Lady Valiant

by Delle Jacobs

Published by Awe-Struck eBooks

ISBN: 1-58749-464-7 (electronic)

1-58749-465-5 (print)

Electronic rights reserved by Awe-Struck E-Books, all other rights reserved by author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law.

Dedication

To Nancy Mayer and Deanie Barbour: Thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks.

Chapter One

Early on a sparkling summer evening, Lord Reginald Beauhampton stepped onto the terrace of Lord and Lady Mythe's country seat and gazed out over the green expanse of lawn. With a grin, he dashed all the way to the white stone steps, before he reminded himself he was not supposed to do that.

And he was always doing that, bouncing about like an eager puppy after a country lad on a kite-flying expedition. All his life, he had possessed too much energy for a proper gentleman.

He sighed, took a deep breath, and descended the steps the way a gentleman ought. Slowly.

He got almost to the bottom step, meaning to concentrate on resisting the urge to bound spiritedly through the parterre, when he stopped cold. For there before him, he beheld the solution to his dilemma.

Reggie had to remind himself to breathe.

It was something he sensed, rather than saw, something that hovered elusively about him, the way an aroma dances in and out of one's awareness. And in some nebulous way, it was personified by the young lady who stepped out of Mythe's Chinese pavilion.

She was not at all what he had expected, with her slender form draped in soft shades of green, and one golden curl bouncing in the breeze as if it danced with the leaves. She was too small, too delicate. Not at all the sort of character to inhabit one of his books.

Nor was it any great beauty which attracted him, for she was not particularly different from any other lady in the garden. Yet he knew. He had an instinct for this sort of thing.

The urge to dash up to the intriguing lady almost overwhelmed him. Reggie flexed his hands as a reminder not to fidget and took a deep breath to dispel his latest attack of exuberance.

"Good evening, Beauhampton. Haven't seen you about lately. Boat giving you trouble?"

Reggie had been so engrossed he had not noticed Castlebury, who sidled up with a languorous ease Reggie could not hope to emulate. He nodded to his friend. "A yacht is rather demanding of one's time. A little problem with the rigging."

But it was not ratlines and sheets that interested him at the moment. Reggie glanced quickly at the lady in green. He itched to get closer and discover what it was about her that was so compelling. Had he perhaps caught a fleeting glimpse of her eyes? Would they be dark and green as the sea? Of course his heroine could have eyes of any color he chose to make them.

The thing was, he didn't need a heroine, no matter the coloring of her eyes, not in a seagoing adventure. What the devil was he to do with a woman at sea?

"Rigging, is it?" Castlebury's eyes narrowed. "Can't say I see any problem with the rigging."

"I don't believe I know her," Reggie responded, and like his friend, carefully averted his gaze from the lady, who walked with another lady along a graveled path. But unlike his more sedate friend, Reggie couldn't stop himself from glancing up repeatedly.

The lady drew closer, her curls glistening gold in the last lingering rays of the sunset. Strange images rushed his mind. He could see her standing at the helm, her windswept locks dancing, smock plastered flat...

What the devil was this? Ladies did not go to sea like common tars. Particularly not with rain-soaked smocks clinging revealingly to their chests.

"Late arrival for the Season. Has a substantial portion, I hear. Father had no sons, and the barony went to her uncle."

Reggie cleared his throat. No doubt Castlebury thought him transparent as water. But water at any depth was quite opaque, and this time Reggie doubted even Castlebury could have any inkling of what was swimming beneath the surface of Reggie's imagination. "Thinking of leg shackles, Castlebury?" he replied, to obscure his true intentions.

"I?" Castlebury smirked at the obviously absurd question. "You might give it thought, though. Might solve your problem with your father."

Reggie winced. "I have no more interest in the parson's mousetrap than you, my friend."

"Of course. Nor in La Laverhorn, who is prowling about rather obviously in great hopes you will make an appearance."

Startled, Reggie glanced back over his shoulder.

Castlebury almost laughed, a rarity for him. "Down by the lake, last time I saw her. Thought I should warn you. But come, let us go check out the new boat and see how she sails."

Reggie didn't care that Castlebury hadn't the vaguest notion of the difference between a boat and a ship, or sprit and mainsail, nor did he mind being thought a mooncalf. How could he explain to a petticoat man like Castlebury the bizarre thoughts that were currently racing through his head?

Glancing all about to be sure Laverhorn's widow was not slinking up to launch another offensive on his person, Reggie followed Castlebury in the direction of his new interest, now standing with her back to them in the company of Lady Mythe and her friends.

Long, expressive fingers, suited to wearing French Kid gloves and playing harps, held a fan of ivory lace that fluttered gently. But Reggie saw an utterly contrary vision, of rigging to be hauled and sails unfurling to catch a freshening wind.

What the devil was this trick his mind was playing on him? A lady at sea? Such a delicate creature could hardly live up to the rigors of shipboard life.

But beardless boys smaller than she did it all the time.

There, he was doing it again, letting his imagination lead him astray. Here he was with his best friend, who was always the best of company, yet Reggie couldn't even focus on what the man was saying. Even when Reggie himself was talking, his curiosity kept dancing provocatively ahead of him, luring him ever closer to the object of his fascination.

Castlebury's lips quirked and his eyes gleamed. Across the terrace, Lady Mythe's big brown eyes gleamed back. Reggie sensed the jangling of leg shackles. The blatant betrayal by his friends would have irritated him, were he not so eager to meet the creature who was inspiring such turmoil in his imagination.

"Now, my dear," said Lady Mythe, who grasped the puzzled young lady by her shoulders and turned her about to face Reggie.

Reggie's breath stuck in his throat, and his jaw dropped open like a gapeseed. Green eyes, yes, but paler than jade. Perfect for a seagoing lady.

"Miss Godelin..." Lady Mythe's voice blurred into the din of throbbing pulse in Reggie's ears.

Godelin. Reggie was trying to listen, he really was. But the images broke the floodgates of his reserve, gushing and tumbling through his mind.

The deck in a storm, awash in green water, his heroine climbing the ratlines...

"Miss Daventry..."

No, he had it wrong already. Miss Godelin the aunt, Miss Daventry the niece.

"Steady as she goes, Mr. Scovill."

"...is cousin to the present Baron Daventry, and daughter of the seventhy baron."

Oh, devil it! He'd lost it! Who was cousin to whom?

Reggie stared blatantly, frantically sorting through the flood of images, a hero who was a heroine, a genteel lady secretly adventuring, riding over the waves, captaining the quest against a dangerous pirate band...

No, that had been done. Oh, but better! He'd keep Nicholas as the hero and she would be his trusted first mate, daringly holding to the masquerade until he found her out... How? He glanced down at slender feet in pale green satin slippers. Yes. Nicholas would see those delicate feet and know. No man could have such feet without having his masculinity questioned. But that posed another problem. How could love blossom when the hero thought...

The impatient imp of exuberance danced jigs inside him as he lifted her fingertips to his lips. Where would such delicate fingers find the strength to knot cordage?

"Have I said something amiss, Lord Reginald?" asked Miss Daventry. As she cocked her head, a stray golden curl bounced enticingly.

Reggie snapped back to reality and the puzzled pale green eyes. "Have you, Miss Daventry?" Color heated his cheeks. If she had, he had been too lost in the machinations of his fantasy to hear her. And if she knew what he was thinking, she'd break every stick and guard of her fan against his face.

"If I have offended you..."

The flush in his cheeks blazed. "Oh, no, Miss, uh, Daventry, not at all. Do forgive me. For a moment you reminded me of someone I knew." Someone he'd just made up, to be precise. "A striking resemblance. In the eyes, that is."

"Indeed," said Lady Mythe, and although her lips pursed with disapproval, something impish gleamed in her eyes.

"Yes, startling resemblance," he repeated. "Might you be related to the Daventrys in Cambridgeshire, Miss Daventry?"

"Well, I have a cous--"

"Oh, dear Lord Reginald," gushed a cloying voice behind him.

Reggie suppressed a groan. Not now! If he hadn't recognized Lady Laverhorn by her thickly sweet voice or the hand laid so coyly atop his sleeve, the warning glint in Lady Mythe's eyes would have told him.

"How kind of you to join us, Lord Reginald," Lady Laverhorn said with a luscious smile.

Reggie winced. Only a few weeks before, Lady Mythe had read him a scold for not discouraging Laverhorn's widow, and he knew she was right, but he hated being cruel. From some hidden reservoir inside himself, he located a patient smile.

"Lady Laverhorn," he said, nodding to acknowledge her. "I have been looking forward to coming." That much was true. Lord and Lady Mythe were his dear friends, and since Lady Laverhorn was Mythe's cousin, it was foregone that she would attend.

Reggie turned back to the intriguing lady in green. With deadly precision, Lady Laverhorn slipped her arm onto his, subtly tugging as Lady Mythe pursed her lips and glared. Frustration tightened in Reggie's throat.

"A pity you did not arrive earlier, dear Lord Reginald," said Lady Laverhorn. "You would have heard our Bronson read his latest work. It is quite wonderful." Her subtly lithe swaying radiated through her arm in a way no man alive would misinterpret, but the mischievous boy inside Reggie needled him to escape. But a gentleman did not cut a lady, wayward urges or no.

"Difficulties with the yacht," he replied, his favorite explanation for his lengthy disappearances. He graced the lady beside him with the most pleasant smile he could muster. "I have just made the acquaintance of these two fine ladies, Miss Godelin and Miss Daventry."

Lady Laverhorn clasped his arm and leaned just a bit too close. He could barely see the corner of her possessive smirk. "Yes. Lord Reginald is the second son of the Duke of Marmount, don't you know?"

"Indeed," replied Miss Daventry. Her light eyes sparkled, all the colors dancing, threatening to ensnare his runaway imagination again. "Perhaps you know my cousin--"

"Dear Lord Reginald has no doubt just come up from Devon, but I cannot imagine what has taken him so long," Lady Laverhorn purred, ignoring the fact that she had cut Miss Daventry's question in half.

"Rigging problems," he replied with a bit of a growl, not mentioning that the Xanthe had not even left her berth on the Thames in over two weeks while he holed up, agonizing over his dilemma. Reggie deliberately turned his attention back to the green-eyed miss, wanting to hear her voice again. How might it sound against the roar of a storm?

"Oh I do hope it is not serious, Lord Reginald," said Lady Laverhorn, leaning ever closer. Reggie stiffened.

The younger lady politely contained her astonishment, quietly closing her lips. Frustration ate at him, willing her to fight back against Lady Laverhorn's encroachment. But he knew better. Young ladies simply did not She would smile sweetly and step aside, the perfect milk-and-water miss, the sort of young lady he always liked but never found particularly interesting.

Yet he had only to look at her and inspiration inundated him. What the devil was it?

As Miss Daventry stepped back, just the way he knew she would, Lady Laverhorn advanced like a shark after a hapless sailor overboard. Her red curls jiggled like springs and her eyelids fluttered as she gazed up at him. Reggie's nostrils flared, wishing for some of that boldness in the young lady. But she would not dare.

"What is not serious?" asked the golden-curled lady.

Reggie's heart leaped. There it was, just what he wanted to see, just a spark of defiance flashing in the beautiful green eyes.

"The yacht, of course, my dear." Lady Laverhorn's hand rubbed his arm. "Lord Reginald thinks of nothing but his yacht." And there was his opening. Irritated though he was, Reggie could have kissed the brash lady. "Oh, she's in fine fettle. A bit of new cordage, and the Xanthe is as fit as a vessel can be. Ready for guests, I should say. That is, in fact, the very thing. Have you ever been to sea, Miss Daventry?"

The jade-colored eyes took on a glint of mischief that made his heart lurch. "I have been in a punt on the River Cam, but I suspect it is not the same thing." She looked to her aunt. Unspoken messages of eagerness flashed between the two.

She would love the sea. He knew it. "Do say you will come, Lady Laverhorn, and you, Miss Godelin, with your niece?"

He didn't have to look to know Lady Laverhorn would be fuming like Mt. Etna. Not ten minutes aboard the Xanthe on her one previous trip and she had cast up her accounts without even making it to the rail. If anything would get rid of her, this would.

"Well, I cannot say, Lord Reginald," said the older lady, picking words with care. "Perhaps if Lady Laverhorn..."

Lady Laverhorn's face turned nearly as green as Miss Daventry's dress. "Lord Reginald, you wretched man, you know I cannot abide sailing. No, Miss Godelin, I shall not step foot on a sailing vessel again in my lifetime, and I counsel you to do the same, if you do not wish to disgrace yourself."

The older lady's eyes, green like her niece's, widened, and her lips parted and rounded all at the same time. "Oh. Perhaps, Lord Reginald, it is a more suitable endeavor for gentlemen."

The smile fell from Miss Daventry's face. Lady Laverhorn tossed Reggie a gleam of triumph, and she tugged at his arm. "Then come along, Lord Reginald. Perhaps you can find sailing companions among the gentlemen."

Bedamned if he'd let her get away with that! Reggie turned back to the ladies, chuckling. "Surely you jest, Lady Laverhorn. You need not fear disgracing yourself. It rarely happens in calm waters, you know. Why, I do not even mean to leave the Thames."

He turned pleading eyes to the object of his inspiration.

The green eyes sparkled. "Aunt Daphne, would it not be a delight? Perhaps just a short trip, Lord Reginald?"

His heart raced like the yacht before a gale. "If I can entice you and your lovely aunt aboard, Miss Daventry, I would agree to anything. But I warn you, once you have sailed, you may never be able to give it up."

She hardly moved a muscle, yet as his gaze tangled with hers, he saw eagerness threatening to bubble out of her. His heart thudded like thunder as he excused himself to round up other guests.

But he still felt her presence, tingling like the stroke of a feather. He couldn't keep his eyes from searching her out. Every gesture she made impressed itself in his mind and brought new twists to a magically unfolding story. Like ice on a hot day, his dilemma melted away, leaving a solution so obvious he had trouble understanding why he'd never seen it before. The very story that he had rewritten over and over, that had fallen flat no matter what he did, sprang suddenly and brilliantly to life.

Remove Mr. Scovill. Replace him with-- What would he call her? Circe. Siren of the sea, the tantalizing lure of danger no man could resist. Of course, the original Circe had an annoying tendency to turn men to swine, but he could work around that. Circe Wolverton. Not replacing Mr. Scovill-- masquerading as Mr. Scovill.

Exhilaration almost overflowing, Reggie cast one last glance at his Circe, and as she turned, his gaze caught hers. In the flash of a moment, the mask of feminine decorum slipped, revealing the woman beneath and her carefully concealed secret self. Boldness. Courage. Behind the veneer of a biddable, milk-and-water miss lurked a secret adventuress, a woman who dared, who challenged life and reached out to the stars.

That, he hadn't made up. She really was his Circe.

He watched as she crossed the terrace with graceful steps, while his mind raged with visions of Circe dashing across the quarterdeck in a rising storm, walking the yard, furling the mizzen sail, fierce wind lashing heavy rain, her golden hair in sodden ringlets. His story burst into flaming glory, as if it had been merely poised, waiting for her to step in and set it afire. She would be magnificent!

A little chest-binding would be necessary, considering her attributes. Imagine the hero's consternation when he discovers...

That meant he was going to have to completely re-write chapter fourteen.

From that moment, Reggie hardly heard another voice as he waited in excruciating anticipation for the first reasonable moment when he could depart. Forcibly, he slowed his rush down the stone steps to the road, and all but shouted aloud as he jumped up into his curricle.

He'd found it at last. The perfect story. The perfect heroine. The Adventuress, by Reginald Beauhampton. The story of a woman who lived by her wits.

Of course, he'd not put his own name to it. His father's tongue would flay him like a cat'o'nine tails, and the Duke of Marmount would see to it Reggie never published another line as long as he drew breath.

Reggie was having enough trouble getting that first line published. But now he'd sell the thing, and be out from under his father's thumb. And better, at last put a period to the duke's demand that he marry his sour cousin Portia.

Reggie sat up so abruptly he almost dropped the ribbons. That was only half the solution. Miss Daventry would save him altogether. She had a substantial portion that could keep them both in pleasant circumstances until Reggie established himself as a writer, or persuaded his father to release the inheritance that should have come to him on his twenty-fifth birthday.

That part would be tricky. Once his father learned his son was slipping the collar, he might find a way to withhold it entirely. Or, knowing his father, worse. But if Reggie worked it right, he would not only confound his father's consuming passion for control, but have the necessary blunt to pursue the only thing he loved more than sailing. Writing.

* * *

"Oh, my." Aunt Daphne's golden eyebrows arched high. Delight sparkled in her eyes.

Chloe pursed her lips to keep her amusement from leaking out. In a world of jaded fops and dandies, Lord Reginald Beauhampton alone radiated vitality, in his wonderful blue eyes, in his very being, as if he were life itself. Something inside her suddenly felt like bouncing about with joy in the same exuberant way.

That would not do. She was not at home, where no one cared if she hared about like a hoyden. Her circumstances were much too desperate to run that risk.

"Impertinent pup." Lady Creston's nose flared as she sniffed. "I should think the duke would do something."

Lady Mythe's wide mouth spread into one of her endearing smiles. "I rather like him the way he is."

Chloe clasped her hands together, tucking her ivory lace fan between them, and locked her lips together just as tightly, deeming discretion to be the better part of valor. She had far too much at stake to risk entangling herself in this controversy.

"Indeed," said Lady Laverhorn. "One must admire such vitality. So few men possess it."

Lady Mythe leveled a glare at her husband's cousin.

Lady Creston stiffened. "The boy has no sense of the proper way to go on. One does not bob about life as if it were a country dance."

Chloe studied the patterns in the carpet at her feet. He did rather remind her of a country dance.

"That is just our Lord Reginald," Lady Mythe said with her pleasant smile, but Chloe saw the fire of a mother dragon flame in the lady's eyes.

"And that yacht. One would think he would take up the more mature and civilized pursuits of his peers."

"Something more genteel? Gaming hells and cock fights, I suppose? No, I quite prefer him the way he is."

"As do I," agreed Lady Laverhorn. The lady's hips shifted slightly in a motion Chloe would never consider imitating.

Lady Creston sneered. "But of course you do."

Chloe choked back her laugh until the urge faded, daring not even open her mouth to join in the young man's defense, for fear of a giggle.

He was a delight. Not one other gentleman she had met in her entire month in Town had raised her interest, although several were now paying court to her. Yet how nice it would be if she might marry a man for affection as well as means.

And how very unlikely.

"You would do well to keep your niece away from a harewit like Lord Reginald, Miss Godelin," said Lady Creston, and her fan pointed accusingly toward the door through which the young man had departed. "I suppose I need not concern myself, as he is but a second son. A small competence from his grandfather is all."

Chloe stopped herself from biting on her lip. Then he would do. Oh, he would do quite well. Yet at the same time, something almost frightening thrummed inside her. She attempted a smile as Lady Creston left.

Only Lady Mythe still stood with Chloe and her aunt, and her wide mouth stretched into a long, thin line. "Lord Reginald is a dear," she said, "and I believe you will find, very well-liked, not at all like his father. There are a few who cannot respect his finer qualities, but they are the ones who rarely appreciate the finer qualities in anyone who dares to enjoy life."

"I recall the duke," said Aunt Daphne with a studied frown. "Lud, he was a handsome man. But aloof, dour. Her Grace was a lovely woman. I believe she retired to the country when they became estranged."

"Handsome as his son?" Chloe asked, and instantly felt a flush to her cheeks.

Lady Mythe's broad mouth wiggled at its corners.

Daphne smiled. "Oh, quite. Darker, I recall, but the same intense blue eyes. Her Grace had the light hair."

"Lord Reginald is not badly fixed for a second son," Lady Mythe added. "His inheritance through his grandfather on his mother's side includes the Featherstone estates, and some substantial investments. East India, I believe. One could do far worse."

Heat burned Chloe's cheeks. She could never quite get used to the open way such things were discussed, as if they were dealing in horses. Yet it mirrored her thoughts exactly.

As they departed, she found it hard to concentrate on a graceful leave-taking. Her smile seemed wobbly, and the words from her mouth unsteady as the descended to steps to their coach.

"I allow he seems taken with you, my dear," Aunt Daphne said, settling back into the squabs of their hired coach. "But I cannot think a second son will meet your qualifications."

Chloe watched the coach's elongated shadow ripple over Piccadilly's brick and stone facades. Was he taken with her? Or was he just being kind? In any case, how could she compete with what the scandalous Lady Laverhorn so obviously offered?

Guilt stuck like a lump in her throat. She had nothing to offer in return but deception. But she had no choice, for she had to find a husband, soon. "If he owns a yacht, his competence cannot be paltry," she said.

"But he has no power to speak of," Aunt Daphne replied. "And you specifically mentioned that. And although he is second in line, his older brother is certain to wed. Nor does that take into account the duke's vigorous health. The young man will not inherit, my dear."

"All the better, aunt. He is not above my touch as he would be if he were the duke's heir apparent, yet he might call upon his father's influence without having power of his own. Men of power can be terribly disconcerting, don't you think?"

Aunt Daphne searched her face warily.

Chloe drew in her lower lip. "A man may do as he wills with a woman and her property. Uncle Bernard would surely have spent my last farthing while I watched helplessly, if he had not cocked up his toes. I do not to find myself in such a situation again."

Aunt Daphne pursed her lips. Years ago her aunt had chosen to remain single, but Chloe had no such choice if she was to free her half-sisters. She needed a very influential man would be able to persuade their guardian to relinquish them.

"One must be practical about such things," Chloe said, cramming her interlaced fingers together to push her gloves into a better fit. "It is bad enough that one must marry."

"Then, my dear, it would be better to choose a suitable companion, since all men have power and women do not."

As she thought of the young man and his yacht, excitement rippled through her. Yet she did not want a man who could engage her heart. She had seen what had happened to her mother. "Do you not think Lord Reginald would be companionable? He has the added advantage of interests to keep him engaged elsewhere. He at least would not be in my hair all the time."

"In my limited experience with men, that rarely is the problem. One might wonder instead, when they might come home."

"That would not concern me. Although Lord Reginald does have a certain charm." Too much charm. If he had any flaw, it was that.

The coach rattled onto Little Swallow Street, its suspension creaking. Excitement threaded through her veins. She had a lot to do. She'd have to go to the mews tonight and find that noise, for it wouldn't do to go about town squeaking like a mouse. She'd put too much work into dressing the coach's shabby interior and touching up the black enamel where it was rubbed or cracked, to let her efforts go to waste.

As the coach stopped at the door, her overworked footman hopped down and handed down both ladies. Chloe avoided looking at the young man, knowing how difficult it was going to be to meet his wages. That was one thing she was not willing to forego. Shopkeepers expected to extend credit, but servants could ill afford to do so, and Cargill had the extra burden of an ailing mother to support, back home in Kent.

Cargill rushed inside and took on an entirely different personality as he stiffened his back. His face became solemn and even his voice darkened as he took bonnets and lifted pelisses from the ladies' shoulders.

"Will there be anything else, Miss Daventry?" he asked, having become the perfect butler.

"Thank you, Cargill, that will be all."

The man seemed almost disappointed. He should have trod the boards, not become man of all work in her strange household.

"I'll just find that squeak for you then, ma'am."

Chloe nodded, glad to have one problem off her shoulders. She glanced about the foyer, looking for flaws that might give her scheme away. She must do something about the draperies, which were faded where the sunlight touched them.

A spot in the dark woodwork needed a bit of touching up. She must do that tonight, too, before Lord Reginald had an opportunity to call.

Chloe started up the stairs, and her mind shifted to the blue ball gown she wanted to finish by tomorrow night. Yes, Lord Reginald would most definitely suit. If she moved fast enough, he might not discover her lack until it was too late.

* * *

Inspiration racing through him, Reggie dashed up the three steps, sped past the doorman to the staircase, and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. Puckett startled as Reggie bounded into the sitting room.

"Paper, Puckett," he called, almost shouting. "Did you get the foolscap?"

"Yes, my lord, and ink. I've trimmed your quills."

Good old Puckett. He always thought ahead. Reggie stripped off his jacket and shirt, and exchanged them for the ink-blotched country smock.

"I shall require coffee tonight, Puckett. Send to MacDevie to ready the Xanthe for guests tomorrow afternoon, both ladies and gentlemen. And I'll need you to send a posey for me. Something enticing." Reggie slid his chair up to his writing desk and scribbled out Miss Daventry's direction, then reached for his manuscript.

"Inspiration has struck, then, my lord?"

"With the swiftness and power of a bolt of lightning. A great deal of work, but not so much as a new story. It will have to be entirely recopied, of course."

"Yes, my lord. That will be fine." Puckett's eyes sparked with Reggie's own enthusiasm. He was the only person privy to Reggie's secret, and he loved it almost as much as Reggie did, taking delight in copying the manuscripts in his unusually fine hand, and in dressing in a gentleman's finery to represent the anonymous author.

Reggie gathered up his energy and tackled the thick stack of foolscap, scanning rapidly for the first mention of Mr. Scovill.

A fever built in him as he pushed on to the next point, and the next, making notes in margins, inserting new sheets, rewriting paragraph after paragraph. The candles burnt low, and Puckett trimmed the wicks. Coffee appeared on the little table beside the writing desk, and grew cold when he forgot it. Puckett trimmed his quills, refilled the inkwell, blotted the pages. New blotches grew on the smock like mold on bread. Ink smeared on the side of his hand, and he rubbed the spots with a slice of lemon he kept handy to lighten the blue-black marks. As the first light of dawn streaked white and yellow, Puckett dozed in the wing-back chair. Reggie blinked, realizing he had once again spent the entire night engrossed in the magic of his own making. With one glance at the bed, exhaustion sneaked up and wrapped around him like a warm and beckoning blanket. He shook Puckett's shoulder to send the man off to his own bed, and Reggie collapsed, pulling blankets over himself. Morning became a vague thought that dissolved into nothingness.

He jerked awake. Bright sunlight glared through the window. Reggie leapt to the floor and rushed to the washstand, swiping up his pocket watch as he ran. "Nine o' the clock! Devil it, Puckett, why did you let me sleep so late?"

"You didn't say to wake you, my lord. Mrs. Mungay has had a bit of coffee sent up."

Reggie rubbed his eyes and dashed water onto his face.

"Morning calls, sir?" Puckett asked, already waiting for Reggie's shave.

"No time. I must get to the Xanthe." Reggie plopped into the chair and leaned back for the lathering, willing calmness upon himself, for if he fidgeted, Puckett would merely stop and stand aside, waiting for his employer to settle down.

He composed himself. It would not do to wiggle about like a worm on a hook. Hardly a way to court a lady. The afternoon would not arrive any faster for it, nor the night, when he could once again scratch his creation onto paper. Reggie relaxed and let Puckett do his job.

He couldn't wait to see her again. He needed to see so many things. His heroine would have to learn to cover up the very mannerisms she had spent a lifetime learning, to take on the coarse behavior of an old sea salt. And do it all without giving herself away.

Why?

"Uh oh."

"My lord?" Puckett straightened, lifting the razor away from Reggie's half-shaven beard.

"Puckett, why would a lady masquerade as a seaman?"

"I'm sure I do not know, my lord."

Reggie studied Puckett's face. "Come now, think, man. Surely it is not beyond imagining."

Puckett loved this part. The ridge between his brows furrowed like a plowed field behind a drunken mule. "Surely she must be terribly adventurous to do such a thing, my lord. Or terribly desperate."

Puckett leaned forward with the blade once again, but withdrew and paused, waiting for Reggie to relax. Reggie marveled at the man's patience.

"Yes, of course she is adventurous. She--" Reggie laughed out loud. "Desperate. Yes. But why? About what could a lady be so desperate?"

"My lord, if you will only be still a moment longer so I can finish-- Perhaps we can talk more as we dress you."

Reggie tried not to grumble. He interlocked his fingers in his lap, but it was like an eternity of seconds to be calm when his mind raced ahead of him as it was doing now.

At last he was allowed to stand again, and don the clothing Puckett had chosen. When the Cheval glass reflected the perfectly tied cravat, snowy white against the stunning blue of the coat, Reggie smiled. The only time he ever noticed his own eyes were blue was when he wore this coat.

"Very good, Puckett. You are a marvel. You may send for the curricle."

Reggie dashed down two flights of stairs and out the door.

"Desperation. Desperation," he sang to himself as he leapt to the seat. What would it take for a delicate lady to abandon a safe life and pursue a dangerous life of riding the waves? He had to figure that out or his entire premise would fail.

Reggie cracked the ribbons and sped off for the docks.

Chapter Two

"Try not to tap your fan, dear."

Chloe blinked as her aunt's whispering voice startled her out of her reverie. She set the folded ivory fan in her lap.

They were late. And she was thoroughly aware the tide waited for no man, or for that matter, no lady whose decrepit coach had slipped a cotter pin of major importance just as they were about to set out. If he left without them, her golden opportunity would be gone.

"It is not at all the thing to be all atwitter."

She wanted to protest that she was not at all atwitter, but there were her fingers once again dancing a veritable polka against the black enamel sill of the coach window. She laid both hands in her lap, willing them with all her mind to be still.

As they turned toward the little quay at Tilbury, Chloe searched through the tall, barren masts. Her heart tripped along with the steady clopping of horses' hooves past ship after ship.

As the coach halted, she saw the Xanthe at the quay, tricked out in a gypsy's colors, with two masts of square-rigged sails, the only brig among a mass of smaller cutters.

Lord Reginald dashed down the battened gangplank just as Cargill opened the carriage door. Her breath caught in her throat. She had thought him handsome yesterday, but today he was magnificent. This was his element, this water, wood and wind that made his summer-sky eyes bluer, his broad shoulders broader.

"Ladies, a pleasure to have you join us."

"Do forgive our tardiness, Lord Reginald," said Aunt Daphne, accepting the salute to her hand. "We did so fear you had gone off without us."

Linking arms with both ladies, Lord Reginald led them to the gangplank. "But only a word, dear lady, and we would wait an age to have your company."

Anxious eagerness flashed in his eyes as he left them with other guests, and Chloe felt disappointment settle deep in her. She nodded to Lord and Lady Mythe, Lord Castlebury, Lord Bibury.

As the ship moved out from its berth, Lord Vilheurs hurried up and bowed over her hand, his black eyes sparkling. Chloe tried to smile. The man seemed to be everywhere she went. Still, she was too desperate to discourage him. Her heart was not at risk with him, however, a point definitely in his favor.

Yet it was Lord Reginald who had her eye as he talked with the grey-haired captain and studied the sails over their heads before he returned to his guests. Perhaps it was just her excitement at finally glimpsing a solution to her problem.

Or perhaps not. His presence behind her was as palpable as a brisk breeze. "The river seems very crowded, is it not?" she asked, looking back at him.

His blue eyes lingered on her a bit too long. Chloe looked down, her pulse hammering. Perhaps she should reconsider Lord Vilheurs, who at least could not make her heart race in such a troublesome way.

"More now than later," he said. His voice was oddly raspy. "The tide has just turned."

The Xanthe swung around to catch the current. Her sails dropped and billowed, yet the air seemed barely to stir.

"A light air day," Lord Reginald said. "We'll not get far. Perhaps later this summer we shall sail down to Margate and back. With a clear sky, one can actually see the coast of France."

"Are you quite sure it would be safe?" asked Lady Mythe. "With the Blockade and all?"

"Quite sure, Lady Mythe," he replied. "The French have not threatened our shores since Trafalgar."

Chloe had been so fixed on Lord Reginald's narration, she had not noticed Lord Vilheurs take her by the arm to subtly coax her in the other direction to where a deck hand had laid out a small feast upon a Welsh plaid shawl.

She did not want to join him, nor to eat. Still, a properly biddable young miss would not object, and above all things, Chloe needed to be that very creature so admired by all eligible men. With a sigh, she sat beside Lord Vilheurs and helped herself to dainty biscuits and a glass of ratafia. Lord Vilheurs leaned close, his dark eyes gleaming. Chloe steeled herself to the discomfort of his hot breath on her neck, but could not stop herself from shifting ever so slightly away from him.

Lord Reginald leaned against the gunwale, his jaw set grimly as he watched. Demurely, Chloe applied her gaze to the plaid weave of the Welsh shawl, and attempted not to notice that Lord Vilheurs was again leaning closer to her ear than she found comfortable.

"What an annoying fribble he is," said Lord Vilheurs in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

Chloe jerked back, astonished. "I beg your pardon?"

The man's lips formed a narrow smile. "To think, he fancies himself a common sailor. Amusing, do you not think?"

"Indeed?" Chloe set down her biscuit and picked up her fan.

Chloe watched his sneer, noticing for the first time the dark hairs that protruded from his nose like a stiff brush.

"A proper gentleman does not dabble in such common pursuits," said Vilheurs, and again disdain flared his nose.

"Really." She raised her open fan to her face to hide her irritation. "What do you dabble in, Lord Vilheurs?"

Lord Vilheurs opened his mouth, then quickly shut it.

Chloe gritted her teeth. She was not good at all at being demure, but she knew full well no man wanted a bold hoyden for a bride. Yet if she let Lord Vilheurs glue himself to her side, Lord Reginald was going to form entirely the wrong idea.

That would not do.

She stood, a bit too abruptly, and graced the man by her side with the best smile she could summon up.

"I fear I am neglecting our host," she said, and strolled across the deck, where she scanned over the ripples. To her dismay, Lord Vilheurs hopped up and followed.

Abruptly, she swept around and fixed a bold gaze directly at Lord Reginald's bright blue eyes, a blatant plea for rescue. In two strides, Lord Reginald reached her, taking her arm. "For shame, Villy," he said, with a grin that was clearly beyond what a proper gentleman might show. "You have monopolized our Miss Daventry from the moment she came aboard. As forward as begging the third dance, don't you think?"

Vilheurs turned dark eyes on him like swords to run him through, but Lord Reginald chuckled and deftly directed Chloe's attention to a huge square-rigger that dwarfed the Xanthe.

"The Nahoo," he said, pointing. "Just in from Ceylon. Headed for the East India Docks."

"How is it you know so much about ships, Lord Reginald?" Her pulse thrummed at the touch of his hand at her arm.

"I love ships. As a young boy, I wanted to go to sea, before I understood only cits and salts did that."

She cocked her head at the odd admission, and he hesitated, as he awaited a sneer from her.

She smiled instead. "But you might have joined the Navy."

He shook his head. "My older brother sank my chances when he outraged my father by taking his pair of colors in the Guards. But someday I shall sail somewhere, just for the adventure."

Chloe watched the ever-widening channel as the light breeze caressed her face. What would it be like to sail away with him?

"Have you ever wished for an adventure, Miss Daventry?"

She froze. Had he guessed her secrets?

"It has been done, you know," he said. "Women going to sea in the guise of men."

She gulped. She should never have looked at him so boldly.

"Truly," he said. "Though I must confess I am at a loss to comprehend why a woman would leave a comfortable home for the rigors and dangers of the sea."

She trained her eyes once again along the ripples that were growing choppy as the wind freshened. She knew the answer too well to say aloud, yet something in his intensity made her want to answer. "Perhaps it was not all that comfortable."

"Indeed. Why might that be?"

"A woman does not have a man's opportunities, Lord Reginald. If her mother were invalid, if her father abused her, if she had no other way to survive, would she not do what must be done?"

"Surely it would be less rigorous to become a governess."

"And if she could not? What if perhaps she had been turned out without a character? If she had to choose between that and other even less savory choices?"

He stared openly. She held her breath. She'd just doomed herself, to even know of such things, much less speak of them. "I had not thought of that," he answered. "You are an astute young lady, Miss Daventry."

"There is nothing astute about what every woman knows, sir. A woman's life can be a precarious one."

"Many ladies are not aware of the plight of others."

Her hands gripped the gunwale. She was no sheltered lady, but she dared not let him know that. "More is the pity. But I must wonder how your ladies of the sea managed to keep their secrets. Surely the basic differences would be obvious."

Lord Reginald's mouth wriggled like a naughty boy with a secret. "But a small man can more easily get around in cramped quarters, and many a country woman is as strong as a man."

She smirked back. "But would not the physical differences be noticed? Could she live among men without-- Men are much more open about some things..."

"There is not a great deal of bathing and changing of clothes at sea, Miss Daventry."

Chloe's mouth opened, but it could not quite form a word.

Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Yes, it would be difficult to conceal. But if you could, would you not like to have such an adventure?"

Her cheeks flushed. How could he know she had secret longings no civilized woman should have? But she smiled to hide her secret thoughts. "If ever such a glimmer entered my mind, Lord Reginald, I fear you stifled it when you took away the opportunity for bathing and changing one's garments."

It was Lord Reginald's mouth that hung open this time. He stared at her as if feasting with his eyes on an eternal banquet, and set her heart racing like hounds after the fox. Her eyelids fluttered, and she studied the seams of her tan kid gloves. "But come, you are neglecting your other guests, Lord Reginald. And I should see to my aunt."

With a shaky smile, she turned away, leaving the chill of the strengthening wind behind. Then abruptly, she pivoted to face him again. "Thank you for the lovely irises."

Again and again, she caught him staring, blatantly begging a silent question, and she blushed and looked away.

He was everything she never wanted, a man who scrambled her brain and tangled her heartstrings in hopeless knots. But that didn't matter when it came to saving Madeline and Allison.

She had to choose. Lord Vilheurs was richer, safer.

But Lord Reginald was the son of a duke. He had power. And power was what she must have.

Chloe took a long, deep breath. Boldly, she set her gaze to ensnare his. She lifted her fan to touch her lips, obscuring their silent message. But he heard it. And his eyes replied. He would pursue her to the ends of the earth.

Chapter Three

Puckett dashed in, slamming the door behind him. "Sir, your father. He's coming."

Reggie jumped up from his desk, jerked off the smock, while Puckett scooped up the scattered pages and shoved them into the hidden panel of the desk. Reggie slipped into his coat, then tugged on gloves to cover his ink-stained hands.

The door opened. Hostility flickered like sparks as the duke entered. Reggie gritted his teeth. No one dared suggest to the duke that he knock before entering, like any reasonable man. In any event, the Duke of Marmount had never been a reasonable man and would not consider becoming one now.

"Going somewhere, Reginald?"

"I meant to, sir." A quick glance at the Cheval glass showed his cravat was lopsided, and he turned to Puckett, who silently tucked his fingers through the creases.

"It can wait." The duke strode straight to Reggie's desk, picked up the quill, and turned it over in his hand. "Letters?"

Reggie forced himself to breathe. "Correspondence, sir."

"Not that damnable poetry again."

"No, sir. Not in quite some time."

"Well, there's that. You have been inattentive to your cousin, Reginald."

Reggie wanted to groan, but stifled it. "Yes, sir."

"She has complained to me. No doubt you have been playing with that bedamned boat."

"Yacht, sir."

With a wave of his hand, the duke dismissed Reggie's objection. He picked up the half of lemon and sniffed it. "What is this obsession you have with lemons, Reginald?"

"Freshens the air, sir. And I am fond of the flavor."

The Duke's nostrils wrinkled. "Reginald, I do not care how much you sail the bedamned boat, once you have married. But until then, you will pay court to your cousin Portia. Have I not made myself clear about this?"

"You have, sir," Reggie replied through barred teeth.

"A married man need not be concerned with his wife's sensibilities. A single man, however-- But there is no need for that discussion. We have had it before."

"Indeed, sir." Numerous times. Reggie also had his father's perfect example on that subject.

The duke ran a gloved finger over a marquetry table and inspected the trail in the dust. His nostrils flared the tiniest bit. "I cannot conceive why you wish to live like this. Featherstone could be yours, and the trust as well."

It already was, and they both knew it. Reggie's inheritance from his grandfather should have come to him on his twenty-fifth birthday, four months past. But the duke had called upon a technicality, claiming Reggie to be too immature to manage his affairs, and Reggie would be hard put to dislodge him as trustee.

"It's time you come up to scratch, Reginald. I'll not brook any more delays. Do you understand me?"

Reggie nodded, knowing that would not satisfy his father, who continued his fixed stare from steel blue eyes, waiting to hear the actual words. Reggie gave in. "I do, sir."

Just the slightest folding of the man's lips acknowledged the response, but Reggie knew how to read it.

"You will call upon your cousin and make your addresses. I had not wished to say this, but if you do not, you will receive nothing on quarter day. You do understand me."

Reggie returned the icy glare with his face carefully schooled. "Yes sir." He had not said he would comply, but knew his father's great conceit equated understanding with obedience.

His father's visits were something to be endured. Hostility might crackle in the air, but the slightest hint of rebellion would bring the duke's wrath descending with the vindictiveness of Olympic gods. Reggie followed his father from room to room, tolerating the criticism which trod the thin line between fact and insult, because he knew the inevitable next step.

After precisely fifteen minutes, the duke stood at the door. Puckett deposited the rolled rim beaver hat in the duke's hand. Without so much as a curt nod, the duke pivoted, and if Puckett had not had sufficient familiarity with the duke to anticipate him with an open door, the duke would have walked right into it.

The moment the door closed behind his father, Reggie and Puckett let out deep sighs together.

"That was a close one, sir."

Reggie nodded at the obvious. He could manage fifteen minutes, for it was always precisely that, but he could never tolerate living in his father's household again. If he married Portia, it would be all of the same, for Portia would be completely biddable, not to her husband, but to the duke. And Reggie would never write another word.

Reggie's argument that he was not his father's heir, and would not ever be, was futile. From the day Robert had slipped away to fight a war rather than deal with his domineering parent, the Duke of Marmount had persuaded himself his heir would die in battle. All the duke's attention had turned on Reggie, rage boiling beneath the rim of the duke's emotional cup, always at the point of spilling over. But in the end, Robert would inherit. It was the only thing the duke could not control. Reggie didn't care about that. He had only wanted to please his father, but after more than six years of trying, he had finally accepted that the duke would never be pleased.

Reggie had nothing to gain, not even his father's elusive love, by marrying his obnoxious cousin. He certainly would not accept the misery of eternal domination for the sake of an inheritance he didn't want and would never receive.

A shudder shook him all the way down his spine. He had to sell The Adventuress soon. And if he wanted Chloe, he'd have to move fast. Before the duke discovered her.

* * *

"Are you quite sure this is what you want, my dear?" asked Aunt Daphne as she descended the stairs with Chloe.

In the entry below, Chloe heard an unfashionably early caller with Cargill. She touched her aunt's arm. Her spirits dropped quickly as she recognized Lord Vilheurs's deep rasp that matched his nearly black hair and eyes. Chloe set a passable smile on her face and descended to the entry floor as Cargill passed a bouquet of white and red roses to a maid.

"My dear Miss Daventry," he said after addressing her aunt. "So pleasing to see you are well after that dreadful boat ride."

Chloe blinked, but then recalled Lady Laverhorn's discomfort. Perhaps he assumed such was the fate of all females. She led the gentleman toward the salon. "I am surprised, Lord Vilheurs. We found it pleasant."

"Do forgive my early hour, my dear, but my impatience is born of concern. Dare I say, I feared for your health in such a chill wind?"

Chloe repressed a snicker. "I am not of a fragile nature, sir. Such fresh air cannot be bad for one. Did you not see the pall hanging over Town? I should fear that more."

He gave an odd smile that seemed to have no meaning. "But of course, you are not accustomed to Town. It must seem so to you." The man paused, choosing his words. "Miss Daventry, might I hope to drive out with you this afternoon?"

Chloe gritted her teeth. She could not turn him down, then accept Lord Reginald if he came to call. She opened her mouth, searching for a saving reply.

"Oh, but my dear," said Aunt Daphne. "Don't you recall--" Aunt Daphne let her words trail off.

Whatever did her aunt expect her to say?

Fingers to her lips, Chloe stumbled about for an escape. "Dear me, what have I done? Have I forgotten my promises again, Aunt Daphne? Oh, what you must think, Lord Vilheurs!"

His black brows furrowed as he cocked his head. Ah. That was it. Say anything. As long as her words said nothing at all. "Oh, do forgive me, my lord," she rattled, glancing at Aunt Daphne. "I cannot think where my mind has gone. Perhaps you are right. All that fresh air. Can it be that it affects the mind?"

"Oh, no, Miss Daventry," Vilheurs replied, his brow furrowed with confusion, "I am sure nothing is wrong with your mind--"

"Then it must simply be that I am overtaxed. The Season, you know. As you say, I am not at all accustomed to such bustle. Do say you forgive me."

"Of course, my dear, but--"

"I am so very grateful, my lord." She took his arm, leading him back out the salon to the corridor. "How vexing it must be for a man to deal with female failings! Do say you will come again. And how very kind of you to bring the flowers."

"Of course. Not vexing at all. Yes. You do understand the language of flowers, do you not, my dear?"

Chloe hoped her smile did not look as weak as it felt. "Of course, my lord. White for kindness. Red for-- What is it, Aunt Daphne? Red for blood, is it not? Oh, yes, courage." She drew the man to the door, where Cargill waited with his tall hat.

"No, Miss Daventry, it is white for--"

"Oh, yes," Chloe said, all but pushing him out the door. "That is the one that means too young for love. How right you are, my lord. I shall be glad I listened to you. So very kind of you to come. I fear I must hurry now. Do call again."

Lord Vilheurs stuttered all the way out until the door shut behind him. Chloe rolled her eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

"I believe I have never seen anything quite like that," Aunt Daphne said with a laugh. "However did you think of such a thing?"

"I thought I was merely following your lead, aunt. Was that not what you had in mind?"

"I should say not, as I have no notion what it was you did. But I should not try it on the man again, my dear."

Chloe supposed not even he would fall for such blather a second time. But perhaps she presumed too much, to think Lord Reginald would call on her today.

* * *

Reggie sprang down from his hack just as Lord Vilheurs strode out the door of Miss Daventry's town house. A glower hung on the man's face as heavy as his black eyebrows.

"Good morning, Villy," Reggie said, handing over the reins to the groom. "Up a bit early, aren't you?"

Vilheurs glared back. "Early bird catches the worm, Beauhampton."

"Well, then, I shall hope that for you." Reggie skipped up the steps. Vilheurs swivelled around as Reggie raced past him.

Reggie entered as sedately as he could manage, but the moment his gaze landed on Miss Daventry, the sudden urge to wrap her in an enthusiastic hug hit him. He flexed his hands nervously. "I pray you will forgive my early call, although I see I am not the first. I beg you, Miss Godelin, tell me you and your niece have not already accepted an invitation for the day."

The two women glanced at each other, and something like a smirk wiggled on each of their mouths.

"We have no commitments for the day," said Miss Daventry.

"Then, might you drive out with me this afternoon?"

Again, the two pairs of light green eyes exchanged glances.

Miss Daventry drew in a slow breath. "Perhaps you might take us out again on your yacht, perhaps a bit farther than yesterday?"

His heart ran away with itself. He had not even dared hope for as much. "I could have no greater pleasure, Miss Daventry, and the weather is perfect. But we have several hours to the coast from the berth in Tilbury, and if we are to return before nightfall, we must hurry. I shall return for you in half an hour."

Reggie rode home like a madman and threw on wool trousers and coat. Precisely half an hour later, he brought up a coach to the Daventry house and took up the two ladies, and by noon, the coach reached the dock.

As they cast off, the stiff breeze snapped the sails and the Xanthe caught the current and sped downstream. Miss Daventry stood beside him on the quarterdeck, her eyes bright with anticipation. The wind in her face tugged golden curls from her bonnet, whipping them about like pennants, giving her the bold look of his Circe. His imagination ran wild.

Man the yardarm, Mr. Scovill!

Aye, Sir!

Reggie escorted the ladies across the deck, naming and explaining functions from boom to hatch, while MacDevie tacked to starboard for a clear route in the crowded river.

Then MacDevie offered the wheel to Miss Daventry.

A glimmer of excitement played behind Miss Daventry's solemnity. "If it would not be a bother."

MacDevie stepped aside as if he relinquished the wheel to young ladies every day.

She'll not go down, sir! Not while she's in my hands!

He could see her lashing herself to the helm in a raging storm to save her ship. His Circe would never let her ship founder on the rocks, nor capsize in a trough.

The foresail played out, then the main topgallant, and the Xanthe glided with wind, current and tide, while Reggie studied the horizon for any signs of a sudden storm, feeling a tightness in the air. Seagulls rose, circled, soared and dove with the wind in their eternal search for food.

"We are going much faster today," Miss Daventry remarked.

He nodded. "Close to seven knots," he guessed. "Yesterday the air was light, and I only ran the mainsail. The Xanthe was built by 'the gentlemen' to outrun the Excise men. Sometimes her speed is frightening to those who are not accustomed to it."

"I think something worries you."

He'd hoped she hadn't noticed. But surely nothing would go wrong. He saw nothing. Reggie stowed his unease. "A stiff wind carries the ship far, but it can also portend a coming storm. A good seaman should always be watchful."

"Is there a storm coming then, Lord Reginald?"

Concern mingled with trust played out in her light green eyes. He prayed it was not misplaced. "Watch the birds, Miss Daventry. They will tell us more than we can see for ourselves."

"How?"

"When they head for shore, we should do the same. If it worries you, we can go back."

"No. I am sure you will manage things."

Reggie watched the skies for more than just the gulls. The bright day was full of great summer puffs idling high in the heavens. No dark roll clouds on the horizon. The worst storms came from seaward, and as long as the wind didn't shift, anything out there would not come in their direction. But there was a sense of the air, like an aroma. Something was out there.

Reggie leaned against the gunwale, the sea breeze against his face. The hours passed as he spun the Xanthe's tales, of smuggling runs and buried kegs on a sandy beach, of battles, boardings, and daring escapes into cloudbanks.

The river widened, with the flat fens spread out on both sides. On the far shore, Reggie pointed out the docks of Gravesend. "Do you want to go ashore, or shall we return?"

Wildness sparkled in her eyes as she shook her head, and she pointed out to the choppy salt water of the Channel. "I've never been asea, Lord Reginald. Might we just take a short excursion? The Xanthe can go to sea, can she not?"

"She's seaworthy." Still, he thought the waves a bit grey. The tall billows of clouds gathered heavier, raising their tops higher. He wet a finger to test the wind, noting a slight shift to the southwest.

Reggie signaled MacDevie to take the craft out to sea. A trace of a frown crossed MacDevie's face as the Xanthe tacked to starboard, cutting across the choppy waves over the bar. But if MacDevie had any fears, he would have said something.

Miss Godelin lurched with the roll of the craft, and her game smile stretched thin as she clutched the shrouds. Reggie cursed himself silently for not thinking of her sensibilities.

"Perhaps we should return," he suggested.

"No, please," said Miss Godelin. "I have not been to sea either, Lord Reginald."

Reggie swallowed down his concern for her and let the yacht continue across the choppy bar to the open sea. "The worst is over. Farther out, the sea is calmer."

As her sails unfurled, the Xanthe dashed across the brilliantly sparkling sea. Standing at the bow, Miss Daventry let her bonnet fall back, and her golden curls danced like gypsies. Yes. She really was Circe, in her heart. He would marry her, and they would sail the Seven Seas together.

He glanced back at Miss Godelin. Merriment glittered in her eyes as if she read his thoughts and dreamed of just that very thing for her niece. Perhaps a duke's younger son was acceptable if he had an adequate competence from a doting grandfather. But what would she think if she learned the duke might play his son false if he married against his parent's wishes? He would eventually gain what was rightfully his, but he dared not let either of the ladies know the true nature of things yet.

A haze hung in the distance, marking the landmass of the Continent. "There," he said, "on a clear day, sometimes you can see the coast of France."

The ladies frowned as if they didn't quite believe it.

"Is this not a clear day? Does it always look like this?" Miss Daventry asked.

"Sometimes it is much clearer. To larboard, Miss Daventry, a frigate. I imagine she carries messages up and down the line."

"Could the Xanthe catch her?"

"Most likely not, but she can outsail a ship of the line."

Her green eyes danced with anticipation.

He chuckled. "No, Miss Daventry, one does not challenge a ship going about the duties of war."

"No, of course not," she said, and her pleasant smile faded slightly. "It is nice to know, though."

The urge to wrap an arm about her rippled through him, and he gripped the gunwale until it passed. "Perhaps another day we shall enjoy a race," he said. "But for now, let us just enjoy the sea."

"But the birds are coming ashore, Lord Reginald." Miss Daventry pointed to the seaward horizon.

Not only birds. On the horizon lay a thin black roll cloud.

"Squall, sir," said MacDevie.

"Let's take her back, MacDevie."

"Aye, sir."

As they came to larboard, the wind whipped around, shearing across his right cheek instead of his left. They'd run with the wind, but they wouldn't miss the storm. The crew scurried up the ratlines. Squealing yardarms and creaking shrouds vied with rising wind as the yacht came about to larboard and picked up speed, lurching over suddenly choppy seas. He could make out Thanet. Perhaps they could make port at Margate.

"Sir," said MacDevie, pointing to stern.

The storm was moving in fast. Deep troughs were forming in the river's mouth.

"Bring her about, steady, Mr. MacDevie."

"Aye, sir."

With masterful precision, MacDevie eased the Xanthe across the chop of tall caps, neither too fast nor too slow. His calm voice boomed out above the growing wail of wind, calling for topsails furled, mainsail and foresail shortened.

Seaward, the sky was black. Shoreward, still hazy blue. In the distance against dark clouds, the lights of Gravesend twinkled like dim stars, too far to make before the storm hit full force.

The ladies hugged their pelisses in the chill wind.

"You'll be more comfortable belowdecks, ladies."

Miss Godelin nodded, looking to her companion, who shook her head. Hand over hand, the elder lady followed the gunwale to the ladderway, steadying herself between the yacht's pitching, and descended to the cabin below the poopdeck.

The first drops of rain hit like rocks, and in seconds became a deluge, whipped by vicious wind. Choppy waves pitched the Xanthe bow to stern as it drove up and over, dropped down, rose again. Miss Daventry dove for the ratlines.

It was going to get worse. Very soon. "I should like for you to follow your aunt belowdeck now, Miss Daventry."

Her brave smile soured as she gripped the ratlines. "I'm sure I can manage--"

"Belowdecks, Miss Daventry! Now!"

She jerked back. "Yes, sir." Sidling a wild glance at the menacing sea, Miss Daventry clung to the gunwale with the tenacity of a squid, then lunged toward the belowdecks ladderway. The deck pitched. She smashed against the cabin wall and bounced to the deck as a wall of water swept over the gunwale and slammed green water all the way to the cabin. As she slid, Reggie dove after her, one hand snatching her flying hair and the other snagging a lifeline. Her mouth opened in a scream drowned out by the howling wind, and both legs dangled beyond the gunwale, over the starboard side.

Chapter Four

Reggie grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward him as he braced himself flat against the gunwale. Green water washed over them in stinging cold fury. Gripping her wrists so fiercely he feared breaking them, he waited out the power of the wave and Russell dashed in and grabbed handfuls of the lady's pelisse, then lashed a line about her. Again a wave swamped the deck, tossing Russell's feet as he grappled the lifeline, and the receding, foaming tongue pulled them toward the gunwale. Reggie felt the deck slide beneath him, and he clung to the lines until the water seeped away. Miss Daventry hung at the brink, half suspended above the licking sea. They hauled her back aboard.

Gasping for breath and sanity, Reggie stood the lady on her feet, swept her up into his arms and rushed to the cabin before another wave could sweep over the deck. The fourth wave hit just as he reached the cabin, and he latched onto the ladder, pressing the lady's body against the ladder with his own until the wave passed. Then he carried her belowdecks, threw open the cabin door and dashed inside.

By the light of swinging lanterns, the elder lady gasped, but Reggie paid no heed as he yanked off Miss Daventry's sodden pelisse. She swayed a little and coughed. Any restraint Reggie had against his wayward impulses failed him as he sat on his bunk, wrapped his arms around her shivering body and folded her onto his lap, his heart still thrumming from the terror of the moments past.

Be damned if the aunt didn't like it.

Miss Daventry burrowed her head into his shoulder and the chilled hand that slipped around to his back felt like fire through his sodden coat. He wanted to just hold her in his arms, cradling her, comforting her.

"Oh, my dear, are you all right?" said Miss Godelin as she fought the lurching of the ship to cross the cabin and sit beside them.

"Yes, aunt, quite," said Miss Daventry in a quavering voice. But she made no attempt to move.

Yes, she would be all right, and practicality had to intervene. He smoothed a gentling hand over her wet hair. "Miss Godelin, I must entrust your niece to your care. Strip her down and wrap her in blankets. You'll find toiletries and sundries about, and some clothing, although I fear it is all rather large. But I must leave you to manage without the lantern for awhile. Danger of fire when the seas are too high."

"Certainly, Lord Reginald," said Miss Godelin. "It is quite nasty out there, then?"

"Quite nasty, but have no fear, it will soon pass. Just a bit of a squall. But I am needed abovedeck." Reluctantly, he sighed and rose, to set Miss Daventry down onto the bunk alone.

"Very well, Lord Reginald," Miss Godelin replied as he shut the door behind him.

His heart still beat like a frenetic drum roll. Dear God, he'd almost lost her! He'd never come so close to losing someone. He'd rather have died himself.

Russell hung about the ladderway, waiting.

"Thank you, Russell," he said to the sailor. Russell's reply, if there was one, was lost in the storm as he turned back to his tasks.

Aloft, the crew fought the fierce wind to furl the mainsail and foresail, and Reggie climbed to help. The pull of the waves tugged the little craft alongside the trough as the fierce wind buffeted the yard, and MacDevie called for the top sails set aback and heave to, balanced against the rudder. MacDevie fought the wheel to keep her astride the crests, while the crew adjusted the remaining sails. With her deep keel and well-balanced hull, the Xanthe was unlikely to capsize, but she bobbed up and down so high, she felt like she might flip bow over stern in spite of their efforts. At the least, he could expect the women in his cabin to be violently ill.

But like most squalls, the storm soon passed, winds dropping to a scream. Rain fell, instead of lashing at a sharp angle, and the heavy seas diminished to tall waves, finally behind a dull drizzle, until even that faded and dried. The Xanthe rocked and tossed more gently in the darkness. It had been an unusual storm, from a completely unexpected direction. Still, he should have followed his instincts, which had told him something was out there. If only he had not been so keen to show himself and his yacht off to the ladies. What a fool he had been!

Reggie wondered where in the devil's name they were, although he figured MacDevie knew. If the storm had not changed direction, they surely had been blown to northwest, yet that would surely have blown them aground on the river's north shore.

"Bearings, Mr. MacDevie?" he called.

"I make us to be a bit north, still within the mouth," said MacDevie. "Sheppey to larboard. Tide going in, sir, changed about an hour ago. We couldn't ask for better, considering."

The storm cleared the coast, and Reggie saw what MacDevie in his great sense of the sea, knew in his heart, the great Thames, a low, gray, flat line against the dark clouds at its back.

"Set mainsail," MacDevie said, his voice almost as still as the surrounding air.

The crew scurried up the ratlines and unfurled the sodden flaxen mainsail, fore topgallant, main topgallant. Debris littered the deck. Reggie left the ship to MacDevie and climbed down the ladder to the cabin.

He scratched on the door. "Miss Godelin? Miss Daventry?" he called, opening the door. "Oh. Perhaps I should-- "

"Do enter, Lord Reginald," said the older lady, who was running a comb through the wet mass of Miss Daventry's waving hair. "If it is safe now, might we have some light again?"

Reggie fished about for the tinderbox and conjured up a spark to the tinder, then lit the lantern. Both women sighed as the glow filled the small cabin like a warm embrace. Wrapped to the neck in a grey blanket, Miss Daventry sat on the bunk, her very long hair flowing free. Beneath the blanket, the ridiculously long tail of his nightshirt draped below where he would have expected the hem of a dress. Her garments hung about the cabin, sodden and limp.

She would be all right, but would she forgive him? Almost worse than nearly drowning her, he had ordered her stripped with no thought to her sensibilities, and now she was forced to clothe herself in his night garments if she were to maintain even an impression of decorum.

"Has it passed, then, Lord Reginald?" Miss Daventry asked. He could not tell what lay behind the question. Anger? Disgust? Humiliation?

He tried to smile, but failed miserably. "We've ridden out the last of it, but we're blown off course and will be somewhat delayed in our return. You need not fear now, Miss Daventry. I am terribly sorry--"

"Yes, of course. But then you said we'd be safe, and I am quite well, really. You need not fuss over me. And you must have much to occupy you abovedeck."

Did she dismiss him? He searched her eyes.

"You really must go, Lord Reginald," said Miss Godelin.

He turned to leave. Yes. His presence would be embarrassing to a young lady forced to clad herself in a gentleman's nightshirt.

"Lord Reginald-- thank you."

Reggie returned the weakest smile he ever remembered giving and hurried back abovedeck. Clear blue air surrounding them almost sparkled with remaining rain as the deep gloom of the squall moved on, clinging to the distant horizon, while to the southeast the dark lines of another pending storm striped against the colors of a waning sunset. They would be long gone before it struck.

MacDevie's low voice carried across the deck, as calm as if there had never been a storm. The Xanthe found her channel and headed south and west through the narrowing river mouth. Reggie glanced at his watch, but it had been ruined, drowned in the green water swamping the deck. But he figured MacDevie was right. They were about three hours off their planned return time, for they had meant to catch the turn of the tide a little after six, and it was already nearly seven. That left them only three hours to sail all the way to Woolwich, or fight an outgoing tide. But the wind favored them. If he must, he could put in to any port along the river and put the ladies up at an inn for the night.

And find himself leg-shackled by Friday, if he wasn't careful. He wondered how his paragon would feel about that? True, it would suit his purposes, but he was of no mind to cause the lady humiliation.

They passed Sheerness as the sun streaked the evening sky with all the colors of roses. Beneath his feet, he could feel the river's current rumbling rhythmically in the deck as the Xanthe angled across the incoming tide. Running with the wind or no, the current slowed them, and they would be very late indeed when they finally docked.

"Carry on, Mr. MacDevie," he said.

Darkness came on swiftly, as if encouraged by the passing storm. He loved to sail after dark, with a moon cracking out now and then from under the clouds, even though collisions were common at night, and small craft generally ignored. But this time the clouds fell away, with a half moon limning them with silver, making a perfect night for sailing.

Just as Gravesend came in sight, the ladies appeared on deck in their pelisses. He pretended not to notice the hem of his nightshirt, huge in proportion to the delicate lady, peeking below Miss Daventry's pelisse, dipping and rising in a most unfashionable way as if she had tied it up around her waist. The thick grey blanket draped over her shoulders like a shawl, and her golden hair hung unbound in long curls down her back, its coiling ends flipping in the brisk breeze.

"You'll catch a chill, Miss Daventry," he said, unable to squelch his silly grin, for in her deshabille she was even more appealing.

"I am not of frail constitution, Lord Reginald."

"Anyone can catch a chill, Miss Daventry. You have been soaked to the bone."

"You were surely as wet as I."

"I am accustomed to it, Miss Daventry."

Only the barest of smiles hung on her lips, yet it warmed him more than any fire. "I wish to watch the remainder of the voyage if I may."

Circe. His indomitable Circe. Reggie had been stymied by the next scene in his book, and now knew how it would play out, although he almost wished he didn't. "I shall rush you back belowdecks immediately if I see so much as a shiver from you."

Miss Daventry nodded, and said nothing more. She stood close to him. Moonlight skated over the ripples and lit the shore.

"It is so very beautiful," she said. "I have been told there is nothing you love so much as sailing your yacht. I see why."

Tiny amber lights in little boxes marked villages passed. Stark shadows of tall steeples marked the towns. Reggie could think of no answer, for the small noises of the ship and the night seemed to answer for him.

As the night wind picked up, Miss Godelin shivered and quietly excused herself to return to the cabin, leaving them alone together on the deck.

"Is it true?" Miss Daventry asked. "Or is there anything you love more than sailing?"

Reggie held his breath. Dare he say? Could he share his deepest secret with her? Whether or not she would keep it safe, he wanted her to be a part of the thing he loved so much.

"I love to write," he said.

Her eyes seemed almost dark as they widened and her brows lifted. "Indeed? Poetry?"

"Sometimes." But he lied. He had not rhymed two lines since he had first decided to pen a novel the previous year. "Sometimes a story." Perhaps she would take him for a mere dilletante.

Miss Daventry's lips closed while they spread into a pleased smile. "What an unusual man you are," she said.

He wondered how she meant that. "I suppose I should have been a cit. I have always wanted to do all the wrong things, or so my father tells me."

"But at least you could support yourself if ever you must. I have never known of another gentleman to manage the ropes of his own ship. Of course, gentlemen do write, from time to time. Your friend Mr. Bronson, and certainly Lord Byron. That seems to be acceptable enough. But I think it is your unceasing energy that is so interesting. I saw you up there on the yard, when you exchanged places with Mr. Russell. Do you never tire?"

"Of course. But I do not sleep but a few hours a night. I never have, that I recall. I cannot imagine how I should manage if I did not have something to occupy me."

"Yes, then I suppose you should have been a cit," she replied, and the lilt in her voice matched the twinkle in her eyes. "But you are out of luck, sir. You are stuck being the son of a duke. But you needn't fear, I shall not betray your secret. And perhaps someday you will reward me, and let me read some of your writing."

What would she think if she read about his Circe? Would she recognize herself? Somehow, he didn't think she'd appreciate that. Perhaps he'd put that one off for a while until she got to know him a bit better.

"What about you, Miss Daventry? Have you never had a secret yearning to do something with your hands? Something perhaps not so ladylike?"

"Of course not." Miss Daventry stuck her narrow little nose in the air in a mockery of arrogance. "I have always been the most ladylike of ladies."

"Have you, indeed?" Reggie smirked as he surveyed her comical dress. "I rather imagine no other lady of my acquaintance would appear abovedeck again after such an experience as you have had. You have confirmed my suspician that you are a secret hoyden."

"Certainly not. Well, only rarely."

"Such as now." He laughed. "I think you would walk the yard as quickly as I, if you could."

"Oh, no," she answered, and laughed back. "I am perfectly happy to leave the difficult work to the men. And I am not at all fond of heights."

"Then what do you do, Miss Daventry? Does nothing call to you but the salon or the ballroom? How might you support yourself if the occasion called?"

For a moment a knife-sharp silence hung between them, and her eyes took on a solemn look as she watched him. "I--" She hesitated, and her lips tightened over her teeth. "I sew."

Reggie laughed. "Oh, that is no great secret. Do not all ladies sew?"

"But I really love to sew. If I had to support myself, that is what I would do."

"I did not realize there was a market in silks," he said.

"No, I do not mean embroidery." She frowned. "I-ñ" A great pause hung in the air between them as she worried her lip between her teeth. "I make my own clothing. All of it. I am a mantua maker's nightmare, I suppose, for I know what I want, and am much too particular. So I make all my own dresses and such."

"Ah," he said, arching his brows, "now, there's a secret. It is not done, my dear. I cannot imagine many ladies have the talent, or the desire. So my secret hoyden is also a secret seamstress."

Miss Daventry lifted her chin just a bit too high, and her overly pursed lips wiggled about enticingly. "Ladies, as a rule, are taught not to use any talents they might innately possess. I do enjoy the design, but I much prefer the actual sewing." A little grin crept onto her lips. "I could sew your sails, as well as any sailmaker."

"Could you? Sailmaking requires quite a bit of strength."

"But I could do it. I've looked at them. I know how they are put together."

He couldn't help laughing.

"Truly, I could. I studied them carefully the first day you took us out."

He believed her, but it was best not to say so. "Do you mean to tell me, all the while I thought you quiet and conforming, you were actually figuring out how to construct my sails?"

"Not all the time. I paid attention to the rigging too."

Mirth rolled out of him uncontrollably. He wanted to hug her so badly that he had to turn around to disguise his desires until the urge passed.

"You do not believe me," Miss Daventry said, and Reggie glanced back suddenly at the odd pout in her voice. Her narrow little nose lifted once again, much too high for true disdain. Reggie recognized a bam coming.

"I would be a fine modiste." She lifted her skirts daintily, swishing them back and forth. "This is, in fact, one of my latest creations."

"Indeed."

Miss Daventry swayed elegantly, swinging the lower hem of her pelisse and the nightshirt hem that dangled beneath it. "Chemise de noir. Double-trained, you see. Both front and back."

"It rather looks like it puddles, instead."

She stared down at the excess fabric that dipped and swelled erratically, dragging on the wet deck. "Oh. You noticed that, did you? It is quite the latest thing. Puddles in puddles. Caught up at the waist with a length of hemp, in the natural color, of course." She exposed the length of cord about her waist, beneath the pelisse, and he laughed.

"You jest, sir, but the very best mantua makers have always looked to men's garments for their inspiration, the spencer, the pelisse. Perhaps trowsers shall be the coming thing. This is mine, my inspiration the male nightshirt, of the finest muslin, which billows elegantly in the skirt and puffs out in a rondel beneath the cuff of the pelisse."

Before him, his perfect heroine paraded and swirled in her imaginary gown, tugging the neckband up above the pelisse collar. Reggie surveyed the wristbands that dangled awkwardly over her wrists beneath the cuffs of her pelisse and threatened to engulf her tiny hands. She posed enticingly, one barely visible hand resting on a ratline.

"It will be all the crack, you will see. Made up only of the finest quality of men's nightshirts, preferably those previously owned by great or very adventurous men, the Duke of Wellington, perhaps. I believe I shall expand to French ones, too. But I think I shall not have Bonaparte's. He is much too short. It would not give at all the required look."

"And a shawl, a la blanquette," Reggie added. "I see it is to be worn with bare feet."

She lifted the hem to observe her bare toes peeking out, and giggled. "Au naturèl. It does quite complete the picture, does it not?"

"Complete enough to cause me concern. How shall I get you back home without notice? We can only hope your clothing dries out before we reach port, or we shall have to sneak you in the back door."

With a knowing glance at him, Miss Daventry released the ratline and ambled to the rail, exactly where she had slipped and dangled above the roiling waves. For a few moments, she gazed out at the choppy flow of the river.

"If I had gone overboard, I would have drowned."

"Most likely."

"But you would have come after me, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"And you would have drowned, too?"

It was a hard question to answer, but she deserved the truth. "Yes, most likely. The seas were much too high. But I could not bear to lose you while you are in my charge."

"But I think I could not bear to have you die for my sake."

"That is the way of things at sea, Miss Daventry. No man can survive alone. Everyone must work together and depend upon each other. And if we die, we die helping each other. You may be sure, if I had not been there, Russell or MacDevie would have gone over as willingly."

She shook her head. Reggie wondered what part of what he said she did not accept. As lovely and lighthearted as she was, there was something melancholy and solitary about her.

Off the bow, Woolwich glittered beside the water, and in the distance little lights outlined a city that merged in blackness with the sky. Only the glassy twinkling of stars marked the horizon.

If ever impatience had warred in him with serenity, this was the time, for he wanted her home and safe and warm, yet he wanted this moment with her standing by his side to go on forever.

Nothing could be forever, and the Xanthe at last found her berth. The coach awaited, and Reggie left the yacht to be secured by MacDevie and the crew, and rode home with the ladies. The first lightening along the horizon spelled dawn just as they drove up before the small townhouse. Her butler, Cargill, drew in a sharp breath at his mistress's disheveled condition.

"If we might have some tea, Cargill," she said, not responding to her butler's shock.

"Not for me, thank you," said Miss Godelin. "I should rather hurry on abovestairs, but I am sure Lord Reginald would wish a cup."

He started to deny it, but recognized the private moment he had been granted. Cargill must have kept the pot simmering, for it seemed barely minutes before he brought in the tray to the drawing room.

"Thank you, Cargill. You may go. I shall see to things."

But Reggie would not allow her to pour, and did it for her.

"I must look a fright," she said.

"A lovely fright. I am sure I do not look as fine as you."

The lady smelled gammon and gave him the look that said so.

"I am sorry," she said.

"Sorry?"

"I'm afraid I did not make a very good sailor. And I did so wish--" Her words trailed off.

He had not thought she might feel responsible. "If anyone is at fault, Miss Daventry, it is I. No one can become an experienced sailor in just one voyage. But even if you had been prepared, you could not have prevented the mishap."

Reggie rose to his feet and set down the cup on a little table beside his chair. "Miss Daventry, I should not keep you when I know you need to get yourself up to a warm bed. I am frightfully sorry. You cannot know how sorry I am."

Her lips drew thin over her mouth and she stood to walk with him. "You must not blame yourself, Lord Reginald. It was a sudden storm you could not have predicted."

"But there is always that risk, Miss Daventry." He took both of her hands in his. "I should not have gone past the bar, for there was the sense that something was amiss. The sea is far too capricious."

"But then I could not have said I had been to sea." In the darkened room, her eyes looked the color of emeralds as she looked up to him. Her lower lip drew tentatively over her teeth.

"Miss Daventry, I could not forgive myself if I had lost you. I cannot tell you how afraid I was. I--"

She was so close. Reggie watched the delicate curving of her mouth, and the urge to lean down and kiss her rushed his senses. But he would not. It was much too soon. All his life, he had been plagued by outrageous impulses such as this, but he had learned to control them. He had only to step back and smile, had only to lift her long fingers to his lips, to show her both respect and affection. Despite the impulses, Reggie was disciplined, in control of himself.

Reggie kissed her.

Chapter Five

If she had willed herself to resist, she would have failed. He was her hero, the man who had thrown himself against the sea itself to save her, who had bruised her wrists rather than let the giant waves rip her from him. Then he had held her in his arms, comforting and protecting, as if she were but a babe.

She raised her lips to meet his, not quite knowing what to expect, fearing she might not give back to him what he wanted. Surely there were those who had been in his arms, who understood how to please a man, like the shocking Lady Laverhorn. Yet the moment he bent down to touch his lips to hers, and circled an arm about her to draw her to him, Chloe knew. She understood. The tingle that began at her lips flooded like warm wine, all the way down to her toes, and back again. This was where she belonged, in this man's arms.

She was trembling as he released her, guiltily unable to meet his gaze, then suddenly provoked to gape as if she had never looked upon a man before.

Chloe was still trembling as she peered out the drawing room window and watched Lord Reginald ride away in his coach. She shook as she washed up in the hottest water she could stand, only briefly thinking of the trouble Cargill must have had in obtaining the pitcer of water at such a late hour. In her bed, she curled up, clasping her pillow to her chest, resting her head on one corner, but she was still shaking.

She slept until noon. Even in the morning, the trembling would not quite leave her.

Chloe cracked the shell on her coddled egg. The shell clung where it should not, until she had to resort to using a spoon to remove it. The spoon slipped from her hand and clattered to the plate. Even her pasted smile that expressed both everything and nothing shook on her face as she retrieved the spoon.

It was not the cold, although in spite of her denials, she certainly had been chilled. It was not even fear of death, for even as she had slipped close to the edge and felt herself dangling in space, she had been certain he would not let her die.

It was the kiss that had shaken her to her core. In one sweet moment, Chloe had discovered why a woman might choose to be a wanton, for some inner part of her had been craving this man's touch for all her life, and she had not known it.

She had no room in her life for that sort of thing. It was of paramount importance that she be in control of herself, or of any man she might marry. Otherwise, she could not be sure the man she chose would help in her endeavor to rescue her sisters from their malevolent uncle. Other women managed to control their situations, and until this day, Chloe had believed herself capable of the same. Now she was not so sure.

"Dear, we need not make morning calls today," Aunt Daphne said, reaching out a hand to touch Chloe's arm. "I know how you must feel to--"

Chloe shot a glance at her aunt, then guiltily looked down at her plate.

"It would be best if you rest a bit today, don't you think?"

"I am perfectly well, Aunt Daphne. And as you can see, the day is fine. Morning calls must be made."

"I shall say you have the headache this morning."

"And let it be bandied about that-- No, aunt. Someone will know we sailed yesterday, and with the storm-- It will not do."

Daphne's eyes held a mischievous spark. "Dear, you know he will call on you this morning. He must."

"And if you have gone, I cannot see him. Aunt Daphne, I-- He kissed me."

Her aunt's eyebrows rose, just enough to tell Chloe the only news she was imparting was that she was willingly sharing the tidings with her aunt. "Hmm. I thought he might. Then it must be said, you have fixed his interest. Is that not what you wanted, my dear?"

Chloe couldn't tell whether she was nodding or shaking her head, any more than she could decide if her answer was yes or no.

"Such an intriguing young man. A number of worthy qualities, which I find most unusual for his gender. Since he is rather plump in the pocket as well, would you not find it advantageous?"

"Yes," Chloe mumbled miserably.

"Then when he comes, you will say you cannot receive him as you are alone, but if he is insistent, you will allow him a few minutes. It is those few minutes of privacy that so intrigue a young man, you know."

Sometimes Chloe had misgivings about her maiden aunt. How was it that she had managed to remain a spinster, yet know so much about the workings of a man's mind? Yet, since she was rarely wrong, perhaps that was the very reason Aunt Daphne had escaped the buckle.

Chloe waved feebly when her aunt rode away in the bumbling old coach, and she hurried back abovestairs to change her morning dress to something more suitable to wear at home. Then she sat down to finish the trim on the blue ball gown, attaching a single paste pearl to each point of the Van Dyke lace.

Aunt Daphne was soon proven right. Soon Cargill came to announce the arrival of Lord Reginald. Chloe laid aside the blue ball gown and pulled her slippers back on. Descending the stairs, she trailed a single finger along the brass rail, just to steady herself.

The affable smile that he wore so often, that she had come to expect on him, was absent. The sunny-day blue eyes that laughed and twinkled at everything were solemn and intense. She caught her breath, them reminded herself of her composure.

"Good morning, Lord Reginald. I must apologize. I fear my aunt has gone about her morning calls without me. So of course, I may not receive you, as I am alone."

The eager intensity fell from his face. "Yes, of course. I merely meant to see you had not taken a chill, Miss Daventry."

Oh. He was only being polite. "As you can see, sir, I have not."

"And I must apologize for the abominable treatment you received."

"Nonsense. I am not at all the missish sort. When one asks for adventure, one must expect to take a bit of risk."

His eyes shone wildly. Whatever had she said to incite him? "Miss Daventry, I know it is not at all the thing, but might we speak," he glanced at Cargill, "more privately? For only a moment?"

Cargill bowed himself away almost before Chloe could instruct him. She vowed she would find a way to properly compensate the man, for surely his sensitivity surpassed that of any butler in Town. She led Lord Reginald to the drawing room and closed the door.

"I have only just finished my morning coffee," she lied. "Shall I call for some?"

"No, thank you. Miss Daventry, I felt I must see you this morning," he said, and she could read the anxiety in his face.

"Of course, you are all that is polite, Lord Reginald, but do not overburden yourself. I am quite well. I only stayed behind because, well, you know we are a household of women, so one of us must take charge of a man's decisions, now and then."

"Yes, I see that your health is safe. But there is that other matter. I did take shameful advantage of your person."

Something had seemed lodged high in her throat until that moment, when it plummeted to the pit of her stomach. He regretted the kiss. He feared it had committed him where he did not desire commitment. A practical woman would leap upon it, make of it a promise, an understanding that he must in all propriety fulfill. And above all, she was a practical woman.

But she could not. "No, Lord Reginald, it was not that at all. Your heart is too soft, sir. It was, I thought, a demonstration of your protective nature. Although I allow I was frightened, I was never in fear of dying, sir, because I knew you would not allow it. I confess I rather thought of you as my knight in shining armor, and everyone knows it is a knight's duty to rescue a lady in distress."

Well, she had done it. Given him all the justification he needed, and now he would not feel the obligation to ask for her hand.

He hesitated then shook his head. "No, it was more than that, Miss Daventry. I confess to an affection for you. I would have been bereft to have lost you from any cause. And while I cannot hope for such sensibilities on your part, as we have just met, still I must hope that time will grant them to me."

Chloe's heart raced and thrummed in her ears. She opened her mouth, but words stuck in her throat.

"And I must ask one other thing of you," he said. "Such intimacies as we have suffered bring a touch of the ridiculous to formalities, so that I must ask for the privilege of calling you by your Christian name."

"Sir--" Chloe thought she couldn't breathe.

"Privately, of course. And I should wish you to call me Reggie, as that is how I am known by my intimates. Privately."

Chloe nodded. Her tongue felt wrapped around her teeth.

He lifted her fingertips to his lips and held them there a moment too long. "And my moment has gone. As you have said, I cannot stay. I must be away for a few days on matters of a personal nature, but I shall look for you next week at Lady Greville's ball and hope you will grant me the supper dance."

"Yes, of course, Lord Reginald." The words all but strangled her.

"Reggie."

"Yes. Reggie."

He took his leave. Chloe ran up the stairs to her chamber and slammed the door, gasping.

She'd done it! Reggie! The Duke of Marmount's second son had all but committed himself to marriage! And she, by her astonished silence, by the acceptance of his name, had all but agreed! Her sisters were going to be saved, and long before Chloe found herself in danger of the bars of debtor's prison.

But the bars of a different prison were closing in on her. The trembling returned.

* * *

Reggie hopped off the gelding and slapped the reins into the groom's hands. He'd done it! Miss Daventry was to become Lady Reginald, his wife. She was perfect. Wonderful beyond imagining.

And he was sure she would keep their understanding private while he hid away and finished The Adventuress. He wouldn't have to worry about Vilheurs stealing a march on him, yet at the same time, his father was not likely to learn anything that would raise suspicions.

Atop all that, he'd found the scenes that had been eluding him. But now he'd have to change the ending. Why hadn't he already known that? How could a hero fall in love with such a woman, then nothing more happen? No, it was not just a sea adventure. It was a love affair. The love affair that surpassed all those that had come before. Yes, Nicholas Argent would fall in love with Circe, and in the end, they would separate tragically.

He goaded the gelding to an energetic trot. Something was not right about that.

Idiot. No, they wouldn't. Nicholas was hardly the type to let the love of his life just walk away. He would pursue her. He would find her, in the place to which she had returned. In an elegant ballroom, he would find her, having reverted to the formal steps of the minuet, and he would take her into his arms for the waltz. It would be a metaphor of the waves of the sea, of the fervor of their love. And he would make her his own. Happily ever after.

Reggie dashed up the stairs and burst in the door. Puckett merely looked up and set down the vase he had been polishing.

Reggie ripped off the coat before Puckett could assist him, and snatched up the smock. "What sort of flowers did you send to Miss Daventry, Puckett?"

"Irises again, my lord. Dramatic, but not committing to any particular thing."

"That will not do now. It must be roses. Mixed colors. A bouquet that speaks of everything." Reggie pulled out the manuscript from its secret compartment.

"Everything, my lord? Already?"

"Yes, already. Every day. And there is not to be so much as a posy sent to another lady, unless she is married and is not likely to mistake its meaning. Miss Daventry will suit nicely in all respects. And she has the blunt to support us both until either my writing takes off, or I snatch the Featherstone legacy from my father, at which time I can more than compensate her." He shuffled to the last chapter and scanned over the pages. "How are you doing with the copying?"

"Quite well, my lord. Upwards of eighty pages, I believe."

"You are amazing, Puckett. I am nearly done. I have my ending now, but I shall have to compose it entirely from scratch. You may inform Mr. Ludwick the new version will be complete within days."

"Then I shall keep pace, my lord. This has become your best work, and I have the highest of ambitions for it. Mr. Ludwick cannot refuse it this time."

Puckett's words trailed off from Reggie's consciousness as the dramatic ending absorbed him. Pen, ink and foolscap became words, and words the fantasy from his imagination, that in itself became his new reality.

* * *

"My Lord?"

Puckett's voice penetrated the haze in Reggie's mind like a bright lantern. He blinked and sat up, shaking off sleep. Oh, yes, his bed. He ran a hand over the raspy stubble of a beard more than a day old and frowned at his rumpled clothes. Oh, yes. He had finished, and collapsed atop the covers without so much as another cup of coffee. When had that been?

"My lord," said Puckett. "I finished the draft. Ludwick has it. I left him reading."

Still drugged from sleep, Reggie rose. Dear God, it was almost like coming off a high flyer! His head hurt like his brain had come loose and banged around against his skull.

"It's Friday, my lord. You finished yesterday afternoon. You meant to do the Greville ball this evening, did you not?"

"I've slept an entire day?" No wonder his head hurt like he was muzzied. Reggie usually never slept so long.

"Yes, my lord. But considering you have not slept for several nights, it is hardly surprising. I have a bath prepared for you, and coffee. There's some fresh biscuits sent up by Mrs. Mungay, to tide you over a bit."

Puckett took care of everything. Reggie thought he had never needed coffee, biscuits and bath more in his life. He let the comforts ease him back to reality as Puckett filled in the details.

The first time around, Ludwick had liked the book, but thought it lacked something. Reggie, although disappointed, had known the man was right, and he'd had to accept it. But at least the man had said he would see it again if the anonymous author should fix whatever it was that was missing. Reggie thought he'd found it. But would Ludwick agree?

"I saw the look in his eyes while he was reading, my lord. Couldn't wait to get to the next page. He'll see it our way, I'm sure."

But Reggie had been through that before. Hard to get his hopes up. Yet--What if he did?

What if Ludwick bought it? He could be free of his father's domination, and marry Chloe. If it sold well, that was. Ludwick was just the first step, and the rest was not foregone. But Ludwick had just begun his printing business and was eagerly seeking new stories. He could set type fast, and print quickly. The book could be out in weeks. Well, a month or so, perhaps.

Reggie couldn't wait that long. His father would have him shackled to Portia long before. In fact Reggie was already skating on thin ice. He hated to think to what subterfuge or force his father would resort if he discovered Reggie's plot before it was carried out, for the Duke of Marmount was capable of just about anything to get his way.

Reggie shuddered, thinking of what happened to those who dared stand up to the duke. His mother had done it, and found herself banished to a small estate barely suitable for a knight's widow. In sixteen years, his father the duke had not seen his wife, nor had the duchess indicated the slightest desire to see her husband. Reggie, being the inconsequential second son, had been allowed to stay with his mother, but Robert had been taken from her.

Reggie still remembered Robert's tearful pleading that had fallen on his father's stone-hard ears. That had been the beginning of a cold rage in Robert that was not extinguished to this day. Robert had abandoned the duke at the earliest opportunity. Even the letters Robert sent from Spain flatly refused to recognize his father. Reggie still had no idea how Robert had managed to purchase his colours and slip away without the duke discovering it, but Robert's success had only increased the duke's vigilance over his remaining son.

So Reggie was the last and only member of the duke's family to tolerate him. And now Reggie was about to step over the same precipice.

He didn't want to lose his father. But he felt it coming.

The bath water had finally cooled, and Reggie stepped from the tub to be toweled off. He crammed a macaroon in his mouth and thought of what he was going to say to Chloe tonight. He had a proposal to make, and he had to be sure it was precisely right.

Chapter Six

Chloe peered around a pink marble column at the entrance to the Greville ballroom, where she had a good view of the top of the stairs. Perhaps he would not come. Perhaps she had allowed her sometimes overactive imagination to dream up the words he had spoken to her. Or she had misinterpreted them.

She had taken a position near the grand entrance just for the purpose of seeing everyone who entered, and she had been watching between sets, during sets. She had even sent four escorts away with some instruction or other so she could continue her vigil. But he still had not come.

And now she saw Lord Vilheurs working his way back across the ballroom with her third glass of ratafia for the evening. She didn't know how she would manage to stomach it, and looked around unsuccessfully for a potted palm.

Truthfully, she would rather plant Lord Vilheurs in the potted palm, even more than the drink, but the point was moot if she could find no such plant in the first place.

She couldn't say she detested the man. She didn't at all, and truth to tell, rather liked him. He just wasn't Reggie. Lord Reginald.

Aunt Daphne looked back at her from her conversation with her dear friends Lord and Lady Standish and flashed a permissive smile. Chloe shook her head. Aunt Daphne would have never succeeded as a chaperone, governess, or any such thing. Her aunt would likely tolerate any havey-cavey activity as long as it was intelligently applied to the proper cause, such as marriage to the proper fellow. Or elding one who was not.

Glee lit Lord Vilheurs's dark countenance as he approached her. He had clung like a leech for days, apparently in the belief that Lord Reginald, Reggie, had abandoned the field for something more attractive, such as his yacht. And Chloe couldn't help but wonder, herself. She gritted her teeth, forcing a smile, and glanced about again, just in case some straying palm had decided to present itself for her use, after all.

"Ah, there you are, my dear," said Lord Vilheurs, as if she had wandered from the spot she had so perversely occupied all evening. "Forgive me for the delay. It is a sad crush, I'm afraid."

"Indeed, a sad crush. Thank you." She sipped at the drink, and her lips puckered. "How odd. What a peculiar taste."

"Surely, only that it is warm," he said, and his voice reminded her of thick honey being poured. "Surely one might more easily cross the Channel than to wend through such a crush."

Chloe bounced back an agreeable look and sipped again. No, it definitely was quite right. Holding up the glass, she thought the color just a bit too pink, too. She sniffed, but caught no strange aroma. She decided she would just hold the glass, pretending now and then to sip as she tried to think of some subject she had not already asked the man.

"Have you been abroad, my lord?" she asked.

"Mai ouÌ, mademoiselle," Vilheurs responded. "As a young man, I was often in Paris, but then there was the War, you know, and my family returned home. Of course, one may not travel so freely now."

His hawklike gaze never leaving her, Vilheurs launched into an exhaustive discussion of Paris in the days before Napoleon that would once have fascinated her. But Chloe ached to escape him. What if Reggie did not come? What if he had decamped, just as Vilheurs constantly hinted?

"Miss Daventry?"

Oh, she'd let her mind wander away again. "Oh, I am sorry, Lord Vilheurs, what did you say?"

"I asked if you meant to finish your ratafia, my dear."

She couldn't imagine finishing it. "Oh, I think not. I believe I have lost my taste for it. Perhaps if I had not had two already..."

She saw muscles in his jaw tighten. Well, what if he was displeased? It was not as if she had asked him to fetch Atalanta's golden balls. Seeing a footman with a tray, she summoned him and gave up the wretched glass and its foul brew.

"Then perhaps another dance, Miss Daventry. I have had but one. Or better yet, perhaps you will reserve the supper dance for me."

"Taken, Villy. Miss Daventry has promised it to me."

Chloe spun around to see Lord Reginald grinning at her.

Vilheurs's black eyes enlarged like dinner plates. "I hardly see how, Beauhampton," he said, glaring, "as you have not been around this age."

"Because I asked her last time I saw her, Villy. That would have been a week ago, would it not, Miss Daventry?"

Chloe opened her mouth, but that was as far as it got.

"That would have been the night you tried to drown her. Come along, my dear, you need not subject yourself to this sort of scoundrel." Lord Vilheurs grabbed her arm and pulled.

Chloe jerked back. "Lord Vilheurs! Wherever did you get such a notion? He has not at all mistreated me!"

"Do you deny returning from his yacht in a soaked condition?"

Chloe felt a chill run up her spine despite the heat of the crowded ballroom. How would he have known? Had he spied on her? Surely her imagination was running away with itself. Still, she could not let the man's affront pass without comment. "I do not deny being caught by a wave, nor being rescued, Lord Vilheurs, and I resent your attempt to make gossip of it. I shall expect your apology."

The dark eyes glared rage, first at her, then at Reggie. The same cold chill ran up her spine again, and the oddly bitter taste of the ratafia seemed to reverberate through her mouth. She raised her chin and turned to Reggie. "I am pleased you were able to come, Lord Reginald. I was afraid you had forgotten your promise."

She heard a squeak in Lord Vilheurs's right shoe as he spun around and stalked away.

Amusement danced in Reggie's summer-sky eyes. He winked. "Such an error would haunt me all my days, Miss Daventry. No, I have waited most impatiently for this hour." He took her hand and placed it on his arm. "You are familiar with the new quadrille?"

"Yes, my lord." She wished it were a waltz.

"I have finished with my affairs," he announced, leading her to the floor.

"Indeed. And they were important to you."

"Yes. It bodes well for the future."

"I see." She did not. But men did not often share the details of their lives with women.

"Yes. Very much so." His voice draped over her like the softness of a Cashmere shawl. How she had missed him. She just hadn't realized how much.

Chloe danced with him through the lengthy set, and her heart raced faster each time he came closer to her, and felt bereft with each step of the dance that took him from her side. Reluctantly, she parted from him for two dances until the supper dance, the waltz she had coveted.

With the natural rhythm of a dancing master, Reggie led her in elegant whirls over the sleek polished wood floor. Perhaps it was the seaman in him that gave him such perfect grace. The gentle pressure of his fingertips curved into the indentation in her back. Chloe had the same feeling she'd had when he had kissed her, that she was where she belonged. Her heart raced and she felt like a silly schoolroom miss as she searched his eyes for proof that his affection matched hers.

And she found it. No, he had not forgotten his profession of affection. Reggie Beauhampton, son of a duke, was going to make her his bride.

Everyone else seemed to think so, too. Eagles' eyes followed their every move. The air was tense with the excitement of an on dit in the making. And why should she be surprised? He had the look of a bridegroom as he led her down to supper.

She supposed she must be equally transparent.

Chloe thought the supper was the silliest of all rituals. But somehow it had great significance in the minds of the gabble-grinders. He must mean for it to be that way, or he would not have paid her such particular attention, making of it his own ritual, each move a demonstration of his affection and intent. He was making his declaration clear to everyone present.

Instead of returning her to the care of her aunt after supper, as he more properly should, Reggie led her to a terrace door which had been flung open hours ago because of the heat, and more than one young couple had strayed through them to the well-lit gardens. Strollers were, in fact, everywhere, making it all quite proper, and they spent as much time nodding as in talking to each other.

Almost to the far corner of the grounds, he tugged her arm and pulled her behind an enormous rhododendron. He plucked a lusciously red blossom and tucked it behind her ear, then drew her next to him.

"The ladies of the South Seas wear flowers behind one ear to signify they are promised," he said. He ran a fingertip over the shell of her ear. "And behind the other ear if they are still looking." He traced the other ear in the same way.

"Which ear is which?" she asked, marveling in the dusky color of his eyes.

"The right ear means she's taken. Or the left. I've forgotten."

"What if she wears one behind each ear?"

"Some ladies might. But you must choose, my love." Reggie cupped her face in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. Chloe felt like lightning pierced her, from tingling touch to her lips, through her body to where his hand slipped behind her and pressed her against him. He teased her with his tongue until she opened and let him in, and lightning struck again. She gasped at the wildness.

"Which is it to be, my love, the right ear or the left?"

"I cannot say-- Until I know which ear--"

An oddly guttural groan escaped him, and he held her tightly against him. "Circe," he moaned.

"Circe?" Why had he called her that?

The air seemed to still about them.

"You are my Circe. You call to me like the siren of the seas." He laid kisses along the curve of her neck and down her shoulder. The sleeve slipped down her arm as his hand swept over the curve of her shoulder.

Chloe whimpered, feeling the caress over her shoulder, suddenly wanting it to go further, wishing to be touched in ways she had never thought of before.

He pulled back, then with a ragged breath, abruptly set her away from him. "Chloe, I believe we should discuss marriage."

He looked more storm-tossed than he had after the storm. She searched for words. What mere words could say how hungry she was for him at this moment, when she could hardly breathe?

"We don't have much time," he said. "I can get a special license and we can manage the entire thing in a few days."

"Don't have much time? But why? Are you going somewhere?"

Still breathing hard, he shook his head. "My father mustn't know. He wouldn't like it, you see."

Chloe pushed back. Something didn't fadge. "Why not?"

Reggie took a deep breath and stared down at the toes of his shoes. Chloe got the feeling he didn't really want to explain. She gulped.

Reggie cleared his throat. "He has in mind that I shall marry my cousin Portia, and he will hear of nothing else. In fact, if I do not come up to scratch in the next few weeks, he means to force it on me."

Chloe tugged her dress back into place on her shoulder, folded her arms and stepped back a little farther. "You mean to tell me you have been romancing this cousin?"

"No, Chloe, not in the least." He shook his head. "I do not quite detest her, but I have never given her the least encouragement."

"Then why would he want you to marry her?"

"That's the way my father is. He is king of his own domain, and demands absolute obedience. He does things like this just to prove he has complete control over everyone."

"Oh, surely he cares more about your feelings than that."

He slipped a hand around her waist, but Chloe scooted away.

"Chloe, he doesn't care a fig for anyone's feelings. Everything he does is to enhance his own power over others. I have no way to stop him unless I am already married."

This was sounding worse by the minute. "Oh, I see. You wish to marry me to prevent marriage to this cousin Portia." Her heart was racing again, but for a thoroughly different reason.

"No, Chloe, I want to marry you because I want you and no one else, but if I don't do it now, I will have no chance. You don't know my father. He is beyond stubborn. As it is, he will cut me off without a farthing."

She gulped. "With nothing? Not a feather to fly with?" No! He couldn't do this to her!

"Sweetheart, we can contrive. I have another expectation--"

"Nothing? But you have a trust of your own!"

"And he controls it. It might well take years to get it through Chancery, and I will eventually win it, but until then he can do as he pleases and he knows it. Listen to me, my love! If we can get by on your funds for just a little while, I have a source--"

He had nothing! And worse, he wanted her to help turn his father against him! With an aching moan, Chloe turned away. Tears welled up in her eyes.

"Chloe, what's wrong? Can't you have a little faith in me?"

He put his hands on her arms, but she shook them off. "We can't live on my funds. I haven't got any."

Even the air became deathly still.

"You have twelve thousand," he said, his voice dull.

"I used to have twelve thousand, before my guardian spent it all. Then he died, so I have not even Chancery Court to force him to give it back."

Beside her, Reggie stiffened, and he stepped back. "Ah. I see. So you thought you were marrying a hefty competence. Is that what I am to you, Chloe? Money?"

"And what was it you wanted, Lord Reginald? Money? Oh, more than that. You wanted me to save you from your cousin because you don't want to stand up to your father."

"Oh, I'll stand up to him all right. It will simply do me no good."

"And I'll wager you won't waste a moment finding yourself another rich bride. Well, sir, I think you'd best get at it." She whirled around to run.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "Chloe, wait."

"For what?"

Reggie ran his fingers through his hair, making it even more ragged than it had been before. "We don't have to part this way. It's obvious we won't suit. I mean, we'd do fine if it weren't for the blunt. But with nothing at all-- it would not do. If there were a chance-- I'd ask him, Chloe. But I know him all too well. When anyone defies him, he cuts them off cold, in the most hurtful way he can find."

"But why would he do that? You're his son."

"And so is Robert, his heir. But he doesn't even allow Robert's name to be mentioned. He has even persuaded himself Robert will be killed in the Peninsula, so he treats me like his heir, even though I'm not. Chloe, could we not at least cry friends?"

Her throat closed down. All her dreams. Ashes, as if they had never existed. And he looked at her as nothing but a fortune hunter, an adventuress. Did it matter why? No, he had not even asked. All he cared about was how big her portion was and how quickly he could get to it.

But she did not want to lose him entirely.

"Friends?" she asked, not quite able to hide the bitter edge to her voice. "Yes, I suppose we may be friends. There must surely be someone you can marry who will serve your purpose. I am sure Lady Laverhorn would be willing."

"Chloe--" He reached for her, but she stepped out of reach. With a sigh, he dropped his arms to his sides. "I would rather not. But even she might be better than Portia. I hope you do not consider Vilheurs."

The hairs on her neck bristled. "Why not Lord Vilheurs? He seems perfectly acceptable."

"Not if it's money you want. He's notoriously tight in the pockets."

Once again she folded her arms. "I don't believe you."

"Oh, Chloe!" Reggie wrapped his arms around her.

She shoved him away. "And you shall not turn me up sweet now!" This time, she escaped, skipping rapidly along the gravel path, with his voice trailing off behind her. But soon she slowed, and he ran up beside her.

"Love, wait, you cannot go in looking a fright. Just take a moment. It will do neither of us good to look cross as crabs." He tugged and twisted her blue ball gown into place, patted her hair, and removed the red blossom from behind her ear. "I suppose it should go to the other ear. If I could remember which one, that is. Perhaps we could help each other, love."

The last thing she wanted was to have him help her find a husband. There was nothing for it, though. She needed all the help she could get. Chloe nodded and blew her nose on the handkerchief he gave her, then placed her hand on his arm, trying to pretend nothing had happened. But the devastation must have shown on her face, for it reflected back in the astonishment in faces as they passed through the ballroom.

Reggie patted her hand where it lay atop his arm, a tender touch that meant to reassure, but it jabbed her like a knife. His eyes hid behind lowered lashes as he raised her fingers to his lips, seeming to concentrate on the minutest detail of her fingertips.

Then, like a wild animal breaking free of a trap, the blue eyes darted up to catch and impale her gaze. The torment she saw in them stabbed her, imbedding in her a pain she thought would surely never heal.

Chapter Seven

Tears sprang from Chloe's eyes the moment the door of the coach closed behind her, and between sobs she poured out her story to Aunt Daphne.

"Oh, my dear!" Daphne pulled Chloe into her arms, thankfully saying little.

The coach bumped along almost in rhythm to her sobs and gulps until she finally sniffed and righted herself. Daphne handed her a handkerchief, and she dabbed at her eyes.

"Perhaps you should reconsider, Chloe," Daphne said in a voice that seemed oddly far away, for Chloe thought her ears were as stuffed up as her nose. "Ought there not to be some way to persuade the duke? Your Reggie is only a second son, after all, and surely it would not matter as much if he does not marry precisely as the father dictates. Perhaps if the duke could be made to see his son's happiness is at stake--"

"Reggie says his father cares nothing about his son's happiness, only that he remains under his father's control."

"Oh, surely not. He must love his son, or he would not care about controlling him."

Chloe sniffed. "Aunt Daphne, you know there are such men. You have told me so, yourself. Lord Cottingham-- the late one, was just as bad, and look what he did to Mama and the girls. And now his heir is even worse." She sniffed again. "Though perhaps in some ways it might be better to have a controlling papa than one like mine, who never troubled to assure himself the guardian of his child was worthy."

"Do not think so ill of your papa, Chloe. He did not plan to die, you know. And I must say, I also had no notion your Uncle Lowell would commit such a fraud, and you know I pay close attention to such things."

Chloe supposed that was so, but it seemed to her a father should have planned better for his child. Becoming aware of the chilly air, she lifted the shawl that had slipped to the seat and wrapped it over her shoulders.

"Perhaps Lord Reginald overstates," Aunt Daphne argued. "Young men are often at odds with their fathers. Surely the man would come to accept it."

"But that would accomplish nothing, Aunt Daphne. At best, the duke would accept it, but he would not help me get Madeline and Allison free of Cottingham, and that is what I must have."

"Now, how do you know if no one has asked him?"

She didn't know. Chloe sniffed and dabbed as the coach pulled up before their Leicester Square townhouse and the door opened. The young footman she had hired to relieve Cargill handed them out and preceded them to the front entrance.

Reggie didn't think they had a chance. His father had banished the duchess, and abandoned his older son and heir for their disobedience.

In any event, he would never stand up to his father for her. Harsh though the duke might be, he was still Reggie's father. How could she have been so foolish as to fall in love with him? She knew better. Her mother had twice fallen in love, and both times devastatingly to both herself and her children. Both Chloe's own father and Lord Cottingham, father of Madeline and Allison, had been handsome, utterly charming, but had cared for no one but themselves.

But despite Chloe's best intentions, she had fallen in love just the way her mother had. She could blame no one but herself. Tonight she would mourn her loss and the pain she had unwittingly brought to Reggie. But she had to be practical. Tomorrow, she must begin her search anew.

* * *

The first thing the next morning, Chloe dragged herself from bed to begin the new campaign. She stumbled to the wash basin and splashed cold water to her face. It didn't help. She had hardly slept, had broken into tears several times, and couldn't stop thinking about Reggie. But all that had to change now. She couldn't leave Madeline and Allison to suffer at Cottingham's violent hand, no matter what it cost her.

It was just that she could not muster enthusiasm to find another husband. If she had only not met Reggie.

But she had. Well, she'd best just forget him. It wouldn't do to have a husband, yet be forever brooding about another man.

Chloe dressed with greater care than usual, but that could well have been because she couldn't decide between the blue muslin and the green. She spotted smears of mud on the green slippers that no amount of scrubbing would budge. But the blue ones were frayed at the toes. Yellow looked silly with either dress, but her yellow sprigged muslin had torn when Lord Ainsworthy had stepped back onto the flounce. Something seemed wrong with everything she tried. Her hair was disastrous, flattened on one side and bushy on the other, and her eyes were red-rimmed. She sat down on her bed and stared at the tall mirror, seeing the ugly truth bounce back to her. She was every bit the fortune hunter Reggie had accused her of being.

She rather wished she had explained to him, but she had been too angry, and in any event it would have made no difference. Yet it hurt to have him think so little of her.

Chloe sighed and assembled a hodge-podge ensemble, the green dress with the yellow slippers, because the bonnet seemed to unite the two. More or less.

Descending the stairs felt like going down into a dungeon to begin an interminable sentence for her crimes. But if she hoped to have invitations where eligible young men could be met, she had to begin with morning calls. Or old men. At least one was not likely to be married to an old man quite so long. Nothing at all about them mattered if they could not be Reggie.

She was doing it again. She must not think about him.

"You're quite sure?" Daphne asked her as she pulled on her gloves.

"I'll do what must be done," she responded, tying the bow of the bonnet as they descended the stairs.

The pounding of the knocker echoed down the corridor. Daphne raised a hand, and they paused to listen.

Cargill's voice. "Miss Godelin and Miss Daventry were about to depart on morning calls, but if your grace would care to wait, I am sure they would be happy to receive you."

Chloe exchanged wide-eyed stares with Daphne. His grace? Was her aunt acquainted with a duke? The only one with whom she might have connection was-- Reggie's father?

Of course Cargill could not turn away such a person, but they could not rush out to greet him, either. They waited, and Cargill came to present the mysterious duke's card.

"Marmount," Daphne said, studying the card. "Well, my dear, perhaps there is some hope. I cannot think why else the man would call on us."

Chloe wanted to believe. Hope and trepidation hammered in her heart as she stripped off the bonnet, and she wished she had somehow done a better job of dressing, but she followed Aunt Daphne into the drawing room where the duke awaited.

The duke stood before the chimneypiece wearing the most perfectly tailored coat of dark blue superfine she had ever seen. Silver-streaked dark hair was severely slicked back, unlike Reggie's golden hair with its distinct wave, but she would have known instantly this man was Reggie's father. The blue eyes were precisely the same shape, the same shade of summer-sky blue, and the duke had the same trim, deeply masculine shape on a tall, straight, broad-shouldered frame. He was an incredibly handsome man for his age. It pleased her to imagine Reggie looking like him in another thirty years.

The duke straightened from his close examination of the chimneypiece. Chloe recalled the careful touches of paint she had used to conceal flaws and signs of age in the old stone, and hoped he hadn't noticed, but from the minute flare of his nostrils, she feared he had.

Dukes did not, as a rule, pay calls on barons' daughters. Had Reggie swallowed his pride and gone to his father, after all? Chloe caught herself squeezing her hands together and forced herself to stop. She tried to smile and found herself stretching her lips ridiculously thin.

She squared her shoulders as the bright blue eyes swept a gaze from her aunt to her, and came to an abrupt halt. A shiver ran up her spine, and she wriggled out a weak smile as she managed a shaky curtsy. Still the duke fixed his completely unreadable and overly lengthy gaze on her. People didn't stare like that. Not even dukes. She cringed inside and studied her tan kid gloves.

"Miss Daphne Godelin, is it not?" said the duke to her aunt, for it was a statement, not a question. "I believe you are the second daughter of the sixth Baron Godelin. And you," he said, turning to Chloe, "will be Miss Chloe Daventry, daughter of the Seventh Baron Daventry. You will pardon me for making my own introduction." He didn't ask. He simply stated. "I am Marmount. But of course, you are familiar with my son, Lord Reginald Beauhampton."

"But of course, your grace," said Aunt Daphne, giving over her hand, which the duke took graciously. "We are acquainted with your son. He is such a fine boy."

The nostrils flared again. "Yes."

Chloe followed her aunt's example. She thought her hand shook just the smallest bit, and she caught a hard gleam in the duke's eye that led her to believe he noticed. He was all that was proper, but something bothered her, something more than the social distance between them.

"Miss Godelin, I should like to become better acquainted with your niece, which is fitting, under the circumstances. You will not object if I drive out with her this morning."

Chloe's gaze met Aunt Daphne's with a question. Her aunt clearly did not have the answer.

"Your grace, my niece would be delighted, would you not, my dear?" What else could Aunt Daphne say, after all?

"Yes, of course," Chloe said, swallowing hard between words. The Duke of Marmount meant to take her up in his carriage? Did he mean to say he was giving his approval? Surely Reggie was wrong, then. Perhaps they had merely been quarreling before, but the duke wanted to see his son happy after all.

Chloe installed her bonnet once more and accepted the duke's escort out to the waiting carriage, a sedate model of coach that she guessed had been maintained to perfection for a number of years. Glossy black enamel showed not a flaw, and the ducal crest shone bright, picked out in blue and red, with gold leaf. She suspected if she inspected it with the same scrutiny the duke had shown toward her chimneypiece, she would not have found a speck of dirt. The interior was equally as spotless.

The duke handed her up in a paternal manner. Chloe's mind stumbled about in confusion trying to match what she saw with Reggie's description of his father. His tiger barely leapt aboard as the duke snapped the ribbons and the carriage pulled out, driving with the smoothness of an accomplished whip, without the frightening speed. The man drove for comfort, not for show.

She had a hundred questions she wanted to ask, but refrained, remembering the code of etiquette Aunt Daphne had so carefully instilled in her over the years. Patiently, she waited for the older gentleman to begin the conversation.

"I knew your father," he said. "He was the seventh Baron Daventry."

"Yes, your grace," she replied, concentrating on being the most perfect young miss the duke might ever have met.

"He attended Eton at the same time I did, but he went on to Cambridge then. Of course I encountered him numerous times in Lords. And the eighth baron was your uncle, was he not?"

"Yes, your Grace. He was my father's brother and of course my guardian before I came of age. The ninth baron is my cousin Bertrand, his son. "

"Which was but a few months past. A bit of a spendthrift as I recall. The eighth baron."

Did he know? "I was not well acquainted with him, your grace, as I lived with my aunt. Uncle Lowell felt it best I be raised by a female."

"Indeed." He fell silent, continuing his drive almost as if she were not there, reached the gate and continued along Knightsbridge. Once along the tree-lined street, where no other carriage drove so early in the day, he tossed a long assessing look, as hard as ice, at her. Chloe felt a sudden chill.

"You met Reginald at a house party. Mythe's, was it not?"

"Yes, your grace, at a reading, actually. He--"

"Mythe was always a ridiculous bluestocking. That wife of his, as well. Reginald is not writing poetry again, is he?"

Chloe almost gasped, but caught herself. He said it in the way one might accuse a son of drunkenness or worse. Reggie had said he loved to write. But if his father disapproved, then no wonder he kept it secret. But he hadn't actually said he was doing so. "I do not know of any, your grace."

The duke's mouth worked sideways minutely, reminding her of a mouse sniffing about for a dropped tidbit. "He is doing something, I am sure of it."

He flicked his whip, and the tip danced eloquently above the backs of his cattle. The elegant carriage picked up speed.

"I am not one to mince words, Miss Daventry. I wish to discuss your connection with my son."

"Your grace--"

"You are quite lovely. I can see why Reginald is taken with you. But he is quite above your touch. He will in all likelihood become the next duke, and a baron's daughter will not suit as the next duchess."

"But your grace--"

"Do not think I am ignorant of your situation. I am not as easily bamboozled as those silly matrons and fops who are so taken in by you. You, Miss Daventry, are an adventuress."

Chloe's jaw dropped open. She stared at the duke, and the ice in his sideways glare grew colder.

"You, Miss Daventry, are up the River Tick and mean to make a marriage of the greatest of convenience to you. I wish you good fortune in your endeavor. But it will not be with my son."

"But I-- He-- Your grace, we do not--"

"Do you think to fool me, Miss Daventry? You waste your efforts to try to soften me with your charm."

"No, your Grace, but surely you must know that Reggie and I have already decided we will not suit."

The man's gaze sliced over her, through her like a carving knife through cold meat. "Really, Miss Daventry. I am appalled that you think me an innocent. You were seen together only last night. Women of your kind do not simply decide they do not suit a man of means and position such as my son. You cannot persuade me you have not assessed your chances and found Reginald useful. But you overreach yourself, young lady. You will either renounce your ties to Reginald or face the consequences."

As Chloe overcame her shock, pure, boiling rage poured in to replace it, and the almost uncontrollable urge to tell the man exactly what she thought of him. Poor Reggie! His father was everything he had said! But before her mouth opened, she stopped herself. Anything she said would only reverberate back on Reggie, if not herself. She'd best be very careful.

"What do you want, Miss Daventry?"

Chloe's brow screwed into a frown. "I beg your pardon, your grace?"

"Are you familiar with the term, 'cut your losses'? It means to arrange to lose as little as possible when one has no choice but to lose. You are in precisely that position. If you persist in your alliance with Reginald, I will see to it that you suffer. If he should happen to marry you against my wishes, I will cut him off entirely. And I will see to it that your own good name is damaged beyond repair. Do you understand me?"

Now he threatened her, as well? Chloe felt the urge to jump up and claw the man's eyes out. Never had she met anyone so blatantly, arrogantly obnoxious!

"Therefore I ask you, Miss Daventry, what is it you want? It is quite obvious Reginald will require some persuading, since he rarely knows what is in his own best interest. It is a simpler matter to dispose of you. How much will you require?"

"Require?" If her eyes got any bigger, they would surely pop out of her head.

"Five thousand pounds, Miss Daventry. That is what I will pay you, and not a farthing more, but it should cover your most pressing debts and keep you in gowns long enough to find a more suitable husband. For that, I will expect you to inform my son that you have no more interest in him. You will, in fact, have nothing more to do with him. You may handle the matter in any manner you choose, but those are my conditions."

Chloe felt hot tears well up behind her eyes. To think she had actually persuaded herself this man had come to make her acquaintance! "Please take me home."

"I await your answer, Miss Daventry."

"My answer is that you may choke on your money. Take me home or let me down."

"Don't be absurd. You are miles from home. A lady does not walk alone."

"I am in less danger from the footpads of London than from you. If you do not turn about immediately, I shall get down of my own accord. I am quite capable of walking miles."

"As I have taken you up in my carriage, I cannot in good conscience allow that. You will stay until I hear your answer, and then I will return you to the care of your aunt."

"Very well, your grace, my answer is that as I have already said my adieus with Reggie, I will not do so again, and I will not accept your money. Now you have received your answer, so please take me home."

The duke's cool blue eyes froze with icy hatred. With a jerk, he brought his cattle to a halt and turned in the seat. "Do not toy with me, Miss Daventry. I can break you."

"I believe you, your grace, and I believe you are accustomed to breaking people. I have said that I understand you, and that I do not intend to marry your son. But that decision was not yours. It was ours. Now, please take me home."

The muscles in the duke's jaws bulged and shifted, and Chloe wondered if he might clench his jaw so tightly his teeth would break. Deep rage boiled in his eyes, and the ribbons in his hand curled in the pressure of his grip.

With a start, he cracked the whip and the startled pair of blacks leapt to a trot, nearly throwing Chloe from the seat. The carriage turned a sharp circle in the wide lane, almost tipping, and Chloe clung to the padded seat. The duke's rage spilled out as his whip cracked above his team, forcing them ever faster, heedless of anything in his way. Chloe wanted to slap the whip from his hands. "You do not spite me to abuse your cattle, your grace."

From his ramrod back to the gloved fists gripping the ribbons, the man stiffened even more. "They are as replaceable as you are, Miss Daventry."

But the duke slowed the blacks to a respectable trot. Chloe refused to acknowledge the change for fear he would take it as reason to resume his abuse. He turned onto Leicester Square and tooled to her town house. The team jerked to a halt.

Chloe moved to the edge of the seat.

"You will wait for me to hand you down, Miss Daventry." The duke leapt down from his seat and walked, perhaps bit too swiftly, around the carriage.

She had no wish to cede to the man's false decorum, but she figured she'd better pick her battles, and that one, in the scheme of things, was not very important.

She suppressed her angry urge all the way to the door, then turned to the duke, her jaw as tight as his.

"Do not forget, Miss Daventry."

"I will not, your grace. I shall say, however, that I admire your son greatly, and I wish you were able to see the fineness of his character. I am so sorry for Reggie that he must deal with a father such as you. He is a fine man, and he deserves far better. Even more the pity because he loves you. But I think I pity you even more, your grace, for you could have your son's love, but you are intent on driving him away. And you will succeed."

"Your pity is wasted. Good day, Miss Daventry." The duke pivoted abruptly, and with rigid precision retraced his steps to his waiting carriage without so much as a backward glance.

Chloe surprised herself as she realized she did mean her condolence to the duke. What a pitiful creature he was. He did not even seem capable of understanding what it was he had lost.

From the safer side of her door, she peered out through the beveled glass as the elegant black carriage pulled sharply away. She was glad he had not chosen to escort her into the house, for she wished to be shed of him as quickly as she might.

She wondered if there was a human being alive besides Reggie who actually loved the man, and decided it was unlikely.

Chapter Eight

"Are you quite all right, Miss Daventry?" Cargill asked. Alarm shone in his eyes as he took the bonnet she thrust into his hands.

"Quite so, Cargill. Thank you." Chloe cast about for her aunt and saw the drawing room door standing open.

"You have another caller, I'm afraid, Miss Daventry."

And not one Cargill had hoped to see, she surmised. She questioned him with her eyes.

"Mr. Rafferty, ma'am. The draper."

Rafferty was more than just a draper. He had arranged for the collection of slightly used furniture and just about everything that had gone into making this shabby townhouse presentable.

"Duns already?"

Cargill nodded ominously. "Possibly, yes, miss."

"Well, I should rather have all my troubles come in one day and be done with them for a bit," she replied. But she suspected such things were more likely to keep piling up. Chloe squared her shoulders and walked into the drawing room with her hands clasped properly before her.

"Good morning, Mr. Rafferty," she said.

Rafferty was a portly man, dressed all in brown. Deep wrinkles from sitting creased both his coat and trousers. "Good morning, Miss Daventry," he said with a proper tradesman-like bow, guilt edging his nervous face. "I have just been conversing with your aunt."

"As I see. Have you something new for us? Perhaps the blue draperies I requested? As you can see, the facings are badly faded."

"Ah, yes," he replied, nodding and bowing all at once, with hands held at his waist as if he clasped a hat in them. "No, Miss Daventry, I have nothing that will do, yet. Of course, I might surely find something, but there is that matter of the bill..."

Chloe's teeth clenched. He would not dare make mention of it, if she were a man. "It has not been above two months, Mr. Rafferty, and you have received some payment. I am surprised you bring up the matter."

His lightly balding head bobbed repeatedly in such a way that caused Chloe to wonder if the man had some unusual sort of twitch. "Of course, Miss Daventry, but the bill is, well, quite large. And there is the matter of your additional order. But I am afraid, of course, well, something must be paid first. Surely you understand, a man must make a living, and if there are other items to be found for you, well, I must pay the merchants who find them for me, you understand. I am afraid, of course, if something is not settled on the account, well, I am very much afraid I will have to, well, do something."

Irritation twitched on her lips, but she managed a thin smile. "And what would that be, Mr. Rafferty?"

"Well, I should have to take things back, of course. But there is wear and tear to consider, too, of course."

She had no trouble interpreting his words. He would take back all she had bought, but she would still owe him money. She suspected it would be a considerable amount. She wished she had known more about vultures such as he before she came to town.

"I really must have payment by Friday, Miss Daventry, or I shall have to take back what I have advanced to you."

He had her, and he knew it. Somehow, he had learned or guessed her situation. But of course he had. Why else would she need such used goods as those he proffered? If she were truly wealthy, she would have bought new, or leased a townhouse already properly furnished.

"Your lack of trust wounds me, Mr. Rafferty. You shall have your payment by Friday. But I will not require you to fill the order. I shall have no further need of your services."

"But of course, I shall be most happy to continue to be of service to you, Miss Daventry, if only you see to the current matter."

"I am sure you would be, Mr. Rafferty, but it will not be necessary. And I am sure you have other clients who are in need of your particular services. I'll bid you good day, then, Mr. Rafferty."

Her dismissal hit him like a slap. He hadn't expected that, but she wasn't sure what it was he had meant to gain. Perhaps he had thought she would beg, giving him the opportunity to relent, but with increased interest, of course. Whatever it was, Rafferty's feet sounded like dropped bricks as he hurried out into the corridor and collected his hat.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have angered him," Aunt Daphne said. Aunt Daphne didn't understand this part of the game, despite that she knew the properly furnished townhouse was essential for a successful presentation to society.

"And do what? Beg for further indulgence? The man had mischief up his sleeve, Aunt Daphne. Best to part with him before he finds a way to cause real harm."

"But how will you pay him, my dear?"

"The garnets. Cargill, fetch the garnet parure from the safe. See what you can get for it."

"Pawn, miss?"

"Sell them. I don't wear red well, anyway. Aunt Daphne, did you happen to notice the lovely draperies in Lady Mythe's blue and gold salon? Let us go shopping. I think I should like to have some like them."

"But my dear, you cannot afford them!"

"Quite true. But I have a better idea." Chloe had, in fact, been toying with the thought ever since she had seen the lovely, elegantly trimmed draperies of powdery blue edged in gold tassels. There was nothing wrong with her sea blue draperies except their antiquated style and the fading at the borders where the sun had hit them. A wide band of deep red velvet added where the faded cloth was cut away, trimmed with wide gold braid on the inner side, and golden tasseled fringe on the other. A deep red velvet festoon, trimmed with a narrow strip of the sea blue, and more gold braid, and her draperies would look like they had come from the best purveyor of household goods in London.

She wasn't vanquished yet.

* * *

The good thing about a yacht was, it kept a person busy, and Reggie had never been more grateful for that. He'd gone aboard directly from the ball the night before and was up with the sun, climbing the ratlines, mending rigging, drying out the sails, and doing everything but taking a holystone to the deck. If he had been at sea, he would have done that, too, but his crew found it embarrassing when Lord Reginald Beauhampton got down on his knees and scrubbed with the best of them, in view of the entire human race. Declaring to the world they didn't do their jobs right, they told him.

He was right, he really should have been born a cit. Too devilish hard for a high born brat to work off his excess energy, and nothing but hard work was going to take his mind off Chloe.

Devil it, but he'd never taken her for an adventuress! He saw the clues, now that he knew, and she'd outright told him she made her own garments.

The devil of it was, he'd marry her anyway, if he could just persuade her.

Reggie walked the lines of the main yard, spreading the sheets over the yardarm to dry, examining the rigging as he went. And just what did she think the man she chose was going to think, once he discovered he'd been tricked?

He shuddered, thinking of the way Viheurs sniffed about her. If her choice turned out to be that rake, she'd rue the day she had been born. Well, it wasn't his problem. She was the one who thought money was so desirable.

Yes, it was his problem. He could never forgive himself if he stood by and let her marry a violent man.

And what the deuce did he think he could do to stop it?

Ah, devil take it.

"Sir?"

Reggie looked up at Russell. He must have spoken aloud.

"Nothing, Russell," he said. "But these lines will have to be replaced. They won't hold up in another storm like that last one."

"No, sir," Russell replied. "Should arrive today, and the new jib. But you can't go another year without replacing all the sheets, I'm thinking, sir."

Reggie nodded. "She's due for drydock soon, too. I'll see her re-fitted then."

"Ahoy, Xanthe!"

Reggie looked down from where he bent over the main yard. "Warrenton!" he called back to the young merchant's son who stood on the dock.

The breeze flipped back the tails of Warrenton's brown cutaway coat and fought the cit for possession of his beaver hat. "Isn't your blood a bit too blue to be walking the lines, Lord Reginald?"

"My blood's as red as any man's," Reggie shouted back, recognizing the opening lines of a challenge. "A man should know his own craft. Too good for your own lines, Warrenton?"

"When I've got a man to do it for me," the young cit called back. "Looks like she needs a bit of work."

Reggie slid down the line to the deck to meet Warrenton as he climbed aboard. "She's fit enough. Due to replace some cord and a new jib today."

"Ah, you need new canvas, Beauhampton. When are you going to give up this leaky tub?"

A fleck of tar clung to Reggie's finger and he scraped it off with his fingernail. "She'll still take you. The Argonaut sails like she's dragging anchor."

Warrenton grinned openly, the way only a true cit could. "Woolwich to Gravesend," he said. "Tomorrow."

Reggie answered with a wide grin of his own, the very kind that betrayed his inner imp. "Thursday," Reggie countered, knowing he needed the time for repairs. "As the tide turns. For twenty quid."

"Done."

Warrenton was back over the side and down to the dock the way a hound leaps after the fox, and with a quick wave, dashed off toward the Argonaut's berth. Reggie liked the fellow, who shared with him the same sort of never-ending energy, and who had more blunt than half the lords in Parliament.

And a race was exactly what Reggie needed to keep his mind off Chloe. "MacDevie!" he shouted.

"Sir!"

"Look alive, MacDevie! It's Woolwich to Gravesend on Thursday next!"

"Aye, sir!"

A rousing cheer spread over the deck and al the way to the tops of the masts. Reggie poured his energy into preparations. The Xanthe would shine from stem to stern for any race, and particularly against the Argonaut.

The new rope arrived, then the jib sail, and Reggie helped adjust the lines and shrouds, studying it, wondering if Chloe could indeed construct a sail of equal quality.

He hadn't realized he could miss anyone as much as he did her.

Reggie shook his head, warding off the blue devils. He had to try harder, because nothing short of a miracle was going to bring her back to him.

"Reggie, dear!" Called a musical female voice from the dock.

Setting down his bucket of red paint, Reggie looked up from the capstan. His mother? In Town? What was she doing here? He waved back and ordered Russell to lower the gangplank to bring her aboard.

He watched with pride as she negotiated the lugged plank then extended her hand to be assisted aboard. The duchess was still a beautiful woman, with tinges of silver streaking through her sunny golden hair. She had maintained her slimness and elegant carriage despite her age, and her smile was as cheerful as it had always been. More than beautiful, she was kind and loving, even intelligent. Everyone should have a mother like her.

"Good morning, mother," he said, leaning in for the kiss to the cheek he knew she would demand. He remembered his childhood years when he had tried to shirk off her public affection. It had done him no good, for in her own way, she was as obstinate as the duke. "What brings you to town?" he asked. "It has surely been fifteen years."

"Sixteen," she replied, and her eyes scanned about the ship, taking in every inch with what looked to Reggie like pride. "But I have rusticated long enough. And recall, you have not come home since Christmas."

It was true. "Where are you staying?"

She flashed a knowing smile. "Not at Marmount House, of course. You recall Lady Nuttley. The earl passed away last January and she has been a bit blue-deviled. It was time I came to her, for a change." Her sparkling blue eyes surveyed him. "I hear there is a young lady. The on dit, Muriel says, is that you make the perfect couple."

Reggie cringed. He should have realized it would take something about one of her sons to drag her from her beloved country retreat. "Too late, mother. It is passÈ, now. We have found we will not suit."

The duchess blinked as her jaw sagged. "But they say you were all but affianced. And you said nothing to me at all."

He sighed. It was harder to keep something from her than it was the duke. At least he could trust her with the information. Still, he had no wish to besmirch Chloe's name. "I did not meet her expectations, mother."

"Ah. She wanted a title, then. Certainly you have everything else. Few barons are as well situated as your grandfather left you."

"Well, I suppose that is part of the problem, as grandfather chose to leave my competence in the duke's hands."

"And now you are five and twenty. What is the problem?"

"The problem is the duke. He will not relinquish his hold. And he is determined I shall marry Portia Nightengall, or not see a farthing of it."

Sparks of fire formed in his mother's lovely blue eyes, and her lips thinned with the sort of determination that could spell trouble. "He cannot do that, Reggie. It is not his prerogative at all."

"Mother..."

"Reggie, I thought you knew how to manage things like this. The trust fund is quite clear. On your twenty-fifth birthday, the entire fund, along with Featherstone, passes to you. The bank has no choice--"

"He has found a technicality. I must sufficiently prove my maturity before he is bound to release it. And the Duke of Marmount also is a major investor in the bank, mother. I've already tried. They will not budge."

She stared. Slowly the duchess's mouth closed and her lips tightened. "Well, we shall see about that. We will--"

"Mother..."

For a moment, their gazes dueled.

"I see. And you do not wish to confront him."

"It is my affair, mother, and you must let me handle it."

The duchess nodded, her lips almost, but not quite, pouting. "Yes, I suppose that is so. A young man cannot have his mother running about fighting his battles for him, can he?"

Then her warm smile returned. It was the sort that brought sunshine into a dreary day. Reggie couldn't help smiling back.

"No, it would not do at all. But come along, let us go home. I have no doubt you have an engagement for the evening."

"Just so, dear. Muriel insists I must bring you for dinner. And I have taken the precaution to check with Puckett. Fortunately, you have no pressing engagements."

Her sweet smile said much more than mere pleasantness, and Reggie knew he was licked before he even started, for the duchess had her own way of getting what she wanted. Although Reggie could no longer remember the cause of his parents' estrangement so long ago, he had little trouble understanding it. The hard part was comprehending how two such formidable powers had managed to endure each other for as long as they had.

With a kiss to her cheek, Reggie sent his mother on her way, promising to arrive at Lady Nuttley's dinner party on time. That left him little choice but to hurry home himself if he meant to be properly turned out, so he tucked back his frustration and drove his curricle back to his rooms.

Puckett met him at the door wearing a broad smile. "Good evening, sir."

Reggie stared at him, puzzled.

"He bought it, sir. I have the contract, ready for your signature."

"Ludwick? He bought The Adventuress?"

"The very same, sir. And the terms are most generous. Mr. Ludwick is most anxious to get the thing into print. He has the highest of aspirations for it. But he insists, even though he is willing to protect your anonymity, he must meet you. One cannot maintain a valid contract with an anonymous man, you know."

Reggie laughed aloud, nearly shouting as he unfolded the contract and studied it. Perhaps Chloe would find him more acceptable now. And if he could just get it published and on the streets before his father found a way to stop it, sour-dispositioned Portia would have to look elsewhere for a husband.

No, he knew better than that. Now he knew, no matter what, no matter how impoverished he was, he would never marry Portia. He would never marry anyone but Chloe.

* * *

Lady Nuttley, otherwise known as Aunt Nuttley for her obscure relationship to Reggie, beamed widely, swaying her rather large, black-garbed form as she hurried up to greet him and held out her hand in a queenly fashion. "Dear boy, how you have neglected me!"

Reggie hid his grimace. He had neglected her, and she was as dear a person as he could ever hope to have in his life. "I can only beg your forgiveness, Aunt Nuttley. I dare not so much as plead other commitments."

He lifted her pudgy hand and bowed over it, quietly noting the blotchy skin he had not seen on his last visit more than two months past. Was it his imagination, or had she aged several years in the few months since the earl had been gone? Unlike her dear friend, Reggie's mother, she had never managed her figure well, and she had acquired the inevitable signs of passing years before her time. But there seemed to be more wrinkles on her crepey skin, more weight on her frame, and her hair had gone almost completely grey. Her relationship with Nuttley had not been a love match, but they had suited quite well, and his death had been a sorrowful blow to her.

"You are a young man, and I daresay have a young man's interests, so do not make me promises, dear boy, as I shall not believe them. No, I fear I must let the young be young."

When Grande Dames declaimed about their age and the neglect of the young, Reggie took it as the harbinger of a coming manipulation. And when it was addressed to a reasonably young and reasonably eligible man such as himself, the purpose of the manipulation was obvious. Without so much as lifting an eyebrow, he straightened, and smiling, surveyed the assembled guests to speculate which one of them was meant to become his target.

Chloe. He groaned. There she stood with her aunt and Castlebury, staring at Reggie and looking as stricken as a doe staring down a musket barrel.

So the rumor was true. The matchmakers of the ton had declared them the Perfect Couple, and would not desist until they had their way, with Reggie and Chloe firmly shackled to each other, with leg-irons if necessary.

Swallowing down the hurt pride from her rejection, Reggie sauntered across the drawing room, knowing the slightest cut to her would reverberate throughout drawing rooms everywhere.

A nod to Castlebury, a genteel salute to Miss Godelin, and then to her niece, and Reggie entered the conversation, a desultory discussion of the floral arrangements. Chloe fell silent, blinking overmuch and quietly studying some minute detail in the scrolled carpet at her feet.

Reggie mentally paired off the men and women present by their rank, pair by pair by pair, until he reached the conclusion he had expected. He was to escort Chloe down to dinner, and sit by her side, conversing almost entirely with her for the next several grueling hours, to be relieved only by the rather short period of time when the women would withdraw and leave the men to their smokes and port.

He, at least, had grown up with this sort of maneuvering and understood it was well-intentioned, but she probably wasn't accustomed to it. And she looked to be about as miserable a young miss as he had ever seen.

Was he ruining her chances with Castlebury? He had to admit, his old friend would be a respectable catch. While not spectacularly wealthy, as the Earl of Castlebury, he did possess an old and venerable title in his own right. Was that why she could not make herself meet his gaze?

Then, with a perfectly polite nod and slightly amused smile, Castlebury excused himself, and Reggie realized everyone else had already departed for other company.

"Smile," he said to her. "We are to be friends, you know."

"And dinner companions, it would appear." She kept her eyes focused on the carpet, and a little quiver shook her voice.

"You do realize we are in trouble."

She swallowed. "I would say they are matchmaking."

"Worse than that, my dear, they are conspiring to make the Match of the Season. The on dit is, we are the Perfect Couple."

"Oh. Oh, dear."

"Precisely. Only imagine how many matrons dream of being the very person who brought the Perfect Couple together. Though I have no doubt if such an event should ever occur, every one of them will claim the honor."

She clutched her tiny ivory fan so tightly, he worried she might snap the sticks. "I suppose you are also knowledgeable as to what will happen if we should disappoint them."

"Smile, please," he reminded her. "We are in this together, whether we like it or not. As you suspect, they will be most unhappy. But of course, they will all, to a lady, announce they knew all along we would not suit, despite what all their friends said."

She made an attempt at a smile, but he doubted it fooled anyone.

"Sorry," he said.

"It is not your fault."

Lady Nuttley rang her silver bell and paired off her guests precisely according to Debrett's. And no one was surprised when it came Reggie's turn to offer his escort to Chloe. He could feel a little tremble in her hand as she rested it on his arm.

"Nor is it yours," he whispered. "Buck up, my sweet. We shall find our way out of this. But we'd best trust each other if we are not to make the trip to the parson together."

He gave her hand a squeeze and she inclined her head almost imperceptibly in his direction. He felt his heart trip, for he understood instantly the meaning of the gesture. If they had been alone, she would have rested her face against his shoulder. No, it was not Castlebury she wanted. She wanted him, Reginald Beauhampton, second son of the Duke of Marmount, impoverished or not.

Then why not? For money? For title? It made no sense. Everything he knew about her screamed the falsehood of her declared intent.

"I did not realize you were acquainted with Lady Nuttley," she said.

Else, she would not have come, he guessed. "My mother's dearest friend. I presume you have met the duchess."

"Just the moment before you arrived, and I realized the connection."

"You could not have anticipated it, as the duchess has not come to Town in a good many years. Her appearance was most unexpected."

Seated at the long table with the other fourteen guests, Chloe seemed to pay particular attention to the gold rim of her soup bowl. She picked at her food. Very little made it to the spoon or fork, and almost nothing to her mouth. He couldn't endure the torture any longer.

"Why?" he asked in very quiet tones.

"Why?"

"Why?" he repeated. He knew she understood the question. Why was it so important to her to marry a man with title and money, when her feelings were so obviously contrary?

She cleared her throat and tried to brighten her face, making it an odd mix of pain and lightness. "Did I tell you, Lord Reginald, that I have two sisters?"

So it must have something to do with them, and she was trying to explain. "No, I do not believe you did."

"Oh, yes," she replied brightly, as if she merely meant to make light conversation. "They are twins, all of eleven years."

"Indeed. I should imagine they are quite lovely, if they resemble you."

Her laugh sounded slightly strangled. "They are, for children of their age, but they resemble their father, the fourteenth Viscount Cottingham, who unfortunately passed away, some four years ago."

"You share mothers, then. But did not your mother pass away recently, too?"

"Over a year ago. They remain in the care of their guardian, the present Lord Cottingham. I have not seen them for some time."

Reggie assembled the clues. He knew vaguely of the present Lord Cottingham. The man was an obnoxious drunk with a vicious streak, about as unsuitable a guardian as one could imagine. The girls obviously were important to her, and she was worried about them. Were they being abused by the man?

"I know of him," he said. His voice echoed like a growl that tried to stick in his throat. "My condolences."

And what could a young woman, especially one who had found herself all but destitute, do about it?

Nothing. Even under the best of circumstances, she could not hope to take their wardship from such a powerful man. Perhaps her husband might, based on her relationship to the girls, but no court was likely to ever grant it to a woman when a male relative was available.

More to the point, what could anyone do about it? The man was legally their guardian, and no one short of a man like the Duke of Marmount could hope to have enough influence to intervene.

Precisely. A man of power, such as the duke, might find a way to persuade an unsuitable guardian to relinquish.

So then, Chloe Daventry had set out to find herself a powerful husband who would take on Cottingham for the custody of her sisters. She made her own gowns and polished up a rattle-down townhouse to make herself appear acceptable, all the while knowing she didn't have a feather to fly with, because her own guardian had been an inveterate gambler.

The delicate fingers of Chloe's hands intertwined tightly in her lap. Reggie sneaked his hand beneath the cover of the tablecloth to gently touch hers. She flinched, and glanced up at him. He answered with a tender pat, hoping she read his comprehension of her problem.

He read hopelessness in her eyes for a response.

But Lord Reginald Beauhampton, second son of the Duke of Marmount, was the inheritor of the mule-headed stubborn streak from both sides of his family.

He was going to find a way.

Chapter Nine

The Duchess of Marmount tightened her lips, forcing them not to smile. Covertly, she watched her son, across and down the table, where he sat beside the lovely young daughter of the seventh Baron Daventry.

From the girl's stricken look when they had been introduced, she had known something was wrong, and the tension between her and Reggie confirmed it. They were so perfectly polite and proper to each other, so exactingly fulfilling their roles, but the little things she saw in their faces told her how deeply the pain cut for both of them.

Whatever was wrong, they were not angry with each other. But they were in love. And all the propriety they could muster could not mask that from the prying eyes of le Beau Monde.

Muriel was right. They were the perfect couple. It was no wonder everyone was so determined to pair them off.

Lydia, Duchess of Marmount, made her decision. Instead of returning to the seclusion of her beloved little estate on the Avon, she was going to rejoin the ranks of society and become a matchmaker. And the devil with what the duke said. The rest of the world might cringe from him, but she knew him better than anyone. He would not say anything, anyway, for if he meant to order her back to her place of retirement, he would have to actually speak to her to do it. And in sixteen years, he had not managed to make himself face her to utter a single word. He would not now.

* * *

"Do you wish to explain this?" asked Castlebury, turning away from Reggie as he spoke. His mouth moved so little, Reggie had to look again to be sure his friend had spoken.

"Explain what?" he responded in an equally quiet voice as they walked toward the drawing room where the ladies awaited the return of the men.

"Stubble it, Beauhampton. I am not a blind man. You grabbed the lady's hand beneath the tablecloth, unless I am mistaken and you pinched something even more inappropriate. And I believe I know you better than that."

"She is a bit blue-deviled. Merely a matter of reassurance."

"Certainly. And Prinny is dropping by for nuncheon tomorrow. Only last week, I was anticipating an announcement from you, and now I find the lady batting unwilling eyes at me. I believe I deserve more explanation than that."

Reggie ran an assessing gaze over his friend. They had been to Oxford together, and Castlebury had sailed out with him more times than anyone else. Castlebury was just about the closest friend Reggie had ever had, and certainly one who was completely trustworthy. As a choice for husband for Chloe, Castlebury was creditable, but the man was only casually casting about for a wife. If Chloe made eyes at Castlebury, it should not be surprising, but it would not be profitable for her.

Vilheurs, on the other hand, was casting in Chloe's direction in earnest, but he was not in the least acceptable.

He couldn't tell his friend about Chloe's problem, but on the other hand, the man was clearly offering assistance. Perhaps if Reggie gave it enough thought, he'd find a way to use Castlebury's help.

"Perhaps we might discuss it later," he said. "Drop by the dock tomorrow. I mean to try out my new jib for trim."

Castlebury gave a little nod and wandered off as they reached the drawing room, engaging the duchess in conversation.

Reggie had to think of something. He'd already resolved, and he was determined. And the irony was, he could see the whole of society watching him, depending on him to find a way to carry out the dreams they all seemed to secretly cherish.

So then, he would find a way. But what?

Early the next day, Reggie went with Puckett to meet Ludwick, the man who was about to change his life. Even Reggie, in his wildest dreams, had not imagined the man would gush so profusely over his book, nor had he anticipated the man would stop his presses for the specific purpose of getting The Adventuress in print. Ludwick might be new to the printing trade, but he knew what he was doing, but even Reggie wasn't so sure the book would become the wild success Ludwick anticipated.

He signed the contract, and then, his spirits lifted, headed for the docks to see how MacDevie was progressing with the sail.

It was the same sort of day that had bloomed so brightly when he had taken Chloe and her aunt out to sea, but today showed not the slightest hint of impending weather, and the breeze was light, almost too light to stir a sail.

Shortly after noon, Castlebury hailed the Xanthe and came aboard. Tall and long-limbed, Reggie's friend possessed the natural elegance of his ancestors, the Earls of Castlebury, whose oversize portraits hung in long rows all over the ancestral dwellings, their brown hair and brown eyes varying shades from amber to chocolate.

"Rumor has it, you've been seen climbing the rigging again, Reggie," Castlebury said, squinting high up to the ribbonlike pennant above the fore royal sail. "Damned high, isn't it?"

"Ratlines," Reggie corrected. "A hand climbs the ratlines. Yes, it's high. Want to give it a go?"

"I'd sooner scrub the stone floor of the dairy barn," Castlebury said. "Come now, Reggie, tell me about the lovely Miss Daventry. Less than a week ago, the two of you were all but living in each other's pockets."

"We have decided we will not suit."

"Give over. You still can't keep your eyes off her. Or your hands."

Reggie still hadn't decided what to tell his friend, but he had to start somewhere. "This must go no further, you understand."

Castlebury nodded.

"My father will not release my inheritance from my grandfather."

Castlebury's brows shot upward. "The devil you say! Can he do that?"

"He is doing it. I've tried. I can't shake it loose without the deuce of a fight in court. He means to use it to force me to marry my cousin Portia Nightengall."

Castlebury shuddered. "You surely don't mean to! He'd have you marry that sourpussed Long Meg when you could have the delicious Miss Daventry? I always did think the man was daft."

"You know how he is. Portia bows and scrapes to him like a scullery maid, and he means to use her to keep control over me. When he makes up his mind to something, he never lets go."

"Then just elope with Miss Daventry."

Reggie shook his head. "She has her own family matter. Two sisters with their guardian, Cottingham."

Castlebury's nostrils flared. "That old sot. That can't bode well. But what's it got to do with you?"

"I suspect she needs a husband who can somehow wrest her sisters from Cottingham's grasp. And the devil of it is, I don't have either the power or the blunt to do it."

"She doesn't? The word is she's got twelve-- She doesn't?"

"Let's skip that part of the discussion, shall we? The duke obviously won't be of any help since it's contrary to his wishes. Fortunately he doesn't know about her yet. And I have another expectation."

The pair of brown brows rose high, waiting. Castlebury folded his arms over his chest.

"Let's just say I have committed myself to an occupation some would consider less than savory, but which has the potential of providing me with independence from my parent."

"The devil, you say. And what might that be? Would it have anything to do with your mysterious and lengthy disappearances, and possibly those smudges you never quite get off your hands?"

The harder Reggie tied to keep the heat from invading his face, the hotter he got. "All right, but you must not tell anyone. I wrote a book and sold it. Signed the contract this morning."

"Devil a bit, Reggie! Something terribly risque, I hope!"

"Seafaring story. I've got to get it into print before my father discovers it. Then it will be too late for him to stop it. And if I am fortunate, I shall eventually have a modest income my father cannot touch."

"And can marry whom you please."

Reggie nodded. "Do not mistake me, Castlebury. I am resolved I shall not marry Portia under any circumstances. If I never see a farthing of my inheritance, and if it causes a complete break from my father, I will not. But it remains to be seen if I can persuade Miss Daventry to marry me. I do not think she would sacrifice the well-bring of her sisters for me. Nor would I wish it. And if she does not, then I have grave concerns that Vilheurs will win her hand. I cannot allow her to make such a mistake."

"Surely not. Is she so desperate?"

"I suspect she is. You know Cottingham. Would you want any child left in his care? Let alone twins barely above childhood?"

"So what do you want me to do? I am not at all set to spring the parson's mousetrap, and would find it particularly odious to marry a lady so enamored with my close friend."

"Don't marry her. Just keep her occupied. Too busy for Vilheurs to get his hooks into her. He is too determined."

"He cannot know of her lack of fortune, then, else he would lose interest entirely."

"Nor can we let it be known. It would humiliate her and ruin any chance she might have to make an amiable marriage."

"Then you mean to give her up so easily?"

"Not at all. Of course, if she should find someone she desires to marry, I would not stand in her way. But I shall not stand aside for anything less."

"What will you do, then?"

"I will find a way. I have promised it to myself."

Castlebury's eyes roamed over the marshy shoreline on the far side of the Thames as if he found them of immense fascination. "A dicey proposition. A man could find himself leg-shackled from a single false move."

"You're up to the challenge. You have been successfully side-steeping maidenly swoons for some time."

"Beauhampton, you are asking a great deal."

Reggie nodded. But at least if anything went awry, Chloe would be in good hands.

"When is the race?"

"Thursday. Woolwich to Gravesend."

"I believe I shall organize a party to drive down to Gravesend. I'll wager we arrive before you. Bibury's uncle has a property down that way, I believe. Perhaps a picnic at seaside, and a side trip to the estate."

"We shall be at the dock waiting for you. Mind you, no racing, with the ladies along."

Castlebury's lips twitched as if tempted to make a smile. But that would have been beneath his dignity.

Chapter Ten

"She's dragging her arse, sir," said Russell.

Reggie knew that, and he also knew he didn't have twenty quid to lose. But from the moment the ship's boats had tugged them into the Thames' main channel to Woolwich, he had felt something wrong, and he couldn't puzzle out what it was.

The Xanthe lay about, poised, sails ready to drop at the signal. The wind was strong and gusty, favoring the more skilled yachtsman. But luck could play a part, depending upon who caught the right wind.

"She acts like her hull is covered with barnacles," Reggie replied, frowning. He searched the larboard side, but everything there looked sound. He crossed the deck and checked out the starboard side, not even knowing what he ought to find, but saw nothing.

He checked his watch. "Almost time. To your posts, lads."

"Aye, sir," said Russell with a worried frown.

Reggie climbed the ladder to the poopdeck to take his position by MacDevie.

From ashore at Woolwich, the crack of a pistol split the air. The Xanthe's yards dropped, and flaxen sheets billowed, catching the stiff wind. Reggie had picked this very spot to catch the wind he wanted.

The Xanthe hardly moved. The sheets strained, but she was almost dead in the water. Dismayed crew watched as the Argonaut lurched ahead. It was almost like something had them tied to the riverbed.

"Devil a bit!" Reggie shouted, dashing to stern. "Where the devil is it?"

"Sir?" called MacDevie, still at the wheel.

"We've been spiked! Where the devil is it?"

"Get me a cutlass and a line." It had to be below the waterline. He squinted down at the sparkling water. "There!"

Russell dashed up and lashed down the line barely before Reggie swung himself over the stern and shinnied down the thick hemp, balancing against the wooden sides. Not until he was almost upon it could he see a spike driven into the planks just below waterline. Beneath it trailed a taut rope. Whatever it was they were dragging, it was big and heavy.

He planted both feet against the planks of the stern, leaned out, and swung the razor-sharp cutlass, hacking at the water and the rope beneath it, cursing to himself at the resistance of the water that weakened his strokes. The third blow cut it loose. The Xanthe pitched forward so suddenly, Reggie lost his footing, dangling from the line , swinging and thumping against the planks. The cutlass dropped into the river. As the yacht steadied with its newly found speed, Reggie climbed like a rat in the rigging, and pulled himself back aboard.

Now she was moving. But the Argonaut had a good lead. She'd be hard to catch before Gravesend.

MacDevie's low, calm voice called out orders as if nothing untoward had occurred. The crew dropped the topsails, then the royals. The yards shifted and they ran before the wind. A full sail day, the best of all possible worlds. The Xanthe still had a chance, for she had more sail power and could outmaneuver the competition.

"Warrenton?" MacDevie asked, not bothering to look at Reggie.

Reggie shook his head. "He loves to race too much. No contest to run a race against a crippled ship."

"Who, then?"

He'd probably never know. "Someone with a healthy wager on the Argonaut," he guessed.

Across the river on the south, a line of carriages sprang to action, away from the river to follow the main road between Woolwich and Dartford. Reggie scanned over the lot of them until he spotted Castlebury's distinct blue and gold. With him, two women, unless he missed his guess, Chloe and her aunt. Castlebury would probably lessen his risk for their sakes, but he'd go for speed on the less traveled route.

The carriages would race the yachts all the way to Gravesend, no matter what Reggie had asked, a good race in and of itself, for while Reggie couldn't sail faster than cattle could run, his wind wouldn't tire. And the ships were forced to follow the river's winding course, but the carriages had to tackle rough and winging roads. But he knew Castlebury, who would have taken the trouble to have his own pairs stationed at the hostelries along the route, to assure himself of the best horseflesh.

Straight down the channel and around the bend, the Xanthe sailed, with yards creaking, rigging snapping and humming. Adjusting to the larboard turn, they slowed and the sails rippled, lacking the full force of the wind with the sails canted. But the Argonaut slowed too.

Reggie's task was partly to keep track of the competition, and he watched as the Argonaut sought her favorite channel, safe, but crowded. The river's shifting mud could make a passage treacherous, wiping out yesterday's channel as surely as if it had never existed, and most boats stuck to the surer routes. But this was a time for daring, not safety.

"MacDevie, that new channel you found last week. Can we take it?"

MacDevie grinned. "Done, sir. The wind's right, but it's a shallow one. We could run aground."

And be a laughingstock. "It's happened before, and will happen again. But we have to make up time."

MacDevie stuck to his business. At the bow, the pilot called out, and MacDevie answered. Yards swung, shifting the sails. Tricky business, this. They had to sail farther south than the straightest line, and would lose time, and draw jeers from the Argonaut for their foolishness. But if the channel worked, they'd cut half a mile off their route, and keep the best wind, while the Argonaut, secure in its lead, would have to slow and maneuver against traffic, further on.

If it didn't work, they'd be high and dry till next high tide. Reggie would be twenty quid poorer, and Chloe would lose her faith in him as a crack seaman.

MacDevie held the helm as sails shifted. They furled the royals, slowing, nudging their way along an unknown river bottom, which could have shifted even since yesterday.

Rigging creaked and lines hummed with a turn to starboard. The pilot called out. MacDevie answered, sharpening the turn.

"Aye, there's a girl!" shouted the pilot, his eye on the narrow channel as if he could see through the murky water to what lay beneath. "Full sail, MacDevie!"

They'd made it into the narrow channel. Far to larboard, the Argonaut still struggled in the main channel, blocked by traffic. Once again the royals dropped and caught the wind, and the Xanthe surged ahead. She ran a clean course through the deceptive channel back to the busy river, while Warrenton clipped close behind, tacking and wearing past the lugging merchantmen until he, too, had a clean shot down the river. The heavy traffic wouldn't hit the river again until the next tide turned to carry them upstream to the docks.

The carriages kept pace, racing about a mile in from the river. There were fewer of them now. Castlebury's phaeton was still in the lead, but Reggie couldn't make out its occupants.

The channel once again narrowed before the Argonaut caught them. She couldn't come up behind and overtake them here. She'd have to sail too close, and tangle her rigging in the Xanthe. Warrenton wasn't that kind of fool.

As the channel widened again, the Argonaut pressed them, all sails flying. But MacDevie was on to that, and tacked to larboard, blocking the larger vessel.

It was a clean shot into port. The Xanthe tied up first.

Over a little sandy hummock came the first of the carriages as it raced through the streets of Gravesend. Castlebury's curricle, with the women holding on for dear life. Reggie would ring a peal over him for that, but it would change nothing.

Ship secured, Reggie swung over the side and down the gangplank to the dock just as the carriages pulled up.

Warrenton dashed up, his brown eyes shining. "Damn good race, Lord Reginald!" he said, slapping twenty quid into Reggie's hand. "How'd you find that little channel?"

"Already knew about it," Reggie replied. "We would have beat you by ten minutes if we hadn't been spiked."

Warrenton's face paled. "I didn't do it."

"I know that. Who was betting?"

Warrenton looked back over his shoulder, warily assessing the round of gentlemen behind them. Reggie caught the drift. It could have been any one of them. But he caught Vilheurs' eye and saw fury. So that was it. He meant to make Reggie look a fool to Chloe, or make a bit of blunt off Reggie's misfortune, or even both.

"Let it go, then," he said.

"I'll be going, then." Warrenton nestled his brown beaver hat tightly on his scalp. Any other time he would have stayed around, but the cit didn't have much use for the upper crust. His own friends collected around the Argonaut, ready to recharge their hero with rounds of ale in the local inn. Sadness hung in Reggie's throat, thinking of the man who was as good a man as any he knew. Warrenton had a sister who had married a baron, but Warrenton himself would be forever a cit. The world had a strange way of measuring a man's worth.

"Good race," Reggie called back.

A little shifting around, and Reggie took up in Bibury's curricle, for a slow ride to the sands, where they spread a picnic lunch.

Lady Laverhorn, decked out in a ridiculously sweet, prim dress of white lace and a wide pink sash, sat on a blanket beside Vilheurs, and while Vilheurs couldn't keep his eyes off Chloe, Lady Laverhorn coyly batted her eyes and ducked her head as if she were blushing. Reggie guessed the woman had not had a legitimate blush since she left the schoolroom. Seeing him looking her way, she jumped up and started a silly schoolgirl skip in his direction.

Reggie felt like a rock had lodged in his throat, and cast about for a quick escape route.

"Ah, Lord Reginald, I see you are alone."

Reggie turned to see Miss Godelin, her sweet pale green eyes reflecting mischief. Seeing her unescorted, Reggie took her arm, and led her away in the opposite direction of Lady Laverhorn's onslought.

He fought the awkward sense of imbalance, studying the tough grass and sand with all the intensity he had once poured into seeking Chloe's eyes.

Tough work, this pretense of not caring.

Miss Godelin gave him a warm smile, meant to reassure, he was sure, but her pale green eyes were so much like Chloe's, he found it hard.

"You are very kind, Lord Reginald," she said, "But you must not feel you must do the pretty for me. I am a spinster by choice, you know."

He grimaced. He had heard that. "But surely, Miss Godelin, since I am in need of company and I find you companionable, you do not object."

"Oh, not at all, Lord Reginald. It is just that, well, I had so hoped-- But, well, it is not for me to say."

"It appears it is not for me to say, either."

"Oh. Dear. Then is there no hope, Lord Reginald?"

He studied the pleading green eyes, and added Miss Godelin as one more conspirator. He smiled. "There is hope, Miss Godelin. As long as there is breath. I pray you, do not give up yet."

* * *

Chloe was in the kitchen occupied with one of her favorite secret tasks, baking bread, when she heard the sounds of a caller above. With a quick punch, she deflated the risen dough, covered it with a damp cloth, unpinned her apron and dashed up the steps. As she reached the door to the long corridor, she recognized the voices.

The Duke of Marmount and Aunt Daphne. Her jaw tightened as she brushed fingers over her face, hoping to wipe away any stray flour that might cling there. Her heart pounded at the thought of the odious duke, but she paused to take a deep, long breath to calm herself, then marched toward the salon.

"You were not invited here," Aunt Daphne said, the sharp edge of her voice echoing down the corridor.

"I am the Duke of Marmount. I go where I please. I have no need of invitations."

"So I have heard, and it is not surprising, as you are neither invited nor wanted."

Chloe gulped. Whatever the man wanted, it could not be good, but Aunt Daphne's confrontation could only make it worse. She stepped into the salon, and the duke turned to face her.

For an immensely long moment, the duke stared as if he could not stop, in the oddest gawk she had ever seen, as if he saw some shocking sort of apparition. A shiver coursed up her spine.

"Ah, there you are, Miss Daventry," he said, returning his fasce to its usual flat, hard look. "I was given to believe you were not at home."

"I am not 'at home' to callers on Tuesdays, your grace. It is my day for other things."

"Baking, I presume?" A touch of a sneer accompanied his falsely pleasant smile.

Involuntarily, she touched her hair, thinking stray flour clung there to betray her unladylike activity, then realized that very gesture exposed her. She shoved the offending hand into the grasp of the other one and clasped it tightly. "A pastime I enjoy," she replied.

"Indeed. Perhaps you are to be admired for your industriousness, Miss Daventry."

Chloe also read the unspoken statement that the reverse was more likely to be true. She clenched her teeth and stood silently, for it seemed the more she said, the worse things got.

She waited, still silent. If he wanted to talk, let him do it. The duke surveyed her in his detached way. Chloe met his gaze with the same hardness.

"I am very pleased to see you chose to take my advice, Miss Daventry, and I am prepared to reward you for it. You see, I keep my promises." He reached into his waistcoat and removed a sheet of fine rag paper, which he held out to her.

When she did not reach for it, he shoved it closer. A bank draft. She could read the 'five thousand pounds' he had written on it. Chloe gripped her hand so tightly, her ring bit into her fingers, and she shook her head. "I have done nothing at your behest, your grace. Nor did you make me any promises, only threats. I will not take your money."

"Ah. You think to hold out for a bigger prize."

"I have said I will not take your money. You will find, I also keep my word. But I find it amazing, since you have got what you want at no cost, why you now seek to pay for it?"

A tight muscle twitched in his jaw, but nothing showed in his eyes. Chloe began to sense this was like a chess game, with each move carefully assessed before a counter move was made. And he had not expected her response.

"My son is to marry his cousin, Portia Nightengall, Miss Daventry, not you. You have broken your attachment with him, and that was wise of you. However, Reginald has not yet come up to scratch."

"Perhaps he does not want to marry his cousin."

"And that is your doing, Miss Daventry. He was perfectly malleable before you came into the picture. Now you will have to correct that."

Chloe thought of a lot of things to say, most of which were better left unsaid. "I am so sorry you know your son so poorly, your grace." Perhaps she should not have said that, either, but it was out, and could not be taken back.

The duke's eyes narrowed. He reached into the waistcoat again, and this time removed a bundle of papers, of miscellaneous size and style, tied together with string. "Do you know what this is, Miss Daventry?"

Chloe swallowed, but the lump in her throat would not go down. She had a suspicion, a very nasty one.

The duke flipped through the papers. "Dillard's. Hatchard's. Rafferty, the draper and purveyor of goods of suspicious origin. You have accumulated a rather sizeable debt for a woman, and in a very short period of time."

She swallowed hard, her heart pounding. He had her bills. He must have bought them up. Did he have them all?

The duke handed her another paper, a list. A very long list. Chloe scanned down it, her hands shaking.

"You paid these."

"If I have missed any, you may feel free to tell me, and I will see to them as well. You are to be debt-free, Miss Daventry."

"Except to you."

"Smart girl."

She crumpled the list in her hand and tossed it into the firegrate, wishing to heaven it were winter and she had a roaring fire there. "You cannot buy me, your grace."

His iron-cold gaze remained unchanged. "I do not need to buy you, as I own you already. But you need not fear, I shall give you a full month before you must begin repayment. At one thousand per month."

Chloe thought her heart stopped.

Aunt Daphne gasped. "You are a perfect villain, sir."

"If you wish to think so," said the duke, not even bothering to glance in Aunt Daphne's direction. "You, of course, are naught but a dried up, penniless spinster, so your opinion is of no importance." He turned his attention back to Chloe with not so much as a pause to see if his jab had inflicted a wound. "In the event, Miss Daventry, the terms I grant you are within reason. If you find yourself unable to pay, I give you an alternative, simply that, when Reginald marries his cousin, all your notes will be returned to you."

"And if I do not comply?"

The strange smile he gave her was almost paternal. "Do you mean to hold out for an even greater prize? I wonder what it is you might want?"

She felt the color draining from her face. Her knees turned wobbly. What if he guessed? Could there be any way the man might discover what it was she hoped to achieve? Chloe's throat went dry. She swallowed hard, praying he would not sense her fear.

His cold blue eyes took in every movement she made. He was clearly a master at knowing people and turning their weaknesses against them. She clenched her teeth and stiffened her spine, determined.

"Yes," he said. "I do imagine you might choose to defy me, Miss Daventry. That would be unfortunate. You are aware of the consequences to debtors. Do give it some thought. I bid you good day."

The Duke of Marmount spun on one heel, strode down the corridor, and collected his beaver hat from Cargill, which he whacked against his leg as if it had accumulated dust in the short time it had been in her house. Cargill had to jump to reach the door in time to open it. Just before passing through the door, he pivoted around again, catching Chloe gaping.

"Oh, it would not be advisable of you to discuss our little encounter with Reginald, Miss Daventry." His parting reminded her of a cat licking its face after a meal of new hatchlings. Then he was gone.

Her knees quaked like leaves in a windstorm as the last ounce of strength drained out of her. Clinging to her aunt, she barely made it across the room before collapsing onto the blue settee. Sobs tore through her as she trembled. "He knows about them!"

"No, he doesn't." Daphne snuggled Chloe into a protective embrace. "He was merely angling, and he would not angle if he already knew."

"Those eyes are so piercing. I thought he could read my very thoughts. Aunt Daphne, what am I to do? I couldn't do that to Reggie."

"I know," said Aunt Daphne, caressing a hand across Chloe's back.

She had to do something. But tears would not help, and she dared not waste time with them. Chloe sat up and wiped her eyes. At least, thanks to the duke, she had a month with no creditors hounding her. With good fortune, perhaps she could find that husband who could help her, and pay the duke his due as well.

She sucked in a deep breath and sighed. Perhaps she would become Queen of England. The chance was just about as good.

Chloe stood and straightened her garments. One glance in the chimneypiece mirror told her she needed more effort to right her appearance, so she made for the stairs to go up and repair herself.

She had so little time left, and so few choices. Not Bibury, who had not a feather to fly with, nor St. James, who was all that was kind, but thought only of his horses. Most of all, it would not be Castlebury who would become her husband and save her sisters. She had already deduced that much. For all that he occupied every spare minute of her time, he made not the slightest move in the direction of marriage. Not for a moment was he alone with her. Nary a hint of innuendo. Yet because of him, no other suitor could get close. He was more of a guard than an admirer. For some reason he was impeding her search for a husband.

Chloe wished she'd realized that sooner. That was exactly what he was doing, and deliberately so, and she suspected that was Reggie's doing. She had to do something about their little scheme if she meant to be wed before the season ended.

* * *

Chloe was ready for Castlebury when he came to call.

She thought the man turned a bit pale when Aunt Daphne departed the blue salon with the blandest of excuses, leaving them alone.

"Miss Daventry, this really is not necessary..." Castlebury stumbled over his words.

"It is not? But my lord, you have given me to expect, how shall I say, more."

He really did turn pale. Chloe was incapable of continuing the ruse, even if he did deserve it. Regrettably, she had to let him off the hook. She smiled.

"You have occupied my company almost exclusively of late, Lord Castlebury. So much so that another suitor would have no chance. So it could be said you are interfering with my opportunities to find a husband. I cannot help but wonder why."

"Miss Daventry, although I do find your company most enchanting, I had not expected to mislead you. But I am afraid I must say quite bluntly I am not angling for a wife."

"I did not think so," Chloe said, and allowed a small smile to comfort him. "But you are playing at something, and I must wonder what. Could it be that you mean instead to prevent some connection on my part?"

Castlebury licked his lips as if they were very dry.

"Lord Castlebury, since you have been blunt, I shall be also. I am perfectly aware that you do not desire marriage, and in all charity I must say you have not led me to believe such. But you do continue to dominate my company, thus preventing me from achieving my aim, which is a suitable husband. So, although I do enjoy your companionship, I must ask you to cease or at least lessen your attendance. Otherwise, I fear I shall be forced to call upon you to make good on my expectation."

Castlebury licked his lip again, and Chloe saw that he really was not afraid of her threat after all, but was simply being cautious of playing his hand. A sly look crossed his solemn face, and he crossed the salon to where she stood by the chimneypiece.

"Miss Daventry." He took her hand. "I fear to inform you that I am not motivated by your blackmail, but it is the truth. Charming as you are, I would never choose to marry a woman who had eyes only for my closest friend."

Chloe's eyes widened, and fluttered as she looked away, down to the hand he still held firmly.

"Nevertheless, I must honor your request, at least in part. But at the same time, I must make a request of you, that you reconsider my dear friend Lord Reginald, and give less thought to Lord Vilheurs. Considerably less thought."

Chloe wavered between slapping him and laughing out loud, and in the end, contained both impulses. "So that is it, then? You are assigned to protect me from Lord Vilheurs?"

He winced. "Not assigned, my dear Miss Daventry. I keep your company because I choose to do so. But I do not trust Vilheurs. It would not be at all a good connection for you."

"That is not for you to say, Lord Castlebury."

"Nevertheless, I cannot simply stand aside."

"You cannot? I should never think to tell you who you might or might not marry. If you cannot allow me my right to choose, then I shall have to refuse your company entirely."

"Miss Daventry--"

"Please, my lord, I must ask you to choose."

Castlebury groaned. "Very well, it shall be as you wish."

As Chloe watched the handsome young man depart, she wondered what it was she had won. And it was beginning to look as if Lord Vilheurs was the only choice she had left.

Chapter Eleven

So Reggie not only had to figure out how to get Chloe to marry him, but how to save her sisters, as well. It was nice to know the real problem, but what to do about it was another matter entirely.

He would understand if she married another man for her sisters' sake, but he saw danger in that for her. A man like Castlebury would not hold the deception against her, but Castlebury also wouldn't marry her in the first place. Nor would Bibury, who simply didn't have the blunt to marry. And Reggie shuddered to think of the fate of two young girls as well as Chloe in the hands of a man like Vilheurs. One more reason Reggie had to find a way to marry her, himself.

But how? If the book sold modestly, which was the best he could reasonably expect, and if he managed to keep on writing and selling as he believed he would, he could support Chloe. But he couldn't help her sisters. And his father would cut him off, so that would only make things worse.

Reggie even thought of sacrificing himself for his love. He could go to his father and agree to marry Portia, if his father would help Chloe get custody of her sisters. Fortunately for Reggie, he quickly realized the futility of such a sacrifice. The duke would never bother with negotiating since he already believed he could force Reggie to marry Portia.

Reggie spent weeks in the pretense of not caring while he pondered his new dilemma, seeing Chloe everywhere he went, and exercising the utmost of politeness and good manners, now and then escorting Chloe himself to keep up the front of amiability. Perhaps it might have been easier if he had merely decided to abandon hope, but he had never been one to give up his dreams.

She was there, everywhere he went. Time after time, they found themselves face to face, with the rest of society slowly sliding away, leaving them almost alone. But not entirely alone, however, for Vilheurs was always there, with Lady Laverhorn by his side, always encroaching.

Sometimes he sought the solace of the open sea, the only balm he could find for his aching soul. He could not make himself write, for the moment he picked up his pen, thoughts of Circe invaded.

He happened to be with Castlebury in Hatchard's when the first copies of the book were placed on the shelves. Feigning merely mild interest, he picked up the red-leather bound copy and marveled at how small it was, almost entirely covered by the span of his hand. How had so many sheaves of foolscap and hundreds of hours of his life been compressed into anything so tiny?

The Adventuress. By Roger Beauchef. Not very original. He'd argued for Lionel, Lionel anything, as long as it was utterly different from his real name. But Ludwick had his mind set, and he owned the press. Reggie had had a hard enough time talking the fellow into limiting his editing. Reggie leafed through the thin paper, catching phrases here and there that brought some memory to mind.

"Roger Beauchef?" queried Castlebury, also thumbing through a copy. "Who does he think he's fooling?"

Reggie hissed at him. Castlebury flipped his eyebrows in a most fashionable way.

With a guilty smile, Reggie bought the first copy Hatchard's sold. Castlebury bought one for himself. Before the end of the week, the shelves had to be restocked. He heard the novel mentioned at the clubs, and once in a salon, enthusiastically discussed by the curious.

Everyone was buying it, and Ludwick was ecstatic. He went into a second printing almost immediately, and then a third. Everyone loved Circe. But then, Reggie was not surprised. She was the perfect heroine.

And Ludwick's ecstacy translated into guineas in Reggie's pocket, a modest income, but real. The elusive Roger Beauchef, alias Reggie Beauhampton, could have just about anything he wanted now. Except what he really wanted.

Midsummer came and went, and Reggie still did not pay his addresses to Portia. Reggie didn't have the cheek to confront his father about the allowance he knew would be withheld, but he was surprised when he heard nothing in response to his failure to give the duke what he demanded. No cold glares nor threats. In the past, any time he had tried to outguess the duke, an uneasy feeling took hold in his stomach, and this time he felt like his gut was tying itself in knots.

And everywhere, he saw Chloe, and somewhere in the background, his mother, or Lady Nuttley, or one of the Grande Dames. Lord and Lady Mythe, and Castlebury, too. Was everyone in on the mischief? If his mother had started it, then, yes, probably everyone was.

He couldn't figure out how they managed it. Chloe was easy enough, for once a gentleman took her arm, she was rather obligated to go along wherever he led her. But how did they always know where he was going to be? How did they always manage to get him precisely where they wanted him? He could be standing behind a post and somehow they'd find him.

However, since it all fit in quite well with his plans, Reggie did nothing to stop their maneuvering. But he could see the pain, almost like fear, in Chloe's face, and he just wanted to scoop her up in his arms and carry her off to someplace safe and quiet. And solitary.

Reggie went off to the Doolittle Ball, as usual having to forcibly remind himself to slow down and make a gentlemanly entrance. As he gazed about, searching for Chloe, his feet having barely alit on the glossy marble of the ballroom floor, he jumped at the unexpected touch of a white-gloved hand on his arm.

"Dear Lord Reginald," cooed a voice as sweet and sticky as tree sap.

Lady Laverhorn. Trapped.

He winced. Whatever it was about the woman that made her believe he had any interest in her, he couldn't imagine. She simply refused to allow a man to turn her down. He wished he had the ability to be a rudesby and simply give her the set down she deserved. But she was Mythe's cousin, after all. And he had been the target of unkind rejection himself, and he knew what it was like.

"I am so happy you have come at last, dear Lord Reginald," she gushed. "What a crushing bore it has been without you."

Reggie glanced about frantically, but saw no escape. Perhaps he could manage being a rudesby in spite of himself. Nothing else worked with the woman. And her collusion with Vilheurs was becoming so blatantly obvious that, for whatever mutual purpose they saw, Reggie's animosity against her was doubling. Yet he could not quite manage the harsh words that formed in his mind.

"Lady Doolittle has always been a lovely hostess," he replied lamely.

"Oh, but you are always too kind, Lord Reginald." Lady Laverhorn rubbed her hand over his arm in that very way that made him want to slap it away. "There are so many more delightful ways to spend one's time, don't you think?"

He did, and this wasn't one of them. Nor was he about to steal off behind the rhododendrons with a woman who spent so much of her time seeking out the company of men for nefarious purposes. Or so he assumed. He had never actually heard of any such success, but it was altogether likely no man wished to brag about the encounter.

"Ah, there you are, Beauhampton."

Reggie turned to see Castlebury escorting Chloe, who was wearing that same soft green that made her eyes look like jade.

Castlebury's mouth was drawn out into what Reggie might almost call a smirk, for it certainly was not a smile. "Miss Daventry was complaining to me you had not arrived. It is nearly the end of the second set, and the waltz is to be called next. You did promise it to her, did you not?"

Chloe slanted narrowed eyes in Castlebury's direction but said nothing.

But Reggie couldn't help but grin. "Indeed. And how kind of you to being her to me."

Nor did Chloe object as he took her arm.

"And that leaves me with the lovely Lady Laverhorn," Castlebury said as he took up the red-headed lady's hand.

Reggie didn't waste time looking at what happened behind them as he urged Chloe away from the brangle that had previously entangled him, as far across the ballroom as he could manage while they waited out the remainder of the second set.

"Quite a sacrifice on Lord Castlebury's part," he said to Chloe.

She nodded glumly. "I cannot say I am all that glad to be dragged to your rescue, either," she replied.

"Ah, but we did vow to help each other. Are you not supposed to be helping me find a wife?"

Chloe's eyes searched the ceiling as if praying for divine relief. "And who that might be, I cannot fathom. Perhaps Miss Amy Soren? But I cannot imagine she would know what to do with you."

The very picture amused Reggie. "Watered down milk, to be sure. As I have no notion what I would do with her either, I am sure we would not suit."

"And were you not supposed to help me find a husband?"

"Castlebury?" he offered. "Bibury?"

"Oh, indeed. The conspirators."

"Conspirators?"

"Only yesterday I found myself standing right beside you. I had but to turn around, to find my escort, Lord Bibury, had utterly vanished."

Indeed, Bibury had entirely disappeared, just that quickly.

"He seems a bit to tall to fade into a crowd, don't you think?" Reggie asked.

She nodded. "Lord Bibury is one of your conspirators, is he not?"

"My conspirators?"

"Don't mince words with me, Reggie. It seems the harder I try to stay away from you, the more they push us together. Just like Castlebury, Lord Bibury pretends to be courting me, but he is not. None of them are. They are merely holding your place for you, and they do not intend to relinquish that place to anyone but you."

He smiled. "They think we belong together. Perhaps we do."

"I feel as if the entire of society has affianced me to you. But it is not possible, Reggie. I cannot give over my sisters. Don't you understand?"

"Dance with me," Reggie said. It was a question he'd prefer not to answer.

She shook her head.

"Dance with me, or it will look odd."

She assented, with a sigh that spoke of all her frustration and pain. She was right, of course, for Castlebury kept her quite tied up, as did Bibury or St. James, or any one of the cadre of his other friends who stepped in. But none of them would be brought to the altar with any ease. It was for her own good. He just wished she could see that.

The waltz was of the new variety, slower and soft, yet still lively, the most perfect music for dancing that had ever been written. He placed his hand at her waist in a precisely proper way, and they kept the perfect distance between them that propriety prescribed. The battle against his impulses lunged into full sway. He ached to complete the embrace, and he could feel the tension in her, like a cat when it is about to leap from one's arms.

So he whispered in her ear, the way he used to gentle frightened mares. Nothing of any substance, just soft and tender words.

"Stop," she said. "Reggie, I cannot bear this. Please do not make it any harder for me. Can't you call them off, Reggie? You know I must find a husband."

"It will be all right, my love," he said. "I promise you."

Chloe's lashes lowered, and he thought he saw the sparkle of tears.

"Look at me, love."

She blinked and kept her gaze on the buttons of his coat.

He wanted to draw her into an embrace, even here in the middle of this crowded ballroom, but Reggie held her in exact perfection, precisely the way he must. "This moment is ours, my love. Feel its magic."

She glanced up, puzzled, and he could see he had been right. A flick of moisture clung to her lashes.

"The music plays just for us," he whispered. "The thousand candles burn in honor of our love and make your beautiful green eyes glow just for me. For all that we are among a hundred friends, we are alone together, and the waltz is our embrace."

She tilted her head, just the tiniest bit, and sighed.

He leaned close to her ear, breathing in her lavender scent. "You wear the fragrance in your hair like a crown. I could bend and touch my lips to yours, and taste the sweetness of your kiss."

"Reggie--"

In the hand he held to her waist, he felt her tension ease, a tacit consent to their love. His throat tightened around a huge lump that could not be swallowed down. His heart ached.

"Forget what has gone before," he said, as the world around him faded away. "What will happen does not matter, for we have this moment, and it is ours forever. No one can take this from us. Only feel it with me, Chloe. For now, we are one."

She did not have to move closer; their bodies did not have to touch. Their embrace was theirs, the pulse of the waltz a lovemaking, the moment eternal.

They did not speak again until the dance ended and he returned her to the care of her aunt. Then Reggie left the ball.

Remembering those painful moments, his heart seemed to twist. She had relinquished her defenses, accepted the comforting he had sought to give her. But the dance that had lasted mere seconds for him must have been an eternity for her.

His eternity had begun the moment they parted. But he knew now what he was going to do.

He'd sell the Xanthe.

* * *

Now, at last, things had changed. The time had come to make his move. At last, he had the security she needed, for The Adventuress had outstripped his wildest expectations. He had a way to support her and give her back her sisters.

And soon, the Xanthe would be sold. He was sure. He even had Warrenton quietly feeling about for buyers.

The heavy, moist heat of midsummer invaded Town, with the air so thick it was like breathing water. Town was abandoned for the green countryside, and Lord and Lady Mythe called for a house party at their family estate in the Cotswolds. The perfect occasion to win Chloe back. Reggie rode down on a bay gelding.

At the gate, Reggie alit from his bay gelding, springing down with a sudden bolt of excitement. Hands on hips, he swung around in a slow arc, surveying the estate and grounds.

The honey-colored, rambling old Tudor mansion had been in the Mythe family since it was built, each generation adding to it until it eventually swallowed up its medieval core. The sprawling grounds encompassed two courtyards, and along one side, terrace followed terrace in tiers down a sloping landscape that led to a forested brook and a small lake.

Elizabethan though the manor was, the land about it had the nostalgic natural beauty of later eras. Color ran brilliantly rampant in sculpted flower beds. And just for fun, Mythe had restored the old maze, the way it had been when the Virgin Queen herself had wandered through it.

A place for lovers. It suited Mythe and his lover-wife.

Reggie let loose a chuckle. Terrence and Sylvia, but he had never called them that. If ever he had seen a couple who seemed less suited, he couldn't remember it, but he wanted a marriage like theirs. With such friends, he need not allow the poor example set by his parents to taint him.

He raced up the white stone steps, hallooing to friends and acquaintances in their blossom-colored garments as they meandered along the walks and gardens. Standing at a huge entrance that seemed more like a gate than a door, were Lord and Lady Mythe.

"Lovely afternoon, Mythe," he said. "Lady Mythe, it is as lovely as you." He took her hand.

Lady Mythe snickered. She never liked being told she was lovely, even though she was. "Good that you could come, Lord Reginald. Your usual chamber is prepared, and your man has arrived."

"A few surprises, though, Reggie," said Mythe.

Reggie raised an eyebrow.

"Your cousin, Miss Nightengall. An unexpected guest of Lady Creston."

Reggie groaned. "I hope you are not also going to tell me my father is here."

"Unlikely, as he rarely attends any event. But Vilheurs has shown up, with two of his friends, and I am not at all happy about it."

Mythe had always kept his invitations rather open, so it was not unusual when he had unexpected guests. But he didn't care for Vilheurs, and the fellow didn't seem to take the hint.

"Not invited?"

Mythe nodded. "He's sniffing about Miss Daventry again. Become rather insistent about it."

"You need not be crude, Mythe," said Lady Mythe. "Yet, I can hardly think of another way of saying it. And I fear the lady is suffering from some desperation that causes her to accept his atttentions."

"Devil it. Where's Castlebury?"

"You cannot expect him to be her constant watchdog, Reggie. She will not allow it, in any event."

Reggie excused himself and hurried up the stairs to his chamber in the Gentlemen's Wing, to change to proper attire as quickly as he might, and catch up to Chloe before Vilheurs got the upper hand. If he could only find some way of turning Vilheurs in Portia's direction. But no, even disliking his cousin, he couldn't do that to her. Vilheurs had an unpleasant reputation with women, and Reggie was certain a wife would fare no better.

"Do your best, Puckett," he said to his valet. "Your very best."

Puckett nodded and did his very best.

Reggie hurried back down the two flights of stairs, casting about in all directions for some sign of Chloe, hoping she was still within the house.

"Oh, Lord Reginald, here you are at last!"

Reggie groaned to himself as he turned and came face to face with Lady Creston. He squeezed an unfelt smile onto his face.

"And look who I have brought with me! Your lovely cousin, Miss Portia Nightengall."

A sour look crossed Portia's face as she attempted a smile, and she made a stiff curtsy. He had to admit, she was considerably prettier than he remembered, but she looked like she had a lemon in her mouth.

"And it has been such a long time since you have seen her. Do be a good fellow and show her Lady Mythe's lovely garden."

Reggie grimaced as Lady Creston manhandled his arm to link it with his cousin's. There was no escaping now, but he'd be damned if he was going to let Portia drag him off into some private corner and set her snare.

"The parterres by the terrace are particularly lovely," he said, remembering they were completely within sight of anyone near the house or terrace. Perhaps he could manage a quick tour where everyone could see them, then bring her back. Perhaps he might see Chloe or her aunt while walking.

Lady Creston pranced off, the gleam of triumph glowing in her eyes.

"Hurry up," Portia said, tugging his arm roughly.

Reggie was in no hurry to go where Portia wanted him to be. "I might inform you, cousin, it is unladylike for you to lead."

"I don't care. Hurry up. We have to get out of her sight right now."

"Why?" He knew why, and his heart felt like it had sunk to the bottom of his stomach.

"Because we have to talk, where they can't hear us. Come on."

Reggie stopped cold, and planted his feet as if they grew to ground. "Portia, I'd best say this now. I apologize if my father has misled you, but I have not harbored any intention to marry you."

"That is very clear. Come on."

"Then why should I wish to be alone with you?"

"Because if you don't, we are very likely to find the leg shackle connecting us, and that would be a travesty, considering that I do not like you, and you do not like me. Now, are you coming or not?"

She didn't? Reggie studied her face for falsehood and found none. "Then perhaps it would be prudent to see what you have in mind. But if you could at least give the appearance that I am in charge here--"

"Oh, fuss and bother. Have you always been so stuffy?"

Clearly, there were some things about Portia that had not changed. Reggie gave up and let her drag him down the path toward the brook that ran through the glen at the bottom of the hill.

She shoved him back behind a big oak. "Now, I should like to know," she said, "how this notion got planted in your feathered noggin that I wanted to marry you."

Feathered noggin. Hers was filled with rocks. "It was not my notion at all. The duke has insisted. He says you have complained about my lack of attention to you, and gave me until quarter day to come up to scratch."

"Quarter day? Thank goodness. Then at least we have until October."

"Last quarter day," he corrected. "Midsummer. He has already stopped my allowance."

She moaned. "Reggie, this will not do at all! I am four and twenty, and I shall not have very many more opportunities. I thought surely you were going to marry Miss Daventry, and now you have gone and ruined that. You've got to do something."

"Then we simply won't marry."

"Reggie, don't you understand? Nobody wants to oppose the Duke of Marmount! I shall have no suitors at all if you don't hurry up and marry. Oh, do come along."

Even his long legs had to stretch out to keep up with her rapidly skipping step as she scurried across the little stone bridge and entered the shady wood. She gave barely perfunctory nods to those they passed, eliciting curious stares. Reggie returned lame smiles, hoping to somehow cover up for Portia's lack.

"Where are we going? Why are we in such a hurry?"

"To the folly on the island."

Reggie stopped and jerked back.

"Oh, don't be such a slowtop. Everyone is there."

He gave up and followed. At the edge of the lake Mythe had made by damming up the stream through his land, one punt remained. Reggie closed his eyes and pretended he didn't see as Portia climbed in with no regard to her skirts or exposed ankles.

He poled the craft across the lake, where the other punts were beached. On the grassy knoll beside the Grecian folly, several ladies, each escorted by a gentleman, sat with a picnic spread.

Chloe. Beside Castlebury.

"And I swear to you, Reggie, if you are too harewitted to figure this out, then you don't deserve her."

So Portia had joined the conspirators. He grinned. "Well cousin, if you don't have me in mind to marry, might there be someone you do?"

Portia's lips drew into a tight line.

"Perhaps you might inform me if I can be of assistance."

"That is about as likely as snow geese in Africa."

Had Portia turned into a blue-stocking while he had not been looking? How else might she know about Africa or snow geese? "Geese are migratory, you know."

"Oh, do stop it. Just do your part."

It was becoming obvious that Reggie had to figure out what it was that everyone else had already discussed. So the thing to do was just play it out. He beached the punt, leapt out, and took Portia's hand as she stepped out with a daintiness she hadn't previously displayed. Her voice fairly sang with its lilting quality. Two-faced, as always. That hadn't changed.

He took her arm and led her up the knoll to where the others sat, gaily laughing, nibbling on cucumber sandwiches.

Chloe sat very still, looking wounded, as if she had just discerned the latest scheme. And he was the only one who understood the nature of her pain. He didn't want to hurt her. But it seemed that they would both face lifetimes of pain if he did not take the risk now.

As soon as the greetings were completed, Portia nestled in between him and Castlebury on the blankets spread out on the grass, pointedly flirting. And Castlebury, rake that he was, took it all in as if he enjoyed it, with little more than a sly glance at Reggie.

Bibury took up Miss Amy Soren's hand, and they ambled off for a tour of the island. Reggie thought of the little bridge on the far side that connected it to the far shore of the lake, and realized it would be a long time before the group returned, if they circled around back to the manor.

Within minutes, St. James decided to walk with Lady Millton, while Lord Millton took the hand of Lady Constance, St. James's sister.

"Well," said Castlebury, clearing his throat, "I believe I shall walk with your cousin, if you don't mind, Beauhampton."

Portia giggled in a high pitch that jangled in Reggie's ears, as she bounced daintily to her feet. He watched Portia's mincing step as they disappeared down the path after the others, and decided he had to admire Castlebury's sacrifice.

"I suppose that was all deliberate," Chloe said. Hopelessness tinged her voice.

"Oh, quite. I cannot tell who started it, but Portia has made it quite clear she wishes me to marry elsewhere."

"Oh." He saw a tear glint in her eye.

Reggie helped her to her feet and gathered up the brown wool blanket. Taking her hand, he led her behind the folly to a secluded glade where he spread out the blanket.

"Reggie--"

"Sit with me." He reached for her hand. "Come. I am your friend if I am nothing else. And there is a lot you have not told me."

A tear trickled down her cheek as she sat. Reggie wiped at it with his handkerchief.

"I can't."

"Then just tell me about your sisters."

For a long, still moment, Chloe ran her fingers back and forth over the coarse brown wool. She sighed. "I haven't heard from them in two months. They usually write to me every few weeks."

"If you are afraid for them, I will go for you."

"Cottingham won't let you see them. I have not seen them since my mother died."

Reggie put an arm around her shoulders. "Chloe, I have made up my mind. I will marry you, and no one else. My expectation has come through, and I have the blunt now to do as I please, even if my father continues to withhold my inheritance and Featherstone from me."

"An investment?"

Reggie gritted his teeth, wishing he had explained about the book before. But he hadn't really thought how to tell her, or how she would take it. "Of sorts. We shall have to talk about that. I do not mean to say we shall be in the lap of luxury, but we can live with at least reasonable modesty until my father relents."

"It is utterly unfair. I do not see why you do not stand up to him, Reggie."

Probably nobody really understood that. Parent or no, how did one explain love for such an obtuse man as his father? "He's my father," Reggie said. "I remember him the way he used to be. I was a very odd little boy, you see. I was always running into things or getting bumped or bruised. I couldn't sit still, no matter how hard I tried. He was the only one who understood. He would take me out to the fields and let me run, and fly kites, and ride, anything to use up all that extra energy I had. And he always protected me, even when my grandmother wanted me whipped for breaking her favorite vase."

"Your own grandmother? Why would she want to do that?"

He shrugged. How did he explain that he had always thought it was his own fault his grandmother hated him? "I don't remember much. I just know she detested me. One day I ran around a corner, right into the pedestal, and her vase fell, and shattered. She called for a footman to whip me, and father stepped in. There was a horrible row, and grandmother packed up and left for the dower house and never returned."

"Because she couldn't whip you? I should not have liked to have her for a grandmother."

"If there is anything that will set my father into a rage, it is cruelty to a child. I suspect she is the reason, but he has never mentioned it."

"Well, I still think he is a horrid man."

"He isn't, Chloe," he said. Yet nobody liked the duke, and Reggie knew it. "I cannot say what it was that changed him so, but he is bitterly unhappy. He has lost everyone, Chloe. He and my mother have not seen or spoken to each other in sixteen years. My brother Robert has hated him since father took him out of mother's home and forced him to live at Beauhampton. He has no one but me, now."

"And if you stand up to him, he will cut you off, too, won't he?"

Reggie nodded. The thing he most feared, that he would. like his mother and brother, discover his father did not love him, after all. And the truth was, he had set the wheels of that confrontation in motion, and they could not now be stopped.

"Possibly," he said. "He would see it as a betrayal. I'll deal with that when I must, but not now. We can solve our own problems now, Chloe. Once we are married, I shall petition the court for custody of your sisters."

But Chloe shook her head. "Reggie, they won't grant it to you. Cottingham is wealthy and powerful."

"I have a lot of friends, too, Chloe. And if necessary, I'll go to my father."

Her eyes suddenly widened. "No, Reggie, you can't! You are supposed to marry Portia, and if you don't, he'll--"

Chloe gasped, and clamped her mouth shut.

His father. The premonition ran up Reggie's spine in a shudder. "What will he do, Chloe?"

"You know what he told you--"

"No, I am interested in what he has told you. You've met him, haven't you?"

She had. He could see it in the stricken look in her eyes. Reggie wrapped his arms around her, but she pushed herself away.

"He has bought up my debts."

Reggie muttered a curse. Knowing his father, he easily discerned the remainder. He should have realized the Duke of Marmount would never rest in his unending quest to control his son. Perhaps that confrontation was coming sooner than he expected.

"Then there is only one answer, my love. As soon as you marry me, all your debts will become mine. Let him try to throw his own son into debtor's prison. That, I assure you, cannot be done, without extreme humiliation to the duke himself."

"Reggie--"

"I promise you. And we will find a way to help your sisters too."

Reggie turned her to face him and held her face in his hands as he touched his lips to hers. With a quiet sound like a dove's mournful call, her arms wrapped around him, pouring fuel onto the fire that glowed within him like the colors of an autumn sunset.

"Oh, there you are, Beauhampton. We thought you'd got yourself lost."

Vilheurs. Murderous thoughts flitted through Reggie's mind.

The haze cleared from Reggie's mind like fog blown away by a sudden, stiff wind.

Chloe gasped and sat back, pulling up the sleeve that had slipped off her white shoulder.

With Letitia Laverhorn. Reggie tamped down the instinct to leap up and flatten them both, but the situation was tight enough as it was, and could expose Chloe to humiliation. He stood and reached down for Chloe's hand, but Vilheurs stepped in.

"My dear," said Lady Laverhorn, oozing her words, "We really must hurry back. Lady Mythe is anxious to begin the evening festivities."

Reggie stared. Lady Laverhorn was smiling as if she had seen absolutely nothing, and that was quite impossible. Of course, the two of them had no advantage in publicizing the compromise, which would effectively scuttle their own schemes, but if she and Vilheurs meant to help keep this assignation secret, Reggie had no objection. He glared as she offered her arm for his taking.

It probably was better if Chloe was next seen on another fellow's arm. His only consolation was that it must have taken them quite some walk, all the way around the lake to the bridge, since all the punts were on the island.

And he glared as he punted them back across the lake, and continued glaring all the way up to the manor and the safety of the conspirators.

Chapter Twelve

As Chloe and Aunt Daphne reached the arched doors of Lady Mythe's lavender saloon, the noisily babbling music of feminine voices came abruptly to a halt. Every pair of eyes in the room turned on her and widened.

Chloe gulped as she cast about from one face to another. Miss Amy looked silly and closed a little red book in her hands. Lady Laverhorn smiled, but it was the kind of smile that made a person feel she was about to become a crocodile's lunch. Lady Constance and Lady Mythe looked mildly horrified, while Miss Nightengall merely stared with a frown. Whatever the on dit was, Chloe had no trouble discerning it was about her.

"Well?" Miss Amy asked in her girlishly breathless voice, as she hid the little book behind her back.

"Hush. It is none of your concern," said Lady Constance, and she grabbed for the book, but Miss Amy whirled away.

"Well, what?" Chloe returned.

"Well, did he ask?" The carefully constructed yellow ringlets on Miss Amy's head bobbed with her eager nodding.

Chloe hoped that was all this was about. The room was full of the female members of the conspiracy. Even Lady Laverhorn appeared to be one of them, but Chloe didn't quite believe that.

"I do not think I am prepared to discuss it just yet," she replied, trying to smile. How could she tell anyone when she had not puzzled out the answer herself?

"There! You see, I told you he would," Miss Amy gushed. "Are you? Are you going to marry him?"

"Miss Amy, you are above forward," said Lady Constance, her older cousin. "Let us allow Miss Daventry her privacy."

"Oh, do not be so high in the instep, Connie. We are all friends here, are we not? And it is all so very romantical! I wish I had a lover who wrote a book about me!"

An anguished moan hummed through the women.

"Miss Amy, how very shocking," retorted Lady Constance. "You do not have a lover, and neither does Miss Daventry, and you should never intimate so."

"Well, I did not mean precisely a lover. I am sorry, Miss Daventry, I did not mean it quite that way, but it is so romantical."

Chloe felt her heart starting to race. "What is so romantical?" she asked, her voice sounding a bit squeaky.

"The book. Oh, it is so grand." Miss Amy proudly held out the little leather-bound book in her hands, dodging Lady Constance's attempt to grab it away.

"I do not think this is a very good idea, Miss Amy," said Lady Mythe, stepping forward between the two ladies.

"Perhaps we should break it to her more gradually," said Lady Laverhorn.

"Break it to-- Let me see that." Chloe snatched the little book out of Miss Amy's hands just before Lady Mythe could intervene and take the book.

"Oh, no, now you've done it!" said Portia, folding her arms. "Just when everything was going just right."

Chloe walked over to a branch of candles for a little more light. It was just a little book, bound in red leather with gold lettering. Rather new, but it looked like it had been read several times, for the thin paper of the pages was starting to curl at the corners. Two tiny scraps of newsprint marked places.

"The Adventuress," she read. "By Roger Beauchef."

"Ooh, it sounds so romantical the way you say it," said Miss Amy. Her cooing was becoming annoying.

"Oh, do be still, Miss Amy." Lady Mythe moved next to Chloe. "Do take it in the vein it was meant, Miss Daventry. It is really sort of a tribute, you see."

"A tribute? What do you mean?" Chloe opened the pages to a torn paper bookmark in the middle and read silently.

As the fierce wind whipped her sodden golden curls and molded her wet garments against her ambrosially delectable form, Circe shouted...

Circe? Where had she heard that? Hadn't Reggie called her Circe once? His Siren of the Seas?

She flipped back to the cover. Roger Beauchef. Reggie Beauhampton.

Ambrosially delectable form? What was this?

Chloe flipped back the pages and kept reading, with each line seeing herself everywhere, with light green eyes and curls just like her own, described as a hoyden of the worst sort, a flagrant adventuress, blatantly displaying her charms like a light-skirt in Covent Garden!

But if you could, would you not like to have such an adventure? Reggie's words, from their first sailing trip.

He had! He'd written the book about her! Made her a laughingstock before the entire of the beau monde!

She slammed the book shut and whirled around, violent heat flushing her cheeks as she searched for escape.

Lady Mythe touched her shoulder. "Now, my dear, you mustn't take it that way. I am sure he did not mean--"

"Didn't mean? He told me he was writing poetry!"

The low rumble of jovial men's voices invaded the room. Men who had already begun their evening drinking, who were full of chuckles and merriment and practical jokes. Was that where this had begun, with men making merry at the expense of women?

And there he stood, at the head of the pack, jostling about with all his very good friends.

The moment they spied the unusually silent women, the entire clutch of men to an abrupt and equally silent halt. Chloe stared, openmouthed. The lump in her throat was a wad of rags.

"Uh oh," said Castlebury.

Chloe looked down at the little red book and back at Reggie, and she watched all that jovial male camaraderie fall from his face as he stared at the book in her hands and reality dawned. So he really had written it. For a brief moment, she had hoped it was a prank his friends had pulled. Not her Reggie.

Blinking back her tears, she tossed the book toward a table, only half hoping it found its mark, and spun around to run through the doors at the far end of the long lavender saloon.

* * *

Reggie watched her flee, Miss Godelin in her wake, knowing the worst thing he could do at the moment was to run after her.

"I take it," said Castlebury in a low drawl, "you have not previously explained the matter to her?"

Reggie shook his head. He'd meant to. He'd even had the opportunity, but had let it pass. More than once. No, worse, he had deliberately avoided facing the issue, waiting until he could find the right way to tell her.

Just as he was avoiding facing his father.

Miss Amy broke into tears. "I did not mean it that way! I truly did not!"

"You are such a featherwit," said Portia. "I tried to warn you, but no, you thought it was so romantical."

Miss Amy gasped. Tears flooded down her cheeks as she fled the saloon with Lady Constance. Mythe put out a hand to stop Castlebury from following her. Castlebury glared back at Portia.

"Well, she is a featherwit," Portia said, jutting her chin.

"I'd say she's not the only one," Castlebury replied through clenched teeth, and turned his back to Portia to face Reggie. "But I wonder what overset Miss Daventry?"

Reggie opened the book and fanned the pages. "I suppose it depends what she read. There were a few places where Ludwick changed the words."

"Probably one of those places with a bookmark," Portia said, looking over Reggie's shoulder. "Where did the bookmarks go?"

"What bookmarks?" asked Lady Mythe, also looking over Reggie's other shoulder.

"They were there," said Portia, reaching for the book. "Little pieces of newsprint." She thumbed the book and turned it upside down. "Somebody must have fanned it, and they fell out."

"Well, it's of no matter," Lady Laverhorn said. "I fear we must deal with the more serious matter of Miss Daventry's hurt feelings, though I must say, I cannot think what was so disturbing in the book. I should have been flattered, myself."

Lady Creston sniffed. "But of course you would. Miss Daventry, however, is a young lady who should not have been subjected to such a humiliation. Lord Reginald, I am appalled. I cannot imagine what the duke must have to say."

"He doesn't know," Reggie replied, although he suspected that would quickly change. "In any event, the responsibility is entirely mine. But I never meant to demean her. I simply found her the most fascinating young woman I have ever met, and as I was unable to get her out of my mind, she simply became a part of the book. She was the perfect heroine."

"And a hoyden, if ever there was one." Lady Creston's nostrils flared. "Our Miss Daventry is certainly not like that."

"But," said Lady Mythe, "Reggie's heroine is certainly a lady of extraordinary courage. Lady Creston, might I impose upon you to take everyone in to supper? I believe I should go see what I can do to smooth ruffled feathers. Let me have the book. Perhaps I can persuade her to read the good parts instead."

Lady Mythe cast a reassuring look to Reggie as she departed. But he'd done it now. Chloe would never trust him again. Why should she believe he had meant to explain, when just this very afternoon he had passed up an opportunity?

He found Portia on his arm as he walked into supper, and Lady Laverhorn sat to his right. The lavish meal should have been wonderful, and undoubtedly was, but it seemed so tasteless he couldn't eat it. He drank his wine altogether too fast.

He jumped when he felt a hand pat his leg.

Lady Laverhorn smiled, a little too graciously. "Do not let it concern you so," she said. She patted his leg again. He tried to move, but there was no place to go. "Very young ladies are so very easily overset. But then, they are not familiar with the ways of the world, are they?"

Reggie clenched his jaw as he felt the hand patting his leg again, moving up his thigh. He stiffened and pointedly picked up her hand and placed it back on her lap. "Many ladies prefer to remain unfamiliar with the ways of the world, Lady Laverhorn, and I rather think most gentlemen prefer them that way."

Portia was taking a sip of wine, and coughed unexpectedly.

Mythe looked at his second cousin, clearly aware of her latest transgression. "Lady Laverhorn, I should like a moment of privacy with you in my study tomorrow morning."

So Mythe was also angry. But Reggie didn't care. He just wanted Lady Laverhorn to leave him alone. And even more, he wanted to see Chloe and take away the pain he had caused her. But he couldn't go up after her. That would only make things worse.

He sent Portia with a message, but Portia had not been admitted. And of the ladies who had departed abovestairs before supper, only Lady Mythe returned.

"As well as could be expected," Lady Mythe responded to his furtive question. "The ladies have decided to take supper in their chambers."

Reggie asked again for just a word with Chloe, and when that failed, begged Lady Mythe to go up and plead his case for him.

"Oh, I think not, lord Reginald," she replied, and he saw more than a touch of censure in her eyes. "Enough damage has been done. In the event, you will have to plead your own case. If she is willing to listen, of course. And, you do understand, that will not be tonight."

The edict was clear. He was not under any circumstances to make contact with Chloe.

Reggie gulped down another glass of wine, followed by the after dinner port. The fog of too much drink began to settle in.

* * *

"Reggie. Reggie. Wake up, you dunderhead. Wake up."

His brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool, and his mouth tasted like it. Reggie shook his head and tried to sit up.

"Portia. What are you doing in my chamber?"

"You aren't in your chamber, you harewit. You're still in the great hall, draping yourself over this chair like you're a tapestry. Wake up, Reggie, this is important."

After blinking several times and shaking his head, the evening began to come back to him. Despite Mythe's prodding to either join the men or go to his chamber, he had stayed belowstairs, unwilling to consign himself to the circumstances, hoping for one last word that Chloe was willing to listen to his pleas. But hour after hour passed. Most of them, he couldn't remember, so he was not precisely sure when he had finally dropped off to sleep in the chair.

"What is so devilish important?" he asked. "And what the devil are you doing up, Portia? Need I remind you that you are a single young lady with a reputation to protect?"

"You should talk. I read that book, too, you know, and I should be very insulted if you had said such things about me. But you've got to stop them, Reggie. I don't care if you've drunk the wine cellar dry."

"Stop who? Why?"

"That blasted Vilheurs and Lady Laverhorn, and--"

"Portia, do not curse, and please do not yell."

"I am not yelling. I am in fact whispering. If you don't do something quickly, Miss Daventry-- Reggie, listen to me!"

Chloe? Vilheurs and Lady Laverhorn? What the devil?

"Reggie, listen. I couldn't sleep so I sneaked down to the library to find a book. Yes, I know I should not have, but read me a scold another time, please. I heard Lady Laverhorn talking with Lord Vilheurs."

He didn't find that particularly surprising.

"She gave him something, and I think it was the key to Miss Daventry's chamber."

"The devil! What makes you think that?"

"Because this afternoon before you arrived, I saw Lady Laverhorn leave Miss Daventry's chamber, and I thought it was odd. But I didn't realize until tonight they are not friends."

"That doesn't make it a key, Portia."

"Don't be obtuse! I heard Lord Vilheurs tell Lady Laverhorn to wait ten minutes, then stir up a fuss and get people to go with her to Miss Daventry's chamber. He said to make sure it seems like Miss Daventry invited him and gave him the key."

Reggie sprang to his feet. "When was this?"

"Just a few minutes ago. Hurry, Reggie. He is going to her room at precisely one of the clock, and Lady Laverhorn is to appear there ten minutes later. You haven't much time."

Reggie looked at his watch. Ten of the hour, and the hands seemed to be moving almost visibly. He couldn't stop Vilheurs before he got there, for the damnable man could simply claim Reggie was making the whole thing up to discredit him, and that would only improve Vilheurs' standing in Chloe's eyes. But if Vilheurs got there first, Chloe could be endangered. And her good name would be besmirched simply by the man being found in her chamber.

She would have no choice but to marry Vilheurs then.

If he could get Chloe out of there, then Vilheurs would look like the scoundrel he was when he was discovered alone in her chamber. It would not necessarily look good that Chloe wasn't there, but it would be better than letting her be found there with Vilheurs.

Reggie couldn't just go up to Chloe's room, himself. If he got caught there, that would also blight her name. And Portia might get hurt if he sent her, or also be compromised.

"Go to your chamber, Portia, and don't say anything to anyone about this."

"And leave it for you to bumble? I shall not."

"Yes, you will. I have your good name, such as it is, to worry about, too. And you need not fear. I stake my life that no one will hurt Miss Daventry."

"I don't know. What are you going to do?"

"Her chamber opens onto a balcony. I'll get her out onto it."

"How the deuce-- How are you going to do that?"

"It will just take a bit of climbing."

"Oh, you're going to climb up those vines when you're already three sheets to the wind?"

"I'm very familiar with ratlines, Miss Portia Nightengall."

"That's stupid. Come to my chamber."

"Oh, no. No funny stuff now, Portia. I haven't got time."

Portia put her fists on her hips. "You are such a slowtop. My chamber is on the balcony, too."

She yanked his hand and started across the hall. He ran after her. "I can't go into your chamber, Portia!"

"Yes, you can. My door is a lot more hidden at the dark end of the corridor. And besides, you won't have to knock like a perfect numskull, like you would if you went to her door."

Well, it was a definite improvement over climbing up vines that might or might not pull down from the walls. And while he couldn't exactly say he trusted Portia, her story made altogether too much sense. Reggie ran down the corridor after her, up two flights of the back stairs.

"Remember how I said there were bookmarks in the book, only they were gone?" Portia whispered.

Reggie nodded, knowing she couldn't see him.

"I saw Lady Laverhorn stuff something into a vase, and when I went to look later, that's what it was."

Reggie muttered under his breath. At least Portia was paying attention to things. Perhaps his obnoxious cousin wasn't so bad, after all.

Once in the Ladies' Wing, they moved on tiptoe, and Reggie watched over his shoulder, feeling like the interloper he was. Silently, Portia pointed to the door he already knew was Chloe's. No one stirred on the floor. No candlelight glowed beneath the door sills. Reggie prayed silently no door would open as they sneaked along. At her chamber, Portia pushed down the handle and all but shoved Reggie inside. She ran to the curtained door to the balcony and wrenched it open.

"Good luck," she whispered, and shut the door behind him.

The full moon illuminated the long stone balustrades of the balcony's railing like a silver path, guiding him to Chloe's chamber. Reggie ran along, one hand skimming the honey-colored stone walls. Ahead of him, the balcony came to an abrupt end, one door too soon.

There were two long balconies, and they were not connected.

Chapter Thirteen

The gap between the two balconies was too far to leap, and a stone terrace stretched out, two stories below. Reggie could picture himself found flattened on the paving stones the following morning. They would say he did it for love.

Just below the level of the balcony, a string course cut its horizontal line at the first and second floor level, wide enough for a toe, but not a whole foot. Heavy vines clung to the stone walls all the way to the ancient structure's roof. Would they be strong enough if the string course carried most of his weight?

Exhaling a tense breath, Reggie pictured his Circe at the helm. She would never give up in the face of danger. Nor would his Chloe, his real heroine. Nor would he.

He climbed over the massive stone rail and held onto it while he lowered one foot to probe for the string course beneath its overlay of thick ivy. He found a foothold. He hoped. Facing the wall, he gripped the rail, then vines, and worked the other foot in amidst the greenery. One hand, one foot, other hand, other foot, he progressed over the face of the wall, feeling tendrils ripping free with each grasp that bore his weight. The heavier vines held better, but they massed too thickly, obscuring the string course. With a rip, one handful of vines pulled free. Reggie lunged and grabbed another, his body dangling free, swinging, and vines gaped away from the wall, ripping like fabric.

He plunged downward, banging against the stone wall. With a shove against the stone, he leapt and grabbed a thick vine with the other hand. It held.

He groped with his toe, seeking a crevice, and found only a meager branching in the vines that barely held the toe of his boot. Gritting his teeth, he looked down at paving blocks that seemed to have grown harder since he left the safety of the balcony. Nothing for it but to go on. Gingerly he lowered his weight into the tight space and climbed.

The vine tore free. Reggie fell back, but his foot was wedged. He hung suspended by his hands from the tough vines and climbed back up to the string course and safe footing. His heartbeat drummed in his ears as his feet groped around and found a toehold. A few feet higher, and he could reach the opposite rail. But the only vines available looked treacherously weak.

Well, he couldn't stay here.

Reggie groped about, yanking and pulling until he found one that didn't yield to the mild pressure he put on it, but he already knew it wouldn't hold him long. With a deep breath, he threw left hand past right and lunged for the precarious vine. The sickening ripping sound echoed in his ears as he leapt once more, scrambling for toeholds, hanging for dear life from one puny vine after another.

He hurled himself at the stone balcony rail and scrambled to safety. He leaned against the wall, breathing hard. Chloe's door would be the first one he reached. Was he still in time?

And what the devil was he going to do with her when he got there? He could hardly expect her to cross back to the safety of Portia's chamber. He'd have to think of something.

Reggie jostled the door handle. It moved beneath his hand and the door squeaked open.

"Chloe, wake up."

The bed rustled and squeaked as she gasped and sat up, clutching her blankets.

"It's me, Chloe. Reggie. Don't be afraid."

"What are you doing here? You can't come into my room!"

"I'm already in. Get your wrapper, Chloe. You've got to get out of here."

"Have you lost your wits? I shall not leave my chamber in the middle of the night." She swung her feet over the side of the bed and pulled the blanket with her, wrapping it around her.

"You have to. Hurry. You're in danger. Get your wrapper and come out on the balcony."

"Reggie this is absurd. If you think you can get back into my good graces by claiming I am threatened, you are wrong."

Reggie grabbed Chloe by the hand and tugged. "I am perfectly serious. Vilheurs means to break into your chamber and be caught here, and he has arranged to give the appearance that you invited him."

Chloe yanked back her hand and stepped back. "It is not enough that you concoct some mad scheme, but you must villify the only suitor I have left. I'll thank you to leave before you have utterly destroyed what little is left of my good name."

"Chloe, that is all my fault, and I shall make my apologies to you, but right now it is more a matter of your good name than you can possibly imagine. Portia overheard Vilheurs scheming with Lady Laverhorn. Truly."

"Oh, certainly. Your beloved cousin, who will do anything to get you married off to me so she does not find herself stuck with you. I must say, I cannot blame her."

A small ormolu clock chimed the hour. At the far end of the chamber, a faint rattling sounded at the keyhole.

"Devil it," he whispered. "Get outside, quickly."

"I shall not!" she whispered back, and pulled back.

Reggie wrapped his arm about her waist and tugged her toward the door to the balcony, but Chloe planted her hand against the door frame. The door to the corridor squeaked, and she whirled around, eyes wide, as the hunched figure of a man crept into the chamber in the near darkness.

Reggie pulled her out onto the balcony, but the blanket she had wrapped around her caught beneath the door and wedged it, still ajar. Reggie held a hand to her mouth to urge her silence, and started working on the corner of the blanket, but he had jerked the door too hard, and it was stuck. He'd make too much noise if he tried to dislodge it. The drapery fluttered like a pennant in a light breeze. He grabbed its selvage and held it.

Chloe peered through the crack in the door as the man removed garments, silently laying them across the chair by the writing desk, as if he were a welcome guest rather than an intruder.

"He's getting into my bed," she whispered.

"Shh. And he means to be discovered there. We have to get you out of here, quickly. Where's your aunt?"

She pointed to the way he had come.

Reggie groaned. He didn't even know how he was going to make it back. The vines were not likely to last through another trip. "Who's on the other side?"

"Lady Laverhorn."

And that was where this balcony terminated.

"What the devil?" Vilheurs cursed, from the other side of the mullioned door. "Where are you, damn your eyes?"

Reggie peeked past Chloe, who stared openmouthed as Vilheurs yanked bedcovers off the bed and threw them to the floor. He dashed about the bedchamber, pawing into dark corners, and jerked open the armoire, cursing and shouting.

"Run to the far end, and stay there, against the wall," Reggie whispered.

"Where are you going?"

He pointed over the rail.

"No!"

With the sound of female shrieks, Reggie's heart sank. They were only moments away from discovery.

"Oh, my dear, are you all right?" cried Lady Laverhorn in a shrill voice from the corridor. "I am sure you have no notion of what you were doing, but we have come to save you."

"Oh, of course you have," Chloe muttered under her breath. "You would save me right into my grave."

"Shhh," Reggie urged.

As a candle brightened the chamber, Vilheurs jerked open the door to the balcony, revealing Chloe, wrapped in the blanket, with Reggie's arms about her.

"Good God, Villy, what the devil are you about?" Reggie said, staring at the naked man standing before them.

"You!" screamed Vilheurs. He whirled around, baring himself to the crowd who flooded into the chamber. Women screamed and gasped. He grabbed up the wrapper Chloe had left behind and wrapped it around his body, and leveled an accusing finger back at Reggie. "You have done this to me! I am the one she meant to have tonight!"

"Have you!" Chloe cried. "I should not have you if no other man were left alive! Reggie was protecting me from you."

Miss Godelin and Lady Mythe rushed in and led Chloe away to the far corner of the chamber. Reggie felt deserted. But the purpose of all this had been to protect her good name, and it did her no good to be discovered in Reggie's arms, whether he rescued her or not.

Lord Mythe pushed his way through the group gathered within the doorway. "Good Heavens! Clothe yourself, Lord Vilheurs. There are ladies present. Lady Creston, I must impose upon you once again to see to the young ladies. This is clearly not a matter for those of tender sensibilities."

Lady Creston, eyebrows raised so high they were in danger of meeting her hairline, cornered the younger ladies and herded them away. Reggie suspected, not very far.

"Oh, cousin," said Lady Laverhorn in a falsely sweet tone, "I fear it is all my fault, for I did not realize when I overheard Miss Daventry accept the invitation from Lord Vilheurs that she meant for him to come to her chamber, even though she has agreed to accept his suit. But then when I saw him enter her door, I realized what was-- But I am sure she did not understand what it was all about, for she is an innocent--"

Chloe gasped. "But I didn't!"

"But there is no point in denying it now, you see, since you have agreed to marry him," said Lady Laverhorn, reaching for Chloe's arm as if she meant to comfort her.

Chloe jerked herself back. "I did no such thing!"

"Look, I have the key she gave me!" said Vilheurs, and reached for the waistcoat he had lain across the chair to pull out a brass key.

This was becoming a bumblebroth. Whatever he did, Reggie couldn't let Vilheurs win. "Miss Daventry has not left her chamber, and she has not been anywhere without escort, except in my presence, so she could not have made any such promise. Lord Vilheurs schemed to enter her chamber and be caught, so as to force a marriage."

"It's true."

The crowd whirled about as more people entered the chamber, to see Portia standing with her arms folded.

Reggie groaned. He should have known Portia would slip away from Lady Creston. "Portia, stay out of this." A few more words and she would be ruined too.

Portia sneered. "I overheard Lady Laverhorn and Lord Vilheurs talking in the library tonight. He got the key from her, and she got it out of Miss Daventry's room this afternoon. She told him Miss Daventry was asleep. He instructed her to enter the chamber at ten after the hour of one, bringing other guests, so as to ensure he would be found in a compromising circumstance with Miss Daventry. Naturally, I told my cousin."

Portia might have saved Chloe, but she had sealed her own fate. She just did not realize it.

"That so, Beauhampton?" asked Mythe. "Rather thought you would come to me with something like this, since it is my house."

"There was no time to find you, Mythe." That was true. It just sounded lame. "I had to get here before Vilheurs did. As you can see, finding him in her chamber with her even for a minute would have been disastrous to her good name. And she does not deserve that."

"Which brings up the next question. How did you get in here?"

He grimaced. "The balcony. The vines."

"This is all absurd," Vilheurs screamed. "I am to marry her, not this ridiculous fribble! Do not listen to his cocked up tales! I have her key to prove it!"

"You have a key, but that proves nothing," Reggie said, as he grabbed up Vilhuers's discarded garments and tossed them at the man, who fumbled, trying to catch while keeping his body covered. "And I am fully clothed, whereas, you are not. This is not my house, and I cannot say what you may do, but if I ever see your face again, you shall have grass for breakfast."

Mythe pushed in between the two. "I shall not allow a duel. But even if you were invited by Miss Daventry, Vilheurs, and I do not for a moment believe you were, your behavior is reprehensible. I am also magistrate here, and if you are still within my jurisdiction when the sun rises, I shall have you charged with attempted rape. It might be wise, in fact, for you to leave the country, for you shall never find yourself in any of the drawing rooms of the ton again."

Vilheurs worked his jaw and his dark eyes shone with venom as he ran out the door, dangling garments.

"And you, Letitia," Mythe said to his cousin. "I have tried very hard not to credit what I have heard about you. But, well. I shall see you in my study tomorrow, before you break your fast. And one word of this beyond this room and you shall see yourself cut entirely."

Lady Laverhorn paled. "You cannot believe--"

"Out," said Mythe, his face explosively red. Letitia Laverhorn scurried out the door.

"Miss Daventry," said Mythe, "I shall leave you in the care of your aunt for the evening, if you feel you will be safe."

Miss Godelin placed an arm about her niece's shoulder. "I shall take her to my chamber, Lord Mythe, as I cannot imagine she would wish to stay here."

"But Mythe, my dear," said Lady Mythe, taking his arm, "we are left with a difficult problem. You must think of Miss Daventry's reputation. She is the innocent, yet it is she whose reputation will be questioned."

Chloe gave a weak squeak.

"True," said Mythe, and he cleared his throat. "Even though it is utterly obvious to all of us here that she had nothing to do with this attack, her name would be damaged merely by the association. And unfortunately, with Lord Reginald also here, the situation is even more complicated."

"Well, that is my romantical cousin for you," said Portia, clutching her shawl about her and looking as innocent as if she had just been called from her chamber. "He would very naturally come to a lady's rescue the moment he heard she was in danger, even knowing he would compromise himself in the process. I suppose he must marry her now."

Mythe's eyes gleamed as he took to the story immediately. "Yes, yes, of course," he said, harumphing rather properly. "Precisely. Lord Reginald learned of the heinous scheme and set about to rescue the young lady against whom the diabolical plot had been launched, knowing of course that he must in the end marry the lady whose name had been unfortunately associated with the crime against her. Quite romantical, don't you think?"

"All a matter of presentation, my darling," said Lady Mythe, smiling broadly at her husband.

Chloe moaned and tucked her face into her aunt's shoulder. Reggie squelched the urge to run to her side. That was the last thing she needed now. And the last thing she wanted was to marry him, but now she would have no choice.

Mythe nodded, having completed his assessment and reached his decision. "Very well, then, Miss Daventry, I shall meet with you and Lord Reginald in the morning following breakfast, in my study. And as long as we are up, I should like all of the gentlemen to join me in the long gallery now."

Reggie sought Chloe's eyes one last time before leaving the chamber, but she refused to look up. Discouraged, he followed Mythe and the gentlemen from the chamber to the dimly lit long gallery that was the central gathering place of the second story. On the way, Castlebury clapped a hand to his shoulder.

The old gallery still retained the original plasterwork and linen-fold panels that had been installed by Mythe's ancestors, and its diamond-paned windows overlooked a deer park that was silvered in the bright moonlight. Reggie wished he could bring Chloe here, and just hold her in his arms to soothe her fears.

"So, you're to be leg-shackled," said St. James, and forced Reggie to shake his hands.

"So it would seem," he replied.

"Buck up, old fellow," said Castlebury. "I thought it was what you wanted. Don't tell me we have all schemed for nothing."

"What the devil do you mean?"

The tip of Mythe's nose wiggled as if he were about to sneeze. "Reggie, we must admit, we have conspired to repair the rift between you and Miss Daventry."

"But we should also be fair and admit we are not unaware of the circumstances," said Castlebury.

"Explain yourself." Reggie was not altogether sure he wanted to hear the explanation, and he walked over to the long row of windows to stare down at the moonlit grounds far below.

Castlebury put his hand on Reggie's shoulder. "St. James discovered quite by accident that Miss Daventry's portion has been mishandled by both her cousin and her uncle."

Castlebury stated what Reggie knew he already knew. But then, he had promised not to tell.

"She does not have twelve thousand," Castlebury continued. "Odd that Vilheurs did not discover that, considering the sort of fellow he is. But I believe you know it."

"And true enough," Mythe said, "Vilheurs is not the sort of fellow who would fail to make such a discovery. While he is not up the River Tick, he is an avaricious devil, and I hold no hope that he sought Miss Daventry for her love and kindness."

"But you must keep in mind, I only discovered the truth through my connection to her dastardly cousin Bertrand," St. James replied.

"It is of no importance to me," Reggie answered. "I am able to provide for her."

"Yes. Hence, our goal became the same as yours. It became imperative to assist you in your cause before her situation became generally known, or before she affianced herself to some disreputable person such as Vilheurs. You see, we also learned the other part, that she fears for the safety of her sisters as long as they remain with Cottingham."

"Reggie, we know she is not happy with the situation," said Castlebury, "but that will change, once she learns that those who have discovered the secret of the book do not disdain her for it. It was not at all well done of you, however."

"I know," he replied ruefully. "I did not mean to make my heroine so clear that she could be identifiable. But I suppose it was inevitable that all the characteristics of the woman I loved would show up in my heroine."

"Perhaps you should tell her that, Reggie," said Bibury. "At any rate, we are committed to helping you get those young twins from Cottingham. Or whatever else we can to help."

"And whatever we must to hush this up," Mythe added. "What we must do now, is figure out how."

"If you really want to help me, " Reggie said to Castlebury, "then buy the Xanthe."

Chapter Fourteen

Chloe folded her arms tightly as she focused on the sunshine dappling the parterre gardens outside the window, and wished the nightmare inside Lord Mythe's study would go away.

"You really have no other choice, my dear," said Lady Mythe gently. "We have done everything we can to squelch the rumors, but nothing will stop them entirely. Letitia may decide to defend herself, and even if nobody believes her, they will wonder. Lady Creston has taken your part, and in any case will be discreet, but I do not think we can rely on some of the younger ladies, especially those who think it so romantical."

"Quite so, Miss Daventry," said Lord Mythe. "Notoriety can be disastrous."

She knew. Aunt Daphne had talked with her on the subject for most of what remained of the night. She looked at her aunt, studying her green eyes and seeing both understanding and concern. There was no way out. Her sisters were doomed. All because Chloe had fallen in love.

"There are things you do not understand," she said.

"They know about your sisters, Chloe," Reggie said.

She blinked, and stared at him.

"They know you are no mere adventuress, out to gain a title and a fortune. And we have a plan."

She frowned and chewed her lip. "What plan?"

Lord Mythe cleared his throat and smiled, making the tip of his nose wiggle. "There is no small amount of power assembled in this house today, Miss Daventry. And our Reggie has a good many more friends who are equally as influential. Once you are married to Lord Reginald, he will petition the court for a change of guardianship. When Cottingham realizes what he faces, he may very well relent."

"But if he doesn't?"

Reggie took a deep breath and released it. "Then we shall have a battle."

"That will be terribly expensive. You don't have that sort of money."

"I'm selling the Xanthe."

Her jaw went slack, and bobbed as she struggled with the thought. "No, Reggie, you love that yacht!"

"It's only a boat, Chloe. It's not a person. Two young girls are more important. You need not be so concerned, as it is not going far. Castlebury has decided to purchase it. He's been at me about it before."

It wasn't only a boat. It was his yacht, the Xanthe. And it was the place where she had fallen in love with him. "Oh, no, Reggie. It isn't right."

"It's very right." He smiled, folding his arms the way he did when he looked like he might otherwise do something untoward, such as hugging her in public. "Mythe, might you allow us a few moments alone? I believe Miss Daventry and I have a number of things to discuss."

"I quite agree," said Miss Godelin, and her lips pursed and curled upward all at the same time. "There are, after all, several irregularities which must be resolved."

Chloe wasn't at all sure she wanted to be left alone with Reggie, and suspected she trusted herself even less than she did him. She was not even sure she wanted to resolve anything, as angry as she was. She gripped her hands so tightly, her knuckles went white as she watched the door shut behind Aunt Daphne and Lord and Lady Mythe.

"Still angry with me?" Reggie asked, his arms folded.

She pinched her lips together, not wanting to answer.

"I do not suppose you would be willing to hear me out."

"I do not believe I am being given much choice."

"Did you read it?"

"Lady Mythe read parts of it to me. The nicer parts, I presume. I cannot help but wonder about the parts she skipped."

He winced. "I do owe you a very big apology, Chloe. I should never have used you in the way I did without at least consulting you. I suppose I thought I could keep my real thoughts concealed, and no one would know where I got my ideas. I am not sure I can even explain it. I had a story I had written, that I just could not make work. Then I went to Mythe's party, and there you were. One look at you, and a new story just flooded in. It was like nothing I have ever felt before, and I had to write it. It seemed at first like a complete contradiction to who you were, but I soon began to realize you really were my Circe, my perfect heroine."

Her mouth felt as if she had been sucking alum. "Clearly we are not in agreement regarding perfection, then. It is hardly flattering to portray me going about in men's garments and running about the deck of a ship like añ a hoyden. 'Wet garments molded against her ambrosially delectable form'? Reggie, what could you have been thinking?"

He reached out to her, but she side-stepped his grasp. "Chloe, please listen. Those weren't my words. Mr. Ludwick didn't do a lot of editing, but he did attempt to spice it up."

"Your words or his, Reggie?"

Reggie huffed, sounding exasperated. Well, he could not be any more so than she.

"Mine. The responsibility is mine, and I take it. But that has nothing to do with our current situation. Chloe, you must agree to marry me. Your situation will be dire if you do not."

"It already is. And I do not see how marrying you can do anything to help my sisters."

"It will keep you out of my father's clutches."

"I doubt you will stand up to him for my sake, as you have not for any other reason. And you certainly will not succeed in persuading him to help free my sisters."

"And do you think Vilheurs would? Do you have any idea what he would have done to you, once he learned you didn't have any money? I suggest you revisit the events last night, if you think he is so virtuous a man."

Chloe knew that. "It is not as if I had other choices."

"You do, Chloe. You have me, and it's time you accept it."

Reggie dropped his arms to his sides and stepped closer to her. Chloe scooted back, just beyond his reach.

He sighed. "I hoped you would like my story. I wrote about my heroine, a woman I admire, the woman I love. It is not simply an adventure story. It's a love story, Chloe. About us."

A tear trickled down her cheek, and he wiped it away with his thumb. He didn't understand. She couldn't just sacrifice her sisters because of a man. That was the way her mother would have done it, and she just couldn't.

"You'll have to trust me, Chloe. I can do this. But there is no time to waste, for my father is unpredictable, and we cannot leave anything to chance. I shall ride out immediately for Town and secure a Special License. I'll expect you in Town for a Friday wedding. We shall inform the duke after the fact."

Chloe nodded. She could see no other way.

"Two days, then." He pivoted on his heel in a move that suddenly reminded her of the duke, and walked out the door.

As long as the duke believed her debts were her worst problem, they could manage. But could Reggie and his friends actually secure the guardianship of her sisters for her?

She was no heroine. He was wrong about that. She could not even save her own sisters without finding a man to do it for her. She was neither daring nor courageous, only deceitful. She had no other skill. And she had not even used that one wisely.

But he was right about the rest. It was her only chance, and it was infinitely better than any opportunity Lord Vilheurs would have arranged for her.

Reggie hadn't even tried to kiss her before leaving. And she wasn't sure she could manage a kiss, anyway.

* * *

"How unfortunate that he must sell his boat," said Aunt Daphne.

Chloe set the little red leather book in her lap. The road was a bit too bumpy for reading, anyway. "I quite agree. It seems so much a part of him. And it is odd that Lord Castlebury has bought it. I did not think he had all that much interest in sailing."

"Nor did I. But they are close friends. Perhaps that is Lord Castlebury's way of preserving the Xanthe for his friend."

"I cannot help but think I am betraying Madeline and Allison while bringing no end of trouble to Reggie, aunt."

"Stuff and nonsense," Daphne replied, patting Chloe's hand. "When one brings love to a young man who cherishes it, there can be no greater gift. It hardly surprises me that he is willing to do what he must to keep it."

Chloe gazed out the window of the coach at the expanse of the downs, feeling gloom descend even more heavily. Summer lingered in the dried grasses, but where they passed over a stream, the colors of autumn were beginning to show in the trees that lined its banks. The hills were not as steep here. She did not mind when they had to get out and walk, for the activity relieved the heavy sense of foreboding that hung over her like a storm cloud.

Ahead, she saw the chimneypots and thatched roofs of Reading, and sensed the renewed energy in the team that pulled their coach. Perhaps she would change her mind and stay at the inn, although they had meant to drive on, only changing horses in their dash toward Town where Reggie awaited them.

Tomorrow, she would become Lady Reginald Beauhampton. How terribly hard it was to believe. Perhaps she ought to have a good laugh at herself.

The gritting sound of crushed road metal beneath the iron tires of the coach gave way to cobblestones that rang with the clip of the horses' shoes. Whitewashed cottages lined the street. The coach pulled up into the inn yard and stopped. Chloe and Daphne sighed together as they stepped out of the coach. Aunt Daphne looked as if she felt the long day's travel deep in her bones.

Yes, perhaps they needed to halt for the night.

"Would you be Miss Chloe Daventry, ma'am?"

Chloe looked up to see a portly man with three chins and rumpled brown garments. "Yes, I am," she replied, and wished immediately she had denied it.

"I've come to arrest you, ma'am. For debts owed to the Duke of Marmount. You'll have to come with me."

Chloe stared at her aunt. She was only three days past the deadline he had given her for the payment.

"It's off to the spunging house for you. Come along now, or I'll have to take you."

Chloe looked to either side of her, where several men of even rougher appearance were gathering. She was trapped. She could not hope to run, and the horses were too tired to go farther. And she knew nothing of Reading, save that she had stayed at the inn on the way to Mythe's country place. If ever she wished she were Circe, it was now.

But she wasn't. Reggie was wrong about that.

Chloe grabbed the little red book and tucked it into her reticule, and turned to her aunt. "Find Reggie," she said.

Aunt Daphne's green eyes flashed back determination.

Chloe shrugged away the man who grabbed her arm. "I am quite capable of walking. You need only show me the direction."

The thick scent of wool and old sweat surrounded her as the burly escorts trod like soldiers past the inn to a white-washed, half-timbered house with three stories. It looked as if the top story was a too-large box that would tumble off it, down to the street. She hardly heard her captor as he said his name, and had to ask him again.

"Pauncefoot, ma'am," he said. "You'll find I treats the ladies fairly. I feeds my prisoners on reasonable fare, and if you've got the blunt, there's better meals to be had. But you'll be paying for your stay."

Looking into the parlor, she had the feeling that Pauncefoot did a brisk business. But they passed up an uneven staircase between two walls that grew dingier and closer as they went up, past the first floor, and onto the second, which was none other than that tottering box that sat atop the house, just beneath a roof of old thatch as dark as mold.

The box held four tiny rooms, one at each corner. Pauncefoot turned a key in the lock, and a small oak door creaked open. As she ducked her head to enter, the stench gagged her.

"T'ain't my best," he said. "But his grace says you're a sly one, and I ain't to let you have the run of the place."

Chloe put her hand over her nose. Circe would have managed it. She wouldn't have been so particular as to be sickened by mere odor. "Then I'll thank you to remove that overturned chamberpot and its contents," she said.

"And ain't you the prissy one. You can clean it up yourself. And if you be wanting a chamberpot, you'll pay for it. A penny a day. Meals is sixpence a day. You want extras, it's a shilling." He held out his hand.

She reached into her reticule, then closed it back up. "If it's to be a shilling, you'll clean it up."

"An extra sixpence for the labor."

"Then do without it. I shall manage."

"Six pence for meals, or you don't get any."

He could not starve her, and Chloe knew it, but she would find it hard to argue her case from the dark side of the grave. She plunked seven pennies into his hand. "Meal, chamberpot, and clean sheets for the bed."

"Eight," he countered.

Chloe glanced at the pile of rags and straw pallet in the corner, and fished into her reticule for another penny.

When Pauncefoot shut the door and the lock clicked, she tore a strip from her petticoat to tie around her face, grabbed up the rags and wiped up the spilled slop. She shoved the offensive rags next to the door and crossed the room to a tiny window that opened outward. Gasping for breath, she flung it open.

A heavy iron chain sprang tight, stopping the window after only a few inches. Chloe stared down to the cobbled pavement below and she wondered if she would ever have freedom again.

"Won't get you anywhere, that way," said Pauncefoot behind her. "Just break your neck if you tried."

She whirled around, glaring. "I just want the stench out of here."

"Do you, now? You never said nothing about that." Pauncefoot dropped the pile of linens he had carried in, and a small boy set a bowl of something as foul-smelling as the chamberpot on a rickety table.

"You'll take them if you want to see any more of my money," she replied.

"By tomorrow night, I'll be seeing a lot more of your blunt, Miss Prim." His big belly swayed as he turned about and ducked beneath the low door frame. The door banged shut.

Chloe suspected he could be right. All the same, she carried the stinking rags to the window and shoved them through, letting them fall to the pavement below.

Wiping her hands on the linen scrap she had used to cover her face, Chloe tested the liquid in the bowl. It had the color and consistency of wash water after a particularly dirty bath. Two gray lumps of something unidentifiable stirred up from the bottom. Wash water it was, then. She dipped her hands in it then wiped them off, and flung the remainder out the window.

She thought she heard a cry of protest below, but then she could not open the window far enough to see anyone. Intelligent people should not walk below the windows of a house like this.

The straw pallet was not as bad as she had imagined it, in that it did not actually move with vermin. She spread out one sheet and curled up on the pallet, pulling the other sheet over her, and pretending she was in her own warm bed beneath snug blankets. And not in the least hungry.

* * *

Reggie woke to a pounding on the door. Not until he sat up did he realize the loud noise came all the way up the stairs from the front entrance of the town house. He leapt from the bed and threw on his clothes, and before he was fully dressed, Puckett admitted a footman.

"My lord," said young Smith, "A Miss Godelin is below who says she must speak with you immediately on an emergent matter."

Foreboding gripped his throat. Chloe. Something terrible was wrong, otherwise her aunt would not come at such an hour. He dashed out the door of his chamber, still looping his cravat. At the bottom of the stairs, Miss Godelin stood, pale as paste.

"Oh, Lord Reginald, I beg your pardon for disturbing your peace in such a way--"

"Into the parlor, please, dear lady. Smith, see if Mrs. Mungay can rustle up some tea or chocolate, will you? Come, tell me what is amiss."

"Nothing, please," she said, waving her hand. "It is not at all the thing to be here, so I must not stay. But I dared not waste a moment. They have taken her, Lord Reginald, right off her own coach, and I am not sure even precisely where. They allowed me only to leave a small valise of her belongings."

Reggie's throat closed down. "Why? Where?"

"Arrested for debts. I knew they were substantial, but I had no notion she might be taken up. It was in Reading, but I cannot imagine where they have taken her."

His father. Cold fear gripped him. "I should not have left her. I should have seen to the debts first, but I did not realize it, either." Reggie stood and paced. "Deuce take it, Miss Godelin! My father owns her notes now! She told me!"

"Yes, I am afraid it is so, Lord Reginald."

"He cannot be so spiteful!" But yes, he could. He was the Duke of Marmount, who recognized no limits to his power. And Chloe was suffering because she had dared defy the duke. No matter that Reggie had forced her to the choice.

Miss Godelin's small hands shook. "But he has done it, Lord Reginald. I know you do not wish to believe ill of your father. And my niece did not wish you to know, for she knows how you love him, but he has threatened her before."

"Threatened her?"

"He has come to our house on two occasions and warned her to stay away from you. The last time, he offered her a substantial sum if she would persuade you to marry your cousin, but she would not take it. He gave a hint of knowing other things about my niece, perhaps things that might ruin her. And he warned her if she did not persuade you, she might have a single month to begin repayment, at a thousand a month."

Reggie felt the color drain from his face. Chloe would not have been able to meet those terms, and his father had to have known it. "The month has passed, then?"

"By nearly a week. She does not have the thousand, of course, and I am unable to help her."

"I should have sent Castlebury after the special license and stayed with her at Mythe's. I have never known my father to do such a thing as this. But never fear, dear lady, I shall find her. My friends and I will scour the country. You must give me all the details you have. For the nonce, go home and stay where I may find you so you may serve as contact between us."

He took the lady's hand to assist her from the chair, and glanced at the clock. It was already six in the morning. "Get some rest," he said. "I shall call on you later. I promise you, I will find her, and put an end to this bumblebroth."

So the time had come for the confrontation he had always dreaded. He would be forced to choose between his father and his true love, and the truth he had always dreaded would come out, his great fear that perhaps his father did not really love him after all, but loved his own consequence more.

And Chloe was suffering now because he had not had the fortitude to face down his father before this.

Drawing a deep breath, Reggie took up his hat and gloves and started out the door to his gelding which he knew Puckett would already have waiting. Thank heaven for Puckett.

Marmount House was not far, yet the ride north to its strangely isolated location near Primrose Hill seemed blocked by every waggoner, cartman, and drover in London. Reggie rode up the long drive with its rows of tall poplars like facing ranks of soldiers, to the somber gray-stoned mansion sitting in silence upon an isolated rise. None but the duke and his hand-picked servants stayed here, and almost no one ever visited. His father was the singularly most solitary man Reggie had ever known.

Four times, Reggie pounded the knocker before a sleepy footman responded by cracking the door and peering out.

The door opened quickly. "Lord Reginald."

"Where is my father?" Reggie demanded.

"He is not in, my lord."

"Not in. Be damned, fellow, where is he?"

"I am sure I do not know, my lord."

Reggie doubted that. But the duke hired only the most loyal of servants, and he was not likely to discover his answer that easily. Reggie slapped his hat into the footman's hands and strode down the wide corridor.

"Here, my lord, I have said he is not here. You cannot--"

"I am the duke's son. Do not even consider telling me what I can do," he replied, and kept walking in an exact replica of his father's arrogant stride. He rushed up the central staircase and along the first floor corridor to the suite of rooms the duke used for business purposes.

He tested the door. It was locked.

"Unlock it," he demanded.

"My lord, I cannot--"

"Your choice is to unlock it, or watch as I break it down."

The footman shook as he inserted the key in the lock.

"You are dismissed," he said to the footman, and the man cowered away. Soon, Nash, his father's formidable butler, would come, but Reggie did not intend to let anyone stop him.

Reggie took a deep breath as he surveyed the room, his father's favorite place for privacy in an entire mansion designed to protect his solitude. Enormous cases for books rose between each of four tall windows, and covered the facing wall. Every book was one his father had read. Arranged in careful symmetry were groupings of formal chairs with small tables, each different from the others, yet somehow in harmony. At the far end of the room, the desk where the man would sit for hours, engaged in his mysterious doings, which were kept tucked away someplace that Reggie had never seen.

Now, he was going to see them. The Duke of Marmount had forfeited his right to privacy.

Reggie pulled on each drawer of the desk. A few of the smaller ones opened, but they contained nothing of any significance. The others were locked.

It was a beautiful old desk. Reggie hated to damage it, but he would if he must. Its secrets were too important. He lat down on his back and peered beneath the desk, fingering all the little crannies in the carvings and turnings. He stood and stepped back, folding his arms. There had to be a key, but it was altogether too likely that the duke kept it on his person. Perhaps he would have to break the desk after all.

Behind the tambour were more tiny drawers. He removed each one, turning it over, but found nothing. Well then, the lower drawers. He removed each one, dumping its contents on the floor. There it was. A tiny key, tucked into a little housing on the underside of the bottom left drawer. It was a perfect fit.

It was like treading on a grave. Reggie bit his lip and slid the middle drawer open. He pulled out a black leather-bound journal, nearly filled with entries in his father's neat, spare script.

He flipped through the pages, noting the names of several people he knew, each accompanied with at least a page of information. Reggie was willing to bet a lot of it was information the subjects would rather not be known.

It was also a daily journal, combined in an unusual way, a journal of activities, but also musings. Flipping back, he spotted an entry in April. Lined verse.

His father had written poetry? When he had so many times maligned Reggie for that very thing?

Reggie took the journal to the nearest window and sat down. Dated 22 April, 1813, and untitled. What the devil?

A tender and loving description of a child sleeping, clothed in white, with tiny curls like a golden halo, a rosebud mouth and lashes tipped with gold fringing closed lids. A deep ache formed in Reggie's chest as he read on.

She wakes, and blue-eyed sunshine fills my world,

This child of mine. She laughs at me, a sound that's curled

About my heart, and holds out her chubby hands.

She is the greatest treasure of all lands,

This child of mine.

Elizabeth Martens Beauhampton, born 22 April, 1792. She would have been one and twenty years old today.

His throat constricted as the sudden memory of his baby sister flooded into him. Reggie shut the journal and leaned back in the tall, wing-backed chair. The scene became so real, it was as if he were there again in the tomblike darkness of the nursery.

"What's the matter with my baby sister, Nanna? What's the matter with my baby sister?"

"Hush, child. Come with me, quietly."

Nanna dragged him by the hand but Reggie fought, trying to get back to his father, who sat in the nursery chair, tears running down his cheeks, cradling little Elizabeth.

The baby who did not move. Who never moved again.

Even now he couldn't think of it without feeling the tears forming. Even as a little boy of six, he had known something was terribly wrong. Somehow, Elizabeth had just died. And nobody was allowed to talk about it, for the duke would immediately leave the room.

What had happened? Reggie had known his father had adored his little daughter, the only one of three girls to survive birth. But had she been ill? Reggie didn't remember that, or anything else, really, only that everyone had behaved as if there had never been a sweet little cherub of a baby girl who had captured everyone's hearts. Her place in the nursery stayed exactly as it had been since then. There had been no more children.

Reggie leaned back again against the cold leather of the chair. And that was when the family had begun to fall apart. It was strange that Reggie had never recognized that before. But how could he have known his very closed-off and distant father still grieved for his lost daughter?

But that had nothing to do with what he needed to know now. Reggie took several more breaths to restore himself, and opened the journal again and thumbed backward.

His eyes spotted a page with Chloe's name at the top. Well, he should not have been surprised. A list of facts. Her parentage, her portion, her guardian, the man's death. Ah, so the duke knew her guardian had gambled away the entire portion.

This impertinent little adventuress believes she will snag for herself a duke's son. We shall see.

That was dated 25 June. So, he had known about Chloe a mere two weeks after Reggie had first met her.

Reggie thumbed through the pages to the last entry.

EMB b. 22 April, 1792 d. 15 August, 1792.

CMD b. 22 April, 1792.

How can it be that one man's child dies, yet another man's lives?

Good God! What was going on here?

Reggie slammed the journal shut just as Nash bustled into the chamber.

"Here, now, my lord, you must know his grace would not allow you to rifle through his papers. You must desist this minute. Give me the journal so that--"

"Don't try it, Nash. It's worth your life. Tell me where he is." Reggie grabbed the man by the frothy stock at his neck and gave a shake, dislodging a cloud of powder from the man's periwig.

"Here, my lord, I am sure I don't know."

"And I am just as sure you do. No man on earth knows my father better than you. Even he may not be immune from the consequences of his activities this time, and you had best not be his accomplice. What has he done with Miss Daventry?"

"Miss Daventry?" Nash stuttered. "I truly do not know, your lordship. He left yesterday, and told me nothing."

For some reason, Reggie believed him. It seemed to fit that the duke would not tell him all this. Reggie released the crumpled lace stock and dusted the powder off his sleeve. Perhaps he would learn more from what was missing than from what could be found. He strode out to the mews.

The pristine old coach which his father insisted on retaining was missing. His favorite team had been taken, yet had already been returned. That meant the duke had changed horses at least once.

With a little more effort, Reggie learned that the duke had taken no personal servants, yet had two hastily packed portmanteaux. And strangely, he had taken three grooms with him. Why would the fastidious duke have done that, yet taken no valet? In short order, Reggie called together his closest friends.

"Anything you want, Reggie," said Castlebury. "You have only to ask."

"St. James, I want you to sniff about Town to see what you can learn," Reggie said. "The rest of us are going to check every post in every direction from Reading. Someone would have noticed the duke's unusual equipage."

For himself, he had a spunging house to find.

Chapter Fifteen

She heard voices in the staircase outside the little chamber. She must have slept.

"The devil you did. This is not what I paid you for, Pauncefoot. She is a lady, and you are not to forget that."

It was the duke's voice. As bad as things were, she would really have preferred to put off seeing him for awhile.

"Yes, your grace, only you said I was to keep an eye on her as she was such a sly one, and the only way I--"

"Stubble it, you fool. Open the door."

She was rather glad she had not had a change of clothes for the night, but had curled up in all her garments, pelisse and all. She sat up on the straw pallet, pulling the sheets around her, for the room was chilled.

The door creaked open, and a candle backlit the tall duke as he dodged the low frame.

Pauncefoot set the candlestick down on the table. "There, I told you, your grace, she ain't harmed none, just because she didn't want to eat her supper."

The duke's steel-cold eyes turned hot with fury. "You were paid to house her in reasonable comfort. I see you are not up to the task. Miss Daventry, get your belongings."

Chloe smirked. "Whatever would be my 'belongings', your grace? My reticule, I suppose."

He tossed a glare at her. "Follow me."

Chloe shrugged, not being able to think of a reason she should not, although perhaps the duke thought a dungeon was more suitable to her needs. She stood and followed the duke, with Pauncefoot lighting the way ahead of them, down the two flights of the narrow staircase, back to the parlor she had passed on her way up. A chamber sat opposite. The duke opened the door and shone the candle into it. A mobcapped woman squealed and sat up in the bed.

"This one will do," the duke said. "Make it ready for Miss Daventry immediately."

"But your grace, my wife--"

"May sleep in that cess pool abovestairs. See to it."

Pauncefoot rushed into the chamber beyond the parlor and pulled the door shut behind him. Somehow, Chloe had the feeling she would be the one paying for the duke's sudden largesse.

With the grace of an eagle dipping in flight as it surveys its prey, the duke turned and set his cold glare on her. Chloe squared her shoulders and glared back.

"My apologies for the circumstances, Miss Daventry. I had every right to expect you would be housed in comfort."

Chloe repressed a sneer. "The Bear would have sufficed, your grace. And I might have had my aunt's company, as well."

"That, however, would not have suited my plans."

"And what would your plans be, your grace?"

"I should not think it necessary to say, Miss Daventry. Once more, you have interfered with my plans for my son, and this time you have gone too far."

One wry corner of her mouth seemed to quirk in spite of her attempts to control it, but she said nothing.

"It appears, however, that I have come in time, and you have not yet succeeded in your attempt to spring the mousetrap. Therefore, I am prepared to make you one last offer."

"And if I do not accept?"

"You have not yet heard the offer. You will accept."

"I suspect I may prefer Pauncefoot's slophouse."

"I think not. I have what you want, you see."

Cold dread filled her, like water pouring over a dam. Chloe tucked her hands beneath her arms, balling her fists.

"I am right, am I not?" His eyes shone bright above his grim countenance. "The thing you want most is the care and custody of your young sisters, the Misses Madeline and Allison Cottingham, to remove them from the care of that malicious man who is their guardian?"

She couldn't breathe. "You stay away from them!"

"I see I am correct. Your protective nature is laudable, Miss Daventry. But you need not fear. They are, in fact, safer now than they have been for a very long time."

The fierce urge rose to her throat to leap at him and claw his face. "Where are they? What have you done with them?"

Hardly a muscle of his face moved except the one that twitched once beside his mouth. "Interesting, is it not, Miss Daventry? What was impossible for you, I have accomplished with little more than a wave of my hand. Coddingham has handed them over to me, and I have left them in the care of a fine governess of impeccable character."

"Why?" Chloe cried. "What are they to you?"

His mouth drew up at the corners, but it was not by any means even a semblance of a smile, for his gleaming eyes bore the signs of angry triumph. "It is what they are to you that is the point. I must give you credit for that, for you are not the adventuress I thought you to be, since your interest was not in your own aggrandizement. But that is what you want from me, is it not? And you sought to achieve it through marriage to my son. You would not have gained it, pursuing from that direction. But I can give it to you now, in exchange for what I want."

Chloe thought her blood ran cold. Her skin felt clammy and chilled. She bit her lip, waiting, as if an executioner held an axe poised above her neck.

"There is a cottage which I will give over to you for their care. And you shall have the five thousand pounds, in addition to the fixed sums distributed quarterly from your sisters' trusts. Both Madeline and Allison will remain in your care. You will make the majority of decisions on their behalf, but I shall retain their guardianship. In exchange, you will have no further contact with my son. You will not write to him, nor in any way let him know your direction, through any person you know, or in any other manner. You will prevent your prickly aunt from doing the same. If you fail me in this regard, I shall remove your sisters from your care, and you will find yourself in Marshalsea. On the day my son marries his cousin, I will return your vowels to you, along with the title to the cottage."

But Reggie had sworn he would never marry his cousin. Chloe swallowed down rising bile. "And my sisters?"

"If you choose to marry, provided the man is acceptable to me, I will transfer their guardianships to him. Otherwise I shall retain them."

Chloe gripped her hands tightly together, trying to still their shaking. He was just as Reggie had said. Determined to control everyone. Obsessed with controlling. She could see why his heir hated him, and chose to fight a war rather than remain under his father's poisonous dominion.

He had her completely trapped. Any move she could make could endanger her sisters. But she was abandoning Reggie and the promise she had made to him. How could she do that? He would hate her, believing she was deceitful.

No. Reggie didn't hate anyone, not even the father who so maliciously exploited him and manipulated his life. Reggie had asked her to trust him to find a way through their dilemma, and if anyone could do it, it would be Reggie.

But she would have no choice but to do as the duke demanded. "What will make a husband acceptable to you?"

"I speak only in terms of acceptability as a guardian. Beyond that, Miss Daventry, I care not. But you will find that I take the matter of guardianship as a trust to be fulfilled, unlike the guardians both you and your sisters have endured."

Oh, certainly, she believed that. As much as she believed the Prince Regenct was to become her beau. Yes, no doubt he would be bringing his beloved father, the mad King, along to sit at her very sumptuous table, right here in Pauncefoot's elegant facility. But what did it matter if she believed this malicious scoundrel? She was in no position to do anything about it.

Except negotiate. Interestingly, the duke himself had taught her that. Cut your losses.

"What is this cottage?"

The change in his face was no more than a flicker, but it was one of a fisherman sensing a nibble on the line. "The smallest of my properties, Miss Daventry, but adequate for a modest living, furnished, and self-sufficient. Considering that you prize your independence, you may find it will keep you satisfactorily, even after your sisters are grown."

Her mind formed a picture, a cottage with crumbling walls and thatch black with decay. He no doubt delighted in exiling her to a ruin. But while her ability to eke out a living would undoubtedly disgust him, her survival was something of a matter of secret pride for her.

"You will have four household servants at your disposal, their salaries paid," he said. "The land is in corn and pasture, with coppiced wood and orchard. Many a squire would be content with such a property."

She pictured bent servants in rags, a beetle-infested field, pasture for one ancient cow. "It had best be as described."

"You will find it acceptable."

"I cannot help but wonder why you go to such expense to accomplish so little, particularly as both Reggie and Miss Nightengall hold each other in such dislike."

The duke's nostrils flared. "My son has lacks that place him at risk among society. Reginald needs a proper lady to help contain his wayward impulses, else he shall find himself alienated from his kind."

"And you consider Miss Nightengall the answer?"

"Miss Nightengall is a perfectly proper lady."

Chloe laughed. "Good heavens! How long has it been since you have seen Miss Nightengall? If she is a perfect lady, then I have been misled entirely as to a lady's proper deportment."

Shock flickered over his face but was instantly disguised. "You are mistaken, Miss Daventry, and I shall not allow you to impugn my niece."

Chloe shrugged, remembering how she had watched with amusement as Miss Portia Nightengall would suddenly simper so prettily every time Lord Castlebury appeared on the scene. Perhaps she had donned the same facade for the duke. "As you wish. My humble advice to you is that you pay her a visit and determine it for yourself. Be that as it may, I shall not make any promises regarding Reggie's behavior. He will make his own choices, and I have nothing to say about them. Nor shall I make promises for Miss Nightengall."

And she was pretty certain both Reggie and Miss Nightengall had a few hidden surprises for the Duke of Marmount.

"You will, however, make no contact with either of them until they are wed."

"Maneuver as you will, your grace. It is your son and yourself who are most injured. I am sorry for both of you. But I also have faith in him, and it is he who will triumph."

"I am doing what is best for my son, Miss Daventry. I do not expect that you will appreciate it, nor am I concerned, as long as we have reached agreement."

"Ten thousand," she said. "In trust for my sisters."

"Unnecessary. I have fixed portions upon both of them, beyond what is already in trust."

"Ten thousand, feme sole."

A thick muscle worked in his jaw as his eyes narrowed. "Five. And five for you when you marry."

"Eight."

"Seven."

She nodded. But it was far too easy, and she wondered why. Would he truly give anything to get her out of the way? "Feme sole," she repeated.

He stared at her with that unfeeling gaze until she thought she would wither. But she set her jaw and stared back.

"Then it shall be seven for each of them and for you. It is very foolish of you, but I shall hope by the time they marry, they will have learned the good sense of giving their husbands the management of their funds. But since you have not had the example of proper management, I do not expect it of you."

He had actually given in to her? The man Reggie had said would never cede anything? Yet she clearly had nothing with which to bargain. What an odd man he was!

"Pauncefoot!" shouted the duke.

The door sprung open, indicating the spunger must have been right behind it. Both he and his now properly dressed wife scurried into the parlor.

"Miss Daventry will wish a bath, as she still retains the odor of your stinkhouse. You will have her and her belongings ready for my arrival promptly at six of the clock in the morning. And if one word of this exchange is ever shared with another person, you will find yourself going about the world utterly devoid of possessions."

The duke pivoted on his heel and strode from the parlor.

Chloe shivered.

She was glad enough for the bath, even if it was not more than tepid, and was delivered with the grumbling of both Pauncefoot and his equally portly wife. A portmanteau of her own belongings magically appeared, and surprisingly, everything that should have been in it was actually there. At least she had a change of clothes, and could wash those she had worn. Perhaps someday she might even manage to get the stench out of them.

She slept little, and was already dressed when, even before the cock crowed, she watched the duke step out of his gleaming black coach. She could not help but see Reggie in the shape of his bright blue eyes, in the cheekbones, and the cut of his jaw. What a shame it was that God should make such a beautiful face, but hang it on such an ugly person.

Chloe clutched her reticule and held it to her breast, thinking of the little red book inside it. Circe. She would be Circe, the Perfect Heroine. For Reggie, for Madeline and Allison.

As if he were taking up a niece whom he held in great affection, the duke led her to his coach, and assisted her inside. Despite the morning coolness, she ignored the duke's offering of a brightly colored cashmere shawl that lay in the corner of the black tufted leather seat.

She sat, and squared her shoulders, holding her head high. If she was going to her symbolic execution, she meant to do it with the utmost dignity. The duke sat across from her, the picture of the perfect gentleman.

"I have taken the liberty of gathering some things you will need, Miss Daventry, since you have retained so little."

As if it were not his doing that she retained so little. "Thank you, your grace, but I have no need of your largesse."

"You have every need of my benefaction, Miss Daventry, and you know it. That is not the point. When you arrive at your destination, you may do as you please with your funds, but I shall manage things until then."

"Just where would that be, your grace?"

"A small village called Upper Dicker, near Eastbourne."

"But I presume, far enough to keep me out of mischief."

"You will create no problems for me. But to ensure that, you will also have few opportunities to engage with anyone likely to know my son. It is a pleasant little community."

She allowed a wry twist to her mouth to show, and wished she had not, for it would only give him more reason to rejoice in his victory over her. Caressing a finger over the reticule, she sought out the familiar outline of the little red book, her only remnant of her time with Reggie. She opened the strings of the beaded cloth bag and extracted the book, and smiled to herself as the gold-leafed title came into view.

"What is that, Miss Daventry?"

She covered it with her hands. "Just a book."

"Might I see it?"

She gripped it tightly. "No."

His blue eyes gleamed, as if he sensed prey.

"It was loaned to me by a friend, and I have promised to read it. If you do not mind, I should like to finish it now."

The duke raised his brows, then sat back against the squabs and pulled out a pair of spectacles and a book of his own. Chloe focused her attention on finding the place where she had left off, determined she would see nothing but its pages for the remainder of this trip.

Word by word, as they passed each turnpike gate and hostelry, she lost herself in the pages of The Adventuress, enmeshed with Circe's struggle to protect her beloved captain and crew, to keep the ship afloat. Page by page, Circe's love for Nicholas blossomed, as her dilemma grew, until Chloe thought she would break. Circe would not break. No, she would not. She would somehow survive--

"I do hate to interrupt your reading, Miss Daventry, but the incline is too steep for the horses, and we must walk it."

The coach pulled to a stop. Chloe redeposited the book in her reticule, drew the strings, and slipped them over her wrist.

"You may safely leave your reticule in the coach, Miss Daventry."

"I prefer to keep it with me."

Silently, Chloe started up the steep hill, glad that she had always made a habit of walking in the country. The duke started up behind her. She wished he would stay behind her, but she knew there was that odd part about him that insisted on doing the pretty, and she was not surprised when he trudged up to walk beside her. Her lip curled in a sneer.

"I suppose it is one of those romantical novels silly young girls like to read."

"It is romantical, of a sort."

"I am curious as to what sort of book gains your attention so thoroughly."

"You are entirely too inquisitive about my life, your grace, and I have not the slightest inclination to share it with you."

Chloe turned her attention away from him to the rolling beauty of the grassy downs. She had always had a peculiar attraction for the downs. As she climbed up the hill, road metal crunching softly beneath her feet, she breathed deeply of their fragrance. It was the aroma of ripened wheat, of meadows strewn with poppies, one that evoked cotton-wool clouds and skies as blue as Reggie's eyes. At the crest, she stood against the wind that blew back her bonnet and snagged tendrils of her hair as she surveyed the rolling hills with their patches of forest in their valleys. If this became her destiny, to live her life here quietly, she could manage it with reasonable happiness.

She became aware that the crunch of footsteps behind her had stopped. She turned. A shiver ran up her spine. The duke was staring at her. It was that same strange expression she had seen before, as if he suddenly come face to face with a ghost. The same ripple of fear coursed through her, as it had the day he had come to her home.

"Why are you staring at me?" she demanded.

His head cocked to the side, and the strange expression became quizzical, as if he had stunned out of a trance.

"Perhaps it is because your hair is the exact color of the field of wheat behind you."

Something cold gripped her heart.

"But I am rather glad your eyes are green."

He'd lost his wits! He was as queer as Dick's hatband! Chloe took a step back, away from the coach which waited at the crest of the hill where the horses took a needed rest. Clutching her shawl, she wrapped her arms tightly about herself. "I do not know what it is you are thinking, your grace, but I do not think I wish to ride with you any further."

The frightening intensity in his face faded almost as suddenly as it had come on. "I have no nefarious designs upon your person, Miss Daventry. I did not mean to frighten you. It is just that you reminded me of someone I once knew."

"Who?" She backed up another step.

He took a breath so deep, she could see his chest move. "My daughter, actually."

"Your daughter? I was not aware that Reggie had a sister."

"She died, quite a long time ago. She was just an infant."

An infant? He was queer in the head! "But how could I--"

Chagrin with a touch of anguish twisted his hard face. "It is more the way I always thought she would look, I suppose. Terribly sorry. Let us be going, as we are not very far from where we must turn off."

Yet what if he did have some more sinister plan for her? Never had she been in the company of a man so strange or frightening. "Nevertheless, if you wish to proceed, your grace, I should like more of an explanation than that."

He shook his head, still looking vaguely confused. "I do not have one to give you, a sensible one, that is. It would not seem sagacious at all to say that I find myself reminded of her constantly when I am in your presence."

"It is above strange, your grace."

"Yes. It is. But let us continue. You were anticipating your reunion with your sisters, were you not?"

His grace held out his hand and helped her into the coach. Chloe wrapped the Cashmere shawl over her legs, for she seemed to feel an odd chill that came from an undefinable source. The duke settled rather awkwardly against the squabs.

"Many a woman would have found that climb a difficult one, Miss Daventry."

"I am not of a delicate nature, your grace."

Once again, Chloe squeezed herself back into the corner of the squabs as far away from the duke as she could manage, and drew out the little red book. The duke balanced his spectacles on his nose and picked up his book, a much larger one than hers, and began to read.

She forgot the bouncing and jarring of the coach and the presence of her nemesis as she returned to being Circe.

* * *

Castlebury and Bibury rode up alongside Reggie's bay. Reggie gave them a grim nod.

"Any news?" Castlebury asked.

"I found the spunging house where she was taken, but she is no longer there. And the spunger, Pauncefoot, will tell me nothing. He is clearly terrified of the duke."

"Well, it's a start," said Bibury on Reggie's other side. "But what next?"

"We will think like the duke."

"I certainly hope not," Castlebury replied. "I have always prided myself in my sanity."

"He's not insane," Reggie replied, although he was not entirely convinced, himself.

"You don't really think he's going to harm her, do you?"

Reggie released a frustrated sigh. "He is not a violent man, but something is not at all right with this. He has always been determined to have his way, but this time, he has carried his maneuvering to an extreme.

"We'll check every ostler and inn in every direction from Reading. As distinctive as his coach is, someone will have noticed. And no one can drive a coach very far without changing horses. Miss Godelin is at the Bear Inn in Reading, and we will all keep in contact with her, so that if we need to call upon each other, we can do it quickly."

"Reggie," said Castlebury, laying a hand to Reggie's shoulder, "I did not wish to say it, but your very words tell me you believe the duke is empty in the cockloft."

Reggie shook his head and frowned. "It has something to do with my sister, who was born on the same day as Chloe. And my sister died on the fifteenth of August. And gentlemen, the fifteenth is only two days away."

Chapter Sixteen

"Miss Daventry."

Chloe looked up from her book, startled out of the story that had so engrossed her, she had forgotten both the duke and the rough and jarring road. And she had also forgotten her resolve to ignore him. She turned back to her book.

"Miss Daventry."

She stretched her lips thin and closed the book. Looking up, an impression flashed in her mind, of a little boy tugging at the skirt of a mama who was busy with more important things.

The odd duke still studied her with his strange intensity. But curiously, she no longer found it quite so frightening.

"I wished to say, you were right to want your sisters removed, Miss Daventry. When I found them, Miss Madeline had a deep bruise on her face."

Chloe tried not to react. "From Cottingham?"

"Indeed. I admit I did not formulate my plan until I saw the twins. But I determined they must be removed at once."

She sniffed as disdainfully as she could. "I cannot imagine that you actually care whether my sisters were beaten."

The duke's eyes flared with sudden outrage. Chloe flinched.

"You do not mean to tell me you condone this," he responded, his voice almost growling. The thick muscles in his jaw worked like cords being jerked.

"Of course I do not," she replied calmly, clutching the little red book. Circe. Be Circe.

"You will not lay a stick to them, nor allow it to be done."

Chloe blinked. The man was perfectly serious. But why should he have such concern for children who were not his? Reggie had said something about that. Chloe had the feeling she should choose her words very carefully.

"You may recall, your grace, it was my intention to remove them from Lord Cottingham by whatever means I could find. I do not believe children of that age can profit from being hit."

"No child of any age should be hit, Miss Daventry. I will have your word on this."

Chloe was not at all sure the man would apply the same rule to adult women. She swallowed the lump of fear and reminded herself she was stuck in this coach with the man for an indeterminate amount of time. "Very well then, your grace. I give it to you, as it is a worthy request, and I have no intention of ever striking a child anyway."

She watch the outrage fade from his face and change to the narrowed look of skeptical satisfaction. The tension of a poised beast ready to strike vanished and he settled back into the squabs somewhat grumpily. A wave of the silvered dark hair flopped onto his forehead, marring his image of perfection, and, irritated at it, the man brushed it back.

"Just so," he said. "Else I would not consider leaving them in your care."

He was truly the strangest man she had ever met. The same man who had so ruthlessly set out to destroy her now presented himself to her as the savior of her sisters. Was it some sort of sham? If so, what possible reason could he have for bamming her?

Everything about the man puzzled her. Everything contradicted everything else. Why had he gone to all this trouble when he might more easily have had her out of the way by destroying her reputation?

No, that one was easily answered, for she wouldn't have let that stop her, nor would Reggie have cared. He would have married her anyway, and been stuck with a wife who was unacceptable to society. Did that matter to this oppressive man?

What did he care about, anyway? He had gained control over her by finding out what she wanted. Perhaps she could do the same to him. If she was ever to escape his trap, she had to find that out. Chloe felt the edge of fear surfacing again, but quelled it as she made the decision to probe at the strange and highly defended walls he seemed to be exposing to her.

"Still, I find your position unusual, your grace."

"Do you?" It was hardly a question.

"A beating for misbehavior is common practice."

"Indeed." The duke folded his arms stiffly. "Have you ever been beaten, Miss Daventy?"

"My father took a cane to me once, but I deserved it."

"I doubt that. Your father died when you were quite young."

"I was seven, and it was shortly before he died. I shall carry with me forever the humiliation of knowing I had disappointed him so greatly. I had been disobedient, and my carelessness nearly caused the death of another child."

"I vow he could have found another way. I presume you have not forgotten what it felt like."

"No, I have not. It was barely three strokes on my softer parts, but I could not sit for days."

His blue eyes seemed to penetrate her, yet he looked more the hunted animal than the forbidding duke. "Hardly a beating, Miss Daventry, perhaps almost justifiable, but not. But can you imagine those same strokes laid repeatedly over a little body?"

She shuddered. Her own memory was bad enough.

"I vowed many years ago no one would ever strike a child of mine. As I have guardianship of your sisters, the same applies to them. They will not be struck, under any conditions. If I charge you with their care, then I charge you with this also."

"Why?"

"I thought I had explained that."

"No, that is not what I mean. I am in complete agreement with you. But I cannot help but wonder why you have reached this conclusion, for many children are beaten quite regularly, and few people give it the least regard. Why is it so important to you?"

His eyes sidled, a flinch, but an odd one, as if he sought an escape route. "You overstep your bounds, Miss Daventry."

"Perhaps." Carefully she suppressed the little smile that wanted to creep onto her face, for the man read her too easily. But a genuine curiosity rose in her. She said nothing more and let silence work its power as a struggle played out in his face.

The dark eyes met hers fiercely, as if they dueled. Chloe let hers reply only with patience. He looked away, then back. A streak of pain lashed across his face, so quickly she almost missed it.

"Because I know what it is like."

"I see," she said softly. But what struck her was how difficult the admission had been for him. "I am sorry."

Chloe remembered Reggie's story. She had thought it awful that his grandmother would detest him so, and be so willing to see him beaten for a simple childhood mistake. What had that hateful woman done to this man?

There was so much left unsaid. Most children would have, like she had, set it aside, to be only occasionally remembered. But whatever had happened to the duke was something very different, that had left scars on his soul.

"Now that is settled," he said gruffly. "I shall expect you will teach them to be proper, biddable young ladies, Miss Daventry. Undoubtedly they have been given such instruction in the past, but their education appears to have suffered of late."

"Mother has been dead nearly two years."

"Just so, and you must make up the difference. They shall come out when they are eighteen, and not before, at which time I shall settle ten thousand apiece on them, in addition to the portion granted by their father's will."

"That is not necessary, your grace, as we have already agreed upon seven."

"Of course it is not. However, it is my decision. You will see that they are worthy of a suitable husband."

"And if they choose not to marry?"

"Ridiculous. Why should a lady choose not to marry?"

"It was my aunt's choice, and would have been mine, had I been able to make such a choice."

The nostrils on the long, elegant nose flared slightly. "Ah, yes, that aunt of yours. A handsome enough woman. It was undoubtedly her regrettable disposition which prevented a suitable match."

Chloe set her jaw before she remembered how quickly he read such gestures. Deliberately, she forced it to relax. "My aunt made it clear she did not intend to marry, and although her parents insisted she have a season, she kept with her intention."

"Why?"

"She found no man she felt she could trust with her person and her small portion. But as feme sole, she has managed her own affairs without the interference of a man."

"Well, as I have said, her disposition is regrettable."

"As is mine, your grace," Chloe replied acidly.

"See to it your sisters do not take it on."

"I will not force them to marry, nor will you. And I doubt even a hundred thousand would sweeten the pot sufficiently if they are not so inclined, since such funds would only go to the husband and not to them."

"You are the most audacious female I have ever met, Miss Daventry."

"Thank you, your grace," she said, and smiled. She had no intention of telling him that he was the strangest man she had ever met. "Feme sole," she repeated from their earlier argument.

"No. If it is to be ten thousand, it will be on my terms."

"Feme sole, or not at all. So that they may choose for themselves. A woman grown should not be abused, either, simply because she is smaller and lacks resources to fend for herself."

The thick muscles in his jaw worked back and forth, so that she wondered if he might grind his teeth to stubs. "It goes against my grain, Miss Daventry."

"It would appear that life goes against your grain."

"I will consider it."

Feeling the smile on her soul if not on her face, Chloe lifted the little red book again, running a finger over the gold lettering. Whatever was it that caused him to concede to her? Was it that strange resemblance he thought he saw to a child who had never lived to grow up? Chloe felt a vague sense of power.

"And for that concession, I shall ask again to see that book you caress with such fondness."

Startled, she gripped the book. "You gave no concession. You merely said you would consider it."

"Very well, then," he growled. "Feme sole. I would like to see the book. You need not worry that I shall bring it harm, Miss Daventry, I have great respect for books. And I give my word I shall return it to you promptly."

Chloe worried at her lower lip. She could not imagine why she should trust him, a man who made her shudder with fear. The book was all she had of Reggie, perhaps all she would ever have. If he destroyed it, it would break her heart.

Chloe held her breath as she gave over the book. It felt as if she had placed her heart in the man's hand.

The duke frowned as he studied the tooled border in the red leather, and his jaw tightened as he traced the black letters.

"So, it is true," he said quietly.

Chloe nodded.

"Is it a very good book, Miss Daventry?"

She nodded again.

He thumbed through the pages, stopping here and there to read, always frowning. Then he closed the book. "I have heard that he modeled his heroine after you, and you were most overset because he had held you up to public ridicule."

"No." But that was not entirely the truth, and for some reason she felt obligated to respond in kind to the truth he had shared with her. "At first, I believed I had been held up to ridicule, I must admit, but I was led to believe that falsely, and I am ashamed to say I believed it all too easily. But I have nearly finished it, and now I see it differently."

"Still, a young lady gently bred-- Surely you would have preferred a gentleman who did not make a public figure of you. You had other suitors. Lord Castlebury, Lord Vilheurs--"

"Lord Castlebury is kind, but would not have come up to scratch, and made that clear. And Lord Vilheurs broke into my chamber and attempted to rape me."

The duke sat back so abruptly, Chloe thought he would bump his head on the coach roof. "Vilheurs is a gentleman."

"If so, then you have a very strange definition of gentleman. It was Reggie who rescued me. But in so doing, he caught himself in the mousetrap."

"How so?"

Chloe felt a sudden twinge in her chest, recalling that night, but she quietly related the story.

"And I cannot imagine, if everyone else deduced I had no portion left, why Lord Vilheurs did not. It is so very clear, he wanted nothing from me but the fortune he thought I would bring."

The duke's dark mood deepened, and he locked himself in silence. Something else was going on here.

"You know something about it," Chloe surmised aloud. "You have a look about you when there is something you do not wish known. But as it is about me, I must insist you tell me."

The duke studied her for a moment, then nodded. "He knows what I know, that you are not as impoverished as you believe."

Chloe stared. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Your uncle did not spend your portion, Miss Daventry. It was largely intact at his death. His heir, however, has drained off your funds into an account of his own, and apparently believes he has thoroughly covered his tracks by blaming it on his father. As long as you believe it is gone, he has free rein with your funds. And he is spending them rapidly."

Chloe nearly leapt to her feet. "What?"

"It is as I said. I hope it will comfort you also to know I have bidden my barrister institute proceedings against him, for you are of age, and he is not the legal administrator. What he takes from you, he takes as a thief."

"And you!" she shrieked. "You have led me to believe I am so impoverished that I am in debt to you!"

"You are. You do not have the money simply because it ought to be yours. You could not even pay the barrister to file suit. If you want it, you had best allow me to proceed in your behalf."

The bitter taste of helplessness filled her mouth. "And why would you be so kind as to assist me with anything?"

"Perhaps even I have moments of foolishness, Miss Daventry." He handed back Reggie's book. "There, you see, I have managed to keep another promise to you."

She glared. She hated him with all the venom of a den of vipers. He strung her about, twisting and turning like a marionette, even when she thought herself defiant, she was still nothing more than a puppet dancing to his will. She jerked her head away, forcing her gaze on the deepening gloom beyond the window of the coach, pretending to see beasties in the passing hedgerows, anything to avoid looking at him.

"Miss Daventry."

She clamped her jaw shut and focused on the dark scenery.

"I fail to see what has angered you."

He knew the number of hairs that grew on her head, and he did not know what angered her? She whirled around, her eyes so blazing hot, they stung. "You enjoy watching people suffer. Now I see why your family has abandoned you."

Rage flushed and sizzled as if she had dared to strike him. If ever she had thought he might hit her, the time was now. But Chloe glared back, defying him. She didn't care if he beat her bloody, for she would not grovel to his arrogance any longer.

"You are impertinent, Miss Daventry."

"Would that I were more so." She held her breath. Was that all he was going to do to her? Insult her?

"It is not possible for anyone to be more brazen than you. You could not possibly know about my family."

"Do I not?" she said, her voice viciously quiet. "Perhaps I only know what the gossip mill says about you, that you control every breath they take, until they can stand it no longer? That you turn your back on them the very moment they dare defy you? That you exiled your wife to a tiny estate for sixteen years because she dared thwart your will, and you took her son from her just because you could? It is no wonder your heir hates you and would rather risk his life in a war than be at your mercy."

He returned dark rage seething in his eyes, and the thick muscles of his jaw bulged. "Just what is it you seek to do, Miss Daventry? If you think to provoke me to violence with your false accusations, I will warn you now, it cannot be done. What I do, I do for their sakes, and if they choose to hate me for it, I have learned long since to endure it. You, Miss Daventry, come under that very category, as well. You think you know what is best for my sons, one of whom you do not even know, and the other with whom you have been acquainted barely a few months. I know what is best for Reginald, and what is best for him is that he marry his cousin Portia."

"And as I have met Portia, I suspect you are in for a big surprise."

"She will not stand up to me."

Chloe smiled, a pinch-lipped smile that was fully a match for his arrogance. "She will outwit you, as will your son."

"We shall see." His eyes as cold as they had been heated.

Chloe turned back to her book, her eyes smarting with tears she refused to release.

Oh, Reggie, please find me. Please find me.

With more abruptness than usual, the shiny black coach pulled to a halt within the courtyard of a rattly old brick inn.

Chloe shrugged off his offensive attempt at propriety, unwilling to allow him even to help her from the coach, and marched into the inn ahead of him.

"I shall take my meal in my room," she announced to the innkeeper. "Alone."

The duke gave a stiff nod of approval. Chloe stalked up the wooden stairs in the innkeeper's wake, and when the innkeeper left, she bolted the door behind him.

She had barely settled herself when a scratching on the door notified her the meal had arrived. She opened the door with reluctance, but she was hungry, and saw no sense in spiting her stomach. By the moment she finished, she heard another scratching. She stiffened. "Who is there?"

"Marmount."

She meant to tell him to go away, but the door opened anyway. Chloe glared. "And just what would you have done if I had been improperly dressed, your grace?"

"I would have told you to cover yourself. I have already said I have no designs upon your person. However, there is something I wish to say."

She sniffed and took a sip of cold tea. "Then surely you will say it, so do get on with it."

"I paid Vilheurs to marry you."

The cold tea caught in her throat, and she choked. Struggling for breath and demeanor, she glared at him.

"I did not wish you harm. It seemed a suitable match."

Chloe leaned back in the chair, her eyes rolling up to the beamed ceiling. "Dear God, I pray you, deliver me from arrogant men! And I suppose you paid Lady Laverhorn, too."

"She is a loose cannon. I have no dealings with her. But it is obvious Vilheurs made use of her unfortunate proclivities."

Loose cannon. That was astute of him. Chloe took a deep breath. "So you really will do anything to have your way."

"I will pay any price to protect my children, for what little good it has done."

Chloe frowned. Whatever was the strange man trying to say now? And why ever might he be telling it to her? But as she studied him, he merely stood there, looking oddly expectant. She shuddered, hoping he did not wait for her to invite him in, for she had no intentions of doing that.

Still he stood there. Chloe said nothing, and held her breath.

"You know about Featherstone, do you not, Miss Daventry?"

"I know that it is Reggie's, and you withhold it from him in order to get what you want from him."

"Robert is there."

Her mouth gaped. Robert? His heir? "I thought he was in the Peninsula."

"He was brought in to Dover. I have sent the duchess to take him up to Featherstone, as it is close to Dover."

"Wounded, then? Seriously? Does Reggie know?"

"If he were dying, they would not have taken the trouble to send him home, nor would they have sent him home if his recovery was imminent. I have not seen Reginald to tell him."

"So then, you will be going to Featherstone."

"No, Miss Daventry, I will not."

"Your son is wounded, and he needs you, and you will not? Just like that, you turn your back on him?"

"Not just like that, Miss Daventry. However, I will not be going to Featherstone."

"But he is your son! And you can simply ignore him?"

"Must you insist in prying everything out of me?"

Chloe stared, aghast. As if she was prying? Was he not the perpetrator or this odd conversation? What did he want of her?

"I assure you, I am the last person on the face of this earth my son is willing to see. Therefore, however I might wish it, I will not be going."

"I understand the estrangement, but surely the change in circumstances warrants a re-evaluation."

The duke let out an exasperated sigh. "It has become obvious, the less I tell you, the better."

"Then I must wonder, why do you persist in telling me?"

She thought the barest corner of his mouth twitched. "I have no notion, Miss Daventry. Perhaps I am merely capitulating to the inevitable. We shall leave as the cock crows."

He shut the door behind him. Chloe jumped up and threw the bolt.

She undressed, blew out the candle, and crossed the darkened chamber, feeling ahead of her for the table where she had left Reggie's book. Just touching the smooth leather gave her peace.

Clutching the book, she scooted her feet along the floor to save her shins a bump until she found the bed. She crawled beneath the covers and laid the book beside her, palm resting atop the red leather.

"Stay with me, Reggie," she said aloud. "Do not forget me. Believe in me as I believe in you."

He's my father.

Chloe sat up abruptly, hearing Reggie's voice echoing in her mind. If not his voice, then certainly his anguish for his lonely and terribly damaged parent. It was as if Reggie begged her to take care of the man, to protect him until Reggie could get to them.

Reggie loved her, but he also loved his father.

In his own unfathomable way, the duke was crying out to her for help. And that was what it was. In spite of all he had done to her, he needed her help. And it all had something to do with an infant who had died so long ago, who somehow looked like her.

But damn the man! She didn't want to help him! He'd made a shambles of her life, threatened her and her sisters, lied to her, had her seized and tossed into a stinkhole of a spunging house! He'd taken her from the man she loved before she even had a chance to tell him so!

Oh, Reggie! If she only hadn't been so stubborn. If she'd only believed in him!

She didn't want to help this beastly father of his. He didn't deserve any help.

But Reggie did. She owed it to Reggie. Chloe caressed the leather as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Circe. I will be Circe for you, Reggie. I will not let you down.

* * *

Reggie rode into the courtyard of the Bear Inn in Reading and dismounted wearily. Castlebury and Bibury sat at a trestle table in the open air. The rustling leaves of the last of summer blew in little whirls near their feet as Reggie trudged over to sit on a bench beside them.

"Any news?" he asked as a dark ale appeared before him, set down by a plump hand that his mind vaguely acknowledged as feminine. The ale was cool and thick, a balm to his dry throat.

"I followed a false trail all morning," said Castlebury, and he took another gulp from his tankard. "But at the third hostelry, I determined it could not have been Miss Daventry, or the duke, so I returned."

"You're quite sure?"

Castlebury nodded. "They didn't go north."

"Nothing at all going west," said Bibury. "I even asked about a man alone. He might be riding, but what might he have done with her? Reggie, you don't think he's already done something with her, do you? He's a singularly odd fellow."

"He's not that odd," Reggie replied, bristling. "Any word from St. James?"

"Not yet," Castlebury said.

Reggie set down the tankard and rested his head into his hands for a moment before he straightened again. "On the Portsmouth Road, there was a coach with a man and young lady. But I caught up with them and found a cit with his daughter. Well, I'm for a bit of supper. Let us join Miss Godelin, and see if she has learned anything."

Bibury had arranged rooms for the night, and seen supper ordered. Miss Godelin joined them in a private dining room.

"Lord Reginald," she said, bustling in, "Lord St. James has sent a private post. You were right. Your father has persuaded Lord Cottingham to release the twins into his custody."

"Devil it!" shouted Castlebury. "What would he want with them?"

Reggie blew out a weary breath. "Power," he said. "As I said, if we are to win, we must pay attention to how he thinks. It would take more than the threat of arrest to make Chloe bend to his wishes. But he would find out what would work, and gain control over it. In this case, it is her sisters."

Castlebury growled. "You'll pardon me, Reggie, but your father is a devil if ever I saw one. He had best not harm any of them, or I will call him out myself."

"Won't do any good. He doesn't care what anyone else thinks of his honor. He'll just ignore you. This is good news, actually. Even though he is coercing her, he is negotiating in his own way. And although he will lie, he will not break his promises. So he will have made some sort of agreement with her."

"That is the damnedest code of honor I have ever heard of," said Bibury.

Reggie took another drink of ale. "But it is his code. Think like he does, Bibury. So then, what will he have promised her? He wants to get Chloe out of my life. Chloe wants her sisters. So he will make that exchange, and likely sweeten the deal with a reasonable way she can take care of them."

"Set her up? Why the devil do that?"

"To make sure she stays out of my life. And it will make him feel magnanimous, in a way, justify to himself what he is doing." Reggie grabbed up a large chunk of bread and slathered it with butter, which he swallowed almost whole, and washed down with ale. "Well, gentlemen, Miss Godelin, I believe I shall rest an hour or so. Then I'll hit the road again."

"Rest for the night, Lord Reginald," Miss Godelin pleaded. "I cannot see what you can accomplish in the darkness."

"I sleep little, Miss Godelin. It is not in my nature, and there is a bright moon. But I think I have unraveled how he has got past us, and I mean to head him off."

"How's that, Reggie?" asked St. James.

Reggie studied his companions, none of whom looked up to more riding for the night. "I thought it strange, when he left Town, he took three grooms with him. But there is a reason for everything he does. He simply does not bother to impart his reasons to others. We have been looking for a coach that exchanged teams in the usual fashion, but the duke knew we would do that."

Castlebury sat back and stroked at his chin. "I don't see how he could have got very far without fresh teams, Reggie."

"He couldn't. So he disguised it. His grooms went ahead of him and hired teams which they took to pre-arranged locations. We should be asking whether any persons have hired teams without having coaches."

"The devil you say! Oh, pardon me, Miss Godelin." Castlebury reddened.

"Hardly a time for coyness, Lord Castlebury. Then what must we do now, Lord Reginald?"

Reggie sat back down to the table. "Let us think it through. He left with Miss Daventry just before cock's crow, in his coach, but that does not mean he did not change vehicles."

Castlebury leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "If one of the grooms hired another coach, he could have met the duke, switched coaches, and sent the ducal coach toward Oxford. That would be the one I chased. Then it is likely he did not go north."

Reggie nodded back. It made sense. "But don't rule it out. He would expect us to jump to that conclusion, and might go that direction simply because we would not look there."

"Then how shall we ever untangle this mess?" asked Bibury, shaking his head as if he meant to concede defeat.

Reggie didn't. "We'll go back over the routes we took today, but this time go a day's worth farther, and note any side roads where a hidden exchange might be made. But I think he will not willingly take a poor road. It would be too slow, and too easy for a horseman to catch up to him. So the main roads, my lads. Rest for the night, and get an early start."

But he couldn't help but wonder if the clue to it all lay in his father's journal that was tucked in his saddlebag. While Castlebury and Bibury slept away, snoring lightly, Reggie sat in the winged chair in the little room, and by the dim light of a single candle, squinted at the pages of the journal.

Starting at the last entry, he paged back slowly, skimming as thoroughly as he dared over each page.

He found another poem, an ode to a golden haired lady lovingly tending her roses, by the man who watched her from a hilltop and wished for that tenderness for himself. He read further, feeling the sadness and loss. He noted the date. His mother's birthday.

There was a hilltop near his mother's estate on the Avon. Had the duke gone there, spied on her in secret? Was the cold Duke of Marmount secretly in love with the woman he had cast aside, never speaking her name again for sixteen years?

He turned the page, still going from back to front. Soon frustration began to mount, and Reggie flipped the pages rapidly.

What the deuce was the duke doing? He was most certainly headed toward a specific place, but where?

Reggie reminded himself to think like the duke.

The duke was a very careful, logical man who constantly took in information and stored it for future use. He was also a man who used the resources he had, and wasted little.

And the Duke of Marmount owned a great deal of property. Would he use a property already in his possession to sequester Chloe and her sisters? Why purchase or lease something when he already had far more than he himself could use?

Featherstone? No, too obvious, and Reggie went there often.

Reggie fanned the pages again. A list caught his eye. The duke was always making lists. Reggie turned back to the page.

An inventory of properties. Several pages of them. The entailed ducal properties. The Marquisate that by courtesy belonged to Robert. Featherstone. Leverton. Leverton was far to the north, and the duke wasn't headed in that direction.

Marstens. Reggie straightened and held the journal closer to the flame. Elizabeth Marstens' hall. The aunt his father had loved, a woman of kindness Reggie barely remembered, the one after whom the duke had named his only daughter. A fitting place to hide the woman who had usurped his baby daughter's birthday.

He snapped the journal closed. "Castlebury, wake up," he called, shaking the man's shoulder.

"Hmmmmf?" Castlebury groaned.

"I've found it. He's going to Marstens Hall."

Castlebury frowned at Reggie as Reggie threw on his coat and retied his dangling cravat.

"Where's that?" he asked.

That was the trouble. "In West Sussex somewhere. I'm sure I can find it. In case I'm wrong, continue with the plan, and we'll leave Miss Godelin here at The Bear to relay messages."

"Where are you going?"

"Wherever Marstens Hall is. There's a full moon, and it's a beautiful night for riding."

Chapter Seventeen

The ruts in the dirt road bounced the coach, throwing Chloe against the side, and the duke jumped from his seat to catch her. She threw back a frown and righted herself, but clung to the corner of the squabs for support, one hand clung to the sill of the coach window. She coughed at the dust.

"Your pardon, Miss Daventry," said the duke, hanging on, himself. "Your discomfort will be ended shortly."

It was more likely her discomfort was just beginning. She could imagine the cottage he had promised, peeling walls and leaking thatch, a loft hanging above a central room and rope ladder for access. The chimney would leak, and fill the house with smoke from the swallow's nests that had been left by the previous careless inhabitants. And the apples would all be rotten, too, she knew it.

Why had she not realized it? His promises came so easily to him because they were empty.

Her body ached from the jostling, and the hours upon hours of sitting. Even this stone-faced duke stood stiffly whenever they stopped to change horses, and the way he stretched his body reminded her of an old man in great pain from his rheumatic joints. It gave her perverse pleasure to know he had to suffer in order to make her suffer. But if he thought to destroy her, she would prove him wrong. Life had taught her more than how to turn a hem. She would survive, and keep her sisters safe, too.

They came upon a village that looked like any other in the South Downs, a scattering of half-timbered and brick buildings with their thatched and tiled roofs, surrounded by green fields and squared off by hedgerows and narrow little lanes sunk down so deep, it was almost like driving through a cavern. An inn, its bricks freshly whitewashed, stood at the center, across from a small church with a well-kept churchyard. A woman in a shawl stopped in her journey to watch the coach as it passed.

The coach tilted in a long rut, then finally righted again, and at last came to a stop in front of a brick and timber manor house at the far edge of the village. The silent duke stepped out and held out his hand for her. She had become accustomed to his silences and all the thoughts he did not deign to share.

She snickered to herself, thinking of all the thoughts he shared unbidden, whether she wanted to hear them or not. Then she realized there had been none of those since the night before.

"Where are we?" she asked, allowing him to help her down.

"Marstens Hall," he responded.

She smirked. As if that told her anything.

"It is yours, now, although as it once belonged to a favorite aunt of mine, I expect you will take good care of it."

This towering place? It was huge! "Oh no, your grace, I cannot accept it."

"It was to be for my daughter Elizabeth, but now it has no purpose, so you might as well have it. I am not willing to part with anything dearer."

"But it is much too large. I cannot possibly support it."

"You will not need to support it. It has never failed to make a reasonable living."

From a window above, she heard a high-pitched shriek.

"It's the duke! Hurry! Look! He's brought Chloe!"

The shrieking garbled and dimmed, then before she reached the door, it burst open and two young girls in white dresses dashed out, their yellow-blonde curls bouncing.

Madeline! Allison! They rushed headlong into her, arms wide, then thrown about her. Tears streamed down her cheeks and flowed onto their golden curls as she nuzzled their heads. Sobs choked her throat, so that she could not even manage a greeting. It was real. They were really here, and safe.

"Oh, Chloe, you have grown so pretty!" said Madeline. "He said so, but you really are."

She glanced at the duke, who stood aside, glowering.

"Let me see you both," she replied, holding them back for a moment. "No I think it is the two of you have grown so lovely. And growing up too, I vow. Madeline, you are still a wee bit taller, I see. And you, my beautiful Allison, still remind me of a lovely porcelain doll. My, how you have grown!"

"But you are truly beautiful," said Allison, smiling shyly.

Chloe drew her into another hug. "We have so much to say, let us get on with it."

Then Allison, her blue eyes shining, turned to the duke. "I knew you could do it, your grace," she said. She stood up on tiptoes, and planted a kiss to his cheek.

Madeline grinned brashly and kissed his other cheek as Chloe's eyes widened. The duke blushed a brilliant red and for a brief moment his jaw went slack.

"Is he not wonderful, Chloe?" said Madeline, beaming. "After all this time, to bring us together again? And he says we may not part until we are finally all wed."

"Yes. I am sure you feel that way." But she caught the duke's subtly anxious gaze, as if he awaited a telling blow. In a few words, she could destroy their idolization of him. Did he dare hope she would not? Why did he care what two young girls thought of him, when he cared not a tuppence about anyone else?

Perhaps it was true instead that he cared far too much. Chloe bit her lower lip and tried to smile at the same time, reminding herself what she had promised to herself and to Reggie.

Giggling, the girls linked arms with both of them, all but dragging them into the house.

"Come and see our house, Chloe," said Madeline, prancing like an excited pony. "It's wonderful. I have my own chamber, and Allison has hers, and you have a really big one. But we sleep in the same room anyway, as we are not accustomed to sleeping alone. And there are rooms for everything. It is not as big as father's castle, of course, but it hardly matters as we were not allowed the use of it."

"It is much in need of a woman's touch, however," the duke replied. "If you find anything lacking, you may apply to me."

"Did you not say the house is mine, your grace?" she asked.

"I did."

"In that event, I shall not find it necessary to apply to you to manage my own property."

He slid a sideways glare at her. "Then I shall be going. It is time you renew your acquaintance with your sisters."

"Are you not staying the night?" Allison asked.

"Certainly not, Miss Allison. It would be improper. My coachman will arrange a room at the inn."

"Not even supper?" Madeline wailed.

"You have not seen your sister in several years, Miss Cottingham. It is proper that you should spend this time with her. No arguing, now. I shall not have it."

"Perhaps supper, your grace?" Chloe asked, then wondered why she had. She certainly did not want to spend another moment with this curmudgeon.

The duke gave her a surprised frown.

"Clearly, it would mean so much to them."

He sighed. "Very well, then, Miss Daventry. If it so pleases you. I'll bid you good day, then, until supper."

Chloe watched the duke as he pivoted in that very abrupt manner he had, and strode across the great hall and out the door. Beside her stood her new butler, Weems, who she suspected was more or less a man of all work such as Cargill had been. She asked about the evening meal.

"Cook prepares a simple fare, ma'am, but dare I say you will find it tasty. I shall ask her to add a bit to it, for you would not wish to appear a poor hostess to your benefactor."

Benefactor! The man thought she was a mistress being set aside! She took a deep breath to remind herself of her composure. "Very well, Weems, then be sure Cook knows the Duke of Marmount is to sup at our table tonight. Now, girls, I really must see my chamber."

It would not be so terribly much longer before she could be shed of her nemesis. She changed her clothes to a simple gown she found laid out for her.

The girls rushed in and Madeline plopped down in a plump chair in Chloe's sitting room. "I have decided I shall become a duchess, Chloe. Would that not be grand? I shall marry the duke's older son, and Allison may have the younger. Only, I should not like for anything to happen to the duke, so I do not mind being very old when I become the duchess."

"I suspect the duke has other plans for his sons," Chloe replied, surmising it would not be good to mention Reggie just yet.

"Oh." Madeline sighed. "Well, then, I shall find another duke's son to marry, I suppose."

"Oh, you are such a goose," Allison said. "She thinks of nothing but who she will marry, Chloe."

"And what do you think of?" Madeline retorted. "Being a spinster?"

"Well, I should rather not marry than to have someone who did not love me. I shall marry only for love, Chloe. He need not have a title or wealth."

"I can as easily love a rich man as a poor one, I vow," said Madeline. "Who are you going to marry, Chloe?"

"I have not given it great consideration," Chloe lied.

"Madeline said you are going to be a spinster like Aunt Daphne. Are you, Chloe?"

Chloe hid her sadness behind lowered eyelids. She knew now she would not marry if she could not have Reggie. And she had ruined that because she could not believe in him. "I should not be terribly unhappy if I did not wed," she said. "But I would always prefer to choose a man with a kind heart over a pretty face or great wealth."

"Well, that is not being in love. Have you ever been in love, Chloe?"

Chloe looked across her chamber to the little red book resting on the bureau. "Yes."

"You have?" cried both girls at once.

"Oh, come tell us all about it, Chloe," Madeline pleaded, pulling on Chloe's arm. "Was he so very handsome?"

"And nice? Was he nice, Chloe? Is it all so sad, now that it is over?"

"What makes you think it is over?"

"If it were not," Allison said, "then you would be married, and the duke would not have had to take us from Uncle."

Clearly, the duke had not told them anything of his plans for his sons. Or for Chloe. "Well, perhaps you are right. But I cannot imagine how the duke got you away from him."

"He was wonderful," Madeline said, pressing her hands together.

"He offered to call the man out," Allison said. "Well, I think that is what he said. Madeline had a bruise on her cheek from where Uncle Cottingham hit her with his fist, and his grace was very angry. Then he told Uncle something we did not hear, and Uncle turned very pale. Then Uncle told the duke he had one hour to get us and everything we thought we could take with us, before he shut the gate behind us. And I did not care at all, Chloe, as long as we got free of him."

"We have a bit of mama's jewelry, and the miniature of her and papa. Allison got our china dolls, and Miss Appleton grabbed up whatever she might of our clothing and books. But the duke has had some things made up for us, so it does not matter. I think I should like to marry him, if only he were not so old."

"Silly. He has a wife. Even if she doesn't like him."

"Well, that is quite enough, girls," Chloe said, and stood. "We must go down to supper, for the duke will be coming shortly, and we do not wish for his ears to burn."

"If the duchess dies, you could marry the duke, Chloe," said Madeline.

"That is not at all well done of you, Madeline," said Allison. "You should not wish anyone dead."

"I did not wish her dead, even if she is so silly as to not love him. I merely said--"

"Enough," said Chloe, starting down the stairs. "Our company has arrived, and you must attempt to be civilized."

Through clenched teeth, she greeted the duke when he returned, noting as she had before that he was uncommonly handsome for the cold, hard statue of a man that he was. But now she was seeing something different. He did not hide that sad loneliness nearly as well as he thought.

Supper was the simple, pleasant pottage Weems had promised. As they ate, she watched the girls banter and tease, Madeline in her exuberant, and Allison in quiet shyness. Something about the stone duke softened as he basked in their adoration.

They must surely be the only human beings on God's earth who liked him, and perhaps that was why he warmed to them. How terribly lonely that must be. But the fault for that belonged to him, not to her, or the rest of mankind. No man was ever universally disliked because of his kindness.

"But how is it you came to know Chloe, your grace?" Madeline asked, then spooned her dessert.

The duke paled. His lips thinned as he searched Chloe's face. "We are acquainted through my son," he said slowly.

"The one who is a captain in the Guards?"

"My second son. The one who is an author."

"He is an author?" Allison asked, squealing. "Lord Reginald is an author? Oh, it is so very exciting."

Chloe locked her hands tightly together in her lap.

"Then he introduced you to Chloe, and she asked you to rescue us," Madeline guessed.

"It was what she wished," the duke replied, watching Chloe's face closely.

Well, it did no good to say otherwise. "And I thank you, your grace, that they are safe at last, and we are together."

"I am glad, too," Allison replied, and smiled shyly, then hid a yawn behind her hand.

"Well, Miss Allison," said the duke, "I see you have grown weary at last. You must be watchful of them, Miss Daventry, for I have discovered they will stay up too late if you allow it."

"Ah. I thank you for the warning. Very well, girls, off to bed with you, now. Tomorrow we shall be very busy, as you will have to acquaint me with the property."

"But Chloe!" whined Madeline. "Your grace, just a little longer!"

"Up the stairs with you, Misses Cottingham. You have been enough trouble for one day." The duke's characteristic gruff voice seemed oddly tinged with the music of affection.

"No more than you, your grace," said Madeline, her giggling tinkling like silver bells.

"And you, Miss Cottingham, have all the cheek of your older sister. Do not expect that I shall overrule her, Miss Cottingham. You are to mind her without exception. I shall have nothing else from you. Go on, now."

Both girls moaned together as they rose from their chairs and gave a kiss to Chloe's cheek, then one to the duke.

"I shall come up shortly and see you tucked in," Chloe said.

"Oh, we are quite too old to be tucked in, Chloe," Madeline insisted. "But you may come to say good night."

"Very well, then."

The last giggle faded with the sound of the twins skipping up the old Jacobean staircase. The duke stared at Chloe in his inexplicable way, that strange way that told her nothing, except that he was once again about to say something he had sworn to himself not to impart.

She squirmed in her seat, not wanting to be alone with the man in this strangely intimate way.

"I am grateful you chose not to malign me, Miss Daventry."

How odd it was, that the twins' affection seemed to mean so much to him. But they were still children, and it seemed the only affinity he had with other human beings was with children.

"They need a hero, your grace," she replied, knowing as she said it, it was the truth. "How could I take that from them? And I am truly grateful to have them back with me."

The duke took a deep sip from his port.

"Do they also remind you of your daughter, your grace?"

"No, curiously, they do not. But one cannot help but be touched by such sweet-natured children."

"Yet you cannot say they do not resemble me. How is it that I remind you when they do not?"

Once again he drank from the goblet, then set it down, still holding the stem. "Who can say what it is that brings on a memory? I have always thought Elizabeth's hair would be like Reginald's, golden, but even as an infant, hers had more curl to it than his, like yours. Your hair, perhaps. I thought that from the beginning. But that is not enough, is it? You do not really resemble members of my family. What might it be, then?"

Chloe held her breath. Where was he leading?

With a long, deep breath exhaled, he began again. "Elizabeth was born on 22 April, 1792, as were you."

Chloe gasped.

"She died on 15 August the same year." His voice sounded oddly flat.

"Tomorrow is the fifteenth," she countered, just as flatly.

The taut muscles in his jaw flexed and bulged. "And so I hope you understand why I have been in such a hurry to get you here, as I do not wish to spend that day with you."

Hot moisture stung her eyes. "I should not think so."

"I have always gone home on that day," he said in a voice that sounded far away. "But I shall not this year. Beauhampton Hall is much too far, and I could not reach it in time."

"What will you do, then?"

"I believe I shall go down to Beachy Head. Have you ever been there, Miss Daventry? There is nothing quite like the vastness of the sea, as viewed from a magnificent cliff."

Something about that gripped her heart. "I am sure it must be quite soothing. Are you quite sure you wish to be alone?"

He took a deep breath that he seemed to hold, then once again sighed. "Yes, quite. You must go there sometime, Miss Daventry. It is, as you say, quite soothing."

"How did your daughter die?"

His head jerked up, and he stared at her, gazing so long she wanted to squirm. "We shall not discuss this."

"Yes, of course, your grace. I should not have asked."

She thought he was going to rise out of his chair. Then he reached for the wine goblet again, but instead of drinking, rolled the stem back and forth between his thumb and fingers.

"I have tried for a very long time to fathom what went wrong. She was cutting a tooth, and a bit fussy, as children are wont to be at such a time, but nothing more. I rocked her to sleep, then laid her down. She never woke up."

The man leaned his head back against the ancient high-backed wooden chair and closed his eyes. "You cannot imagine what it is like to lose a child."

Chloe quelled the urge to rush to the hated man and give him comfort. She tightened her grip on her hands in her lap. "I cannot imagine how anyone could ever overcome such a loss."

He swallowed the last of his port, and studied the dregs that clung to the bottom of the goblet. He had not said, but she guessed he had been the last to see the baby alive.

She could not stand the silence. His voice was so flat, as if it said nothing of importance, yet in that very tone it spoke of pain so immensely deep it touched the bottom of her soul. She grappled about in her mind trying to find something to say that was neither overly mawkish nor utterly inane.

"It is unusual for a father to take such an interest in his child, is it not? I have not known many fathers who frequent the nursery, despite their love for their children."

"I always did. I enjoyed my children when they were young. And Elizabeth was-- She was so very wonderful. She loved to be rocked to sleep. Sometimes she quieted sooner when I rocked her. When she was so very cross that night, nurse asked if I might rock her to sleep. Perhaps she was ill, and we didn't know it, but we saw no signs. I laid her in the cot the way she always slept. Her clothes were not tangled about her. She had no fever, nor anything else that I could tell."

The wine glass rotated between his thumb and forefinger, slowly back and forth.

"I do not know what I could have done differently."

"You were a very experienced parent."

"There were five children, altogether. Two other little girls were stillborn. I did so want a daughter as well as sons."

"In all these years, has anyone ever found anything else you might have done?"

"I have consulted physicians, midwives, nannies, old wives. Some say teething is a dangerous time for babies. One old wife once told me a girl child must be passed over and under a donkey nine times to ensure she will live. But I did not believe her."

Chloe smiled weakly. "Nor would I. So then, one and twenty years have passed, and no one can find fault in what you did. Is it not possible that you are not to blame?"

"There must have been something," he said, shaking his head. "There must be a reason."

"But perhaps not one you could have foretold. What if there was truly nothing you could have done, your grace?"

He looked as if she had assaulted him. "You are beyond impertinent, Miss Daventry. This conversation is at an end."

He pushed back the chair as he stood.

Chloe nodded. "Forgive me. I should not have intruded."

The duke gave a disgusted sniff and walked to an ancient huntboard where the footman had left the port, refilled his goblet, then gestured with the bottle toward her. Chloe nodded, allowing him to pour a small amount into her goblet.

"It must have been my fault."

He drank the goblet's entire contents in one swallow, and clutched the goblet's bowl so tightly between his hands, she wondered if it might break.

What had she unearthed? Deftly, as if walking on shattered glass, Chloe followed the trail. "But what if it was not? If her mother had been the last person to see her, would you have blamed her? Or the nurse? What if Reggie had sneaked in to give her one last kiss? Would you have thought it his fault?"

"Of course not. How could a kiss harm her?"

"Sometimes carry disease to others before we even know we have it ourselves."

"He cannot be at fault. A kiss could not have harmed her."

Chloe set down her goblet on the huntboard. "My point, exactly. You blame yourself without even knowing what error you have committed. I submit to you, your grace, that you were in fact an exemplary parent. Not perfect, for you cannot claim perfection any more than any man can, but exemplary, nonetheless. Yet you will not accept it because you cannot admit it was beyond your control. You, who must control everyone and everything, would rather hold yourself guilty of some unknown crime than admit to being helpless."

Rage seethed in his reddened face. Chloe gulped. She wanted to flee, but knew she must not. She watched his anger twist into unfathomably deep anguish.

Chloe moved in for the telling blow. "You were helpless, your grace. You could have done nothing. But in her short life, she gave you great joy, and you gave to her a precious gift that too few children receive, a loving father."

His lip curled bitterly "Damn you," he said with a snarl. "Just how would you know that, Miss Daventry?"

"Reggie told me. He told me of the beautiful baby sister everyone loved. He remembers how you cried when she died. He remembers how you carried him on your shoulders when he was a small child. You saved him from a beating by the grandmother who detested him. You took him out to the fields to run off his wildness, because only you understood what it is like when something is beyond one's control. You were a good parent, your grace, but you were not God. You were helpless."

The goblet crashed against the dark stone of the chimneypiece, its shards gleaming and tinkling to the floor.

Chloe flinched.

Chapter Eighteen

The Duke of Marmount held his hands to his face as fury drained away like flowing sand and left him ashen.

Chloe stared down at the shattered crystal, gleaming in the firelight like broken stars, and clutched her fists so hard, she felt her fingernails biting into her palms. She swallowed at the hard lump that clogged her throat.

No, he would not hurt her, not with fist or crop, but there were so many other ways, and she knew him capable of using them. And this time, she had transgressed beyond his boundaries.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Daventry," said the duke, his voice quietly shaking as he lowered his hands from his face. "That is unlike me. I do not hit- nor- break things."

He let out a sigh and bent and began to pick up the little shining fragments.

Chloe took up the coal brush and swept glass shards into the scuttle, then made a neat little pile of them on the hearth. "The maid will see to it in the morning." She thought she heard just the slightest quaver in her own voice.

"It was rather fine old glass, that belonged to my aunt," he said, and took the scuttle and broom from her to finish the task. "It was only glass," she said.

His Grace, the Duke of Marmount finished up the sweeping and deposited the coal scuttle full of broken glass on the hearth. He straightened his waistcoat and ran shaking hands through hair that had only moments before been immaculately tidy. "I have overstayed my welcome, Miss Daventry. I shall be going. You are no doubt more than weary of my presence."

"As you wish, your grace." But suddenly she did not want him to go.

Weems stood near the front entrance and bowed to the duke as he held out the hat, gloves and cane.

The duke studied his gloves with great effort as he pulled them on. "The world must truly be a terrible place, Miss Daventry, if one cannot control anything."

"I do agree, your grace. How fortunate it is that some things are not beyond our control."

"Where the devil did you ever gain the audacity to advise others so freely, Miss Daventry?"

"Perhaps because you asked. And since I do have such audacity, I have one more thing to say. Your son loves you, your grace. And he will never give up on you."

"Indeed. He will abandon me the first moment he can."

Chloe forced her gaping jaw closed as the concept slowly coalesced in her mind. So that was it! He controlled Reggie because he feared losing him, the only member of his family who had not abandoned him. For even that poor, innocent babe who died so long ago had, in a way, abandoned the father who loved her so intensely. But was he right? Would Reggie also turn his back on the father who held the leash so chokingly tight?

"Then ask him," she said. "And if you love him, as I believe you do, perhaps you will find a way to grant him the precious gift he most needs. Relinquish him to manhood."

"The devil you say." He pounded his rolled brim hat onto his head.

"You know what is right, your grace. I do not have to tell you."

His grace rolled his eyes, turned to the door, then back again. She saw sadness of unfathomable depth in his eyes as he turned. Her heart ached.

The door flung open from the outside, and the duke stepped back, startled by the man in the doorway whose eyes were alit with the flames of rage.

"Reggie!"

Reggie shoved past the duke. Chloe dashed across the foyer and threw herself into his arms, and he whirled her around.

"Oh, Reggie!" She hugged him as tightly, absorbing his warmth, the wonderful scent of him, reveling in the scrape of his bristly beard against her cheek. Her Reggie! He had come for her. He loved her.

"Oh, Reggie, I'm so glad to see you. I'm so sorry I didn't trust you. I should have known you would come."

Reggie took her face in his hands and kissed her lips. "Hell couldn't bar my way to you, love. It's my fault. I know what he's like. I should have never let you out of my sight. Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes, it's all right. Everything is all right."

"What has he done to you, love?"

"Done? Nothing. He--" Chloe looked back at the duke. He wasn't there. The door was closed and Weems had magically faded away. "Reggie, he's gone."

Reggie glanced over his shoulder, then back to her. "Intelligent of him," he said. "This time he's gone too far, Chloe. Are you sure you're all right?"

Dread, like a hard lump, hit the deepest pit of her stomach. "It's all right, but he controls my sisters, Reggie. He made me promise I'd stay in hiding until you married Portia. Reggie, he could take them from me."

"He won't. I won't let them or you out of my sight again. Mythe and Castlebury will back me, and I have the Special License. We can be married tomorrow. He will look more than strange if he tries to keep them from us, since he has no relationship to them."

No, that was not what worried her. But what was it? Not what the duke would do to them. But what was it? Was it simply that on the morrow he must deal with the anniversary of his tiny daughter's death? If he had dealt with it for one-and-twenty years, why had it become so weighty now?

Because of her. She had poked and prodded and dragged, bringing all his deeply buried hurts to the surface, the way a grave-robber disturbs a corpse. She had left the duke at the rawest edge of his soul, and something told her he lacked the strength to survive.

And it all had something to do with Beachy Head, a windswept cliff high above a pounding surf, beautiful, perhaps soothing, but unbearably lonely.

"We've got to find him," she said.

"My father? Let him go, Chloe. He won't hurt you now, I promise."

"No, Reggie, you don't understand. Don't you know what tomorrow is?"

"The fifteenth," he replied with a worried frown. "The day Elizabeth died. But sweetheart, he can't hurt you now. I know he has some odd notion because you have the same birthday as Elizabeth, but--"

She shook her head. "He isn't insane, Reggie. He has done nothing but talk about losing her. Losing his family, Reggie. He can't lose you! He just cannot!"

Reggie drew her close. "He's forced me to choose between you and him, love. I don't know what happened to him, but he is not the father I loved. What he has done to you is beyond forgiving."

"But that's what I mean! Reggie, he is not the same man. He's lost somewhere. He is sure his control of you is all that keeps you from abandoning him, just like everyone else has."

"But we can't let him run our lives."

"No, and we won't. We are the ones who are strong, not he. Despite all his power, he is a weak and tragic man. But he needs us, and he needs for us to be too strong to be bullied by him."

Reggie gave her a skeptical look. It wasn't his fault that he didn't understand. He hadn't heard all the things the duke had told her. But they were wasting time.

"Please, just trust me. He's in danger, and we're the only ones who can help him. I said things to him I ought not, Reggie. He is in the very depths of despair. I am afraid for him."

"But how can you even care, after all he's done to you?"

"Because I love you, Reggie. And he's your father."

Reggie seemed to shake his head and nod at the same time, and took her into his arms again. "All right, love. I don't understand. But it is obvious you know something I don't know."

It was enough for her.

"Weems," she called, and the old butler appeared in his magically silent way, as if he had been standing there all along.

"My shawl. Have a horse saddled for me. I shall leave you in charge of the children."

"I shall send to the inn, then, Miss Daventry," he said. "We have no riding horses."

"We'll go ourselves," Reggie said. "My horse is waiting."

They rushed outside. No horse was waiting at the hitching post. A pair of saddle bags rested on the steps.

"He took my horse." Reggie turned to Chloe with a look of growing dread.

Chloe threw the cashmere shawl over her shoulder and started down the sunken lane, tugging Reggie's hand. "It isn't far."

But at the inn, they hurried up the stairs to the room the duke had taken. But the duke had not been back to his room.

"Then where the devil could he have gone?" Reggie asked, almost to himself as he searched about for clues.

"Beachy Head. He said he would be going there. He said it was soothing. Oh, Reggie, I don't like this."

"He's not a man to enjoy scenic overlooks."

"He wanted to be alone."

Reggie called for riding horses.

"Got no side saddles, sir," the ostler said, casting an uncertain look at Chloe.

Chloe glared. "Hardly a time for sensibilities. A man's saddle will do well enough. It's well after midnight, and we have no time to waste."

Chapter Nineteen

The faint glow of dawn was already lightening the horizon as Reggie rode with Chloe up the slope. From this side, it gave the appearance of just another chalk down. But Reggie had seen the cliffs from the sea. Just out of sight, what should have been more rolling hills was chopped off vertically into one of the most magnificent cliffs the world could ever offer.

Beachy Head.

Reggie studied his love, who rode beside him, astride a fresh horse. Tired, yet unwilling to quit or even to slow down, unwilling to accept a side saddle that might slow them because she would have to be more careful.

He hoped she was wrong. But some horrible dread slid off into the depths of his stomach and told him she was not. Something about the story she had shared with him made her conclusion too real, too frightening, to be ignored. In his mind, he still saw the image that had been burned into his mind so many years ago, of his distraught father holding the dead baby he had adored so much. He would have tried to blame himself.

But Chloe was also right, that Reggie must not hold himself responsible for what his parent had never told him. He must not take on his father's troubles, nor his unacceptable way of handling them. Still, if his father managed to, or even meant to, step over the edge of that cliff, Reggie knew he could never forgive himself. Spurring his horse, Reggie was glad they'd taken a few moments to secure fresh mounts in Eastbourne.

A pale yellow ribbon of light outlined the eastern horizon behind them and traced faint edges of clouds out to sea. Reggie no longer strained to see the lane the horses followed up the slope. The top of the Head was broad and indistinctly rounded, but Reggie knew his father. For whatever reason brought him here, the duke would seek out the highest, farthest point.

Against the brightening distant sky, the black margin of Beachy Head slowly lightened and took on the first hints of dusky green, its oddly quiet serenity clanging in his brain like a warning bell. Still, he saw nothing, nothing but the clean, undulating line of the downs.

Then, there he was. Stark as the fractured stump of a lone pine tree, silhouetted against the vivid stripes of dawn, his garments tossed like tattered flags in the wind off the sea. The rolled brim beaver hat that was the mark of the duke's perfection lay upended on the down, blown there and forgotten.

The man who had everything, yet had nothing. The loneliest man on earth.

Reggie caught Chloe's eye. His beautiful heroine, riding beside him. So courageous. And so afraid.

Reggie dismounted, and before he could reach Chloe, she had also alit from the brown mare she rode. Reins in hand, they quietly approached the lone figure at the top of the cliff.

Closer, closer. The figure faced them, and had the face of his father. Fear stuck in his throat like a stubborn bone.

Step by step, they edged closer, until Reggie could see on his father's face the infinite sadness that had so frightened Chloe. Now he understood why she had been so moved.

"Father, come away from the cliff," Reggie said.

The duke breathed deeply and turn back seaward, wind tossing his silvered hair. "It is so beautiful here, Reggie. When I see the clouds sailing across the sky like ships, I understand why you love the sea so much."

"It is beautiful," Reggie replied, noting his father's use of the nickname he had not called his son since childhood. Since that time when the family had fallen apart. "But you are too close to the edge, father. It crumbles into the sea, you know."

"Not so close, Reggie. I have been here many times, and I have not fallen yet."

Not yet. But something was different about this time. Reggie could feel it in his gut.

"Have you come to protect me, then, Reggie? You and your lovely termagant?"

Reggie opened his mouth, but wisely shut it when the duke began to speak again.

"She has vanquished me, you know. Quite unfairly, but I concede defeat."

"She's not Elizabeth, father. And you cannot make her into Elizabeth."

"Oh, yes, I know. My attic is not to let. Yet she haunts me. I cannot look at her without thinking of Elizabeth, yet there is no fathomable reason, beyond the odd coincidence of their birthdays. I assume you have discovered that."

Reggie nodded.

"Your grace..." Chloe stepped forward, yet she also hesitated. Who knew what the duke would do?

"You do think you are protecting me, don't you, Miss Daventry? I have customarily sought solitude as a means to sort out my problems, you know."

"If I may say so, for such a meticulous person, you have an uncommonly disordered life that is much in need of sorting out."

Alarmed, Reggie reached to Chloe to hush her. But her eyes flashed back warning and her hand suddenly extended to stop him. She knew something he didn't know.

The duke faced the sea, jaw set, wind blowing the greying hair back from his face.

"Be forewarned, Reginald, she is the most obtuse of female creatures."

Reggie glanced back and forth between them, suddenly feeling like the audience in a play.

"I am grateful, Miss Daventry."

"For what, your grace?"

For a moment, he did not reply, but kept staring out over the immense darkness of the sea that was slowly brightening.

"I have made quite an inglorious shambles of my life. All I ever wanted was to protect my family, to keep them from harm. Yet it seems the harder I tried, the more things disintegrated before my very eyes. Elizabeth died-- And you are right, I could have done nothing to save her. Somehow, that is very hard to admit. Perhaps it is easier to be guilty than to be helpless. My marriage crumbled into ruins. The duchess left me because I could not bear to allow her to have another child."

"But how could you-- oh."

"I would not allow even the possibility. And so I lost her anyway. She always did have more courage than I. It was she who left me, and I could not stand to admit that, so I allowed it to be said I had exiled her. I could not bear to be without my children, yet could not leave her bereft of them, so I took Robert and left Reginald to her care, thus earning Robert's hatred for taking him, and Reginald's for leaving him behind.

"Robert resented me so much, he threw himself headlong into a war to get away, and I have been afraid ever since that he would die. I swore I would not lose you, Reggie, but the more I tried to tame you, the more elusive you became. You would not fight me directly, like Robert, so I could not tell what to expect of you. I suppose that made me try even harder to hold onto you. I told myself you could not be depended upon to make good decisions, for you were far too impulsive. I did not even want to let you choose your own bride, for fear you would bring ruin to yourself."

Reggie clenched his fists to keep himself from dashing up and ruining the strange recital. Yet he wanted to drag the duke back from the precipice, throw his arms around him, and at the same time scream at the arrogance that was perhaps not arrogance after all. Just loss, and terrible fear of even more loss. His fists tightened even more in his effort to contain himself.

The duke stared off over the gray-cast sea, once again silent for a moment. "How I have feared that you loved me no more than those who had already turned their backs on me! You have as much reason as they, perhaps even more. I cannot help but wonder, Regie, have I lived my entire life in vain?"

Did the duke still seek to twist them to his will, using pity where his other weapons had failed? Or did he at last call out for help? Reggie gulped again, trying to make that unpassable lump go down. What if he said the wrong thing? Still standing only a few feet away from the crumbly edge, the duke could step over before Reggie could stop him.

He could knock him away. He just had to move fast enough. All the years Reggie had spent climbing ratlines and walking the yard had given him a strength and agility his father could not hope to match.

But if he did, he would be controlling his father, just as his father had controlled him, and Chloe, his mother, his brother. And just as he himself had attempted to control Chloe's fate, so certain he knew what was best for her. So certain she should not be allowed to make her own mistakes.

But this mistake could cost his father his life.

No, there was a better way.

Chloe was right. The Duke of Marmount might be one of the most powerful men in the Realm, but he was as fragile as an abandoned hatchling. They, he and Chloe, were the ones who were strong. But Reggie must not stop him if he chose to step over the cliff. He had to let the duke make his own choice.

Reggie took a deep breath. He stepped back instead of forward.

A flicker in the corner of the duke's eye told Reggie his movement had been noticed. And interpreted.

"You cannot make me hate you, father," Reggie said softly. "You can destroy my respect, but not my love, no matter how hateful your actions. But for all that I love you, you can lose me. I will walk away from you forever if I must. I will not give Chloe up to your manipulations, and I will not allow you to hurt her or her sisters. It is time you grew up, your grace. It is time to let go of what you have lost and let those you love have their own lives."

"I can see that." Again the duke sighed. "Now that I have come to know her, I can see there is no power on the face of this earth strong enough to keep you from her."

"Why would you want to?" Reggie asked.

"I don't. I just wanted my way, as usual."

Reggie stole a glance at Chloe, whose wide green eyes flicked back and forth apprehensively between him and the duke, almost pleading. What was she thinking? Did she plead for herself, or the duke?

"I don't believe you," Chloe said to the duke. "You're afraid of happiness. Afraid of what happens when you lose it. And you don't want your son to suffer the way you have. But you cannot stop happiness, your grace, any more than you can stop pain and suffering."

The duke's nostrils flared in that very minuscule way he had, and Reggie thought he saw the muscle in his cheek bulge.

"There is a creature in the New World known as the snapping turtle which, once it has latched onto something with its powerful jaws, will not let go even if its head is severed. I believe you have an affinity with that creature, Miss Daventry."

Chloe cocked her head. "Thank you, your grace. Although I would appreciate it if you do not choose to lop off my head to prove the resemblance."

Reggie gaped like a country bumpkin.

She reached out and touched the duke's arm. Reggie cringed. Nobody touched the duke.

"Come back with us, your grace. Your family needs you."

Still facing the sea, wind tossing his hair like a wild pennant, the duke grasped Chloe's hand, his grip so tense, Reggie was almost afraid he would break the dainty bones.

So that was it. It had been there all the time. Reggie had even seen it, himself, but he just hadn't truly understood. He had been so absorbed in his own need for his father's love that he had never understood a father might need the love of his son even more desperately. But Chloe knew. She had found it, buried deeply beneath the duke's hard crust.

Reggie bit his lip. He reached out, his heart pounding. He touched the duke's shoulder.

As the duke stepped back from the brink and turned to face them at last, Reggie saw the tracks of tears that streaked his face. Reggie grasped the hand that Chloe dropped, gently tugging, encouraging the duke back to safety, his eyes pleading.

"Reggie..."

Who knew what it was his father wanted to say but couldn't put to words? Reggie didn't care. The aching deep in his heart needed something words couldn't say. Tears streaking his own cheeks, he threw his arms around his father, and his father's chest heaved with gasping sobs.

The duke took long minutes before the aching sobs finally subsided. Finally with a heaving, ragged breath, he stepped back, holding his son's arms. Reggie looked eye to eye with his father in a way he had not since childhood.

With a silent, accepting nod, the duke turned away, straightening himself and tugging at clothing that had never before been in a state of disarray.

"I do beg your pardon," said the duke. "I cannot think what came over me."

Reggie let a smile creep into the corner of his mouth. Perhaps it was too much to ask that the duke change his stiff ways in one night.

The duke shook his head slowly, as if shaking away some strange sort of dream. "I thought for some time the fates were playing some terrible prank on me. But now, I begin to wonder if I have not been given another chance."

Grinning, Reggie took Chloe's hand and pulled her to him. He bent to snuggle a kiss beneath the golden curls, wind-tossed and fragrant with the smell of the sea.

The duke cleared his throat. "Miss Daventry, have you not been in the company of this scoundrel throughout the night?"

Chloe lifted her narrow little nose high. "I have indeed, your grace. More than that, I have ridden all night with him, astride, like a common hoyden, on a veritable steeplechase."

Reggie would have laughed, but now he had to struggle to keep back his tears. "And now that I have found her again," Reggie replied, "I mean not to let her out of my sight."

The duke's nostrils thinned. "Then it is obvious, you have been compromised, Miss Daventry, and that will not do. We shall return immediately to Upper Dicker for a wedding."

"Now?" Chloe squeaked.

Reggie chuckled. Something might have changed in the last few moments, but everything.

"I presume you have brought the special license, Reginald. Miss Daventry, I trust you can arrange a wedding breakfast? It is rather a shame we cannot wait for other family members, but it would seem the circumstances do not permit."

"A wedding breakfast? Today?" Chloe sounded like an echo of herself. "Wouldn't a good night's sleep be more the thing?"

The dour-faced duke picked up the rolled brim beaver hat from where it lay in the dewy grass and jammed it onto his head. "You are no slowtop, Miss Daventry. It shall be today, or Reginald cannot stay with you. If that is what you want, then we can make Featherstone by tomorrow night, perhaps even with your waspish aunt and your sisters in tow. Make up your mind."

Chloe huffed and threw up her hands.

With a precise pivot, the duke strode in military fashion back down the slope toward the horse he had left to graze. And just at the moment he turned, Reggie caught a glimpse of something he had not seen in a very long time.

The Duke of Marmount was smiling.

Epilogue

"Give him to me," the duke said, reaching out for the crying baby in Chloe's arms.

Reggie smiled as he watched Chloe pass her infant son to the duke, then heave a sigh of relief. She had been doing just fine. But the little rascal was wearing her out, and Reggie knew she would never admit it. As she settled back against the arm he draped about her shoulder, Reggie gave her a reassuring hug.

All around them, the family gathered, and the sitting room hummed with the lyrical female voices of Chloe's sisters and aunt, and Reggie's mother. His brother Robert, at last using a cane after a long struggle with crutches, almost sourly accepted the adoration of Madeline and Allison. Reggie raised an eyebrow as the thought struck him that Robert was far more like their curmudgeon father than he would ever accept.

"They do take a bit of getting used to," the duke told Chloe as he cuddled the little one into the cruck of his arm and rocked gently. His rough-edged voice softened into the soothing sounds of a lullaby, and the baby's squalling turned to whimpers.

"I am simply amazed, your grace," Chloe responded.

Reggie wasn't. True, in many ways, his crusty parent was an amazing person. It was just that Reggie had known it all along.

The duchess peered around the duke's shoulder at the infant, who gave a little sniff like a hiccup, and quieted again.

"He has always had a wonderful way with children," the duchess said. "It is a pity more fathers cannot take such an interest in their offspring."

Behind her, Robert leaned on his cane and glared. In a way, Reggie felt sorry for Robert, who had spent so much of his life angry at his father. The duke was trying so very hard, but Robert would give him no quarter. Reggie supposed he should be content that the two of them could be in the same room without descending into verbal mayhem.

Reggie couldn't say he actually understood the nature of their conflict. Certainly, Robert had been an adored child, and had probably loved their father as much as Reggie had. Had it been when Elizabeth died, and the duke had withdrawn so deeply? Or had it been the whispered arguments between the parents that both boys had heard, but neither understood?

But Robert was a man full grown now. He had been away four years, and suffered frighteningly serious injuries. One would think he might be willing to reconsider what he had to lose.

The duke had handed over to him the marquisate and its properties. Whenever Robert attempted to quarrel, the duke simply conceded, and walked away whenever he needed to avoid a clash. Perhaps what Robert really needed was a roaring battle with the duke, to get it all done with. But the duke would not fight, for he had made up his mind to do anything and everything he could to restore his family. He was equally as stubborn about learning to relinquish control over others as he ever had been about gaining and maintaining it.

But that was their affair. Reggie had no intention of trying to solve his family's problems for them.

And he was too busy basking in the pleasure of the moment, with Chloe beside him. Chloe had managed her pregnancy and delivery well, and their son was beautiful, healthy, wonderful. Even though the duke had driven Chloe to distraction with his fretting, she had learned to adore the man. Her two sisters had merged themselves totally in their new family, nearly driving Reggie crazy with their constant musical banter, arguing over the husbands they would someday have. And Robert was going to recover, with little more than a residual limp.

Aunt Daphne was rather much the same, content with her spinsterhood, content with her family. And the duchess, tranquil as always, still lived on her beloved estate on the Avon and growing her roses. She had ventured out to Town for the season this last year, but only for a short while because she could not bear to be separated from her gardens at the very time of year when they burst forth to start a new cycle of beauty.

Reggie's heart tugged as he watched his father bend over and tenderly lay the now-sleeping infant in his cradle. It was truly something wonderful, this touch the duke had with children.

It had been his father's love and devotion that had carried Reggie through his struggle as a misfit child, and that had, whether he had realized it or not, sustained him during that terrible time when his father was lost to him.

He was glad he had never given up. He was glad Chloe had understood that. And he was glad his father had found Chloe, and established that strange bond that somehow had provided what he needed to find his way back to life.

The duke continued to watch the cradle and the sleeping baby. He drew an assessing breath and crossed his arms. "He shall go to Eton, of course, and Oxford. I believe he will make a good scholar, Reginald. Perhaps he shall be a don. We have never had one in the family. Yes, that will do nicely."

Chloe narrowed her eyes at the duke. "Or perhaps not."

The duke blinked. He took a breath. "Yes. Well, perhaps not. Merely speculation. Hard to tell what the lad might choose."

The duke was rewarded with one of those glittering smiles Chloe seemed to keep reserved just for him. Reggie had no doubt she had become the daughter of his father's heart, the daughter the duke had thought he would never have. She would never be Elizabeth, but she didn't have to be. She was Chloe.

"Well," said the duchess brightly, "now that our little Alexander's fate has been so properly undecided, I believe I shall go for a stroll in Chloe's garden. I rather like the way you have managed the colors, my dear."

"Perhaps I will join you, then," said the duke. "Perhaps it is time I regain the habit of strolling in gardens."

Robert frowned, but he said nothing. Off in a corner, the twins giggled with Aunt Daphne. Robert limped with his cane to the window of the sitting room, and stared out over the parterre garden Chloe had filled with blooms in riotous colors, the plants shaded from the hot summer day by towering limes.

"Bedamned, Reggie," Robert said, frowning. "They're holding hands like a green girl and her benighted bumpkin."

Reggie said nothing. He was aware of a bit more than that going on between their parents. Chloe raised an eyebrow at Reggie, and her lips pursed with curiosity. Reggie answered with a wink. It was a secret on dit he would share with her tonight.

"Blast. I think he's going to kiss her. You'd think she'd have more sense. After sixteen years of banishment, she ought to have a right to tell him..."

Let him rant. Robert would eventually work things out.

Reggie lost interest in Robert's ramblings. He slipped his hand around Chloe's, interlacing his fingers with hers. Raising their hands up on elbows, he studied the shape of her long, slim fingers. Such delicate dimensions. From eyebrows to bone structure, her dainty, feminine features belied unusual strength in her hands, and in her character.

He wondered, how would those hands look chopping palm fronds to build a shelter on the beach of some remote tropical island, say, somewhere in the South Pacific?

~The End~

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