Luke’s expression eased, anger and tension gone. ‘I would return it except that to do so would cause offence. I shall acknowledge the gift, Roxanne. There is no need for you to do anything.’

‘I shall not wear the pendant, but if you think it rude to return it…’

‘It can stay in the strong room. Perhaps one of our children or their wives will take a fancy to it in the future.’ Luke smiled and leaned forwards to kiss her lips. ‘He said you were a jewel of rare value. I replied that I did not need to be told. I was well aware of your value to me. I was so angry that I wanted to kill him for daring to think you could be his for a sum of money.’

‘You have no need to be angry, my love.’ Roxanne stood up and put her arms about him. ‘No jewels could buy what we have, Luke. Love such as we feel for each other is a gift from God. It is all that either of us need now or in the future.

‘I am so happy,’ Roxanne said. ‘Paris will be wonderful, but all I truly need is to be at home with you and Grandfather.’

‘So you’re home again,’ the earl said and nodded with satisfaction as Roxanne came to kiss him on the cheek. ‘You look happy, girl. Paris was a success, then?’

‘Paris was exciting and I enjoyed the experience,’ she said and pulled her elegant satinwood chair closer to his. It had a shield-shaped back, spindly legs and was one of a set of fourteen from Mr Adams’s workrooms scattered throughout the house. ‘However, I am glad to be home again, sir. Luke will be down shortly. He thinks he must go to London for a few days soon on business, but he will not be away for long.’

‘You must neither of you feel tied to my coattails, girl. As long as you visit often I shall be content.’

‘Well, I dare say I shall go to London or Bath for a visit sometimes, but not just yet.’ Roxanne smiled, hardly able to contain the delight she felt inside. ‘Now, I hope you will not think this too soon, Grandfather—but Luke and I…’ She paused to watch his face, saw his frown and then a look of enquiry in his eyes. ‘Yes, I am to have a child. I know it may seem too soon to be sure, but I think…it may have happened before the wedding. We did anticipate our wedding a little. I hope I have not shocked you?’

‘A child…’ The earl looked at her eagerly, a hint of tears in his eyes. ‘You’re certain, girl?’

‘I saw a doctor just before we left Paris and he was sure that I was with child, perhaps two months or a little less. If I take good care and do not rush about all over the place, I believe you may have your first grandchild sooner than you had anticipated.’

‘An heir…’ The earl grinned at her. ‘I thought I might have to wait months, years even. You’re a clever girl, Roxanne. I knew you were just what this place needed when Luke first brought you here.’

‘I may have a daughter,’ she cautioned. ‘But if I do we shall have to try again. I must confess that I shall not mind if we have a brood of children, both sons and daughters, to fill this big house with laughter.’

‘You’ve already done that,’ he said. ‘The house has not been empty since you left for France. Your friend Beth Fox brought her son to stay for a few days and I gave him a pony of his own to keep in our stables—so I think we can be sure they will visit regularly. They might find a home here on the estate if you wished it, somewhere close enough for you to visit each other often. Besides, I’ve had a stream of visitors, neighbours and friends I hadn’t bothered with for years—even Luke’s godmother stayed on after the wedding—and guests are what this place has needed since Luke’s parents died.’

‘The tragedy was a terrible thing and it blighted all your lives, but the past has gone and we have a future filled with love and happiness to look forward to.’

‘Luke knows of the child?’

‘He is delighted. He thought I should tell you alone, but he will be down soon and then we can all celebrate together.’

She glanced up as the door opened and Luke walked in. ‘Here you are, dearest. Grandfather is pleased with our news.’

‘You’ve done well by me, sir,’ the earl said. ‘I’m proud of you—proud of you both. And this is one of the happiest days of my life.’

Luke looked at Roxanne, his eyes warm with love. ‘We both hope there will be others as happy, sir.’

‘Yes.’ Roxanne stood up and went to him. She glanced back at the earl. ‘We have decided that you shall name our first child—boy or girl, the choice shall be yours.’

‘Emily for a girl or Selwyn if it’s a boy,’ the earl said. ‘To tell the truth, I have a fancy for a little girl first, but we must wait and see what the good lord sends us.’

‘Yes, I do not think even Roxanne can arrange that, though she leaves little else to chance,’ Luke said and laughed as his wife pulled a face at him. ‘For myself I care not whether the child is male or female—as long as Roxanne is well after the birth I shall be quite content.’

‘I have decided we should have at least two boys and two girls,’ Roxanne said and smiled. ‘But as long as we are all well and content together little else matters.’

‘We should send for champagne,’ the earl said. ‘I want to toast my new grandchild—and the staff must share in our good fortune. We shall give a fête for the people, Luke. I’ll leave it to you to organise the affair, but I shall attend if the day is fine.’

‘I shall set it all in order before I leave for London—and I’ll be back within a week so you need not pull caps with me, Grandfather. My home is here with the people I love and I have no wish to stay away an hour longer than I need.’

The door opened to admit Mrs Arlet. A few words from the earl and she left, face wreathed in smiles, to communicate the news to the rest of the household and order their champagne and lemonade for Roxanne.

‘You know that they will be counting back the weeks after the birth,’ Roxanne said. ‘I think we shall shock our neighbours a little, sir.’

‘Nonsense,’ the earl replied and winked at her. ‘Have you never heard of a babe coming early? My Emily had our son a month sooner than expected—big bonnie boy he was, too.’

‘Grandfather,’ Roxanne said and laughed. ‘You are a rascal.’

‘I was a bit of a rascal when I was younger,’ he agreed and glanced at his grandson. ‘It might be that Clarendon is more like me than any of you thought…’

Afterword

‘So, Selwyn Luke John Arnold Hartingdon, future Lord Clarendon and one day heir to this old pile,’ the earl said, looking down at the child in the cot beside Roxanne’s bed. ‘How does it feel to be the first-born of a clever girl like your mama? I dare say you are pleased with yourself and will lead us all a merry dance one day.’

‘Grandfather,’ Roxanne scolded with a smile of affection. ‘He is but a day old and interested only in feeding and sleeping.’

‘He is my great-grandson and will take after his father and his great-grandfather,’ the earl replied with satisfaction. ‘He is going to be a fine big chap and will make us all proud of him. I dare say he might be the Prime Minister or a famous general if he chose.’

‘I think he may have some of Roxanne’s qualities,’ Luke said and raised his brows at her. ‘I certainly hope he has more sense than either of us ever had.’

‘Well, yes, of course—but he’s got my nose and his mouth is just like yours, Luke.’ The earl chuckled. ‘And I am an old fool clucking over him as if I’d never seen a babe before. Roxanne, I am proud of you, girl. I wanted to tell you that I love you and make sure you were well—but there never was such a beautiful child.’

‘Thank you, dearest Grandfather. I love you, too.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you together for a while—but you should let Roxanne rest, Luke. She needs to get her strength back.’

‘I shall do so in a moment, sir.’

Luke grinned as the door closed behind him. ‘I’ve never seen him look so happy and proud. Anyone would think the boy was his son.’

‘He loves us all,’ Roxanne said. ‘Are you proud of me, Luke? Are you pleased with your son?’

‘You know I am,’ he said and perched on the edge of her bed, reaching for her hand. ‘I am the happiest man alive—except perhaps for Grandfather. He looks younger and I begin to think he is an old fraud. He will live for years.’

‘His health is not good,’ Roxanne said and held his hand tighter, ‘but he is content and will have some time with us yet.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Luke bent his head and kissed her. ‘Now I must do as Grandfather bid me and leave you to rest. Beth will be here later and I know she will be eager to see you. Rest now and you will feel better when she arrives.’

‘I am perfectly well, you know,’ Roxanne said. ‘I shall rest, but only for a little time. Come and see me soon, my love.’

‘Of course. I have no intention of going anywhere else,’ he said, blew her a kiss and went out.

Roxanne lay back against her pillows, a smile on her lips as she closed her eyes and slept.

The Homeless Heiress

Anne Herries

Chapter One

Captain Richard Hernshaw paused, glanced back into the menacing darkness of the narrow alley behind him and frowned. He was being followed. The instinct he had acquired over several years working for the British government as a secret agent was on full alert. He knew that he had taken a risk by agreeing to meet his contact here in the rookery of these terrible slum streets, but the man would not dare to show his face elsewhere, for he was a rogue and perhaps worse. The meeting had gone well and Richard had what he’d come for, but, since leaving his contact, he had picked up a shadow. The question was—who was following him and why?

He needed to know the answer to that question, because of the papers he was carrying, which were important and could hold the answer to a mystery that he and other colleagues had been investigating in recent times. It was feared that an attempt on the lives of several prominent men in the government, even that of the Regent himself, was being prepared, and Richard believed that the names of the ringleaders were in the documents he carried inside his coat pocket. If the person following him knew that he had them, he might be in danger—of losing both the papers and his life.

Better to attack than be attacked! Richard turned the corner, and pressed his back against the wall, waiting for whoever it was to catch up with him. His suspicions were proved correct, for an instant later a small, dark shadow came hurtling round the corner. He stepped out, and grabbed the rascal’s arm, gripping it tightly.

‘Let me go!’ a voice cried in a tone halfway between anger and fear. ‘Watcha think yer doin’?’

‘That is exactly what I was about to ask you,’ Richard said, his gaze narrowing as he looked down at the rather grubby face of a street urchin. He smiled as he saw the indignant look in the youth’s eyes. ‘You have been following me for a while now, lad. I don’t like being followed unless I know why.’

The youth rubbed his hand under his nose and sniffed hard. ‘Weren’t doin’no ’arm, sir,’ he said defiantly. ‘Let me go or I’ll kick yer!’

‘You would be sorry if you did,’ Richard replied. He hesitated, his hold slackening a little as he considered. A lad like this might be after his purse, but he was far from the sinister enemy he had imagined. A smile was beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth when the youth lunged at him, kicked him in the shins and wrenched free, setting off at a run back the way he had come. ‘Damn you!’

Richard realised instantly that he had been robbed. The boy’s hand had gone inside his jacket, removing the package he was carrying seconds before the toe of his boot connected with Richard’s leg and caused him to loosen his hold enough for the lad to break free. He felt a surge of annoyance—how could he have fallen for a trick like that?

Richard yelled and set off after the boy at once. He was angry that he had been so careless, but there had been something almost angelic in the boy’s face and he had been lulled into a sense of false security. Damned fool! It was the oldest trick in the book, using a boy to take your enemy off guard. He could see the lad ahead of him, running for all he was worth. He moved fast, but Richard was a match for him, his longer legs and superior strength making it inevitable that he would catch the boy. And then fortune stepped in. In his haste, the lad had not seen the rubbish on the pavement. As his foot touched the rotting filth left there by some careless trader, his heel slid and his legs suddenly went from under him, sending him tumbling into the gutter. He was getting to his feet when Richard arrived, clearly none the worse for his tumble.

‘Watcha want ter make me do that fer?’ he complained bitterly. ‘I ain’t done nuthin’, sir. Honest I ain’t.’

‘You stole something from me,’ Richard said, holding out his hand. ‘Give it back and don’t try another stunt like that or you will get a good hiding. Do you hear me?’ His strong hands hauled the youth to his feet. He gave him a little shake. ‘Did you hear what I said, boy?’

‘Me name’s Georgie,’ the lad said and sniffled. ‘I ain’t ’ad nuthin’ ter eat fer days. I only wanted a few coins. If yer hadn’t grabbed me, I wouldn’t ’ave done it.’

‘Indeed?’ Richard’s eyebrows rose as he looked at the lad. ‘Georgie, is it? Well, Georgie, had you asked I might have given you a shilling, but you deserve that I should hand you over to the law…’

The lad produced the package, holding it out to Richard, who took it and replaced it in his coat pocket. The seal was still intact. It would have meant little to anyone who did not have the code and was able to decipher it, but he could not be sure the lad was not working for someone.

‘Let me go, sir,’ Georgie said, putting on the wheedling tone again. ‘I swear I’ve never done nuthin’ like that afore and I’m hungry…’ He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘I didn’t mean no ’arm…’

‘What you meant was to steal from me,’ Richard replied with a stern look. ‘But I have the packet back and, if you are truly hungry, I shall feed you.’

‘Give me a shilling, sir, and I’ll trouble you no more.’ Georgie’s hand shot out.

Richard was on the point of putting his hand into his pocket when something made him hesitate. There was something about the urchin that did not ring true, though for the moment he could not place it.

‘I’ll not give you money,’ he said. ‘But I shall feed you. We’ll go to an inn I know. Not here. I don’t trust the service in these drinking dens. I’ll take you somewhere we can both enjoy a meal.’

The lad hesitated and for a moment Richard thought he would try to run away, but then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right, if that’s what yer want, sir.’

‘Come with me then,’ Richard said, taking hold of his arm. ‘And don’t try to run away, Georgie—no funny tricks, do you hear? This package is important to me, but it would be of no use to you. Try stealing from me again and I shall not be as forgiving next time.’

‘Don’t go on about it,’ the lad said, glaring at him. ‘And you’re hurting my arm. I shan’t run orf. I give yer my word.’

There was a touch of unconscious pride about the lad then that alerted Richard’s suspicions. Somehow he was certain that Georgie—if that was his name—was not an ordinary street urchin. There was more here than met the eye. He slackened his hold of the lad’s arm a little, but made sure it was sufficient to bind him to him as they left the last of the mean streets behind. The lighting here was better, and, glancing at the boy’s profile, Richard knew that his suspicions were right. Just what had he discovered here? If he knew anything at all, this lad had not been born to these poor streets of the London slum. Was he a runaway from school or a tyrant father? He was almost certain that the accent was a sham, for it had slipped once or twice. Just what was Georgie up to?

‘Where do you go to school?’ he asked.

‘Don’t go,’ the lad replied. ‘Ain’t never bin, sir.’

He was not telling the truth; Richard’s instinct never lied. His curiosity deepened. The boy was clearly very young, and, despite what he had done, Richard felt it his duty to try to help him if it were possible. He knew only too well to what depths of degradation some unfortunates were forced to sink in these stinking alleys. A grim expression dwelled briefly in his eyes as he remembered. He would not think of that now! It was behind him. He had buried himself deep in his work to forget and he would not allow that past tragedy to haunt him.

The lights of a respectable inn were just ahead of them, a lantern shedding a bright yellow glow over the pavement. More lanterns lit the archway that led behind to the inn yard, but Richard headed for the main door. He felt Georgie’s hesitation, the slight resistance, and looked down.

‘There’s nothing to fear here, Georgie. You may not be used to such places, but we shall be served, never fear.’

‘I ain’t frightened,’ the lad replied. ‘You don’t need ter hang on to me any longer. I shan’t run away. I ain’t frightened of yer no more. Besides, I’m starving!’

‘Well, they serve decent food here,’ Richard replied. He glanced at the lad’s face as they went inside. Now he could see the delicate profile and the pale complexion. Georgie was very slight and he found it difficult to assess his age. At first he had thought him a child of perhaps twelve or thirteen. His height was below Richard’s shoulder and he had felt the thinness of the lad’s body as he held him after he slipped on the rubbish. Looking at his face in the light, he thought now that the lad must be older—fifteen, perhaps.

‘Yes, sir?’ The host came bustling up to them, a smile on his face that dimmed somewhat as he saw the boy. ‘Captain Hernshaw, isn’t it? I believe I’ve had the honour of serving you before, sir?’

‘On a couple of occasions,’ Richard replied easily, ignoring the host’s expression. ‘You serve excellent chops, landlord, and a good pie. My young friend here is hungry and so am I. We shall have the best of whatever you have on offer this evening.’

‘Yes, sir. Would you be wanting the parlour, sir?’

Richard hesitated. He sensed tension in his companion and wondered what the lad could be thinking. ‘Yes, Goodridge. We shall have the parlour, if you will spare it to us.’

‘Just as you wish, sir. Will you want wine or ale?’

‘You may bring me some wine,’ Richard said. ‘Do you have any cordial that you might prepare for the boy? He is my groom’s lad and he has been helping me with the horses. I am afraid he has got himself into something of a state.’

‘Ah.’ The innkeeper nodded as he was enlightened, relief in his eyes. ‘Boys will be boys, sir.’

Georgie eyed him resentfully as they went into the private parlour, but said nothing until the innkeeper had left, shutting the door behind him.

‘Whatcha want ter say that fer?’

‘I thought it best to concoct some tale lest our host imagined something for himself. I do not wish to acquire a reputation for molesting young boys.’ Richard smiled wryly. ‘In case you had some such suspicion yourself, you may rest easy that my tastes do not lie in that direction.’

‘Oh…’ Georgie’s dark eyes studied his face for a moment, searching, all too wise and yet naïve at the same time. ‘I didn’t think it. I’ve met that sort afore and you ain’t. I’ll vouch for it if he turns up rough.’

‘Thank you,’ Richard said, a note of sarcasm in his voice. ‘If I need your help, I shall ask for it.’

‘No need to be so superior,’ Georgie said. ‘I was just offering…’

‘Thank you,’ Richard replied, a slight smile on his lips. Something in Georgie’s manner at that moment had confirmed what he had been thinking for a while now. This was no street urchin! He wasn’t sure why Georgie had tried to steal from him or why he was living rough, as he clearly was from his appearance. There was dirt on the delicate features and the lad’s clothes were disgusting. He smelled unpleasant! ‘I think we should call a truce, don’t you—just for long enough to eat our supper.’

Georgie didn’t answer but went to the fire, standing in front of it and holding his hands to the flames. He rubbed them together, shivering as if he had just realised how cold it was outside, but he did not speak. He continued to look into the flames when the door opened, admitting the innkeeper’s wife and a maid with two large trays filled with plates of food.

‘Come and eat, boy,’ Richard said. ‘This food smells delicious.’

The lad turned, stood looking at the food for a moment and then came to the table. He sat down on the bench, reaching for a plate of lamb chops. He took one and began to eat it with his fingers, tearing at the tender meat with his teeth—very white teeth for a street urchin, Richard noticed! He ate that chop and reached for another, demolishing that in much the same way, and licking the fat from his fingers—slender, delicate fingers.

‘That’s enough,’ Richard said when the second chop had gone down in a hurry. ‘Eat properly now and slower. If you haven’t eaten for days, it will make you sick if you stuff too much down at once. Try some of the pork pie. It is delicious.’ He cut a slice for himself, putting some pickles on to his plate and breaking a bit of the bread.

Georgie watched and then did the same. He began to eat small pieces of pie with a little relish, buttering his bread. He had small, smooth hands, Richard noticed. Now that he was eating properly he appeared to have table manners too. He sipped his lime cordial and appeared to have no fault to find with the taste.

Richard smiled inwardly. The lad had come from a good home. What had caused him to flee that home for a life on the streets he could not tell, but thought it would be worth discovering. When Georgie put down his knife and sat back, clearly having eaten his fill, Richard drank a little of his wine and observed in silence for a moment.

‘Better?’ he asked at last. His brows arched as the boy nodded. ‘Want to tell me about it?’

‘Whatcha mean?’ A look of uncertainty came into the lad’s eyes.

‘Your accent is false,’ Richard said. ‘You don’t always use slang and it slips from time to time. I don’t think you were reared in the slums, George. So where have you come from and why?’

‘You really want to know?’ The boy looked at him oddly. ‘Why?’

‘Because I should like to help you if I can. A life of thieving is not for a lad like you. I think you have run away from your home or your school—why?’

‘I ran away from—’ Georgie said and caught his breath. ‘I can’t tell you. You wouldn’t believe me.’ He got to his feet abruptly. ‘Thanks for the food…’

Richard stuck out his leg, preventing the lad from passing. ‘Sit down and tell me the truth.’

‘No! You can’t make me…’ Georgie tried to push past. Richard leapt to his feet and grabbed him. As he did so, Georgie’s disreputable cap came off and long dark locks came tumbling down, framing a face that now looked decidedly feminine. Richard gave a grim nod of satisfaction. He had thought something was wrong! This was no fragile lad but a girl! ‘Oh…’ Georgie put up her hand, trying frantically to hide her hair, giving a very unladylike oath. ‘Damn it! I thought you promised to let me go…’

‘And I may—if you give me a satisfactory answer. Who are you and what were you doing in that slum?’

She hesitated for a moment and then gave a reluctant sigh. ‘My name is Georgie Brown and I worked as a lady’s maid,’ she said, sitting down again. ‘I ran away from my place because my lady’s son would not stop pestering me. He kept trying to kiss me and…well, I couldn’t stay there any longer so I took some old clothes and ran off.’

‘Surely you had family who would have taken you in?’ Georgie shook her head. He arched his brow. ‘Friends? Another employer?’

‘I couldn’t ask for a reference, because she would have blamed me…she wouldn’t have given me one…’ Georgie’s eyes dropped, her hand clenching nervously in her lap. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to be at the mercy of—’ She broke off on a choked sob.

Richard’s gaze narrowed. ‘Why live on the streets and try to steal from people? Surely you cannot want to live this way?’

Georgie sniffed, a suspicion of tears in her eyes, but she was obviously trying not to cry. ‘I had some money, but it was stolen from me the first day I got to London. I thought I could find myself a job and I had enough money to live decently for a while, but…’ The tears were trickling down her cheek despite her efforts to stop them. She rubbed the sleeve of her disreputable jacket over her face, streaking the dirt. ‘After my purse was stolen, I did not know what to do and no one would give me money or food.’

‘So you thought you would turn to pickpocketing for a living?’ Richard smiled oddly. ‘Unfortunately, you chose me for your first victim—or was I the first?’

‘I stole some fruit from a stall and…and a kerchief from an elderly gentleman, which I sold…’ Her cheeks were uncomfortably red now. ‘Don’t look at me like that! I was hungry!’

‘Yes, you were,’ Richard agreed, watching her face thoughtfully. He wasn’t certain that she was telling him the whole truth even now, but he was prepared to go along with it for the moment. ‘Are you sure you have no family? If they live in the country, I could help you get there.’

Georgie hesitated for a moment and then shook her head. She had bundled her long hair back under her cap and her tears had dried. ‘Let me go now. You gave me supper, but you promised to let me go.’

‘I have no hold on you,’ Richard said. ‘But I know someone who might take you in. She is elderly and needs someone to look after her—and she might take you for my sake.’

‘I’ll be all right.’ Georgie eyed him suspiciously, clearly not quite trusting him. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Well, I am leaving,’ he replied. Getting up from the table, he threw some coins down for the serving wench. ‘You can come with me or find your own way…it’s your choice.’

Georgie didn’t answer, though he noticed that she followed him from the room, waiting a few feet away as he paid the host for their supper. Richard refrained from looking at her as he went out of the inn, standing for a moment under the street lantern, its smoky light spilling a yellow pool on the pavement. Some gentlemen were approaching the inn as he turned away, feeling the press of Georgie’s body suddenly, as she appeared to take shelter from something or someone. He said nothing until they had left the inn behind them, but he noticed that she looked back over her shoulder several times, seeming nervous.

‘What is it?’ he asked a short time later. ‘What frightened you after we left the inn?’

Georgie hesitated. ‘Did you mean it when you said you would help me get to the country?’

‘I never say what I don’t mean.’

‘Then will you—please? I have to leave London. I can’t stay now…’ She took a deep breath, her eyes filled with a silent appeal. ‘Please help me. I’m frightened…’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ Richard replied and frowned. She hadn’t been frightened earlier, but she was now. ‘Do you want to tell me why?’

Georgie shook her head, saying nothing. Richard sensed that he was being drawn into something that would cause him a great deal of trouble he could do without and yet there was an unconscious appeal in those eyes that tugged at his heartstrings, reminding him of something…someone else. He had failed that person through no real fault of his own, but he would not let that happen again.

‘Very well, I’ll take you with me,’ he said, reaching a decision. ‘I’ll give you a place to sleep and some decent clothes and then we’ll see. If I’m going to help you, you have to trust me. I promise you I shan’t harm you, but I can’t help you either—unless you tell me the truth.’ He sighed as he saw her face close down. She wasn’t ready to trust him yet. ‘Well, keep your secrets for the moment, child. You will at least sleep in a decent bed this night, and perhaps tomorrow you may feel like telling me the real story.’

Georgie glanced at the stern profile of the man walking beside her. He was tall and strong, his face attractive rather than handsome and just at the moment he looked annoyed. She supposed he was within his rights to be angry with her, because she had kicked him in the shins and she had stolen that packet from him. Most men would have cuffed her round the ear or sent for the watchman, but he had taken her to a decent inn and fed her. On the face of it he seemed trustworthy, but Georgie had learned in a hard school and she knew that people were often not what they seemed. She wanted to trust him, needed to be able to trust someone, because the last two weeks of living rough had shown her that she wasn’t very good at looking after herself.

She hadn’t thought much about what she was doing when she ran away. In her innocence she had thought it would be easy to fend for herself for a while—just until she thought about what she ought to do next—but losing her purse the very first day had changed everything. She had been so naïve, taking her money out to pay for food and just holding the purse loosely by the strings rather than tucking it away again. The man who had snatched it had been so quick that she had had no idea of his intention and he was away with it before she could recover from the shock. Since then she had been roaming the streets, wondering how she could earn or steal enough money to survive, and she had been desperate when she saw him…Captain Hernshaw, the innkeeper had called him.

What kind of a man was he? Georgie wondered. He looked like a military man, and, considering his title, he probably was—but he was nothing like the officers she had met in the past. There was something hard and wary about him, an air of being alert at all times…and the look in his eyes could send shivers down her spine. One part of her was telling her she ought to run now while she had the chance, because he would make a bad enemy and when he discovered she had lied to him he would be angry. But she’d seen him when they left the inn and it had sent shock waves through her, because she knew what would happen if he found her.

She had shrunk closer to the side of the man she had felt her protector, her fear very real until they were well away from him. Should she confess the whole truth to Captain Hernshaw, throw herself on his mercy and trust in him to help her? He was a stranger to her! If he knew the truth, he might try to take advantage. It was difficult to know who she could trust…if indeed she could trust anyone.

Georgie shivered. They were approaching a row of terraced houses in an elegant square. At least it was a respectable address, a place where she might be able to hide for a few days while she recovered her strength and took stock of her situation. She stayed close to her protector as he rapped at the door, which was opened by a gentleman of advanced years dressed in discreet black.

‘Ah, there you are, sir.’ The faded blue eyes flicked to Georgie’s face, but he gave no sign of curiosity. ‘You are early this evening, Captain Hernshaw.’

‘Yes, Jensen,’ Richard replied with a faint smile. ‘As you say I am early, though I may go out again later. Has Mrs Jensen retired yet?’

‘No, sir. She is in her sitting room. Shall I tell her that you require her services?’

‘She may attend me in the front parlour at her convenience. I wish to place this young lad under her care.’

‘Young lad in her care?’ For a moment Jensen’s face froze, but in seconds he had recovered. ‘Yes, of course, sir. I shall tell Mrs Jensen immediately. Is there anything else you require, sir?’

‘Well done, Jensen,’ Richard said and Georgie saw a gleam of appreciation in his eyes. ‘Nothing throws you, does it? No, I require nothing further. It is my intention to go out again once I have this small matter in hand.’

‘Just as you say, sir.’

The manservant went off. Georgie followed her protector into a parlour of medium proportions. It was furnished with heavy mahogany pieces that gave it a stately air, rather ponderous and definitely the home of a man who lived alone. There were cabinets filled with objects that looked to be of a scientific nature made of brass or steel, and two large globes on stands were placed one at either side of the window. A desk stood beneath the window, so that the light fell on it, and was cluttered with what looked like old pieces of bone to Georgie.

‘Are you a scientist?’ she asked, looking at her rescuer curiously.

‘No, but my uncle was,’ Richard replied. ‘He left this house to me and I have done nothing with it, as you see. Uncle Frederick never married. He left me his estate because I was his favourite and—’ He broke off, a look of pain in his eyes. ‘I shared some of his interests at one time, but I have been away for some years.’

‘Oh…’ Georgie picked up one of the pieces of what she now saw were fossils. ‘What is this?’

‘A part of the thigh bone of a dinosaur,’ Richard replied. ‘My uncle studied fossils of all kinds. I have no particular interest in bones myself, but I hardly ever use this house, except when I stay in town. I prefer the country and of course I have been away.’ He frowned at her. Here in the brighter lights of his house, he saw that she looked older than he’d first imagined, not truly a child. ‘You can’t be interested in any of this. Will you not tell me who you really are and why you ran away?’

‘I…’ Georgie began. She was still uncertain whether to trust him with the whole story and was relieved when someone knocked at the door. She saw his quick frown, but he did not hesitate.

‘Come in, Mrs Jensen.’

An elderly woman entered. She was plump, white-haired and looked approachable, though a little surprised and anxious. It was obvious that she did not know what to make out of the tale her husband had clearly been telling her.

‘There was something I can do for you, sir?’

‘Yes, Mrs Jensen,’ Richard replied. ‘I want you to help this young lad. He is in some trouble and I have rescued him and brought him here for his safety. He has eaten, but needs to bathe and requires more suitable clothes and a bed of his own to sleep in. Do you think you can help me out please, Dora?’

‘Yes, of course, sir.’ Dora Jensen gave him a look of such adoration that Georgie knew at once that the woman had known Captain Hernshaw many years and trusted him completely. ‘The poor little mite. I’ll take him away now, shall I, sir?’

‘Yes, if you please.’ He turned to Georgie. ‘Dora was my uncle’s housekeeper for many years, and we have known each other since I was in short coat s. She will look after you, Georgie. I have to go out again on business, but I shall see you in the morning. We shall talk further then.’

‘Yes…thank you,’ Georgie said, giving him an uncertain smile. ‘You have been…kind.’

He nodded to her, but made no further comment. Georgie saw the housekeeper was looking at her expectantly and she went to her dutifully, following her from the room and up the stairs.

‘We always keep a couple of rooms ready in case the captain decides to invite a guest to stay, though he doesn’t trouble us much,’ Mrs Jensen told her as she looked back, making certain Georgie was just behind her. ‘I often say to Jensen that things hardly changed when the old gentleman died.’

‘Was that Mr Frederick Hernshaw?’

‘Sir Frederick,’ Mrs Jensen corrected. ‘He was a gentleman of learning, quiet and scholarly. He sometimes had a few of the dons to dinner—university men like himself—but never ladies. There has not been a lady in this house for as long as I can remember…’ A speculative expression came to her eyes. ‘That brings me to you, young sir—if it isn’t rude of me to ask. Who are you and how did you come to meet the captain?’

Georgie took a deep breath, then smiled. ‘It is a long story, Mrs Jenkins. Captain Hernshaw doesn’t know it all yet, but if you promise to keep it to yourself I shall tell you a part of my secret.’ She swept off her disreputable cap, letting her long dark hair cascade over her shoulders. Her melting brown eyes met the housekeeper’s astonished look bravely. ‘I shall not deceive you, Mrs Jensen. I am not as I presently appear,’ she said, and then tucked her hair back under her cap.

‘Well, bless my soul,’ Dora Jensen said. ‘You’re a lady, miss! I thought there was something odd as soon as I laid eyes on you. You looked like a girl, but in your present dress it seemed unlikely—if you don’t mind my being blunt. It isn’t quite proper for a young lady to be in an unmarried gentleman’s house.’

‘No, you are quite right,’ Georgie said. ‘But when I tell you that I was near to starving when he found me, you may find it in your heart to look kindly on me.’

‘Never fear that I shan’t,’ Mrs Jensen said in a gentle tone. ‘I know a lady when I see one and something tells me you are in terrible trouble.’

‘Yes, I am,’ Georgie replied and her bottom lip trembled. ‘I am in such a mess—and I’m frightened, that’s why I came here to the house of a stranger. He gave me food and promised to help me, but he doesn’t yet know the real story, though he does know I am a girl.’

‘You never told him lies, miss!’

‘Yes, well, I couldn’t tell him the truth, not at first,’ Georgie said, warming to her new friend. ‘But I am in terrible danger. And I can’t tell you any more, because…well, I just can’t!’

‘Well, I never,’ Dora said and shook her head. ‘That is a shocking thing, miss—if you are telling me the truth?’

Georgie crossed her fingers behind her back. It was nearer to the truth than she had confessed to Captain Hernshaw, but still not the whole story. But she was afraid that if he knew the real story her protector might refuse to believe her and pack her off back to her family—and that was something she was determined to fight at all costs.

‘I wouldn’t lie to you, Mrs Jensen. I just can’t tell anyone the whole story.’

‘I hope you wouldn’t,’ the housekeeper said, her eyes going over her. ‘I am not sure what we ought to do with you, miss, and that is the truth. There are no young girls in this household and my clothes would fall off you.’

‘Oh, I don’t want to dress like a girl,’ Georgie said hastily. ‘I couldn’t stay here if people knew it was me—and I might be recognised if I went out in a girl’s clothing. I have been into fashionable society, you see. I should have no reputation left if people knew I was here in this house. Can’t you find me something suitable to wear—a youth’s clothes, perhaps?’

‘Well, I don’t know, miss.’ Dora looked doubtful. ‘This is a house of menservants for the most part, because it was always a bachelor’s home; there are no boys—but the captain might have something.’

‘You could always wash my things.’ Georgie looked down at herself doubtfully.

‘That I will not,’ Dora said decisively. ‘Those things are for the rag bag if I have my way. You can wear one of the master’s bathrobes. I’ll ask Henderson to find you something—he’s the captain’s valet and he served him when they were both in the army.’

‘Oh…’ Georgie hesitated. ‘Yes, I see…well, it will have to do for the moment. But you do see it is better if people think I’m a boy, don’t you?’

‘Yes, miss,’ Dora said, though she was still doubtful. ‘Well, here’s your room, miss—or perhaps I should call you master?’

‘Call me Georgie. It is my name and it could be for a boy or a girl, couldn’t it?’

‘You’re a rare one,’ Dora said and shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to make of you, and that is the truth, but the master put you in my care, and I’ll do the best I can by you. Now, this is your room, and I’ll send Henderson up with the bathtub. I’ll bring the hot water myself. Make yourself comfortable, Master Georgie, and I’ll be back soon.’

Georgie thanked her and went inside the room. It was a bedchamber of handsome proportions, though once again it was furnished in heavy dull furniture, the curtains and bedclothes in sombre shades. Very masculine and not at all what she had been used to all her life, but much better than the streets.

She sat down on a stool near the window and looked out as the door closed behind Mrs Jensen. At least she was safe here for the time being. No one would think of looking for her in this house. It had given her a shock to see him when she left the inn with Captain Hernshaw and she had been glad of her new friend’s protection. She closed her eyes for a moment, because she was feeling sick and frightened. To be so near to that man! It had made her feel very nervous, though it was unlikely he would have recognised her dressed in her filthy clothes. Yet the fear that he would had been very strong, because she would rather die than be taken back to her home and forced into a life that she knew would be unbearable.

She had run from her aunt and uncle, and they were in collusion with another person to rob her of what was rightfully hers. Not by murdering her, but by marrying her to a man she hated.

She would never marry him! Never, never, never! She would much rather be dead than his wife. For a moment the tears were very close, but she held them back. The worst of her ordeal was over now. She was no longer hungry or cold and could put the memory of her time on the streets behind her. She must think hard about what she was going to do next, because her situation was still precarious.

Her head came up as she heard a knock on the door and she called out that whoever it was might enter. A man of about three and thirty came in carrying a large metal tub, which he placed down in front of the fireplace. He then knelt down, striking a tinder and putting the flame to the dry kindling, which caught with the help of a little work with the bellows.

Georgie wandered over to watch him. He glanced up at her and she saw the fearful scar on his cheek. Instead of flinching, she felt an immediate sympathy for him and smiled, hoping that he would see his disfigurement did not cause her revulsion.

‘Thank you, that is very kind of you, sir.’

‘Call me Henderson,’ he told her, his dark eyes narrowed. ‘I’m the captain’s valet now. I served with him in the army. He saved my life when I was wounded, and he gave me a job. Mrs Jensen tells me you’re here because he rescued you too.’

‘Yes…’ Georgie hesitated because she wasn’t sure what else the housekeeper had told him. ‘I need something to wear, Henderson. Has the captain got anything suitable?’

‘His things will be too big for you, but I’ll find you something,’ he promised. ‘The captain’s things will do for tonight, young master, though you couldn’t go out in them.’

‘Thank you, but I do not wish to go out just yet,’ Georgie said. She glanced over her shoulder as Mrs Jensen entered, carrying a jug of water. She was followed by a younger footman carrying two cans of water, which he poured into the bath, before throwing her a curious glance on the way out.

‘You can leave us now, Henderson,’ Mrs Jensen told the valet, who had the fire going nicely. ‘I’ll help the lad.’

‘I’ll find you something to wear,’ Henderson promised and went off, leaving Georgie alone with the housekeeper.

‘You’d best lock the door until you’ve done,’ Mrs Jensen said with a frown. ‘If we’re to keep your secret for the time being, you don’t want anyone walking in without warning. I’ll bring you a robe—there’s one in the armoire that belonged to one of the guests and was left behind. Make sure you put it on before you open the door, and keep a towel round your head. You don’t want anyone guessing the truth.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Georgie agreed. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Jensen. I wasn’t sure what you had said to Mr Henderson.’

‘I told him no more than he needed to know,’ Dora replied. ‘But he’s no fool. I doubt it will take him long to work it out for himself.’

Georgie nodded. She locked the door after the housekeeper left and then stripped down to her skin. The sight of steam issuing from the bathtub was enticing, because she hadn’t been able to wash since her flight from her uncle’s house and the water smelled nice, as if it had been perfumed. She sighed with pleasure as she stepped into it and sank down into its warmth; it was just right, not too hot or too cold. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against a towel and relaxed. It felt so good! She had missed being able to indulge in the luxuries she had known all her life and had hated being dirty. How could people live that way? The answer must be that they had no choice, as she’d had none after her money was stolen.

A single tear trickled down her cheek, because until two years previously she had been the cherished only child of indulgent parents. The tragic carriage accident that had robbed her of both mother and father in one go and cast her into the arms of her mother’s older brother had changed her life completely. At first her aunt and uncle had seemed kind enough, but as she approached her nineteenth birthday, and the fortune that would soon be hers, she had noticed a change in their manner towards her. It was just a look, a conversation that ended abruptly as she entered the room, and then one morning she had overheard them discussing her.

‘He says he will settle the debt if we give him the girl,’ her uncle Henry Mowbray had said as Georgie hovered outside the parlour door. ‘I am deeply involved with him, Agatha. If I refuse he could ruin me—and he will. Believe me, he will!’

‘You should never have been drawn into his schemes,’ Aunt Agatha said harshly. ‘She is nothing to me, of course, but even so…that man gives me the shivers. I do not like this, Henry. Are you sure there is nothing else you can do?’

‘He wants her and the money, but at least he is willing to let the debt go. If I refuse, he might snatch her anyway—and he could ruin me in more ways than one.’

‘But that man…he frightens me, Henry. And she is little more than a child. I do not like the sound of this.’

‘Well, he says it is her or what I owe him, and you know I cannot pay.’

Georgie had run away swiftly as her uncle walked towards the door. She knew that she must not let him realise she had overheard their conversation, because he might decide to lock her in her room until he could force her to marry that man! And she was certain she knew exactly who he meant. She’d seen him looking at her when he visited her uncle and he made her feel as if she wanted to scrub herself all over! She would never marry him, whatever they did to her.

Georgie had left her uncle’s home that very night, determined that she would find a place to hide until she came into her fortune. Once she had it, she could set up home somewhere and pay a respectable companion to live with her. Her plans had been vague to say the least, and she had been acting on instinct when she took the mail coach for London, with some idea of visiting her father’s lawyers at the back of her mind, but when she lost her purse everything had changed. Her priority then had been to stay alive until she could work out what to do for the best, and now she was here in the home of a gentleman she had met for the first time that evening!

She had been fortunate, she knew that instinctively. There were worse perils on the streets of London than she had yet encountered, and, if she played her game skillfully, Captain Hernshaw might help her. She had to decide what to do for the best. There was one person who might help her, though she was reluctant to approach her great-aunt, who had always seemed remote and distant—but it might be the best way in the circumstances. It would perhaps have been best to seek her help in the first instance, but she had acted on impulse, afraid of the consequences if she delayed.

Georgie stayed in the bath until it began to get cold, then got out and dried herself, before putting on the striped soft velvet robe that the housekeeper had put out for her. It was so big that it kept falling off her shoulders and she had to hitch it up with the belt so that she didn’t trip over it all the time, but it felt warm. She went over to the dressing chest, looking at herself in the small mirror that hung from a stand above. Her dark hair was hanging about her shoulders, still slightly damp and curling in wisps as it dried, a complete giveaway of her true sex. She bit her lip, because she knew that she wouldn’t be able to hide the truth for long with her hair this way. She hadn’t wanted to cut it, but now she felt driven to do so.

She opened the top drawer of the military chest that formed part of the furnishings and saw a pair of scissors lying there. Her hand reached for them, hesitated and then grasped them determinedly. If she wanted to escape detection, she would need to be brave. She took a handful of her hair and held it up above her head, positioning the scissors. There was no help for it, her hair must go!

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ a voice said and Georgie turned to see that Henderson had entered the room via what must be a dressing room. She hadn’t realised that there was another door until this minute. ‘Proper shame to hack off all that lovely hair, if you ask me.’

Georgie got to her feet, staring at him in dismay. ‘I locked the door…’

‘I used the adjoining one, though I waited until I heard you moving about, miss. I did knock, but you didn’t hear me.’

‘I was lost in thought.’ Georgie stared at his face. ‘You knew I was a girl all the time, didn’t you? Did Mrs Jensen tell you?’

‘I sort of guessed it,’ Henderson agreed. ‘I’ve seen delicate young boys, and you might pass for one in poor light, but anyone looking at you now would know for sure. I’ve brought you some clothes—and a cap, so you can hide your hair.’

‘I think it should come off,’ Georgie said. ‘Would you help me, Henderson? I’m not sure I can do the back.’

‘I’ll cut it if you really mean it,’ the valet told her, ‘but I think it is a wicked shame, miss.’

‘You must call me Georgie,’ she said. ‘If anyone discovers the truth…I am in such terrible danger, you see. There is…someone who wants to…harm me.’ It was all she could tell him, as much as she dared to say for now. Tears stood in her eyes as she looked at him.

‘Not if I was near enough to stop him,’ Henderson said and scowled. ‘You should tell the captain, Georgie. He wouldn’t stand for it.’

‘But I can’t impose on him,’ Georgie replied. ‘He has already helped me. I have to get to my great-aunt’s house. She lives in Yorkshire and is the only person I can trust.’

‘You talk to the captain. He will help you get where you need to go,’ Henderson said, looking doubtful. He came towards her, looking at her long hair and the scissors. ‘Are you sure you want to cut this?’

‘Yes—’ Georgie began, but her next words were lost as she heard shouting and then someone knocked frantically at her door. She sprang to open it and Mrs Jensen almost fell into the room. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘It’s the master,’ the housekeeper cried, clearly in a state of shock. ‘He has been badly hurt, miss, and not far from the house. He just staggered in, covered in blood. He’s soaked in it! I never saw the like in my life. He needs you, Henderson!’ Her hands were trembling. ‘Nothing like this ever happened when the old master was alive. I can’t abide the sight of blood. I never could.’

‘Where is he?’ Henderson barked at her. ‘Pull yourself together, woman! I am going to need help.’

Mrs Jensen was shaking and in terrible distress. ‘They carried him to his bedchamber. I can’t help you. I’m sorry, but I just can’t…’

‘I will,’ Georgie said at once. ‘I’m not afraid of a little blood. Go to him, Mr Henderson, and I’ll follow as soon as I am dressed.’

‘Oh, miss,’ the housekeeper said, forgetting discretion in her distress. ‘The poor master. We’ve sent for the doctor, but he looks in a bad way.’

Chapter Two

Henderson went off without another word or a look in her direction. Georgie scooped up the clothes he had left for her and turned her back on the housekeeper as she dressed hastily in breeches and shirt that were far too big for her. She rolled up the sleeves of the shirt and legs of the breeches, tying them round the middle to hold them in with a neckerchief the valet had brought, then scraped her hair up under the cap.

‘Show me where,’ she said and Mrs Jensen stared at her, clearly still in shock. Her wits had gone begging and she looked dazed. ‘Mr Henderson will need help if Captain Hernshaw has been badly hurt.’

‘Yes, come this way,’ Dora said, coming out of her trance. ‘I’ll show you, but don’t ask me to help, because I shall faint at the sight of it. I never could stand blood, and that’s a fact!’

‘We can manage,’ Georgie said, understanding that she felt bad because of the way she had reacted. ‘My aunt was just the same. When my uncle had a shooting accident, I was the one who patched him up until the doctor—’ She stopped abruptly, because she had already said too much. She hadn’t intended to mention her uncle at all!

‘I thought…’ Dora shook her head, because the sight of her master stumbling into the house in such a state had shattered her nerves and she did not know where she was. She had assumed Georgie was alone in the world but now it seemed she had an aunt and uncle. However, it wasn’t her business, and there was no time to think of anything but Captain Hernshaw for the moment. ‘You had better come at once.’

Georgie followed her swiftly along the hall to a set of double doors at the end, which led into the master suite. She went in, leaving Mrs Jensen to hover outside. The first room was a sitting room, which she noticed seemed less dark and dull than the rest of the house, and might have been refurbished recently, but there was no time to stare, for a voice summoned her from what was clearly the bedroom beyond.

‘In here!’

Hurrying to answer Henderson’s call, Georgie found him bending over the figure of his master. There was blood everywhere and he was frantically trying to press down on an open wound in Captain Hernshaw’s shoulder and directing the footman to do the same to another wound in the captain’s thigh.

‘What can I do?’ Georgie asked, going to the bed.

Henderson glanced up. ‘Not going to faint on me?’

‘No, I shan’t do that,’ she replied. ‘Can I do that while you attend to the wound in his thigh? It looks as if it is the worst. Shall you stitch it or apply a tourniquet until the doctor arrives?’

‘We don’t have time to wait,’ Henderson replied tersely. ‘Unless I can close that wound, he will bleed to death.’

‘You’d better do it, then,’ Georgie said. ‘I’ll apply the pad to his shoulder and the footman can hold him down for you. He will likely come to his senses and fight you when you start.’

‘You’ve had some experience of this,’ Henderson said, giving her a knowing glance. He moved the footman to one side and looked at the deep wound to his patient’s thigh. ‘I’ll sew it roughly for the moment to stop the blood. It won’t be pretty, but it may save him.’

‘Get on with it,’ Georgie said, pressing down as hard as she could on the secondary wound. ‘Otherwise he will certainly die. No one can lose this much blood and live.’

Almost an hour later, Georgie looked down at the man lying amongst the stained sheets. His face was very pale and she thought he was completely out of it now, for he had fought them so hard when the cauterising iron was applied to his thigh that Henderson had had to knock him out with a strong dose of laudanum, forcing it down his throat as he raged at them in his agony.

She shuddered, because she knew that he had come very close to death that night. The experience had been far worse than when her uncle was shot in an accident, and she was feeling weak after their efforts to save his life. Even now there was no guarantee that he would live. It was likely he would take a fever or his wound might turn bad, as wounds so often did, the poison going inward.

‘You look terrible,’ Henderson said, glancing at her in concern. ‘You should go to bed, Georgie. I can mange him now.’

‘He will take a lot of nursing,’ Georgie replied, frowning. She did not know why, but she was reluctant to leave the man lying there so still and pale. ‘I’ve seen something like this before. It wasn’t as bad as this, but bad enough. Your master could still die of a fever—and he has lost a lot of blood.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ll have the doctor to him, but I don’t see what else we could have done.’

‘You did everything any doctor would have,’ Georgie said. ‘Did you learn that in the army?’

‘My father was an army surgeon,’ Henderson said. ‘It was his wish that I should take it up, but I wanted to be a soldier. I soon learned that my father’s skills were necessary out there and I made it my business to learn all I could—from him and from books.’

‘You saved Captain Hernshaw’s life.’

‘If he lives.’

‘If he lives,’ Georgie agreed, because she knew the outcome was still in doubt. ‘I’ll go to bed now, but I’ll come back later so that you can rest.’

He nodded his head, not bothering to answer. Georgie left him to finish clearing up the mess they had created. She was feeling so very tired. Everything had happened so fast that she hardly knew what had happened. But as they fought for Captain Hernshaw’s life she had known very clearly that she did not want him to die!

As she walked back to her room, Georgie was thinking about the man she had helped to tend. Seeing him lying there, his life in danger, had affected her more than she would have expected. She had only known him a few hours, but already she was praying for his recovery. She did not know why, but for some reason it was very important to her that he should live.

Georgie had fallen asleep almost as soon as her head had touched the pillow. When she woke again it was to see the first rays of the morning light creeping in at the window. For a moment she lay, stretching, feeling relaxed, and then suddenly it hit her and she recalled all the events of the previous night. She had slept in her clothes in case she was needed, and sprang out now, hurrying along the hall to Captain Hernshaw’s apartments. As she went in she saw that Henderson was applying a cloth to the patient’s forehead and went to him.

‘How is he?’

‘Feverish, I think,’ Henderson replied. ‘The laudanum kept him quiet most of the night, but he is starting to fight now.’

‘You’ve been up all night,’ Georgie said. ‘I meant to come, but I slept too soundly. Give me the cloth. I can do that and you should rest.’

‘Yes, I need an hour or two,’ Henderson agreed. ‘The doctor came and gave me some medicine for the fever. I’ve given him one dose and he shouldn’t have more for two hours. If I’m back, I’ll give it to him, but the measure is one spoonful, no more.’

‘Yes, I see,’ Georgie said and glanced at the dressing chest where the dark brown bottle and a spoon had been placed. She took note of the time by the clock on a tall chest. ‘He has the next dose at nine forty-five.’

‘Yes, good.’ Henderson looked approving. ‘I shall leave it to you, then—and thank you.’

‘He helped me. It is only fair I should help him.’

Henderson studied her in silence for a moment, but said nothing more, just turned and left her to get on with the job of bathing the patient’s brow.

‘Justin…’ Georgie turned her head as she heard the feverish mumbling. ‘Forgive me…I should have been there…don’t die…I’m sorry…it wasn’t your fault…it wasn’t your fault…’

Georgie wrung out her cloth in cool water and stroked it over his heated forehead. His dark hair was damp with sweat, hanging in rat-tails about his face. He wore his hair longer than most men did these days and she thought it gave him the look of a rebel, a man who did not conform to the fashion of the day.

‘Justin…no…’ He gave a tortured cry and sat up in bed staring wildly in front of him. ‘You can’t die… forgive me…forgive me…’

‘He forgives you,’ Georgie said as he fell back against the pillows with a sigh. She wasn’t sure if he could hear her in his fever, but she stroked her fingers down his cheek, soothing him. Touching him made her feel a little strange, because she felt he needed her and she longed to help him. He was in such torment and his pain tugged at her heartstrings, bringing tears to her eyes. ‘He knows you wanted to save him…it isn’t your fault if he dies…’

His hand shot out, gripping her wrist, his eyes staring at her, but seeing something beyond her. ‘I knew,’ he muttered. ‘I knew what they did to him! I should have stopped them. It wasn’t his fault…he was gentle…so gentle…they killed him…’

‘It’s all right,’ Georgie told him, her fingers caressing his cheek once more. ‘Rest now. Justin is safe…’

‘No, he died…’ Tears were trickling down his cheeks now. ‘He died because I wasn’t there to help…’

‘But you wanted to,’ Georgie comforted, her heart wrenched by his obvious distress. ‘You would have if you could…’

‘Failed him…’ His eyes had closed now, but she thought he seemed a little easier. She stroked his hair and his face, using the cool cloth to wipe away the sweat from his forehead and the tears from his cheeks. His outburst had been a revelation, for who would have guessed that he could be so moved? He seemed such a stern man, giving no sign of any deep emotions, but clearly he felt them. He had inadvertently revealed another side of his character, one that she might not have known was there if he hadn’t been struck down like this, and it had reached out to something inside her, arousing tender feelings she had not known she had. Georgie wondered who Justin was and what had happened to him—and why did Captain Hernshaw feel so very responsible?

It wasn’t her business, she decided as she sat back in the chair Henderson had drawn close to the bed. At least he was resting for the moment. He was still hot, but the mutterings had stopped and he appeared to be more comfortable.

She sat watching him, studying the curves and angles of his features. He wasn’t a handsome man by the standards of the day. His features were much too harsh, his nose straight and patrician. His mouth looked softer when he was sleeping, not hard or angry as it did when he was annoyed, and his lashes were thick and dark. She could not see his eyes at that moment, but she knew they were grey—eyes that could be cold or sparkle with amusement. He intrigued her. What kind of a man would bring a thief he had met on the streets to his home? What kind of man was tortured by something in his past? Had he done something dreadful? Was that why he begged forgiveness in his fever?

She would probably never know, Georgie realised. She had hoped to persuade him to help her reach her great-aunt’s, but he was unlikely to be able to leave his bed for some weeks. Could she stay here all that time—ought she even if he allowed it?

She was torn by uncertainty as she sat watching him. One part of her told her that she should leave as soon as she could, because it would be foolish to become more involved with him. Perhaps one of his servants would lend her enough money to take the coach to Yorkshire…and yet she could not desert this man while he lay ill. Against her will, she felt drawn to him in a way she could not explain. Besides, Henderson would need help until his master was over the worst. And, Georgie admitted, she wanted to help take care of him, to see him strong and well again, to touch him and… She shut out the foolish thoughts. She wouldn’t run away while he needed her, but she wouldn’t allow herself to have foolish thoughts either!

Henderson returned exactly two hours after he had left. Georgie wondered if he had slept at all, but when she asked if he had, he merely said he was rested.

‘I got used to not having much sleep when we were fighting on the Peninsula,’ he told her. ‘I don’t need a lot. Mrs Jensen said you were to go down when you are ready, Georgie. She will give you breakfast in the small parlour.’

‘Oh…thank you,’ Georgie said, becoming aware that she was beginning to feel hungry. ‘Yes, I shall. Do you want me to help with his medicine first?’

‘I can manage him,’ Henderson said. ‘He is easy enough when he’s like this; it’s when he begins to feel more like himself that he gets restless. He doesn’t make a good patient.’

‘You have nursed him before?’

‘He wouldn’t thank me for telling you, but, yes, he has been wounded badly a couple of times.’

‘He was lucky to have you.’

‘I’m the lucky one,’ Henderson said. ‘When I was caught by a blast from a cannon, it cut my face to ribbons, and I had a stomach wound that should have been fatal. They thought I was finished, but he wouldn’t leave me. He carried me back to base over his horse and he forced the surgeon to sew me back together, and then he sat with me until he knew I would live. He paid for someone to nurse me until I was on my feet again. A good many would have left me to die—and when they told me I was no more good for the army, he told me I had a place with him for life.’

Georgie looked at him intently. ‘You love him, don’t you?’

‘I’m not sure whether it’s brotherly love or gratitude,’ Henderson said with a grimace, ‘but I know I would die in his place if it came to it.’

‘I call that love,’ Georgie said and smiled. ‘I’ll come back later. We’ll look after him together.’

‘Yes, miss, if that’s what you want.’

‘It is,’ she said, ‘and you can call me Georgie.’

Henderson shot her a curious look, but didn’t answer. She was discovering that he was a man who spoke only when he thought it necessary, and she felt pleased that he had told her his story. It must mean that he liked her and trusted her. She felt that she had made a friend, someone who might help her if she were in need.

She went downstairs to the small parlour and discovered that Mrs Jensen had set out a table for her. There was a dish of scrambled eggs with ham and some good fresh bread. It smelled wonderful and she ate most of what had been left for her, gathering the dishes afterwards just as Jensen entered.

‘There’s no need for you to do that,’ he said, his expression doubtful and a little sad as he looked at her. Georgie suspected that he thought her no better than she should be. Perhaps he believed she was masquerading as a boy so as to carry on an illicit affair with his master. ‘Mrs Jensen and I are used to taking care of things in this house.’

‘Have you been here a long time?’ Georgie asked.

‘Forty-odd years,’ he replied. ‘I served the old master until he died. I thought I would leave when that happened, but I’ve stayed on to take care of things for the captain.’

‘I am sure he is grateful,’ Georgie said. She sensed that he was not as willing to be as friendly as his wife, and that he didn’t quite trust her. ‘But you should tell him if you wish to leave.’

‘Don’t you go saying a word to him!’

‘No, I shan’t, but if you would like to retire you should consider telling him yourself.’

‘When he has time to settle down…’ Jensen shook his head. ‘That’s if he recovers from what happened last night…terrible to think such a thing could happen so close to home.’

‘It may be as well it did,’ Georgie said. ‘Had he not been able to get home, he might have bled to death in the street.’

Jensen looked grey in the face. ‘Nothing like that ever happened when the old master was alive. I can’t think what things are coming to…’

He looked suddenly old and his hand trembled as he gathered the dishes. Georgie felt sorry for him, because he was so obviously upset.

‘I am sure Captain Hernshaw will recover now,’ she said. ‘Mr Henderson was very quick and clever last night. He saved the captain’s life.’

‘You helped him,’ the old man said and shook his head sadly. ‘Mrs Jensen told me she couldn’t have done it. I’m not sure why he brought you here, but it may be a good thing.’ He sounded and looked doubtful even as he said the words.

‘I was in trouble,’ Georgie said. ‘Captain Henderson helped me—but I would have done it for anyone. I am not frightened by a little blood.’

‘It was a lot of blood,’ the old man said, giving her a reproachful look. ‘We’ve never had young ladies in this house…and certainly not dressed as you are.’

‘I am sorry if you disapprove, but I am in hiding, you see. If a certain person discovered where I am, he might…kill me.’ She had decided to stick to this part of her story, because she couldn’t be sure of the reaction she would get if she told the truth.

‘Such goings-on! The old master would turn in his grave if he knew…’ Jensen grumbled to himself as he picked the tray up and went out of the room.

Georgie sighed. She would have felt better if she had been allowed to help, but it was obvious that Jensen would not allow that. His wife would probably resent it if Georgie offered to help in the kitchen. There was nothing for it but to find a book to read, though she doubted she would find anything of interest in this room.

She wandered over to the bookshelves, looking at the volumes of history and scientific volumes. They would send her to sleep in five minutes! She looked further along, almost giving up until she saw the book of poetry. It was new, bound in red leather, and very much out of place amongst all the others. Picking it out, she frowned as she opened it and a folded paper fell out. Georgie replaced it without opening it because it wasn’t hers to read. She took the book and curled up in a chair by the window, beginning to read, but after a while she saw that it had been marked in ink in the columns and some words had been underlined.

What a terrible way to treat a new book! And it was by Lord Byron, something she had wanted to read for a long time! Who could have done such a thing?

She frowned over it, trying to ignore the ink marks, but they annoyed her and she found herself fixing on them when she ought to have been reading the poetry. She was caught by the regularity of what seemed to be a pattern, and began to wonder if perhaps it was a code of some kind, though she couldn’t make much sense of it. She flicked through the book and found the folded paper someone had left inside, hesitating because it wasn’t hers and yet intrigued.

Oh, what did it matter? It shouldn’t have been left there for anyone to find if it was important. She unfolded it and read through the few lines of explanation, a spiral of excitement curling through her as she realised that she was right. It was a code and with this she could break it easily. By studying the text in the poetry book and then comparing it to the instructions in the letter, Georgie soon realised that if you took out the letters that had been marked you could make new words and sentences.

It was a message of some kind! She looked at what she had thought was just scribbling in the margins and realised that the numbers and letters referred to certain lines. Someone had already done a lot of the work and Georgie found it easy to work from that person’s notes. Counting along the lines, she found the words that had been underlined and suddenly the message began to jump out at her.

It concerned a plot to kill members of the government and an important man, who, she thought, was meant to be the Regent! She sat holding the book for some minutes, staring at it in disbelief, thinking she must be mistaken. Surely she was wrong! If she had translated this correctly, the man she had tried to steal from the previous evening might be concerned in a wicked plot to bring down the English government and the throne!

She couldn’t be right! She must have made a mistake…and yet the terrible attack on Captain Hernshaw that had happened close to his house might be directly connected with what she had just discovered. No! She would not believe he was capable of such infamy! Georgie got to her feet, placing the letter back where it belonged and closing the book with a snap. She returned it to its place on the shelf. She had made a mistake when deciphering the message…or perhaps Captain Hernshaw was concerned with this plot because he was trying to stop it happening…

It had to be that, she decided, because she could not—would not—believe that the man who had treated her so well when he might have handed her over to the watch was a traitor to his country.

Besides, she had no right to pry into his private affairs. Glancing at the clock, she saw that some hours had passed. It was time that she went up to give Henderson a chance to find himself something to eat.

They took turns to watch him throughout the rest of the day and during the night, but there was little change, though once while Georgie was with him he seemed to be feverish. Once again she heard the name Justin, though what he was saying wasn’t clear this time. She smoothed his damp hair back from his forehead, talking to him softly, and after a while he quietened. She smiled down at him, thinking how much younger he looked when he was resting. She knew a strong temptation to kiss him and stroke his face, but fought it because it wouldn’t be right to take advantage when he was vulnerable. She sat down again to watch over him from a distance. When Henderson came back, he was sleeping peacefully.

‘He seems better,’ the manservant remarked. ‘I think he may be through the dangerous time, Georgie.’ He smiled at her. ‘Go to bed now. I can manage him from now on.’

‘I’ll come back so that you can have your breakfast,’ Georgie replied. ‘You told me that the trouble will start when he comes to his senses, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but…’ He shook his head at her. ‘It isn’t fitting for a young lady to be in a gentleman’s bedchamber.’

‘Who will know?’ Georgie asked and grinned. ‘I shan’t tell if you don’t.’

He tipped his head to one side, considering her. ‘Who are you, miss? I’d swear you were a lady if I didn’t know he found you on the streets.’

‘My name is Georgina, but I can’t tell you any more than that,’ she said. ‘I ran away from…where I was, because something terrible would have happened if I hadn’t.’

Henderson gave her a look of disbelief. ‘Are you sure you’re telling me the truth?’

‘I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t.’

‘The captain will want to know when he’s himself again.’

Georgie looked at their patient. ‘I want to trust him, but I am afraid he might not believe me.’

‘If you tell him the truth, he will help you.’

‘Will he?’

Henderson looked at her hard. ‘You will have to trust someone eventually—and he is the one who can help you.’

‘Yes, I know. I will try, honestly, I will—and could you please call me Georgie? I don’t want anyone outside this house to know I’m a girl.’

‘They’ve only to see your hair,’ Henderson told her. ‘I shan’t betray you, but you must be very careful.’

Georgie agreed that she would and he went away to have his breakfast. She stood watching over their patient for a while; he seemed to be resting more easily. She bent to stroke his hair from his forehead, smiling at him as he murmured in his sleep, and then she leaned down to kiss him lightly on the cheek. His eyelids flickered, which made her back away hastily. She wandered over to the window, where she discovered a rather battered-looking chess set on a little table near the window. She began to set out the pieces and had just finished placing them when Henderson returned. He smiled as he saw what she had done and came over to the table.

‘We played this many an evening during the campaign,’ he told her. ‘There wasn’t much else to do, miss.’

‘Shall we play a game?’ Georgie suggested. ‘I used to play with my father, but I haven’t played for ages. I’ll take white and you have black.’

‘Yes, if you wish,’ Henderson agreed and moved a piece for his opening gambit.

Georgie moved a pawn to block him and battle was joined. She gave a chuckle of delight as he removed her first piece, for it was obvious that he was a worthy opponent and she need not fear to play her best game. Neither of them noticed when the man in the bed opened his eyes.

Richard lay with his head resting against the pillows for some seconds before he became aware that he was not alone in the room. He was at first conscious only of the throbbing agony in his thigh. There was some soreness in his left shoulder, but it was his thigh that pained him the worst. He could not for a moment think where he was, his pain swirling him back to the battlefield and the agony he had endured from wounds gained there. The girl’s laughter penetrated the fog that held him, making him focus on the two figures near the window.

It was a few moments before he realised that one of the two was Henderson and the other…was a rather odd-looking urchin dressed in clothes that were far too big for him. He inched his way up against the pillows and the sharp stab of pain cleared his thoughts. No street urchin, but the girl he had brought home the night he was attacked.

Richard grimaced as he continued to watch them. Her laughter was infectious as she moved her chess pieces with lightning speed and gave a chortle of glee.

‘Check!’

‘I didn’t see that coming,’ Henderson told her ruefully.

‘I am sorry to interrupt your game, but could I have some water?’

Richard’s words brought their heads round instantly. Somewhere beyond the pain and the need to relieve his thirst, he felt amusement at the guilt reflected in the girl’s face. She got up at once and went swiftly to pour water into a glass.

‘Come back to us, have you, sir?’ Henderson said, unperturbed. ‘I thought you were over the worst last night. You gave us all a fright, captain. What happened?’

‘I had been somewhere and it was on my way back…’ Richard frowned as he recalled the murderous attack. He had delivered his package to the man who waited for it and returned home. He had had no sense of being followed and the attack was silent and deadly, his assailant stabbing him in the leg viciously and then the shoulder. ‘Rather like you, Henderson, I didn’t see it coming.’

‘That’s unusual for you, sir. You hadn’t been drinking?’

‘Not sufficiently to lose my awareness. Whoever it was must have been a professional.’

‘And good at his work,’ Henderson said. ‘If you hadn’t been so close to home, that thigh wound would have done for you, captain. You almost bled to death.’

‘Who patched me up?’

‘Mr Henderson,’ Georgie said, bringing him the glass of water. ‘He did everything a doctor could, but much more quickly. We couldn’t wait because you were losing too much blood.’

Richard’s gaze centred on her face. ‘You didn’t let this rascal help patch me up, Henderson?’

‘Georgie was very good. She has helped me look after you, captain. She didn’t flinch at the sight of blood. I should have been hard put to it to manage without her.’

‘So you know she is a girl?’ Richard sipped the water she offered, his hand closing over hers as she held the glass to his lips. He drank a little and then nodded. ‘Thank you, that is enough.’ He sighed and lay back against the pillows, his eyes closing as he felt a shaft of pain. Georgie started to move away, but his hand came out, gripping her wrist with surprising strength. ‘Where did you get those ridiculous clothes?’

‘Henderson gave them to me. I think they belong to you.’

‘Indeed?’ His eyes opened once more. He looked at his manservant, who nodded. ‘We must buy her something suitable. Perhaps Mrs Jensen will know.’

‘I can’t stay here dressed as a girl,’ Georgie said. ‘I don’t mind wearing your things.’

‘Get her something that fits her, Henderson,’ Richard said. ‘If she is determined to keep up the masquerade, make it a youth’s clothing.’

‘Yes, sir, I’ll do that,’ Henderson said. ‘Frederick has a young brother. I’ll ask him to buy a few things.’

‘Yes, do that…’ Richard sighed and closed his eyes. The girl was a problem he could have done without at this particular time, but she had made herself useful. Besides, he just did not have the energy to deal with her for the moment. ‘I need to rest…’

He was vaguely aware of some whispering going on, but the strange tiredness was creeping over his body and he was slipping away, his eyelids too heavy to open.

Georgie left the bedchamber. Henderson had told her that she should find something to eat for herself, and she went down to the parlour. Some cold ham, pickles and fresh bread had been left out for her. There was also a pot of coffee, but it was nearly cold. She drank some because she did not wish to trouble Mrs Jensen for more.

After she had eaten, she gathered the dishes and took them through to the kitchen. Mrs Jensen was there but there was no sign of her husband.

‘You shouldn’t have bothered with those, miss.’

‘I like to help,’ Georgie said. ‘I don’t want to cause more trouble for you than I need, Mrs Jensen.’

‘Well, you’re not a bother, whatever Jensen says,’ Dora told her kindly. ‘I rather like having a young person in the house. It makes a change, and I told Jensen so. He was ready to retire years ago, but I’m younger. I still enjoy my work, and that’s a fact, miss.’

‘I am glad I am not a trouble to you,’ Georgie said. ‘I know Mr Jensen thinks it is all very shocking, and of course he is right—but I have nowhere else to go. If Captain Hernshaw would hire a post-chaise for me, I could leave, but I couldn’t ask him while he was unconscious, could I? As soon as he is well enough, I will ask for a loan of some guineas and then I can leave.’

‘Well, as to that, miss, it is up to the captain who he brings home, and that is what I told Jensen. We’re here to look after the house, not to judge. Besides, there’s nothing going on—couldn’t be with the master so poorly.’

‘He has come to his senses this morning,’ Georgie said. ‘I helped to nurse him when he was in the fever, Mrs Jensen, but he is a strong man and he will soon recover, I think.’

‘I am sure you are right, miss,’ the housekeeper said and nodded her head as if she had the same thought. ‘Mr Henderson told me he had been wounded badly before. It was a good thing you were here to help, that’s all I can say, miss.’

It was on the tip of Georgie’s tongue to ask her to remember that she was supposed to be a boy, but she decided it didn’t matter. As long as she stayed in the house, and out of the way if the captain had visitors, she would be safe enough. She didn’t know that the man she disliked so much was in town to look for her. He could be here for a quite different reason. All she had to do was stay here until she could persuade Captain Hernshaw to help her.

She had decided that she must try to get to her great-aunt’s home and ask her if she would take her in. It need only be for a short time, after all, because as soon as she was in possession of her fortune she could hire a companion and set up her own establishment.

In the meantime, Georgie needed something to amuse herself. She went to the parlour that she had made her own since coming to the house and began to wander about the room. She took down the book of poems and began to read through it, trying to ignore the scribbling in the margin.

After a while, she laid the book aside. Obviously, Captain Hernshaw was mixed up in something nasty. It had not occurred to her previously to wonder why he should have been in those mean streets where he’d found her, but now she frowned over it. Had he gone there to meet someone? She knew from her own experience that the slums were haunted by rogues, thieves and worse—so what had a man like that been doing there? And what was in the package she had snatched from him?

It must have been important for him to chase after her the way he had. Could he possibly be involved with the kind of people who would work against the government and the Regent? She had begun to like him rather a lot and tried to dismiss the thought.

Getting to her feet, she was about to replace the book, but then changed her mind, taking it with her as she went back upstairs. She paused outside Captain Hernshaw’s rooms, then knocked and entered. She saw at once that their patient was awake, sitting up against the pillows. Henderson had clearly been busy, for his master was clean-shaven and looked much better than he had when she’d left earlier.

He gave her an odd look as she entered. ‘What are you doing here? I must thank you for helping Henderson, but you should not continue to visit me here now—unless you have no reputation to lose?’

Georgie blushed. ‘I came to see if I could do anything for you,’ she said. ‘If you would like me to read to you…’ She hesitated and then approached the bed, showing him the book. ‘I found this downstairs.’

‘Did you indeed?’ Richard glared at her. ‘And have you been reading it?’

‘Yes…’ She looked away from his hard gaze and then back. ‘It has writing in the margins and some words are underlined.’

‘And what do you make of that?’

Georgie took a deep breath. ‘I am not sure. It might be some sort of a code…’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because I tried making sense of it.’ She hesitated, then confessed, ‘There was a paper inside that gave me instructions for breaking the code.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yes…at least I was able to form words and sentences.’

‘And that has made you wonder if I am a spy or an assassin?’

‘No, of course not,’ Georgie denied, a flush in her cheeks. ‘I mean…it does look bad, but I didn’t think you…but you were attacked and I wondered…’

‘I should have left you where I found you,’ Richard said ruefully. ‘I knew you were trouble from the start.’

‘You’re not involved in a plot to kill the Regent, are you?’ Her eyes opened wide.

‘If I were, you would have just signed your own death warrant,’ Richard said, a gleam of annoyance mixed with laughter in his eyes. ‘No, I am not involved in it—but I may be involved in trying to stop someone who is.’

‘Yes…’ Georgie let out a long sigh of relief. ‘I thought it must be that. I am so glad it isn’t you.’

‘Are you?’ He arched his right brow. ‘Are you able to keep a secret, Georgie?’

‘Yes, of course. I shan’t breathe a word.’ She hesitated, feeling uncomfortable at what she must do now. ‘Could you lend me some money—enough to travel post-chaise to Yorkshire?’

‘Lend you—or give you?’

‘Oh, I should pay you back soon,’ Georgie said. ‘If you would do that, I could leave at once and I would not trouble you again.’

Richard’s gaze narrowed. He studied her face for a moment or two. ‘I could lend it to you,’ he said. ‘I may do if you tell me the truth. I know you told me some story of having been forced from your post as a lady’s maid because of your employer’s son, but I think you were lying to me. I don’t think you were ever a maid, were you?’

She hesitated, and then met his eyes. ‘I didn’t know you then,’ she said. It was no use, he wouldn’t believe her if she told him more lies. She was going to have to tell him the truth! ‘You could have been anyone. My real name is Georgina Bridges. My father was Sir John Bridges, my mother the youngest daughter of Lord Nairn. They were both killed in an accident two years ago—and they left a fortune in trust for me. I inherit in a few weeks’ time. My uncle, Sir Henry Mowbray, wants me to marry a man he owes money to—but I hate him, so I ran away. They want my money and they think he will give some of it to them if they make me marry him, but I know he would keep it for himself. He is so horrid…the way he looks at me makes me feel…dirty.’ She ended on a sob of distress. ‘I ran away as soon as I heard them discussing it. I would rather die than marry him.’

‘And what is the name of this man?’

‘He is a Frenchman. His name is Raoul Thierry. He seems to be a rich gentleman, but there is something sinister about him.’ Georgie shuddered. ‘I did not know what to do when I heard my aunt and uncle talking so I ran away, but then…I told you what happened. I suppose my lawyer would give me money if I asked, but he might not believe it really was me.’

Richard’s eyes went over her. ‘In your present attire I am certain you would not get past his clerk. The money isn’t a problem, Georgie. But I am not certain you are telling me the truth.’

‘I am this time! I promise I am.’

‘Even so, you are vulnerable. You obviously aren’t capable of looking after yourself.’

‘I should have gone to my great-aunt the first time. I was wrong to stop in London.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘I know you must be angry. I tied to rob you and now you are ill and you do not want the bother of me.’

‘No, I do not want the trouble of a young lady,’ Richard admitted and frowned. ‘However, Henderson told me how you helped him and I owe you for that, Georgina.’

‘Please do not call me that! My Aunt Agatha calls me Georgina and I hate it. I am Georgie—and you don’t owe me anything. I did what anyone would have in the circumstances.’

‘No, that is not strictly true. Apparently Dora nearly fainted at the sight of the blood. You did far more than I could have expected of a stranger.’

‘You gave me supper and somewhere to sleep.’

‘And by doing that you became my responsibility,’ Richard said. ‘I am confined to bed for the next week or so, but once I am on my feet I shall take you to your great-aunt.’

Georgie looked at him doubtfully. ‘You cannot want that trouble, sir. Lend me the money and I shall go alone.’

‘No, you will not,’ Richard said. ‘If you have told me the truth, you may be in some danger. Therefore it is my duty to see you safe.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Forgive me, but I am weary. Please go away now. You have my promise that I shall take you to your great-aunt when I am able. For the moment you must be patient and wait.’

Georgie stared at him for a few seconds, but he had leaned back against the pillows, his eyes closed. She placed the book of poetry on the bed and then walked softly to the door, glancing back at him as she went out. She felt frustrated, for she knew that without money she could not hope to reach her great-aunt’s house. She could go to her lawyer, but it was doubtful if he would see her in her present state of dress—and if he did he would hardly believe that she was Miss Georgina Bridges.

If she ran away again, she might starve or become ill before she could reach safety. It seemed as if she must stay here, and wait for Captain Hernshaw to recover his strength sufficiently to accompany her to Yorkshire.

Richard opened his eyes as the door closed behind her. Her story was believable enough, though she had lied to him previously. If he accepted it this time, it would be wrong to let her go anywhere alone. Besides, she had mentioned a name—a name that he had learned to associate with treason.

It could be coincidence, but it was possible that by delivering Miss Bridges to her great-aunt, he would learn more of the man—or group of men he sought.

For a moment he wondered if she had been sent to rob him that night. She had certainly tried to take the package containing new information about the plotters—perhaps the names and whereabouts of men concerned in the conspiracy to bring down the government and cause chaos in England. He had not yet had the chance to decode it, though he’d delivered it to others who might recently have done so.

They needed the information, because the plot must not succeed. With the Regent dead, as these villains planned, there would be men in England who would not hesitate to settle with the French. Napoleon Bonaparte was barely contained in his island prison of Elba, where rumour had it he reigned like a prince. If he were to break free and march again, the Allies would join together to defeat him—but if England were in chaos…

Richard knew that without the British the Allies would not stand long against Bonaparte. It was imperative that this plot be foiled and quickly before things got out of hand.

If Georgie was involved with these people, he would be best to stay close to her. His instincts told him that she was innocent—and yet she had decoded the message in the poetry book. It was that first clue that had been instrumental in alerting other members of the intelligence service that a plot was afoot. He believed that the near-fatal attack on him had been because of his involvement in the affair, but he had not seen the face of his attacker for it had been covered by a muffler and only a pair of cold eyes had been visible.

Looking into those eyes briefly, Richard had known that his life was in the balance. It was merely the sound of approaching voices that made his attacker run off before his work was done. From somewhere he had found the strength to stumble the few yards to his home, and Henderson had done the rest…with the girl’s help.

Richard frowned. If his manservant were to be believed, Georgie had done well. He’d never had cause to doubt Henderson and must therefore be grateful to her for her contribution, and she was certainly entitled to the benefit of the doubt.

Richard knew that he had been feverish, and wondered what he had said in his muddled state. Had he mentioned his work for the government…or had he spoken of more intimate things? He knew that in the fever he had thought of Justin, his cousin. He felt the sharp grief strike at his heart, because the memories were still painful. Justin had been clever, a bright future his for the asking, but he had been led astray, his mind corrupted by opium and wine. He had sunk lower and lower, beyond the reach of his studious father, until at the last they destroyed him…those evil men who had drawn him into a web of bitter despair.

Richard had been away fighting and had known nothing of it until he returned. At his uncle’s behest he had gone looking for the cousin he loved as a brother, but when he found him it had been too late. Justin had been living in squalor, lying amongst his own filth in a disgusting house, his mind destroyed, his body wasting with a disease that could not be cured. Richard had taken him to a place of safety, staying by him until the last, holding him as he choked on his own blood. The memory haunted him, would never leave him. It had made him the man he was, harsh, stern, living only for his work.

The girl was an interruption, nothing more. Yet she had touched something that had been dead, something deep inside. For a moment as she stood there smiling down at him, he had wished that he had the strength to take her in his arms and kiss her until those wonderful eyes turned smoky with desire. It was ridiculous, for, even had she not been a lady, he was as weak as a kitten. However, she had stirred his heart in a way that no one had for years—and he found that he could not simply desert her.

He sighed and closed his eyes.

There was nothing much he could do for the moment. It would be a few days at the least before he could think of getting up, let alone taking a long journey.

Chapter Three

‘But that is so silly,’ Georgie said, looking mutinously at Mrs Jensen. ‘Why will you not allow me to carry that tray up to Captain Hernshaw? I have nothing else to do and I am sure you have other jobs you could be doing.’

‘The master says it is not fitting that a young lady should wait on him in his bedchamber, and I agree with him, miss.’

Georgie scowled at her and walked away, finding her way to the front parlour where she usually sat unless she joined Henderson in the servants’ hall below stairs. He had taken pity on her a few times these past days, playing cards with her to help pass the time. But he was often busy with his duties, and since Georgie had been banned from her host’s bedchamber she was feeling bored and frustrated. More than once she had considered leaving this house and setting out on her own, but the lack of funds meant she would need to walk all the way to Yorkshire, which she knew was impossible, or hitch a ride—and that was too dangerous.

‘Oh, damn him,’ Georgie muttered. She wandered round the room at a loss for something to do, and ended up standing in front of the window. As she glanced down into the street, she saw a man crossing the road towards the house and flinched back. Was he coming here? Did he know she was staying here? Surely he couldn’t?

She felt a thrill of horror as the knocker sounded. He was coming here! She opened the parlour door and listened, poised for flight and hearing the sound of Jensen’s voice as the man inquired for Captain Hernshaw.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ Jensen said. ‘Captain Hernshaw is not available at the moment. If you would like to leave your card, I shall tell him you called.’

‘Very well. You may tell your master that I shall hope to hear from him. Good day.’

‘Good morning, sir.’

Georgie crept to the top of the stairs as Jensen placed the calling card on a silver salver on the hall table. He went off to the rear of the house and she ran down the stairs, picking up the card. She read the few words printed there: Raoul Thierry of Westbury House, Thraxton Morton, Yorkshire. On the back were scrawled the words: ‘We may be of some use to each other if we could meet, Thierry.’

What could he want with Captain Hernshaw? Had he learned that Georgie was staying here? She frowned over the card and then slipped it into the pocket of the jacket she was wearing. She dare not take the risk that he would come here to meet Captain Hernshaw while she was here. She would keep the card for now and give it to Captain Hernshaw when he delivered her to her great-aunt’s house.

Georgie went quickly up to her own room. She glanced at herself in the small mirror on the dressing chest, her melting brown eyes wide and fearful. Henderson had found her some clothing that fitted her much better than Captain Hernshaw’s. She looked like a very young boy until she took her cap off, letting her luxuriant hair tumble down over her shoulders. She knew that anyone who saw her dressed this way would think her shameless. She was slender and the short buff-coloured coat covered her breasts, which would otherwise have given the game away, but when she took it off they were noticeable beneath the soft linen. It was after she had wandered into the captain’s bedroom looking like this that he had banned her from visiting him.

‘Have you lost all sense of modesty, Georgie?’ he had asked, sounding annoyed. ‘Dressed like that with your hair loose—it is too provocative and not the attire for a gentleman’s bedchamber, even if he is still as weak as a kitten.’

The look he had given her then had made Georgie blush. She had replaced her cap, but the ban had not been rescinded. She was barred from visiting him in his bedchamber and as yet he had not attempted to come out, though it was more than a week.

How much longer would he be confined to his bed? Her restlessness had increased since catching sight of the visitor that morning. She thought that Captain Hernshaw did not know him, for he had not reacted to the name when she mentioned it, though it was obvious that Raoul Thierry wanted to meet him. It was imperative that they did not meet until after Georgie had reached her great-aunt’s house!

How much longer must she stay here! If only he would lend her enough money to pay for her fare, but she knew that it was useless to ask. He was determined not to let her go alone and so she had no choice but to wait for him to recover.

Some days later, Georgie was curled in a large wing chair when the door opened and she sensed someone looking at her. She glanced up, her heart jerking as she saw Captain Hernshaw. He looked as powerful as ever, his strong shoulders clothed in a coat that fitted him closely, his breeches pale and elegant with only a slight thickening at the thigh to show that he had recently been wounded and still wore a bandage.

‘Oh, are you better?’ she said, uncurling and getting to her feet. ‘This is the best chair. Perhaps you would like to sit here?’

‘So this is where you get to,’ Richard said. She wasn’t wearing her coat and the shirt clung to her curves, making him realise that she was far from being the child he had thought her that first night. ‘Why don’t you use the parlour? It is more comfortable than this room.’

‘Mrs Jensen always lights a fire here. I didn’t like to ask her to light the parlour fire.’

‘I shall do so,’ Richard said and limped towards her. He grimaced from the pain. If Henderson had had his way, Richard would still be in bed, but he was tired of lying there when there was so much needing his attention. ‘What are you doing here? I shouldn’t have thought there was much in this room to interest you.’

‘There isn’t,’ Georgie said and pulled a face. ‘But Dora would not let me visit you.’

‘She was obeying my orders,’ Richard said. ‘You are bored. I am sorry. I had no intention of staying more than a few days for I have business elsewhere.’

‘It’s my fault,’ Georgie said, voicing thoughts even she hadn’t realised were there until now. ‘If you hadn’t taken a detour to help me, you would not have had to go out again that night.’

‘If it hadn’t happened then, it would another day,’ he said, voice and face expressionless. ‘Besides, I am on the mend now. We shall be ready to leave in a couple of days.’

‘Really?’ She discovered that she was no longer in a hurry. ‘You must take your time, sir. I should not wish your wound to break open again on my account.’

‘I heal quickly,’ Richard said. His eyes narrowed. ‘Be careful no one sees you like that, Georgina. I’m afraid your secret would not remain a secret for long if you were seen without your cap and coat.’

‘Perhaps I should cut my hair?’

‘No!’ he answered swiftly, a note of authority in his voice that made her stare at him. ‘No, it would be a shame to cut such glorious tresses. After all, this masquerade will soon be over.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘I think it best if you retain the boys’ clothes as we travel, but I will purchase a gown for you to change into before we arrive at your great-aunt’s home. You will not want to shock her by arriving dressed like that, Georgina.’

‘No, I think she would be angry.’ Georgie looked at his face, noting the tiny nerve that flicked at his temple. ‘Please, will you not call me Georgie? My aunt always used Georgina when she wished to punish me for something.’

‘Did you often deserve that she should punish you?’

‘Perhaps. I dare say I tried her patience, but my mother…’ She blinked as she felt the sharp sting of tears. ‘We were a happy family. I was given a great deal of freedom. Mama told me to remember my manners, to be kind to others and to speak my mind if I saw injustice or deceit—but always to be myself.’

Richard saw that she was emotional. ‘You must miss your parents terribly?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Georgie lifted her head. ‘Mama would have been so angry if she knew what her brother planned for me. She would never have tried to force me to marry someone I did not like. Indeed, I do not think she would have thought that man a suitable husband for her daughter.’

Richard studied her thoughtfully. ‘Just what is it you find so distasteful about Monsieur Thierry?’

Georgie shivered. ‘It is the way he looks at me… something secretive in his manner, sly. I trust nothing he says. Besides, a man who truly cared for me would not try to buy me from my uncle. He would have courted me in the proper way and taken his answer in good part.’

‘That is certainly the way of a gentleman,’ Richard replied, a faint smile on his lips. ‘But can you be certain that he used your uncle’s debts to secure you in marriage? Are you sure you heard correctly?’

‘Yes, quite certain,’ Georgie said. ‘I heard my uncle talking to my aunt. She was quite shocked and tried to persuade him that it was not right, but he told her that he had no choice. I knew that they would use every method of persuasion to try to force me to take him and so I ran away.’

‘And into more trouble!’

Georgie bit her lip. ‘You do not have to go on about it! I have learned my lesson.’

‘It is to be hoped that you have,’ Richard told her severely.

Georgie glared at him. ‘If you do not wish the trouble of taking me to my great-aunt, you could send me in a carriage with a servant.’

‘Yes, I could,’ Richard said, his eyes narrowed in thought. He was not sure why he had not arranged it while he lay confined to bed. Henderson could have secured the services of a lady’s maid and they might have travelled by post-chaise. ‘But I feel responsible for you. It would not be sensible to send you all that way when we cannot be certain of your reception. Have you thought what you will do if your great-aunt refuses to take you in?’ Georgie shook her head. ‘She is bound to be elderly and may not wish the trouble of a young woman. What will you do if she sends you back to your mother’s brother?’

‘I have no idea,’ Georgie said honestly. ‘However, once I have my money I intend to set up my own establishment.’

‘At your age? Impossible!’

‘I am nineteen,’ Georgie told him. ‘At least, I shall be in a few weeks. Besides, I have no choice if my great-aunt does not want me. She and my mother’s brother are the only relatives I have.’

Richard nodded, his expression giving nothing away. ‘Well, we must see what she has to say when we arrive. And now you may join me in the parlour.’ He offered her his arm, which she took shyly, making certain that she put no pressure on him as they walked. ‘I saw you playing chess with Henderson. You will oblige me by giving me a game. I have found it extremely tedious being tied to my bed these past days.’

‘Well, it is your own fault,’ Georgie replied, a sparkle in her eyes. ‘Had you not banned me from your chamber, I should have enjoyed spending some time entertaining you before this, sir.’

‘And what would my servants have made of that?’ Richard replied a glint in his eyes. ‘I am past thirty, miss, and you are eighteen. If it became known that you had come to my bedchamber—made regular visits—your reputation would be gone. Even now, you run the risk that your great-aunt will think you sunk below her notice.’

‘Oh…’ Georgie flushed. ‘I didn’t think of it like that, because, after all, you were not likely to get up and ravish me—and I think I could run faster than you at the moment.’

Richard heard the lilt of laughter in her voice. Had she no idea what she looked like in her breeches? She was more enticing than she could imagine! ‘You would not think it amusing if it became common knowledge. After all, you will want to go into society one day, perhaps marry? You would not want people to think you shameless?’

‘No…’ She blushed and hung her head. It hurt to know that he thought her shameless. ‘Please do not scold me. I know that my behaviour has been reckless. I have been trying not to think of the consequences, for I cannot change things now—can I?’

‘No,’ Richard agreed. Glancing at her face, he saw the sparkle of tears. ‘Well, do not turn missish on me now, Georgie. No tears! We are in this scrape together and we must brush through it as best we can. No more talk of going off alone. I shall escort you to your great-aunt and see you settled. Besides, I find my business takes me in that direction and it is possible that I may kill two birds with one stone.’

‘May I ask the nature of your business in Yorkshire, sir?’

‘No, you may not,’ Richard said and grinned as he saw a flash of annoyance in her eyes. Better she should be angry than weep! ‘It is for your own sake, miss, believe me. I am involved in something dangerous—as what happened the other night proves only too well. I am hoping that my enemy will not follow us from town. Henderson is to follow us on horseback, to keep a watch on my back, though I hope he will not be needed, at least while you are with me.’

Georgie raised her eyes to his. Her heart was racing, because the thought that he might die at the hands of an assassin was more painful than she cared to admit. ‘You almost died last time, sir. I hope that whoever it was will not try again. I should not like you to die.’

‘Would you not?’ Richard laughed softly. It was an attractive sound, his features softening as he shook his head at her. ‘Then I shall do my very best to oblige you by staying alive.’

Georgie glanced round the room she had occupied for several days now, feeling pleased that they were leaving at last. The past two days had been pleasant enough, for she had enjoyed Captain Hernshaw’s company, playing chess and cards with him in the afternoon and after dinner. She had discovered that he had a good sense of humour and took a wicked pleasure when he could beat her at either game, though she had given a good account of herself and the score was fairly even between them. She was sure that she had won fairly on the occasions when she had beaten him, for he enjoyed winning, as she did, especially when faced with a worthy opponent.

But they were leaving at last, and she knew a sense of relief, not the least of it because she had noticed Captain Hernshaw was not limping as badly as the first day he had come downstairs. She suspected that he might still have some pain, but he had said nothing of it to her and she knew that Henderson still changed his bandages regularly; she had seen the old ones brought down for burning on the kitchen fire.

As she went downstairs she saw that Captain Hernshaw was waiting. His manservant was dressed for riding, and she saw him slip a bulky pistol into the pocket of his greatcoat, which had one simple cape over the shoulders. Captain Hernshaw himself wore a coat with three capes and his waistcoat was a thing of beauty. She had not seen him dressed so finely and blinked—he was a fine figure of a man, though she still did not think him truly handsome. However, he was certainly dressed as befitted a gentleman, and, oddly, she found herself wishing that she was wearing a pretty carriage gown and bonnet rather than her youth’s clothing.

Do not be foolish, she told herself silently. He sees you as a duty, not a pleasure.

Her words were spoken only in her mind for Mrs Jensen had come to take her leave of her. ‘I wish you a safe journey and good fortune, miss,’ she said, giving her a sad, anxious look. ‘I’ve told Captain Hernshaw to look after you. You should be with your great-aunt in a day or two, Miss Georgina.’

‘Georgie,’ she said and kissed the lady’s cheek. ‘Thank you so much for looking after me, and I am sorry if I have been a trouble to you. I should like to give you a present, but I have nothing—though I shall send you something as soon as I can.’

‘There’s no need for that, miss. I don’t care what Jensen says, I don’t think you’re a bad girl and it has been a pleasure to have you.’

‘How kind you are,’ Georgie said and sniffed. She felt close to tears, but blinked them away as she felt Captain Hernshaw’s eyes on her. ‘Goodbye and thank you again.’ She nodded to Jensen as she passed, for she could see that he felt it was a good thing she was going.

‘Are you ready?’ Richard asked, giving her an odd look. ‘It won’t be long now and you’ll be with your great-aunt.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Georgie said. She shot a shy smile at Henderson, who grinned at her and made her feel much better. ‘Are you sure you feel up to the journey, sir?’

‘I am perfectly recovered,’ Richard lied, for he still felt the pain, as he was bound to for a while yet, but no more than he could cope with at the moment. ‘Come along, then. My groom has the horses standing and I know they must be restive, for I have not driven them for a while.’

Georgie followed him out to his curricle. A young groom was holding the heads of a pair of magnificent black horses; they pawed the ground with their hooves, seemingly impatient.

‘Do you want me to drive them, sir?’ the groom asked, glancing at his master whom he knew to be just up from his sick bed. ‘They’ve got the devil in them at the moment.’

‘You can ride behind, Ned,’ Richard said, his mouth thinning with determination. ‘I’ll tell you if I need you to take over.’

‘Right you are, Captain. Just asking.’

Richard nodded. He handed Georgie into the curricle and then got up beside her, the young groom jumping up at the back. Richard’s progress was clearly hampered by the wound to his thigh, but he managed it without a wince, though Georgie saw his cheek tighten and guessed it had hurt him to do it. She wondered then if he were quite well, but decided to say nothing. His tone to the groom had been sharp and she did not wish to bring his anger down on her own head.

If he was in pain, it did not affect his handling of the superb matched pair and they were soon bowling along at a fair pace. Once or twice people walking in the street put their hand up to him, and she saw a few curious eyes turned on her, as if they were wondering who she might be. Of course they saw a young lad, not a lady, and must imagine she was Captain Hernshaw’s nephew or some such thing. She pulled her cap on tighter, making sure that it could not become dislodged by a gust of wind. She did not want any of these fashionable ladies and gentlemen realising that she was not a boy, but a young woman—especially as she had seen two ladies whom she recalled as being friends of her mother. They would think her behaviour shocking, and, she acknowledged, they would be perfectly right.

She had run away from the protection of her mother’s brother, spent two weeks living rough on the streets of London amongst thieves, prostitutes and worse, and then she had gone to the house of a gentleman she did not know, living in his house for more than a week without a proper chaperon. It was a scandalous tale and anyone hearing it without explanation would think her lost to all shame. Indeed, if it became common knowledge she would be ruined.

She would not allow any of it to weigh with her, Georgie decided. Once this journey was over she would put the memory behind her, forget she had ever met Captain Hernshaw and his servants. Yet even as she thought it she felt a pang of regret. A part of her longed to be back where she belonged, wearing pretty clothes and mixing in society, but another part of her wished that their journey might go on for much longer than two days.

* * *

In that, at least, it looked as if she might have her way, Georgie realised when they stopped later that afternoon. The journey had been delayed twice so far for Captain Hernshaw had pulled over into a quiet country lay-by about an hour after leaving the busy streets of London behind. He had given his groom the reins and sat back, allowing the youth to take over. A glance at his white face had been sufficient to tell Georgie that he had found driving more of a strain than he had imagined. After a longish stop for nuncheon at an inn, he had called a halt at just past four in the afternoon, declaring that they would stay the night at a pleasant country inn some ten miles short of the destination he had planned.

‘This is very pretty,’ she said as he gave her his hand to help her down. ‘It will not be as noisy as the posting inn you planned on using.’

‘No,’ he said, his mouth thinned and pale, as if he were holding himself on a tight rein. ‘But I cannot vouch for the beds. They do not always air them as they ought in these places.’

‘Oh, I am sure it will be quite comfortable here,’ Georgie said. ‘We must hope that they have enough rooms for us.’

‘Yes, that is a point,’ Richard said. ‘We need three, but at a pinch I could share with Henderson.’

‘Should you not find that uncomfortable?’

‘Perhaps.’ He smiled oddly. ‘But I can hardly share with you, can I? Though I might find it preferable. Ned will sleep with the horses, for he is used to it, and tells me he snores proper dreadful—his words, not mine.’

Georgie blushed and turned away, for there was something in his eyes at that moment she found strangely disturbing. It was one of the few times he had said anything that made her aware of their situation.

‘No, of course you cannot sleep in my room,’ she replied. ‘We must hope they have three rooms to let.’

Fortunately for all of them the landlord did have three rooms to offer and seemed pleased to have company. He said that his wife was preparing supper and that she would cook an extra capon or two to cater for the gentleman’s needs.

Richard thanked him for his consideration, telling him that they would be content with whatever was served. He asked Georgie if she could amuse herself for an hour or two and went straight up to his own chamber. Georgie realised that he probably needed to rest his leg and she went to her bedchamber, which was small but suited to the young lad she was supposed to be. She made herself comfortable and returned to the public rooms. She did not stop there, but went out of the back door into a garden.

It was a country inn and the host was a family man. His wife had washing blowing on a rope line in the backyard, and there were three children all under the age of eleven playing games. The eldest, a girl, had a hoop, which she was rolling along the ground by means of a stick, hitting it at just the right moment so that it continued to turn and stay upright. The smallest, a boy, was running behind her, laughing and begging for his turn, and a girl of about six was sitting on an upturned bucket nursing a rag doll.

Georgie went up to her. The child was singing a song, her face intent as she nursed her baby. ‘What is her name?’ she asked, squatting down on a bale of hay close by. ‘She is very pretty.’

‘I call her Rosie,’ the girl said with a shy smile. ‘She is my baby.’

‘I can see that she is,’ Georgie said. ‘Do you like nursing her?’

‘My name is Rose,’ the girl told her in a confiding manner. ‘Ma had a baby, but she died. I don’t want my baby to die.’

‘Oh, I am sure she won’t,’ Georgie said. ‘Not if you look after her.’

The girl stuck her thumb in her mouth and sucked it, considering for a moment or two before asking, ‘What is your name?’

‘Georgie.’

‘My brother is called George,’ the girl said. ‘He is horrid. He never wants to play with me, only Shirley.’

‘That is a shame,’ Georgie said. ‘But brothers are like that sometimes. I dare say he doesn’t mean to be horrid to you.’

‘Would you like to hold Rosie? She likes you.’

‘Yes, why not,’ Georgie said. She held out her hands for the doll, cradling it carefully as if it were a real baby. Rose got up and came to sit beside her on the straw. ‘You’re nice. I thought all boys were horrid like my brother, but you’re not.’

Georgie laughed. ‘I expect you will find that some boys are nice when you grow up,’ she said.

Something made her turn her head at that moment to look up at the inn windows. Captain Hernshaw was standing looking down at her, an odd expression in his eyes. She smiled a little uncertainly and turned back to the child. He was suffering, she was certain of it, but he would not ask for help, though perhaps he would accept it from Henderson if he really needed it. She knew a longing to go to him and offer her help, but she was certain he would send her away; he did not need her, for he had his manservant, but it was becoming increasingly clear to her that she needed him.

Richard watched Georgie for a few minutes before she became aware of him. When she was laughing she looked too pretty to be a boy and he smiled wryly as he wondered just how long they could continue with this masquerade. He had decided it was too dangerous to let her travel alone, but travelling with her had its own dangers—for him. She was too damned attractive, and the outrageous clothes she was wearing were provocative, though of course she had no idea of it.

Damn it! Why was he even letting himself think how good she would feel in his arms? He had no room in his life for a woman—not one like her, anyway. He had no wish to marry, or to form a lasting attachment for anyone, and though he would enjoy seducing Georgie, he was too much of a gentleman to do it. For her it must be marriage or nothing. But it hurt too much to lose the people you loved. A curse escaped him. He was allowing Georgie to distract his mind from the purpose in hand.

He needed to concentrate on the task ahead. He knew that the little band of plotters he sought consisted of both French and English dissidents, men who were for one reason or another at odds with the establishment. Some he had no doubt worked for money and would have been loyal to the highest bidder only for as long as it pleased them. However, this plot was taken seriously enough by those in high places for Richard to have formed an idea of the man behind it, because there had to be someone masterminding the affair. He had an idea of who that person might be, but as yet had no proof.

Whoever this person was, he was clever and he knew people—people who mattered. Richard knew that there had already been two assassination attempts, presumed to be the work of this group. One was on Wellington, who had wrestled the man to the ground, taking him prisoner, and the other on the Regent—and that had been prevented by the intervention of a lady who happened to be there and saw what might have been the end of the prince had she not acted swiftly.

Two key figures in British politics, Richard mused with a frown. Had the assassins been luckier they might already have succeeded in causing the chaos they clearly desired. He did not truly think that Georgie was mixed up in the plot, at least not knowingly—but if this man, whose name he had heard whispered too often for comfort, was the same man to whom her uncle had been bent on marrying her, it could not hurt to see her safely to her family.

Richard was angry with himself for falling so neatly into his enemy’s trap. He had been alert all the time he was carrying the papers, but, returning from his second journey of the night, he had allowed himself to relax his guard. The pain in his thigh was warning enough that he must never let his guard slip again, even for a moment.

‘Curses!’ he muttered as he sat on the side of the bed. Every movement was like having a hot knife thrust into his thigh. Henderson had warned him that it was too soon, begging him to wait another week before attempting the journey. His natural impatience had made him ignore his man’s warning, but he was paying for it now. ‘To hell with it!’

He lay back against the pillows. Rest was the only thing for it! He would not take the laudanum he knew would ease the pain, because it all too easily became addictive. Brandy would have eased him, but if he drank enough to dull the pain it would dull his wits, and his instincts were telling him that he needed to remain alert for the next few days.

Georgie had wondered if Captain Hernshaw would keep to his bed and send word that she should order a tray in her room, but he did not. He was downstairs in the private parlour at the appointed time, where Henderson, who had followed them to the inn at a discreet distance, joined them a little later.

Georgie watched the exchange between the two men. She could not hear what they were saying, but Captain Hernshaw nodded and looked pleased, so she supposed it was good news. The three of them took their places at table, and the host’s wife served them with a dinner as good or better than they might have found at the more fashionable inn they had been headed for. Roast capon, cold ham, pigeon in wine sauce and a remove of parsnips in melted butter, carrots and mashed turnip, all served with delicious gravy. She returned a little later with a large treacle tart and custard, for the young lad. This was said with a smile and a nod, which made Georgie feel she must eat a piece of the gorgeous tart, even though she was already full.

‘If you eat like that all the time, you will get fat,’ Richard remarked, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes.

‘Well, I had to eat some of it since she made it especially for me,’ she said, feeling miffed. ‘Besides, I never get fat. I take after Papa in that and he was always thin.’

Richard nodded, his expression thoughtful as he looked at her. ‘I fear I must leave you to amuse yourself this evening, Georgie. I need to rest if we are to continue our journey first thing in the morning.’

‘I’ll take a look at your wound before you retire,’ Henderson said. ‘It may have opened again.’

‘I do not think so,’ Richard replied. ‘But take a look by all means.’

‘You do not need to worry about me,’ Georgie said. ‘I shall go to my room. I would be happier with a book to read, but I dare say I shall fall asleep soon enough.’

‘Poor Georgie,’ Richard murmured. ‘I am sorry I have nothing to offer you—unless you would care for the book of poetry you discovered at my London house?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I should enjoy reading that—I had hoped to subscribe to it myself.’

‘Wait here and Henderson will bring it to you,’ Richard told her. ‘Had we stopped at the inn I intended to use, you would not have been safe, but this place is much quieter and I think you may stay here by the fire for a while should you wish.’

Georgie watched as he walked from the parlour, limping on his injured leg though obviously trying not to. Henderson gave her a nod and she settled down by the fire to wait for his return. They had not been gone more than a few minutes when Georgie heard the wheels of a carriage outside the inn. Something made her get up and go to the window. She glanced out at the curricle that had just arrived, giving a squeak of fear as she saw the gentleman throw his reins to a groom. She knew his face at once, for he was Monsieur Thierry—the man she had run away from her home to escape!

What was he doing here? It was a terrible mischance that he should come to this place! Georgie drew back hastily as he glanced towards the lighted window. Her mind worked feverishly. Would the host give him a room for the night? He would probably want supper, and, knowing that Captain Hernshaw had retired for the night, the host would think it acceptable if he allowed the newcomer to have the parlour.

She had to escape before he saw her! Georgie was not at all sure that her disguise was sufficient to fool a man she had met on several occasions at her uncle’s home. He must not be given the chance to recognise her!

She left the parlour and hurried up the stairs, reaching the top seconds before she heard voices below in the hall. Thierry was asking for a room for the night, but the host was telling him that his rooms were full.

‘You will at least allow me to take supper here?’ The voice of the man she disliked followed Georgie as she fled up the stairs and along the landing to her own room. Once inside, she locked the door and leaned against it, her breast heaving in a sigh of relief. Had she not glanced out of the window, he might have walked into the parlour and found her there alone.

Trembling, Georgie sat down on the edge of the bed. She would certainly not be venturing downstairs to the parlour again that night, and she would be careful in the morning. Henderson would go to look for her in the parlour, but when he saw there was a new occupant he was sure to come here to bring her the book. Georgie decided that she would tell him Monsieur Thierry was here, because it might not be coincidence. It was just possible that he had followed them here for some reason.

She guiltily remembered the calling card she had discovered at Captain Hernshaw’s house and not given him. In the morning she would have to tell him if he should mention the Frenchman by name.

Georgie spent a couple of hours reading the book Henderson brought her, but once again she found herself decoding the messages she found scribbled into the margins. She soon discovered that there was a fresh notation in one of the margins, but when she used the code to unravel it she was left with a riddle.

Where the stars and sword unite, the plotters lie in wait and plan their deadly deeds. The fox is in the hole and will not come unless you knock thrice and thrice again.

Now what on earth did that mean? Georgie stared at it for ages before closing the book. Perhaps she had made a mistake with the code? The first message had been simple to understand, for it said that there was a plot afoot to murder some important members of the government and hinted at the Head of State, who could only be the Regent. But this riddle did not make sense.

Her work had made her tired and she fell asleep with the book in her hand.

Henderson had told her that he would warn her if the Frenchman was still around in the morning, but as he did not do so she washed, dressed and went downstairs to the parlour. Both Captain Hernshaw and Henderson were there and she noted that the captain looked a little easier.

‘Did you sleep well, sir?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thank you,’ he replied. ‘I hope you were not too bored, Georgie?’

She caught something in his tone and realised he was looking at her with interest, and then she knew that he had intended her to find the code and the riddle. ‘Yes, I slept well enough, after I had finished puzzling over the book you sent me.’

Henderson stood up, saying that he would make sure the horses were ready for them in twenty minutes.

Richard’s brows lifted as his man left the parlour. ‘You found something to interest you?’

‘A riddle I could not solve,’ she said. ‘Have you changed the code or did you discover a riddle too?’

He nodded, a smile on his mouth. ‘Irritating isn’t it? As if the code were not enough, there is yet a further puzzle.’

‘You wanted to see if I got the same result as you?’ Georgie said, because she understood why he had given her the book. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me?’

‘Because I thought you would be curious enough to discover it for yourself.’

‘I was,’ she admitted and laughed. ‘One of these days I shall read the poetry instead of working on your wretched messages.’

Richard’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully. He had set her a little test and was satisfied with the result. ‘You told Henderson that Thierry was here last night. It frightened you. Did you think he had discovered you were here?’

‘I was afraid of it at first,’ Georgie confessed. ‘It seemed strange that he should come to the same inn—especially as it is not one of those most frequented by travelling gentlemen. We should not have stayed here had you not needed to rest.’

‘That is true,’ Richard agreed. ‘He may have followed us, though I do not know why—do you?’

Georgie reached into her coat pocket and brought out the calling card. ‘This was left for you in London. I saw him come to the house when I looked out of the landing window, and I hid it because I did not wish you to meet with him.’

Richard gave her a stern look. ‘Jensen told me he thought a card had gone missing. It crossed my mind that you might have taken it, but I could not think why. When did you intend giving it to me?’

‘When we reached my great-aunt’s house,’ Georgie said, feeling awkward under his interrogation. ‘I know I had no right to take it. I am sorry.’

‘You should not have done so,’ he replied, but did not seem particularly incensed. ‘It may be important that he approached me; it may mean nothing—but it is better that I know these things. Please do not hide anything from me in future.’

‘You have every right to be angry,’ Georgie said. ‘Especially if he is mixed up in this…affair.’

‘What makes you think he might be?’ Richard’s gaze became hard, intent. ‘Do you know more than you are telling me? If so, confess it now, because it will not go well with you if I discover that you are in league with him later.’

‘In league with that odious man!’ Georgie was horrified. ‘I hate him! I would rather die than have anything to do with him. I swear it on my honour…’ She saw the look in his eyes and flushed. ‘Very well, on my father’s honour—and he was a good man.’

‘Very well, I shall believe you,’ Richard said. ‘So, we have a little problem. Monsieur Thierry is possibly following us, but for the moment we do not know whether he is after you—or me.’

Georgie shuddered. ‘Do you think he might have something to do with the attack on you?’

‘If he is involved with the people I am after, he may well have done.’ Richard frowned. ‘I had not expected to be followed. I think I may have exposed you to danger, Georgie. Should I find a respectable woman to escort you to your aunt’s house and let you continue alone?’

‘No! I want to stay with you until we get there,’ Georgie said, shivering as she turned cold. ‘When I saw him last night I realised that I cannot be safe until we reach my aunt’s home. If you abandoned me, I should be anxious every moment.’

‘You are certain?’ Richard accepted it as she nodded. ‘I think perhaps you are right, though if I thought it was me he wanted…’ He shook his head, his gaze narrowing. ‘So you discovered the riddle last night—what do you think it meant?’

‘I have no idea,’ Georgie confessed. ‘I thought perhaps the first part of it referred to the place where the plotters meet, but it was so strange that I could not make it out—and the bit about the fox in the hole…’

‘Perhaps it refers to their leader?’ Richard said. ‘The fox may be a name for the ringleader, and my informant is saying that he will not leave his lair until the right moment.’

‘Why did he not just say so?’ Georgie demanded, exasperated. ‘It makes no sense to get a message to you and then not say straight out what you need to know.’

‘I agree with you,’ Richard said. ‘Of course, had it fallen into the wrong hands it would have been safer. It may be that my informant is a member of the group who wishes to lay information without getting caught.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Georgie said, giving him an appraising look. ‘He must think that you are clever enough to work it out for yourself.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Richard said. ‘Or it might have been sent to mislead…if my informant had been turned or…’

‘Or murdered?’ Georgie felt cold all over. ‘Do you think that the first message was genuine and this one was false?’

‘I think that may be the case,’ Richard said. ‘Whoever is behind this needs time to complete his plans. He is afraid that I may have more clues than I actually do and he sent this message to lead me on a false trail.’

‘To force you to waste time trying to work out something that means nothing—is, in fact, nonsense?’

‘Yes, it could be that,’ Richard agreed, smiling oddly at her. ‘You are an intelligent girl, Georgie. Talking to you has made me see that I could have wasted a lot of precious time. I wondered when I was told the location for the meeting that night. I believe the attack on me was meant to happen only after I had delivered the new message to colleagues—because I am not the only one involved in this affair.’

‘So he wished to confuse you all,’ Georgie said. ‘Had you died in the attack, you would have been one less for him to deal with, but he knew you were not working alone.’

‘I am not alone, but perhaps I have some information others do not,’ Richard said. ‘The trouble is, if I have it, I do not know what it is…unless it is a name.’

‘Raoul Thierry,’ Georgie said, looking at him intently as a suspicion came to her. ‘You’ve heard his name before. You suspect him of being involved, do you not?’

‘Perhaps,’ Richard said. ‘His name has been mentioned by several people as being suspect, but I have no proof. We should go. Henderson will have the horses ready and my groom will be waiting for us.’

‘No, not yet,’ Georgie said. She looked angry, two spots of red colour in her cheeks. ‘You made me wait until you could travel because you thought I might be involved in this horrid affair, didn’t you?’

‘It crossed my mind,’ Richard admitted. ‘You did try to steal from me, Georgie. That package was important—or I thought it was at the time, though if it were a hoax he would not have sent you to steal it.’

‘No one sent me to steal it,’ she said indignantly. ‘I would never do such a thing!’ She blushed as she met his mocking stare. ‘Well, only if I was terribly hungry, which I was—and I didn’t know what it was!’

‘No, I am certain you did not,’ Richard said and laughed softly in his throat. She was magnificent when she was angry! Despite his determination to stay aloof, she was gradually worming her way under his defences. ‘Do not look so outraged, Georgie. I have acquitted you of all malice. You only stole from me because you were hungry, so naturally that makes you blameless.’

‘Oh…’ She threw him a wrathful glare. ‘Well, if you had ever been as hungry as I was, you might have done the same!’

‘I have been and I did—when in Spain with the army,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I could not resist teasing you. You are very pretty when you are angry, you know.’

‘Please do not!’ Georgie said. His smile was teasing but she knew he must think her a ridiculous scamp. ‘I know I must look awful, not at all respectable.’

‘Well, there is that,’ he agreed, a sparkle in the depths of his teasing eyes. ‘But I must say that I find your disguise rather attractive—though of course I deplore the behaviour that brought you to this masquerade.’

Georgie understood that he was teasing her. She had finished eating her bread and ham and got up, walking out into the yard with dignity. He deserved that she should ignore him for the rest of the journey!

Chapter Four

Georgie’s spurt of temper lasted for the first mile or so, by which time she had realised that it merely made her seem childish, for he was determined to be a charming companion. He had allowed his young groom to drive and sat with her in a more comfortable seat.

‘Well, I suppose it does no good to fall out with you,’ she announced as they passed a pretty village. ‘I have to thank you for making it possible for me to complete my journey. Had we not met, I might have suffered a worse fate than to be teased.’

‘Very nicely said,’ Richard observed with a faint smile. ‘I was wondering when you would remember your society manners, for I dare say you were brought up to behave with decorum.’

‘Certainly I was,’ Georgie replied. ‘Mama would have been shocked if she knew what I had done these past days—though I believe she would understand I had no choice. My father would have thrashed my uncle, but of course had either of them been still living it could not have happened.’

‘Have you thought about your future?’ Richard inquired for all the world as if he were an uncle and they out for an afternoon drive. ‘You spoke of setting up your own establishment if your aunt did not wish for your company, but you are a little young for that, are you not?’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ she agreed. ‘But I dare say I might hire a respectable companion to keep me company. If I had no relations, I must have done so anyway.’

Richard nodded. He was thoughtful as he watched her, wondering how he could ever for a moment have been deceived into thinking her a youth. She was extremely pretty even dressed as she was; indeed, there was something fascinating about a young woman in a boy’s clothing, and he had to castigate himself severely for thinking that had she not been so well born he might have made her his mistress.

What was he thinking! It was a rogue thought and one he hastily dismissed, even though she was wholly enticing, especially when she got on her high horse. There had been moments when he had been tempted to kiss her simply to see her reaction, but each time he had crushed the unworthy impulse. No matter what she had done, she was a young lady of good birth and fortune and as such deserved his protection. He had no right to be imagining what she might look like without those ridiculous clothes—or what her hair would smell like as it lay spread on the pillow beside him!

‘Do you think anyone would consent to be my companion?’ she asked a little naïvely, looking uncertain. ‘Perhaps my great-aunt will be pleased to have me and I shan’t need one.’

‘Yes, we must hope so,’ he replied. ‘I should imagine any number of ladies would be happy to come and live at your expense, Georgie—but you must be careful that you choose the right one.’

‘Yes…’ She looked doubtful. ‘Do you think—?’

Before she could continue a shot rang out. She ducked forward as she felt the air rush past her cheek and realised that it had almost hit her. The horses had taken fright and the young groom was having difficulty in holding them. She controlled her little squeal of fright as she saw Richard move swiftly to the driving box and grab the reins from the hands of his valiant groom.

It took only a few minutes before he had managed to slow their pace to something more manageable, though he did not immediately bring them to a halt. She realised that he was putting some distance between them and whoever had shot at them, and when she heard two more shots behind them she guessed that Henderson had arrived and was making sure that the assassin did not attempt to follow them.

It was perhaps fifteen minutes later that Richard slowed his horses to a walking pace, then gave the reins back to his groom and climbed back to sit beside her. He looked at her for a moment, his intent gaze registering that after her first fright she had taken the incident well.

‘Good girl,’ he said and picked up her cap, which had come off in their mad flight. ‘It is a pity to hide that glorious hair, but I think you should. It won’t do for you to be seen like this, you know.’

‘No,’ she agreed and blushed as he helped her to gather her long hair and tuck it back beneath the cap.

Richard smiled at her in a manner that suddenly took Georgie’s breath. Her heart was hammering so hard against her ribcage that she was relieved when Henderson rode up to them and he turned away. ‘Did you see him?’

‘He chose his spot well,’ Henderson replied. ‘He was sheltered by the trees, but his very vantage meant that he could get off only one shot, for the trees sheltered you too after you had passed. I shot at him twice as he fled and I think I may have winged him.’

‘Not dead?’ Richard asked, brows arched.

‘More’s the pity,’ Henderson growled, looking at Georgie. ‘He might have killed you, miss. A fraction either way and he would have shot you through the head.’

‘Don’t!’ Georgie shuddered. ‘Do you think he meant to hit me or Captain Hernshaw?’

‘I think it was you, miss,’ Henderson replied, his expression grim. ‘From what I saw, he couldn’t have been aiming for the captain.’

‘But why would he want to kill me?’ Georgie asked. She had imagined the shot was meant for her companion, and the idea that she had been the true target was frightening. ‘Who could want me dead? Monsieur Thierry wants to marry me. I should be of no use to him dead.’

‘No…’ Richard was thoughtful. ‘Who would inherit your fortune if you died unmarried? You have not made a will?’

‘No.’ Georgie screwed up her forehead. ‘My aunt did suggest it once, but I told her I had no intention of dying for years. I suppose my uncle is my nearest relative, though my great-aunt might also have a claim. There is no else.’ She held back a sob. ‘Surely my uncle would not try to have me killed for money?’ She had made just such a story up for Mrs Jensen, but the suggestion that it might be true was shocking.

‘He was willing to sell you into a marriage you disliked.’

‘Yes, but it was to clear a debt, and he was afraid of Raoul Thierry.’ Georgie looked at him, feeling slightly sick. ‘It might have been him—if Monsieur Thierry thinks that I can tell you something he doesn’t wish you to know.’

‘That would mean he knew who you were,’ Richard said. ‘You told me you saw him in the street in London. Could he have seen you—for long enough to know it was you?’

‘I don’t think so…though he might have seen me last night,’ Georgie said. ‘I saw him clearly in the inn yard, but the lights of the candles in the parlour were behind me. It is possible that he saw me. He might not have known it was me then, but he perhaps realised it later.’

Richard’s eyes went over her. ‘If I knew you before we met, I should not have been fooled for a moment,’ he told her. ‘To a stranger you might pass for a pretty youth, but to anyone who knows you…’

‘Then he must think I am with you for a purpose,’ Georgie said. ‘He may think that I can help you to recognise him…or something of the sort…’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Richard said and looked thoughtful. ‘You are certain that no one else would benefit from your fortune other than your uncle?’

‘My father was an only child,’ Georgie said. ‘I have only my uncle and my great-aunt.’

‘Then we must assume it is either Thierry for reasons of his own or your uncle for money,’ Richard said. ‘When we reach the next posting inn I shall hire a closed carriage. If your life is in danger, I must protect you.’

‘But we cannot be sure the shot was meant for me,’ Georgie said, frowning. ‘Perhaps the rogue who fired at us thought you would be travelling alone and fired without being sure who he would hit.’

‘Yes, that is possible,’ Richard agreed. ‘But in future I do not intend to give anyone the chance to shoot at you again. We shall travel on by closed carriage.’

Georgie kept her silence. To drive with him in a closed carriage would do little for her reputation if it were discovered, but then she had already lost any claim to respectability and must hope it could be recovered when she reached her great-aunt’s home.

However, he winced as he moved and, glancing at him, she saw the blood spotting on his otherwise immaculate breeches. ‘Your wound,’ she said. ‘It must have opened when you moved so suddenly to grab the reins.’

‘Yes.’ He glanced down dispassionately. ‘It may be as well, for there was a little festering, which is why it was causing me pain. Sometimes it is better to open a wound and let the blood flow to cleanse it.’

Georgie felt doubtful, guessing that he was in far more pain than he would ever say. She made no comment; she knew that he would not thank her if she offered sympathy. He settled back into his seat, telling his groom to drive on, though she noticed a little pulse beating in his throat and sensed that he was having difficulty in holding back his pain as the carriage rattled over a particularly bumpy road.

At the inn, a bustling, busy place at a crossroads, Richard secured both a private parlour and a bedchamber. He left Georgie to herself in the parlour while he and Henderson went upstairs. They were gone for half an hour, during which time she amused herself by staring out of the window at the inn yard. Several private vehicles drew up during that time, their owners calling for refreshment while their horses were being rested or exchanged for fresh. She saw no one that gave her the least need for anxiety, her thoughts centred on what was happening upstairs, and she turned with pleasure as she heard the door open.

Richard had changed into fresh breeches, and there was evidence of a bandage beneath the clinging material. As he seemed to walk a little more easily she assumed that he was feeling better for his man’s attentions.

‘We may as well stay and eat,’ he told her. ‘I am sorry that this journey is taking longer than it ought, Georgie. Had we not been forced to break our journey again, we might have reached your home by this evening. As it is, I am afraid we may have to stay at an inn for one more night.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Georgie said. ‘It wasn’t your fault that we came so close to an accident. Besides, I shall be sorry when we part, sir.’

‘Shall you?’ Richard arched one eyebrow. ‘I thought you could not wait to get away from me when we were in London?’

‘Well, yes, I did think it would be better to leave, but…Jensen did not have a good opinion of me, you see. Mrs Jensen was kind, but she would not let me help her and I felt that I was in the way.’

‘I am sorry if you were made to feel uncomfortable.’

‘Oh, no, it wasn’t their fault, and Mrs Jensen was very kind, even though her husband obviously thought I was…no better than I should be.’ She bit her lip. ‘You must not blame him, for the circumstances were unusual to say the least.’

‘Yes, I suppose it was inevitable that he should have thought the worst,’ Richard said. ‘It might have been better if I had let them think you were my niece or something.’

‘They wouldn’t have believed you. No one would.’ Georgie pulled a rueful face. ‘I told Mrs Jensen I was in desperate trouble. I think she half-believed me, but I am very certain her husband did not.’

‘I have placed you in a difficult position,’ Richard said, eyes narrowed, thoughtful. ‘You stayed at my home without a chaperon and have had only my tiger and Henderson as our companions on this journey. I have, in fact, compromised you, Georgina.’

‘I did that for myself,’ she admitted, a blush in her cheeks. ‘Besides, you were only trying to help me when you took me to your home—and no one needs to know.’

‘Your great-aunt will know,’ Richard observed. ‘At least she will know that you have arrived at her house with a gentleman she does not know and no luggage.’

‘You are a friend of the family,’ Georgie said, ‘and my luggage was lost on the way. We were attacked by ruffians who stole our baggage and that is how you were wounded.’

‘You have a fine imagination,’ Richard said and he wasn’t smiling. ‘How much can I believe of what you say, I wonder?’

‘Everything!’ She sparked with indignation. ‘I did tell you a little white lie when we met, but I had to be wary, for you might have been anybody. Besides, it was not so far from the truth.’

‘But you have made up a string of lies to tell your great-aunt.’

‘Yes, well, I didn’t know what else to say. You talked of having compromised me and…and you must not feel obliged or anything.’ Her cheeks were deep rose with embarrassment. ‘I would not want you to feel that you had to marry me.’

‘Believe me, I don’t!’

‘Oh!’ Georgie glared. ‘Good, because I do not want to marry you. In fact you are the last man I would marry!’

‘Perhaps you would prefer to marry Thierry?’

‘No, of course I wouldn’t! You know I would rather die. I told you so…’ She understood that he was mocking her and threw him a fulminating stare. ‘I never know when you are funning! Of course you don’t want to marry me, and I shan’t expect it—even if my aunt says I am beyond the pale.’

‘Poor Georgie,’ Richard said and smiled. ‘You have got yourself into a pickle, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I know it was a mad thing to do—but what else could I have done? My uncle meant to force me to marry that odious man and I did the first thing that came into my head. There was no one to help me.’

‘Impulsive,’ Richard murmured. ‘But brave too. I am not sure what else you could have done, but perhaps a little more planning would have had better results. You could perhaps have gathered enough money to hire a post-chaise to your great-aunt’s instead of taking the public stagecoach and getting robbed.’

‘Yes, it would have been better,’ she agreed. ‘I was afraid my uncle would lock me in my room, and then I was careless…’ She lifted her head, giving him a frank look. ‘I think I should have starved or ended up in prison if you hadn’t helped me. I am very grateful, you know—and sorry if I have caused you a deal of trouble.’

Richard looked into her eyes, which just now were soft brown, slightly moist and heart-wrenchingly appealing. He felt something stir inside him, an emotion he could not recall ever feeling before, something warm and tender, an urge to sweep her into his arms, carry her off and hold her for ever in his protection. In another instant he had quashed it. Love was foreign to his nature, an emotion he had long dismissed as being behind him, too dangerous to encourage. There had been women to share his bed, of course, but none of them serious and there had been no one at all for a long time. Perhaps that was why he had been experiencing these sudden swathes of hot desire as he looked at Georgie in her youth’s clothing. Something he felt disturbing and not to be indulged.

He did not want to face the notion that he might truly have feelings for this girl who had come into his life unasked. His work was too dangerous for him to think of marriage; he could be killed by an enemy at any time, and that would leave her a widow before she was a wife.

Besides, they hardly knew one another. It was ridiculous to even consider marriage. Neither of them truly wished for it! If he ever married it would be for an heir, as his sister never tired of telling him he ought to do, but never for love. His experience of these things was that they led only to pain. His mother had died in childbed, leaving his father distraught, a broken man. He had seen his uncle decline after Justin’s death, and the memory still haunted him. No, love was not something he wished to experience.

‘I am glad to have been of help,’ he murmured huskily and meant it. ‘Do not worry, Georgie. If your aunt should turn you away I shall think of something.’

‘I do not wish to be more of a burden than I have been already.’

‘You are not a burden,’ Richard said, his tone becoming harsh all of a sudden. ‘Excuse me, I must speak to Henderson. I trust you have no objection to his joining us in the parlour for our nuncheon as usual? He serves me, but I have been used to treating him as a friend rather than a servant.’

‘Of course not. Why should I?’ Georgie said, though she knew it was something that would not happen when their lives were back to normal. But when that happened she would not see Richard again, except perhaps as a casual acquaintance in town, if she should be fortunate enough to visit.

Georgie felt a hot burning behind her eyes when she realised that she had only a few hours left in his company. In the morning Richard would deliver her to her great-aunt’s home and go on his way, relieved to be rid of her no doubt.

When had she begun to think of him as Richard? And why did the thought of parting weigh heavily on her, making her breast feel as if it were being crushed? After all, he was merely someone who had come to her rescue when she needed him.

That was just it, of course. He had been there when she needed him, and insensibly she had come to think of him as her special friend, someone she could turn to in need. She must put that notion out of her mind. Richard had been considerate, kind and gentle towards her, but he must have found her a nuisance, especially at a time when he was wounded and in danger of his life.

She must not make him feel he owed her anything. He must be free to go on his way and forget her. Even as she made her silent vow, she knew that she would not forget him! Georgie sensed instinctively that this brief interlude would remain with her for a long time. Perhaps for the rest of her life. The thought made her want to weep.

What was she going to do with her life now? Georgie hardly knew what she wanted. Her great-aunt was elderly. It was not likely that she would entertain often, which meant that Georgie would be forced to spend long hours alone or with just her aunt for company. For a moment she sank beneath the weight of such a prospect, but then she put it behind her. If Great-Aunt Mary did not wish to take her to London or Bath she might know someone who would take it on for a consideration. There were bound to be widows of good family who did not have sufficient money for their needs.

And what then? Georgie wondered. It was usual for girls of good families to marry, settle down and provide an heir for their husbands. She did not know why the prospect of marrying an unknown gentleman did not appeal. When she was younger she had dreamed of falling in love, but as yet she had met no one who appealed to her…as much as Richard.

Oh, no! She was appalled at her thoughts. She must not even consider such a prospect. Richard had no desire to marry her, did not believe himself obliged to despite their circumstances these past few days. And she did not wish to be married simply to rescue her good name!

Georgie buried the renegade thoughts that told her she would not find it a hardship to marry Richard Hernshaw. She liked him despite his deplorable habit of mocking her—in fact, if she were truthful, she liked him a little too much for her own good.

Richard returned some twenty minutes later with his manservant, and the host followed almost immediately with their dinner. They were served cold beef, a dish of calves’liver in sweet sauce, chops and jugged hare with a remove of mashed potatoes and swede, carrots and baked onions. This was followed by a quince tart and an apple turnover with fresh cream.

She was pleased to notice that for the first time Richard did justice to his food, eating almost as much as Henderson and more than she could manage. He looked at her as she refused the apples and cream.

‘I ordered that especially for you. Did you not like it?’

‘I have eaten more than enough,’ she replied. For some reason she had lost her appetite. ‘I do not usually eat as much as I have recently. I think I was making up for having gone without for some days, but now I am back to normal.’

‘It is not because I teased you about getting fat?’

‘Oh, no, of course not,’ she said and smiled a little wanly. ‘I just do not feel hungry.’

‘Well, it is only a few hours since we broke our fast,’ Richard said. ‘I should not have stopped so soon had it not been necessary. However, we shall go on again shortly. If you are worried about getting to your aunt’s, we might see if we can get there. The carriage I have hired will make good time, I dare say.’

‘Oh, no, I am in no hurry,’ Georgie said. She frowned and looked down at herself. ‘I must try to find a dress before we get to my great-aunt’s house.’

‘I have thought of that,’ Richard said. ‘There are some things for you with my luggage and Henderson will bring them to you this evening before you retire. I shall order your breakfast in your room and we can leave immediately afterwards so that hardly anyone will see you.’

Georgie was silent. It would only need one person of quality to see her leaving the inn to ruin her reputation, but she would say nothing more on the subject. After all, it did not matter so very much since she had no real desire to marry. Perhaps she never would marry. If only she had some burning desire, something she truly wished to accomplish—like becoming an actress or a famous explorer, perhaps.

She wondered if she should do something of the sort once she had her inheritance. She could engage a companion and travel abroad. For a few minutes pleasant thoughts of all the countries she might visit filled her mind, but unfortunately she kept thinking that it would be much better to travel with a gentleman for company—and one particular gentleman would not stay out of her head.

It was most disobliging of him! She struggled to change her thoughts, becoming aware that his eyes were on her, mysterious and intent, the colour of wet slate.

‘What? Have I done something wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he said and shook his head. ‘I shall pay the host and then we shall continue our journey—if you are ready?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Georgie replied, though her heart said something entirely different. ‘I dare say you will be glad to deliver me to my great-aunt so that you may go about your business in peace.’

‘It is true that I have business of my own in Yorkshire,’ Richard replied, his expression serious. ‘However, there is nothing urgent. I intend to make certain that you are settled and happy before I move on.’ He frowned. ‘It has occurred to me that I have no idea of our eventual destination. You have not told me the exact location of your aunt’s home or even her name.’

‘Did I not?’ Georgie pulled a face. ‘I am not certain of the location…I know it is near a village called Shrewsbury Morton and it is not far from York, for in her letters to me she talks of dining with friends at an inn in York. Her name…she is Mary, Countess of Shrewsbury and Morton. She is usually addressed as Countess Shrewsbury.’

‘Good lord!’ Richard stared at her, obviously shocked. ‘I know the lady well. She was a great friend of my late mother and my sister resided with her for a few years before she married.’

‘Oh…’ Georgie’s mouth made a little moue of surprise. ‘How strange that you should know Aunt Mary…’

‘Well, that makes things a little easier,’ Richard told her. ‘It is possible that she will accept the story of my being a family friend since she knows me and does not entirely disapprove of me.’

‘Yes…’ Georgie felt a sinking sensation inside. ‘I did not know that your family came from these parts.’

‘You know very little of me,’ Richard said, frowning. ‘I do not live in Yorkshire myself, but my sister does. She married a gentleman she met while living with the countess, and I visit her occasionally—though not as often as she would like. Jenny is a fond sister, though these days she has her hands full with her children.’

‘What are they—boys or girls?’ Georgie asked, because this was the first she had learned of his private life. ‘And how old?’

‘She has a boy and a girl, and hopes to have more,’ Richard replied, a little smile on his lips. ‘The girl is about the age of the girl you talked to at the inn we stayed at last night, and the boy is scarcely two.’

‘How lucky she is to have one of each,’ Georgie said. ‘I always wished that I might have had a sister or a brother, but Mama lost one baby and Papa would not risk her health again. He loved her too much…’ She sighed, her smile dimming. ‘It was terrible to lose them both as I did, but I do not think that either of them could have supported life without the other.’

‘But you were left alone,’ Richard said. ‘My parents also died when I was still young, but at least I still had my sister—and I have her family when I am in need of some of the comforts of home. You have no one who truly cares for you, I think?’

‘Aunt Agatha was not unkind at first,’ Georgie said. ‘But her life was difficult. My uncle was for ever gambling and there were times when money was short. I am sure it was he who wanted to settle his debts by selling me to Monsieur Thierry. My aunt was shocked, but could do nothing but obey her husband.’

‘Will the countess be prepared to stand against them for guardianship?’ Richard asked. ‘Have you considered that your uncle may have the right to force you to return to his house until you are older?’

‘Papa’s will states that I should be free to live as I please once I come into my fortune,’ Georgie said. ‘There are two lawyers applying the terms of the trust, and I think they might support me if I tell them what he tried to do.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Richard said. He hesitated, then, ‘My sister can always reach me if she needs me. I shall furnish you with her address and you may apply to me if you are in trouble.’

‘Oh…’ Georgie looked down because her heart had begun to thump madly in her breast, feeling as if it would burst free of her ribcage. ‘Surely you would not wish to have the trouble of such things?’

‘I would help you if need be,’ Richard said and his eyes held hers. ‘Can you doubt it?’

At that moment Georgie would have believed anything he told her. She felt as if she were drawn to him, bound to him by invisible threads and her mind sought for something to say that would make him understand how she felt, but at that moment someone came in to announce that their carriage was waiting.

Georgie turned, preceding the others as they all went outside. She hoped that Richard had not noticed her confusion, because she did not want him to see that he had set hope flaring inside her. His promise that he would help her made her feel that perhaps she might see him again after the morrow.

Their journey that afternoon was uneventful, perhaps because Richard had hired grooms to accompany them. His young tiger had stayed behind with his master’s horses and rig, and would wait at the posting inn until he was told what to do next. Richard sat opposite her.

He made conversation for a while and then leaned back, his eyes closed. She thought that he was sleeping and felt pleased, because she knew he had had little sleep the previous night. If he could relax now, it must mean that his wound was feeling a little easier.

At the next inn they were shown to their rooms, and shortly after Georgie had washed and made herself comfortable she heard a knock at the door. She opened it to find Henderson standing there with a valise, which he handed to her with a smile.

‘Can you manage, miss?’ he asked. ‘I could ask the innkeeper’s wife to send a girl up to help you.’

‘No, thank you. I am sure I can manage,’ Georgie said. ‘I shall not come down this evening. I think it best if no one sees me—and I am not hungry.’

‘I’ll ask for a light supper to be sent up, miss,’ Henderson promised as he left.

Georgie smiled and closed the door, locking it once more. She carried the valise to the bed and opened it, taking out a gown of primrose muslin. It was the fashion of two seasons previously with a high waist, puffed sleeves and a white sash, which she could tie at the front or the side. It was a little creased, but she shook it out, laying it over the back of a chair as she examined the rest of the clothes. There was a shawl of white silk, some dainty white leather half-boots, which were a little too large for her, but wearable once she had laced them, silk stockings and garters, a fine silk petticoat—which, considering the cold weather of the past few days, she thought it advisable to wear—and a heavy pelisse of dark blue for travelling. She pulled everything out of the valise to make sure, but there were no pantaloons. Of course some fashionable ladies did not wear them under their clinging gowns, but Georgie had been accustomed to such items of underwear and felt that it would be very daring of her not to do so. However, as there were none, she would simply have to brave it.

No one would know, of course, but she felt it a little shocking. However, it might have been even more shocking if they had been there for her bag must have been packed by Henderson, who was more used to serving a gentleman.

She considered dressing in her finery just to see how she looked, suddenly keen to be a young lady again. However, the hour was late because Richard had wanted to make up for time lost earlier in the day, and she decided that it could wait for the morning. When she undressed she placed the youth’s clothing into the bag, apart from the shirt that she had used as nightwear the previous night and would use again.

The Countess of Shewsbury and Morton would no doubt think it very odd when she arrived with no baggage, but they must hope that she was prepared to believe Georgie’s story of having lost it on the road. She would have to send for her things, or wait until she had her money and could buy more, though that would be awkward.

Her life would be less than comfortable even when she reached the safety of her aunt’s home, Georgie realised, and there was no guarantee that the countess would be willing to defy her uncle. As Richard had pointed out, her uncle was her legal guardian, of course, and could demand her return at least until she came into her inheritance.

Notwithstanding her troubled thoughts, Georgie slept soon after her head touched the pillow.

She woke as soon as the first rosy fingers of dawn began to creep through the partially drawn curtains, and was dressed and ready when the maid brought her a breakfast tray containing soft rolls, honey and a pot of dark chocolate.

Once she had eaten, Georgie gathered her things and went downstairs. She discovered that Richard and Henderson were already in the hall, and by the sound of it they had something important to discuss. However, they stopped speaking as one and turned to look at her as she reached the bottom stair, a picture of youthful beauty in her yellow gown and white shawl, the pelisse over her arm. She had no bonnet or even a ribbon to tie up her hair and so it fell on to her shoulders in a riotous tangle of shining curls and waves.

‘You are ready, then,’ Richard said, his eyes seeming to dwell rather too long on her slender form. ‘I was about to send the maid to see if you were. I trust you slept well?’

‘Very well,’ Georgie replied. She thought that some of the shadows had gone from beneath his eyes and assumed that he too had rested. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Henderson says he thinks we were followed here yesterday evening. The grooms told him someone was inquiring for a gentleman travelling with a youth, but since I had warned them to be on their guard they told him nothing.’

‘Was he a Frenchman?’

‘Yes, they seem to think so—at least they said he had a queer accent, so it seems likely it was Thierry or one of his cronies.’

A little shiver ran down Georgie’s spine. She had hoped that Thierry would be left far behind, but if he had followed her here he might have ideas of snatching her from beneath her great-aunt’s nose. She would have to be careful not to go out alone.

‘Well, are you ready?’ Richard looked at her, a crease forming on his brow. ‘You need not be afraid of him, you know. I think it must be me he wants. He believes I know something about him—and perhaps I do, if I could but think what it is.’

‘You have never met him?’ Georgie asked. She tipped her head to one side, considering as he shook his head. ‘Some might think him very handsome, but I do not. He is a fine figure of a man, but there is something… greasy about him. And he has a horrid way of looking at one.’

‘Yes, I think I know what you mean,’ Richard said. He had met characters he would describe as oily in the past and understood what she was trying to say. It was a slyness, a smoothness of manner that was too ingratiating to be believed, and an unpleasant feeling of being laughed at secretly. ‘Well, are you prepared for what comes next?’

‘Yes…at least I must be,’ Georgie said. She moved towards him, laying her hand on his arm. ‘You did mean it when you said I might call on you if I needed you?’

‘I never say what I do not mean,’ he told her with an encouraging smile. ‘Come, be brave, Georgie. You faced a shot that might have killed you and bolting horses with courage—what can be so terrifying about one elderly lady?’

‘Nothing, of course,’ Georgie said and gave him her hand, allowing him to help her into the carriage. She was puzzled when he closed the door. ‘You are coming with me?’

‘Naturally. I shall ride. My wound has almost healed and it does not pain me now; I think the exercise will do it good. That rogue who fired at us did me a favour, for when the wound split open the poison seeped out, and since then I have felt much better.’

‘I am glad,’ Georgie said. She watched from the window as he mounted his horse and set off a little ahead of the carriage, Henderson following to ride at his side. ‘So very glad.’

Her eyes felt moist as she sat back, clasping her hands in front of her. Her heart was beating very fast, but she raised her head, a gleam of pride in her eyes. She was determined not to be anxious. If her great-aunt refused to take her in she would simply…well, she did not quite know what she would do, but perhaps Richard would be able to suggest somewhere she might go.

Georgie relaxed as best she could for the next half an hour; then, seeing a village sign which proclaimed itself as Shrewsbury Morton, she sat forward and looked out at the view. They were passing through a pretty village with a fine church. It seemed something was going on at the church, for several carriages had arrived and people were getting out of them. Georgie saw that they were all wearing black and, hearing the mournful toll of a church bell, realised they must be attending a funeral. It was clear that whoever had died must be a person of importance, for the carriages belonged to good families, and the service was well attended.

Her driver had been obliged to halt the horses because of the traffic and she saw that Richard had also reined in and was talking to someone. She could see his face clearly and it was obvious that something was wrong. She shivered as he looked back at her, sensing bad news. He dismounted, gave the reins to Henderson and walked back to her, opening the door and climbing inside. His manner was thoughtful, sympathetic, as he reached forward to touch her hand.

‘I am afraid I have some bad news for you, Georgie,’ he said, a serious expression on his face. ‘There is a funeral today and…they tell me it is for the Countess of Shrewsbury. Apparently, she died of an illness that has plagued her for some months. It was not unexpected, but sudden at the end.’

‘Oh…’ Georgie stared at him. Her eyes pricked with tears. ‘How very sad. I had no idea she was ill. She wrote to me only occasionally, usually on my birthday or at Christmas, but she always sent a gift and her letters were kind.’

‘I asked who was attending the funeral and it appears that she has no immediate relatives. Her great-niece has been informed, but has not replied…that is you, Georgie. The letter must have gone to your uncle’s home after you left.’

Georgie looked at the church. ‘Do you think I should attend? Would it look strange if I went in wearing these clothes?’

‘Do you wish to?’ he asked. ‘You hardly knew her after all.’

‘She was my great-aunt. I suppose I may explain my lack of proper dress if anyone asks.’ She looked at him shyly. ‘Will you accompany me?’

‘Of course. She was my sister’s friend for many years.’ He frowned. ‘I dare say that means Amelia may be here.’ He nodded and gave her his hand. ‘Wear your pelisse, for it will cover most of your gown—but your hair should be covered.’

‘I’ll wear my cap,’ Georgie said and undid her valise. She set the brown cloth cap on the back of her head. ‘It may look odd, but will be better than showing disrespect in church.’

‘It looks…different,’ Richard said, a gleam in his eyes, because there was something very appealing though slightly shocking in seeing that masculine cap set on her luxuriant dark hair when she was wearing feminine apparel.

They joined the last stragglers, taking up places right at the back of the church. One or two turned their heads to look, but as she was not known to anyone local few thought it odd—except for the rather strange attire she wore. However, since she was seated at the back only a few noticed.

Georgie sat staring straight ahead. She felt close to tears, though she was not certain whether her emotion was for the death of an elderly lady she had never met, at least since she was a very small child, or her own situation. The shock of realising that all her hopes had vanished in a puff of smoke was one of the reasons she had asked to attend the church service. It would give her a little time to consider what she ought to do now.

Clearly, she could not expect to live at the countess’s home in the circumstances. It would probably be shut up with just a few staff to care for it until the new owner took it over. She had no idea who that person was, but suspected it might be a distant cousin of the late countess’s husband. Since she knew nothing of him, whoever he might be, she could certainly not throw herself on his mercy.

It was very awkward, Georgie realised. She must either beg Richard to help her again or return to her uncle—and that she was determined not to do! Perhaps he knew of a respectable widow who might help her to set up an establishment of her own?

She could think of no alternative and thrust the worry from her mind as she listened to the vicar praising the goodness of her great-aunt. Tears trickled down her cheeks, because she felt very much alone. She had hoped that her great-aunt would be pleased to see her and the disappointment was hard to bear.

After the ceremony was over, the congregation followed the coffin out to the graveside. Richard and Georgie stood well back, feeling that neither of them was properly dressed for such an affair. Georgie was about to turn away when Richard took her arm and steered her towards a small party of mourners, one of whom was a very pretty young woman of perhaps seven and twenty. She turned her head as they approached, a look of astonishment in her eyes.

‘Richard! How came you here?’ Her bright eyes took in his dress, which was not at all suited to the occasion. ‘I wrote, but was not sure you had my letter in time to make the journey.’

‘I did not have your letter at all,’ Richard said and went to kiss her cheek. ‘You look very well, Jenny.’ He smiled at the tall gentleman standing beside her. ‘Maddison, good to see you. I had no idea the countess had died. It makes things rather awkward, for I had escorted her great-niece to stay with her…’ He turned to Georgie, bringing her forward. ‘Georgie, this is my sister, Lady Maddison, and her husband, Lord Edward. Miss Georgina Bridges.’

Jenny looked startled and then remembered her manners, offering her hand. ‘My dear girl,’ she said with a warm smile that gathered Georgie to her like an embrace. ‘What a terrible shock for you—to arrive for a funeral when you had expected to be received by your aunt. It is strange that the countess did not tell me. She did speak of you once or twice, but I did not know that she had sent for you, though I had not seen her for a week or so.’

‘Oh…’ Georgie felt her cheeks flush. ‘I dare say it was not important.’

‘Well, what are you to do now?’ Jenny said, her blue eyes curious as she looked at Georgie. ‘I see you had no hat, though that cap rather suits you. You might set a fashion, at least if it were made in a different colour to match your toilette.’

‘May we throw ourselves on your hospitality?’ Richard asked. ‘Georgie is in some difficulty, which I shall explain to you later.’

‘Naturally you will stay with us,’ Jenny said at once. ‘How could it be otherwise? Shrewsbury House is closed up, though there are servants there to take care of it, but the lawyers have taken a room at the inn to entertain the countess’s neighbours. We had no intention of attending, but if you wish to make yourself known…’

‘Oh, no,’ Georgie said, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. ‘I would rather not. I am hardly dressed for it.’

‘No…’ Jenny threw a very odd look at her brother. ‘Shall you follow us to the house, Richard? I am not perfectly sure of your travelling arrangements.’

‘Georgie is travelling in a closed carriage,’ he told her, a gleam in his eyes. ‘I am riding—but have been travelling with her for some of the time. I was injured, you see.’

‘Good grief!’ Jenny looked shocked. ‘I begin to see why…but no matter. You shall tell me it all when we are home and comfortable.’ She tucked her arm into Georgie’s, giving her an encouraging look. ‘You may accompany me, my dear girl, and tell me everything. Edward, ride with Richard if you will, my dear.’

‘It may have escaped your memory, my dearest, but I came in the carriage with you. However, I shall ride on top with the coachman if you wish to be private with your new friend.’

There was a glimmer of mockery in his dark eyes, which Jenny seemed to accept without a flicker, her mouth curving in a smile of content, as if she were accustomed to having her way.

‘Yes, Edward, whatever,’ she said, dismissing his gallant offer as expected. ‘Come along, Georgie. I sense a mystery here, and you are going to tell me everything.’

Georgie heard the note of determination in her voice, and guessed that beneath her sweet manners and pretty smiles was a lady who knew how to get what she wanted. She quailed inwardly, for she sensed it would do her no good to lie, and she could only hope that Richard’s sister would not think her lost beyond all hope when she learned the truth.

‘Well.’ Jenny Maddison’s deep blue eyes lit with admiration as she heard Georgie’s tale through to the end. ‘I think you were exceptionally brave and did exactly as you ought—though it was a pity you did not come straight to Mary. She was a lovely lady, Georgie. It is a shame you did not know her better. I always wondered why you did not accept her invitation to stay last Christmas.’

‘Her invitation?’ Georgie stared at her, bewildered. ‘I did not receive an invitation last year—or ever to my knowledge.’

‘How can that be? I know she wrote to your uncle asking if he would send you to her. I believe he said that you were unwell and could not manage it at that time.’

‘I wasn’t ill,’ Georgie said, feeling a surge of indignation. ‘Oh, how could he tell such lies? He must have done it to make certain that I did not leave his house. Had I known my aunt wished to see me, I should have come at once. She did say that I would always be welcome in her letter to me, but I did not know she had asked for me. When I spoke to my aunt about the possibility of a visit, she told me that the countess was elderly and did not wish for visitors. I was not sure if she would take me in.’

‘I am sure she would have done so despite her health,’ Jenny told her. ‘Just a few days sooner and you might have seen her…’ She sighed. ‘Well, there is no point in crying over something that cannot be helped. The thing is, what are we to do about you now?’

‘I shall never return to my uncle’s house.’

‘No, of course not,’ Jenny said decisively. ‘That would be to play into his hands and cannot be thought of.’ Her cheek dimpled as she studied Georgie. ‘You know, you are very pretty—even beautiful if you were dressed in something suitable.’

Georgie blushed, but made no mention of the compliment in her reply. ‘I thought I might pay a respectable widow to bear me company once I have my inheritance.’

‘Well, you might, of course,’ Jenny said and gurgled with soft laughter. ‘On the other hand, you could be my guest. I have been a little down these past months, you see. I do not care for the winter and it took me a little time to get over the birth of my son so I have stayed at home for an age. However, Edward has promised to take me to Bath if I will take the waters.’ She pulled her soft mouth into a grimace of distaste. ‘I do not enjoy the prospect, but I shall enjoy being in company again. We shall take a house big enough for nurse and her assistant, besides Jemmy’s tutor and my maid, and Edward’s man, of course—and you, Georgie, my love. Richard too if he should care for it, though I dare say he will be off on some horrid business of his own before we know it. I have been nagging him for an age, you know. It is time he gave up all this dangerous stuff and settled down. He should think of providing me with a sister-in-law and a nephew or two, but he is stubborn and will not listen.’

Georgie looked at her in dawning delight. ‘Would you really let me live with you—visit Bath with you?’

‘I should like it above all things,’ Jenny told her in her engaging way. She clapped her hands, pleased with her solution, which, since it suited her, she imagined would please her family. ‘If you would like to be my friend, of course?’

‘Oh, it is exactly what I should like,’ Georgie said impulsively. ‘And so very kind. You do not know me. I might be a terrible person. Your brother thinks I am not always truthful since I lied to him at the start.’

‘Oh, brothers,’ Jenny said in a dismissive manner. ‘They are for ever on at one, telling one how to behave, at least until one marries.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘And after if they can get away with it. My dearest Edward will not allow anyone to bully me.’ A smile of content settled over her face. ‘He always wishes to please me and I know he will say it is just the thing to lift my spirits. You will want lots of clothes, I am sure, for even if we sent for your own things they would not do for Bath, you know. I have some things that you may borrow. I see that Richard has given you an old gown of mine that I left somewhere once. He might have bought you something new! It was very stingy of him!’

‘Oh, no,’ Georgie said, instinctively protecting him. ‘He has been very kind to me, Lady Maddison. You must not think otherwise. He fed me when I was hungry and then brought me all this way when I am sure he has other more important things to do.’

‘What could be more important than showing gallantry to a lady in distress?’ Jenny said. ‘I dare say he thought that gown would do—and it does look well enough for travelling. However, I shall find you something much better when we are home, and in Bath we shall commission only the finest of everything.’

‘I am not certain how much I am to inherit from my father,’ Georgie said a little uncertainly.

‘What can that signify?’ Jenny said, taking her breath away with her next words. ‘The countess was wealthy in her own right you know. The estate may go to a distant cousin of her husband, I dare say, for she said as much—but everything else is to come to you.’ Her eyes went over Georgie in a satisfied way. ‘You will be very rich, my dear—and, dressed as befits your consequence, you will take society by storm.’ She tapped a finger against her velvet muff, which hung from a chain made of moonstones and gold. ‘I am not sure whether it would not be better to open the house in London… that is where Richard found my gown, no doubt. He must have sent to the housekeeper, Mrs Maunders, for something.’

‘You must not go to so much trouble for my sake,’ Georgie said. ‘Your husband wishes you to take the waters for your health—besides, I suppose I ought to be in mourning for my aunt.’

‘Nonsense,’ Jenny said, determined not to see her plans squashed by convention. ‘You hardly knew her and she would not have wanted it. Mary would not have been pleased to see everyone wearing black today and never wore it herself, even when she was in mourning for her husband. I shall change into colours once we are home, and you must not think of going into black.’ Her eyes went over Georgie again. ‘You might wear a pearl grey for evening, and I think lilac would suit your colouring—also some blues. We can brush through it if we wish, and no one needs to know anything.’

‘But if I am the countess’s heir…’ Georgie was doubtful. ‘I should not wish to show disrespect.’

‘And you shall not,’ her determined hostess said. ‘Yes, you may wear grey and lilac and white, I think. We shall not attend anything too large or noisy—but we shall contrive to enjoy ourselves just the same.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Georgie said, feeling relieved that she need not wear black again so soon after wearing it for her parents. ‘Are we stopping?’ She looked out of the window at what was a large, but not huge, country house with long windows, bricks that looked the colour of musk roses and an impressive front porch. ‘What a lovely house.’

‘It is not as big as Richard’s,’ Jenny said. ‘But I like it better. Our home was always a little cold. If I were Richard, I should set the builders on to improve it, but he has been so busy that I dare say he has not had the time.’

Georgie had been so busy talking with her hostess that she had not noticed the gardens, but as the carriage door was opened she took the hand of an obliging groom, looking about her as he helped her down. The gardens were formal with smooth paths of bricks interspersed with neat beds of roses and flowers. As it was only late spring some of them were still in bud and had not yet bloomed, but she thought it would be a pretty place to walk in summer. To the side of the house she saw shrubbery and guessed that the gardens at the back would be less formal.

‘Do you ride?’ Jenny was asking as she took Georgie’s arm once more. ‘It is a must in the country, I think, for otherwise we should be confined to the house unless someone took us driving.’

‘Yes, I can ride,’ Georgie told her. ‘My aunt did not encourage it, but my father taught me when I was a child. I can drive, too—a gig with one pony, though I should like to drive a proper rig.’

‘I have never driven myself,’ Jenny told her. ‘My father thought I was too delicate and my husband thinks a puff of wind might break me—but he takes me driving as often as I want so I do not complain.’

‘We must ride together,’ Georgie said. She felt that she had known her companion for ever and was quite content to let her plan her future. She saw Richard giving her a quizzical look as she walked towards him. He and Lord Maddison stood by the front door, waiting for the ladies to come up with them. ‘I shall enjoy living here with you, Jenny.’

‘I dare say you will marry and leave me too soon,’ her hostess told her with a naughty look. ‘But we shall remain friends and you will visit me sometimes—will you not?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Georgie assured her and wondered at the satisfied gleam in her eyes. ‘But I am not sure I shall marry very soon. I would not want to be married for any money I might inherit. I am determined it shall be for love and nothing else.’

‘Well, I dare say you may fall in love,’ Jenny said and her fond gaze travelled to her brother, dwelling on him for a moment. He might not be as handsome as her beloved Edward, but he was a fine strong man and kind. She thought he would do very well for her new friend, and determined then and there to bring about a match between them if it could be managed.

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