The Youngest Miss Ashe [130-4.5]

By: Paula Marshall.

Synopsis:

What had they done to her?

His Margaret.  His Meg ... his Meggie.  The pet names they had called
her by, years ago, sprang unbidden to Simon's mind.  Worse still, what
had she done to turn herself into a fashion plate, a sophisticated
houri?  By all appearances she was no better than she should be!  Oh,
he knew them well, these cool and haughty sirens; knew all the tricks
they used to ens are men.  And his Margaret--for she should have been
hisJhad turned into one of them.

When was it that he had realised that he had loved the wild littl girl
who had refused him because he had made such a ham-fisted mess of his
proposal?


Paula Marshall, married with three children, has had a varied life.
She began her career in a large library and ended it as a senior
academic in charge of history in a polytechnic.  She has travelled
widely, has been a swimming coach, and has appeared on University
Challenge and Mastermind.  She has always wanted to write, and likes
her novels to be full of adventure and humour.

Recent titles by the same author:

LADY CLAIRVAL'S MARRIAGE

AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR

EMMA AND THE EARL

A BIDDABLE GIRL?

THE LOST PRINCESS

The author Would like to thank the staff of the Wolfson Library of the
Royal Zoologial Society, London, for their kind assistance in helping
to make the visit of my characters to the London Zoo in 1828 as
authentic as possible.

THE YOUNGEST

Paula Marshall

MILLS BOON'

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bearing the same name or names.  They are not even distantly inspired
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are pure invention.  4ll Rights Reserved including the right of
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trademarks of the publisher.

First published in Great Britain 1997

Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,

Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TP,9 ISR

Paula Marshall 1997

ISBN 0 263 80199 3

Set in Times'll on 12pt.  by

Rowland Phototypesetting Limited Bury St.  Edmunds, Suffolk

04-9708-67543

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Chapter One

"Oh, do hold still, Margaret," complained Mrs.  Ashe to her daughter,
the youngest Miss Ashe, 'you know how important it is that you look
perfectly proper when Sir Simon comes to propose to you.  And here you
are, your hair awry and your gown creased, and he almost about to
arrive.  How is it, I ask myself, that however carefully Simpson
dresses you, in half an hour you look as though you have been
bird's-nesting with that wretched Julian Wentworth?"

Julian was the Rector's son with whom, not so long ago,
eighteen-year-old Margaret had enjoyed bird's-nesting.

"I wish I were going out with Julian, or helping Wilkinson to pot
plants in the hothouse.  Anything would be better than sitting here
like a prize heifer, waiting for its owner to claim it!"

"Dear me, Margaret, you do say the most indelicate things," moaned her
mother, trying to tidy her daughter's errant and undistinguished brown
hair.

"No wonder your London Season was such a disaster."

For the hundredth time she wished that Margaret was more like her
sisters, who possessed bright golden curls, blue eyes, beautiful
regular features and elegant figures, together with biddable
dispositions.  All of them, though virtually dower less had made grand
marriages in consequence.

"Really, Mama, you mustn't expect me to chaperon Margaret again," her
eldest and most beautiful sister, Jane, Lady Vancourt, had told her
mother.  "She makes no effort to please, finds polite society a dead
bore and frightens off any pretty young fellow who might wish to marry
her.  Instead, she spends all her time either in the library with
Vancourt's librarian, or in the stables with' the grooms... "No, she
must stay in Leicestershire and marry some rustic squire who won't
object to her lack of manners.  Hetty and Phoebe are both of the same
mind, so it's no use asking them to drag her about, either."

Margaret, who much preferred to be called Meg, or Meggie, shrugged her
shoulders and took her canvas work from her mother with the instruction
that Sir Simon Darrow must find her usefully employed when he arrived.
It was, her mother thought despairingly, perhaps Margaret's most
annoying attribute that she was so much more capable in everything she
did than her elder sisters had been.

Her stitchery, her embroidery, her tending of the flowerbeds, her piano
playing, her singing, her riding, as well as her ability to speak both
French and Italian so fluently, were all to no avail if she despised
marriage and the social round which were, after all, what women of
their class Were trained and destined for.

Such useful attributes would be sure to please a husband who was
looking for sense rather than mere beauty in a wife, so it was more
than ever distressing that the youngest and only plain Miss Ashe was so
set against marriage.

"No one," said Meg crossly to her mother, 'seems to understand that I
don't want to be married, at least not yet.  I'm not at all like Jane
and the rest, you know.  They never talk about anything serious and
would faint if they saw a calf born..."

"Margaret!"  shrieked her mother.  "What a thing to say!  I knew no
good would come of your father allowing you to run wild among the
grooms and the gardeners.  You really do need a husband to keep you in
order.  And, for goodness sake, don't say anything like that to Sir
Simon--or to any other man, for that matter.  Your reputation would be
gone in an instant, and you would end up like your great-aunt Griselda,
an eccentric old maid."

But happy, thought Meg mutinously, giving a resigned sigh and beginning
to stitch doggedly away at the tail of the peacock she had drawn upon a
square of fine linen, which was destined to be a fire screen I daren't
upset Mama by telling her that, even though Lord Vancourt was the catch
of the Season and Jenny caught him, she is most unhappy.

For what did he do, once the honeymoon was over, but start chasing bits
of muslin again, even though he had vowed to her that his wild days
were behind him.  When I lived in London with them they only met at
meal times--and not always then.

But that, she thought, doesn't explain why I don't wish to marry Simon.
After all, so far as I know, he's never been interested in the muslin
trade, and I'm sure that he would be faithful.  Except that, like the
heroine of that old play Papa gave me to read, Thb Way of the World, I
think it was, I don't want to dwindle into a wife.

I suppose that it's all Papa's fault for encouraging me to read and to
think, as well as learning what he calls the womanly arts.  Jenny and
the others certainly never wanted to talk about anything but lovers,
dress, trimming bonnets and the season, and poor Papa needed someone to
talk to!

Mrs.  Ashe had not ceased to harangue her about how she should behave
before, during and after she had accepted Simon's proposal and was
about to become young Lady Darrow instead of the youngest

"It will be such a relief to have all four of you married," she
proclaimed.  "And all of you so well, particularly since you--'

She stopped and coloured, realising it was scarcely tactful to tell
Margaret quite so bluntly that her value in the marriage market had
been so low, not only because of Margaret's lack of obvious charms, but
because the Ashe family had been as poor as church mice ever since
grandfather Ashe had gambled away all their land and property.  He had
left them just enough to live on, but not to keep Highmount Hall in the
state in which their great-grandfather had left it.

"Are nowhere near as beautiful and biddable as any of your more
fortunate sisters," finished Meg for her.  "Say it, Mama.  Tell me how
lucky I am that Simon is willing to overlook my brown hair, green eyes
and lack of figure, and marry me."

"I am sure, Margaret Ashe, that you are the most contrary child a
mother could have the misfortune to give birth to.  I will leave you
now to do your duty to your name and family," was all that her unhappy
mother could manage in answer.  Margaret had always been able to run
verbal rings around her.

"If I didn't marry, I should at least do my duty by keeping my name,"
retorted Meg perversely.  "But I' promise that I will give Sir Simon a
fair hearing and then make up my own mind as to whether I accept him or
not.  Will that do?"

It would.  obviously have to serve.  Before she left her to await Sir
Simon's arrival, her mother could not resist offering her yet another
piece of advice.  "Do not disarrange yourself Once I am gone.  A man
does so like a tidy woman for his wife."

But not for his mistress, thought Miss Ashe irrepressibly and
irreverently, having had some of London's most notorious ladybirds
pointed out to her, including Miss Laura Knight, who had been the belle
amie of more than one great man.  There had been nothing conspicuously
tidy about her.  Quite the contrary.  She was more like the lady in the
poem by Herrick, which Papa had once begun to quote when Mama had
reproached her in front of him for untidiness.

'"A sweet disorder in the dress"," he had murmured slyly.

Only Mama had said sharply to him, "Fie on you, sir!  Not in front of
the child."

Seventeen-Year old Meg had looked up the rest of the verse which went
on 'kindles in clothes a wantonness'.  So perhaps it wasn't surprising
that Miss Knight, although richly dressed, had a certain air of
invitation about her, which was best expressed by a curl which had
sprung free from her otherwise carefully ordered coiffure, and a scarf
which kept falling away to reveal more of a beautiful bosom than might
be considered seemly.  Another example, she thought wryly, of her
Papa's fatal influence on her speech-and conduct.

So she said nothing, and allowed her mother to leave her, unaware that
a large part of her daughter's perversity had arisen as a consequence
of another conversation between her parents: this time on the previous
evening.

Her mother had been expressing surprise at the news that Simon had
asked her father for the youngest Miss Ashe's hand in marriage.

Her father had replied in the pleasantly harried voice which he always
used to her mother, "But, my dear, consider.  Simon is getting no
younger.  He is twenty-seven and unmarried.  He has only that wast-rei
cousin, Peverel Darrow, for an heir, and needs a child of his own.
Marrying Margaret would be most convenient for him, seeing that he does
not wish to waste time running round the London Season, looking for a
wife in the marriage mart.

"He knows that our Meg is a sensible girl of good breeding stock, since
all her sisters have provided their husbands with heirs with
commendable promptitude.  Besides, given everything, she is the homely
sort who will always be faithful to him.  She will be content to live
quietly in the country, since she loves country pursuits and will never
be the belle of the Season."

"I had thought," her mother had said, a trifle plaintively, 'that he
might offer for Jenny, but he never did.  She married Vancourt
instead--which was, of course, a much better match than any Margaret is
likely to achieve."

"Marry Jenny?  Never.  That's not Simon's way.  She was far too flighty
for him.  No, you may depend upon it, my dear, my practical and clever
Meg is the one he wishes to marry.  And I, for one, do not blame him.
She will make him an excellent wife.  We have trained her well between
us."

No, I shan't, Meg had thought savagely, I shan't make Sir Simon Darrow
a wife at all.  He's obviously Only marrying me to have his children
because I am of good breeding stock--like he chooses his cows and
horses, I suppose.

And because I'm convenient.  Convenient!  As well as being plain and
unlikely to attract any other man once we are married.  Not that I
should want to, of course, but it's horrid to be so taken for granted.
I don't consider any of that makes marriage to him an honour at all.

Not that he was so bad a catch, all things considered, even if he were
nowhere near as grand as Lords Vancourt, Wallasey and Zealand, her
sisters' husbands.

Darrow Hall, its parkland, its tenant farms and adjacent coal field in
the heart of the Leicestershire countryside, not far from where the
Quota hunted, brought in a largish income.  He could probably do far
better than marry the only ugly sister in a beautiful family.  He was a
kind man, Meg was sure, but he wasn't the kind man the youngest Miss
Ashe wanted, not now.

Now she would rather die an old maid like Great Aunt Griselda than
marry him.  Let him marry some other plain girl.  The good Lord knew
that there were plenty of them about for him to choose from.  Which all
went to prove that the old adage was true: listeners never hear any
good of themselves.

Tears had filled her eyes as she had walked desolately away.  Oh, if
only she had not overheard them!  If she had not done so, the prospect
of marrying Simon would not have seemed so dreadful--he had always been
a kind of jolly brother to her.

What is it that I do want, then?  she had asked herself.  I don't know.
The only thing that I do know is that I don't want to get married--yet.
I haven't seen the world.  More importantly, I haven't seen anyone in
it I wish to marry--marriage being such a lottery.

Now, stricken all over again, she pricked her finger and gave a slight
moan just as there was a knock on the door.  It was the butler, who
announced that Sir Simon Darrow was here to see her if she were in.

"Of course, I'm in," she replied.  "I couldn't be more in if I tried.
Tell him to come in, too."  She tried to smile as the butler bowed
Simon into the room.  He was perfectly dressed for such an important
occasion, which was also what she had expected.  He was always so
exceedingly proper in every way.  And old.  Racing towards his
thirties.

With his deep-blue coat, cream breeches that were not skintight,
perfectly blacked boots--without gold tassels--and a not-too-elaborate
cravat, he was the very model of a country squire, neither carelessly
dressed nor a dandy.

He might, Meg conceded, even be thought handsome if you liked big,
strong men with harsh faces, grey eyes, slightly hooked noses and dark,
waving hair prematurely shot with silver.  Her own taste ran to blond
Apollos who resembled the milder-looking Greek gods, of whom there were
a number of statues in the entrance hall of her run-down home.  Her
father was considering selling them.

To her astonishment, Simon took her hand and bowed over it as solemnly
and reverently as though she were the Season's toast, a beauty of the
first water.  Which was all a nonsense, of course.

He rose, and when she waved him to a chair, said,.  in that kind,
fatherly voice of his Which made him sound so much older than his
years, "Allow me to stand, my dear.  I have something to say to you
which I think would be better said standing."

Well, what was she to say to that?  Not the truth, which would have
been something in the order of, Save your breath, Simon, I have not the
slightest desire to marry you!  So she said nothing, which was the cue
for him to continue.  "My dear Margaret.  You will allow me to call you
Margaret, will you not?"

He stood there, head slightly bent, waiting for an answer.

What an odd way for him to begin!  He had been calling her Meg, or
Meggie, ever since she had run behind him in short skirts at the age of
five.  Then he had been a tall boy of fourteen, come to fly his kite
with her big brother Jasper, who was now a cavalry officer in the Army,
and she had been a little pest, wailing after them, "Let me come with
you, please..."

Or had he?  Wasn't it true that lately he had taken to calling her Miss
Margaret, as though she were already ninety?  She really ought to give
him an answer, for his air of pleasant command as he stood before the
empty hearth was growing a little strained as a result of her delay.

"I'm sorry," she stammered, 'l was woolgathering."  Which was hardly a
gracious thing to say to a man who had come to propose to her, but
never mind that.  "Of course, you may call me Margaret, Sir Simon."

Belatedly, Meg realised how badly she was behaving.  If Margaret, then
Simon, of course; and so, politely and inevitably, he told her.

"Oh, I think that I may be Simon again, don't you?"  he said.
"Particularly as I have come to ask you something, which I hope will
result in what has been a pleasant friendship for both of us becoming
something closer, much closer."

Now his smile had taken on a genuine warmth, softening his harsh face,
making him seem younger, more like his true age.  If only... If only,
what?  Meg couldn't think.  What she wanted to do was to prevent him
from proposing, but none of the books of etiquette which she had read
had ever given her any advice on that.  There was a general assumption
in them that all sensible young ladies could only have one thing to say
in such a situation and that was 'yes'.  Would he be very cross when
she said 'no'?  Might it not be better to say 'yes' and please
everyone?

Except herself, of course.

Better to bite the bullet.  Let him have his say and then decline him
politely.  She remembered Jenny making them all laugh in the schoolroom
when she had told them how she had turned down some impossible younger
son of no fortune.  Which was not the same thing at all, for Simon was
not a younger son, and he certainly had a fortune, and he did not
deserve to be laughed at.

"My dear Margaret," he was saying.  "I have known you since you.  were
a child, and have watched you grow into a most attractive young lady of
great practicality--a virtue which many young ladies lack..."

Was she really hearing this?  Of course, she knew what he meant.  He
had seen her doing groom's work with Brutus; potting plants with
Wilkinson and helping him to prune shrubs and roses; working in the
still room and, once, he had caught her churning butter in their small
dairy at the back of the stables;

He surely didn't know that she had been working in the library, listing
books for Papa so that he might know which would fetch money if sold
and which would not.  Or perhaps Papa had told him.

But most attractive?  Now that must be a joke.  He was ploughing on,
listing her virtues which apparently and mainly included common sense
and not much else.  How little he knew of her!  He was quite unaware of
the Meg Ashe who read Minerva Press novels and imagined herself
amazingly beautiful-like Jane---and running off with the errant and
bedazzled heir to a dukedom, and saving him from the plots of his
wicked uncle... "And so," he fn ally achieved, 'seeing that we have
always been great friends, I thought that we might seal that friendship
by becoming man and wife.  Make me a happy man, Margaret, by accepting
the hand which I offer you."

At least he didn't go down on one knee as Jane had said Vancourt had
done.  Instead, he put his large and shapely hand out to her, doubtless
certain that she would take it---and him.

Now that the moment for refusing him had come, Meg found that she had
no heart for it.  Yes, he had been a good and kind friend and his grim
face no longer looked so grim.  It was the face of the patient young
man who had always had time to talk to her, lift her on to her horse,
and make up for the fact that she had lost her brother Jasperto the
Army.

He had always been kind to her--unlike her sisters.  Simon, who had
shown her how to hold his pet macaw and stroke his naughty monkey,
trophies his sailor uncle had brought him from strange lands overseas.
Simon loved all animals.

Alas, while she hesitated, he settled the matter for her and, in
Jasper's slang, dished himself.

He smiled encouragingly and said, "Come, my dear girl, do not be coy.
This is not like you.  l know how forthright you are, how free from the
fashionable folly of most young women--how little you value sentimental
flimflam.  Give me your answer."

He meant it kindly, no doubt, Meg thought afterwards.

He believed that he was offering her a compliment by differentiating
her from the pretty girls who were allowed to dither charmingly,
prevaricate and titter before they made an answer.  Had he not spoken
so, she would have accepted him, and her whole life--and his--would
have been different.

After all, she knew him to be a good man, kind even to his tenants when
many landowners were not.  He had never taken part in the careless
round of pleasure like many young men of his station.  He would make a
splendid husband and father.

Alas, all her life she had been 'only Meg', and, in a sense, the manner
of his proposal had betrayed that, to him, too, she was different from
her sisters.  So he had spared her---spared her!--'sentimental
fiim-flam'.  Oh, if only.... And that 'if only' had her disregarding
his offered hand so that he dropped it, his face beginning to change a
little, becoming sterner, the kind smile disappearing.

"I'm sorry, Simon," she faltered, her voice breaking a little, 'but I
have always thought of you as a brother, never as a husband."  Well,
that at least, was true.  "So I am sure that, on reflection, you will
agree that it would be wrong for me to consent to be your wife.  I am
sure, also, that there are many young ladies who would be pleased to
accept you, but I cannot."

"And this is your considered answer?  You have made it very
quickly--you do not wish to ask for time to reflect on my offer?"  His
face had darkened, but to Meg's relief his voice was as cool and calm
as ever.

"Yes, it is my considered answer.  I do not think that I shall wish to
change my mind."

"Then I am sorry, Margaret.  I had thought that we might deal well
together as man and wife."

Deal well together!  Where was love?  Where was passion in that?
Vancourt might have been a deceiver, but Wallasey, Hetty's husband, had
looked at her, and she at him, with such fire in their eyes.  Where was
Simon's fire when he looked at her?  And, more to the point, where was
hers when she looked at him?

"Your father thought..."  Simon began.  For once Meg saw him at a loss,
which surprised her.

He stopped, started again.  "Your father thought that you would be very
happy to accept me.  He knows that we share the same interests--which
is a good foundation for marriage."

Meg thought fleetingly of kneeling beside Simon and his herdsman as
they examined a newborn calf.  Of his tenderness for the calf, and the
pride with which he had shown it to her.  He had told her that it was
the first of a new breed.  It occurred to her that he had never talked
of such things to Jenny, to whom her mother had thought that he might
propose.

Even so, she had made up her mind.  She was tired of being the youngest
Miss Ashe, taken for granted.  She qua lied a little at the thought of
what her parents would say when they heard that she had refused such a
desirable marriage, but it was her life, not theirs, and she was not
afraid to live with the consequences.

In many ways Simon Darrow knew the youngest Miss Ashe very well, even
if he did not know enough of her to frame his proposal correctly.  He
could tell by the set of her face, the tilt of her head, her whole
posture, that her mind was made up.  She would not have him.  Or at
least, not now.  He was a patient man, he told himself and there would
be another day--when she was a little older, perhaps, and marriage did
not seem so daunting.

He would wait.

"Refused him!"  her mother almost shrieked at her when Simon had left,
his carriage disappearing down the drive.  "You wicked, thoughtless
child!  You are unlikely ever to get.  a better offer-or, indeed, any
offer at all, considering how little you have to offer!"

Her father was more measured, and kinder in his speech, but Meg could
tell at once how disappointed he was.

"Oh, Meggie," he said sorrowfully, "I thought you liked Simon.  You
have been friends for so long, and he would make you.  the best of
husbands.  On the other hand, it is your life, and I don't believe in
arranged marriages, or I would have arranged your marriage to Simon."

There was nothing she could usefully say to that, but, "I don't think
that I love him, and I'm not yet ready to be married."

Her mother made a great scoffingsnoise, but her father looked
thoughtful, and nodded.

"You may be right, my child.  You are not like your sisters."  He
paused, then said rapidly before her mother could speak again, her
colour high, her face set in lines of temper, "My dear," and now he was
addressing his wife.

"My sister, L6onie, is coming to stay with us shortly.  I think that it
would be helpful if we asked her to take Meg back to Paris with her
when she leaves.  It would be good for her to learn to live away from
us and her sisters.  She has grown too used to being the youngest--and
the least considered.  A change of air might work wonders."

Mrs.  Ashe's expected snort of disagreement would have amused Meg at
any other time.

"Margaret does not need pampering.  She needs informing what her duty
is, and doing it.  You must order her to write at once to Sir Simon and
tell him that she has changed her mind.  Going to Paris with L6onie,
indeed!  What will that achieve other than to convince her that she may
do as she pleases--and be rewarded for it."

Mr.  Ashe passed his hand wearily over his face.  He knew that his wife
detested her sister-in-law L6onie.  Not only had she married a French
migr Vicomte and changed' her name from an unpronounceable English
Leonora to a pronounceable French L6onie, but she had the effrontery to
be charming, civilised and witty--a great lady, in every sense.
Everything, in fact, Mrs.  Ashe considered, which was not sturdily
English.

'l have made up my mind," he announced, his tone as mild as he could
make it.  "If L6onie will agree to take her, Meg shall go to Paris."

"Oh, I know that you only call her Meg to annoy me," her mother
proclaimed.  "But you will have your way, I suppose, as she does."

"No one," said Meg, 'has asked me whether I wish to go to Paris."

"Now, Meg," said her father.  "Is that a declaration that you do not
wish to go or simply one of independence?  If the latter, then I will
ask you."

She smiled.  All was well again.  Papa was not really cross with her;
perhaps he even understood something of what had made her refuse Simon.
He was already making the kind of mild joke that her mother would never
understand.

"Really, Mr.  Ashe!  Tell her what you wish her to do.  Do not raise
her spirits by asking her anything.  That is what has brought us to
this day!"

"Yes, Papa, I will go with aunt L6onie, if she will have me," Meg said
swiftly, in an attempt to prevent her mother from continuing to berate
her father.  To see Paris!  Recently defeated at Waterloo though the
French had been, Parris was still the Ville Lumidre, the city of light
and culture.

"Then that is settled," replied her Papa, equally swiftly, ignoring her
mother's scotTng.

"Light in the attic, both of you.  Nothing good will come of it, I can
tell you, Margaret being what she is and L6onie what she is."

And so it was decided.

Aunt L6onie, when she arrived at Highmount Hall in her usual
continental state, took one look at a dejected and rumpled Meg and
agreed that Paris was the only cure for such determined meg rims

"What is it, child?"  she asked Meg when they were alone.  "Are they
determined to wed you to some elderly ogre?"

Meg shook her head.  "No, not at all.  It was Sir Simon
Darrow--Jasper's friend, who lives nearby--whom they wanted me to
marry."

Inwardly, she was marvelling at her aunt.  Would she ever be like her?
She made her beautiful sisters look like dowdy milkmaids, and even if
she went to Paris to be groomed by Aunt L6onie--for that, of course,
was what Papa intended--would she ever achieve such effortless
elegance?

Her aunt had dark hair and green eyes, exactly like her own, but her
resemblance to Meg ended there.  She was so absolutely, exquisitely
polished: a perfect example of Parisian chic and sophistication.  Her
spoken English now had a pretty accent to it--which added to her
attractiveness.

Meg could see at once why her mother resented her husband's sister so
much.  She was almost frightening in her total command of life.  The
fact that she was a rich-widow was yet another offence to be added to
the long list that Mrs.  Ashe kept.

"Ah, yes.  I remember.  Somewhat older than you are.  Exactly the right
age for a husband for you.  A good man--and kind.  So why the
refusal?

"I don't know."  Meg's eyes filled with tears.  "I wake up in the night
sometimes, and wish that I had said yes.  And then by morning I think
no again.  I believe that the real truth is--and Papa agrees with me
that I am not yet ready for marriage."

"But not your mother?  She would have you married and off her hands.
Hmm."  She pulled Meg to her feet--they were alone in the big drawing
room---and held her away so that she was looking at her from a
distance.

'l agree with you.  You are so raw, so young, so farouche, Your Papa
tells me that not only are you clever, but that you are practical as
well, and that is why Sir Simon wishes to marry you.  Tell me, are you
tired of being cleve: and practical?  Is that why you refused him?  Do
you wish to be, oh, so pretty and flirt, and have the young men at your
feet, la, la?"

"Sometimes."  Meg was honest.  "The truth is, I don't know what I
want."

"Then you shall come to France with me and you shall find out.  I shall
make such a fine lady of you that no one will know you--and than,
perhaps, you may come to know yourself."

And when I do, what then?  thought Meg, who was not sure that she
wanted to go to Paris to learn to be a fine lady, until her aunt
said,

"I will make you someone who will eclipse your sisters, for you have
character and they do not."

Oh, that did it, did it not!  For then she would no longer be 'only
Meg', the youngest Miss Ashe.  Who knew what the future might bring?

"Yes, I will come to Paris with you," Meg said, hanging her head.

Her aunt put her finger beneath her chin, saying briskly, "No
slouching, mind, no round shoulders, for deportment will be your first
lesson."

Meg had set her foot on a new path in life and she had no idea where it
would take her, nor what pains, as well as pleasures, she would find as
she walked along it.

Chapter Two

"If you must know, I am at point non plus, my dear, and I have no one
to turn to---except you.  I would never have thought, years ago," she
went on slowly, 'that..."  Jane, Lady Vancourt paused, and looked
across the room at Marguerite de Vaux, Madame la Comtesse de Mortaine,
widowed these two years, who stood in the bow window of the
drawing-room at the Vancourts' Piccadilly home, a book in her hand.

How to finish her sentence without saying the unsay able '...I would
need to ask you, of all people, for help and advice," but something in
the calmly serene expression on her sister's face stopped her.

Instead, she began again.

'l know that I was foolish to do what I did.  But, as I suppose you
know, Vancourt has never done me the honour of being faithful to me,
not since the day we were married.  I was so bored with being dull and
faithful and good, and all the things that perfect wives are supposed
to be.

"When Peverel Darrow made such a dead set at me, !  was foolish enough
to give way for once and have an qffaire with him.  Such a mistake. And
l made it worse by writing him letters--and now he is blackmailing me
with them.  Well, aren't you going to say something?"

"Only, why Peverel Darrow, of all people?  You have known for years
what a charming rogue he is, never to be trusted.  Did his pretty face
seduce you?  It can't have been his character--that is not pretty at
all,"

"Easy for you to talk," 'retorted Jane.  "I suppose that you were never
tempted before Andre died--and not since, either."

Her sister did not answer her, simply shook her head, put down her book
and arranged herself carefully on the sofa opposite Jane, who stared at
her in frank disbelief.  Such coolly charming perfection of appearance
and manner was an art in itself.

Marguerite's chestnut-coloured hair, smoothly polished and sleek with
golden lights in it like a ripe conker, enhanced her green eyes.  It
was dressed in the latest, severer style, without clustering ringlets
and the usual deep fringe.  The lack of cuds emphasised the austere
planes of her face, giving it a grave and individual attractiveness.

"You are so like Aunt L6onie," burst from Jane, 'so much so that it's
almost unnatural."

"Vraiment?  Truly?  And you are so like Mama--as are Hetty and Phoebe.
One of us had to resemble Papa's family."

"And that is not what I meant--it is your manner which is most like
hers, as you must know."

Marguerite inclined her head.  "What !  do know--'

and her tone was gentle '--is that you need my help.  What can I do for
you?"

Recalled to the point, Jane resumed her sad story.  "He has threatened
to send my letters to Vancourt unless I pay him five hundred
pounds--when he promises to return them.  Despite the fact that
Vancourt trades with every member of the muslin set and has a ma pounds
res se en titre as well, he would never forgive me for having an
affair.  He would send me into the country forever.

"But..."  and her voice degenerated into a wail '...l can't raise five
hundred pounds, and he has told me that unless I pay it over to him at
Lady Leominster's reception tomorrow evening, he will offer them to
Vancourt for the same amount, and if he refuses he will sell them to
Bayes who will publish them in his Radical paper as evidence of
aristocratic corruption, and the need for reform.  It might even bring
the government down."

Despite herself, Marguerite began to laugh.  "Oh, I doubt whether your
letters will bring the Ministry down' Vancourt was a minor member of
the cabinet '--but I agree, the scandal would be formidable.  Yes, I
will help you.  Do not trouble yourself about the money, I will lend
you that."

"Oh, thank you, thank you.  I know it's a great deal to ask, but I
wonder if you would take my place, hand him the money and collect the
letters?  I haven't the courage to face him.  I'm sure I would do
something stupid ... but you... Oh, please, say yes."

Marguerite had no wish to do any such thing, but

Jane had dropped her face into her hands and had begun a low dry
sobbing which was more distressing than loud watery keening would have
been.

"Yes," she said, at last.  "Tell me exactly where your rendezvous is
tomorrow."

Jane sprang to her feet and flung her arms around her sister.  "Oh,
thank you, thank you.  I am to meet him in Lady Leominster's Chinese
room tomorrow evening at ten of the clock.  Oh, I knew that you
wouldn't let me down!  After all, we meant a great deal to one another
when we were children, did we not?  I am on my high ropes that you have
returned to England in time to help me."

Marguerite de Vaux, Comtesse de Mortaine, who, after eight years in
France, was no longer 'only Meg', the youngest Miss Ashe, but a great
lady of consequence in her own right, smiled a wry smile as she stared
across the room at a group portrait of Lord and Lady Vancourt and their
two children, prettily disposed in an Arcadian garden.  Whatever she
had expected when she returned to England, it was not this.  Neither
the knowledge of how much she had changed, or how little Vancourt and
Jane had!

"There, there," she said, as though she were comforting a child: "No
need to worry."

"Oh, what a tower of strength you have become, Margaret, Whoever would
have thought it when we were children together?  You were such a gauche
little thing.  And you have become quite a beauty, too.  Vancourt was
making sheep's eyes at you, as I'm sure you noticed."

"And that's a Banbury tale," retorted Marguerite de Vaux, who still
thought of herself as Meg, the youngest Miss Ashe, 'that I am a beauty.
I make no such claim for myself.  And you may rest assured that I have
no designs on Vancourt, or anyone else for that matter.  I am content
to remain a widow."

"You've no need to.  Others will make the claim of beauty for you.  As
for being a widoW, that is the one thing about you which I do
criticise.  After all, Andre died over tw years ago, and here you are,
still in lilac, still in half-mourning."

"It suits me," said her sister, as simply as Meg Ashe would once have
done.

"True, it goes with your eyes.  How was it that, when you were a girl,
we never noticed how beautiful they were?"  sighed Jane who, at least,
Meg thought, had the decency not to be jealous of her now that the
tables were turned.  For between two children, three miscarriages and
Vane urt's overt unfaithfulness, she had not worn well.

The pretty plump girl with blonde ting lets and blue eyes had become
faded and harried-looking before she had reached thirty-five.  Meg, on
the other hand, knew how much she had changed and bloomed after two
years grooming in Pads by her aunt L6onie, her four years of marriage
to Andre de Vaux, and her two Years of widowhood.

Apparently inconsequentially, Jane asked, "Have you spoken to Simon
Darrow since you returned to England?"

Simon Darrow!  How long was it since she had thought of him?  In those
early, dreadful days in Paris spent trying to live up to Aunt L6onie's
apparently impossible demands and commands, Meg had ihought of him
often.  Mostly in terms of bitter regret that, had she accepted his
offer, she would have been back in the country with him and his dogs,
cows and horses, instead of being pulled in and out of fine clothes,
and being rebuked for her gauche behaviour.

At what point had the change come when she had turned from Meg to
Margaret to Marguerite, Aunt L6onie's charming and amusing niece, who
had half the eligible young men in Pads at her feet?  Not until after a
long and arduous tutelage, that was for sure!  And when exactly had she
forgotten Simon, so that to hear his name was something of a shock?

"He's never married, you know," said Jane, watching her sister for some
kind of telltale response.  But, as usual, she was wasting her time.
Behind that calmly perfect mask acquired in France, nothing showed.

"No, I didn't know."

"And he's an MP, now.  Doing well, Vancourt says.  Won't be long before
they offer him a post in the Government."

Simon an MP!  Simon, who always claimed that he loathed London and
politics whenever the suggestion had come up in the days when she had
known him.  What a turn-up!  Had he changed, too?

"He's greatly changed," Jane offered, mind-reading a little, perhaps.
"Vancourt always thought him a bit of a prig---rparticularly where
women were concerned.  But he's certainly not a prig these days.  Quite
the rake', or so the rumours say."

Simon a rake!  Staid, somewhat solid, if not to say stolid, Simon
Darrow.  Decidedly, whilst she was out of England, forgetting all that
she had left behind, things had changed more than somewhat.

What surprised Meg most of all was that learning that Simon was a rake
hurt her--it was as though, at the back of her mind, she had always
thought of him as her husband, so that to hear Jane say that he was a
womaniser gave her a strong feeling of betrayal !

Which was ridiculous, to say the least.  For if she had the right to
turn herself into a Frenchified belle, and to marry a rich and powerful
French aristocrat, then Simon certainly had the right to turn himself
into a ladies' man.

For once, Meg was nonplussed.  Fearful that she might betray her odd
turn of thought to Jane, she was carefully considering her answer when
Vancourt entered with a young man at his heels.

Watching him carefully, Meg saw that Jane's statement that he was
attracted by her was no less than the truth.  His manner to her was
gallant in the extreme, and when he introduced the blond young man as
'my cousin, Mr.  Will Osborne', Will's answer betrayed that Vancourt
had spoken of her in admiring terms.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Madame la Comtesse," he said,
bowing over her hand, his accent atrocious.  "I have heard so much of
you, and all to your advantage."

Meg smiled and inclined her head to him graciously in a gesture which
Meg Ashe would have mocked, but which slew young Mr.  Osborne, who
turned scarlet at her graciousness.  He decided that all he had heard
of the Comtesse de Mortaine's charm, sophistication and savoir faire
was true.

"Vancourt tells me that you are accompanying him and Lady Vancourt to
Lady Leominster's ball tomorrow evening.  You would do me a great
honour if you agreed to allow me to act as your escort."

Jane watched, fascinated, as yet another pretty young fellow threw
himself metaphorically at her sister's feet.  She was no more surprised
than Meg herself.

In France it had, even before she had married Andre, seemed perfectly
natural for her to enter a room and capture the attention of nearly
every man in it, but here in England--that was a different matter.  She
had feared that the shadow of being the youngest Miss Ashe might still
hang over her and affect her confidence.  But no such thing!

She took Will's homage as her due, and accepted his offer.  She would
arrive at her first public appearance in London on the arm of one of
the Season's greatest catches.  Jane had already told her that Will was
the cousin and heir of the Earl of Startyon and every mother in the
marriage market was desperate to secure him for her daughter!

And if she saw Simon Darrowut why was she thinking about Simon?  He was
part of her past, which was dead and gone.

Another dead bore of an evening, thought Sir Simon Darrow glumly.  Ever
since he had broken with Caroline, Lady Kenilworth, that lovely widow,
who had been determined not only to add him to her list of conquests,
but to marry him as well, he had found such occasions as the
Leominsters' ball wearying.

Every Mama in society was in headlong pursuit of him.

It was not that he hadn't enjoyed his six years as an MP, although he
hadn't expected to.  Before his first Season had begun, he had decided
that the end of it would see him married, and now, here he was, still a
bachelor--and in the eyes of the polite world, a confirmed one.

He had taken up a position near the top of the stairs, watching Lord
and Lady Leominster greet their guests: the strains of a waltz came
from the ballroom behind him.  George Vancourt was escorting a small
party on to the landing at exactly the same moment that his cousin
Peverel accosted him.

"How do, Sim?  Thought you might not be here.  Hard day in the Commons,
wasn't it?"

Peverel had Jasper Ashe with him, a blond giant resplendent in full
regimentals.  It was some years since he had seen Jasper, although as
boys they had been chums, always in and out of scrapes.  Then Jasper
had joined Wellington's army, in time to see action at Waterloo, and
they 'had drifted apart.

"Happy to see you again, Darrow.  How many years has it been?"

"Too many," said Simon cheerfully he preferred Jasper's Darrow to
Peverel's over-familiar Simm and then stopped.

His attention had been caught by an unknown woman in Vancourt's party.
Her escort was that eager young puppy, Will Osborne, who was visibly
dangling after her, adoration written in his eyes.  She was just under
middle height, with a perfect figure,

a slightly haughty carriage and was dressed with extreme elegance and
perfect style in amethyst silk; a colour which enhanced both an ivory
face of great character and her lustrous chestnut hair.

The jewels she wore were discreet, not vulgar, but were worth a small
fortune none the less.  A tiny tiara of amethysts and diamonds adorned
her shapely head, amethyst and diamond tear drops her ears.  A single
amethyst on a thin silver chain beautified a neck like that of a swan
in its elegance, and a slender bracelet of the same stones showed to
advantage an exquisite tiny hand.  She was carrying a large
fan--amethyst coloured, inevitably--with pale mauve lilacs painted on
it.

Altogether she was a sight to draw every eye, male or female---and was
obviously used to doing so, for the murmur which followed her progress
apparently moved her not at all.

Simon drew in his breath He remarked abruptly to his cousin Peverel,
who knew everything and everybody in society despite his dubious
reputation, "Who is the 'polished piece of perfection with Vancourt who
is causing all the excitement?"

For some reason his question appeared to amuse both Jasper and Peverel
inordinately.  Jasper laughed openly, and Peverel's accompanying smile
was more than usually knowing and cynical.

"Come on, Simon," Jasper said, grinning.  "You needn't barn us.  We're
old friends, remember?"  "Barn you?"  Simon was genuinely puzzled.

So puzzled that Jasper, choking a little, said, "Doing it too brown,
old fellow.  It's m'sister--as you well know."

This merely served to confound Simon the more rather than enlighten
him.

"Now you're barn ming me.  That's neither Hetty nor Phoebe and well you
know it."

It was Peverel's turn to try to bait him.  It was too good a trick to
miss.  Simon was usually the one coldly in charge, not the gull which
he was now pretending to be.

"Not Hetty nor Phoebe, nod cock but Margaret Jasper's youngest
sister--the Comtesse de Mortaine.  Don't pretend you can't recognise
her."  "Margaret!  That's Margaret?"

Vancourt's party was passing them at some little distance.  The woman
whom they claimed was his long-lost Margaret was walking quietly along,
her eyes lowered.  Suddenly, as though she had become aware that she
was being closely watched, she lifted her head to turn to look in his
direction, so that Simon caught a glimpse of a pair of brilliant green
eyes.

Something clicked in his brain.  It was as though Madame de Mortaine
had been wearing a mask that had suddenly dropped to reveal a face far
different from that which it had hidden.  He briefly saw Margaret Ashe
again, the youthful hoyden who had followed him and Jasper about.

The look of pain which passed across his face astonished Jasper, who
moved between Simon and Peverel so that Peverel should not see it.  So,
Simon's proposal to Meg must have been more than one of convenience
even if Simon had not consciously known that when he had made it.

He had spoken lightly of it to Jasper when he had seen him in London a
year later, and Jasper had believed him.  After all, Meg had scarcely
been a great prize, either in looks or wealth, and Simon could have
been expected to marry both.

Now, of course, she was one of the greatest prizes in society!

What had they done to her?  His Margaret.  His Meg ... his Meggie.  The
pet names they had called her by, years ago, sprang unbidden to Simon's
mind.  Worse still, what had she done to turn herself into a fashion
plate, a sophisticated houri?  By all appearances she was no better
than she should be!.  Oh, he knew them well, these cool and haughty
sirens; knew all the tricks they used to ensnare men.  And his
Margaret--for she should have been his had turned into one of them.

When was it that he had realised that he had loved the wild little girl
who had refused him because he had made such a ham-fisted mess of his
proposal?  He looked away from Jasper and Peverel.  Jasper,
quick-witted, thought that there was only one thing to do, and that at
once.  Simon must take his medicine.

He seized him by the arm, and said, iCome on, old fellow, and meet her
again.  How long is it since she left England?  Eight years, is it not?
You could scarcely have expected her to remain the same, could you now?
Especially after living for so many years in France and marrying into
their nobility."

Whilst he spoke, he was urging Simon into the ballroom and towards
Vancourt's party.  By now Simon had sufficiently recovered himself to
remark coolly, "I should never have known her.  Not only is she not in
the least like you and your sisters, but she doesn't resemble the
little girl I used to know in any way."

"True," said Jasper, nodding vigorously, to be supported by Peverel who
was walking with them, determined to see the fun when Simon met Meg
again.  He had been greatly relieved when she had turned his cousin
down.  For, no doubt about it, had she not done so she would have
dished any hopes that he had of inheriting Darrow Hall and all that
went with it.

The Ashes were a prolific lot, and by now Simon would have been the
father of a number of squalling brats, and all of them--to spite his
former heir--sons.  No need to think that SimOn might up and propose to
the merry widow, his former choice of wife, if the expression on his
face, when he had discovered who the fancy madam was, was any guide.

Which was exactly what Simon was thinking, agreeing for once with his
wastrel heir.  The nearer he got to the woman who had once been
Margaret Ashe, the less he liked the look of her.  Meretricious in
every vein of her body, and proud of it, was his savage conclusion. For
some reason that he didn't understand, he had a burning desire to
punish her for having changed so much that she was unrecognisable.

Oh, but she had recognised him, without a doubt!  For as he drew near
and she saw him coming, her eyes widened, and there was the smallest,
slightest shift in the hands which held the big fan.

Simon had found, during his years as an MP and in London society, that
he could read not only animals, but also men and women.  Now, eight
years later, he would not have made the mistakes in his proposal which
had lost him Margaret except that now he did not wish to propose to
her.  By no means.

He was immediately before her, bowing, as Jasper said, "Marguerite, I
have brought over an old friend to see you," and as she did not respond
other than by a cool nod of that haughty head, and the holding out of a
small hand to be kissed, he added, "You remember Simon, surely?"

Marguerite, Jasper had called her.  What the devil kind of name was
that for Meggie Ashe?  It took him all his strength not to say so.
Instead he remarked, politely, if coldly, "I would not have known you,
Margaret, without Jasper's help--and scarcely with it."

"Oh, I knew you," she responded, unsmiling, and withdrawing the hand
which he had refused to kiss.  "You have become London fine, I admit,
but that has added polish, not change."

She even had the temerity to speak English with the slightest of
accents something which doubtless charmed fools like Will Osborne, who
stood there, worshipping her.  It didn't charm Simon Darrow; and he
would have liked to tell her so.  At the same time, something inside
him was wondering why he was so angry with her.

Jasper had drawn Peverel away, and was talking to Vancourt, another old
friend of both of them.  Judging by the way he was looking at Madame la
Comtesse he was yet another of her admirers.  Well, good luck to him,
unless she was as cool in bed as she was in public ... in which case he
wouldn't be lucky.  Damn him either way!

Margaret knew only too well that Simon was seething with rage.  Like
him, she had learned to read people in the years since she had last
seen him.  She had not lied when she had said that she recognised him.
The only changes in him were for the better.

She had forgotten, or perhaps had never really understood, how
attractive his harsh craggy face and powerful body were.  There was
more silver in his glossy black hair, but that merely served to add to
his attraction, not diminish it.

He was quite different from the men she had known in Paris, and quite
unlike.  her late husband, that blond Apollo.

"I understand that you are now a member of Parliament.  When we last
met, you always said that you would never be tempted into.  public
life, that you had no talent for it, but Vancourt tells me that you are
in line for a government post.  Quite a transformation."

"You are not the only one allowed to change," riposted Simon drily. "It
was pointed out to me that if I did not like the way that the country
was run, then I had a duty to take up a position where I might try to
change it."

She inclined her head, ignoring the first part of his answer.  "Very
proper of you, and much to be commended.  I trust that leaving your
rural interests for so much of the year was not too great a wrench."

Such patronage!  And from little Meg Ashe!  Simon's thoughts were
savage.  His face registered only cold politeness, so that something
wrenched inside Meg.  Had they descended to this?  Banal and boring
chit-chat which she could practise in her sleep.  She was not surprised
when, oh so frostily, he replied in kind.

"It is my rural prowess, I believe, which has given me a Parliamentary
reputation.  But unlike many

I have not said goodbye to my roots.  I am still Darrow of Darrow, you
understand, not a the gentleman."

Unspoken were the words, "As you are a the lady who has renounced her
roots!"

"Ah, but you are a remarkably good imitation of a fine gentleman, are
you not, Sir Simon?"  Meg paused; then added meaningfully, "In every
way ... or so rumour says."

They were icy with each other, but Jasper, who had rid himself of
Peverel and was watching them both, could almost feel the fire beneath
the ice.  Hostility was in every line of their bodies, although their
faces gave nothing away.  That last double entendre from Meg, twisting
Simon's tail about his amorous career, was enough to have any
right-minded man thirsting for her blood.

Why in the world were they behaving in this odd fashion?  Were they
both light in the attic?  He had hoped that, once Simon and Meg met
again, they would realise that they were made for each other.  But were
they?

Meg had turned into a haughty belle with a cruel tongue and Simon into
a rake.  Who would have thought that possible eight years ago?

Only by hanging on to her self-control as hard as she could was it
possible for Meg not to flinch at the silent fury on Simon's face after
she had flung her insult at him.  But it was her own fault, was it not?
Whatever had provoked her to be so unpleasant to him?

"My dear Madame la Comtesse," he told her softly, 'it would please me
greatly to demonstrate to you the truth of your innuendo in the most
time-honoured fashion!  You understand me, I'm sure."

So she did.  But she had never thought to hear Simon be so unpleasantly
cool to her, and at the same time offer to seduce her!

"Oh, I do hope not."  Her tone was as sweet as her smile.  "Sometimes,
I fear, my understanding proves faulty.  A feminine frailty,
perhaps."

Frail!  She was as frail as a six-foot-tall Grenadier Guardsman, and
apparently about as sensitive!  What, though, was appalling was that
the mere sight of her, added to his covert suggestion, sent a spasm of
desire through him so strong that it was shocking.

For the one thing which he had never done was lust after little
Margaret Ashe!  But this woman was a different proposition
altogether.

He had heard some of the unpleasant gossip about Madame la Comtesse de
Mortaine, never thinking for how could he that she was his Margaret;
that she was accustomed to men who wanted nothing more than to bed her,
and was happy to oblige them.  Damn everything, he now had a burning
desire to be obliged, and a determination to achieve it.

Well, she was his Margaret no longer, just a Frenchified barque of
frailty, fair game for any man.  Fair game for Simon Darrow.  He could
only hope that his good friend Jasper Ashe had no notion of what he was
thinking!

"I'm sure," he returned, his smile both sweet and false, 'that there is
nothing wanting in your understanding which I could not easily supply.
You have only to say the word."

"But if that word has been torn from my dictionary, Sir Simon, what
then?"

"That I will lend you mine--to our mutual advantage."

Meg was torn between a desire to laugh at his impudence, and an equally
strong desire to slap his face for his easy supposition that she and
virtue were no longer bedfellows--and endure the scandal which would
follow such a public act.

So this was what Simon Darrow was really like beneath the mask of
virtue which he had shown the world--and her---eight long years ago.
Would she have accepted him then, had she known?  Especially since she
had partly refused him because of his supposed iron rectitude.  Now,
where on earth had that gone to?  Or had he been a hypocrite then?

An overwhelming desire to end this surprising conversation before she
said something unforgivable caused Meg to end their tete-a-tete.  She
raised her large fan to look at him over the top of it, and said, '1
really must ask you to allow me to leave you.  I see that there are a
number of friends present from my days in France whose acquaintance I
wish to renew."

Simon stared into the brilliant green eyes which were, he was sure,
mocking him, and murmured as softly as he could, "So long as it is
understood,

Madame la Comtesse, that this is au revoir and not goodbye."

She lowered her fan for a moment, to reply in kind, "Oh, that is
entirely up to you, sir," which she was sure was the kind of
flirtatious coda which the siren he obviously supposed her to be would
make.

Simon almost laughed aloud as she moved away,

but refrained out of respect for Jasper's hurt feelings.

"What in the world has happened to your old rapport with Meg, Simon?"
Jasper asked mournfully.  "You used to be such friends."

Simon parried Jasper's criticism of the pair of them by remarking
easily, "Oh, too many years have passed for us to take up where we left
off---and I'm not quite sure what our true relationship was then.  Meg
was such an unformed child."

Jasper opened his mouth to say something further, then shrUgged his
shoulders.  Oh, to the devil with both of them--no one else would want
such a cross-grained pair!

"You're sure that you are really happy to do this favour for me, Meg?
It is a great imposition, I know but I shall be truly grateful."

"I wouldn't say that I am exactly happy to meet Peverel Darrow for such
a reason but I am willing.  Will that do?"

Which was exactly the kind of barbed remark which her sister was fond
of throwing into the conversation, was it not?  Meg saw by the shadow
on her face that she had hurt Jane's feelings.  Remorse seized her.
Jane's life was unhappy enough without her being needlessly teased.

Dropping her mask of cool Control, Meg impulsively put an arm around
her sister and hugged her.  "Oh, Jane, forgive me.  I'm a little
overset tonight.  Forget what I said.  Remember only that in about an
hour, with any luck, you will have your letters back--ready to throw
into the nearest fire after you have checked that he has returned them
all."

"Oh, dear, I never thought of that.  Surely even Peverei wouldn't do
such a thing!"

"Always as well to be sure.  Just tell me where the Chinese room is, so
that I arrive.in time to beard the wolf in his den."

"Oh, how serene you are!  I suppose it is all those years in Paris with
Aunt L6onie, and then being married to Andre.  I wish that I possessed
your composure."

Meg foreb're to tell her sister the hard price which she had paid to
acquire that composure.  Later, when she quietly left the Vancourts'
party to make her way to the rendezvous with Peverel Darrow, she
wondered rUefully whether jousting with him would be easier than
jousting with his cousin Simon.

He was far more handsome than Simon, that was for sure, and far more
easy in his manner.  Where Simon was harsh he was soft--in every way.

Meg found him standing in a dimly lit room, by a fire place flanked by
two large bronze urns with roaring Chinese dragons twined around them.
The mantelpiece was adorned by a pair of blue and white Chinese vases.
All that was wanting was a haughty mandarin to preside over them.
Peverel's brows rose in surprise when she entered.  Her arrival,
instead of that of Jane, did not put him out of countenance.

"Ah, an emissary, I see," he murmured, offering her a low bow, and
motioning her to a seat on to a long divan, which she refused.  "But
then, your late husband was a diplomat, was he not?  I suppose that you
learnt something of his trade.  Have you come with a yea or a nay for
me?"

Meg lifted the reticule which depended from her waist.  She had not
done him the honour of acknowledging his bow, or his attempt to take
her hand.  Instead she took a piece of paper from the reticule, but-she
did not give it to him as he expected.

"I have here that which you have demanded, sir," she told him, her
voice as frosty as she could make it.  "But I shall not hand this bank
draft to you until you give me all the letters that you are misusing so
wantonly.  Blackmail, sir, is not a pretty word, and you are far from a
pretty fellow to practise it."

He bowed again.  "Oh, what a fine lady the little country cousin has
become!  And so worldly wise.  I congratulate you, Madame.  Your
caution, however, is uneccessary.  I am prepared to hand over all the
letters, retaining none.  I am not a complete villain, you see."

If it were not for the pain which he had caused her sister, Meg might
have been amused by his impudence.  Caution had seen her refusing to
speak Jane's name, someone might enter, and hear them, and she would
rather risk her own reputation--which she knew to be shadowed--than
that of poor Jane, who had too many crosses to bear already.

Peverel was also employing caution in naming names--presumably for
similar reasons.  His eyes on the bank draft which Meg was holding, he
pulled from an inner pocket of his fine coat a small packet of letters
tied with blue ribbon.

"Reputation restored again," he had the effrontery to say.  'l need not
tell you that burning them would be an excellent notion--never having
written them at all, a better."

Meg did not deign to answer him.  It was bad enough to act as a
go-between in such a sordid affair without having to endure the
excesses of a villain's impudence.  He laughed soundlessly at her
silence when she handed him the draft, and took the little bundle of
letters from him.

As she withdrew her hand, and before she could stop him by moving away,
he seized it and kissed it saying, "Allow me to assure you, Madame la
Comtesse, of my utmost admiration for your courage and daring in coming
here tonight, and for the manner in which you have behaved.  You have
surpassed all that I know of you."

It was plain that, having seduced Jane, he was now prepared to seduce
her sister.

To no avail.  Meg withdrew her hand as haughtily as she could, gave him
a cold stare and averted her head.  He was not in the least distressed
by her rebuff, merely smiled and murmured, "One day, Madame la
Comtesse, one day you shall give me a different answer.  Even the
strongest fortress falls at last."

Still she made him no reply, simply watched him kiss the bank draft,
signed by her, proving to him that Jane had not dared to ask her
husband for the money, before he left her alone.  Meg gave a great
sigh, patted her reticule, which now held Jane's letters, and prepared
to leave herself.

But as she put her hand on the door knob a sardonic voice said behind
her, "So, Madame la Comtesse, not so discreet after all since you had
to hand over money to my rascally cousin Peverel to recover your
incriminating love letters and save what is left of your reputation.  I
cannot say that I admire your taste..."

Simon Darrow had been afflicted by an excess of remorse as soon as Meg
had left him.  How could he have spoken to her so cruelly?  What devil
had possessed him, so that first he lusted after her and then insulted
her because he had done so?  Useless to say that she had been as rude
to him as he to her.  Jasper was right to reproach the pair of them.

The rumours must be wrong.  His little Margaret could not have changed
so much for the worse.  Behind the mask of experience was surely still
the frank child she had once been.  It had been his duty to find her.
Instead, he had most likely driven her away for ever.  He was so
disgusted with himself that he could no longer bear to be in the
company of so many visibly enjoying themselves.

Shame had driven him out of the ballroom and along the corridor to seek
solitude.  He would have left Leominster House immediately, except that
he had engaged to meet Jack, Earl Devereux, later.  Jack was coming on
from another engagement in order to discuss two matters with him.  The
first related to the agricultural policy of the present government,
which was of great concern to all landowners, and the second to the
business of the new Zoological Society of London, which he hoped to
join.

He had opened a promising-looking door to discover a dimly it room
furnished in the Chinese style.  He remembered that he had been told
once that the present Earl's father had been a great Chinese fancier.
There was a low divan before an empty hearth.  Another, a high-backed
one, faced away from the door towards long curtained windows.

Having no mind to be found by any passing busybody he picked an
interesting-looking book from a shelf in a niche by the fireplace, sat
on the high-backed divan out of sight of anyone entering, and began to
read... And then, after a time, he dozed .... he had passed a long and
hard day--4o be awoken soon afterwards by the noisy entry of someone
whistling happily.  He peered over the back of the divan to discover
that it was his cousin Peverel----on some dubious assignation, no
doubt.

For a moment, Sim n debated whether to make his presence known, but
decided against it.  The devil which had possessed him earlier now
prompted him to wait in silence in order to discover exactly which
light-minded woman it was whom his disreputable cousin was expecting.

Alas, when she arrived, it was none other than Marguerite de Vaux,
Countess de Mortaine, late the youngest Miss Ashe!

Oh, how stupid he had been to feel remorseful, to doubt that his fondly
remembered Margaret had turned into the light skirt which gossip said
that she was.  He was compelled to believe that all that he had heard
of her was true: that her husband had died in a duel over a woman's
honour, and that woman his wife.  That her conduct was no better than
it should have been, and had brought her husband to his death.

Every word in the conversation which he was overhearing struck his
heart like a dart piercing it.  What was worst of all was that she
should not only engage in an affaire with his worthless cousin, but
that she should be foolish enough to write him incriminating love
letters as well.

He was not to know---as Meg did not that her care never to mention
Jane's name, in order to protect her, had only succeeded in proving to
Simon that his suspicions about her were true.  Worse than 'that was
the knowledge that he had behaved in such an ungentlemanly fashion by
continuing to listen to their conversation without revealing himself.

He should have announced his presence the moment that they had begUn to
speak, but at first their voices had been low, and he had not been sure
immediately that it was Meg he was overhearing--and by the time he was,
it was too late.

The anger which he felt over his own mis behaviour found relief in
being turned on Meg--who, having had an unwanted encounter with one
cousin, was now faced with a verbal duel with the other.

For a moment she was bewildered, then understanding flooded in.  Her
carefully worded tete-a-tete with Peverel had only served to convince
Simon that she had been Peverel's mistress; that the letters she had
recovered were hers.

She opened her mouth to confound him--only to realise.  that, in order
to do so, she would have to betray Jane who had trusted her.  No,
indeed, she would deny nothing.  If Simon was intent on believing her
to be a Jezebel, then so be it.  He did not deserve to know the
truth--even if she could tell it.

Oh, she had weathered worse than this, although the sight of his
hostile, condemning face was enough to make her feel physically ill.
Holding her head high, keeping her voice level and her hands still--she
knew that twisting and shaking hands betrayed an inward confusion--she
confronted him.  He thought that she was Jezebel: then she would behave
like her.

"Why, Sir Simon, I do believe that you are jealous of your cousin.  Is
it because open rascality appears to conquer, whilst hypocritical
virtue cannot?"  This sword thrust to the heart was all the more cruel
for being so calmly delivered.  Its effect on Simon was immediate and
shocking--it broke the fine control on which he had prided himself all
his life.

He was around the divan in a trice, and was upon her, saying hoarsely,
"Why, Madame la Comtesse, seeing that you are any man's whore, why
should you not be mine?"  His arms were about her, his lips were on
hers, and if Meg's first instinctive reaction was to welcome him and
his insistent searching mouth, her second and more considered response
was to tear her betraying mouth from his and push him away from her,
while still retaining her composure.

"No, indeed.  I always choose my lovers myself, they do not choose me,
and I certainly have no intention of choosing you.  You are more of a
savage than Peverel was.  He, at least, had the decency not to continue
to pursue me when he saw that I was no longer willing."

On hearing this further insult Simon, who had begun to feel ashamed all
over again at yet another breach of his precious self-control, lost
both his temper and his newly recovered remorse.

"That being so, Madame, if I am the savage you proclaim me to be, then
I beg leave to enjoy the privileges of a savage."

He was almost upon her again before Meg, seeing that she had
unwittingly roused a tiger, had it by the tail, and could not control
it, ran to the door.

But he was there before her, a strong arm holding it shut, demanding,
"What, may all the world have you, but not I?"  A sentence which
afterwards, when cold reason ruled him once more, set him shuddering.
What in the world had possessed him to make him rant and behave like
the villain in a Drury Lane melodrama?  And how, in the name of
everything precious to him, had they reached such a pass so quickly?

Even at the time, the enormity of his conduct suddenly struck him as he
began to take Meg in his arms to do what?  He released her, and stood
back, visibly fighting for self-control, so roused was he.

If he continued in this fashion, logic said that there would be only
one end, and that something which he had always believed that as a man
of honour he could never commit--the rape of an unwilling woman.
Whatever had happened to the man of virtue he had once thought himself
to be?

Meg refrained from asking him that question, which had also sprung into
her mind.  She leaned back against the door, paralysed, shocked by her
own response to his wildness.  One part of her wanted him to go on,
wanted to lie in his arms, was hatefully pleased that she was able to
rouse the devil in him.

The other, sane, part, said to her, "If you surrender to him, then
afterwards, he will hate both himself and you for such a betrayal of
all that he lives by.  And do you wish to lie with him in despite, with
him thinking you a light skirt and you resenting that even as he
pleasures you?  What would the pleasure be worth that was founded on an
untruth?  How hatefully fleeting would it be?"

The same thing which had shocked Simon was shocking her: the speed with
which they had found themselves in this situation.  It was barely two
hours since they had met again after eight long years, and here they
were, at such surprising odds that they had almost consummated their
unruly passion on the floor of the Leominsters' Chinese drawing room!

Still composed, although inwardly shaking, Meg began to try to placate
him.  "If I were to assure you that I have nothing to reproach myself
with so far as your cousin Peverel is concerned..."

Alas, Simon allowed her to say nothing further.  "Oh, no lies, please,
Madame.  I heard you both--remember?  Accept my apologies that I
assaulted you so rudely, that was scarcely the act of a gentleman--but
I was most damnably provoked, not only by what I had earlier heard, but
what you said to me afterwards."

This only served to enrage Meg once more.  She knew that she should
leave, that she was in danger of rousing him again, but she could not
prevent herself from saying, "Provoke you, sir?  You are as amusing as
a comedian in a play by Sheridan.

"In the first place, were you the gentleman you pretend to be, you
would have made your presence known when I came in, not skulked in the
shadows listening to what was no concern of yours--and then claiming to
be provoked by it.  In the second place, whatever I said to you was in
response to your unwarranted conduct, and should have driven you to
reconsider your own behaviour and not animadvert on mine!"

Such a piece of cold-blooded legalistic pont-iffcation in the middle of
a passion ale amorous encounter, by the woman who had been subjected to
attack, apparently struck neither party as at all untoward or odd.  On
the contrary, Simon replied in kind, saying stiffly, "You cannot
reproach me more than I reproach myself.  But I must ask you to subject
your own conduct to the same scrupulous examination to which you have
subjected mine."

This was really the outside of enough!  To blame her for his own
misconstruing of her character!  Meg would have stamped her foot had
she not been so busy living up to her own legend as a woman of
experience whom nothing could annoy or shock.

"It is plain, sir," she told him, 'that we shall never agree on
anything, so that further conversation is useless.  Let us try to bring
this unfortunate meeting to an end, and agree to avoid one another in
future, since intercourse between us appears likely to bring out the
worst in us both."

Simon nodded a miserable assent, bowed, and held the door open for her.
So this was how the friendship between the youngest Miss Ashe and Simon
Darrow was to end--in hateful antagonism.

Walking along the corridor to the ballroom, looking around her for
Jane, to reassure her that her letters were recovered, that her
reputation was saved, Meg was astonished to find that her eyes were wet
with tears.

Whether they were for herself or Simon, she did not know.

Chapter Three

'[ cannot thank you enough, Meg, for what you have done for me. Peverel
seems to have returned all my letters--which was more than I
expected-and last night when I was alone, I burned them."

Jane and Meg were seated in the Vancourts' pretty drawing-room, waiting
for Jasper and Vancourt to arrive home after a session at a gymnasium
run by an ex-member of Jasper's regiment.

"No thanks are required, Jane," replied Meg, looking up from her
work--she was painting Jane's portrait in water colour "I was only too
pleased to be able to help you."

She had told no one, least of all Jane, of her unfortunate encounter
with Simon.  Since she appeared to be doomed to keep a large part of
her life in France a secret from her friends and relatives, to keep
quiet about this latest incident should not have seemed too great a
burden--but it did.  She felt like the old man of the sea himself, his
back bowed beneath the weight of his past and his knowledge.

"Now that I can breathe freely again," Jane continued happily, "I can
spend some time introducing you to as many eligible partis as possible.
I am sure that you will wish to marry again--life can be hard for a
widow, I am given to understand."

Meg shook her head.  "Oh, no.  I have not the slightest desire to
remarry, so you may rest easy.  And I have found that there are many
advantages in being a widow."

"So you say now, but you may not think so when you are a little older.
And there is one match that one would expect you to make, one which we
all thought that you would agree to long ago."

"Really, Jane?"  replied Meg with false innocence.  "And, pray, what
match is that?"

"Oh, come now.  You must know that I am referring to Simon Darrow. Mama
and Papa thought it inevitable that you would accept him and were
shocked when you did not."

"I would have been more shocked if I had accepted him," riposted Meg
without looking up from her work.

Jane ploughed on regardless.  "Oh, it wasn't just Mama and Papa, you
know.  The rest of us, particularly Jasper, were equally surprised.
After all, you worshiped him when you Were a little girl--you never
left him alone."

"Well, I am not a little girl now, and I don't worship anyone, least of
all Simon Darrow.  Is that Vancourt arriving?"  For there were voices
in the corridor outside and this was not a topic which Meg wished to
pursue.

It was not Vancourt, however, but Caroline, Lady Kenilworth, come to
call in a cloud of French perfume and, Meg naughtily noted, a cloud of
false French hair, neatly adjusted to hide her own thinning locks.  She
was dressed ti outrance, and had a manner to match.

"I have heard so much about you, Madame," she trilled at Meg, once the
niceties were over, 'and I regret that I never found an occasion to be
introduced to you at the Leominsters' ball.  Simon Darrow told me that
you were staying with your sister, so here I am."

She strolled across the room to stare at Jane's portrait, which was
nearing completion, then swung away again, without further ado, saying
over her shoulder to Meg, "Of course, as you may not know, Sir Simon
and I are bosom bows these days."

Meg offered Caroline her sweetest smile.  It was plain that someone had
informed Caro that Simon had proposed to Meg eight years ago, and now
she was being warned off, as Jasper said of some punter at a cheap
gaming hell who could not pay his dues.  Well, she could have Simon
Darrow, and welcome to him, nasty tongue and all.

"Oh, I know nothing of London society and its on dits," Meg announced
cheerfully, in a tone which hinted at an unspoken 'and have little
interest in hearing them'.  Instead, she added, "And am I to offer you
congratulations, m'lady?"

"Call me Caro, do.  Now that Caro Lamb is no longer with us, the name
has become respectable again.  As for congratulations, you may defer
them for a little.  The gentleman and I are in full agreement that,
being of mature years, we need not rush matters, but may settle them in
our own good time."

You may settle them in Hell, for all I care, remarked Meg's internal
devil nastily.  Aloud she said, "Very wise of you, very proper.  Second
marriages for the bride are always dangerous--particularly when the
groom has been such a determined bachelor as Sir Simon."

"You speak from personal knowledge, Madame?"  Caro Kenilworth was being
as poisonously sweet as Meg whom she undoubtedly--and mistakenly--saw
as a rival.

"Not at all.  From observation, not experience.  It was a first
marriage for both my poor Andre and myself."

Meg wondered if a handkerchief to her eyes might be a useful piece of
business at this point.  If nothing else, it might shame Lady
Kenilworth into silence.  She was not to know how little Meg mourned
her lost husband.  The real question was: how could Simon have become
so lacking in taste as to have this aging houri for a belle amie?
Opportunity, doubtless, was the great thing here!

Behind Caro's back Jane was mouthing something, her pleasant face a
little alarmed.  She had always been frightened by women of the world
like Caro, but Meg had no intention of being warned off, put down, or
battered into submission by such an elderly charmer.

The elderly charmer was roaring on.  "I believe that you are expecting
Vancourt and Sir Simon here this afternoon.  If so, it would be a great
convenience for me to let him know that I am attending the Devereuxs'
outdoor fete.  They are so rarely in London and their grounds are so
fine that it is an occasion not to be missed.  You will be there, of
course?"

"Of course," murmured Meg.

Jane said, "I am expecting Vancourt and my brother, but not Sir Simon.
I fear that you will be disappointed."

"Oh, I think not," drawled the ineffable Caro.  "My understanding was
quite otherwise."

Fortunately for Jane, whose savoir faire had been greatly undermined by
Vancourt's continued and open unfaithfulness, voices in the corridor
announced that this time it was her husband and Jasper who were
arriving and who would assist Meg in fending off Caro's practised
nastiness.

Unfortunately when they came in, laughing and talking, and all aglow
from what Vancourt cheerfully announced was a famous piece of exercise,
Caro was proved to be right, much to the inward consternation of both
sisters.  Simon Darrow was with them, being congratulated by Jasper and
Vancourt on the splendid state of his athletic prowess despite 'sitting
about in the Commons, pro sing as Jasper inelegantly put it.

Meg had already realised that it was plainly going to be impossible for
her and Simon to avoid meeting one another frequently.  London
society--the cousinry, as it was always known--was numerically small
and inter-related, into the bargain, to such a degree that everyone
knew everyone else and was constantly coming across them.

Meg privately thought of it as a public quadrille with partners,
advancing and receding, sometimes in a group, at other times
separately.

Simon's bow to her was impeccable, if indifferent; Caroline received a
similar accolade, Meg was pleased to notice.  Not that Caro took any
notice of that.  She had a hide like one of the rhinoceroses in the new
Zoo which the London Zoological Society had recently founded at
Regent's Park.

"And then we played tennis, or rather Ashe and Darrow did.  And Darrow
won."

"As usual," grumbled Jasper, who had walked over to where Meg was
finishing her water colour But his grumble was a friendly one.

"Of course," cooed Caro, in Simon's direction, 'one expects it of Sir
Simon.  To win, I mean.  I can only say that I am sorry that ladies are
not permitted to be spectators."

"You would be bored," announced Simon somewhat ungallantly.  "The fun
is all for the players."

"In that case," remarked Meg, sparking at him before she had time to
tell herself not to, 'it is a pity that ladies are not allowed to play
and join in the fun."

Exactly the sort of thing a forward, Frenchified hussy might come out
with, thought Simon, but had enough self-control not to say so aloud.
He had to admit, though, that annoyingly enough, Caro's faded charms
looked the more so beside Meg's fresh elegance, French though it might
be.

She was wearing lilac again, and the green eyes looked even more
remarkable--and even more challenging when they were turned in his
direction.  He did not pause to think that his own stern grey ones,
when turned on her, were equally challenging.  Abandoning the
importunate Caroline, he walked over to join Jasper and Meg, whereupon
Jasper moved tactfully away to pacify Caroline, by employing all the
charm with women that he had learned during his Army career.

Meg looked up at Simon.  He said, without preamble, staring into the
distance to avoid the distraction of those amazing green eyes, "I have
been thinking over what you said the other evening at the Leominsters'
that we should avoid one another.  I agreed at the time, but I think
that I was wrong.  We are civilised human beings.  It should not be
beyond us to practise common politeness when we meet.  It is my earnest
wish that you will agree with me over this."

Meg swished her brush around in her water pot in order to clean it, and
avoided looking at him.

She said, using her most aloof Parisian manner, "Indeed, Sir Simon.
London society is so small that we should occasion remark if we were to
be seen at odds.  Particularly when there are many who will remember
how close our families were in the past."

He bowed.  Punctiliousness was to be everything, it seemed.  Meg, for
once, had difficulty in keeping a straight face, so serious was he.

"Let us begin now," he said as he straightened up.  Then, in what Meg
privately and naughtily thought' of as his House of Commons voice, he
remarked politely, "I see that your painting skills are greatly
improved.  That is an excellent portrait of Jane."

"Thank you, Sir Simon.  I fear that you flatter me but I did have
lessons from an excellent French master in Paris."

The moment she had spoken Meg was dismally aware of the possible double
entendre.

Matters were not helped by Simon producing one of his own.  In an
effort to mend matters between them, by complimenting her on something
more, he offered unluckily, "Ah, but one sees quite plainly that this
is not your only talent which excellent French masters have
enhanced..."

If Meg's first reaction was to be angry with him all over again for
this revived memories of the 'way he had taunted her at the
Leominsters', her second--when she saw his scarlet face--was to remain
silent and do nothing.

"Forgive me.  I did not intend to say anything which would provoke
you."  This was so unwillingly wrenched from him--he was a man who had
rarely needed to apologise--that Meg not only forgave him, but sought
to reassure him.

"Why, sir--what should you mean?  Pray do not spoil your compliment. It
was doubtless expressed from the heart and will be received as such.
And now I must show Jane her portrait.  She has been most patient with
me whilst I have been at work.  I know from experience how wearying it
is to sit still for an afternoon whilst a painter expresses him---or
her--self."

It was neatly done, Simon had to admit.  He had been forgiven.  And
perhaps it would be possible for them to start again.  He bowed and
watched Meg walk over to Jane and the others.  The only troubling thing
was that merely to see her was to undo him.  He had little time to
reflect on this, however, for Caro was beside him in an instant as soon
as she saw that Meg had left him.

"So that is the famous Madame la Comtesse de

Mortaine.  I cannot say that I am impressed."

"No?  Madame appears to me to be all that is claimed of her.  But one
lady can hardly be expected to see the charms of another--as you have
frequently told me yourself."

Even Caro's brass-faced composure was scarcely proof against this
rebuff, so icily delivered.  She was not the know how two-edged Simon's
comment was!

She recovered herself, and replied smoothy, "Ah, I had forgotten.
Rumour says that you knew her when she was little more than a child,
and have not seen her for many years.  The change in her from being a
country mouse must be remarkable.  But I would have expected her to
have more..."  She paused significantly, largely because she could not
think what to say that might not invite a further barbed remark from
him.

"More what, Caro?  And yes, the change is remarkable."

"More ... nothing... Oh, this is becoming tedious-like the lady.  Let
us par Ions d'autres choses, talk of other matters.  Say you will
escort me to Devereux House tomorrow."

Well, one thing was for sure.  Caro's French was not a patch on little
Meg Ashe's these days, was Simon's inward and ungallant comment.  He
had no wish to escort Caro anywhere.  They had agreed to part, but the
lady was not living up to her agreement.  Nevertheless, his conscience
told him to make up for his earlier rudeness to her by acceding to her
wishes.

Simon wondered what in the world had come over him during the last
twenty-four hours or so, and reached the sad conclusion that he might
not be behaving like a savage if Margaret Ashe had not taken his cousin
Peverel for a lover and chosen to visit England!

All the world--or rather, most of the cousinry--was at the Devereuxs'
afternoon party, as Jane and Caro Kenilworth had foretold.  The gardens
of Devereux House were as delightful as Jane had told her they would
be; Countess Cassandra was as charmingly eccentric, and her husband-as
physically impressive, as rumour had said.

The Countess was wearing what looked like an Indian said in vermilion
and saffron, belted at the waist with a narrow cloth of gold sash. This
should have appeared a very much overdone toilette, but she wore it
with such careless panache that it looked entirely appropriate for an
English summer afternoon.

Her husband, the' Earl, was an Englishman out of the same mould as
Simon.  Large and craggily handsome, he looked like the cavalryman he
had once been.  They both greeted Meg as though they had longed to meet
her.  Will Osborne, who was her escort for the afternoon, was obviously
an old friend.  He recommended them to take a stroll down a pretty path
that led to a small lake at the far end of the gardens.

Walking along it, being stared at by half of London society, it soon
became plain to Meg that her presence was creating a great deal of
excitement--her dubious reputation had obviously preceded her, she
decided wryly.

Peverel Darrow came towards them when they reached the lake.  An
elegant wooden summerhouse or gazebo stood before it.  Like all the
company he was dressed'd outrance by one of London's most fashionable
tailors.  His royal blue coat was by Stultz and his shiny black,
gold-tasselled boots were by Weston.  His cravat was a dream of a
thing.  More than one spectator wondered where the money was coming
from to pay for such elegance.

No need to wonder, was Meg's irrepressible response to that thought. It
was the banker's draft, which she had handed to him the other night,
that was doubtless responsible for his impeccable turnout.  He greeted
her and Will as though they were his dearest friends.

"Osborne, Madame, delighted to meet you both.  The gardens are all and
more than they are claimed to be, are they not?  And the Countess even
more so.  A true original, if ever there was one.  I believe that you
thought so at one time, eh, Osborne?"

Will's honest face crimsoned.  "Oh, nothing to that, Darrow.  It was
long ago--and we were friends only."

"Oh, I don't doubt you.  Devereux a bit of a Wild man, you see, Madame.
Not a man of peace, like Osborne and me.  By the by, Osborne, your Mama
was asking after you.  Told me to tell you that, if we met, she was
seated on the terrace and wished to speak to you.  I'll look after
Madame whilst you do your duty like a good son."

This brash and cold-blooded attempt to detach a rival from Meg's side
could only succeed because

Peverel was older and brazen and Will was younger and naive.

"If Madame does not object..."  Will began a trifle desperately, only
for Peverel to say in a cheery voice,

"Of course, she won't, old fellow.  Must do your devoir, mustn't you? A
single man's duty is to his mother first, after all."

If anything had been needed--which it wasn't--to convince Meg that Will
was too lightweight to be considered as a serious suitor or a possible
husband, his surrender to Peverel's overt blackmail would have done the
trick.

As he galloped away, Meg put up her parasol--she was wearing lilac
again, and the parasol was a deep purple with a long white fringe--and
drawled at Peverel in her most distant great-lady manner, "It would
have been better-mannered of you, sir, to ask me first whether I wished
for your company before you sent Mr.  Osborne away."

He offered her a deep bow, remarking in his most carelessly charming
manner, "Oh, I am sure that you would infinitely prefer to be escorted
by someone less of a pulling boy with his mother's milk still around
his mouth than Mr.  Will Osborne.  Besides, you made no objection to my
proposal, none at all."  His smile was complacent and
self-congratulatory.

"Only because I had not the slightest desire to be turned into a public
bone to be fought over by two dogs.  Moreover, you might be able to
barn poor Will in such a high-handed manner, but you must remember, Mr.
Darrow, that I know you for what you are, and I will have no problem in
bidding you adieu--which I do now," and she made to go.

"One moment, Madame," he said, and put out a hand to detain her.  '! do
not choose to allow you to leave--yet."

"Choose, sir, choose?  I will tell you what I told your cousin.  It is
! who choose my companions, sir, not they me," and Meg turned to go
again.  His impudence was un sufferable--and it was not yet over.

"I think not, Madame.  I have no further interest in your sister.  You
have fire and spirit beneath that cold mask you wear, whilst she--like
Will Osborne--is shallow.  I have a mind to marry well, and you, unlike
your sister, are free to marry and I am assured were left a vast
fortune by your husband.

"We should, I believe, deal well together as husband and wife.  When
you handed me that bank draft drawn on your account, you created the
assumption that you, and not your sister, were paying me for something
services rendered perhaps, or the return of your incriminating letters.
It is your reputation which is now at stake, if I choose to be
indiscreet.

"Furthermore, I know something of your life in France, which you would
not care to become public knowledge---particularly since your
reputation is already a trifle ... spotty, shall we say?  My courtship
of you will be both short--and public.  You would do well to take me
seriously."

Perhaps the worst part of Peverel's blandly threatening speech were not
his threats but the words "We should, I believe, deal well together."
They revived in Meg unfortunate memories of his cousin Simon's
otherwise quite different proposal.

But he had Meg's attention, and knew it.  Unknown to them both,
however, their seemingly intimate tete-a-tete was being watched by his
cousin Simon, who had come upon them as he strolled alone through the
gardens, having abandoned his unwelcome companion, Caroline Kenilworth,
to another gentleman whom she was hoping to fascinate.

So, Madame had no more sense than to be up to her tricks again with his
worthless cousin, having managed to shake off that fribble Osborne!
Would she never learn sense?  He watched them, watched Peverel put an
intimate hand on Meg's arm when he said, "Oh, I have your attention
now, Madame, have I not?"

"For a moment, only," returned Meg coldly.  "I am not poor Jane.  I
will not be blackmailed, sir.  And, in any case, I do not believe that
even you would stoop to blackmail me into marriage."  Alas, she knew
him only too well, and that he would stoop to anything--but she would
fight him to the end.  Peverel's smile told her that she had read him
aright.

'l would advise you to stay--' he began, but before he could say any
more, Simon was upon them, remarking,

"Ah, Peverel, I see that you.  are already acquainted with Madame.  I
was not aware that you knew her."

They had been speaking in such low tones that Simon had heard nothing
of what was being said--only that it was being said intimately.  He was
unaware that the intimacy was unfriendly.  He only saw that they were
close together and his suspicion of Meg was so strong that he always
drew the worst conclusion about her behaviour, particularly when she
was associating with such a known bad hat as his cousin.

Meg read Simon's body language correctly--and was furious with him.  He
was judging her to be a whore again, which was particularly galling
when she was being bullied so determinedly by Peverel--who had, as
usual, an answer for anything thrown at him.

"Oh, Madame and I knew one another in Paris," he began to say in a way
that suggested a much deeper relationship than the passing one they had
enjoyed, if that were the right word.  "When Madame was married to
Andre de Vaux."  This was also said as though Andre had been his
dearest friend instead of someone with whom he had exchanged a few
brief sentences--and none of them amicable.

Which successfully served to convince Simon of Meg's perfidy.  She
closed her eyes and her parasol, and said, "I am sure that you have
much to say to one another, since you meet so rarely.  I will leave
you.  Lady Devereux is to give us a harp recital; as I understand that
she is a most accomplished performer, I do not wish to miss it."

She bowed to the cousins, who were glaring at one another, heads 1own,
like a pair of angry buffalos, and moved away, amused at herself for
taking a leaf out of Peverel's book and disposing of the unwanted third
in a group without asking the others' permission.  That unwanted third
being herself.

Lady Devereux was an accomplished performer and Meg enjoyed her
playing, even though at the back of her mind she was worried by what it
was that Peverel knew--or thought that he knew--about her.

Chapter Four

"My dear Madame," said Cass, Lady Devereux, to Meg, who had approached
her after the recital was over, and had complimented her on her
performance, "I believe that we met briefly in Paris some years ago
shortly after your marriage.  Pray allow me to commiserate with you on
the sad death of your husband."

Meg inclined her head graciously and murmured her thanks.  The acid
voice of her inner demon commented that she was becoming so practised
at this kind of polite nothingness that she would soon be able to do it
sleepwalking.

Something of this perhaps showed, for Cass, one of the most shrewd
members of London society, said briskly, "Now that we have got rid of
the niceties, may you also permit me to say that, if ever you become
bored with conversations confined to on dits and the discussion of how
best to trim a bonnet, there will always be a welcome for you at
Devereux House.  Something tells me that you suffer fools gladly no
more than I do."

Meg's laugh was, for once, a genuine one.  This she had not expected.
"Oh, dear," she exclaimed, 'was I so obvious?  Were my good manners so
excessive that they were enough to induce nausea?"

Cass's smile was as genuine as Meg's laugh.  "Indeed not.  Jack, my
husband, sometimes accuses me of mind-reading, usually after I have
detected him in some monstrous piece of crinkum-crankum designed to
deceive me as to what he and his onetime corporal got up to in one of
their periodic reunions.

"You may or may not know that he served as a cavalryman in the ranks
during the late wars and rose to the ineffable height of being a
sergeant.  Better that I tell you that than someone who might wish to
cause trouble between us.  You see, my dear, my mind-reading has told
me that we are to be friends, nay, bosom bows."

She was in no way pretty, Meg decided, but was something better.  She
had character and a sense of fun.  As Cass was to say to her later on
in their acquaimance, "The trouble with me is that cheerfulness will
keep breaking in, however determined I am to be solemn."

In that sense, she was a happy counterbalance to Meg, who had, these
days, a tendency towards sadness, and consequently solemnity.  But this
was to be in the future.

For the present, Cass, whilst drawing her attention to a portrait of a
pretty boy carrying a hawk who turned out, improbably, to be her
craggy-looking husband as a very young man, concentrated on saying as
she turned away from it, "Jack does not look like that at all now he
rather resembles Simon Darrow than his cousin Peverel, and not merely
in looks.  Peverel, as I am sure you know, is not to be trusted."

Now this was mind-reading with a vengeance!  Or someone had been
talking.  But the look Cass turned on her was so innocent that Meg
decided that she was reading meanings into what was being said that
were not there.

The rest of their conversation was innocent enough, with Cass offering
her a friendship which Meg was coming to understand that she needed.
"You will," she said, 'visit me soon, my dear Comtesse, won't you?  For
if you do not, I shall haunt Vancourt House until you do."  To her
astonishment, Meg found herself saying something quite unexpected and
of which she had not previously thought.  "I shall not be staying
overlong at Vancourt House.  I am determined to set up my own
establishment, and would value your recommendation of a dame de
compagnie to keep me respectable."

Now where had that come from?  Perhaps the knowledge that Vancourt's
manner to her was becoming over-warm, and Jane had enough to contend
with without suspecting that her husband had designs on her sister. Not
only Jane, perhaps.  It was bad enough to have Simon suspecting that
she possessed no virtue and Peverel having designs on her pocket, if
not her virtue, without having to suffer Vancourt having designs on her
virtue, if not her pocket.

Or was it the effect ofCass Devereux's downright commonsense, which was
reminding her that to remove the temptation which she apparently
presented was, like discretion, the better part of valour?

No matter.  At least, if she had her own establishment, Peverel's
attempts to visit her would not arouse the suspicions of Jane and her
husband, and she would be able to refuse to see him without causing
comment.  Meg was growing tired of living her life in public.

"Oh, I know just the person for you," Cass said eagerly, "A Mrs.
Hollis, a young widow who lost her husband, General Hollis, last year.
He left her with very little to live on.  She is a dear friend of my
old governess, Mrs.  Dickson, and is so upright that she could almost
confer respectability on the King himself!  My husband's secretary will
give you her address before you leave.

"In return, you will do something to rescue my guests from possible
boredom.  I understand from your brother that you and Sir Simon Darrow
used to entertain your father's guests he by singing, and you by
playing for him.  l would be greatly pleased if you would agree to do
so again, this afternoon."

Jasper!  thought Meg wildly.  It was Jasper who had put Cass Devereux
up to this ... this ... trick, to try to get us together again.

Well, he would not succeed.  She would refuse, politely, but still
refuse.  And then she looked at Cass Devereux.  There was a transparent
honesty about her, which she proved by saying gently, "Oh, I know that
you will feel that you are being coerced into this.  But your
brother--who knew my husband when he was in the ranks believes that you
and Sir Simon should be friends again, and asked me to do him this
favour.  You can, of course, refuse."

After that, how could she?  But first she had a question for Cass. "Sir
Simon?  Has the request been made to him?"

"Oh, indeed, and he has agreed to it but only on the condition that it
would be pleasing to you."

An olive branch from him, no less.  She could scarcely, now, be so
graceless as to refuse Cass.

Simon was waiting for her in the Devereuxs' splendid drawing-room,
where the company were already seated for a resumption of the
afiemoon's entertainment.  Caro Kenilworth was standing near him, her
whole posture betraying the anger which she had felt on hearing that
'that woman' and Simon were to sing and play together.

He bowed over her hand as Cass's major-domo announced them.  Caro
flounced to a seat near the front, announcing loudly, "Oh, I do so
detest being compelled to listen to amateurs," a statement that
endeared her to no one.

Meg found that she was trembling, Simon said, below his breath.  "Come,
we must not disappoint Jasper and the lady.  I know that it is many
years since we sang and played together but, knowing you, I am sure
that you have not neglected your music.  Here is the score for the
"Last Rose of Summer".  I remember that it used to be a favourite of
your father's."

So it had been.  He had liked all the songs in Tom Moore's collection
of Irish airs.  Meg took a deep breath and sat down.  She said nothing
to him.  Indeed, he did not seem to expect it.  Her simple agreement
had apparently been enough.

She sat down at the Broadwood pianoforte and played a few tentative
chords.  Simon placed the score before her, but it was not needed.  Meg
had played it so often in those long gone years that she knew it by
heart.  But again, she said nothing but a simple thank you--which
appeared to serve.

Simon was ready, too.  He was standing by the piano as he had done so
many times before, waiting for her to begin.  Meg was suddenly
overcome.  Panic struck her.  She could not do this.  And then Simon
looked down at her, and smiled.  For a moment it was almost as though
she were little Meggie, the youngest Miss Ashe, again, and he was the
tall young man whom she had adored.

Courage ran through her.  She lifted her head and began to play the
introduction, pausing at the end of it for a fraction of a second to
allow him to begin.

Tom Moore's poignant and well remembered-words, sung by Simon's mellow
baritone, filled the drawing-room.  And if there had been a few who
had, beforehand, silently echoed Caroline Kenilworth's unkind judgment
on them, they were silenced by the simple purity of their
performance.

The applause, which followed a short silence once the song had ended,
was long and sincere.  "Another," said Simon, and it was not really a
question.  "You will consent to join me in another song."

Meg nodded dumbly.  Astonishingly, she was near to tears she, who never
cried.

"I thought," he murmured, a trifle tentatively, 'that "Partant pour la
Syrie" might go down well, you being a Frenchwoman these days."

It was, Meg acknowledged, a suitable choice,

being a French love song written during the late wars that had been
adopted by France's enemy, England.  It told of a young soldier leaving
behind his own true love in order to go to war, and promising to win
her hand by his bravery.

"And you will sing it with me?"

The tears were near to the surface again.  Meg told herself that he was
simply being kind because Jasper had put them in this impossible
position, and he did not wish society to know that they were at odds.

Time turned back upon itself again.  The lost years were gone.  She was
fifteen-year-old Meg Ashe, practising her singing, her piano playing
and her ability to do both in public.  Singing, she remembered how
Simon had always encouraged her and, as contralto met baritone, their
voices mixed and mingled as though they had never been parted.

When the song ended, he looked down at her, and she looked up at him.
Their eyes met: tenderness in his, hope in hers.  But for a moment
only.  In a trice Simon's eyes on hers were as hard as ever, and
hopelessness took over again in Meg's.  Their moment of rapport was
over.

This time the silence after they had finished was long and profound.
Cass led the applause.  She rose and walked over to them.  Something in
the set of Meg's shoulders told her of the strain she was under.

"That was quite splendid," she said.  "Particularly since this was
sprung upon you both without warning.  It is quite plain, though, that
you have sung together before.  I offer you my congratulations as well
as my thanks."  If she thought that Simon, like

Meg, was also somewhat constrained in his manner, she said nothing to
indicate that she was aware of it.

"I was right," Simon told Meg coolly as they walked away from the piano
to receive the thanks and congratulations of many of the company.  "You
had not forgotten your past entirely.  And your technique has improved
immensely."

"Nor had Jasper forgotten, apparently," said Meg drily.  '1 wonder that
he does not consider joining the corps diplomatique since he seems to
be so adept at arranging cunning plots.  I take it that he also
proposed that you, as well as I, should perform without a word of
warning."

Simon gave a short laugh.  Like Meg, he thought that at least Jasper's
ploy had set them talking in a reasonable fashion--which was doubtless
what he had intended.

"Indeed, and I shall have words with him before we leave.  I must,
however, remark that eight years in France has done wonders for the
purity of your accent.  It quite shamed mine."

Meg made no direct answer to this, other than to say, "And here comes
brother Jasper, who needs a little shaming of a different sort--from
the pair of us."  She was not sure whether Simon's remark on her French
accent was meant to be a compliment or not.

Jasper was as forthright as usual; as forthright as Meg had once been
and was no longer.

"Well done," he offered cheerfully.  "And at least my suggestion had
the pair of you speaking to one another again in a civilised manner,
not snarling like dogs over a bone!"

United for once, both Meg and Simon glared at him.  Meg, retaining her
aloof self-control, merely murmured, "You might at least have had the
courtesy to speak to Simon and myself before approaching Lady Devereu.
I had not expected such blackmail from a brother."

Jasper's withers were quite un wrung "Oh, if I had done that, neither
of you would have consented.  As it is, no harm done, and the company
was entertained.  I must compliment you, sister, on your playing and
singing.  You have become quite the professional since you went to
Paris."

"And for my part, Ashe, I shall not forget this piece of arm-twisting,
I assure you.  I shall take my revenge in the gym, or the sane des
ames, a true duel being a trifle overblown as a form of punishment."
Simon's tone was jovial enough, but there was more than a hint of
savagery in it.

"Oh, come."  Jasper was all smiles, and ran an arm through Simon's.
"It's time for the tea board, I see, and Will Osborne is panting
towards us to look after Meg.  Why don't you put Caro K. out of her
misery, and I will bring Lucy Seymour along.

"You may then inform us about the new Zoological Society of which The
Times tells me you are a member, and after that you may invite us all,
including our host and hostess, to stroll around the gardens in
Regent's Park and feed buns to the bears."

Unwillingly, Simon began to laugh.  "I had forgotten what a fellow you
are, Ashe.  I suppose, knowing you, that you have already made this
suggestion to Lady Devereux."

"Now, Darrow, there you are wrong.  I spoke to Jack Devereux, not Cass,
and he wishes to enrol as a member also, and would be delighted if you
saw fit to propose him and to show him around the celebrated five acres
of Regent's Park that Lord Lansdowne managed to gouge out of the
Commissioners of Woods and Forests.  Quite an achievement, that."

"Nothing to yours, Jas," said Simon, suddenly as cheerful as Jasper,
and using his boyhood name to him to show that no real offence had been
taken by his trickery, 'in manoeuvring me before a piano again.  I
suppose that you expect me to invite the whole Vancourt brood and young
Osborne as well.  In for a penny, in for a pound."

Will, who had just arrived, heard this last statement with some
surprise.  He quite thought that Sir Simon Darrow had taken against
him, as the slang saying had it.

"Eh, what's that?"  he asked after claiming Meg as Jasper had
prophesied.  "The new Zoological Gardens?  I should be delighted to
make up the party--if I am invited, of course.  Have always wanted to
see the bears."

"So that's settled," proclaimed Jasper cheerfully, before Simon, or
anyone else, could demur.  "All that remains for us now is to set a
date for this delightful expedition!"

And so it was arranged.  Simon, who had every intention of having as
little to do with Meg as possible, had been coerced by her brother into
agreeing that she should be one of his party, in an expedition which he
had not arranged!

All in all, Meg left Devereux House feeling happy for the first time
since she had arrived in London.

Despite Jane's many quiet virtues, she could not share in most of Meg's
interests: to find in Cass Devereux someone who did, and who could
enjoy her witticisms almost before she had uttered them, was a boon
indeed.

Not only that: Cass Devereux had become such a power in London society
that if she accepted Meg, then so would all the other hostesses.  It
seemed that she was not destined to be a pariah after all.

And for a few happy moments she and Simon had-shared--if only
briefly--a little of the rapport which had once been theirs.  Perhaps,
when they were at the Gardens together, they might recover a little
more ground.

Sir Simon Darrow was not quite so happy.  The even tenor of his life
had been disturbed by the reappearance of Meg Ashe to a degree that he
would not have believed possible had he known of it beforehand.  At
least, he thought, unaware that Meg was spending her days dodging
Vancourt's advances, she would have to behave herself whilst she was
living with her sister, and she had been much more quietly reasonable
with him during their songs together.

"Oh, Aunt Marguerite, are we really going to see the animals today? Oh,
I do hope Papa wasn't teasing us when he said that we could go with
you."

Little Georgie Vancourt turned a pleading face to his aunt.  He had
already discovered that she was much more reliable than either his mama
or his papa, and if she said something would be so, it was so.  Now
Papa would promise one thing one day, and quite another thing on
another.  As for Mama--well, she never seemed to know quite what she
was doing.

His sister, Harriet, who was not sure that she wished to see wild
animals she remained unconvinced that they were safely penned away from
visiting little girls--added a rather doubtful voice to Georgie's
pleadings.

"Of course you shall go, my darlings.  See, Nancy is coming to dress
you.  It is a cold day for June so you must both wear your pelisses."

Meg was not quite so calm about this Sunday afternoon trip to the
Zoological Gardens at Regent's Park as her comforting words to her
niece and nephew suggested.  One part of her was looking forward to
seeing Simon--they had not directly encountered one another since the
Devereuxs' afternoon party the other part was asking herself why she
should look forward to being hurt again.

Simon had made it quite plain that he considered her to be a loose
woman, corrupted by her marriage and her years in France, and nothing
she could say or do appeared to be able to change his mind.

Peverel's behavior was not calculated to improve matters, either.  He
haunted her, constantly reminding her that she was, to some extent, in
his power, and that the day of reckoning might be soon.  Until she had
her own home, it would be difficult to avoid him.  Vancourt had taken a
fancy to Peverel--probably to annoy Jane who disliked him--and he was
constantly at Vancourt House.

The rumours about her own past had died down a little since Cass had
taken her up, and today's party would help to silence them even
further.

The irony was that Vancourt's patronage was conferring respectability
on her although he was the loosest fish around, whilst she, whose own
conduct had been impeccable, was regarded with suspicion.  It was
enough to make the angels weep!

Nevertheless, she was calmness itself when she walked into the massive
hall of Vancourt House, ready to be driven by him to Regent's Park,
Jane by her side, and the children following in a dog cart driven by
the chief coachman.

"How splendid you look, Meg.  Exactly right for a fine day in the open
with the animals.  Neither too elegant, nor too farouche."

Meg looked down at the pretty blue cotton dress she was wearing.  It
had a round linen collar embroidered with forget-me-nots.  The sash
which cinched her slender waist was of a deeper blue.  Her shoes were
made of a serviceable but light cream kid, ornamented with the tiniest
silver rosettes.  Silk forget-me-nots decorated her straw hat, and she
was carrying a white parasol decorated with the same modest flowers.
The shawl, draped so artistically around her shoulders, was a dream of
a thing in the finest cashmere, and was also blue and white.  She was
slipping on exquisitely delicate white lace gloves as she turned to
Jane.

"Parisian chic," sighed her sister, whose own sage-green toilette did
neither her figure nor her colouring any favours.  She saw at once that
her bonnet, her shoes, her everything appeared irretrievably clumsy
beside Meg's elegance.  "Aunt L6onie's tutelage, I suppose."

And so, unkindly, Vancourt told her when he drove the carriage round to
the front doors for them to be handed in by various subservient
footmen.  As usual, he was very late: he liked to keep his wife and
children waiting.

"Really, Jane, if you can't manage a more suitable turnout than the one
that you're wearing, then do have the goodness to ask your sister for
advice."

Jane flushed an unlovely crimson and his brutality set Meg shuddering.
He had ruined Jane's day for her before it had begun.

She put an arm around her sister's shoulders.  "Certainly not,
Vancourt," she said, her voice icy.  "Jane is far more sensibly dressed
than I am.  Indeed, if there were time, I would beg leave to return to
my room to put on something less suited to a drawing-room.  I find the
afternoon cooler than I thought.  But I will not cause you further
delay."

"Thank you," Jane whispered as she settled herself in her seat.

Meg being on Vancourt's other side afforded him the opportunity to
whisper into her ear, once the grooms let go of his horses' heads and
they set off, "I like a woman of spirit, m'dear, and God knows my poor
wife has little enough."

"And small wonder at that," retorted Meg in a fierce undertone, 'seeing
that, by your behaviour, you have extinguished what little she had!"

If she thought this would deter him in any way from his pursuit of her,
she was wrong.  Rather, her spirited response to him and his. behaviour
served only to encourage him the more.

By God, it would be a pleasure to have such a proud filly beneath him.
She was like an apparently extinct volcano with passionate fires
beneath a cold exterior.  Unlike her suet pudding of a sister, she was
strawberries and champagne of the very best!  His greatest pleasure
would be to tame that proud spirit and have her his submissive slave.
How to bring her to his bed was his present problem, particularly with
that sly devil Peverel Darrow after her.  Probably not such good
tactics to have him constantly in his home in order to annoy his wife
by his presence.

Meg knew quite well what her brother-in-law was thinking, and had there
been room would have shuddered away from him.  Fortunately for her and
Jane's composure, the world and his wife were taking the air that
morning, and it needed all of Vancourt's concentration to manoeuvre his
way through assorted gigs, dog carts, curricles, broughams, landau lets
and chaises, to say nothing of gay young bucks on horseback.

Many of them were on their way to Regent's Park.  The Zoological
Society was now so large that, even though only its members were
allowed to visit the Gardens on Sunday, they were nearly as busy as on
weekdays when the general public might pay to enter.

"God damn the traffic," cursed Vancourt morosely.  "We shall be
late."

"And so I told you," nagged Jane unwisely.  "And I do not, my lord,
appreciate blasphemy indulged in before myself and my sister."

"Damn that for a tale," swore Vancourt.  "You never appreciate
anything, so that is no matter to me.  Your sister has heard worse in
Paris, I dare swear."  "Not often," retorted Meg sweetly as they neared
the entrance to the Zoological Gardens, after they had negotiated the
splendid Nash terraces which ran alongside them.  "And then only in the
worst possible company."

Her reward for that was a roar of happy laughter from her
brother-in-law.

"Would hardly guess you were my poor wife's sister, Madame.  Why in the
world did you always tell me she was a plain, poor-spirited little
thing, m'lady?  Might have known that you were wrong, as usual.  You
should try imitating her."

If Meg could have borrowed a pair of angel's wings and flown out of the
carriage, she would have done so.  As it was, she remained quiet with
some difficulty.  To say anything at all to Vancourt was merely to
encourage him to torment poor Jane the more.  Best to ignore him and
hope that the drive would soon end.

To her great relief, it was not long before they reached the Grand
Drive that ran round Regent's Park, which meant that their journey was
nearly over and she and Jane and the children would be free to leave
the carriage and roam around the Gardens.  Her recent experience with
Vancourt had served to confirm her in the belief that she must find
another place to live.

I am becoming a nomad, she thought wryly, as Vancourt drove them to the
entrance, a female wandering Jew who has no place which she can truly
call her own: I must shuffle the cards and deal again... Chapter
Five

Simon was waiting for them by the gates.  He was driving a stylish
curricle picked out in blue and silver, a tiger behind, and Caro
Kenilworth up front with him.  She had a discontented expression on her
face, most probably because the Vancourt party was late and she was
being compelled to wait for it in public.  Will Osborne had arrived on
home back and his steed was being led away by his attendant groom.

Outside the entrance to the Gardens, which was flanked by two small
rustic sentry boxes, Jack and Cass Devereux and their children were
already dismounting from a staid family carriage.

"I told you that we would be late," fretted Jane unwisely to Vancourt.
"They have been waiting for us."

A further angry explosion from her husband was only averted by Simon's
approach, Cato on his arm.  Simon had his own reason for being annoyed:
Peverel had just driven up, also in a spanking new curricle, and was
now walking towards them, arm in arm with a stranger.

Now who the devil had invited him?  Peverel read Simon's face
correctly, and remarked gaily, "No need to frown, cousin, I'm not a
gatecrasher!  My sponsor today is Acland, here like yourself as one of
the Society's founder members.  A splendid day to see the animals, is
it not?"

Watching Simon bow stiffly to Peverel and his friend, Sir Thomas
Acland, who was by way of being one of Vancourt's, too, Meg could not
help being amused by Peverel's jaunty insolence, and by his flaunting
of his new curricle, doubtless bought with the money that she had given
him on Jane's behalf.  Rogue he might be, but she could see exactly how
he used his charm to achieve his criminal ends and stay afloat in an
unforgiving society.

"Like my new turn-out, do you?"  he asked Simon confidentially.
"Thought I might pamper m'self a little.  Tired of driving round in
other men's hand-me-downs."

And where did he get the money from for that?  was a question Simon
would have liked to ask, but Peverel was moving on, a smile on his
lips, and the friends whom Simon had invited were waiting for him.

"No need to pass me in," announced Jack Devereux jovially.  'l was
accepted as a member last week.  Promised to help buy a giraffe when
one becomes available.  Cass says that she's always wanted to see a
giraffe."

He gave a great burst of laughter, and said affectionately, "Mark you,
I wouldn't put it past m'lady wife to ask to lead it round with her!
Most disappointed that she couldn't bring her dogs in today, but rules
are rules."

This brought more laughter from all those who knew that Cass Devereux
was famous for the size and splendour of the dogs which always
accompanied her on walks and jaunts to Hyde Park.  The lady herself
enjoyed her husband's teasing most of all.

"And parasols are banned, also, I'm afraid," said Simon, 'so I must ask
the ladies to hand them to Stephen to take back to the carriages before
we enter."

Meg and Jane handed theirs to the waiting groom, but Cato complained
angrily, "Oh, this is really the outside of enough.  I am sure that the
sun is about to become over-warm at any moment and, of all things, I do
detest a brown face!  What can be the reason for such an absurd
rule?"

"Not absurd."  For once Simon was short with Caro.  "The members have
decided that the danger of visitors poking the animals with walking
sticks, umbrellas and parasols and thus causing injury to them is too
great a risk to take.  I should have warned you all beforehand," he
admitted, 'but rarely carrying a stick or an umbrella myself, I quite
forgot."

He saw with pleasure that the guard at the sentry box was making
Peverel surrender his elegant silver-topped cane.

To the delight of all the children, it was not long before they were
through the gate and walking along the broad path on either side of
which were animals exhibited in a variety of cages and houses.

George Vancourt and Ritchie Devereux, who had already become great
chums, were urging Ritchie's father to take them to the bear pit 'at
once'.  Georgie had seen immediately that Jack was quite a different
sort of papa from his own, who was sauntering along, looking supremely
bored at the prospect of spending his afternoon with a pack of children
gaping at animals, since he possessed not the slightest interest in
either species.

Jack, on the other hand, had taken his small Sophie in his arms to show
her the kangaroo, and was promising George and Ritchie that, as soon as
they found the kiosk which sold food for the animals, he would buy them
some buns to throw to the bears.

Harriet Vancourt was holding tightly on to Aunt Marguerite's hand.  Her
nursemaid had taken a light fever and was thus unable to join the
party, but Meg had promised Jane that she would look after her, rather
than allow her niece to lose her treat.  Simon, who was walking
parallel with them, Caro by his side, watched in some surprise as Meg
gently helped her niece to kneel down in order to inspect more easily
the cranes and bustards which were running around an enclosed lawn with
a pond at one end.

For a moment he saw again the little Meg Ashe whom he had thought he
had lost, so tender was the expression on her face as she cared for the
child whom both her parents were ignoring, lost in their own grievances
against one another.  Impulsively, he moved forward to speak to her but
a possible moment of rapprochement was lost when Will Osborne, who had
detached himself from Acland, moved forward to attach himself to Meg.

Will was big with information about the Gardens,

gleaned from Acland, who was strolling along in his wake, and which he
was bursting to impart to Meg in order to impress her with his
knowledge.

"Decimus Burton, the great architect, has designed the Gardens, and the
Gothic building in which the llamas are to be found," he announced
portentously.  "They say he intends to build a turret with a clock
tower on to it."

"Oh, can the llamas tell the time, then?"  asked Harriet eagerly: she
was having difficulty in learning to tell the time herself, and was
prepared to admire the llamas for being able to do so.

This naive comment completely overset Will, whose understanding of
small girls was as deficient as his understanding of their elder
sisters.  Meg rescued him by saying, "Not at all, my dear, but the
grown-ups walking around the Gardens will be pleased to be able to
check their watches with it, I am sure."

Will's attempt at an answer was drowned in the noise of George and
Ritchie running up and exclaiming together, "Oh, Aunt Marguerite," from
George, and "Oh, Mama," from Ritchie, 'we are all going to the bear pit
to feed the bears.  You must come with us.  The bears are simply not to
be missed, Uncle Peverel says, and they are nearby."

Uncle Peverel!  Both Simon and Meg reacted to this remarkable statement
in the same way.  So, it had not taken the wretched swindler more than
five minutes to win the hearts of two small boys.

Well, if Meg and little Harriet were to decide to join "Uncle Peverel',
then he, Simon, was bound to go with them to keep Meg apart, if
possible, from his worthless, blackmailing cousin.  He was, however,
checkmated even before he could announce his intentions, by Cato
passing a fine lace handkerchief over her face and announcing that she
needed a seat: she was far too tired to walk any further.

"But we've only just arrived."  Simon uttered this incontrovertible
truth as gently as possible.  "So far you have only seen the kangaroos,
and the bears are not far away."

"And seeing the kangaroos is quite enough for me," shuddered Caro. "The
wretched animal is an offence against nature.  Carrying its young in a
pouch, indeed!  Quite improper to allow little children to see it or
the bears either, nasty dangerous things!"

Nothing to do but summon one of the young keepers and ask him to
arrange for a chair to be brought for Lady Kenilworth, 'who is feeling
the heat," Simon explained as he watched Meg, Harriet, Cuss Devereux
and all the little Devereuxs, plus Will Osborne, join Jack Devereux,
his Sophie and "Uncle Peverel' in front of the bear pit.  They were all
busy buying buns to throw to the bearsarticularly to the one who had
climbed up his pole to watch them.

At least Peverel couldn't get up to any of his underhand tricks in the
middle of that mob, was Simon's glum thought as he left the main party
behind on his way to the beavers' enclosure.

And where were Jane and her husband, 'who had apparently abandoned
their offspring to others?  That question was partly answered a few
minutes later when Jane suddenly appeared, scarlet in the face, at the
exact moment when the young keeper was reverently setting out a light
chair for Caro by the beavers' pond, which was situated in the shade of
some trees, far away from the offending kangaroos and bears.

"Oh, splendid," she exclaimed.  "I am already quite exhausted, and I
had no notion that one might obtain seating.  Vancourt is too busy
staring at the camels to care for my comfort."  The young keeper was
promptly despatched to fetch her a chair also.

"In that case," said Simon, ever ready to seize opportunity by the
forelock, 'you may keep Lady K. company whilst I rejoin the main party.
I have a mind to throw buns to the bears, too!"

"Buns to bears!"  shuddered Jane.  It appeared that she was as
impervious to Zoological delights as Caro.  How in God's name, thought
Simon, did I become entangled with such a silly ... woman?  And she
wasn't even very good in bed, either, despite all the ram ours

Simon did not leave the two women until he had seen Jane settled beside
a discontented Caro, who had expected him to remain with her.  They had
a good view of the American beavers inside their little enclosure, if
nothing else.  Acland had gallantly joined them.  "Have thrown buns to
bears before," he announced.  "Nothing to it," before sending the
keeper off to find him a third chair.  As Simon strode away he could
hear him recounting to his uninterested, but captive, audience a short
history of the early days of the foundation of the Gardens.

Grinning to himself, Simon found his party standing before the wooden
hut next to the bear pit where a stout lady in a mob cap was selling
buns, fruit and nuts to a large assembly of interested spectators.
Other apparently exhausted women had been provided with chairs where
they might watch the animals in comfort.

Meg and the Devereux party were made of sterner stuff, however.  They
were already equipped with a supply of goodies and the bear up the pole
was waiting for the buns to begin raining in his direction again:
Little Harriet Vancourt was relieved to see that all the bears were in
a pit which was surrounded by a tall iron fence, and their pole was far
enough away from it to make it unlikely that the bear might vault the
fence in order to eat her instead of a bun.

Meg, unaware that Simon had joined them, found herself between Peverel
and a rather stern-looking woman who had a little boy by the hand.

"Have a bun?"  Peverel invited her, oozing charm, only for Meg to say
coolly,

"No, thank you, I have a supply of my own."

"In the land of double meanings," he announced, 'great play could be
made of your reply."

"Could it?"  she replied, still cool.  "But we are not, are we? Harriet
dear, throw this piece of bun towards the bear."

She had heard the woman beside her stifle a laugh when she answered
Peverel so cavalierly--not that that troubled him.

Fortunately Cass Devereux, who had been inspecting the goats, provided
a diversion.  She came strolling towards them, exclaiming when she saw
the stern-looking woman, "Oh, Stroody--I mean, Emma--what a delightful
surprise, and Thomas, too," and she gave the little boy a kiss.  "I had
never thought to see you here.  I suppose George is with you?"  and she
gave the stern woman an affectionate kiss.

"Oh, indeed, he has taken Johnny to see the kangaroos again.  He cannot
get enough of them.  Every time he visits the gardens, he bounces about
the house afterwards as though he were one himself!"

"And this, my dear Comtesse--' Cass swept on in her impulsive way to
Meg '--is my oldest friend and former companion, Mrs.  George Dickson,
who is married to my husband's oldest friend.  Is that not convenient!
And this, dearest Emma, is my new friend Marguerite, Comtesse de Vaux,
from Paris, on whom you may practise your excellent French. 
Appearances to the contrary, she is as English as you are, but her
accent is a miracle."

"My lady--' began Mrs.  Dickson, only to have Meg say, for once as
impulsive as Cass, "Oh, pray call me Meg, we cannot be friends else."
The look Cass gave her was a glowing one, and Mrs.  Dickson said
quietly, "Then I insist upon being Emma.  If you are from Pads, I must
ask you if you were acquainted with my oldest friend, the late
Vicomtesse de Chavannes--we were at Miss Pinkerton's Academy together.
She was a number of years ahead of me, but I remember with gratitude
the many small kindnesses with which L6onie favoured me."

"She was my aunt," Meg replied, her face sad.  "And she was kind to me,
too.  But stern.  I miss her greatly."

"I'm sure that you do," nodded Mrs.  Dickson.  "How strange to meet you
here.  I lost touch with her many years ago when she went to France."

She did not say that, after her father died and she had descended into
poverty, she had been compelled to earn her living by being a companion
and governess to young girls of good birth---Cass being her last pupil
until she had married George Dickson.

No conversation in the Gardens could last for very long, for too much
was going on.  First Johnny Dickson ran up, or rather, jumped towards
his mama, his amused father following him.  After that came Peverel,
Vancourt, Will Osborne, and Sir Thomas Acland, who had abandoned Jane
and Caro to the beavers.  Simon was a little way behind them, talking
to Jack Devereux.  Surrounding them were all the small fry.

Everyone was duly introduced to the Dicksons, upon whom Peverel turned
his charm despite the fact that they were obviously low Cits in trade,
and to whom Vancourt gave only a less than deep bow and a passing
stare.

"I have made arrangements for a cold collation to be served at four of
the clock, in the paddock where the moveable aviaries are situtated,"
Simon announced.  "As that time is almost upon us, I suggest that we
adjourn there, after we have collected the Ladies Kenilworth and
Vancourt and seen the beavers.  '

He bowed to the Dicksons, "You will, of course, do me the favour of
joining us.  There will be more than enough for a party twice the size,
if my housekeeper and chef live up to their usual reputations!"

"Oh, famous," cried little Johnny Dickson, imitating a kangaroo again
in his excitement.  "An open-air picnic in the Gardens, what fun."

"All food taken in the open air is referred to as a picnic, my love,"
his mother informed him, 'and even kangaroos must be quiet when they
eat, so I hope that you will imitate them."

This half-reproof flew over Johnny's head, but set George and Ritchie
Devereux laughing.

"Oh, Aunt Meg," Harriet Vancourt complained.  "I'm too tired to walk to
Mama."

"No need to worry, chicken.  I will carry you," and Meg picked up the
little girl, who was still clutching the rag doll which she had carried
all the way from Vancourt House.

Simon, who could not keep his eyes off Meg--he had begun to worry if
there were something wrong with him, she obsessed him so--was watching
her as she lifted Harriet up.  Astonishingly, the mere sight of Meg
tenderly kissing the little girl's soft cheek as she settled her into
her arms caused a strong surge of desire or was it lust mixed with
affection?  to sweep over him.  So strong was it that it shocked him.

Always, in his dealings with women, as when he had proposed to Meg, he
had kept the sensual side of his nature under firm control.  Caro
Kenilworth had complained once that he always kept something of himself
in reserve even when he was love-making--an unusually perceptive remark
for her to make, he now realised, as he was confronted with his
inability to control his emotions when with Meg, or when thinking of
her in her absence.

He became aware that Jack Devereux was speaking to him, asking when the
Society's next scientific lecture was being given, and he tried to
answer him sensibly whilst keeping a half-watch on Meg.  It was plain
that Harriet was too heavy for her to be able to carry the little girl
any great distance.  In the middle of a sentence from Jack, without a
word other than, "Pray excuse me, Devereux," he walked over to Meg and
said, "Allow me, Madame, to take over your burden.  She is too much for
you."

This came out so abruptly and so unloverlikely--it was almost as
though, Cass and Emma Dickson agreed later, he was giving an order to a
recalcitrant underling--that Meg retaliated by saying firmly, "No,
indeed, I am stronger than I look."

Simon gave a half-laugh, said, 'l know that, but it is not right that
you should carry Harriet when there are gentlemen about who have no
burden at all."

He then looked meaningfully at Peverel, who had been walking beside
Meg, unwilling to spoil his appearance as a well-dressed dandy by
carrying a small child'd la Jack Devereux.

Peverel chose to ignore' him, saying instead, "Quite true, Madame.  If
my cousin wishes to carry your charge, then I suggest that you allow
him to do so.  I suspect that he will only fall into the sulks if you
cross him, and you do not wish to spoil the afternoon with that, do
you?"

Meg's instant agreement to allow him to take Harriet from her as a
result of his cousin's insolent comment did nothing to improve Simon's
temper--more erratic these days than he cared to acknowledge to
himself.  It was all Meg's fault, of course.  And if his own jealousy
of any man who went near her appalled him, then that was one more
annoyance to add to the tally of of fences that she was unwittingly
running up!

He stifled an angry response to Peverel's remark for the sake of
Harriet, who offered him her doll to kiss, saying loudly, "Next to Aunt
Meg, I like you best, Uncle Simon."  Simon was a frequent visitor to
Vancourt House, mostly out of pity for Jane, whom he had known since
she was a small girl, rather than through any friendship with Vancourt.
Flighty she might be, but she had not deserved him.

What had also shocked him was that when he had lifted Harriet from her
aunt's arms and had touched Meg only lightly, that light touch had
served to rouse him again, as it had at the Leominsters'
party--something which had never happened with any other woman before.
Truly, he was a driven fool!

What he did not know was that Meg had suffered-if that were the right
word--the same experience, with the same result.  If Simon was
listening half-distractedly to Jack Devereux as a result, then she was
undergoing the same experience with Peverel, who had insinuated himself
between her and Cass.

Gossiping and laughing, much of their true thoughts being concealed by
the mask of politeness, the little party reached the spot where Jane
and Caro had been left, in order to collect them for lunch.  Caro, an
expression of supreme boredom on her face, was engaged in walking
around the enclosure where the American beavers played, leaving Jane to
sit in silence, contemplating all her many grievances against her
husband, who had put himself on Meg's other side, and was rivalling
Peverel in his attempts to charm her.

Harriet, she saw, was in Simon's arms, demanding to be set down so that
she might run to Mama.  It had not occurred to Jane, until that moment,
that her faithless husband might take it into his head to pursue Meg,
and the thought made her feel so ill that she could hardly pay proper
attention to her introduction to the Dicksons.

Fortunately for everyone's good temper, by the time that they had
returned to the aviaries' paddock, Simon's servants were already
arriving, carrying chairs, hampers of food, plates, cutlery, damask
napkins, and a large number of wine bottles and glasses.

"At last," drawled Vancourt, seizing on a glass of good red wine and
accepting a large beef and horseradish sandwich from a Darrow footman.
He threw himself into a chair as soon as was decently possible, after
all the women were seated.  He dismissed young George, who tried to
tell his Papa about the wondrous beasts he had seen, with a curt, "Not
now, boy," so that George was compelled to tell Mrs.  Dickson all about
them instead.  With the innocent shrewdness of childhood, he had
already grasped that she would be a more-willing audience than his
selfish Papa.

The sun had come out as Caro had prophesied, something which she
insisted on telling the company in an insufferable, I told you so,
voice which had them all wincing, while she loudly complained of her
dissatisfaction at being deprived of her parasol earlier, and of the
shade of the beavers' pond later.  More to create a diversion than
anything else, and in an attempt to start a hare which might put some
of the party in a better humour, Meg said thoughtfully, on picking up a
chicken sandwich--a dainty one, made especially for the ladies--"When I
am observing the animals I sometimes have the oddest thought: that
their behaviour may afford us insights into our own."

Her audience reacted to this statement each in his, or her, own
fashion.

"Very odd, indeed," was wrenched from Jane who was frowning, not being
sure how much Meg was encouraging Vancourt.

"Dear Madame," exclaimed Will Osborne, his honest face earnest, 'there
I must correct you.  We have it on the best authority of all, that of
God himself, that we humans most resemble the angels, rather than the
animals.  We are of a different kind and of a different creation, so
that any likeness between us must be accidental--if it exists at
all."

Jack Devereux paused in his demolition of a ham and mustard sandwich to
say in his dry, but straightforward, fashion, "Those of us who have
engaged in warfare, Madame, might echo your opinion rather than that of
Osborne's--eh, Dickie?"  This last to George Dickson, who rewarded it
with a silent nod of the head.

Simon's response was an internal one, and devoted to a quite different
point, being of the order of, What kind of life has Madame been living
to give vent to such a sentiment?  More evidence, if such were needed,
to support the notion of her loose-living, amorous career since animals
were notoriously lax in that department!

For his part Peverel merely offered negligently, "Such a remark, Madame
la Comtesse, whatever its truth,-serves' only to display the witty
liveliness of the mind that provoked its utterance."

So, dear cousin, Simon silently glowered, you hope to follow the
example of the animals with Madame, and take your pleasure with her as
carelessly and as often as possible.  Jealousy almost had him choking
over his cook's excellent Shrewsbury biscuits.

Cass and Mrs.  Dickson, by contrast, said nothing at all, merely
contenting themselves with exchanging amused glances, which said, What
a splendid friend we have gained in Marguerite de Vaux.  We shall have
some excellent cause ties with her, to be sure, if that is a sample of
her thinking.

"For my part," announced Caro Kenilworth, "I consider it to be
demeaning to my sex that such a comparis9n should be made at all, and
by a lady ... I have not the slightest wish to be compared to any
animal."

Meg, amused by the furore which her remark had created, had the
greatest difficulty in not retorting to Caro, Not even with an honest
cow, Lady K.?

The discussion that she had initiated received its death blow after Sir
Thomas Acland, a silent man who had rarely uttered once during the
afternoon, said in grave and bishop like tones, "The great Goethe,
himself, Madame, discussed the matter.  at length in similar terms to
your own, and reached the conclusion that we are more similar to the
animals than we care to think."

He paused, portentously, and it was plain to all assembled that he was
going to make up for his previous reticence by giving them an informed
lecture on the matter, except that Cass Devereux exclaimed happily,
"Oh, if the great Goethe has spoken on the matter, then we must all
hold our tongues and pass on to lower things, or do I mean higher
ones?"

A general laugh in which even Sir Thomas joined, ran round the
party--only Cass Devereux could get away with such charming
irreverence.  Will Osborne could be heard whispering to Simon, "Now,
who the devil is the great Goethe?"

Naughty Simon, delighted to see off a rival, muttered to him, "If you
really wish to know, Osborne, then have a word with Acland; he will be
sure to enlighten you."

Which would serve to keep him away from Meg for the rest of the
afternoon, was his private, gleeful thought--one rival despatched for
the time being.  He was suddenly aware of Meg's sharp eyes on him--if
he were watching her, she was watching him and she knew perfectly well
that he had just dished Will!  His respect for Madame's acuteness
grew.

To Meg, the whole afternoon had been a revelation as each member of the
party seemed determined to reveal their true selves, good or bad,
without knowing what they were doing.  She immediately amended that;
some knew quite well, Cass Devereux among them, and Simon also, who was
surprising her by his sharp eye to the main chance where she was
concerned.  If only he had not overheard that wretched conversation
with his cousin Peverel and misunderstood it

No use repining, though.  Or crying over spilt milk, as her old nurse
used to say--and Aunt L6onie, who had said the same thing in French
with more Gallic wit.  What was done was done, and the real damage had
been done that day long ago when she had refused Simon.  Or later,
perhaps, when she had married Andre... The bright afternoon seemed to
turn cold.  She shuddered a little.  No, she would not think of that,
not now, not here, with the shouting children about her, and Jack and
Cass Devereux present to show that a happy marriage could be achieved
between two people who appeared to be quite different.

Peverel saw the shudder, and leaned officiously over to murmur, "You
are cold, Madame.  May I lend you my jacket?"

Meg instinctively distrusted this chivalrous offer.  Recovering her
previous lightheartedness she wondered what Simon's reaction would be
if he saw Peverel in his shirtsleeves, and his jacket around her
shoulders.

"How very kind of you, but no, I am not really cold.  A passing fris
son I assure you."

Cass Devereux, who was on her left, murmured in her ear, "I am a little
warmer than I care for, Meg.  Take the shawl I am wearing, I do not
really need it."

Meg allowed Cass to drape it around her shoulders.  It would be
churlish to refuse a kind offer which would cause her no such
embarrassment as Pevere!"s would have done.  Simon's judge mental eyes
were on her again, and she was sure that he had heard Peverel's offer.
Perhaps he would think of her a little more kindly now that she had
refused it.

Vain hope!  Unknown to her, Simon had already decided that he would
have words with his cousin as soon as he could decently contrive an
opportunity.  One came when all the children decided that they wished
to visit the bears again before they went home.  All except Harriet,
that was, to whom Aunt Meg had promised a visit to the pelicans
instead.

He caught Peverel by the arm, saying curtly, "A private word with you,
if you please."

"What, here?"  exclaimed Peverel.  "I have come on pleasure, not to be
rebuked, for I see by your expression that some sort of rebuke is
intended."

"Yes, here."  Simon's voice was dangerous.  "I am not about to spend
valuable time chasing you around town when all I need to do is detain
you for a few moments.  You will do me the courtesy of agreeing."

He did not use the words the 'honour of agreeing' for he thought,
rightly, that his cousin possessed no honour.

"Oh, very well."  Peverel shrugged his shoulders.  "If you must, you
must."  He watched the rest of the party disappear into the distance,
Madame among them.  Another opportunity lost, thanks to his interfering
cousin.

'l feel compelled to ask you not to pursue Madame.  I have reason to
believe that your intentions towards her are not honourable."  Simon
could be no more definite than that, seeing that he could not reveal
that he had overheard the conversation where Meg had given Peverel
money.

"Oh, you are quite mistaken about that, Sim.  My intentions are purely
honourable.  I mean to marry her."

"Do not call me Sim--' Simon began saying, only to be interrupted by
Peverel's careless laugh.  "Cousin, then--if that is what you
prefer."

"Not that either.  !  do not wish to be reminded that we are cousins--'
only to be interrupted again.

"Don't you, by God?  But we are cousins, and l am your heir.  or had
you forgotten?"

Simon did his best to rein in his temper, aware that he was allowing
Peverel to sidestep the true subject of the conversation.  "I suppose,"
he said, cool again, 'that you are after her for her fortune."

"What a low opinion you have of the lady's attractions," drawled his
cousin.  "I admit that her wealth is an inducement, but not the only
one, I assure you."

"Oh, I do beg leave to doubt that.  Meg and I have had little to do
with one another of recent years, but I should not wish to see her
married to someone with your reputation."

Peverel began to laugh.  "My 'reputation  That's rich.  The lady's
reputation is such that she should be grateful that anyone wishes to
marry her!"

Only with difficulty did Simon prevent himself from striking the
grinning face of the man before him.  He had heard whispered and
indefinite slurs against Meg before, but nothing so apparently
downright as this.  He contained himself by saying between his teeth,
"Now what the devil do you mean by that?"

"You mean that you haven't heard?"  Peverei mocked him.  "Oh, !  always
knew that you were strangely innocent, cousin, but I thought that even
you knew how Andre de Vaux came to his death.  Why, when I was in
Paris, it was the one topic of conversation: that little Meg Ashe, now
a Comtesse, was Talleyrand's latest mistress, that Andre was twitted
over it, and consequently was compelled to fight the duel in which he
was killed.  Rumour said that she had other, nameless, lovers."  He
paused, adding with a significant wink and grin, "As I was in a
position to know."

Simon stared at him, stunned.  Of all the things that Peverel might
have told him," he had not expected this.  Oh, he had known from the
conversation that he had overheard at the Leominsters' that Meg must
have had an affaire with Peverel.

But what he had just learned was worse than that, much worse.  His once
innocent Meg had been the mistress of an old man who had been one of
the most notorious routs of the last forty years!  A man whose
notoriety as a skilled seducer was only equalled by his notoriety as a
wily politician and diplomat, who had managed to keep his head on his
shoulders through all the changes of regime in France since the
Revolution of 1789!

So that accounted for Meg's polish, her self-control, her worldliness,
her damned double-dealing appearance of injured innocence.  She had
been taught by a master.  He seized on a straw.  Peverel might be
lying.  He told him so, fiercely.

"Oh, believe that if you will.  I was in Paris at the time.  Of course,
being such a man of honour yourself, so highly principled, you could
not forgive her, or wish her for a wife, but I, why...1 am happy to
accept her for what she is, and marry her.  A truly

Christian attitude to adopt under the circumstances, I think you will
agree."

What could he say?  Not, My blessings on the pair of you, you are a
splendid match for one another.  To do so would reveal the depth of his
feelings for a woman who had turned out to be totally unworthy, and
would also give Peverel the triumph over him which his cousin had
always wanted.

Instead, he was almost indifferent.  "Well, if that is how matters lie,
then I withdraw my objections."  But he didn't mean what he said.

"And, of course," Peverel pursued, 'the sooner we.  are married, the
sooner Darrow Hall and Darrow lands will have an heir of the second
generation.  You, I believe, still have no intention to marry."

Simon felt like retorting that he would marry a hag from Hell and get a
child on her to save Darrow from falling to Peverel and any of his get.
His own dignity and sense of fitness prevented him from saying any such
thing.  Which, he knew, meant that he would always be at a disadvantage
when arguring with his unscrupulous cousin.

"Forgive me," Peverel said into the silence that had followed his last
words, 'but if that is all that you have to say to me, cousin, then I
will join the others."  He bowed, and strolled off, happy in the
knowledge that he had hurled a bombshell named Talleyrand at Simon, and
for the time being had gained himself a respite from his advice and his
reproaches.

As for the lady, well, whether the rumours were true or not, he didn't
care a tinker's damn.  As far as Peverel was concerned, she was merely
a source of possible wealth--with the bonus that he had begun to care
for her--so any lie, or innuendo, would serve to gain him a clear run
at it.

Simon, for his part, spent the rest of the afternoon in an unhappy
daze.  As Peverel had guessed, almost more than the news of Meg's
possible immorality was the revelation that one of her partners had
been Talleyrand.  He almost felt that he could have stomached a
handsome young buck rather than the monster who had betrayed everyone
in turn, man and woman.

Oh, damn everything, he was lying, he knew he was.  He would have hated
anyone with whom she had cared to-be faithless.  The very worst had
happened.  Of all inconvenient things, he knew beyond a doubt that,
whatever he had felt for the youngest Miss Ashe all those years ago, he
now loved her--as he must have done then, without knowing it.

Nothing to do but trudge after the others, thinking that, being a
mindless bear, happy to climb a pole and catch buns, might be a better
fate than being born Simon Darrow.  Best of all was to try to do what
he had originally suggested and avoid meeting Meg altogether.

In the meantime, he must try to enjoy the remainder of the visit to the
Gardens as the others were doing and pretend, like Voltaire's Candide,
that everything was for the best in the best of all possible worlds!

Chapter Six

A week after the visit to the Zoological Gardens, Simon met Jasper at
Louis Fronsac's fencing academy.  Meg's brother was improving his
ability with the sabre, and told Simon of a piece of news about her
that had him seething all over again, and immediately breaking his
resolution to avoid her.

"Care to come with me and visit m'sister in her new home, Darrow?"
Jasper offered as he towelled himself off between bouts.  "Time you
made it up with her."

Simon ignored the second statement, and seized on the first, surprise
and indignation in his voice.  "New home?  I thought that she was
staying with the Vancourts whilst she was over here."

Jasper eyed him, and his indignation, over his towel.  "Changed her
mind.  Staying longer.  Something about settling her late husband's
affairs in England.  She's rented Templestowe's place off Piccadilly."
Alex, Lord Templestowe had recently been appointed Ambassador to
Spain.

So, Madame wanted a nest of her own where she could entertain whom she
pleased, did she, without being observed?  Suddenly Simon wanted most
desperately to see her again.  Why, God alone knew, because since
Peverel's revelations about her loose life in Paris, seeing her--even
at a distance set him off into such a froth of anger and annoyance that
he could barely think straight.  A phrase he had not heard or used
since the days when he had been a small boy and possessed a nanny.

"Alone?"  he managed.  "In that great barracks?"  "Not exactly," said
Jasper through his towel.  "She's offered me quarters there, and she's
taken on General Hollis's widow as a dame de compagnie, chaperon, what
you will.  Meg has nicknamed her my watchdog--which both ladies seem to
think an excellent joke."

"Oh."  For some reason Simon felt quite deflated.  'l wouldn't have
thought that Meg needed a watchdog.  She seems well able to look after
herself."

Jasper peered curiously at him, before throwing his towel down and
picking up his sabre.  There was a virulence in Simon's comments about
his sister which was at odds with his normal equable self.  What in the
world was the matter with the pair of them?  He had tried speaking of
Simon to Meg as a possible brother-in-law, only to have her say in her
most freezing French great-lady voice, "Quite out of the question, Jas.
Apart from the fact that I have no intention of marrying again, ill
were to do so, Simon Darrow is the last person whom I should choose."

And then she had swept out of the room, ending all further
conversation.

"So you will come with me?"  Jasper offered as carelessly as he
could.

Simon could scarcely bring himself to speak, so he nodded instead.
Light in the attic, fit for bedlam, a glutton for punishment, were all
phrases which passed rapidly through his tormented mind.

He repeated them to himself all over again when he reached Templestowe
House, for who should be there before him but Peverel!

He was not to know how little Meg wished to see his cousin, who had set
about ingratiating himself from the moment he had walked through her
drawing-room door and bowed over her hand, saying, "You must know, my
dear Madame, that I could not wait to visit you when I heard of your
move.  I have such happy memories of Templestowe House and the dear
Countess."  He sighed sentimentally, offering Meg his most killing
expression.

Meg 'was not killed by it.  She had no wish to entertain Peverel, but
had been unable to refuse him entry--he had cunningly arrived with Will
Osborne in tow.  He had obviously brought him along to confer
respectability on himself, and his smiling near-impertinence told her
that he knew that she was well aware of what he was doing.  He was
still treating poor Will in the same offhand fashion which he had used
to him at the Devereux's party and at the Zoological Gardens.

Meg's only consolation was that, with Charlotte Hollis present, there
was little untoward which Peverel could do or say to her.  Like Will,
he was dressed' absolutely'd point and was just as determined to please
her.

'1 have never met the Templestowes," was Meg's cool reply.  'l rented
the house from their man of business."

She had a piece of canvas work in her lap, showing a peacock in full
display--an apt symbol, she thought, for the smirking man opposite to
her, so sure of his charm.

For all his good looks and his wit she could not like him, knowing of
his blackmailing of Jane and his proposed treatment of herself.  This
was merely the opening shot of his threatened campaign to win her, she
was sure, and to do so he was concealing his villainy behind a mask of
charm.  Meg could not help contrasting his subtlety with Simon's blunt
honesty.

What's more, she was also sure that he had bamboozled Will into
bringing him along as a supporter of Will's courtship!  Once arrived
though, he was busy cutting Will out--in the most charming way, of
course--so that Will could not take offence.  There was only one thing
for it.

"Charlotte," she said to Mrs.  Hollis, who, in her early thirties, had
turned out to be a much younger woman than Meg had expected she had
been the late General's second wife--"Charlotte, you might care to show
Mr.  Darrow the new album of Views of the Great Houses of Britain,
which is on the map table in the corner.  I am sure that he would fnd
it most interesting."

Having, as she thought, dismissed Peverel successfully, she turned to
Will who was gazing at her in mute adoration, and asked him about his
new curricle, which he had christened in Hyde Park the day before.

She had reckoned without Peverel's impudence.  He stood up, bowed in
her direction, and said gaily, "Mr.  Darrow, indeed!  How can you speak
to me so formally, my dear Madame?  Why, your family and mine have been
neighbours and friends for the last fve generations, at least.  And,
although we were not childhood companions as you and my cousin Simon
were, I think that you might do me the honour of calling me Peverel, in
exchange for me being allowed to address you as Marguerite---or even,
dare I say it, as Meg."

He ended this remarkable speech by taking Meg's hand."  and offering
her a deep bow before kissing it.

It was at this inopportune moment that Jasper, who had told the butler
not to trouble to announce them, walked in, followed by Simon, whose
first sight of the female thorn in his flesh was of her being publicly
saluted by his worthless cousin!

An unknown woman, the chaperon presumably, was certainly not doing her
duty and protecting her mistress as she should.  That unmitigated ass,
Will Osborne, had apparently nothing better to do than to watch this
pantomime, his jaw slightly dropped.

Meg refrained from withdrawing her hand hastily when Simon entered. She
would not allow him to think that his opinion of her mattered in the
least.  Indeed, Simon's thunderous expression had the perverse effect
of inciting her to encourage Peverel further.  How dare Simon presume
to judge her!

So she allowed Peverel to hold her hand a little longer than she
should--he was undoubtedly baiting

Simon by clinging to it but denied him what he had begged for.

"Alas, my name is only for my relatives--and those--' and she dropped
her voice so that Simon should not hear her '--whom I can trust.  May I
now add you to that list?"

Meg saw that she had wrong-looted him slightly, but his recovery was
rapid.  "Oh, I hope so, I do hope so," he murmured but, even as he
spoke, his eyes mocked her.

She was not Jane, to be over-awed and intimidated by him.  During her
marriage she had refused to be put down by a greater master of the
devious arts than Peverel Darrow.

Instead, she moved over to her brother, offered him her cheek, which he
duly kissed, before she turned her attention to Simon.  He was glaring
at her as though she were an unlovely cross between Jezebel and
Messalina.  Meg thought that it was fortunate for his friendship with
her brother that, although Peverel could read Simon's expression, and
was amused by it, Jasper could not.

"Sir Simon," she said sweetly, acknowledging his bow, but not offering
him the hand which Peverel had so recently kissed.  Given everything,
that might be going a step too far.  "I am delighted to see you here. t
believe that you are not acquainted with my dame de compagnie, Mrs.
Hollis.  She was recommended to me by one of your old friends, Lady
Devereux."

Well, that last fact ought to spike his guns and no mistake!  Having
wrong-foOted one cousin, she had now done the same to the other.  It
was growing to be quite a habit, and a delightful one this time, since
Simon could surely have no fault to find with such a paragon of
perfection as Mrs.  Hollis was reputed to be.

"So pleased to make your acquaintance at last," Simon told the lady,
who was beginning to understand that being an Anglo-French Countess's
watchdog was not going to be either as simple or as boring as she had
at first thought.

"I met your late husband some years ago when l first entered
Parliament.  I was truly sorry to earn of his death.  Madame la
Comtesse could have no more proper or pleasing a companion."

And so he told Meg a little later, after Jasper had suggested that he
stay for supper, Peverel having left, spouting promises that he would
visit again in a few days?  time, when he proposed to escort Meg and
Mrs.  Hollis to the theatre, Will Osborne also in attendance, of
course.  Peverel's contempt for Will was so great that he did not fear
his competition for Meg's hand.  He rightly judged that such a feeble
ass could have no attraction for her.

Meg was unable to refuse this apparently kind offer out of hand without
betraying her difficult situation vis-d-vis Peverel to Mrs.  Hollis.
Her acquiescence earned her a glare from Simon.

Supper might have been an uncomfortable meal, but surprisingly was not.
Jasper was in great form, teasing Charlotte Hollis about trying,
unsuccessfully, to be his sister's dragon.

"When she told me that she was acquiring a companion," he said, raising
his wineglass to her, "I naturally assumed that I was going to meet a
dear little old lady with a mob cap, a large canvas bag, and an elderly
smelly poodle, not someone who looks as though she needs a chaperon
herself."

Even for Jasper, this was a little extreme.  He was a great man for the
ladies, mostly those ladies who were kindly known as opera dancers, or
bits of muslin for want of a better name.  Charlotte Hollis with her
gravely pretty face, her simply dressed brown hair and her modest
toilette, was not one of his obvious targets.

"You will have to guard one another," remarked Simon drily. "Especially
if you are to keep away such adventurers as my cousin Peverel," he
could not resist adding.  "A trip with him to the theatre is sure to
cause comment about the particularity of his intentions, especially if
repeated."

"Mr.  Will Osborne will add respectability to the party," offered
Charlotte swiftly.  She knew that Peverel's reputation was not good,
although not bad enough to bar him from polite society.  "And I don't
believe that either Madame or I wish to repeat the experience."

Simon could say nothing further without appearing churlish, and the
rest of the evening passed happily enough--even though both Charlotte
and Jasper privately noted that the polite formality between Simon and
Meg was excessive, to say the least.

Except that when Simon had left, Jasper--who was staying the
night--walked into his sister's little sitting-room, adjacent to the
large best bedroom, and sat down opposite her.  Meg was reading before
retiring.  He said, quietly for him, "What is wrong between you and
Simon, Meg, that you are at such odds?  The air is positively
sulphurous when you are together these days."

Meg decided to treat him to a little of the truth: not too much, for
Simon and he were old and valued friends, and she did not wish to spoil
their friendship.

"Oh, Jasper, do not refine overmuch on what I hope is only a passing
thing.  Simon has heard a little of the stupid gossip about me, I
believe, and it is making him unhappy.  After all, he did propose to me
once, so I don't suppose he feels very pleased if someone tells him
untruthful on dits about my life in France."

"I suppose Peverel has been trying to queer his pitch with you,"
remarked Jasper shrewdly.  "Want me to have a word with him?  I could
tell him something of the truth."

"Of all things, no," exclaimed Meg, showing agitation for once.  "The
matter is trivial, seeing that he and I are merely acquaintances these
days."

"As you wish, sister, but I don't think that Simon quite views you in
that light.  I know a jealous man when I see one, but least said,
soonest mended, I suppose.  However, if you should need my help, then
you merely have to speak.  What are brothers for, but to protect their
sisters?"

He 'rose.  So did Meg.  She walked impulsively over to him and kissed
his cheek.  "You are a good fellow, Jasper, the best of brothers.
Always remember that you may come to me, too, although I cannot imagine
that you will ever need my help."

She sat for a time after he had left, listening to the peacocks
screeching on the terrace outside.  She was thinking of Simon.  He was
seldom out of her thoughts.  When Charlotte came in to bid her
good-night, after her maid had dressed her for bed, she found Meg
standing at the window, looking out into the darkness, as though trying
to .fnd something there.

"May I be of assistance, Madame?"

Meg turned, startled.  She had been far away..  She understood at once
that Charlotte was referring to what had passed with the Darrow cousins
and, like Jasper, was offering her aid and comfort.

"You are very kind, but I do not believe that anyone can help me.  It
is for me to help myself.  What you may do is join me in discouraging
Peverel Darrow without causing any form of scandal.  Jasper twitted you
with not being my dragon--perhaps you could be my dragonette
instead!"

This set Charlotte laughing at the mere idea that she could be a baby
dragon, and the moment passed.  Only, as she made to leave, Meg said,
"Not Madame in future, but Meg.  There are so few left to call me
that."

"In private," agreed Charlotte.  "In public, it would not be proper."

Meg considered saying, "Oh, I am beyond propriety," but kept the
thought to herself.  As with Jasper, she had to consider carefully how
much of herself she gave away.  It was growing harder and harder for
her to be frank with anyone.

So matters stood throughout the summer that followed.  Jasper's care
for Meg took the form of constantly escorting her and Charlotte to all
the

!19

events of the season.  They visited Ranelagh, the theatre only once
with Peverel--boated on the Thames, went to the Opera, and all the
balls, receptions, and ridottos that filled the lives of the cousinry
who ruled Britain.

Once Meg went to the House of Commons with Jane and Charlotte to hear
Simon make a short speech on Reform, of which he was an advocate, since
he believed that only through careful and progressive change could a
revolution be averted.

Polite formality continued to reign.  On one thing she and Simon
apparently agreed: not to waltz with one another.  To do so would have
meant a physical contact that neither of them could bear, for it
immediately revived all the suppressed passion which lay between
them.

Of the two, Meg was the more astonished by this.  When she had known
Simon at the time of his proposal, his touch had meant nothing to her,
although the sight of him had excited her after a fashion which at the
time she had not fully understood.  -.

Marriage to Andre changed me, she thought one evening at a bal
rnasqugiven by Princess Lieven, as she watched Simon waltzing with Caro
Kenilworth, who was still doggedly pursuing him with a view to
marriage.  If he taught me nothing else, he taught me what passion
could mean.  He awoke my sleeping senses.  And that is why I feel such
a pang when I see Simon with Cato.  Are they going home together, 1
wonder?  To... And if to think of that pains me so, what does it tell
me about my feelings for him?  She was not to know that Simon's
feelings for her, when he saw her, lightly clasped in Will Osborne's
arms, circling the dance floor, were equally strong, if not stronger.
To the devil with him and her, and Peverel, too!  For his worthless
cousin always seemed to be hovering nearby.

Commonsense told him that Jasper Ashe's constant hovering about Meg was
proof of his intention to safeguard both her and her reputation----or
was it that Jasper was after the chaperon; despite her difference from
all the other women he had pursued?

He taxed Jasper with this immediately.  Simon's only concession to the
Princess's masquerade had been to adopt a long dark cloak and a black
bird mask with a long beak.  Jasper, however, was splendidly turned out
as a Cossack, and not for the first time Simon wondered where Jasper's
money, to pay for all the trappings of high life, came from.  Although
he was a half-pay officer in peace time, from a family which was
notoriously poor, he appeared as rich and improvident as the young
heirs to vast fortunes who were his friends.

"Tell me, Ashe," he remarked, apparently carelessly, 'is your constant
dancing in attendance on Meg and her friend on behalf of your sister's
honour--or is the chaperon your true target?"

For once Jasper was not frank with him.  "Why should it be for either
reason?  Can't a man have a pretty woman on each arm without his
friends immediately consigning him to the duelling field or the
altar?"

Nevertheless, it was becoming increasingly clear to Meg and Simon that
Charlotte Hollis had succeeded in doing something which no other woman
had done before she had captured the heart of that fickle cavalier,
Jasper Ashe.

For the Lievens' ball, she had adopted the pretty rustic clothing of a
shepherdess, and its delightful simplicity had enchanted Jasper even
fuher.  That night it was obvious, by their manner to one another, that
Charlotte was as attracted to Jasper as he was to her.  Meg, dressed
daringly as Cleopatra, and still alienated from Simon, had the dubious
pleasure of watching their happiness.  Fancy Jasper being caught at
last, and by someone so good and modest: who would have believed it?
The pity was that she was as poor as he wash us proving the purity of
his intentions, for there was no reason to believe that Charlotte's
attraction for him was her fortune.

"But reformed rakes always marry good women," explained Cass Devereux
to Meg, as they sat pleasantly chatting to one another whilst watching
the fun.  "Safer so.  Jack says its always better to know that your
sons are your own, and not someone else's."

"Is that the only reason?"  asked Meg, entertained, as usual, by Cass's
witty down-to-earth conversation.

"Not entirely.  Flighty women choose bad housekeepers, too, and a man
prefers a comfortable home when he reaches mature years, rather than a
trumpery love nest.  Now here comes someone who has never wished for a
trumpery love nest.  Good evening, Sir Simon.  Have you arrived to take
my friend away so that I shall have no one left with whom to talk
sense?  I'm sure that you are determined to talk nonsense to her!"

"If she will allow me," retorted Simon gravely, openly light-hearted
for once.  Perhaps it was the mask he was wearing or was it that Cass
Devereux could always disarm him?  Meg thought enviously.  Shall I ask
her how she does it?

Instead, as Simon bowed and asked her to stand up in the quadrille with
him, she accepted, putting out her hand for him to raise her to her
feet.  She was aware of Cass's shrewd eyes on them, so she was as
gracious as she could be.  So much so that Simon remarked, still
retaining her hand in his so that her whole body quivered and silently
sang, "You are pleased to be at evens with me tonight."

"I am always at evens With you," riposted Meg tartly.  "It is you who
are at odds with me."

"Normally she might have expected her dart to be thrown back at her as
she came out with this, but for once it was no such thing, since he
continued by saying, "Jasper's presence seems to have sobered you,
Madame, or is it the example of Mrs.  Hollis?  My cousin Peverel
appears to be in exile so far as you are concerned, which pleases me
even if it does not please him."

"I was not aware that my conduct ought to be arranged so as to please
either of you," was Meg's answer to that, immediately before they
separated to bow at one another before the music began.

"Oh, our conduct ought always to be arranged so as to please our
friends," replied Simon as they passed one another in the dance.

Meg, on their next encounter, asked sweetly, "And do I count as a
friend 'so far as you are concerned,

Sir Simon?  I was not aware that I had that honour."

"Good God, Madame," he said as he passed her again.  "I thought that we
had been friends since you were in short skirts."

"But not, apparently, when I wore long French ones.  Unless you have
changed your mind recently."

Against his will, this set Simon laughing, but his face had regained
its normal composure when next they met.  This impelled Meg to remark,
"You are suddenly grave, Sir Simon.  Is it French fashions that you
object to?  If so, I cannot promise to reform--English ones seem so
dull."

This should have annoyed him, served to confirm her frivolity, but this
evening he could not be angry with her.  The laxness which hals masques
invariably impoged on those who attended them was doing its work.
Everyone knew everyone else, even though they were masked; but eyes
glittering through slits and bodies wearing unfamiliar and exciting
clothes had a strange effect on their wearers.

Simon's mask gave him the air of a predator, and he could convince
himself that Meg's disguise as Cleopatra was a disguise and that she
was quite unlike the free-living Egyptian queen, and so he was kinder
to her than usual.  Or was it, he thought afterwards, that he had a
mind to lull her?  Once the dance was over and they stood bowing,
before he consigned her back to Cass again, instead of doing so he took
her hand, and said, "Come."

Whether it was his bird mask which transformed him into an eagle ready
to pounce on its prey, or whether it was the mere sight of Meg as
Egypt's queen which caused him to lose all his stern resolve to keep
their relationship distant, Simon never knew.

Using his considerable strength, he urged her through the milling
crowds, through a glass door and, closing it firmly behind them, led
her on to a terrace from where they could see London and its gas lamps
below them.

Meg's initial wish to struggle rapidly disappeared.  Easier to let him
pull her gently along.  In any case, without making a scene she could
not refuse him--and did she wish to?

Once on the terrace, he released her.  She thought that he was about to
step back; indeed, he began to do so, but no, instead, he looked down
at her, tense and silent.  His eyes glittering through the mask were
exactly like those of the eagle it was portraying.  He stepped forward
instead, saying hoarsely, "Unfinished business, Madame," and took her
in his arms.

It would be true to say that Simon was as astonished as Meg by his
actions.  He had had no intention of doing any such thing.  He had
meant to speak to her carefully and seriously, to ask her to deny the
rumours about her reputation that were running around society; to
praise her, perhaps, for her recent circumspect behaviour.

Alas, all such good resolutions flew away when Meg stood before him,
her lips parted, her eyes shining, her head a little thrown back, her
whole beautiful body displayed to advantage in the trap pings of the
desert temptress!

Tempted he was.  And fell.

Mouth met mouth.  Body met body.  Hands misbehaved.  Simon said
something hoarse and broken,

Meg echoed him.  They clung together as though they were a stone nymph
and satyr making love in the gardens below them.

An idyll out of time, Meg thought later, alone in her chaste bed.  What
would have happened had it been allowed to continue might have given a
whole different course to their subsequent lives.  But the door to the
terrace opened, and a familiar voice said, mocking them, "Ah, there you
are, cousin.  Enjoying the night, I see."

It was Peverei Darrow.  He must have seen them leave, and had followed
them, giving them just sufficient time, Simon thought savagely, to
begin to misbehave themselves.  Slowly, reluctantly, they fell apart,
their bodies protesting at joy denied.

"I believe, Madame," Peverel said, grinning as he advanced towards
them, wearing the trappings of the Devil--Mephistopheles in person,
down to a small tail---'that you agreed to dance the cotillion with me,
and the music is about to begin."

It was true.  Meg had so agreed, as much to keep him quiet, without
conceding a lot to him, as for any other reason.  She and Charlotte had
agreed on such a ploy.  Simon, however, thwarted, took matters
differently.

"Oh, indeed," he almost snarled.  "Dance with him, by all means,
Madame.  Please the Devil, if no one else."

You might, thought Meg bitterly, have believed that in their recent
encounter she had fallen on him, instead of the other way round.

"Oh, so I have your permission, Sir Simon," she shot at him, Peverel
grinning the while at Simon's discomfiture.  He had been shocked to see
them disappear, even more shocked to discover them in one another's
arms: it was no part of his plans for Meg that she and Simon should
become reconciled.

He held out his hand to her and, perforce, Meg took it.  She could
almost feel Simon seething behind her as they walked through the garden
door and re-entered the ballroom.  For a moment it had seemed to Meg
that what lay between them had been forgotten, that they might take up
where they had left off when she had so foolishly refused him.

But she had reckoned without Peverel, and it might be wise not to
reckon without him again.

Chapter Seven

The blue skies of summer are frequently spoiled by the appearance of
unexpected clouds.  So, too, life may deceive the unwary into thinking
that all may be well--and will remain well.  Just as Meg had begun to
hope that she and Simon might be coming to terms again, and that Jasper
was at last prepared to settle down, dark clouds arrived to spoil her
summer, which had begun to be a happier one.

Simon's friendliness to her had been destroyed by peverel's breaking in
on them at the Lievens' bal masque, whilst Jasper, who had begun to
spend more and more of his time with her and Charlotte, suddenly
retreated into the wild life that he had led before coming to stay at
Templestowe House.  They rarely saw him during late June and early
July, and Charlotte, whose cheeks had become rosy under Jasper's
attentions, grew sallow again.

Better, thought Meg sadly, that he had never paid her any attentions at
all, rather than show her such particularity and then withdraw.  To
make matters worse, Peverel and Will Osborne haunted them, or rather
haunted Meg, for Charlotte, having lost her one devoted cavalier, now
had no cavalier at all.

'l would wish," Meg said brightly to Charlotte as they were busy with
their canvas work one afternoon, 'to visit Astley's Amphitheatre.  I
have never been there, but it would not be proper for us to go without
a gentleman dancing attendance on us.  I shall ask Jasper to take us,
but I do wish that it were possible for ladies to look after themselves
a little more than we are allowed to."

Charlotte stitched on in silence, her head lowered, before she
muttered, "I do not think that Major Ashe cares for our company these
days.  We rarely see him, and I have no wish to impose on him.  I would
prefer you not to ask such a favour of him."

"No!"  Meg's answer was spirited.  "Why should it always be presumed
that men may do exactly as they please whilst we are always condemneO
to please them?  I do not greatly care what Jasper's wishes are.  He
should be prepared to sink his own wishes for once and oblige us.
Besides, his recent conduct is most strange.  He has always been a good
and loving brother to me, particularly in the past when the rest of my
family showed me little consideration."

This surprised Charlotte and roused her from her apathy a little.  Meg
rarely talked of personal matters, and for the first time it occurred
to her companion that perhaps her employer's life had not always been a
bed of roses.

"That is true," she said slowly, and then in a rush, "Oh, do forgive
me, Meg, but I have been so foolish ... l had thought... No, no, I must
not say it," and she began to cry, wildly and loudly after a fashion
quite unlike that of her usual equable self.

"No, Charlotte, no!"  Meg threw down her stitchery in order to cross to
where Charlotte sat sobbing.  She put her arms around her to comfort
her.

"You were not foolish.  I, too, thought that Jasper had a tend're for
you, and it is most unlike him to play fast and loose with a good woman
such as yourself.  If you were deceived, so was I, so do not call
yourself foolish.  If he has really treated you so lightly then you may
call him wicked for all that he is my brother."

Charlotte's response was to cry even harder, so that Meg began to rock
her, murmuring, "There, there, cry for a little if you must, but then
be brave and show the world a bold uncaring face."

Even as I do, she thought sadly.  Even as I do.  After a time Charlotte
stopped weeping, pulled out a most inadequate handkerchief, mopped up
her tears and blew her nose.

"I was a fool," she muttered, 'to think that a sought-after and
handsome man like your brother could care for a dowd past her last
prayers such as I am.  Who would want to marry a penniless widow when
the world is full of well-dowered young girls?"

What to say?  Nothing was best.  Meg made comforting noises until
Charlotte recovered herself and picked up her stitchery again, saying,
"Oh, dear, Meg, I have wet you through, and it is my duty to comfort
you, not you me."

All the same, decided Meg, after she had rung for the tea things to be
brought in and life had resumed its normal tranquil way, I shall have a
word with

Jasper.  He had no right to raise Charlotte's hopes as he did, and then
drop her so unkindly.  I shall try to see him tonight, however late he
returns home and, as Cook said of a misbehaving kitchen boy, l shall
have it out with him.  Best to do it when all the world is safely
asleep and none may overhear us.

Late it was.  The clock in the drawing-room nearest to the big front
door was striking four before Meg heard the noise and clatter attendant
on Jasper's return.  She had decided not to speak to him immediately,
but would allow him time to retire to his rooms before she challenged
him.

His progress up the grand staircase was slow.  He was obviously
half-cut, and for a moment Meg considered the wisdom of challenging him
when he was in such a state.  The image of Charlotte's wan face rose
before her.  No, she would not wait.  If he was not fit to talk to her,
then he must tell her so.  He was by no means the first drunken man she
had had to cope with... She knocked on his door.  His valet, Tyler, had
passed her on the landing and had stopped to say, "Madame, the Major is
not himself.  He will not allow me to undress him..."

Whether or no he was shocked by Meg's riposte, she did not stay to find
out.  "I have no wish to undress my brother, but I do need to speak to
him."  Afterwards, she was to ask herself what had driven her to be so
urgent and to thank God for it.  At the time she thought of nothing but
knocking on the door

To hear Jasper call in a blurred voice, '1 told you to leave me alone,
Tyler.  Go away."

"It isn't Tyler knocking, Jas.  It's Meg."

"Doubly go away, then.  You've no business with me tonight, or ever."

He wasn't so overset that he could not answer her.  Meg stared at the
panelling.  She made a decision.

"If you don't let me in, Jasper, I shall fetch the butler and a couple
of footmen and have the door broken down.  I don't think that Alex
Templestowe would be too happy about that, do you?"

Silence.  Meg stood, her heart beating rapidly.  Something was wrong,
she was sure of it.  Jasper had been so unlike himself recently, and
now he didn't resemble himself at all!

Please God, let him open the door, she prayed.  She heard footsteps.
The door opened.  Jasper stood there swaying a little, but somehow she
thought that he was not very drunk.  There was something else very
wrong with him.  '

"Come in if you must," he growled and retreated back to a small table
in the middle of the room, sat down on the far side of it and stared at
her.

"What is it, Jasper?"  Meg said slowly.  "What's wrong?  There is
something dreadfully wrong, isn't there?  I wouldn't have expected the
Jasper I know to have treated Charlotte so unkindly."

At the mention of Charlotte's name, her brother dropped his head into
his hands.  His shoulders heaved.

"Go away, Meg.  Let me He stopped.

"Let you what, Jasper?"  She advanced into the room as far as the
table.

And saw on it a pistol.

She put her hand to her mouth, looking at her usually smartly dressed,
self-controlled brother, who was hunched in a posture of complete
abandon before a loaded pistol.

"Tell me, Jasper," she said steadily.  "Tell me what is wrong.  I once
said that I would offer you help if you needed it, but I cannot do so
if you will not tell me the truth."

Jasper shuddered.  He lifted his head to show her his ravaged face, his
red eyes, the disarray of his clothing.  "You can't help me, Meg.  I'm
ruined."  He dropped his head again.

"Ruined, Jas?  How ruined?  Lift your head and tell me.  At once."

She had played this scene before, or one very like it, and Meg knew
that she must be calm, be the voice of reason when all she wanted to do
was shriek.

"I've lost everything.  I ... owe thousands--the moneylenders for my
debts and to the people I played cards with when I tried to recoup my
fortunes.  I wanted to win enough so that Charlotte and I might
marry--as well as pay my debts.  I did win at first, and then I lost I
was plucked like the pigeon I am.

"In my position as heir, I pledged our parents' home, all that is left
to them, as security for my debts--and now it is gone.  My debts are
being called in and I cannot pay them.  Not only am I ruined, but so
are they.  All that is left to me, in honour, is that and he pointed to
the pistol so go away."

"Honour ?  In that?"  Meg's voice was icy.  "And how will killing
yourself, here in my home may l remind you, save Mother and Father from
being put into the street?  All that will do is save you from suffering
for your folly whilst leaving the rest of us to pay for it.  No,
Jasper.  That is not the answer.  How much do you owe?"

Bleary-eyed, he stared at her.  "Thousands, more than I care to think
of.  Why?"

"How much?"  she repeated.

Jasper told her.  "You fool," she said calmly, 'to lose so.  much, but
if that is the sum of it--and you must pledge your word, for what that
is worth, that it is then I will pay your debts for you.  But you must
promise me never to gamble again or run up debts of any kind."

He shook his head.  "How can I promise to stay out of debt?  I am only
a half-pay officer, for God's sake, with no other source of income, and
in peacetime, no possibility of promotion, since I haven't the money to
purchase a commission.  So, unless I borrow money, I can't live,"

"Then resign your commission and be my agent for the estate I am buying
in Berkshire.  If you wish, and !  think you do, to marry Charlotte,
then you may do so after a decent interval, providing you stay away
from London and the high life.  You have told me often that you love
country living, and I know that you are capable, when you are not
busily engaged in ruining yourself by living beyond your paper."

Her brother said, slowly and painfully, "Are you so rich, Meg?  And so
hard-headed?"

"Both, Jasper, both--life has made me so.  Say yes, and we will go to
Coutts Bank tomorrow and arrange matters.  I warn you that you must
tell me everything you owe, and sign a document that will commit you
never to gamble in the future because, if you do ... l shall not rescue
you again."

"Yes, yes, I understand you."  His voice was heavy.  "You must know
that I can never repay you."

"Only by living a good life in the country--and by the by, you will
tell no one, not even Charlotte, that the estate is mine, until I am
ready to acknowledge ownership.  Let them think it is a friend's.  So
you see, I am not so hard-headed, after all, for I am giving you a
second chance."

"Oh, Meg," he began, his voice husky, "I promise you... "No, Jasper.
Promise me nothing.  I have had my fill of promises ... and all of them
broken.  Just do as I ask.  And if you truly love Charlotte, marry
her."

"Oh, indeed."  He was eager for the first time, more like his old self.
'l did it to gain her, you know.  Because I could not afford to marry
her.  I have never gambled heavily before--I was always careful."

"Then continue to be so."  Meg leaned forward, picked up the pistol and
said, "You will not be needing this."

"No."  his voice broke.  "Meg ... l can never thank you enough."

"Thank me by doing as I ask.  We shall visit Coutts in the morning.
Goodnight."

She was halfway down the grand staircase, holding the pistol away from
her, before the irony of what had happened struck Meg.  First Jane and
now Jasper.

What next?

Peverel Darrow, wearing a Chinese dressing-gown, was drinking coffee at
half past eleven in the morning in his rooms in the Albany.  His valet,
George Jackson, put his head around the door, and said in a
disrespectful voice, "There's that clerk fellow again, asking to see
you.  He says that his business is urgent."

"Then take your Friday face away, and send him in, at once."

Living as he did on the edge of ruin, one step ahead of a debtors'
prison, Peverel had a number of dubious acquaintances and informants of
whom his valet visibly disapproved.  Well, damn him, let him disapprove
away.  Without them, and their information, Peverel could hardly have
afforded a valet, and so he had told him more than once.

The clerk fellow?  That was probably Lewis, a dogs body at the money
lending house of Strauss and Sons.  Now what particular useful titbit
had brought him along this morning to earn a few pennies or, if the
information was important enough, perhaps a few guineas?

He was soon to find out.  Lewis sidled in, his greasy top hat in his
hand.  Jackson had not deigned to dirty his hands by taking it from
him.  Peverel made no attempt to rise, saying brusquely, "Well, what is
it brings you here today?"

"Something I'll be bound you'll pay good money for, master," whined
Lewis.

"Fire away, then.  And it had better be good, mark you, to be worth
disturbing me at this hour."

Lewis, whose day usually began at eight of the clock, nodded as though
he, too, ate his breakfast at half-past ten, bowed his head and
muttered, "You said as how you wanted anything rumour, gossip or
facts--which I heard about the French Countess.  Well, yesterday I had
through my hands a draft from Coutts Bank, drawn on the account of
Madame de Mortaine, to pay off a large debt which had been outstanding
for some time..."

"How large?"

"Very large.  To the tune of twenty thousand pounds, allowing for the
original loans and accrued interest.  It seems that Strauss bought up a
lot of paper signed by the debtor."

"Spit it out, man.  Was it Madame's debt?  And if so, for what?  She's
supposed to be as rich as Croesus, so it would be damned odd if she
needed to borrow money---unless all the on dits are wrong."

Lewis shook his head.  "That I don't know.  Old Strauss keeps his
business close to his chest.  Only he knows who his clients are.  I
took the draft, with some others, to Coutts to be honoured.  But my
fellow clerk, Dickie Dobson, maintained that the debtor weren't Madame,
by something Straugs said.  It were a man, he thought, some nob."

He made no apologies for breaching the confidential nature of either
Coutts's business, or that of his employer.  Poorly paid as he was,
Lewis believed that he had the right to supplement his earnings in any
way he could.

"But had he no notion of who she raised the money for?  I'll give you a
guinea for what you have told me, and I'll double it if you tell me the
name of the man whom Madame was bailing out."

A regretful shrug answered him.  "Nay, master.

I'm sorry to lose an extra guinea, but Dickie only knew that it must
have been a man, nothing else.  Besides, Strauss don't do business with
women.  Only takes their money if they clear a debt for someone else."
Then, a sly expression on his face as he pocketed the coin which
Peverel handed to him, he offered, "Ain't it a possibility, master,
that you might know who the lucky man is?  Some lover, perhaps?"

Or her brother, thought Peverel, although he had heard no rumours to
the effect that Jasper Ashe's pockets were to let.  On the other hand,
the Ashes were as poor as church mice, and Jasper wouldn't be receiving
much from them in the way of an income to support his half-pay.

Knowledge being power, though, there must be some way in which he could
use this information.  "Keep your eyes and ears open," he told Lewis
before he left, 'and there'll be more than a guinea for you."

One piece of information that Lewis had passed over was worth as much
as the knowledge of the banker's draft: that little Meg Ashe, turned
French Countess, was even richer than he had thought that she might be.
A prize worth winning, and by fair means or foul he would have a go at
winning her!  But first he would have to destroy his cousin Simon's
chances.  By her behaviour, it was plain that Madame had a tend're for
him, even if the idiot wasn't aware of it.

On second thoughts, though, from what he had seen lately, cousin Simon
had been busy destroying his chances himself.

He took this comforting thought with him when he drove to Hyde Park
that afternoon to look for her.  If he made the Comtesse his wife, then
Simon could keep Darrow Hall, and the measly fortune which went with
it.  With Meg's money he would buy himself a palace.

The sun shone and there was a gentle breeze, when Peverel turned into
the Park.  As was customary, all the polite world was on parade there
that afternoon.  Cass Deve're ux was driving a perch-phaeton, her
children and husband for once not with her.

She was wearing an outrageous habit based on a grenadier's uniform,
something which only she could carry off.  The Duke was there,
Wellington himself, on horseback today, talking animatedly to
Cass---twitting her on her turn-out, no doubt.

But where was Madame de Mortaine?  Peverel looked about him and saw
that his cousin Simon was present, but alone, thank God--he had feared
that Meg might be with him.  Simon was riding a powerful grey stallion,
which only a strong man could tame sufficiently to make him behave in
the over-crowded Park.

And there she was.  She was neither on horseback, nor driving any kind
of phaeton or gig.  Instead, looking enchanting in the palest green,
she was in a modest landaulet parked in the shade of a large tree. That
plain prude Charlotte Hollis sat by her side.  Meg looked 'so charming
that Peverel was surprised all over again to discover that it was not
only for her money that he wished to win her.  Lust or could it
possibly be love?--was driving him, too.

So much so that, for once, sincerity rode on his face as he approached
the landaulet.  His pleasure at finding her was genuine.  The other,
baser, pleasure he felt was that, seated as she was, she could not
avoid him, and what was even better, in Simon's absence there was no
one to queer his pitch with her.

Meg had seen him coming, but she misread his expression, translating it
as merely predatory.  She muttered below her breath to Charlone, "We
are finely trapped with no escape from him, but never mind, we may
practice our politeness--and our indifference."

Charlotte, who had been looking around for Jasper, who had promised to
meet them there, nodded agreement.  For all his good looks and his easy
charm, she could not like Peverel.  It was plain that he was chasing
Meg for her fortune.  Charlotte did not believe that he loved Meg: she
believed that, like many men in society, he loved only himself.

"Good afternoon, ladies," he said gaily.  "It is a fine one, is it
not?"

Of such banalities was conversation in society made up, thought Meg
acidly, but she gave him her cool agreement whilst looking around to
see if Simon was anywhere near.  She could not find him, but instead
saw Jasper, who was riding a spirited chestnut, and was plainly making
for her and Charlotte.

He had already begun to arrange his resignation from the Army, and was
due to visit Meg's new property in Berkshire in the near future. Beside
him was her sister Phoebe's husband, Fred Zealand, a discontented
expression on his face.

Peverei had no objection to them joining Meg.  On the contrary, their
willingness to be seen talking to him proved that he was still
acceptable in the best society.  Jasper was only interested in
Charlotte, and Zealand, happily married to Phoebe, could not expect to
attract Meg, even if he was attracted by her.

Which was nothing less than the truth.  What would have amused her with
anyone but her sister's husband, pained her when Zealand began to
contend with Peverel for her favour.  Oh, the devil was in all men. The
one she wanted despised her, and she despised all those who wanted
her.

Perhaps it was life she was complaining off

She thought so even more when Simon suddenly appeared, flung himself
off his magnificent grey and walked over to join the party and add his
mischief to theirs.

"Well met, cousin," Peverel taunted him.  "I had not thought that you
lent yourself to such frivolous occasions as these."

To Meg's fascination, Simon showed his cousin his splendid teeth at
once.  "Indeed?  Then as Usual, sir, you are wrong!"  He trod heavily
on the word 'sir' to demonstrate his dislike at being addressed as
cousin, before he acknowledged Jasper and Zealand, and after he had
done his polite duties to Meg and Charlotte.

Charlotte, indeed, not for the first time, thought what a splendid
specimen of manhood he was, putting even her beloved Jasper into the
shade, and making Peverel look effete.

Meg was busy thinking the same thing, as Simon came out with, "I had a
mind to take the air this afternoon.  The House is sitting, but as it
is not treating with any of my interests today, and as I am summoned to
a meeting of the Zoological Society this evening, I have taken the
opportunity of a little exercise.  I shall grow fat if I do nothing but
sit on the Commons' benches every afternoon."

"If you were a member of the opposite sex, Sir Simon, you would be
instantly accused of fishing for a compliment, but since you are not a
female then I must assume that you are doing no such thing.  I will
simply assure you that you appear to be in no danger of rivalling
Daniel Lambert."

This reference to the man who was reputed to be the largest and fattest
England had ever bred amused all Meg's hearers and even brought an
unwilling smile to Simon's lips.

"Rightly rebuked," he said.

"Touch, cousin," came from Peverel, delighted to see the 'haughty
baronet', as he privately thought of him, being put down for once.

"You are severe today, Meg," Jasper put in, smiling affectionately at
her, robbing his words of any possible sting.  The gratitude that he
felt for having saved him from ruin was so great that he knew that he
could never thank her enough.  He had said so on the day he had handed
her draft to Strauss.  in his pokey office in the City.

But she had shaken her head and said simply, "Don't try, Jas.  Words
mean nothing.  Show me your gratitude by managing Monks Lovell for me
and keeping out of trouble.

Well, he would try to do that, and his visit to the Park was in the
nature of a farewell to his old life.

He would go to Berkshire, find out what being Meg's agent would mean
and, after a suitable interval, he would return to ask Charlotte for
her hand.

In the meantime, he was busy watching Simon, Peverel and, of all
people, Zealand, dance around Meg.  He had never thought of Phoebe's
husband as a loose fish, and rumour had not touched him, as it had
touched many others.

Meg, thinking the same thing, was equally surprised, particularly when,
in a diversion created by a group of Jasper's fellow officers arriving,
she was temporarily left to her own devices and Zealand leaned forward
and muttered to her in an urgent voice, "May I have your permission to
call on you tomorrow, Madame?  There is a matter of some import which I
must discuss with you privately."

Now what in the world can Zealand possibly have to say to me?  was her
immediate and private response after she had agreed to his request, but
she was allowed no time to puzzle over the matter.  Simon, who had
overheard Zealand's question and her reply, immediately jumped to all
the wrong conclusions.

So!  Madame was up to her tricks again, was she?--and with her own
sister's husband this time.  Had she lost all sense of shame during her
stay in Paris?

Meg looked up to see him glaring at her.  Her heart sank--something
which she had believed was a physical impossibility until she had met
Simon again.

"Pray, Sir Simon," she enquired sweetly, 'what wrong am 1 supposed to
have committed now?  For,

by your expression, you plainly believe that I have done or said
something."  Not even the presence of Charlotte sitting quietly beside
her could prevent her from challenging him.

Nor did it prevent him from replying fiercely, "You know perfectly
well, Madame, what your offence is.  No need for me to answer you in
detail."  "But if I have a desire to know, sir?  What then?"  Simon
opened his mouth to speak, to say something unforgivable, for he seemed
to lose all sense of what was proper whenever he encountered Madame la
Comtesse.  He was stopped by the sudden knowledge that Peverel was now
listening to them, and that Charlotte Hollis was staring at them both
as they broke all the rules of polite conduct in public.

This would never do.  He must speak to her privately, he must.  Rage
and desire, mixed in equal.  parts, swept over him.  Meg had never
looked more charming than when she had been having her half-private
tete-a-tete with that ... that... Adequate words to describe Zealand
failed him.

He became aware that Peverel was also staring at him, He turned away,
only for Peverel to touch him on the arm and say, 'l must have a word
with you in private, cousin, before you leave.  Pray walk over with me
towards the tree where Cass Devereux is holding court."

For a moment Simon hesitated before he decided against a refusal.  He
was in danger of making a farce-show of himself.  "Yes," he replied
stiffly.  "What have you to say to me which is so urgent?"

"This.  I am troubled in my mind where-Meg de Mortaine is concerned."

Oh, the bare-faced hypocrisy of the swine, who had not only blackmailed
Meg over her affair with him, but had also blown on her reputation to
himself, and doubtless also to others!  Peverel was not to know that he
had overheard him taking Meg's money from her, and something kept him
from telling the scaly swine so.

"Indeed, Peverel, and why should that be?  More to the point, what is
it that you think you know?"

"This.  That she has been blackmailed once before, and now the rumour
is all about town that she has been tricked into paying off the huge
debts of one of her lovers.  As we are all old friends from our
childhood days, I do not like to think of her being up the River Tick
where her fortune is concerned, nor barred from good society because of
whispers about her reputation."

Simon was not to know that there was not a word of truth in what his
cousin was telling him.  There were no rumours, and the ones about
Meg's supposed wicked past, which Peverel had started on their way, had
died the death in the face of the purity of her appearance and her
behaviour.

As for the money supposedly paid Over to a paramour only Peverel knew
of that through his bribing of Lewis, Strauss's double-dealing clerk.
He saw Simon's face change and wondered again at the power of jealousy
that left his cousin at his mercy.

"And I am to believe this?"  enquired Simon glacially, for once
refusing to credit Peverel's lies.

"Alas, I have it on the very best authority."  Peverel was solemn--so
solemn, so grave, that Simon admitted with a pang that what he was
saying might be the truth.  He looked away to where Meg was now
entertaining the Iron Duke himself, who had driven over from one of
society's known successes, Cass Devereux, to one of the new ones.

Wellington had always had an eye for a pretty woman, and there was no
doubt that that eye was now on Meg.  The very sight of yet another
besotted roupursuing her---even if he were the great Duke himself--was
enough to set him grinding 'his teeth all over again.

Simon made a swirl resolution.  He would call on Meg, this very day,
before Zealand could' visit her, and try to help her out of the pit
into which she had fallen.  Unwittingly Peverel had overdone things
for, whilst inciting Simon against Meg, he had also spurred him on
towards a confrontation with her in which anything might happen.

Chapter Eight

"You are sure that you do not wish me to remain with you this evening,
Meg?  If you are not feeling up-to snuff, then I really should stay
with you and give Lady Cowper's ball a miss."

Charlotte and Meg were in the small drawing-room on the ground floor of
Templestowe House.  It was an exquisite miniature of all the other
large rooms there.  The portrait of an earlier Templestowe Countess
hung above the fireplace.

Even the chairs and the sofa were more comfortable, more suited to the
human body than those elsewhere, including one monster sofa, deep and
wide.  It was drawn up before a hearth that was filled with flowers and
not with fire, since it was summer.

"Now that really would be beyond the call of duty, Charlotte.  I know
that Jasper wishes to escort you to one last London jaunt before he
journeys to Monks Lovell, and I would be distressed to think that my
slight malaise had deprived you of that.  And since the Vancourts are
calling at seven to take us there, my sister may act as your chaperon,
and allow you to enjoy yourself without having to consider me."

Charlotte could not prevent her pleasure at not losing the delight of
one last evening with Jasper from showing on her face.

"But my duty--' she began.

Meg refused to let her finish her sentence.  "Oh, run along, my dear,
at once, or you will not be ready when their carriage arrives.  It
would not do to keep Van cOurt waiting--you know how uncertain his
temper is these days."

Charlotte needed no more pressing on the matter, and her and Jasper's
pleasur/ in one another as they left for the ball was Meg's reward--if
any were needed--for dispensing with Charlotte's company for the
night.

Not that it was a sacrifice for her on this particular evening, She
felt tired to the bone.  Jousting with Simon gave her a perverse
pleasure when she was engaged in it, but once away from him an enormous
sadness overtook her at the realisation of the great gulf of
misunderstanding which had opened between them.  Explanation and
reconciliation seemed alike impossible.

Neither her temper nor her mood had been improved by reading her
mother's latest letter.  Some busybody had apparently passed on some
unpleasant gossip about her character and reputation, and the litany of
complaint and reproach which always filled her mother's letters to her
was worse than usual in her latest missive.  Missile might have been a
better description of it!

One might have thought, Meg mused sadly, that my having made such a
splendid marriage; so splendid that I have been able to assist both her
and father in their financial difficulties, would have changed her
carping attitude towards me.  But that was apparently fixed at my birth
when I became merely another daughter instead of another son.  All my
title and wealth have done is to change the nature of mother's
complaints, not silence them altogether.

She was minded to throw the letter in the fire, except that at the end
of it her father had written a few kind words--all that he could manage
now that his hands were crippled with a painful rheumatism.

Her sad and solitary reverie was broken by the butler who asked her if
she was prepared to receive a visitor--Simon Darrow, no less.

For a moment, Meg contemplated the notion of snubbing Simon by sending
him a message that she was receiving no one at this late hour.
Something.  stopped her, and later she was to ask herself whether her
subsequent life would have been better or worse if she had done so.

Instead, she nodded her head and remarked as indifferently as she
could, "Send him in and, James, do not allow anyone to interrupt us
until I ring for you."

She wondered afterwards what had impelled her to order any such thing.
Perhaps she had thought that she and Simon might soon be at odds again,
and did not want any servants as possible spectators of their
differences which might mean gossip about them later.  In any case,
James seemed to find nothing odd about her instructions, and showed
Simon in as impassively as ever.

Simon was obviously on his way to the Cowpers'

ball, by the splendour of his clothing.  Meg rebuked herself for
feeling overwhelmed at the sight of him.  After all, he was scarcely
the most handsome man in the world, and well dressed though he was,
there were others in society far more dandified than he.

But no one else had such a superb and athletic physique, similar to the
statues of the ancient Greeks which filled the houses of the cousinry.
It Was that which gave his clothes distinction, and not the other way
around.

It was also that, perhaps, which made her feel so weak whenever she saw
him, even before they began their verbal sparring.  No other man, not
even Andre when she had first met him, had succeeded in creating such a
strange and immediate response in her.  But why had he come?  Meg was
soon to find out.  "I wished to speak to you," he began after the
politenesses were over.  "I had hoped to see you at Lady Cowper's, but
when I arrived there, Mrs.  Hollis informed me that you were feeling a
little under the Weather and had decided not to attend.  It is good of
you to receive me, if you are not feeling Al at Lloyds."

A compliment!  He had paid her a compliment.  Wonders would never
cease.  Were there any more to come?  Alas, apparently not, for he went
on to add, looking earnestly at her, "I hope you will forgive me for
what I have to say to you, but please accept that I am only trying to
play the part of a true friend and adviser to you."

He paused, thinking perhaps that this might sound a trifle
presumptuous, and attempted to placate her a little by adding, "I have,
after all, known you since you were a child, so pray overlook my
apparent impertinence."

Goodness, whatever could be coming?  Meg answered him as cryptically as
he had been addressing her, "Until l hear what is is you have to say,
Sir Simon, I am not in a position to determine whether it is
impertinent or not."

Simon had hoped that her answer might help him in what he now
understood to be a-difficult and tricky task.  He tugged nervously at
his perfectly tied cravat, of a kind known as a waterfall.
Unfortunately, his tug was stronger than he had intended; it turned the
waterfall into a positive torrent, which cascaded in a cloud of
billowing white linen down his shirtfront and his black and white
striped waistcoat.

Meg tried to repress a giggle, turned it into a cross between a blurred
'ahem' and a snort, but to no good purpose, since Simon had immediately
realised that both his senatorial gravity and his self-possession had
been destroyed.  Nevertheless, he decided to plough on, but
unfortunately it also became apparent that his tact had deserted him,
too.  Being alone with Meg was continuing to bring out the worst in
him

"Is it," he asked passionately, 'impossible these days for you not to
conduct yourself in a manner which will draw censure upon you?"

Now what, in God's name, had made him say that?  Whatever had provoked
him into coming out with such a mealy-mouthed and impertinent question?
He was not her husband, her father, nor her brother.  It was really no
business of his what the

! 5 !

Comtesse de Mortaine, once little Meg Ashe, did.

Apparently she thought so, too.  Her voice was as stern as steel when
she spoke.  "And who, Sir Simon Darrow, gave you leave to be the
arbiter of my conduct?"

"Forgive me," he began, which was acceptable, but what followed was
not, 'but it hurts me to hear that you are busy dragging your good name
through the dust."  Oh, hell and all the devils in it, what had his
unlucky tongue come out with now?

Meg sprang to her feet and pointed to the door.  "Go," she said,
'please go.  You once asked me to marry you, but that gives you no
right to speak to me after such a fashion.  I do not know who has been
spreading lies about me, but it is hurtful and demeaning to learn that
you have hanged, drawn and quartered me without asking yourself whether
any of the gossip about me is true before you came here to accuse
me."

How to rescue himself?  He had only meant to help her, but his clumsy
tongue had let him down again for the simple reason that he cared so
much for her.  Like all good men he had difficulty in articulating such
delicate and involved sentiments.

Perhaps if he asked her one question, and one alone, she would answer
him in such a way that he would be reassured that she was unchanged;
that behind the mask of continental sophistication she was little Meg
Ashe still.  And then he might sleep again.

He said, attempting to make his tone more humble and placatory, but
signally failing, "I shall say nothing further, if you can assure me
that the rumour, that you have paid out large sums of money to silence
persons who have a hold on you by reason of your ... conduct, is
untrue.  The on dit is that your latest transaction took place as
recently as this week."

Meg, now at the double doors, glared at him.  "I shall tell you
nothing, for it is no business of yours.  Now leave at once.  I will
ring for James to show you out but if you refuse to leave, a pair of
sturdy footmen might persuade you to change your mind."

Whirling through her mind was the question: who has told him about the
draft with which I paid off Jasper's debts?  To clear myself in his
eyes, I could tell him the truth: that the money was not for a lover,
but for my brother.  Alas, I am bound by my honour to say nothing, for
I agreed with Jasper that only he, I and the moneylender should know
the truth of the matter.

Simon stood stock-still.  So, Madame had denied nothing, and, what was
almost worse, she had threatened to have her footmen throw him from the
door!  She stood proudly before him in her pure white gown, with its
high puritan collar, and its prim long sleeves.  Her beautiful chestnut
hair was severely dressed, giving her the air of an affronted vestal
virgin.

How dare she?  How dare she look so chaste, yet so desirable?  And oh,
by God, he desired her so much that it hurt.  As on the night of the
Leominsters' ball, one wicked thought pounded at the door of his
honour, demanding that what others had enjoyed, he, who for his
punishment loved her, might also share and enjoy.

Something in his expression and the set of his mouth frightened Meg as
he strode towards her, pulling off his damned cravat as he did so, as
though it were strangling him.

"No," he said hoarsely, 'you shall not dismiss me.  And I don't care if
you have bedded every man in London and Paris, if you will only--'
Before he had finished the sentence, he pressed her against the door
and stole from her the kiss he now so desperately wanted.

Held prisoner, not by his arms but by the strong body which she had
earlier admired, his mouth on hers--a treacherous mouth which opened
itself to him, for she could resist him only so long as he did not
touch her-"Meg felt herself drowning in sensation.

A moment ago she had wanted to shriek at him, "Oh, you wrong me, you
cannot conceive how much you wrong me.  And that being so, I never want
to see you again."  But now, what did she wish to do now, now that his
arms were around her-and her arms were so willingly stealing around
him?

He lifted his mouth and his body from her, only to give her his mouth
again, once they were apart.  This time his touch was not violent, but
tender, so that, had she wished to, Meg could have thrown him off.  He
cupped her face, oh so gently, in his two big hands, and when the kiss
ended, murmured, "So sweet, oh, so sweet."

It was Meg, impatient for more of him, who put her arms around his neck
and pulled his face down to hers, to resume where he had left off.

This time, when he pulled away, it was to lift her in his arms and
carry her over to the big sofa, whilst Meg, witless with desire, caring
nothing at this moment for what he thought of her, but wanting him, and
only him, made no effort to stop him.

Once there he took her on his knee and began to stroke and pet her,
kissing her so gently, but so thoroughly, that Meg thought she would
die of the delight of it.  She felt like a flower being delicately
ravaged by a bee, except that it was no bee who began to push her
backwards and pull down the prim collar of her dress.

She had made no attempt to stop him, indeed, as Meg later ruefully
conceded, at every turn she had encouraged him, rather than thrust him
off.  His cravat had gone long ago, his shirt followed it, and Meg knew
that it would not be long before they were naked together in front of
the summer flowers: as naked as father Adam and mother Eve.

But long before they reached that point, shortly before kissing became
more passionate than tender, he had reared back a little, and said, his
voice hoarse with emotion, "Meg, I have no wish to force you.  Much
though it would pain me, I will stop now if you ask me to."

Stop!  Now?  Whatever did he take her for?  Regardless of the
consequences, and whether her behaviour would convince him that she was
the lights king she had been branded, and which he obviously took her
for, she would offer the man she loved everything that was hers to
offer.  She knew that he would only take what she would freely
give----and knowing this, she chose to give, even if it proved to be
the only time that she would ever hold him in her arms.

"No," she whispered, 'no, Simon, don't stop."  Even the prospect of a
possible child could not deter her, for it would be his, and God knew,
that whatever else Andre had done for and to her, he had left her rich
enough to ensure that neither she nor the child would suffer.  It would
have a name, even if it were not hers or Simon's, and a place in
society.

He was strangely gentle with her, as though to prove to himself, as
well as her, that he was not taking anything from her, only accepting,
and paradoxically that was more exciting to them both than if he had
been roughly passionate.

His body respected her more than his mind did, Meg thought afterwards.
And what a strange thing that was, when with most men it was the other
way round.  It was almost as though he were proving to her that,
whatever she was, he would treat her as though she were the most
precious thing he knew.

With the result that together they achieved a harmony given to few, and
if Simon found surcease from the pain and jealousy which had consumed
him, Meg found peace from the misery that the knowledge that he was at
odds with her had created.

No one came to disturb them, and afterwards, all passion spent, they
lay in one another's arms in a tranquillity so perfect that it could
not last.  Nor did it.  Once he was himself again, Simon was wracked,
not by jealousy, but by regret, and by a remorse so strong that it
drove every other thought away.  Even his recent passion could not
stand before it.

The clock striking eleven awoke him from a light sleep and recalled him
back to the world of consequence and consequences again.  He knew one
consequence at once.  The fact that he and Meg had been closeted alone
for several long hours would be the talk of the servants' hall.

As, indeed, it already was.  One of the footmen, with whom Meg had
threatened Simon, said knowingly to James as he began to put out the
lamps in the servants' hall--the kitchen maids had long ago picked up
their candles to light them to bed--"Be Sir Simon still alone with
Madame?  Whatever can they be at?"  His sly expression betrayed
perfectly well what he thought they were at.

James, the long candle snuffer in his hand, said equably, "Nothing to
do with you, George.  Their business, not yours."

"Oh, aye?  Reading together, be they?  Mighty interesting book, no
doubt."

James brought the candle snuffer down on George's head.  "Nothing to do
with you, I said.  Off to bed with you."

George, rubbing his head, was irrepressible.  "And who's to show him to
the door, then--if he chooses not to stay the night, that is?"

"My business, not yours.  You heard what I said.  Do as you're bid, if
you value your position here.  You'll not easily get one as good
without a reference."

All the same, as he watched George go, chuckling, to his room in the
attic, he could not resist a private grin at the thought that the
gentry were at their games again.  But a good servant did better in the
end by being discreet than by having a gabbing tongue.

George, on the other hand, annoyed by being reprimanded, remembered
something which one of his cronies from another establishment had told
him--that Peverel Darrow was paying good money to anyone who would sell
him information about the saucy French Countess and his cousin, Sir
Simon.  No need to have your pockets to let if someone was willing to
fill them in payment for tonight's little titbit.

In the drawing-room, matters were little more harmonious.  Simon, a
sleeping Meg in his arms, discovered that he had gone beyond jealousy
and desire fulfilled merely to achieve guilt!  He had not meant to
compromise her, only to lead her by gentle means into a better way of
life.

And what had been the consequence of that?  He had behaved with her
exactly as all those who had gone before him had done.  He was no
better than they were: he was worse.  For he knew how he ought to
behave and they the 'they' including his cousin

Peverel--did not.

As an honourable man, there was only one thing left for him to do and,
when she awoke, he would do it.  This resolution pleased him so much
that he had difficulty in not allowing that pleasure to lull him to
sleep again, but common sense said no.

Whatever would Jasper and Charlotte Hollis think, if they were to
return and find them here--like this?  He looked down at his naked
body, and at the clothes strewn around the floor, mute evidence of the
passion of the pair who had recently worn them.

Meg stirred a little in his arms.  He lifted them both into a sitting
position and the movement, as he had intended, woke her up.

"Oh," she said, her opening eyes starry.  "I see that I didn't dream
this!"

Such a frivolous comment was hardly in tune with Simon's newly made
determination that the pair of them would behave with stern rectitude
and propriety, after having been so abandoned.

"My dear," he said urgently, 'we must talk."  "What, now?  At this
hour?  What about?"  and she cuddled closer to his warm body.  The
sensation which this produced in him nearly destroyed all Simon's good
resolutions, but he clung determinedly on to what he saw as his honour
and his duty.

So he stared sternly at her.  Nothing but plain speaking would do.  And
with that resolution he sealed his immediate fate.  He had quite
forgotten how useless and unprofitable his plain speaking before their
recent encounter ... had been.

"There is nothing for it," he announced ungallantly.  "I have mined
you, and therefore we must marry as soon as I can obtain a special
licence."

Meg's high spirits," which had given her the sensation of floating
among the clouds rather like the painted gods and goddesses on the
ceiling in Templesrowe House's great dining room, plummeted to earth
again.

Nothing had changed.  If Simon had lived among the clouds for a brief
space, which she now begged leave to doubt, the aftermath of their
love-making had restored him to the position of the creel and stern
arbiter of her fate.  All that had changed was that he now wished to
marry her; presumably in order to 'be able to reproach her more easily.
She sat up, and became suddenly aware of her nakedness, which had the
effect of making her feel more vulnerable than ever.

Simon said nothing further: doubtless waiting for an answer to his
scurvily made offer.  He deserved nothing for it, and she would give
him nothing.

"What for?"  she asked, her tone and posture defiant.

Simon stared at her even harder.  He had the face of a hanging judge,
not of a man who had pleasured, and been pleasured, twice, both times
right royally.  "What for?"  he echoed.  "And what, pray, does that
mean?"

The dignity with which he posed this question was somewhat marred by
his nudity.  If ever Meg had doubted that clothing gave men and women
consequence, formality, and gravity, she now knew that her doubts were
idle.

Unclothed, Simon showed a majestic body, powerful, well proportioned,
muscular; in short, exactly what she had expected.  But dignity and
gravitas, the traits of a Member from the British Parliament, were
alike missing.  He looked ready to perform in one of the Greek
Olympiads rather than lay down the law in the grave surroundings of
Westminster.

Once more she gave him the answer he deserved.  'it means what I said.
Why should you offer me marriage?  And why should I accept such an
offer,

made only to confer respectability on us, rather than as a consequence
of the passion which we have just enjoyed?  A passion that I thought
was mutual, but which was evidently not, seeing that you appear to
regret it--whilst I do not.

"You are offering me marriage as a duty, not because what we recently
shared meant so much that marriage was the inevitable consequence of
love expressed."  She paused and added, "I will be your mistress, but I
will not marry you on such terms."

Meg had not meant to say this, but temper moved her so strongly that
wisdom and caution had deserted her.  Besides, if what Simon was
offering her was the product of wisdom and caution, she did not want
it.

"My good woman," he began solemnly, obviously aghast at her suggestion
that she should be his whore rather than his wife.

Meg leapt up, picked her discarded clothing from the floor and began to
dress herself with more speed than precision.

"No," she flung at him.  "Say no more.  You do not 'consider me to be a
good woman.  Do not spoil for me the delight I felt during our
love-making by passing judgment on me, yourself and the whole business
which lies between men and women."

This passionate speech was somewhat marred by the difficulty which she
was experiencing in manoeuvring herself into her elaborate clothing
without the assistance of her maid.  Simon was now off the sofa and was
also attempting to dress himself, a task made difficult by his
fashionably skintight clothing.  Even with his valet's assistance, this
was usually a lengthy task.

Meg, almost decent again, watched him cover what had so recently
delighted her, and exclaimed with exasperation as he fumbled with
buttons and fastenings.  The aftermath of passion should never be
ludicrous but cold reality always took over once the business of
pleasure Was completed.

"Goodness," she exclaimed.  "I never thought that men went through such
a tohu-bohu in becoming clothed.  Here, permit me to help you," and
before he could stop her, she was assisting him, as deftly as his
missing valet, into tight breeches, by fastening buttons, and with
tying his cravat, so that very shortly he was nearly as'd point as
usual, and more respectable than she was.

Once clothed, formality in them both did not seem nearly so comical to
Meg.  She was more prepared to listen to him, but no more prepared to
accept him.  If only he had once said, I love you.  But, then, she had
not said it to him.  Three words, and that was all they were, words.
She had given him her love with her body, and in reply he talked of
marriage as a duty he was to perform to prevent her from being a fallen
woman.

This thought excited her to more excesses.  As he opened his mouth,
doubtless to propose marriage again, she announced gaily, "Do you know,
Simon, I rather fancy I like being a fallen woman.  No ties, no
responsibilities.  I'm surprised that you don't enjoy being a fallen
man--but then, men don't fall, do they?  On the contrary, they do the
pushing.  Comfort yourself with the thought that I don't feel exploited
or depraved, but fulfilled."

"Oh, Meg, Meg," he cried h9arsely, showing emotion for the first time
since their mutual transports.  "Supposing there is a child?"

"Somewhat late to think about that, isn't it?"  she carolled.  "And
it's my worry, not yours.  You really must go, Simon.  Charlotte and
Jasper won't want to be late home tonight.  He is off to Monks Lovell
tomorrow afternoon.  Should you require me again, you have only to
write me a little note, or call in person.  But no more talk of
marriage, please.  The notion does not attract, either with you---or
with anyone else."

She had driven him mad, and now she was mad, was Simon's mournful
conclusion.  He opened his mouth to offer for her again, but she jumped
back, saying wildly, "No more, tonight, please.  Just go, Simon.  And
if you must marry, pick a hymn-singing Methodist, and then you may be
proper together."

Somehow he managed to leave Templestowe House, his dignity in shreds,
wondering how he had come to make such an infernal cake of himself.  He
fell into his lonely and comfortless bed, having drunk so much port--in
order to find oblivion--that he could hardly walk to it.

But oblivion refused to oblige him.  His bnzing head once on the
pillow, all that he could think of was Meg in his arms on the sofa, the
joy they had shared, and his own folly in ant agonising her all over
again.

He would never understand women, never.  Why should she be so insulted
when all that he had wished to do was make an honest woman of her?

As for Meg, she reached her room just before Jasper and Charlotte
returned, to sit on her bed, eyes wide and smarting with unshed tears,
too distressed to ring for her maid, to sleep, or even to cry.  Was she
a fool not to have accepted him on his terms?

And then she remembered that she had accepted Andre on his terms, and
look what that had led to.

Chapter Nine

Meg was standing by the window, staring out at the magnificent formal
gardens at the back of Templestowe House when her brother-in-law,
Zealand, was announced the next morning.  She was alone and,
theoretically speaking, she should have rung for Charlotte to be
present when she received him.

But she was suddenly tired of formality and conventions.  Charlotte was
enjoying a late breakfast in her room, having stayed at Lady Cowper's
ball to the very end.  Besides, she had the impression from Zealand's
manner, when he had spoken to her the day before, that he might prefer
to consult with her alone.

Her guess was correct.  His manner to her when he came in was perfectly
proper, but she thought that she detected relief in him when he looked
around and noted that her companion was absent.

Once they were seated, he began without preamble, using her pet name to
establish a family intimacy since it proved that he had called to
discuss a family matter.

"Oh, Meg, Phoebe and I are greatly in need of your help.  You are
aware, I am sure, that when your father and mother come to town for the
Season, they have always stayed with us.  It has been their custom
since Phoebe and I were married:'

Puzzled, Meg said cautiously, "Yes, Fred, I was aware of that."

"Well..."  he swallowed and looked uncomfortable 'it's like this, my
dear.  You know that Phoebe and I have never been fortunate enough to
have children.  It is a matter of great grief to us.  We both dearly
want them, and not simp13t because I. need an heir, but because we
both--particularly Phoebe--love children."

He stopped, and Meg nodded agreement--to what, she wasn't quite
sure--but it seemed to encourage Fred to continue.  Looking away from
her, he began again.

"The trouble is ... it's your mama.  These last few Seasons, every time
she comes she talks non-stop about all her grandchildren, and
constantly seems to hint that it's somehow Phoebe's fault that we
haven't given her any.  Phoebe spends a large part of her visit crying
in private.  Two days ago, when your father's letter arrived with the
dates of their proposed visit this year, she had a violent fit of the
hysterics, took to her room and hasn't come out since.  Most unlike
her, as I am sure that You will agree."

Meg nodded again.  Yes, most unlike.  Phoebe had been the equable, the
placid sister, always cheerful and uncomplaining.

"Oh, Meg," he said despairingly.  "What am I to do?  I know it's
unfashionable, l know it's not quite the thing, but I dearly love
Phoebe, and it hurts me to see her so distressed.  I hardly like to
write and tell them not to come.  Your mama would be sure to take that
amiss.  Part of the problem is that our place in Bruton Street isn't
very large and there's no easy way Phoebe can hide from your mama
without causing offence."

Meg knew immediately how much Fred Zealand was troubled, for only if he
were in dire distress would he have said such a personal thing to her.
But she knew her mother.  Once she had an idea in her head, she was
like a dog worrying a bone which it refused to give up.  Worse, she
always required a whipping boy to vent her life's disappointments on,
and Meg had once been that boy.  Now it seemed that Phoebe was her
mother's target.

A way out for Fred and Phoebe occurred to her.  It was not a happy one.
It meant a considerable sacrifice on her part, but so be it.

"I have a notion which might save Phoebe, Fred.  Suppose I were to
write and ask my parents to stay with me this summer?  Templestowe
House is large enough for an army, and as I am a widow, Mama cannot
reproach me for not providing her with a grandchild."

"Would you, Meg?  Would you really?"  Even Fred knew that Meg had never
managed to please her mama and that she would simply be a revived
target for her bad temper.  He did not say, "You are making a great
sacrifice', for it had been difficult enough to confess the truth about
Mrs.  Ashe and her

! 67

treatment of Phoebe without saying more.

And so it was settled.

And now I shall have Mother reproaching me as well as Simon, thought
Meg with wry amusement.  I shall surely achieve heavenly salvation,
having endured so much on earth!

There was more for her to endure later that day.  Charlotte was with
her when Will Osborne was announced; Meg knew immediately why he had
come, without Peverel in tow.  He intended to propose to her.  He had
been working himself up to do so for the last few weeks.

Nevertheless, she was bound to see him.  Nothing had happened between
them which could justify.  her snubbing him.  Perhaps, in the end, it
would be better for both of them if he proposed to her sooner rather
than later--at least it would be out of the way.

The trouble was that, as soon as he had asked to see her alone, and she
had sent an agog Charlotte out of the room, she knew that her refusal
of his proposal would be bound to hurt him.  All his life everything he
had wanted had fallen either into his lap, or his open mouth.

Without being unpleasantly spoiled, he yet considered that everything
which Will Osborne wanted, he ought to get.  Even the cavalier
treatment that he received from Peverel could not daunt him, since he
scarcely recognised it,

So here he was, not exactly on one knee, but charmingly bent before
her, offering her himself, his future title, his vast fortune and
approximately one-tenth of the entire acres of England, Wales and

Scotland.  Surely she could not refuse that?

But she could.

And did.  In the gentlest possible manner.

Will pulled himself slowly erect.  It was plain that he was finding it
difficult to believe what he had just heard.

"You have done me a great honour, sir," Meg had said, 'by proposing to
me.  Alas, it is not an offer which I can accept, however.  While I
both like and esteem you, I do not love you, and I think that you
deserve to receive the last sentiment from your future wife, as well as
the first two."

"Oh," he said, bravely trying to conceal his chagrin by smiling kindly
at her, "I understand that many ladies' modesty is such that they find
it difficult to accept a proposal from a gentleman at its first
offering.  I had flattered myself that matters between us were such
that you would feel able to accept me immediately.  I am, however,
prepared to wait,"

Meg, appalled at the prospect of watching Will wind himself up all over
again, said, "I must emphasise that my "no" to you is unlikely to turn
into a "yes", however long you wait.  It is not my custom to say what I
do not mean, particularly when to do so might raise false hopes.  I
would be happy to remain your friend, even if I do not intend to be
your wife."

It was plain that he could scarce take in what he was hearing. Somewhat
bewildered, he came out with, "You do understand that, if you marry me,
you will be Lady Stanyon when my cousin goes to his last rest surely a
prospect which any woman might find difficult to refuse."

Meg could hardly retort that she was already the Comtesse de Mortaine,
owned a large part of France, and had not found that either fact had
brought her much in the way of happiness.  She doubted whether marrying
a man she did not love in order to acquire yet another title would
bring her any more.

Instead, she said gently, "If I married you, sir, it would not be for
your title, but because I loved you enough to wish to be your wife.
Since I do not, however, I have no desire to be a party to a loveless
marriage, for I have observed.  that such arrangements frequently end
in misery."

"But if you did marry me, I am sure that you would come to love me in
the end," he said eagerly.  "Reconsider your answer, I beg of you."

"You must," Meg returned, 'accept that I am unwilling to take that
risk.  Moreover, I do not yet feel prepared to venture into marriage
again at all--even with someone whom I might love."

She was thinking of Simon when she said this, and of how and why she
had refused him.  The burned child fears the fire.  It was the notion
of marriage itself which Meg found fearful, not the act of love.  But
she could hardly tell Will that, when he was prepared to prattle about
female modesty to a woman who had been married to Andre, Comte de
Mortaine.

Meg could see by his face, his whole posture, that he was attributing
her refusal of him to female whims, the unaccountably flighty behaviour
of her sex, which must be the only reason why she would not accept him:
the most desirable catch of the Season.

She sighed.  "Come," she said.  "Bite the bullet--if you will allow me
to be so brusque--and accept that I am unlikely to change my mind.
There are other young women, younger than I am, who would be only too
happy to become Lady Stanyon."

"But !  don't want those other young women, l want you," he told her
mournfully.  "And I do believe that, if you think things over, you are
likely to change your mind.  So I will leave you to reconsider my
offer, so that you may the sooner decide to do so."  Nothing which she
could say would change his mind, and so she sadly told Charlotte when
he had gone in a cloud of ill-conceived optimism.  Fortune's favourite
could not believe that he was not every woman's favourite, and that
where he pitched his desires, there would not be a woman panti!ag for
him.

"Refused you, did she?"  said Peverel Darrow when will told him his sad
news.  "I could have told you that she would, if you had cared to
consult me beforehand, and saved you the trouble of offering for her.
She needs a seasoned man, not a boy, does Meg de Mortaine!"

For once Will neither ignored nor swallowed this ingult.  "I don't care
for your manner to me these days, Darrow.  I believe that you are
trying to deter me because you are after the lady yourselfi I suppose
that you consider yourself a seasoned man."

Peverel stifled his inward amusement at Will's sudden discovery of what
everyone in their circle had known for week shat he was after Meg de
Mortaine, too.  It would not do, though, to try Will's patience
overmuch.  To be one of his friends gave

Peverel access to social circles which he would have otherwise found it
hard to enter, and the money he gained from cheating Will at cards was
a useful bonus for a man always strapped for cash.  He made sure never
to fleece a victim so much as to rouse his suspicions.

"A cat may look at a queen," he remarked carelessly.  "And the lady is
there for the taking."

"She told me that she had no mind to marry," retorted Will, who was at
last beginning to grow up and therefore be ready to throw off the
patronage of such as Peverel.  "So there is no point in you spending
your time making a leg at her, either!"

"True," agreed Peverel, but despite that he was relieved to discover
that he had seen off one rival for Meg in Will.  Now, if he could only
be sure that his cousin Simon was also persona non grata with Meg, his
day would be made.  He took no note of Meg saying that she had no wish
to marry, for in his experience women frequently made such a claim, but
rarely lived up to it.

He would be seeing Meg in a couple of days' time at a reception given
by the French Ambassador.  Her late husband had once been part of
France's Corps Diplomatique shortly after the restoration, in 1815, of
King Louis XVIII to the throne that his brother had lost nearly
twenty-five years before.  He had resigned immediately before he had
married Meg, but she was still invited to all the Embassy thrashes.

It was said that the famous, or infamous, Monsieur de
Talleyrand---according to the way you looked at him--was to be present.
He was paying a short visit to London, and rumour had it that he was
being considered as the next French Ambassador to the Court of St.
James.

But the rumour that Peverel was interested in was the one he had passed
on to Simon, which said that Talleyrand had been Meg de Mortaine's
lover, even though he had then been in his early seventies.  He would
dearly like to see his cousin Simon's face when the pair of them came
face to face again, as they surely would... It would be exactly the
right time for him to propose to Meg himself; it would prove that he
cared nothing for society's on dits, but only for her.

What Peverel could not know was that Meg was not entirely sure that she
wished to meet Monsieur de Talleyrand again.  Oh, it was not that she
no longer liked him, or no longer wished to converse with a man of such
intellect, wit and charm, to say nothing of his immense learning.  No,
it was the knowledge of the unpleasant gossip, which had painted his
kind friendship in such ugly colours.

She had met Talleyrand at a time when her life was at a low ebb: when
her marriage, which had once seemed to open before her a long road of
love, offered instead only a cul-de-sac with a bleak wall at its end.

Astonishingly, since there was some fifty years between them, they had
struck up a friendship based on mutual interests.  Behind the mask of
age, behind his monkey face which many had mocked, behind the devious
mind which had enabled him to keep his head and his life through all
France's turbulent changes of government since 1789, Meg had seen
something of the bright and charming young man that he had once been
before France's ancien rgitne had ended.

By his manner to her, she could only imagine that he saw her as the
grown-up daughter whom he had never fathered.  It was this last memory
which persuaded her to meet him again.  They had done nothing wrong,
and she would not forgo the pleasure of his company.

She knew, as she walked up the grand staircase at the French Embassy
with Charlotte Hollis and Fred and Phoebe Zealand by her side, that
curious eyes and salacious whispers followed her slow progress.

She had dressed herself with particular care in a gown of the deepest
topaz with the new lower waist.  The neck of it was high, consisting of
a straight slash from shoulder to shoulder, revealing little of the
shapely bosom beneath it.  Its sleeves were long, reaching to the wrist
and ending in a small cream ruffle.  The cream motif was repeated in
the two flounces 'on her skirt.

Her jewellery was magnificently simple and consisted of a parure of
topazes set about with pearls which Andre had given her as a wedding
present.  Her fan was a tiny one, as was her tiara.

Altogether she considered that her turn-out had given the gossips
something to get their teeth into--something worth staring at, as well
as her encounter with her supposed lover.  She knew very well that they
would watch her when she was presented to

Talleyrand to try to discover what their true relationship was.

They learned nothing.  Simon, who was watching her, not jealously for
jealousy, oddly enough, seemed to have flown Our of the window since
their passionate encounter---but with the deepest interest, saw nothing
but the cool politeness of old friends meeting again.  To his
astonishment, when he had seen her enter with the Zealands, he had
discovered that jealousy had been replaced by a deeply protective
feeling for her.

Because he feared that he had hurt her, he wanted no one else to do so.
If only she would consent to be his wife, he would make sure that the
scandal mongers would never again have cause to look sideways at her.

Meg saw that Talleyrand had grown older, and more dependent on his
friend, almost certainly his secret wife, Dorothea, the Duchess de
Dino.  For his part, Talleyrand could see at once that his good friend
the Comtesse de Mortaine had not only grown.  more beautiful, but had
gained more savoir faire than ever before.

"My dear Comtesse," he said gravely to her in French, as she curtsied
before him, 'you have grown up, and in the doing you have become an
even more accomplished woman.  If my companion and he looked at the
Duchess de Dino --will forgive me for saying so, were I fifty years
younger, I would be storming your front door.  Are all Englishmen
bloodless, that you are not married yet?"

Meg smiled.  "Oh, Monseigneur--' for she could never forget that he-was
a Prince '--!  have no mind to marry."

"Now that, Madame, is a pity, for you were meant to be the mother of
prodigies.  Besides, I do not believe you.  I think that you are
particular, and that only the right man will do for you.  Meet him
soon, I beg of you."

Given the formality of their circumstances, it was her congO, and she
moved on, after another curtsy, pleased that the rapidity of their
conversation meant that few near them could have followed it.  She
wondered if Simon were present, and whether the sight of her talking to
her supposed elderly lover, had fuelled his jealousy.  She had not met
him since she had refused him, and was not sure whether she wished
to.

The person she did meet, almost immediately, was Peverel.  She always
seemed to be encountering him these days.  He bowed to her companions,
but it was plain that Meg was his target.

"May I compliment you this evening, Madame?  Your turnout is superb.  I
wish you will do me the honour of allowing me to take you into
supper."

As usual, without causing offence, it was difficult to refuse him.  He
walked along with them, bowing and nodding to their mutual
aquaintances.  Despite the late war with France, everyone in society
wished to be seen at their Embassy.

Peverel was engaging in his greatest accomplishment: light
conversation.  Behind it, his brain was working furiously in order to
use his recently learned information to the best effect.

Earlier that day he had been standing in the mews where his curricle
and pair were kept, ruefully wondering how long it would be before the
cost of maintaining them became so prohibitive that he would have to
sell them again.

He had bought them after he had paid in Meg's bank draft, elated by the
picture of himself driving into Hyde Park in a spanking carriage behind
two prime specimens of horseflesh, at last the equal of those upon whom
he preyed.  But elation would not pay his mounting bills.

Even as he had been thinking this, he had become aware that a hovering
presence was now directly approaching him.  A respectable-looking young
fellow of the servant class, his hat in his hand, bowed servilely at
him, saying, "Master, I have been told that you pay good money for
information about my mistress, Madame de Mortaine.  I have a little
titbit which you might like to hear of," and he held out his hand.

"Information first, money afterwards," replied Peverel curtly.  "I like
to know what I'm buying."

"Oh, indeed, master.  It's this.  Your cousin, Sir Simon Darrow,
visited my mistress late in the evening two nights ago."  He licked his
lips and paused.

"And?"

"And stayed in the drawing-room alone with her for three hours, so he
did.  Mrs.  Hollis was out with friends.  And she gave orders when he
arrived that on no account was they to be disturbed while he was with
her..."  He paused again.

Peverel pulled .a guinea out of his breeches pocket and held it out to
his informant.  "That's for you when you've finished your story."

The man bowed again, "And a right generous fellow you are to be sure,
master.  James, the butler, told us to say nothing, it worn't our
business, but the old girl who cleaned the room said as how all the
evidence was that they'd been having a bit of ... hanky-panky ... if
you take my meaning.  She'd served in other houses and knew the
signs."

Peverel stared at him before handing his money over.  "You're quite
sure of this?"  He could scarcely imagine his upright cousin and Meg
engaging in illicit ... hanky-panky on a drawing-room sofa.  Nothing he
had seen of the pair of them together had suggested that any such
behaviour was likely.  Quite the contrary.

And then something which he had read at University came back to him
that the philosopher Aristotle had said that hate and love were two
passions which were closely intertwined.

"Oh, yes.  Quite sure.  Or I wouldn't have troubled you, master.  I'm
an honest man He bowed and moved away again, pocketing his reward.

Peverel said after him, whilst savouring his informant's quaint
understanding of honesty, "There'll be more for you, mind, if you have
more to tell me."

And now here was Meg de Mortaine, walking along beside him as though
butter wouldn't melt in her supposedly virtuous mouth.

And here came cousin Simon, the damned hypocrite, whose two-faced
dealings rivalled those of the characters in Moliere's old play
Tartuffe which some rich widow, whom he had vainly pursued, had made
him sit through.  They, too, pretended to virtue whilst practising
vice.  Hanky-panky indeed!  It was all enough to make an honest man of
the word choke.

But knowing what he knew was a bonus.  He smiled engagingly at Simon.

Simon was not best pleased to see Peverel.  He bowed stiffly at him and
his companions.  He tried not to look too hard at Meg.  He had spent
the day consumed by pointless remorse after they ... he could think of
no polite word for what he and Meg had done ... after they had
consummated their passion was the flowery, literary phrase for it, he
supposed.  For he was sure that, one way or another, he had dished
himself with her for ever.

He could not imagine what had happened to the Simon Darrow who had once
seen women, whether mistresses or wives, as part of the background of
his life, not to be taken seriously by a serious man.

But Meg, and that one short bout of pleasure with her, had changed all
that.  Oh, he wanted more than a passing affair--he wanted her in his
bed and his life, no matter what she had got up to in their years
apart.

Without her, a long vista of loneliness opened up before him.  He could
not now imagine asking some characterless girl to be his wife.  He also
understood why he had never wanted Caro Kenilworth to become Lady
Darrow.  He could not imagine that, in either case, he would wish to
hurry home to be with them.

He had considered going round to Templestowe House and asking to see
Meg, to speak to her, to try to change her mind.  But fear that she
might turn him away kept him from doing so.  Loving Meg had made a
coward of him.

For the first time, he felt a bitter regret for what he now grasped was
the careless way in which he had proposed to her, not once, but twice.
What a jackass he had been to throw his pearl away so lightly---and all
because he had not understood that she was his pearl.

He felt ill, but did not look it.  Was Meg in the same case?  This
evening she was glowing.  Was she, like him, suffering behind a
cheerful exterior?

He was, without knowing it, looking at her so ardently and so
hopelessly, that even Freddie Zealand noticed his unlikely state, and
said in his cheerfully inconsequential way, "You are alone, I see,
Darrow.  We are going in to supper.  Why not join us?  Phoebe told me
once that you and the Ashe girls were playmates when you were
children."

This was the last thing which Peverel wanted Simon to be one of their
party, but he smiled his agreement all the same.  As did Meg.  Seeing
Simon again, after an absence of nearly three days, was doing strange
things to her, as it was to him.  Desire took no heed of time or place,
it just was, whatever the circumstances in which it manifested
itself.

"Not exactly," Simon found himself saying.  "Phoebe and h yes.  But
Madame de Mortaine was a mere baby when Phoebe, Jasper and I considered
ourselves fully grown."

"But Madame is fully grown now," put in Peverel slyly, trying to
discomfit him, for he at least understood why Simon and Meg were so
constrained in one another's presence.  "So there is no objection to
you being play ... I mean friends, now, is there?"

This extremely oblique double entendre affected both Meg and Simon,
even if it passed straight over the heads of Fred and Phoebe.

That Peverel was in some way twitting them both was plain.  But surely
he could know nothing of their ... joint contretemps ... could he?  Oh,
but he could.  The servants always knew everything about their masters,
and one or more of them might have talked.

Silence, they both decided, was the best thing.  Meg offered Peverel
and the company an enigmatic smile.

Simon said, "I saw you introduced to the great man, Madame."  He had
decided to be formal with her in public to quieten doubts about their
possible free and easy ... intercourse, in private.

"He favoured me with a smile and a nod of the head which I suppose
passed for a bow, but he was much less formal with you."

"And all in French, too," commented Phoebe, a trifle enviously, as they
settled themselves around one of the tables laid out with food and
drink, 'and so fast that no one could understand a word of what they
were saying.  You used not to be so accomplished a linguist, Meg."

"Oh, eight years in France does wonders for one's command of the
language," Meg replied with a smile.  "And what we were saying was
innocuous enough.  Except that, as usual, I was twitted about not
marrying again!"

She tried not to look at Simon as she said this.  Or at Peverel.  The
latter muttered, half under his breath, "And is there no one who might
tempt you to do so, Meg?"

This somewhat daring personal remark had several members of the company
showing disapproval.  Meg took it in her stride whilst accepting a
vol-au-vent from a large salver offered her by a white-gloved footman.
"Oh," she said, carelessly, 'marriage, and whomSOever one might marry,
is too serious a topic for discussion at an Embassy party."

Quite so," uttered Charlotte Hollis repressively, playing the stern
companion for once and shooting a glance of dislike in Peverel's
direction.  "Might one enquire, Lady Zealand, if your mama and papa are
to stay with you again this Season?"  Unknown to her, this topic was no
more a welcome one than that of Meg's marriage or her possible
suitors.

"Not this year," replied Phoebe a trifle stiffly.  "I believe that Meg
has invited them to stay at Templestowe House."

Now here was a facet for Simon and Peverel, who had both hoped for a
clear field with Meg.  Peverel was the more dismayed, seeing that Mrs.
Ashe had always favoured Simon's suit in the past, and would surely do
so in the future.  On the other hand, he consoled himself with the
thought that if Simon had privately hoped for future entertainment
either in Meg's bed or her sofa, he was scarcely like to find it with
the Ashes hovering in the background.

As for Simon, he glumly considered that Mrs.  Ashe's favouring of him,
far from encouraging Meg to accept him, would most likely achieve the
opposite.  Of such contrary stuff is life made up!

The training in perfect manners to which all members of the supper
party had been subjected saw them behaving as though there were no
undercurrents to mar the equally perfect surface of social life on
which they were all skating.  Only the fact that Simon was drinking
rather more than he ought betrayed that anything was wrong.

The sight of Peverel making even Charlotte Hollis laugh by retailing
some pointless anecdote did his temper no good at all, since he had
thought of Charlotte as an ally, and here she was, consorting with the
enemy.  He must speak to Meg privately, he must, to warn her yet again
about Peverel although surely, after her experiences with him that had
caused him to blackmail her, she ought to need no warning?

He was about to take another swig of the Embassy's good red wine when
it occurred to him, a little belatedly; that perhaps getting himself
blind drunk was not the way either to put himself in Meg's good books,
or be able to give her the high-minded, disinterested advice which she
so badly needed.

He leaned towards Fred zealand and whispered urgently to him, "Fred, be
a good fellow, get rid of Peverel and the rest for me in such a fashion
that I might have a word with Meg alone."

Fred, catching finn hold of the wrong end of the stick, thought that
this must mean that Simon wanted to propose to his sister-in-law, not
read her a lecture, and was only too delighted to oblige.

"Of course, Darrow, at once, and good luck to you: Deserves a good
husband, does Meg.  She's not only a good catch, but a jolly good
fellow.  More sense than most men, as I have reason to know."

Simon suppressed a sigh.  "I'm not about to propose, Zealand," he said
hastily, for he did not want that on dit flying round to dish him even
further with Meg.  "It's a..."  He cast about frantically for something
to say, ended up by coming out with, "It's a matter of business,
merely."

This seemed to satisfy Fred, although in similar case it wouldn't have
satisfied Simon.  "Well, yes," he beamed, 'even a clever woman like my
sister-in-law needs a man's help in her business dealings.  Leave it to
me.  Tact is everything in these matters."

Fred's idea of tact consisted in taking Peverel by the ann and
literally dragging him away, saying loudly, "I have an old friend I
would like you to meet, Darrow.  He's over there, in the party around
the Ambassador.  Quick march, old fellow, or they'll send him off with
the diplomatic bag or something equally mysterious, before I have a
chance to introduce you.

"And you, Mrs.  Hollis, you, too.  I know that Meg is already
acquainted with Jack Fawcett, and she won't want to meet him again, I'm
sure.  Look after her for us, Darrow," he continued remorselessly,
dragging Phoebe--who was wondering what had got into her usually
somewhat lethargic husband--along with him.

A trifle bemused, Meg watched them go.  Short of actually frog marching
Peverel, Fred Zealand could scarcely have been more insistent on
tearing him away from her.  She turned to see Simon grinning after
them.  Her eyebrows rose.

"Oh," she exclaimed, 'l suppose that I have you to thank for Fred's
exceedingly odd behaviour.  You put him up to this in order to be alone
with me.  Well, I will not be tricked in such a scurvy fashion.  He'll
be informing half of London by tomorrow morning that you and I are
almost at the altar!"

She rose to go, but Simon put out a beseeching hand.  "Don't hurry
away, Meg.  I told Fred l wanted to speak to you on a matter of
business, and that was not actually a lie.  It's the business of asking
you if you have considered my offer of marriage, and telling me what
you have decided."  He had already forgotten, now that he was alone
with her, that his original intention had been to warn her of Peverel's
possible machinations.

His smiling impudence, heightened by the fact that, for once, he had
drunk more than was good for him, almost overset Meg.  The spectacle of
him being impudent at all, smiling or not, was so surprising that she
found herself unwillingly captivated by it.

His harsh face was softened.  The smile which curved his mouth was a
true one, for it had reached his eyes as well; they shone at her with
earnest entreaty.  Almost was she beguiled.

Only almost.  Something, she knew not what, held Meg back.  She said,
and her voice was soft when she spoke, neither harsh nor angry, but
sorrowful, rather, "Oh, Simon, I gave you your answer the other night,
and it was a refusal, as well you know.  I also refused to promise to
think the matter over, for I know my own mind.  My yea is my yea, and
my nay is my nay, and there it stands."

She must be honest with him, but her heart almost failed her when she
saw his face change, and the light in his eyes begin to die out.
Desperation in her voice, she added, "Oh, Simon, it is not you.  It is
marriage.  I meant it when I said that I would rather be your
mistress."

"But I don't want you for a mistress, Meg.  I want you for my wife."

"No more," Meg said, the tears not far away.  'l cannot bear this,
Simon.  I know that I am hurting you, and that I deeply regret.  You
have had your answer: Do not torment me any more."

But he must.  For he had really meant to warn her yet once more against
Peverel.  He opened his mouth to do so, but before he could utter a
word she had picked up her fan from the table, and had arranged her
face so that she presented a perfectly composed aspect to the world
before she said, resuming her best great-lady manner, "I really must
rejoin the others, Simon.  We shall cause unkind comment if we remain
here alone.  We are already being watched."

He could not stop her, and then she was gone from him, leaving him to
wonder what her marriage must have been like for her to reject the
notion of marrying again with such horror that she was prepared to
become his mistress, but never his wife.

Chapter Ten

Charlotte was writing a letter to Jasper.  Meg was reading the accounts
and documents relating to her estates both in France and England that
her agent, George Paton, had presented to her that morning. 
L'Angelier, the steward who ran her French possessions for her, had
Come over from Paris a few days earlier, and he and George had spent
the time since his arrival going over them together.

George was a middle-aged man, the younger son of a poor gentry family,
and she had been recommended to hire him by Jasper, who knew his
nephew.  They had been fellow officers in the army.  Meg had found
George so useful that she had come to use him as a kind of secretary.
His command of French was good, and he was pathetically grateful to her
for employing him.

His previous post had been with an elderly Marquess whose profligate
heir, on succeeding to the title, had dismissed him when he had tried
to advise him not to throw his inheritance away on the gaming tables.
He was shortly to leave for Berkshire to help Jasper in his new role as
Meg's land agent there.

Meg sighed and closed the ledger she had been reading.  Unlike many
women in her position, she had taken the trouble to learn about the
management of her vast possessions.  George had been a trifle concerned
that, in her ignorance, she might make decisions without properly
consulting him, but she had shown a fund of good sense which had been
sadly lacking in some of the men he had worked for.

He had queried the sums of money which had been paid over to Peverel
and Jasper, but she had looked him in the eye and said coolly, "An
expense of a personal kind, George, which will not recur, I assure
you--' words that she was to recollect somewhat wryly before very much
time had passed.

She and Charlotte ate lunch early; a cold collation served on the small
lawn behind the house, for the day was warm.  It was while they were
idling over the tea board after it that James, the butler, arrived.

"Your sister, Lady Wallasey, asks if you will receive her privately,
Madame.  I have put her in the small drawing-room after telling her
that I would convey her wishes to you."  His bow was as grave and as
formal as his words.

Being Comtesse, Meg thought rebelliously, inwardly reverting to the
hoydenish youngest Miss Ashe again, meant that everyone spoke to her as
though she were some sort of grand institution, not a woman at all. She
was always wondering what James was really like when he was not
treating her as though she were the Empress of China.

"In the small drawing-room, James?  I will go to her at once.  I hope
that she was offered tea."

"Indeed, Madame, and cakes.  But she declined them both.  She seems a
trifle agitated, if I may say so."

Well, there was one good thing about James, he always warned her if
anything seemed out of place, so that she might be prepared.  As for
Hetty seeming agitated; that was certainly not news.  All her family
appeared to be agitated these days, and she could only hope that her
parents, when they came, were going to be an exception to this
apparently general rule.

James had not been mistaken.  Hetty was pacing up and down the room
like one of the caged animals which Meg had seen so recently at the
Zoological Gardens.  She flung herself at Meg when she entered and gave
her a distracted kiss.

Meg extricated herself from her suffocating embrace and cynically
wondered what her sister wanted from her.  She did not have long to
find out after she had bidden Hetty to sit down, and had rung for tea
which she at first declined, but then accepted when it arrived.  Meg
had refused to talk to her until she had composed herself.

"What is it, Hester?  What is worrying you?"  "Oh, how clever you are
these days, Meg, to see immediately how troubled I am!  Oh, I am in
deep water, indeed.  So deep that I consulted Jasper..."

She paused, and Meg, who thought that only a blind fool would not have
known immediately how distressed her sister was, could not resist
saying, "Oh, yes, a wise choice.  Jasper knows all about deep water.
How, exactly, did he advise you to swim out of it?"

"He told me to come to you for help.  He said that he had needed
assistance recently, and that you had been a tower of
strength--although he refused to tell me why he 'needed help, only that
he did."  She paused again, and began to cry--artistically and
dramatically.  Her distress might be real, but the fashion in which she
coped with it was of the stuff of theatre.

"I cannot help you," Meg said, 'unless you tell me what is wrong."

Hetty dropped a lacy handkerchief to reveal a tear-stained face.
"Debts, my dear.  Debts!  Oh, I have been such a fool.  I have plunged
deep in play of all kind and I am at my wits' end.  Wallasey does not
know, of course.  I should die if he ever found out, but I have not the
slightest notion of how I am to pay my IOUs."

"You know, of course," remarked Meg conversationally, 'that there is no
legal obligation to pay gambling debts.  The law does not recognise
them."

"Oh!"  Hetty was scandalised.  "Of course I must pay them.  They are
debts of honour, and those to whom I owe them would let the whole world
know that I had defaulted.  Where would my reputation be then? Besides,
what would Wa!lasey say?  He is always droning on about the need for
retrenchment, complaining that when he inherited he had found the
estates encumbered because his papa had lost thousands at the gaming
tables.  He never gambles, and I know that he would send me into the
country forever if he knew that I had been doing so, particularly if he
ever discovered how much I have lost."

The youngest Miss Ashe looked at the sister who, before Meg had left
England for France eight years ago, had always patronised her.  Being
only human,

she decided that Hetty must pay a little for that.  "What exactly do
you want from me, Hetty?"  Hetty disappeared into her handkerchief
again.  Her sobs grew louder and longer.  "I know that you have helped
Jasper, and I have reason to believe that you have done the same for
Jane and Phoebe, so why should you not help me?"

"I may be rich, Hetty, but I am not a money well.  I take it that that
is what you want from me?  Money to pay for your folly."  She was being
harder on Hetty than the others because Hetty had always despised her
as the plain sister and had mocked her both publicly and privately. Oh,
she would help her in the end, but a little decent gratitude from
Hester would not come amiss before she was saved from the moneylenders
and the duns.

The eyes which stared at her over the handkerchief were fearful.  "Oh,
God, Meg, don't refuse me.  I don't know what I shall do if you fail
me."

"Fail you!"  Meg's laugh was short.  She picked up one of the ledgers
which George Paton had left behind.  "Allow me a few moments to examine
my financial affairs to discover whether I have the wherewithal to aid
you a little--'

"A little!"  echoed Hetty.

Unknown to her sister, Meg's account books told a revealing tale of her
wealth; not only did she have a vast fortune in what George called the
'immovables'--land, houses, and possessions which could not be sold but
also a tally of riches in cash, specie,

stocks and shares which would have made Croesus--the old Greek king,
reputed to be the master of untold wealth--jealous.  Hetty's gaming
debts were like to be a flea bite that would go unnoticed, except to
George's shrewd eyes.

"How much, Hetty?"  Meg was deliberately curt.  Hetty told her.

"Three thousand pounds.  Oh, Meg, I shall love you for ever if you
clear them for me."

"Oh, I do doubt that, Hetty.  Love me enough to pay me back, d'you
think?"

Hetty began to sob again.  "Oh, Meg, don't be so hard.  You must know
what a short leash Wallasey keeps me on.  I haven't a penny to call my
own."

"All the more reason not to gamble, then.  Let me have a list of what
you owe, and I will clear your debts for you--on one condition.  That
you do not play again, for if you do--and you lose--I shall not give
you a penny more."  "Anything, Meg, anything.  Oh, you are the best of
sisters," and she made to embrace Meg again, but Meg dodged away.  "No,
Hetty.  No histrionics, please.  Just give up gambling;'

Which, Meg thought, after Hetty had gone, promising to send her the
details of her losses, and to whom payment must be made, was not very
likely.  And after this, who else from her family was left to throw
herself on her mercy and demand rescue from Lady Bountiful?

All that was needed to complete the day, she thought wryly, was to have
Simon arrive, pestering her to marry him again.  After Hetty, she
didn't think that she had the spirit left to stomach that.

But it wasn't Simon who arrived to pester her, but quite another pair
of visitors: her father and mother, a day early.

'1 knew that you would not mind if we arrived before times, Meg.  Your
father, contrary as usual, said that we should keep to our word, but
stuff, I told him, no need to stand on ceremony with Meg."

She stood back to see Meg the better.  Meg was wearing a loose gown of
the kind which Cass Devereux often wore about the house.  Cass had seen
an Indian lady wearing one.  A said, it was called, and Meg had liked
it because being loose, she could be at ease in it.

Now her mother said critically, "Don't you think that' your turnout is
a little outr, Meg, my dear?"

"No, Mother, I don't.  Otherwise, I wouldn't be wearing it."

This calm riposte took her mother aback.  The Meg she had always known
would have been stridently defiant in making such a statement, not
coolly confident.

Oh," she said.  "Indeed."  She looked about her.  "What in the world
possessed you to rent such a barracks as this?  You would have been
much better off in a little place in Bruton Street."

"Because I like space about me, mother.  I grew accustomed to it in
Andre's mansion in Pads, and I would feel cooped up in a little place
in Bruton Street.  As it is, here I shall be able to give you a suite
of rooms where you and Papa may be privately happy on your own."

Daunted for the first time in her life by one of her children, who had
now trumped her ace twice, Mrs.  Ashe looked at her husband.  He was
indulging in a small secret smile, which he was to repeat at frequent
intervals when his hitherto domineering wife came up against her coolly
masterful youngest daughter.

Meg smiled, and added, "I will show you to your rooms; they have been
made ready, and were only waiting for your arrival.  They overlook the
lawns at the back, and the view from the windows is excellent.  I will
order tea and a cold collation to be sent to you.  If you would prefer
something a little stronger, Papa, you will find an interesting
selection of bottles and decanters on the sideboard in your
drawing-room."

In the face of such kind 'and carefully organised consideration, Mrs.
Ashe could find little to say.  She did try for a parting shot as they
reached the suite of rooms set aside for her and her husband, but her
bow and arrow failed her yet again.

"My dear, I understand from one of my correspondents that you have been
encouraging Peverel Darrow.  That, I must say, I deplore.  I do not
understand.  what you are about.  His cousin Simon ought surely to be
your target.  He would make you a most suitable husband and would save
you from becoming the victim of gossiping tongues."

"So he would, Mother.  Except that I have not the slightest wish to
marry.  In any case, out of the frying pan into the fire would be the
best description for marriage undertaken in such circumstances.  Now,
here we are at your rooms and Mrs.  Hutchings, my housekeeper, has
tried to anticipate your every wish.

If she has not done so, pray ring for her, I beg of you."

All her mother could say was, "We seem to be a long Way away from one
another, my dear."

Meg's parting shot was a deadly one.  "Oh, I thought that you would
prefer that, Mother, seeing that so little I do pleases you.  The less
we see of one another, the happier your temper will be."

Meg tried to avoid her father's eye as she swept out of the room,
Madame la Comtesse de Mortaine in full fig and flower, mistress of all
she surveyed.  Why in the world had her mother frightened her so in the
past?  But of course, the youngest and powerless Miss Ashe had been the
perfect target for a woman who bettened on the fears of the weak.

A week later, seated in Templestowe House's li-braw, Meg was being
shown its superb collection of early printed books.  or incunabula, as
the learned called them---by Templestowe's librarian, Mr.  Gore, who
had stayed with the house, and whose employment was part of her
contract with the Earl's estate.

Her dress was a puritanical grey one with a broad white linen collar:
over it she was wearing a plain brown holland apron, like those which
the housemaids wore when cleaning.

Mr.  Gore had already complimented her discreetly on her commonsensical
apparel.  "Most ladies," he had said, 'insist on retaining their
lightest and prettiest turnouts when they visit me.  Most unsuitable
wear if one is examining old folios---they shed dust and their calf
skin bindings are invariably disintegrating with age."

Meg wryly wondered how commonsensical Mr.  Gore would consider her if
he were privy to her thoughts.  For the past few days she had found
herself secretly wondering why she had ever wished that Simon would not
call on her.  She had expected him to visit her once he knew that her
parents were in town, but no.  He was staying resolutely away.

She was missing him, there was no doubt about that.  Was she regretting
that she had refused his offer of marriage?  Was she also disappointed
that her courses had arrived on time so that there would be no
inconvenient legacy of their abandoned evening on the sofa?  Meg didn't
know.

She only knew that his cousin Peverel, a constant visitor--much to her
mother's annoyance, if not to say anger--was becoming less and less
attractive to her, but to refuse to see him would create as much gossip
as seeing him too often.

Think of someone and you conjure them up, her papa had once told her,
so be careful of whom you think!  Her lips were curling in a small
smile when the ineffable James entered to inform her that Sir Simon
Darrow had called and was asking if Madame would receive him.

"Yes, James.  And James, show him into the library, not the
drawing-room.  He might like to inspect the Templestowes'
incunabula."

So, Papa had been right.  Perhaps the only time in his life he had been
wrong was when he had married her mother.  The only explanation she
could think of was that when her mother had been young she had been as
pretty, but as stupid, as Hetty; and that age, and the disappointments
of marrying a poor gentleman, had not improved her.

This was a strict judgement, indeed, and Meg reproached herself for
making it, but a week spent listening to her mother's constant
criticisms of everything in general, and herself in particular, had
been a trying one,

She tried to compose herself whilst waiting for Simon.  It would not do
to let him know that the mere thought of him excited her, and worse
than that, he must never suspect that, since that fatal evening, he had
nightly walked through her dreams.

His splendid appearance no longer surprised her.  Was it that Which
made her heart beat faster when James announced him, and he crossed the
library to take her hand and bow over it?

He straightened up, and looked about him at the walls lined with oak
shelving, at the two tall break-front walnut bookcases, at the marble
busts of Roman Emperors that stood along the room's cornices, and the
giant Van Dyck over the hearth, showing the Templestowe family in all
its-seventeenth-century glory.

"How like you, Meg, to receive me here in the library.  I have often
longed to inspect Templestowe's superb collection, but he has been
either abroad or in the country during my time in London.  And now you
have granted my wish."  The smile which he gave her was one of pure
pleasure.

No reproaches, no sulks, no scowls.  Instead, he was pouring over her
the kind of diplomatic honey Which six years of being an MP must have
conferred on him.  Meg found herself charmed by him, and responded in
kind.  "I'm delighted to learn that I have allowed you to achieve an
ambition, Simon."

Perhaps it was because she was wondering whether he would ever have
gone into Parliament if she had married him, that the "Simon' slipped
out so easily.  It was as though they were back in those last two years
before his proposal when he had taught her to ride, shown her about his
home farm, and had advised her on what to read.  Before she had changed
from a child into a woman, and all the world had changed, too.

With a wife and children he might have been content to be a country
farmer all his life.  Knowing the success he had achieved as an MP,
that would have been a waste.

Now, Meg, she told herself sternly, you are imagining that you had far
more power over his life and ambitions than you actually possessed. But
the thought haunted Meg a little when Mr.  Gore came over to show them
an early Caxton, with its splendid woodcuts and black letter
printing.

A footman arrived with tea for Mr.  Gore, who retreated to his little
study-cum-office off the library to drink it, tactfully leaving them
alone.

'1 had thought," Simon began, 'to find you with your mother.  I came to
pay my respects to your parents--as well as to see you, of course."

The look he gave her as he said this was a glowing one.  The
constraints under which their class lived meant that members of the
opposite sex could have little time alone together without causing
scandal.

Meg gave a short laugh.  "Alas," she told him ruefully, 'my mother and
I are like oil and water these days, I fear.  You must remember that
when I was a child I never pleased her.  Once I thought that, when I
grew up, that would change.  But no, I fear I please her less than
ever."

"I know."  Simon nodded, and said no more on that, other than, "On the
contrary, though, now you please me more than ever."

Meg sparked at him almost without thinking.  "Now, sir, you are not to
flirt with me.  A library is not a suitable place for flirtation."

"Then tell me which room is suitable and let us repair there, for I
have a mind to behave as frivolously as I should have done ten years
ago and nexer did.  I have a further wish that you would forget your
new-found severity and join me in the exercise."  His eyes, his whole
bearing, challenged her.  Oh, yes, he burned for her as she burned for
him.  To be near to one another was temptation itself.

And why should she not accept his challenge?  Had she not told him that
she was prepared to be his mistress?  Was he about to accept her offer?
And, if he did, if he surrendered to her wishes, would she bd glad or
sorry?  The thought of what being Simon's mistress would mean brought
colour to her cheeks.

He noticed this at once.  He put both his hands flat on the table
between them, and leaned forward until their faces were almost
touching.  "You are looking very well today, Madame la Comtesse.  Are
you well?"

Meg's reply was sturdy.  "Very well.  And you may take that to mean,
sir, that there will be no legacy of our ... folly."

"And would you marry me, Meg--if there were?"

This was plain speaking with a vengeance!  But she was equal to it.

"Now that question, sir, I could not answer until there were such a
legacy.  Until then, the matter being hypothetical, I cannot make an
informed judgement."

"Then you really meant what you said, Meg--that you would be my
mistress?"

Although this came out softly, and the door to Mr.  Gore's study was
half-closed, Meg looked guiltily across at it.  He had left them alone.
Had he heard anything?  Were they being talked of?

Simon saw the glance and interpreted it correctly.  Was Madame, then,
so used to this game of double entendres and secret assignations?  The
thought depressed him.  He had not meant to behave as though he were
about to take up her Offer of an affair, for he still hoped to make her
his wife, but he was finding this game of illicit love exciting, to
the-point of arousing him--even if he were only engaged in the pretence
that he might make her his mistress.

But was it pretence?  Having shared such delight with Meg,.  did he
want to do so again even without achieving his greatest desire to marry
her?  And if he did, if he accepted her offer, would he still not be
content until she married him?

Yet if he were the man of honour he thought he was, then should he not
refuse all intercourse with her, other than that sanctioned by
marriage?  And why was this making his head ache, as well as another,
vital, part of his body?  Were mind and body so intertwined that merely
thinking about Meg in his arms could send him into a cold sweat of
desire?

Was the naughty madam aware of what she was doing to him?  Had
Talleyrand, even in old age, been able to teach her the erotic secrets
with which rumour said he had enchanted every woman with whom he had
ever lain?

And would he kindly stop asking himself questions, which had apparently
taken him no time at all, for now his mouth was descending towards
Meg's until it was the only part of their bodies which were
touching--and across a supposedly chaste library table at that!

Meg savoured the kiss.  Was this conquest or surrender?  And who was
conquering and who was surrendering?  Oh, why was life so full of
questions?  Wouldn't it be better just to enjoy sensation?

Being so separate, yet so intimately one at the same time, and in this
haven where love was usually only words on paper, was strangely erotic,
both parties were beginning to find.

An intimate part of Simon's body was beginning to strain against his
breeches, whilst Meg was wishing that she was not wearing such a
puritanical high-collared gown.  Both were cursing their nearness to
Mr.  Gore; and their distance from anything which might be described as
a comfortable place to lie down.

What ended the overpowering kiss was the farcical nature of life
itself.  A woman's voice was heard crying, "Oh, no, James, I do not
need announcing simply to enter the library in order to greet my
daughter and her long-time friend.  Pray leave me.  I

am sure that you have other urgent duties to perform."

It was Mrs.  Ashe, about to break in on them.  Simon, to his
astonishment, found that he was quite equal to the saving ploys of the
game of illicit love, played out in the wrong place where detection was
always imminent.  Aware of his betraying condition, he hastily
retreated behind a tall lee tern where it might not be seen.  Meg
seated herself again and began to read the noble work of Juliana of
Norwich with the most rapt attention.

Mr.  Gore, who had also heard Mrs.  Ashe's fortunately noisy approach,
discreetly left his study in order to be found on his knees before a
tall bookcase not far from the would-be guilty' pair Thus, when Mrs.
Ashe entered the library, still hectoring James, all was most proper
and scholarly-Simon's head being deep in a learned treatise by Isaac
Newton.

"So, there you are!"  Mrs.  Ashe advanced on Simon, who, by now
respectable again, overt desire having been quenched by her
interruption, came from behind the lectern to bow over her hand.

As usual, she could not forbear to criticise Meg.  "What a strange
place to receive Simon, my dear.  I suggest that we repair to the large
drawing-room.  I vow that I am beginning to acquire your penchant for
space."

Simon looked surprised at this remark.  Meg blushed.  James, hovering
in the doorway, privately relieved that all was decorous, obeyed his
mistress's order to arrange for tea to be served in the large
drawing-room.  That should surely placate her mother.

But it didn't.  She roared relentlessly on.  "What in the world has
come over you, Meg, to choose such an odd turn-out?  You will not
credit this, Simon, but the day we arrived here she was wearing some
outlandish Indian costume, while today she is disguised as a housemaid.
What is the use of your being a Comtesse received at the French court,
if all you can do is dress like a servant?"

"What in the world, indeed, Mother?  May I point out that you are going
the wrong way if the drawing-room is your destination?  You are
following James, who is making for the kitchens.  Knowing you, l cannot
imagine that that is where you wish to take tea."

Meg was not surprised to notice that Simon looked astonished at her
shrewish outburst, but after a week of silence, enduring such
reproaches, she could not help herself.

He was even more astounded when her mother, blinking back tears, said
to him pathetically, in a voice most unlike her usual one, but rather
resembling the whining tone which Hetty had adopted when begging
for-help, 'yoU see how it is with me these days, Simon.  There is no
pleasing her.  Who would be a mother?  Why, if it were not for her
father and I, she would never have gone to Paris and married poor
Andre.  There is no gratitude in children.  None!"

Simon nodded gravely, and remarked as neutrally as he could, "I suppose
that we all disappoint our parents.  I. know that mine were
disappointed in me when I said that I had no wish for the Parliamentary
career that they had planned for me.  It is one of life ironies, !
suppose, that now that l have achieved it, they are no longer here to
enjoy my success."

This interesting sidelight on Simon's past flew over Mrs.  Ashe's head,
for she began most vigorously to contradict him.  "Oh, no, Simon dear.
Both your parents were always very proud of you, I know that for a
fact.  Meg, though, was always a disappointment until she married
Andre."

By now they had reached the large drawing-room.  Mrs.  Ashe, seated in
its most comfortable chair, droned domineeringly on whilst James and a
footman brought tea and Mr.  Ashe arrived, blinking from the delights
of a comfortable afternoon nap taken in his noisy wife's absence.

Mrs.  Ashe, still discoursing loudly on Meg's failings, leaned forward
to say to Simon in what was doubtless intended as a confidential voice,
but of which both Mr.  Ashe and Meg could hear every word--nay, every
syllable, "Of course, my dear Simon, it was always my fondest wish that
you and Meg would marry, but the silly child had nothing better to do
than marry herself to a Frenchman--and we all know what they are.  I
suppose that his only saving grace was his wealth!"

To her astonishment, Meg found herself defending her late and
unlamented husband, something which she had never thought to do.  To
such a pass had her mother's stupid spite brought her.

Before the embarrassed Simon could say anything, she remarked
dangerously, "Indeed, Mother, I am not sure that I do know what they
are.  Frenchmen, I mean.  Perhaps you might care to enlighten me."

Mr.  Ashe turned a' stifled laugh into a cough as Mrs.  Ashe, for once,
struggled to find a suitable put-down for her daughter.  At last, "You
know very well what I mean, Meg.  You really are impossible these days.
Mr.  Ashe, pray tell your daughter that she is impossible."

'l had rather not, my dear, seeing that we are living on her generous
bounty, both in our own home and in this splendid palace to which she
has so kindly invited us.  Thanks, rather than criticism, I believe,
ought to be directed towards her late husband for leaving her so
magnificently endowed.  If h at least, can forgive him for being a
Frenchman, surely you must be able to do the same."

Meg saw both Simon's and her mother's faces change as her father
revealed that he and her mother Were her pensioners, something which
none of the rest of her family knew, for she had asked her father for
secrecy in the matter.  Annoyed by her mother's baiting of her, he had
forgotten his promise.

Even this revelation could not affect Mrs.  Ashe.  After a moment she
came out, somewhat sullenly, with, "Oh, I am sure, Mr.  Ashe, that I am
properly grateful for a daughter doing what, after all, is nothing but
her duty.  But that does not mean that l am unable to speak my mind
when such speech is needed.  Speak the truth and shame the devil, 1
always say."

For the first time Simon was being made aware of the unpleasant spite
with which her mother had always treated Meg.  He said gently, for he
was also suddenly aware of how much Meg must have suffered-and was
still suffering--at her mother's hands, "Oh, I agree that we should
always try to be truthful, Mrs.  Ashe, but my time in Parliament has
convinced me that it is sometimes wiser and kinder to be silent.  In
that fashion, one avoids the unpleasant without perjuring one's
self."

Meg, near to tears, threw him a look of such gratitude that his heart
swelled at it.  Fortunately, Simon's diplomatic reply had been so
carefully couched that Mrs.  Ashe was uncertain whether he had meant it
as a reproach or as praise of what she had said.

So she nodded vigorously, and their later conversation, to Meg's
relief, was conducted in all the cliches of polite society.

Before he left, Simon took the opportunity to have a short private word
with her.  "My dear," he said kindly, 'do not take me amiss, but is it
not possible for one of your sisters to entertain your mother and
father?  I have not observed that she is as ... harsh with them as she
is with you."

Meg's laughter at this was a little strained.  "Pray forgive me, Simon.
The subject is not really a matter for mirth, but you must understand
that I am only entertaining them at all because Fred Zealand begged me
to help them out----my mother's visits to them were putting Phoebe's
health at risk.  I had forgotten..."  She bit her lip for she did not
want to criticise her mother publicly not even to Simon.

She started again.  "I mistakenly thought that I could manage to let it
ride over my head--and now here I am in the boughs.  And there are a
pair of metaphors fit only for a bad play at Drury Lane."  She gave
another sad little laugh as she finished.

"I see."  Simon stood there helpless, knowing at last how true his love
for Meg was, since he wanted, more than anything in the world, to
protect her from that world's despite.  He was beginning to understand
a little why she had refused him eight years ago: that it might have
been a reaction against her mother's bullying her to marry him.  The
thought made him unhappier than ever.

Lust for Meg had temporarily deserted him in the face of her distress.
He would dearly have loved to say, "Marry me, my darling, and I will
see that she never hurts you again."  But that would be blackmail of a
kind which, because she had been so wounded, Meg would reject.  What he
did not yet know was that Meg possessed other wounds, which only time
and patience would heal.

Meg saw him hesitate and Ponder.  She wanted to say more, but she had
the dreadful belief that, if she lingered any longer with Simon, her
mother would follow them and say something so outrageous that the
rapport which was slowly growing between herself and the man whom she
loved might be damaged by her own behaviour.

She laid her hand on his sleeve, and murmured, "You must go, Simon.  Do
not worry overmuch.  I think that I am strong enough to bear my
mother's presence during the Season.  After all, poor Phoebe has had
ten years of her, and this is only her first visit to me!  I must be
strong, for all our sakes."

What could he say to that?  Nothing, only bow over her hand and kiss
it, his eyes speaking for him.  Meg watched him leave before returning
to the drawing-room to find her mother somewhat subdued and her father
looking stern.

It occurred to her for the first time that if her father had been more
concerned to care for his children, rather than retreating from his
wife's presence to live a quiet life away from her, the history of the
Ashe family might have been somewhat different.

But Mrs.  Ashe did not stay subdued for long.  Even before Meg had time
to sit down, she resumed her attack on her.  "I am sure that I do not
know what has come over you all these days, Meg.  Nothing I say or do
seems to please.  Even Simon's manner to me was a trifle odd.  It
really is most hurtful when all I am trying to do is promote the
happiness of those around me:'

These last words of her mother before she retreated to her suite of
rooms left Meg not knowing whether to laugh or to cry.  What did remain
with her, though, was the look of kind compassion on Simon's face when
he had been comforting her.

Chapter Eleven

The ruin which Peverel Darrow had staved off ever since he had left
University was suddenly staring him in the face: the moneylenders were
threatening to send the bailiffs in.  All that was left to him was
either a debtor's prison, or flight to the Continent to live a
straitened life in Calais, as the late George Brummell had done when
his creditors had closed in on him.

One thing, and one thing only could save him: marriage.  Marriage to an
heiress would solve all his problems at a stroke.  The duns would
retreat, secure in the knowledge that, once the ceremony was over, they
would receive their money back with interest.

Desperate, he had proposed twice in the last week.  Once to a young
girl of good fortune who would at least be bearable in bed, and then
when she had refused him to the 'fat widow of a filthy rich India
merchant who had laughed in his face.

"No title," Mrs.  Skinner had jeered at him.  "My poor Thomas left me
enough to buy a Viscount at least, and what have you to offer me?  Not
even a broken-down mansion and a few barren acres!"

"I'm Sir Simon Darrow's heir," he had protested feebly.  "He is a man
of good fortune and large estates, a confirmed bachelor, and---'

"And stuff and nonsense," she had told him robustly.  "I know all that.
Why, he's younger than you are, so even if he never marries you're like
to die before him.  No, I want a title and lands and I want them now.
Money I already have."

So the low bitch had had him investigated.  If that wasn't the outside
of enough!  All that was left to him was to propose to little Meg Ashe,
now the Comtesse de Mortaine.  If only she hadn't been told by her
bitch of a sister about his blackmailing of her, she might now be his
wife.  He was sure that, without that hanging over him, he could have
won her.

Even so, he might yet succeed.  And What a prize she was!  Not only
because of her money, but because, dammit, he liked her.  She would
make him a good wife, to whom he would be able to talk, unlike Mrs.
Skinner, and Charlotte ... thing.  He had already forgotten the young
girl's second name.

But if she refused him, what then?  Well, desperate men had to employ
desperate remedies.  He could always try to succeed where Edward Gibbon
Wakefield had failed a year ago, and attempt to kidnap and marry her.
Wakefield had been caught after he had married his heiress, had been
sent to Newgate prison for three years and the marriage had been
annulled.

If he could only get her to Gretna Green and marry her, he was sure
that the Ashes and his cousin

Simon would not set the law on him, for none of them would he
hoped--wish to see the son of old family friends sent to Botany Bay for
marrying an heiress against her will.

He didn't ask himself whether, if he succeeded in getting Meg to Gretna
Green, she would agree to marry himven with the threat of social ruin
hanging over her if she didn't.  Like many another man, he could not
see the indomitable spirit behind her charming exterior.  Only his
cousin Simon was beginning to understand that Meg de Mortaine had a
will as strong as any man's.

Oh, Goddamn everything, that he should be driven to contemplate
committing such a crime!  But it might not be necessary.  Meg might
accept him.

She certainly didn't seem to Want to marry Simon, although rumour had
it that he now wished to marry her, which was another potent reason for
spiriting Meg away.  If Simon should persuade her to marry him, he
would surely get the heir who would condemn Peverel to be the permanent
poor relation.  He would never be Darrow of Darrow Hall.

His meditations were interrupted by his man-of-all-work, Ham Fenton,
whom he had sent out earlier with orders to bring back with him George,
the footman at Templestowe House, from whom he hoped to gain some more
useful information about Meg's life.

"Money for you," he said abruptly, when George at last stood before
him, 'if you can tell me how Madame la Comtesse orders her day and any
details about her life."

George appeared only too willing to oblige.  He had already run several
small errands for Peverel,

and regularly brought him news about Meg's visitors.  The latest titbit
he had to lay at Peverel's feet was about Simon's latest meeting with
her.  Part of Peverel's desperation lay in the knowledge that Simon and
Meg had spent time together recently and to learn that they had been
alone in the library of all places was a bitter blow.

"Well, almost alone," George admitted, 'only that half-blind librarian
with 'em, James said, and he wouldn't see any hanky-panky, not hiTM.
Only half a man."

"Anything else which might interest me?"  George hesitated, then came
out with something which he had overheard James say to the housekeeper.
"Only that that family of hers are like leeches.  If any of them want
any help from her, she always comes arunning to settle things for 'em,
does Madame.  Pays their debts, has that 'orrible ma of hers in the
house cos no one else wants her, James says."

Peverel was thoughtful.  "Does she, indeed?"  He remembered that Meg
had paid him the money to buy Jane's letters back without any demur.
She always comes arunning, does she, if any of her family are in
trouble?

Now he came to think of it, the word was that Jasper Ashe had suddenly
paid off his debts, resigned his commission and was working as a land
agent somewhere in the country.  So who else but Meg could have done
that for him?  Could this knowledge provide him with the means to trap
Meg if she refused his proposal?  He questioned George a little more
before he handed him his bribe and let him go.  A mighty useful traitor
in Meg's camp was young George!

What Peverel did not know was that, as he walked back to Templesrowe
House, young George was feeling the first pangs of awakening
conscience.  Mr.  Darrow's money was useful, no doubt of that, but what
was he planning for Madame that he needed to know so much about her?

Only that morning Madame had spoken kindly to him, and all the servants
were agreed that they had never served a more considerate mistress.  He
made a private resolution that would hurt his pocket, but never mind
that: this was the last time that he would sell information about her
to Mr.  Peverel Darrow... "So you see, my dear, having been such good
Mends this Season, I thought that I ought to tell you that Jack and I
are off to Coverham at the weekend.  He says that he has done his duty
in the Lords, and is tired of London.  Too large, too dirty and the
life here too trivial.  I most particularly did not wish you to learn
the news from anyone else."

Cass Devereux was seated with Meg on the lawn at the back of
Templestowe House.  She had brought her children with her, for she was
that most unfashionable thing, a loving mother who was rarely parted
from her offspring.

"And you are happy to go?"

"Of course.  I have to say that I agree with Jack, not just because he
is my husband, you understand, but because I, too, love country life.
Until I was twelve I lived deep in the Yorkshire countryside, and
although Coverham is in Hertfordshire, and the landscape is soft, not
wild and rocky, I still prefer it to the town.  Jack sends word that he
wishes you to visit us when you are tired of London.  He believes that
you are a country girl at heart."

Now this was shrewd of Jack, for Meg had said nothing overt to him of
her passion for the country life, nor had she told anyone but Jasper of
her Berkshire estate.  Even her father believed that Jasper's post had
been found for him by Meg, not that he was working for her.

Soon she intended to leave London herself and retire to live among her
horses and cows.  She would have done so before, had it not been for
looking after her father and mother on the Zealands' behalf.

"Of course, I shall visit you.  I can think of nothing better."  She
watched Cass's little son flying his kite so happily and for the first
time consciously wished for a family of her own who would run round
shouting and laughing, and calling for Mama to look at them.  Yes, she
thoroughly approved of Cass's attitude towards her children.

"Come soon," Cass said, shortly before she left.  "The autumn is
beautiful at Coverham, full of mellow fruitfulness, as the poet
says."

So Cass liked Keats, too----another bond between them.  She would miss
her lively, unorthodox presence in the staid ballrooms of the grand and
the conventional who made up the bulk of London society.  She was
faithful to her husband as well, something of which Meg approved.

'l shall leave London as soon as my parents wish to go home.  I hope
that day will not be long delayed.  We are having a grand reunion for
the Ashe family before the weekend, at which all of them here in London
will be present.  Even Jasper is coming up from Berkshire, and Simon
Darrow is hoping to look in during the early evening."

She glanced over to where Charlotte was helping the children to fly the
kite, and whispered confidentially to Cass, 'l am hoping that Jasper
will soon propose to my companion.  He has settled in well in his new
position, I understand.  I shall be sorry to lose her, but she will be
the kind of steadying influence on him that he needs."

Cass and her children gone, Meg sat down to read the latest novel by
the author of Sophia.  She had only managed half a chapter when James
announced that Mr.  Peverel Darrow wished to speak to her privately. 
It was really quite odd.  Everyone wished to speak to her privately
these days.

She had little doubt as to what lay behind Peverel's request.  He had
come to propose.  She had been avoiding him for the last few weeks;
with Jasper gone, he had had little excuse to visit her.

Well, he would have to be satisfied with her present turnout--a
hoydenish one, because she had dressed to enjoy herself with Cass's
children.  She was wearing a simple muslin gown, and her hair was
loose.  With any luck, her informality might dampen his enthusiasm a
little.

It didn't.  Peverel, staring at Meg's glowing face, at the graceful
line of her body, and at her proud carriage, saw nothing of what she
was wearing.  He saw one thing only, that Meg de Mortaine was a prize
worth winningmand not simply for her money.  In that moment, he fell
genuinely in love with her he who had never loved anyone before.

To his astonishment, he found that this unlooked-for event made his
task of proposing to Meg more, not less, difficult.  He was so locked
into the habit of charming insincerity that the revelation that he
loved her had him almost stuttering as he began to speak.

For the first time, his despair at the notion that she might refuse him
was linked to his loss of her, not of her fortune.  And sincerity was a
trait which he had not practised for years; his tongue stammered over
unaccustomed words.  Besides, all the words in his vocabulary were
shop-soiled by his previous misuse of them.

He had intended to throw himself immediately at her feet in order to
display his overpowering desire to marry her.  But this ploy now seemed
fustian, mere Drury Lane heroics that she would surely despise.  How to
begin?

Inspiration struck.  He would go gently at first.  "Have you had news
of Jasper lately?  I would dearly like to know how he is coping with
country life and country quiet?  And for whom is he working?"

This anxious questioning about her brother had the effect of
wrong-footing Meg.  Knowing Peverel, she had anticipated from him a
proposal employing exactly the kind of histrionics that he was so
carefully avoiding.  Indeed, he was behaving in such a subdued fashion
that it did not seem likely that he was about to make one at all.

"Oh, I assure you that Jasper is a happy man.  He is working hard, he
says, and is finding that he enjoys the rural life.  Which is not
surprising, after all, seeing that until he joined the Army he was a
country lad himself."  She avoided answering Peverel's question about
the name of his employer.

Once Peverel would have jumped on that omission, but in the flurry of
emotion which his new understanding of his feelings towards Meg had
created, he missed it.  For several minutes he was reduced to banal
chitchat of the kind in which he never normally indulged.  The question
of how to phrase a proposal that might be successful held him in such
thrall that he was quite unable to begin making it!

Meg, indeed, was beginning to wonder exactly what it was that Peverel
wished to say to her that he had demanded the privilege of saying it in
private.  Ten minutes into their meeting, he had said nothing which
could not have been heard by Charlotte Hollis.

She decided to broach the question herself, driven, she afterwards
concluded, by an intense curiosity as to what the wretched man was
about.

She waited until Peverel ended a lengthy and boring disquisition on
their recent visit to the Zoological Gardens with the statement that he
wished he might be able to afford to join the Zoological Society
himself, but alas, his circumstances forbade such a decision.

He cursed himself as soon as he had said this, because it was no part
of his plan to dwell on his relative poverty.  On the contrary, he was
intent on presenting himself as a man of reasonable means.  But alas
again, an inconvenient truthfulness, usually alien to him, was suddenly
breaking out in all directions.

'l understood," Meg said as he halted to an end, 'that you wished to
see me on a private matter.  Perhaps my butler was mistaken."

"Oh, no."  Peverel seized on Meg's statement with avidity seeing that
it allowed him a useful and tactful opening to the meat of this
interview so far as he was corcerned.  'l have a matter of the utmost
importance to raise with you."

Having come out with this, he fell into an unaccustomed silence.

Puzzled, Meg decided to help him out.  "Which is?"

Peverel hesitated, then plunged.  "Oh, Meg," he exclaimed, falling on
to one knee as he spoke, an action not contrived, but coming from the
depths of his heart.  'l have fallen madly in love with you.  Please
marry me," and he clutched at her hand and began to shower kisses on
it.

Unknown to him, it was alas again.  He had shown two faces to the world
for so long that Meg did not believe a word of this truly impassioned
and heartfelt plea.  She jumped back, dragging her hand from his,
saying briskly, "Oh, Peverel, do get up, there's a good fellow.  You
know that you don't believe a word you're saying, so you surely don't
expect me to.  It's my money you want, not me."

Peverel was in agony.  "No, no," he exclaimed, 'not at all.  It's you I
want, not your money.  I love everything about you."  He was dismally
aware that even to his own ears every word he said rang with
insincerity, however truthful his intent.  He had not meant to fling
himself on to his knees before her, but the long habit of dissimulation
had destroyed in him the ability to speak and act sincerely.

"And if I had no money, Peverel, would you then propose to 'me?"

Now Peverel knew as well as Meg that this was a question phrased in
such a way as to expect the answer no.  Peverel's newly found
truthfulness where she was concerned plunged him into a further
dilemma.  Because, even though he loved her, his circumstances were
such that, were she penniless, he would never have thrown himself into
her way, and would never have learned to love her.

Meg, watching him, was surprised by the' varying emotions that chased
one another across his usually smilingly placid and carefree face.  He
wished to tell the truth, but he also needed to win her for two
overpowering reasons--one of which was that he needed to save himself
from ruin.

He hesitated, and his hesitation told its own tale.  "But I love you,
Meg," burst from him when he saw by her sad dismissive face that his
suit had failed.  "Oh, I do, I really do.  What do I have to do to make
you believe me?"

"Accept," Meg said, 'that even if I thought you honest in your
declaration, I would not agree to marry you.  I do not love you,
Peverel.  Indeed, I do not know whether I can love any man enough to
marry him.  If you love me, walk away from me without reproaches and
without useless words of regret."

He had failed, and although he still loved her, dissimulation was
Peverel's master again.  It had to be if he were to survive.  Had she
accepted him, and they had married, he told himself that he would never
have had need to cheat again: that he might have enjoyed the luxury of
being an honest man.

But she had not, and he was already beginning to make his plans.  The
dreadful thing was that the love he felt for her was to drive him on
the harder to marry her by any means, fair or foul.

And since fair had failed, foul would have to do.  So he smiled, and
smiled.  He rose gracefully to his feet, said all the right things,
told Meg how sorry he was, and tried to convince her that they could
continue as friends---unless, of course, she were to change her mind...
But it was plain that she was implacable: there was no likelihood that
she would ever willingly accept him.  And whatever she had said about
never marrying, it was his cousin Simon whom she loved.  Simon, who had
everything: the title, Darrow Hall, his membership of Parliament, his
friends and patrons in high places, the promise of office--and would
soon have Meg and her fortune, although, unlike himself, he had no real
need of either.

Well, to the devil with Sir Simon Darrow.  Whether she willed it or no,
she would be Peverel Darrow's bride--and soon.

Chapter Twelve

"You may ask me, Charlotte, why Peverel Darrow wished to speak to me
privately.  I cannot believe that you are not all agog."

There was no outward sign that Meg was disturbed by the scene which had
just passed, but she had an overpowering desire to discuss it with her
companion.  Charlotte, who was now seated before the glass doors
overlooking the lawn, and engaged in stitching a canvas work bell-pull,
smiled at Meg.

"I am supposing," she said, serenely stitching on, 'that it was yet
another Proposal."

"Indeed it was, and an odd one."

"Oh, and what was odd about it?  It cannot have been a surprise,
surely?  He is up the River Tick, or so rumour says, and doubtless
thinks your fortune would help him to paddle out of it."

"True, and strangely enough, I am relieved to hear that you consider
that it was the charm of my money rather than my own charms which drove
him on.  Which made it all the more surprising when I heard him declare
so frantically that he was passionately in love with me.  i hardly knew
him, he seemed so changed.

"And then, after I had refused him, he changed completely again.  He
said quite calmly that he accepted my refusal, and hoped that we might
still be friends.  Friends!  Never.  There is a reason why we could
never be friends.  But..."  and Meg fell silent.

"Sentences beginning with "but" which then break off," remarked
Charlotte serenely, 'always intrigue me."

"But why do I feel that there was something wrong about the way it
ended?  Oh, I fear that I am growing fanciful these days.  Perfectly
behaved though he was, I felt threatened.  That was the odd thing."

Charlotte put down her stitch cry "Yes, that is odd.  One usually feels
threatened by bad, not by good, behaviour.  Odder still when one
contemplates the interesting fact that Mr.  Peverel Darrow.  always
goes out of his way to be charming to all the ladies."

Meg was suddenly restless.  "Oh, I must be starting a megrim.  I shall
be supposing that every bush is a bear, as Shakespeare said.  I think
it was Shakespeare... "I had better retire to my room to lie down a
little before we go to Lady Granville's reception this evening.  The
party is small, and when I am with her I always feel that I must be
very up to the mark, and up to the minute.  She may be good fun, and
she is always very shrewd.  I came to know her well when her husband
was the British Ambassador in Paris."

Charlotte's expression was thoughtful as she watched Meg leave.  It was
not like her to be so distracted.  She might have been describing
herself when she spoke of Harriet Granville.  If she thought that there
had been something strange about Peverel Darrow, then she had probably
been correct.  The only problem was in what the strangeness might
consist.

She shook her head.  Speculation was catching and, indulged in
overmuch, decidedly led to the meg rims--which was possibly what was
wrong with Madame la Comtesse de Mortaine, who was usually so practical
and down to earth.

A description of both Meg and Harriet Granville, with which Simon
Darrow would certainly have agreed.  He thought that Meg looked
particularly lovely when she entered the Granvilles' large reception
room later that evening, to find that Monsieur de Talleyrand was
holding court.

Simon had spoken to him briefly and had decided that although he was
certainly a monster, he was a charming monster.  Had he been monster
enough to seduce Meg?  That was the question which ran round Simon's
brain like a squirrel trapped in a cage.

Meg had dressed herself in the palest green.  She was talking to Lady
Granville, a woman with a face full of wit and character, but
completely lacking in beauty.  After a few moments, Meg walked away and
Simon could not prevent himself from watching her every move.  Being
truly in love for the first time, not knowing whether or not that his
love would ever be returned, was like living in a kind of hell.

So distracted was he that when Harriet Granville spoke to him about the
debate in the Commons that afternoon she knew that Simon admired her
husband's coolly sensible views about the necessity for constitutional
reform in order to avoid revolution--he was hard put to give her a
sensible answer.

"Oh, it was the usual nonsense," he managed to say.  "Both sides of the
House catcalling, the one at the other.  There are times when !  wonder
how we manage to govern sensibly at all!"

He had said the right thing, for she smiled approvingly at him.  "That
was what Granville said when he was an MP.  He thought that men of
sense ought to get together to agree on policy, not hurl abuse at one
another.  Imagine a battleship, he said, or a regiment which ran things
the same way--nothing would ever get done, and we should lose every
battle."

Simon laughed, and agreed with her.  "True, Lord Melbourne always says
that the less Parliament does, the better.  It has no business to
meddle with the activities of men of sense."

"And you are a man of sense, I hope, Sir Simon."  Did her eyes turn to
look meaningfully at Meg when she said this, or was he seeing
subtleties where none existed?

'l hope so, m'lady."

Apropos of completely nothing she remarked, apparently idly, "You
should not believe all the on dits that flow from Paris, dear sir,
about the habits of those in good society.  Monsieur de Talleyrand, for
example, is credited with a reputation that, if the rumours were true,
would have a man of his age in his grave in no time.  True, he likes to
talk to clever young women--as does Granville.  But these days, it is
invariably only talk.  And he also likes to bring cheer to clever young
women who are unhappy."

She was looking at Meg again as she spoke, no doubt of it.  And what
had she just told him in her clever, guarded way?  That the rumours
about Meg were untrue--something which he had already begun to
believe--and that her relationship with Talleyrand was innocent.  More,
she had also told him that Meg's marriage had been unhappy, for he had
no doubt that Meg was the unhappy and clever young woman of whom she
had spoken.

He bowed to her, and said.  "They told me that you were witty, Lady
Granville, but they did not tell me that you were kind."

"I will return the compliment, sir.  They told me that you were a sound
and honest man, much to be relied on.  They did not tell me that you
were shrewd.  I wish you well in all your endeavours, Sir Simon
Darrow."  And yes, she was looking at Meg, no doubt of it.

It was also his congO, for she was moving on to speak to her other
guests, leaving him free to approach Meg.  He thought that she looked
flushed, a trifle feverish perhaps, but her eyes sparkled and shone the
more for it.  What was better was that they were sparkling and shining
at him.

What a strange mixture of emotions consumed him!  Love, lust, a desire
to protect her, a desire to share his life with her.  And fear that he
might never be able to indulge-nay, fulfill was a better word all these
emotions.

"You are in looks tonight, Madame," he told her.  "You have enjoyed a
happy day, perhaps?"

The word 'happy' flew out as an echo of what

Lady Granville had so guardedly told him.  Meg looked at his smiling
face.  Some instinct, she knew not from whence it came, had her telling
him of his cousin's proposal that afternoon.

"Which was not exactly a happy moment for either of us, except now that
he has had his answer I hope that he will no longer haunt me, for l'
made my refusal as firm as I possibly could."  She paused and said
almost below her breath, "I tell you this because I know that my
association with him made you unhappy."

Hope stirred in him.  "And you are disturbed by the thought that I
might be unhappy?"

Meg lowered her eyes as though to examine the fan which she was
carrying.  "Yes."

Hope did more than stir in him.  It grew and burgeoned The desire to
hold her, an impossible one to fulfill in a room full of the best
society, also grew in him.  His eyes were glittering now.

"You are thinking of what !  asked you?"  "Yes."

"And you are ready to give me an answer?."  "Not yet.  You must give me
time.  I have made so many mistakes in my life, you must understand.  I
have no great wish to make another."

Hope began to shrivel again.  But she had not given him an outright
refusal as she had done before--as she had done to Peverel.  Hope
revived a little, and a savage glee at the thought of Peverel's
discomfiture was hope's dark companion.  And perhaps he should expect
her to-hesitate, given what Lady Granville had hinted to him about her
marriage.

"We may be friends until you decide--and afterwards, too, I pray."

"You will always be my friend, Simon, whatever answer I give you."

Why was she half-encouraging him?  Meg did not know.  Perhaps with
Peverel out of the way, and his suspicions of her dispelled, it might
be that they could meet on level terms at last.  But always there was
that residue of fear about marrying again, which her life with Andre
had left with her.

They were walking along as they spoke, bowing to some acquaintances,
smiling at others.  More than one man who had become aware that Simon
Darrow was in full chase after the Anglo-French Comtesse determined to
place their bets when next at their club that they would marry before
the Season was over.

Peverel was not present to see 'his discomfiture completed--Lady
Granville rarely invited such as he--but another hopeful lover was.
Caro Kenilworth came towards them.  She had neither seen nor spoken to
Simon since the visit to the Zoological Gardens.

She bowed to them both before looking around the room in order to say
sneeringly to Meg, "I see that your cavalier servant is not here
tonight."

"If you mean Mr.  Peverel Darrow, then pray say so," retorted Meg
coolly.

"Oh, do you have others, Madame, that you need them distinguishing?"
Caro's spite was naked.  She showed it further by adding, "You must
know that you have lost one of them.  Mr.  Will Osborne proposed to me
yesterday, and I have accepted him.

The announcement will be in the public' prints tomorrow."

"Then my congratulations to you both.  He is not present tonight, I
believe, so you may inform him of my good wishes."  Meg did not let her
surprise show, not only because of the disparity in age between Caro
and Will, but also because it was so soon after his failed proposal to
her.

"No, indeed.  Tonight he is informing his cousin, Lord Stanyon, you
know, of our happy news.  His cousin was most urgent for Will to marry
and my name was one of the highest on his list."

"But why?"  Meg asked Simon, genuinely bewildered, after Caro had left,
bestowing extreme unction on all about her.  "She is ten years older
than he is, and I have rarely seen him speak to her."

Simon shrugged.  "Stanyon wanted it, I believe.  After all, she is not
only filthy rich, but owns half of Derbyshire.  His lands and hers
added together will mean that Will can press for the earldom to be
raised to a marques sate which was always Stanyon's dearest dream.  If
he couldn't achieve it, then the next besi thing is that Will may do
so."

Meg could 'not prevent a shudder.  "What a dreadful reason for
marriage.  Oh, I know that our kind do it all the time, but still...
There was never a sign that he even liked her."

"Don't you wish to know who was the first heiress on Stanyon's list?"
Simon could not prevent himself from saying.

"Who?"  And then she knew who it must be.  "Oh!  You mean that I
was?"

"Oh, yes, indeed.  You are even more of a prize in that department than
Caro.  I will do Will Osborne the honour of believing that he cared for
you, but I doubt that he would have chased you so hard if you had been
penniless."

"Which is what I told Peverel," Meg said, without thinking.  "Oh, dear,
I should not have said that."  Her voice was rueful.  She looked up at
him.  Their eyes met, and passion suddenly held them in its thrall.

Simon spoke to break the tension.  "Believe me ... I would marry you if
you possessed not a halfpenny and were in rags.  Indeed, I would prefer
you in rags.  Or in nothing at all."

And this in a public room surrounded by the cream of society.  Bishops,
Cabinet Ministers, a Prince--Talleyrand--and two Royal Dukes..  To say
nothing of assorted dignitaries of every kind.  There was even an
Admiral present, and the Duke of Wellington, Lady Granville's especial
friend, was expected any moment.

Best to pretend that she had not heard his last sentence.  "Well, I do
possess more than a halfpenny, sir.  Like most present here tonight, I
believe."

"Rumour has it that the Granvilles themselves are not too flush though,
particularly after refurbishing the Paris Embassy to their liking,"
Simon offered.

"Now, Sir Simon, you are sufficiently a man of the world to know that
if Lady Granville is the late Duke of Devonshire's daughter, and Lord
Granville's brother is married to the richest and most powerful woman
in Scotland, then in their case, shortage of money is no drawback!"

Both of them were seized by the same thought: that Peverel Darrow was
not high enough in society's hierarchy for his poverty not to matter. A
thought which must have struck Peverel himself more than once.

Meg determinedly changed the subject, as much to show Simon that her
slight move in his direction over the question of marriage was a real
one.  "I hope that, like me, you are looking forward to the family
party I have arranged for tomorrow aternoon.  Jasper is coming up from
Berkshire and will be pleased to see you, I know."

"And will you be pleased to see me, Madame la Comtesse?"

She looked up at him, her eyes glowing again.  "You know I will,
Simon."

What heartened him most was that she had dropped the Sir from his name.
They stood for a moment, face to face.

'l believe you," he said abruptly.  Puzzled, Meg said, "About what,
Simon?"  "About Talleyrand.  About everything.  I believe that you were
telling me the truth when you 'protested your innocence.  I even doubt
the nature of your involvement with my cousin, despite what I
overheard.  I believed you even before Lady Granville virtually told me
that the rumours circulating London about your life in Paris are false.
You will forgive me for thinking otherwise."

If that did not change the nature of the relationship between them,
nothing would.  To Simon's astonishment, Meg stood silent while two
tears, tears like pearls, ran slowly down her face, to be followed by
no others.

They were not touching, and yet, in the truest sense of all, it was as
though they were heart to heart.  Not only that, it was as though they
were alone.  The noise of the reception died away.  Time stood still

Meg spoke at last.  "Yes, I forgive you.  Though why you should...?"
She ran down.

"Change my mind?  I have watched you these last weeks, and the woman I
have been seeing is not a woman who would play fast and loose with her
husband.  Or with any man or woman."

And all that Meg could find to say to that was a simple, "Thank you."

Time began to run again.  They were no longer alone.  The noise of the
crowded room returned.  They both knew that they ought to separate.
They had been together for far too long.

Simon bowed and took her hand to kiss it in farewell.  "I cannot wait
to see you again tomorrow," were his parting words.  Meg put the hand
he had kissed to her lips for a brief moment--and then returned to the
mundane world where she must do her duty, see and be seen, and revert
to being the serene Madame la Comtesse de Mortaine, that great lady who
bore no outward resemblance to the youngest

But, inwardly, she had never felt more like her younger self.  Except
that this time, if Sir Simon Darrow came a-courting on the morrow, he
would receive a different answer from the one which she had given him
eight long years ago.

"You're sure that you know exactly what you are to do, Fenton, and when
to do it?  Make a mistake and,

at the best, we shall sail in irons to Botany Bay or, at the worst,
dance on Tyburn Tree."

Peverel Darrow had made all his preparations.  Usually idle, he had
begun a fevered campaign to ensure that he married Meg de Mortaine and
saved himself from his.  creditors even before Meg had turned him
down.

He had hoped never to have to put it into operation, but now speed was
essential because the bailiffs might be knocking on his door at any
moment.  He was going to use against her her own generosity towards her
family, even though he felt himself to be a cur as he set about doing
so.

After all, he loved her and, once they were safely married, he would
treat her kindly.  Or so he told himself.  It was not as though he were
going to abduct her solely for her money.

"Trust me, master.  Done this before, ain't I?"  was Ham Fenton's
response.  Well, that was true enough, Peverel acknowledged, but Ham'S
previous piece of villainy had merely concerned his assistance of a
minor squire's daughter and the young man whom she wanted to marry, but
of whom her parents didn't approve.

Rather than have a scandal, the Squire had glumly accepted the young
man and the marriage after the guilty pair, with Fenton's help, had
successfa!ly reached Gretna Green and tied the knot, as Fenton always
put it.

But this was a different case, was it not?  Meg was a great lady, and
she was certainly not going to connive at her own abduction.  Failure
might literally mean death.

'l trust, Fenton, that you have found a reliable lad to deliver this
letter for me and who will then disappear, as well as a suitable person
to play at being a footman.  After that, make sure that the chaise I
have hired will be ready to take me to the mews at the back of
Sackville Street."

"Aye, all's ready, master, never fear," Ham announced reassuringly,
before departing to make the final arrangements for Meg's abduction. If
this desperate throw succeeded, then he would be in clover as well as
his master.  If it didn't ... why, then Ham Fenton had places to hide
which neither Peverel nor the law knew of... "You seemed to find Sir
Simon Darrow's company pleasing last night, Meg," remarked Charlotte
Hollis the following morning.  She had been writing letters and was now
busy sealing them.

Meg was contemplating a long list of arrangements that she had just
passed on to the housekeeper and to James, all to do with the afternoon
party.  Her mother and father had not yet come down from their suite of
rooms, and she was enjoying a brief respite from her mother's constant
complaints.

"I did, didn't I?"  was her quiet response, which warned Charlotte that
here was a subject on which she chose not to speak.  Taking the seat at
the bureau which Charlotte had just vacated, Meg began to write a
letter to an old friend in Paris.

Her labours were interrupted by the arrival of James, carrying a silver
salver which he offered to her.  "A letter, Madame, hand-delivered by a
respect able-looking young lad.  He said that he could not wait for an
answer."

"A letter?"  Meg took it from the salver, broke its seal and opened it.
Her name was written on the front in a hand which looked familiar.

It was familiar.  The letter was from Jane, and had obviously been
written whilst she had been greatly distressed.

"Pray, dear Meg," she had written, 'of your kindness, I beg you to help
me again as you did once before.  Oh, I have been such a fool.  I
cannot speak of this to you this afternoon with all the family present,
and tomorrow will be too late.  I must see you at once, privately.  A
friend has generously allowed me to use her home at 4, Sackville Street
for a rendezvous with you this morning.  Say nothing to anyone, for I
fear Vancourt's temper.  Come at once, is the sad request of your
foolish sister, Jane."

What in the world could Jane have been doing to lead her to this?  Meg
stared at the tear-blotted letter, her hand quivering.  She looked over
at Charlotte, who was now placidly reading.  Should she tell her?  Say
nothing to anyone, Jane had pleaded, so she would not.  Was it Peverel
who was troubling her again?  Had he kept back one of the letters?

Meg rose to her feet.  She would keep faith with her sister.
"Charlotte, my dear.  My letter is from an old friend who has fallen on
hard times and wishes to see me urgently before she leaves town."  She
looked across at the French clock on the mantelpiece, regretting that
she was compelled to lie to Charlottesbut something had to be said to
explain her sudden departure.

"I cannot believe that she will keep me long.  l am sure to be back
well before the family is due to arrive at three."  She looked down at
her plain morning dress.  'l need to change into something a little
more suitable.  Will you kindly arrange for the small chaise to be
harnessed and brought round to the front door?  No footmen, please,
just Jem as my driver.  I don't wish to flaunt my consequence."

Well, the bit about being not kept long would be true enough, for Jane
would not wish to explain a long absence from home, she thought wryly
as Jem drove her to Sackville Street.  She wondered which one of Jane's
friends had been ready to oblige her at such short notice.

Jem helped her down--a ragged youth had eagerly run up to hold the
horses' heads for him in (i order to gain a small tip.  "Drive round to
the mews at the back, Meg told him, 'and wait for me, I shall not be
long."

She walked up a few steps to the front door and banged its big iron
knocker in the shape of a wreath as vigorously as she could.

The footman who opened it indicated that she should follow him.  "Lady
Vancourt is expecting you, Madame," he told her, polite formality
itself.

Meg never quite remembered what happened immediately afterwards.  One
moment she was walking along a wide entrance hall towards a
drawing-room door, the footman before her.  The next something dark and
heavy was thrown over her head and she was dragged along by a man who
was holding her in a cruelly tight grip.

She tried to cry out, but the blanket she was sure it was a blanket
muffled her voice, and when she attempted to struggle her captor
announced gruffly, "None of that, now.  We don't want to hurt you."

We?  Who could we be?  And where was Jane, or the woman who had allowed
her to use the house?  Surely Jane could have nothing to do with this,
was her last thought before she was bundled through what must be the
kitchen door and the blanket was removed.

Yes, it was the kitchen she had arrived in, but it was empty of all
furniture but a grimy table, a broken stool--and Peverel Darrow,
sitting in a battered high-backed Windsor armchair before a blackened,
long uncleaned, hearth.  His expression could best be described as
hangdog.  A pair of pistols lay on the table before him.  The supposed
footman had disappeared, and the man who had thrown the blanket over
her head turned out to be a servant of Peverel's whom she had seen once
or twice before.

Meg fought off the unreasoning panicked fear which was threatening to
overwhelm her.  She smoothed down her dress, held her head as high as
she could, and assumed her most dominant great-lady voice in order to
say, "What in the world are you doing here, Peverel?  And where is
Jane?  Surely she is not waiting for me in what I now take to be an
uninhabited house?  Is this some kind of strange and unkind joke?  "And
if so, why play it on me?"

She turned towards the kitchen door before which Peverel's servant
stood, enjoying her discomfiture, no doubt, and gave him an order.
"Kindly allow me to pass so that l may summon my driver to take me home
at' once."

Peverel clapped his hands together in genuine admiration.  "Bravo, my
dear.  You are, indeed, the nonpareil I thought you.  But, alas, I
cannot allow Fenton to call your carriage.  No, no, I have quite other
plans 'for you."  He rose to his feet and walked towards Meg who stood
frozen in sheer disbelief at what was happening to her.

"Oh, Meg, my darling," he said sorrowfully.  "Why did you not accept my
proposal of marriage?  We could, I am sure, have dealt so well
together, and now... Dealt so well together.  He could not have said
anything more calculated to cause Meg to turn away from him, her head
still high, her gloved hands closed tightly over her reticule.  Even in
the midst of the confusion which this untoward turn of events had
caused, she remembered only too well who had first said them to her.

Simon.

Simon, who was undoubtedly coming to propose to her this afternoon.
Simon, whom she now knew that she loved, and who loved her.  And here
she was, Peverel's prisoner.  By what he had already said, she was sure
of his intentions towards her: abduction, and an attempt at forced
marriage.  And if he succeeded, she and Simon would be parted
forever.

Never, no, never.  She would never allow it.  How, she did not know,
but she would think of something.  He was still speaking.  She must
listen to him.

'and now you have compelled me to undertake this desperate enterprise
in order to make you my wife.  Oh, Meg, believe me when I say that I
truly love you, most passionately love you, but since you will not
marry me willingly, then you must do so unwillingly.  Although I still
hope that you will soon forgive me and come to love me as I love you
when you understand what desperate remedies your refusal has forced on
me."

It was true.  He was prepared to abduct her--and at the same time had
the impudence to declare that he loved her passionately!

Meg flung back her head, and taking the hand which he had extended
towards her, she flung that back, too.  "Oh, really, Peverel, this is
the outside of enough.  You speak as though it is my fault that you are
doing this dreadful thing.  You have forged a letter purporting to be
from Jane in order to' bring me here.  Your servant has manhandled me,
and now you propose-correct me if I am wrong---to drag me to Gretna
Green and marry me.

"Well, you are quite mistaken.  I shall do no such thing.  I will wait
for you to come to your senses and send me home.  Do so, and I shall
tell no one of this fit of madness.  I shall go nowhere with you."  She
sat down on the broken stool, put her reticule on her lap, and defied
him.

All that this achieved was to make him admire her the more for her
indomitable spirit but it could not change his mind.  To do so would
mean ruin.  He felt a cur, and worse than a cur.  He was not cut out
for this kind of thing.  A true villain would have threatened her
cruelly, he knew.  But he could not do as she asked.  Time was
wasting.

They must be on their way.

"Oh, my dear," he said sadly, 'my very dear.  It is useless.  I wish
that I could do your bidding, but I cannot.  Accept that I mean what I
say and come with me, without making an undue fuss."  He picked up one
of the pistols.  'l have no wish to threaten you, and I don't want to
order Fenton to carry you out to your chaise so that we may all drive
north, but I must."

"And Jem?  Is he one of your conspirators, too?"

"No, we have disposed of him, but not harmed him," and Peverel smiled
another sad smile.

Oh, the hypocrisy of him, was Meg's fierce reaction.  She folded her
arms, and told him, "I shall walk nowhere with you, you may be sure of
that."

So be it.  But I do not want this--you are compelling me to do exactly
what I have no wish to do.  Fenton, put the scarf around her mouth, tie
her hands, and carry her to the mews."

"My fault again that you are maltreating me, I suppose," Meg accused
him scornfully before Fenton gagged her and carried her to her own
chaise, Peverel following him.  Once in, with Fenton as coachman, they
drove out of the mews, then out of London to take the road north.

Meg's abduction having been accomplished, the false footman drove
Peverel's chaise back to the stables from where Fenton had hired it.

Once they were safely away, Peverel put a tender arm around Meg's
shoulders, ignoring the fierce eyes which stared at him over her gag.
"I will remove it," he said, 'as soon as we are out of London, but if
you try to call out or attract attention I shall restore it."

So far so good, he thought thankfully.  And now for Gretna Green.

That morning Jem Potter enjoyed himself at first.  But later ... no
such thing.  After seeing Madame safely into the house, he had scarcely
had time to drive her chaise into the mews, where another already stood
in the yard, before a footman came to him brandishing a sovereign.  A
sovereign!

"It's from Madame," he explained.  "She will stay longer here than she
thought so she has sent you this so that you may get something inside
you in comfort, rather than sit out here.  There's an inn round the
corner.  She says be sure to be back in an hour, and not overdo
things."  This last was accompanied by a knowing wink.

Well, Madame was a kind soul to be sure.  But all the servants knew
that, so Jem made certain that he arrived back at the mews when the
hour was up, But, Lord, what a turn-up!  For on his return he found
that both chaises had disappeared, and when he entered the house to
find what was up, he discovered it to be empty of both people and
furniture.

But worse than that, when, bewildered, and wondering where the deuce
Madame and the chaise had gone to without him, he opened the
drawing-room door, someone gave him a dirty great blow on the head
which knocked him senseless.

He came to with a spinning head and the knowledge that he had the
painful task of making his way back to Templestowe House to tell them
his dismal story: that not only had he lost a chaise and pair, but
Madame as well!

Chapter Thirteen

"You say that Meg left the house at half-eleven of the clock this
morning to visit an old friend, and has still not returned?  How
exceedingly inconsiderate of her!  But hardly surprising, seeing that
she appears to think of no one but herself these days.  Even so, I
would have expected her to be present to receive her guests."

Mrs.  Ashe was at her most domina tingly shrill.  Before Charlotte
could answer her, she continued in a voice which had the rest of her
family wincing, "And where, pray, did she go?  I suppose she had the
goodness to inform you of her destination!"

"Well, no," Charlotte admitted.  "Only that she would be visiting an
old friend and would not be gone long."

"Not gone long!"  Mrs.  Ashe threw up disapproving hands.  'gtnd you
have no notion of where she can be.  What a way to run a household!"

Jasper came to Charlotte's rescue.  "That will be quite enough, Mama.
it is not Charlotte's fault.  Nor may it be Meg's.  Something must have
gone amiss.

What, I cannot imagine, but we ought to send for the head groom, in
order to find out how many footmen went with her and who was driving
her."

"Oh, I can tell you that," said Charlotte eagerly.  "She took the
smallest chaise and one driver, Jem Potter.  She expressly said that
she needed no footmen."

"Stranger and stranger," sniffed Mrs.  Ashe who, whilst apparently not
liking her daughter, liked the consequence which marriage and wealth
had given her.

The head groom, when sent for, confirmed Charlotte's story.  "And young
Potter's a highly responsible lad but who knows, they might have had an
accident, but if we don't know where Madame went, then where do we
look?  The only suggestion that I can make is that we send out as many
lads as possible to look for her."

But where to look?  London was so large.  Jasper and his three
brothers-in-law went into a small huddle with the head groom to discuss
ways and means, as a result of which he went to the stables to begin to
carry out their plans.  Phoebe, always the emotional sister, began to
cry at this open admission that Meg might be in trouble, only for her
mother to roar at her, "Kindly stop sniffling, Phoebe.  It does not
help matters'.

"True enough," snorted Fred Zealand at his mother-in-law, defying her
for the first time.  "And it doesn't help to rail at poor Phoebe,
either, so hold your horses for once, pray do."

What scolding response Mrs.  Ashe might have made to that was fores
tailed by James announcing

Sir Simon Darrow, whom he had already informed that the mistress had
been gone for nigh on four hours, and no one knew where she was.

"Is this true?"  Simon began, before looking at everyone's disturbed
faces and hearing Phoebe's stifled sobs.  "Yes, I see it is.  No search
has been made for her, then?"  His own voice betrayed his agitation.
How could Meg be missing?  He had come here determined to propose to
her whenever the occasion presented itself, and instead he was being
informed that his love had disappeared---had gone no one knew where.

He swung on Charlotte Hollis and asked her a question which, in their
agitation, no one else had thought of.

"You say that she went to visit an old friend suddenly.  Did someone
bring her a message or had she arranged the visit beforehand?"

"A boy brought her a letter," Charlotte told him.  "He didn't wait for
an answer.  Meg read it and said that it was from an old friend who was
in trouble and that the matter was urgent.  She left at once, saying
that she would not be gone long."

"A letter," said Simon, with Jasper echoing him.  "Did she take it with
her?  Or did she leave it behind?  And if so, where would she leave
it?"

It was typical of Simon, more than one of his hearers thought, that as
soon as he arrived he probed straight to the heart of the matter.
Charlotte went to the bureau that Meg had been using shortly before she
had left.

"She was in a hurry," she explained as she unlocked and OPened it.  "I
suppose that there is a chance that she might have left it behind. Yes,
I do believe that this is it," and she handed a piece of crumpled paper
to Simon.

Watched anxiously by the whole party, Simon read the letter in silence.
Fred Zealand, whose sole contribution so far had been to rebuke Mrs.
Ashe and murmur "Good man," at Simon during his inquisition of
Charlotte Hollis, saw his face change as he finished it.

"What is it, Darrow, what's wrong?  There is something wrong, I collect
by your manner."

"Very wrong," said Simon heavily.  "I will have to read it aloud to
discover how wrong," and he did so, beginning, "This is dated today
from an address in Sackville Street.  It is as follows."

For a moment when he ended there was a dead silence, then everyone
began to talk at once.  Jane sprang to her feet, exclaiming, "No, I
never wrote that.  I couldn't have written that.  I was never at
Sackville Street today.  Vancourt will tell you that I never left home
until I did so to come here," and she burst into tears.

Mrs.  Ashe said angrily, "This is all some kind of hum, I am sure.  And
it was very wrong of Meg to rush off on the very morning that she had
arranged a family party, even if Jane did write her a letter.  She was
always an inconsiderate child."

The dam burst.  Jane, drying her eyes, swung on her mother, crying,
"Oh, how can you talk such nonsense, Mother?  Did I not just tell you
that I never wrote that letter?  And Meg inconsiderate!  What a story!
Were it not for Meg I should be in Queer Street, and so, I believe,
would my brother and my sisters."  She waved a hand at them to
encourage them to support her.  "Is not that so?"

Even Jane might have been surprised at the chorus of support she was
granted.  Simon certainly was.  Jane, looking her husband in the eye,
bravely confessed, "What's more, I believe that I know who wrote that
letter.  You see, Vancourt, I made a bit of an ass of myself with
Peverel Darrow earlier this year and wrote him some silly letters.  He
threatened to send them to you unless I gave him money.

"If it hadn't been for Meg, I don't know what I should have done.  But
she bought him Off for me.  Now, since both Meg and I agreed to keep
the matter quiet, and since Peverel certainly wouldn't have told anyone
else about his wickedness, who else could have known about it?  And who
more likely to be able to 'forge my handwriting?"

She flung herself down beside Vancourt, crying, "And now she may be in
desperate trouble because she believed that I needed help again."

Simon stood turned to stone as the true meaning of the conversation
between Peverel and Meg, which he had so unfortunately overheard, was
at last revealed to him.  Oh, dear God, how cruelly he had
misunderstood her.  In that, as in everything.

He scarcely heard Jasper saying brokenly, "She has also paid my debts,
and has given me the hope of a happy future with my dear Charlotte.  I
know that she has done as much for Hetty and Phoebe, so no more
reproaches for her, Mother, ever again."

"Hear, hear, Jasper," said his father.  "I should have silenced you
long ago, my dear, where Meg was concerned."

Nevertheless, still undaunted, Mrs.  Ashe opened her mouth to say
something scathing about Meg, but caught Fred Zealand's stern eye on
her and closed it again.  Simple, honest Fred had succeeded where
cleverer men had failed: he had been the first to reveal that, firmly
treated, she could be silenced.

Simon ignored all this, ignored Mrs.  AsheZs stricken face, and started
for the door, crying hoarsely, "We waste time.  To the devil with my
cousin, for that is all he deserves.  I am sure that he has abducted
Meg to marry her and pay his debts.  He has had the impudence to tell
me that he loves her.  He has several hours start, but I shall go after
him at once."

"Hold on," exclaimed Jasper.  "I wish to find her, too, but how can we
be absolutely sure that it is Peverel who has carried her off or even
if someone has?"

Even as he spoke, James burst through the door, his honest face
anxious.  "Sir Simon, Potter is back, injured.  He has a strange story
to tell.  George Newman also says that he has something to confess
which might help us, but he will only speak to Sir Simon."

Potter and Newman's stories confirmed that someone had made away with
Meg, although neither of them had any direct knowledge of Peverel's
involvement.  Added, though, to the evidence of the letter, the
likelihood that, as a last desperate throw, he had abducted her was
very strong.

Newman was almost the more distressed of the two.  "I never thought he
meant her harm," he said brokenly.  "All he wanted was bits of gossip."
He turned his face away before confessing, "Particularly about you and
Madame.  He hated the notion that you and she were friendly.  I thought
I could earn myself a bit of money for nothing.  I suppose I shall be
turned away now," he ended mournfully.

"That will be for Madame to say," Simon told him, almost absently.  He
only had one idea in his head If Peverel had kidnapped Meg in order to
marry her he would need to take the Great North Road to York.  And
Simon would follow him up that road.  He would drive to Hell itself in
order to rescue Meg.

By far the easiest and safest way for Peverel to take would be the road
to Ware, which legend said Dick Turpin had followed, joining the main
York Road some forty miles later at Huntingdon.  The disadvantage of
the mail coach route, which ran via Bamet and Edmonton was that it was
so crowded that it carried the risk of his being seen by some friend
also travelling north.

If Peverel had gone by Bamet after all, then no matter, Simon would
simply have to drive on to Huntingdon in the hope of catching him
there.

How fortunate it was that he had come in his two-horse curricle, which
would enable him to pick up some of the time already lost.  He would be
travelling at a greater speed than the chaise--for he had no doubt that
Peverel had made off with Meg's carriage.

It was also agreed that Jasper would follow the other route to
Huntingdon, in case Simon's guess was wrong.  There was to be no mass
hue and cry.

"For," Simon said, 'the less noise we make about this business, the
better.  If either of us can overtake them and take her to a place of
safety before she has been in Peverel's company overnight, then we can
save her reputation, otherwise..."

"Otherwise," Jasper said heavily, 'she is ruined."

"Not completely," Simon said, 'for today I came to ask her to be my
wife, and had hopes that she would agree.  If we can thwart Peverel
then, come what may, I shall marry her."

Tigerless, not dressed for a possible long ride north, Simon set off in
pursuit of his lost love, privately cursing the Fates who again seemed
intent on preventing him from marrying her.

"Have you given any thought, Peverel," Meg enquired sweetly, 'as to how
you are going to manoeuvre me in and out of inns, without my making an
unseemly fuss about my abduction, at every place we stop at overnight
on the way north?"

Peverel was beginning to think that, even to get hold of her money,
marrying Meg would be a great sacrifice on his part.  After he had
taken off her gag she had never stopped nagging and questioning him in
a sweetly reasonable voice, which was unsettling him more than loud
recriminations would have done.

"I see no problem there," he told her stiffly.  "It is in your own
interest to draw as little attention as possible to yourself if you are
to avoid scandal and social ruin.  The sooner we are married, the
better for us both--as I am sure you will agree."

Meg contemplated the passing scenery.  They had made very slow time
since leaving Sackville Street and the West End behind.  Every drover
in England seemed to be running their flocks of sheep and cows along
the road to Huntingdon via Ware.  Several times' the chaise had come to
a complete stop for some time, and Fenton's leaning down and cursing
the offending countrymen seemed to have had no other effect than to
slow them down even further.  Their final humiliation had come when
they had reached Edmonton, a mere seven miles out of London, when
geese, ducks, and fowls had not only stopped them, but had almost
driven Fenton from his seat, the fowls apparently mistaking the chaise
for a suitable place to roost.

"Oh, I don't agree at all," she informed him cheerfully.  "Social
disgrace, so far as I am concerned, is immaterial.  I intend to retire
into the country as soon as this Season is over."

"Indeed, you won't."  Peverel gave her an angry glare.  "When you are
my wife, I intend to spend the entire Season in London every
year--indeed, more than the Season.  I detest the country."

"Which is no more than I would have expected."  Meg put her head on one
side in order to stare at him the harder.  "You have the air of exactly
the kind of popinjay who considers that the whole of society revolves
round him.  Now, Simon, on the other hand..."

"Damn you, woman, hold your tongue," he shouted at her angrily.  "I am
heartily sick of hearing you prate about Cousin Simon and his
perfections.  I have had nearly twenty slow miles of it, and enough is
enough."

"Oh, but I like to talk about him.  He's such a noble contrast to your
good self.  I like that phrase, don't you?  It's one the lawyers 'use.
Oh dear, it doesn't really apply to you, though, does it?  Not to a
would-be felon already half Way to Botany Bay!"

Peverel's face purpled.  Meg thought that she might have gone too far
in her campaign to unsettle him so thoroughly that she might make for
herself an opportunity to escape him.  She thought that he was more
weak than wicked and intended to exploit his weakness.  He opened his
mouth to say something, but at that moment the coach gave a great lurch
and.  Meg was thrown forward to land on top of peverel.  They had
stopped yet again.

This time it was, or so Fenton told them once they had untangled
themselves, because a lad had run in front of the horses and had been
knocked unconscious.  He was now lying on the roadside, being tended by
one of the drovers.  Another was holding the horses for him.  It seemed
that the rustics among whom they had been travelling had accused him of
going too fast for safety, and there was talk of reporting them to the
local magistrates.

"I am sure," Meg's voice was impossibly virtuous, as she regained her
seat, 'that Simon would never have gone so fast in such a mob.  He
would have had more sense."

'l shall gag you again if you don't stop chattering about him, be
damned if I won't," roared Peverel, before instructing Fenton to get in
the chaise and see that she didn't run off, whilst he went outside to
try to quell what seemed to be turning into a riot.

Five minutes later he was back--to find that Fenton had pinned Meg back
against her seat and had one grimy hand over her mouth.  Only her eyes
stared defiance at them both.

"Niver met such a troublesome and noisy doxy in all my born days,"
Fenton told Peverel.  "What with trying to lean out the winder to
scream for help and then offering me money to let her go, she niver
stopped talking until I made her.  I 'opes as how she's got enough tin
to make up for the caterwauling.  We shan't git to bloody Huntingdon at
this rate, niver mind Gretna Green."

Meg rewarded him for that by kicking at his calves, and only Peverel's
presence stopped him from giving the troublesome doxy such a backhander
as she'd not forget in a hurry.

"You're right about not getting to Huntingdon."  Peverel was bitter.
"To satisfy the yokels outside," I've promised to stop at the Fox and
Hounds at Ware to find and pay for a doctor for the silly lad we hit,
in order to quieten them.  I propose that we remain there for the night
and leave early before the road becomes filled with traffic."

Fen tOn shook his head.  "Best press on, master, in case anyone twigs
what we're a-doing and comes after us.  We ain't gone very far yet."

"No likelihood of that.  Besides, I'm tired.  Stop now and we can order
a good dinner.  It's been a hard day."

Meg, her mouth now freed from Fenton's constraining hand, offered him
no consolation.  "And several more hard days to come, I assure you,
before we reach Gretna.  Really, Peverel, is all this discomfort
worthwhile, even to get hold of my fortune?"

The look he gave her was one of hate.  Contemplating this journey, he
had seen himself charming her into acquiescence on it once she had
realised that her case was hopeless.  Instead, she had turned into as
big a nag as her mother--and even more nonstop.  Only the thought of
the fortune he was going to enjoy once he had married her, sustained
him.

Meg looked out of the window as they inched slowly towards Ware.  On
the edge of the small town, they came to a crossroads where a signpost
informed them that one of the by-roads ran to Coverham.  Coverham--was
not that where the Devereuxs had their home?  She had a fleeting memory
of laughing and talking with Cass in happier times.

No time to think of that now.  She pondered instead on how to convince
the landlord of the Fox and Hounds, when' they arrived there, that she
was a wronged and abducted woman.  Alas, Peverel wisely gave her no
chance to do any such thing.  Before they even drove into the inn yard
he replaced the gag, tied her hands and feet together, and wrapped a
large counterpane around her, so that her face was hidden, before
bidding Fenton to carry her in.

Loudly shouting, "Make way, make way, my mistress is taken ill and
needs a bed straightway," he bore her upstairs, an agitated landlady
walking in front of them.

Trying to struggle in Fenton's iron grip, Meg found, was useless.  Once
he had dismissed the landlady, he threw her carelessly on to the bed,
leaving it to Peverel to free her from her bonds when he arrived.

Meg, disheveled and sore, her dignity hurt, as well as her feelings,
shot at him, 'l cannot imagine what Simon will do to you when I tell
him of this."

"Too late, my dear.  We shall be safely wed before you see him again. I
have ordered a good meal for Fenton and myself.  For you, gruel--it is
all that you deserve and will cool your proud spirit a little.  I shall
bring it upstairs before we eat.  In the meantime, I shall lock You in
the bedroom.  l do not advise you to call for help.  I have told the
landlord that your illness has made you delirious--so do not think that
anyone will come to rescue you."

He grinned at her.  "You see, I have thought of everything."

"Not quite everything.  When he catches us up, wed or not, particularly
if we're wed, Simon is like to kill you," Meg told him rebelliously
before Peverel left her, locking the door behind him.  He had laughed
at the notion of Simon, the law-abiding, killing anyone!

Meg was not so sure.  She knew of the hidden fires which Simon masked
so successfully.  She was not, however, prepared to wait for a rescue
that might never come.  She looked around the room after trying the
door.  Its lock was flimsy enough, but there was no way that she could
break it.

Opposite to the bed was a window.  Through it she could see felds
stretching to the far horizon in what she assumed was the direction of
Coverham.  She opened it and leaned out, to see that a small lawn with
beds of summer flowers lay below her.  At the far end of the lawn was a
hedge, and a gate that led on to the fields beyond.

Thoughtfully, Meg closed the window and sat down on the bed to think.
The nearness of Coverham had given her an idea.  If she could somehow
escape from the inn, she might find refuge there with Cass and Jack,
even if she had to tramp across the fields to reach them.

She was still plotting when Peverel came back with a tray on which
stood a bowl of soup and a large slice of bread.  He even knocked at
the door before unlocking it, using as much circumspection with her
this time as though she were an honoured guest.  He had obviously
decided to change tactics with her, since threats were unable to
silence her.

"You are not feeling too overset, I hope?"  he asked her kindly.  "I do
regret having to treat you so roughly, but I am sure that you
understand that it is necessary."

Do not think that you will win me round by being pleasant.  I am here
as your prisoner, not as your guest.  Your absence will be more
pleasing to me than your presence," and Meg turned her back on him.

He placed the tray on the small table before the window.  "Oh, come, my
dear.  You must know that, despite all, I care greatly for you, even
though you have behaved so shrewishly all the way here."

Meg jumped to her feet.  "Pray forgive me, do.  But I regret that I
have never been instructed on the correct etiquette to be observed by a
lady who has been abducted, has seen her own carriage stolen in order
to carry out the abduction, who has been gagged, tied up and carried to
her bedroom like a bundle of washing ready for the launderers.  The
devil take you and your so-called love for me, if this is how you
express it.  If you truly love me, you will take me home at once."

She said this as loudly and shrilly as she could, so that Peverel
winced at the sound.  "But you must know why I can't do that, Meg.  I
have crossed the Rubicon..."

"And the die is cast, I see.  Pray do not speak to me again, I beg of
you.  Your very voice is hateful to me."

Nothing was going as he had expected it.  He had hoped to win her round
with honeyed words, as he had done with other women to gain his way
with them.  But she had behaved like a fishwife from the very moment
that she had found herself in the carriage going north.

Indeed, so noisy was she that he feared that someone might hear them
and come to enquire whether anything was wrong, although he had tried
to forestall that by telling the landlord and his wife that his own
unfortunate spouse was not only sick in body, but in mind.

He had been so charmingly distressed, his luggage which Fenton had
carried in was so gentlemanly, and the chaise and its appointments were
so luxurious, that neither of them thought to question what he was
saying--such a rich and fine gentleman as he undoubtedly was.

What he could do was keep her quiet by leaving her alone while he ate
and drank in the inn's dining-room.  He had made a point of asking for
quarters away from the rest of the guests so that she might not be
disturbed.  He would put off the task of trying to placate her until
the time came when she was so compromised that she could not hope for
rescue.

He bowed his way out, determined not to allow her to provoke him into
losing his temper again.  A good meal, and better drink, awaited him
downsta'rs.  The Fox and Hounds' cellars were famous, as all travellers
on the Great North Road were well aware.

As for Fenton's dooming that they ought not to have stopped, but should
have travelled on into the night to gain an invaluable lead over any
pursuers--why in the world should he think that there would be any,
given all his careful planning?

Dusk.  She needed dusk.  Meg had drunk her soup and eaten her bread,
surprised to find how hungry she was.  Then, remembering the famous
coloured print which showed a young woman leaving her upstairs bedroom
in order to run away with her lover by climbing down a rope of
bedsheets knotted together, she had imitated her, and sat waiting for
dusk to arrive.

She was sure that Peverel would not soon return to the bedroom.  Food
and drink would keep him in the inn's dining-room until she was asleep.
For all his faults, she was of the opinion that he would not try to
force her--she shied from using the word rape--although, had she proved
willing to enjoy his embraces, he would probably have urged her to
spend the night with him.

Which was why she had behaved so noisily and shrewishly to convince him
that such a belief was groundless.  She opened the window and put her
head out.  The little garden, as she had hoped, was empty.

She had already fastened one end of the rope to one of the bedposts,
and now she paid it out of the window, to find that it was still well
above the ground.  Giving a great sigh she pulled it back, and fnished
it off by adding the bolster case to it.

Oh, famous.  It now almost reached the ground.  Next she must climb
onto the window sill and begin to lower herself down--as she had once
done on the trees she had climbed in the gardens at home when she had
been a hoydenish girl.  It was as though the years had fallen away and
she was little Meg Ashe again.

She thanked God that she was still slight, and had not become puddingy
with the years, so that she reached the ground safely, and scampered,
her skirts held up, across the grass and through the gate.

Where, the good Lord be thanked, there was a lane and a small sign
beside it with an arrow, dimly scored, and the magic words, Footpath to
Coverham.  No mileage was given, but what of that.  Better to be on her
way to safety--and eventually to Simon--than waiting to be bundled to
Gretna by Peverel and his odious man.

The only drawback was that a wind had risen, and there was rain in it,
but one could not have everything.

Simon set a spanking pace on his way north.  He stopped at several post
houses on the road to Ware, once to change horses he had no intention
of ruining his good cattle by driving them too hard for too long but
also to enquire whether anyone resembling Peverel and Meg had gone
through.

Running through his head was the memory of Meg.  Meg laughing up at
him; Meg teasing him; Meg, his pretty bird as he had come to think of
her, flying free, her own mistress.  Oh, if he married her he would
never cage her, he would allow her to fly free, sure that she would
always return to him, for she was both faithful and true to herself and
those who depended on her, as her family had borne witness.  Why had he
ever doubted her honour?

Marry her!  He had yet to rescue her and, if he were mistaken about
Peverel's plans, and his cousin got clean away with her, then that
marriage might never be.

Like Meg, on drawing near to Ware, he noticed that he was passing by
the road to Coverham, although at the time he thought little of that.
Knowing that Peverel liked ease and comfort he was sure that he would
stop at Ware.

Sure enough, when he reached the Fox and Hounds and questioned the
ostler who came up to serve the high flyer with the splendid curricle,
he learned that, yes, a gentleman, answering to Peverel's description,
and a lady had arrived in a chaise some hours ago.  But the lady had
been ill and unable to walk and had been carded in by the gentleman's
servant.  The gentleman had dined alone and was in the taproom at this
very minute.

Simon threw money at him, bade him care for his horses and card age and
set off at the double for the taproom to discover whether his quarry
was there.

He was.  Peverel sat before the flaming hearth, his booted feet up on a
small table, a cigar in his hand, a glass of port by his side: the very
picture of sue cessful indolence.  He did not see Simon until that
gentleman gave a roar, and hurled himself at Peverel to send chair,
table, cigar and drink flying.

"Damn you, where is she?  What the devil have you done with her, you
cur?  I'll kill you for this!"

All thought of discretion, of smothering scandal for Meg's sake, had
flown out of Simon's head.  All that he wanted to do was beat his
worthless cousin to a pulp.  He had him by his lapels, had thrust a
face into Peverel's which was so leonine and threatening that Peverel
quailed before him.

"I've not harmed her.  I-'d never harm her.  I love her."

"You lie, damn you.  You lie," and Simon shook his cousin as a terrier
might shake a rat so that Peverel's teeth chattered and tears came into
his eyes.

"I say, sir," quavered a young gentleman, standing by the bar.  "Hold
on, there.  What's to do that you're in such a pother?"  He appealed to
the landlord.  "Ought we not to fetch the constable?"

Still holding Peverel in a vice-like grip,.  Simon bellowed at the
youth.  "Who the devil asked you to interfere in a private quarrel?  If
I want a constable, I'll send for 'one myself.  I'll deal with this
cur--privately.  Landlord!.  Is there a room I can use to question this
malefactor and decide whether to start him on his way to Botany Bay?"

Peverel knew that the game was well and truly up.  He had never seen
Simon behave after such an abandoned and ferocious fashion before. Here
was a man he had never met.  And he remembered Meg's prescient words:
"Simon is like to kill you."  He had laughed at them, and how wrong he
had been to do so.

"I want no trouble in my house," said the landlord sturdily.  "Will the
gent you're aholding so cruelly agree to speak to you privately,
though?"

"He'll agree to anything I ask of him, won't you, Peverel?"  Simon
snarled at him.  Unable to speak through a combination of fright and
shock, Peverei was only able to nod his head in the landlord's
direction.

"There, you see!"  Simon was triumphant.  He twisted Peverel round,
bent his arm up behind his back and shoved him into the room off the
snug, indicated by the landlord, where he flung Peverel into a chair.

"Now.  Don't lie to me, damn you.  I'm prepared to let you go to save
scandal if you'll tell me where she is."

"Upstairs.  She's upstairs," quavered Peverel.  "I haven't hurt her.  I
swear I haven't.  I lOVe her."

"And a damned odd way you have of showing it."  Simon bared his teeth,
before saying, "Now lead the way.  Take me to her room.  Try to trick
me and I swear to God I'll have your blood."

If Peverel did not know his cousin, Simon scarcely knew himself.  From
the moment that he was certain that Peverel had made off with Meg he
had had only one idea in his head.  To find her and give Peverel the
beating of his life.

They had reached the bedroom.  "L-l-let go of me," Peverel stuttered at
Simon, 'and I'll unlock the door.  I swear to you that she's safe and
sound--asleep by now, probably."

Only she wasn't.  The room was empty.  Rain was beating in through the
open window, drenching the sheets which Meg had used to make her
escape.  Simon's pretty bird had flown.

Chapter Fourteen

' Safe, is she?  Damn you, Peverel, you couldn't even abduct a helpless
young woman without making a botch of it."

Beside himself with rage, hope having been succeeded by fear, and the
knowledge that Meg was somewhere out there in the rapidly darkening
night, caught in the pouring rain, Simon dealt Peverel such a fierce
blow that he was thrown backward over the bed, stunned.

He leaned forward to Seize his cousin again by the lapels of his smart
coat.  "I've a mind to beat you insensible, here and now, except that I
haven't the time.  I have a duty to find my poor darling, who has
escaped you only to be caught in a storm.  But I warn you, if she's
harmed in any way when l find her, you'll pay a heavy price."

And then he was gone, storming down the stairs to try to find his lost
love.  Peverel followed him, feebly crying, "Only let me come with you.
Oh, dear God.  I never meant this to happen."

Simon had reached the front of the inn and was making for the lawn at
the side before Peverel caught him.  Fenton, alerted by his master's
shouts, ran out of the room where the ostlers, grooms and postillions
had been drinking, in time to see Simon, whose arm Peverel was now
pulling on, turn and give him a mighty blow which had him reeling, but
still hanging grimly on.

"What the devil's up, master?"  cried Fenton, putting up his fists
preparatory to attacking Simon.  "Let him go, damn you."

This inapposite statement had Simon turning on Fenton, shouting, "Damn
you for a fool.  He's hanging on to me."  When Fenton struck at him,
Simon, hampered by Peverel, swung his booted foot at him to catch him
cruelly above the knee and below his midriff.

Fenton fell to his knees, screaming, "Damn you, you've rained me."  At
the same time, Simon, beginning to be secretly surprised by his own
violence, freed himself from Peverel, whom he threw to the ground to
join Fenton.  That done, he ran through the streaming rain towards the
lawn which Meg must have crossed to leave the inn.  Common sense told
him that she could have gone no other way for fear of being seen.  What
more likely than that she had left through the gate?"

Like her, once through the gate he saw the signpost saying
Coverham--and the green lane which led to it.  No doubt she thought
that safety lay that way, but what she could not know was that the big
house where Jack and Cass Devereux lived was over five miles away.

What to do?  He could still not be sure that she had fled in that
direction, although the likelihood was strong.  He stood for a moment,
debating the matter, then Peverel caught up with him.

They stood face to face, water streaming from them both.  The savage
expression on Simon's face frightened Peverel into crying out in a vain
attempt at mitigation or justification, "Only let me help.  Let me try
to find her, too.  I never meant this to happen.  I swear.  I never
thought that Meg would be so daring, so rash as to put herself in
danger."

Simon was minded to strike him again, to roar at him that he had put
Meg in danger, but in this desperate pass only common sense could
help.

"Dare I trust you?"  he asked grimly.  "If I take the path to Coverham,
thinking that she has gone that way--will you scour Ware to find her?
And if you do, may I have your worthless word that you will return her
to the inn until I come back to claim her?  If you try to abduct her
again, I'll see you hanged or transported, on the word of the Darrows
whose name you have shamed today, even if I have to follow you to Hell
to catch you."

Numbly, all his usual easy bravado gone, his face bearing the marks of
Simon's fists, Peverel muttered, "I promise.  Dear God, what a mess,
what an unseemly mess.  What have I done?"  He hung his head until
Simon roared at him again.

"Be off with you.  On a night like this, we've no time to lose.  I'm
for Coverham, and you, you do as I bid you."

He stayed a moment to watch Peverel make off in the direction of the
front of the inn before starting on his own long walk.  There was no
driving a curricle or, indeed, any other form of carriage, along the
narrow track.  Pray God he found her before long or before anyone else
did.

Meg, wet through, shivering, her teeth chattering involuntarily from
time to time, was huddled in the lee of a hedge.  The rain, which had
not been heavy when she had left the inn, had grown more and more so as
she walked along the track.  The wind had got up, too, and she was
walking into it, which made her progress slow.

Tired, weak through lack of food, and soaked to the skin, her light
dress clinging to her so that walking was difficult, she had finally
given in to exhaustion when the track became a mud bath and she had
lost one of her light shoes.  She had no idea how far she had walked,
and there was no sign that she was drawing near to either Coverham
village or the big house just outside of it.  Either place would be
sanctuary.

Lightning, which lit up the whole landscape to reveal that she was
still out in the open with no houses near, was followed by a crack of
thunder.  The walk to Coverham, which had seemed to offer her
salvation, had turned into something quite different.  It might even
have been wiser to have remained Peverel's prisoner.

Just as she was beginning to stand up, in order to trudge a little
further in the hope that she might find a barn or a hut to shelter in,
Meg saw a man walking up the lane towards her.  Mixed emotions ran
through her.  Another human being might offer her assistance he might
offer her something worse.  She moved further into the lee of the hedge
to hide herself until he had passed, but even as he did so she was
overwhelmed by an almighty sneeze.

The man heard her, and turned his face in her direction so that she saw
it for the first time.  It was Simon!  By what miracle had he arrived
here?  At the very moment that she recognised him, Simon called, "Meg?
Is that you, Meg?"  and ran towards her.

It would not be exaggerating to say that they flew into one another's
arms as recognition was followed by relief.  Wet through, water running
from his hair, Simon was kissing and caressing Meg, and she was kissing
him back.  "Oh, my little love," he exclaimed brokenly, whilst stroking
and comforting her.  "Thank God that I have found you.  Say that you
are not hurt?"  His loving attentions caused Meg to burst into tears
for the first time on that dreadful day.

She muttered through her tears, 'l am quite wet enough without crying
as well, to make matters worse.  Apart from that, I don't think that
there's very much wrong with melthough I do feel very strange.  But how
in the world have you managed to find me?"

"No time for that now, my darling.  Later.  Now we must try to find
immediate shelter, and then..."  he looked around him 'failing that,
either return to Ware or press on to Coverham."

Even in the circle of his arms the rain seemed to be able to find her.
Meg shivered.  "How far are we from Coverham?  I thought to find
sanctuary there,

but i seem to be no nearer to it than when I started out."

Simon was making calculations in his head.  He reckoned that they were
slightly nearer to Ware than to Coverham, but to return her to Ware
would risk courting the leers of the crowd in the Fox and Hounds and
creating a scandal which would hurt her the innocent party--the most.

On the other hand, to take the slightly longer route to Coverham would
mean that they would not only find the sanctuary Meg had hoped for, but
discretion and sympathy.  Coverham it must be, and so he told her.

"Do you think that you are able to walk so far, Meg--over two and a
half miles?"

What would she have done if he had not found her?  Meg's shiverings
were fuelled by that thought as well as by the cold and the rain.
Without him she might have been unable to go on--and so she told him.

"Never!"  Simon was robust.  "I know your gallant heart."

"The worst thing is that I have lost one of my shoes, which will slow
us down, I fear.  It is difficult walking with only one."  Meg was
trying hard not to sound stupidly complaining, but the resolution which
had sustained her all day was being watered down by the relentless
rain.

"Then take it off, my darling.  I know the path is muddy, but it is
soft and not stony, and it will make walking easier.  Do you remember
taking off your shoes when you were a little girl?  And on being
reprimanded, you always said that you preferred walking without
them!"

Meg was struck by this.  It called up memories of the hoyden which she
had once been and one in particular, which she had sternly repressed
ever since she had left England to become a French grande dame.  "So I
did.  I had quite forgot.  What a nod cock I am."

Walking without shoes was odd, she found, now that she was a grown
woman, but more comfortable than with only one.  Simon slowed his usual
rapid pace, and together they progressed slowly towards the warmth and
shelter of Coverham, like a wet Adam and Eve trying to find Paradise,
not leave it behind.

Back in Ware, Peverel scoured the town and the roads leading out of it
for any sign or news of Meg.  He stopped the few people still about,
continuing to use what was now a useful fiction to save' her
reputation: that she was his disturbed and ailing wife, who had run
away from him and must be found.  Like Simon and Meg, he was soon wet
through.

Constantly with him was the knowledge that he, and he alone, had
brought them all to this; pass Misery and remorse--new sensations for
'him.

warred in his breast.  Even his impending financial ruin seemed a
faraway thing, of little note beside the dreadful knowledge of what he
had done, and of what he now knew he was: a criminal and a coward who
had hurt the one person whom he had professed to love.

Not professed!  No, never, he did love her, and that one fact alone
brought him face to face with the reality of himself and his life.  And
what he saw was shocking him into a long-belated penitence.

They were not far from Coverham when Meg began to flag.  She had been
walking more and more slowly, saying nothing to Simon of how ill she
was beginning to feel, how exhausted.  He constantly asked her if she
wished to rest, but she always told him no.  She was not sure that, if
she stopped, she would ever be able to go on again.

The rain had ceased, which was a boon, and the moon had come from
behind the cloud so reveal that they were almost at the great gates
which opened on to the gravel led drive which led to Coverham House. 
To their right was the road which led to Coverham village.  It was at
that point, with refuge almost in sight, that Meg's overtaxed mind and
body gave way.

She suddenly clutched at Simon's hand, heaved a great sigh, and
muttered, "Oh, Simon, I feel so strange."

Alarmed by the weakness of her voice, which had previously sounded so
strong, Simon stopped, and put an arm around her.  "What is it, my
darling?"

'l don't think that I can walk any more."  The gates and great house in
the distance wavered before her; the very ground beneath her poor muddy
feet seemed unstable.  Finally everything, gates, house, ground and
feet disappeared into the dark, and only Simon's sustaining arms saved
Meg from falling unconscious into the mud.

He lifted her up to carry her: his precious burden.  He kissed her
white face with the great blue smudges under her eyes, and stroked her
wet hair, loose and streaming down her back.  He would carry her to the
ends of the earth to save her, let alone to the doors of Coverham which
drew ever nearer.

She was even lighter than he had thought, a frail vessel to contain
such a dauntless spirit.  Only the elements had conspired to prevent
her from completing the journey herself.

Panting, dog weary, but sustained by the knowledge that Jasper Ashe had
been decorated for carrying his wounded lieutenant to safety far
further than this, and in worse conditions, Simon walked at a smart
pace until he reached the gravel led sweep before the house.

At the bottom of the steps leading up to the huge front doors, Meg
opened her eyes again, and began to try to struggle out of his arms.
She had no notion of how far he had carried her, but, "Set me down,"
she croaked at him.  "You cannot carry me all the way to Coverham."

His answer was to hold her to him even more lovingly.  "Oh, but I
can--and have.  See, we are here.  I am going to set you down for a
moment, so that I may knock on the door and try to wake the house."  He
gently laid her on the top step before stripping off his sodden jacket
his caped greatcoat had been left with his curricle--and rolling it to
make a pillow for her head.

Meg, now beyond anything but lying still, watched him hammer on the
door again and again with a giant knocker in the shape of an imp before
it opened and a querulous voice demanded to know, "Who the devil is
making such a damnable noise when all decent folk are readying
themselves for bed!"

They had reached sanctuary.

Chapter Fifteen

"How is she?  Tell me how she is?"  Simon was frantically accosting the
doctor outside Meg's room on the following morning.

Welcomed by Cass Devereux the previous night her husband was visiting
Woburn for a few days to discuss country matters with the Duke of
Bedford--Meg had been put to bed immediately, and Simon's wet clothes
had been exchanged for some of Jack's country wear.

After that, Cass had arranged for him to be fed, saying briskly when he
demurred a little, "Jack always says that the mark of a good officer is
to see that his men have an excellent meal after battle or hardship.  I
can't feed Meg, but I can feed you, and then, and not before, you may
tell me why and how you have arrived here."

He did feel better when he had eaten, and then the whole sorry story
came tumbling out.  "I thought that to bring Meg here might cut scandal
off at the knees.  No on dits, you see, if she has been staying with
you.  As for hubble-bubble at a posting inn in

Ware--who's to tell?  Both Peverel and that criminal of a man of his
risk transportation or worse if the true story came out.

"No, we are both your guests, and since you tell me that you have no
others here, your servants may talk among themselves, but that is all.
Your own reputation, re' lady is spotless, so your word will not be
questioned."

"Call me Cass, pray do.  And yes, I believe that you have done the
sensible thing by coming to Coverham.  But what of your cousin?  Is it
right that he should go scot-free after what he has done?"

"No, but consider the alternative and the damage to my poor, innocent
Meg if the true story became known.  It would cling to her always, and
there would be those who would put their finger by their nose, and say,
"No smoke without fire."  Besides, I have given Peverel the fright of
his life.

"He may not, in any case, remain long in England.  The duns and the
bailiffs are after him.  Calais is his destination.  Had he not done
this to Meg, I might have helped him, but now..."  and he shook his
head.  "He has punished himself."

"True.  And we must both hope that Meg is better in the morning."

She did not tell him that Coverham's doctor, roused from his
comfortable bed in the West Wing, had privately told her that he
thought Madame was suffering from more than exhaustion.  "She has a
fever, I fear.  But we shall know more in the morning."

She must let Simon have a night's rest after his labours--and trust
that daylight might find Meg better.

But alas, she was not.  And so the doctor informed Simon as kindly as
he could, "Madame's fever is worse.  She does not know herself, nor
where she is.  I have given her opium to help her to sleep.  Only time
and cooling draughts will help her.  If she grows worse, I shall bleed
her to bring the fever down."

"By no means," Simon exclaimed.  "It has been my experience with both
men and horses that bleeding does indeed bring the fever down, but
weakens the patient to such a degree that they are unable to fight the
illness and frequently die in consequence.  only if her life is in
immediate danger will I agree to her being bled."

"Pray who are you, sir, to make such a decision for her which goes
against all medical practice?"  The doctor was a trifle frosty at
having his authority challenged.

"The man who hopes to become her husband when she is recovered--which I
trust will be soon."

But Meg grew no better.  As she lay on her bed, she knew nothing of
what was happening in the world outside, that Peverel had come to
Coverham to discover whether Simon and Meg had reached there.

Despite what he had said to Cass, Peverel had looked so miserable and
was so unlike his usual conceited arrogant self that Simon had arranged
to give him a little money to make his forced flight to the Continent
more comfortable.  Peverel's servant was to go with him, relieved that
he was not on his way to Botany Bay.

Jasper Ashe had finally arrived at Coverham after a fruitless journey
to Huntingdon, after which he had backtracked to Ware to hear from a
bemused landlord of Simon's arrival and departure, and Meg's flight.
Coverham, Jasper had thought, was their destination.  He had been
allowed in to see Meg before returning to London with the news of all
that had happened.

Jack Devereux had come home in the meantime; and Simon was camped
outside her room, suffering with her, refusing to leave to take up his
life in London until she was well again.

He had been allowed in once to look at her.  She lay silent and
semi-conscious in the great bed, her face whiter than its sheets.  He
had wanted to stay with her, but both propriety and the doctor fore
bade it.  A chair in the corridor was his place, vacated only when Cass
insisted that he dine with her and Jack, lest he fall ill himself.

Not only were she and Jack surprised by his behaviour, but Simon
himself could only wonder hazily what had come over him.  Where had the
coldly impassive, the almost stolid man he had always been, gone to? He
had scarcely known himself from the moment that Meg had been in danger.
He had helped to save her.  And now she was in worse danger than ever,
and from that he was powerless to save her.

On the next day she took a turn for the worse.  Her fever had risen and
she was delirious.  Simon could hear her from his post in the corridor.
The doctor was sent for, and came from her room, looking grave.
Distraught, Simon seized him by his lapels, much as he had seized
Peverel.  "How is she?"  And then, "She is in danger, is she not?  You
must let me in, I must see her.  Immediately."

The doctor tried to struggle free, saying loftily, "It would be neither
wise nor seemly.  You would only endanger yourself, and all for
nothing.  She knows nobody."

Their raised voices frightened the servants who were nursing Meg.  One
of them ran to fetch Cass.  Simon saw her coming, released the doctor
and cried, "I must see her, Cass.  Tell him to let me see her.  I don't
care whether I endanger myself, or breach the proprieties.  If she is
so ill that she is despaired of, all the more reason for me to see
her."

"Lethim in," Cass told the doctor quietly.  "If she is so ill, then it
would be the greatest kindness to allow Sir Simon to be with the woman
he intends to marry."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.  "Very well, m'lady, but on your
head and his be it.  I cannot: take responsibility if my orders are
countermanded."

Simon stayed no longer.  He was in Meg's room, on his knees, her hand
in his.  Her eyes, brilliant with fever, were turned on him, but she
did not know him.  She was speaking, but not to him.  She was in the
past, with the man she had married, and what she was saying to him came
nigh to breaking Simon's heart.

He kissed the hot hand he held and tried to reassure her.  It was most
plain that she was reliving a life which had been desperately unhappy.
For a moment she seemed to be soothed by the sound of his voice---and
then she was in the past again,

reliving the troubled years of her marriage.

In her delirium, Meg was back in de Mortaine's chateau.  Her husband
was with her, telling her that he had married her because she was a
stranger to his country, who had no one but her aunt in Paris to whom
to turn, to tell of the long agony of her life with him.  Of life with
a man who thought only of himself, and condemned his wife to a living
hell.

To try to soothe her, to quieten her, for she grew more and more
agitated, Simon used his voice exactly as he would have done if he were
trying to gentle a horse--and it seemed to work.  He kissed her hot
hand-only for her to withdraw it.

She tried to sit up, so he took her in his arms, her hot body burning
against his cool one.  One of the servants brought her lemonade and he
held the glass for her to drink from it.  She thanked him prettily--but
still had no notion of who he was, only that he was being kind.

The doctor came in and said sourly, "If the fever breaks, which I
doubt, she will sleep and recover.  If not..."  and he shrugged his
shoulders.  Simon took no notice of him.  All he knew was that he was
with Meg, that he loved her, that she had suffered, and that if she
lived he would make it his business never to let her suffer again.

Later, in the evening, he had his reward.  Meg was still in his arms,
the sweat pouring down her face and body, but suddenly she reared away
from him, and said in the most melancholy voice, "If only l had married
Simon!  How stupid I was not to realise that it was him i loved, not
some imaginary Prince

Charming.  I behaved like a child, and as a child is punished, so am I
being."

"No, no," he told her earnestly--although he knew that she could not
hear him.

"It was I who was wrong.  I was careless in my manner to you when I
proposed because I did not then understand how much I loved you.  I
don't think that I understood what love was.  All I could think of was
that I wanted a wife and that you were convenient.  It was only when
you refused me and I had lost you that I realised what I had done, and
how much the youngest Miss Ashe had meant to me."

After that she seemed to recover a little, as though, somehow, through
the mists of the fever, she had grasped what he had said, although her
hair and body were still as wet as they had been on her long walk
through the rain to Coverham.  Simon laid her down, but still held her
hand in his: the contact seemed to comfort her.  Later, when Cass came
in to suggest that he rest a little after his long vigil, he shook his
head at her.

As night fell, so Meg fell silent.  She turned her head away from him,
and began to sleep.  The hand in his grew cooler, and her breathing,
which had been noisy, quietened.

For a brief time Simon was afraid that the doctor's gloom had been
justified, and that she might be dying but, as the night wore on, he
lost his fears and, tired out with watching, fell asleep in his chair.
Cass, looking in on them again, refrained from disturbing him lest she
disturb Meg; they both looked so peaceful together.

In the morning when he awoke, Meg was awake, too, and fully conscious.
Her first words to him were puzzled ones.  "Is this Coverham, Simon?
And why are you sleeping in a chair by my bed?"  Her voice was weak,
but clear, and it was plain that she had no memory of her long days of
suffering.  Later, she was to tell him that her last recollection was
of falling against him almost at the end of the green lane, at the
first sight of Coverham.

The nurse, who had come in earlier, ran to fetch the doctor, to tell
him that Madame's fever had broken, that she was conscious and was
recovering.  Simon bent over Meg to kiss her gently on the brow.  "You
have been very ill, my darling.  We almost despaired of you."

Meg looked up at him.  "And how long have you been here, Simon?"  she
asked him, for she could see the stubble on his face, the growth of
beard the result of his long watch, and the shadows under his eyes,
which told of weariness and worry.

"They only let me in to be with you yesterday, and that because you
were so ill, and I made such a fuss.  Oh, Meg, my darling, we all
feared for you, but I do believe that you are over the worst."

The eyes on him were bright, but no longer with fever.  "Did I dream
that Peverel kidnapped me, that I ran away from him, and that you came
to save me?"

"No dream, my darling, but that is all over.  Now you must get
better."

She turned her head to kiss the loving hand which held hers.  "Oh,
Simon, when I was a little girl l always dreamed that one day a brave
knight would come along to rescue me--from what I could never imagine.
it was the rescuing which was important, not the reason.  And now I
have my brave knight, who rescued me and brought me safe to Coverham."
Her voice ran out from very weakness.

"Dear Meg, I was a very belated knight.  For you had rescued yourself
before I reached Ware.  Did you ever imagine doing such a daring thing
when you were the little girl, whom I now know I have always loved?"

There, he had said it to her in tones so tender that Meg could not
doubt him.  All the way along the green lane before he had arrived to
help her Meg had been regretting one thing, and one thing only: that
she had refused him again.  In her delirium, she had relived her time
with Andre and had run from him, trying to fnd a saviour--whom she now
knew was Simon.  They had found one another--and this time she would
not refuse him if he were to renew his offer.

"But I would never have reached Coverham on my own," she told him
tenderly.

He kissed her for saying so.  "You were my brave girl, forever and
always.  And what is even better: you are my generous girl who secretly
helped the family which had always scorned her--and asked no thanks for
it."

Meg shook her head at him.  "Oh, I was not really brave.  I think that
I was only able to escape because Peverel was not really a villain only
weak and stupid.  A true villain would have treated me even more
harshly and made sure that I would never have had the opportunity to
escape."  She made no answer to his words about her generosity--she had
no wish to discuss it, and Simon respected her the more for that.

"True enough, my darling," he told her tenderly, 'that Peverel was a
weak fool, and I must thank him for his folly--if l ever see him again.
But it still took courage to escape into the black night."

Simon saw that the effort of talking had tired her, but the look of
love on her face determined him on what to say and do next.  They had
lost too much time.  He would make sure that they would lose no more.

"There is something I must ask you, Meg, before the world arrives to
part us again ut only temporarily this time, I hope---'

Exhausted though she was, Meg struggled into a sitting position, saying
earnestly, "Before you ask me your question, Simon, there is something
I ought to tell you.  It is about my marriage.  No one but Andre and I
knew the truth of it.

"I married him because he was handsome and had been brave: a true
Prince Charming, I foolishly thought.  The man I turned you down for.
But, oh, what a mistake I made.  Young he might have been, but he was
old and jaded in all the vices of life.  So much so that our married
life was a mockery.  I thank God that my aunt, who helped to make the
marriage, did not live to learn the truth of him.

"And when he decided that a young and untried woman was no longer to
his taste, he-resumed his old ways and treated me most cruelly.  Oh, he
did not beat me, but he had a vicious tongue and used it to demean me
daily and to tell me all the details of his wicked life.  He died in a
duel caused by his seduction nay, his rape--of the wife of his best
friend, but not before he had tried to destroy my reputation.

The irony of it was that he had no relatives---they had all died in the
French Revolutionary Terror--so that his wealth and his estates came to
me.  But the price I paid to inherit them was a terrible one.  The very
idea of marriage seemed hateful to me after Andre's death.

"But those who truly loved me knew the truth.  And there you have it. 
I refused the good man who loved me--and married a roue instead.  To
survive I became hard and unfeeling myself.  Until I met you again."

The eyes she turned on Simon were grave and loving.  Meg thought that
she owed him the truth and, weak though she was, must tell him that
truth before he proposed to her.

Simon took her in his arms and held her to him, his lips on her hair,
telling himself that he must be gentle, that she was still weak from
her illness.  Though she needed love, that love must be restrained, not
powerful.

"Oh, my darling, you are as honest as you are true," he told her.  He
knew, from what she had revealed in her delirium, that she had not told
him all the horrors of her life with Andre de Mortaine.  But that
knowledge was a secret for him to keep.  It was enough that she had
confessed her folly--as he had confessed his.

"Before I ask you to marry me," he said, 'let me say this.  That had
you accepted me all those years ago, I do not believe that our marriage
would have been a happy one.  You were too young and I was too proud,
too sure of my own rectitude, too certain of the rightness of my own
judgement.  What was worse, I knew nothing of true passion, the depth
of love of a man for a woman until I lost you for the second time.

"When I first proposed to you, I thought of marriage as a kind of
bargain between us, as a convenience, a mere continuance of a long
friendship, and nothing more.  But life has chastened us both, and at
the same time has offered us a second chance.

"Meg, my darling, before the doctor arrives to send me away, will you
make me a happy man by promising to marry me?  This time I make the
offer with love in my heart, and respect for the brave creature that
you are to survive such a marriage, and my cousin Peverel's
villainy."

"Oh, yes, Simon, yes.  I offer you my love unconditionally, the past
forgotten and forgiven.  The present and the future must be ours."

Meg was in his arms, where she had always wanted to be, and where she
had feared that she might never be.  Before them lay fulfilment and a
shared life.  Her face was flushed, not with fever, but with returning
health.  Weak she might be, but not so weak that' she was not able to
enjoy Simon's gentle caresses.

Cass Devereux insisted on accompanying the doctor to Meg's room as soon
as she learned that Meg's fever had broken and that she was on the way
to recovery.

She also insisted on entering Meg's bedroom before the doctor did. What
she saw there had her shutting the door again, and saying to the
doctor, "I should leave your examination of Madame for a little, sir. I
think that the medicine she is receiving at the moment will be as
helpful as anything that you might prescribe for her."